#Jean-Paul DuChamp

[erinptah]

"If you want to take them, you'll have to go through us."

Art for the big finale of Here's What You Missed.

[age-of-moonknight]

“Knight Time in the City,” Phases of the Moon Knight (Vol. 1/2024), #2.

Writer: Jed MacKay; Penciler and Inker: Jorge Fornès; Colorist: Lee Loughridge; Letterer: Cory Petit

[mikazureart]

PDF Moon Knight Zine 2022 Get a digital PDF zine containing 60 HD pages of my artworks from 2022 of characters such as Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley, Khonshu, Jean-Paul DuChamp, Raoul Bushman, Arthur Harrow; and ship combinations of them!

[thedevilsoftruth]

Frenchie and Marc trying weed for the first time. They're trying to sleep, but Marc is like... stoned out of his mind.

Marc: Yo, is it just me or is Khonshu doing the gangnam style on the ceiling .

Frenchie: Brother--go to sleep. *he smack him with a pillow*

Marc: How am I supposed to go to sleep when Steven is yelling in my ear to go spend my money on horse costumes?

Frenchie: Okay, that's it. You're sleeping outside.

[liliegrayson]

moon knight (2016) #4

[drifting-pieces-blog-blog]

Breaking down the comics: Denial is Strange (Issue 36)

Moon Knight, Issue # 36: Ghosts

Written by  Alan Zelenetz and drawn by Bo Hampton 

Now, I’m a long time fan of Dr. Strange. In fact, he’s number three on my list of favorite comics! (Number two being Scarlet Witch and number one being MK if I even need to mention that). So a Moon Knight with early Dr. Strange cross-over? Yeah, I’ll dip into that no problem! 

The first page is a note from the editor, Denny O'Neil. You see, in previous issues, they had asked where fans wanted to see Moon Knight go. They were running low on ideas and didn't know how they wanted to further develop the character, as it looked like he was going to stick around for a while. 

Since Moon Knight started in a supernatural horror book (Werewolf by Night), it only seemed fitting that Moon Knight continue to carryon his career as leaning heavily on the supernatural side of things. A fist of the moon and Spector of vengeance, they have decided to let Moon Knight continue on his path of walking the line of what lurks on the other side of the shadows. 

"Lots of heroes catch crooks. Moon Knight will be going after a different quarry. We hope you'll go with him." 

Also it's interesting to note that they introduce Zelenetz and Bo Hampton as the new MK team, when they only did three issues before the 1980s series ended and things had to get a re-vamp as MK again went in a new direction. Hmm. (He does come back periodically in later runs, but doesn’t stick around.) 

For those unfamiliar with Dr. Strange, ....things get strange. An original Marvel character from back in the day, created in 1963 by Steve Ditko himself, he embraced the psychedelic comic art style of that time. Let me put it this way, if Dr. Strange gets involved, you know things are about to get colorful, confusing to look at, and WEIRD. 

That out of the way, we open in Nubia, in Ancient Egypt during the twentieth century B.C. 

We see a classic Egyptian styled man about to sacrifice a cat for 'the demons of the dark'. He declares himself Amutef, first among necromancers and worthy to be a pharaoh. 

Okay. That's a start. 

Suddenly a bunch of men run into the room. "Seize him, priests of Khonshu!" 

Yeah, it's illegal to slay 'the holy cat in mockery of the gods.' 

Amutef declares revenge (Mummy style). "On a moonlit night, ages hence when we meet once again." 

Once the mummification of Amutef is done, the head priest prays to Khonshu that 'this enchanted pendant will keep the base Amutef's soul bound within these linen grave clothes for all eternity." 

Amutef's spirit enters into the necklace, waiting for his curse to come to light. 

And right on cue, we head to the present where we see a beautiful blond woman wearing the necklace. 

"I may have been an archeologist's daughter, but these cat mummies can still give me the creeps." 

Aw jeeze. It's Marlene. 

And we see her there with Steven at the grand opening to an Egyptian wing of a museum as a memorial to her father. 

Marlene, why are you wearing an antique Egyptian necklace? 

"It will go to the museum one day, Mr. Director. I'm wearing it tonight for the first time since my father found it in one of the tombs of the Seti Kings." 

Yeah no. 

Their social session is interrupted by a security guard trying to kick out a party crasher. 

"Listen, we get all kinds of crackpots crying CURSE every time we open an Egyptian exhibit--" 

"But I am Stephen Strange, and my conjurations have led me here. I fear that evil will be born this night--" 

(I’ll start by saying the art style reminds me of the comic art from around late 1960s, but I’m also not a fan of how Marlene is portrayed here. She’s too soft and arm candy-esque. I miss the Marlene from Bill’s days where she was capable and intelligent.) 

Also, Steven clearly has NOT heard of Strange fully if he dismisses him after that display. You’d think by now that Steven would be like ‘oh. Right. I’ve fought zombies. This isn’t that odd for me.’

A cat (belonging to the security guard?) breaks loose and instantly goes to attack Marlene. Steven backhands it easily before it can sink it's fangs into Marlene. 

"In the name of the Vishanti! Don't you see? The animal senses evil." 

"Look. How are you at sensing harassment suits, Mister Magic?" 

"Dr. Strange, this is a museum, not a circus show." 

I love how no one ever takes Dr. Strange seriously when they first meet him. Even in today's age, they just write him off as a cheap palm reader. 

Marlene notes she feels terrible and wants to go home. Steven and Marlene head home and Stephen follows above. 

Stephen…This is why no one takes you seriously. I hate to hear how he talked BEFORE he became a sorcerer. Can you imagine him in the ER? “By Gray’s Almighty Anatomy, someone hand me the mighty retractor of Senn!” 

(Stephen what is that pose? Steven…What is that lurking image of you?) 

He scans Marlene while doing what I like to think of as his Vampire flight pose. 

"Yes--But wait, there is a mystic aura about this man, Grant, as well. Then there are occult forces at work here that appear to defy even earth's sorcerer supreme, thus--" 

He lays a protection spell on Marlene that will keep the possession at bay for the next 24 hours then flies home to do research. 

Back in the mansion, Marlene gets into her usual skimpy night gown STILL WEARING THE NECKLACE. 

Look, if I ever go to bed still in a necklace that gaudy, please consider me cursed. 

Marlene is worried about the curse. She feels terrible and she's a little spooked. 

Steven Grant feels differently. 

"That black cat at the museum has got you all strung out. You'll sleep it off. As for curses... You should know better than anyone, Marlene, that these days--for sanity's sake, I like to keep a cool distance between myself and thoughts of the supernatural." 

Steven no… 

Jokes aside, we must remember that DID is a form of self preservation, protection, processing, and denial. When it comes to their DID, Stephen has ALWAYS been the first one to go "Nawh. I'm fine." and then try to strong arm his way through every situation. Marc is the first to go "May as well die" and throw himself head first into a dangerous situation, and Jake is the first to go "It ain't my problem. I'mma chill here with my buds." 

Here is classic Stephen Grant, fresh off his most recent run of self doubt and slow crawl into a mental break (for the third or fourth time) and he's living in denial land and choosing a path that he feels is the most conducive to compartmentalize and keep his distance from their trauma. 

"I try to forget that the ruthless mercenary I once was--Marc Spector-- apparently died and was reborn in a desert tomb years ago... 

Under the gaze of a cold white statue of Khonshu, God of the moon... Whose spirit I use to believe reanimated me." 

And yet you won't shut up about it. (I kid, but seriously, Steven.) 

"Believed only too well. I relied on that superstition until I'd almost lost my mind --Forgot just where Khonshu ended and Spector or Grant began." 

Why does he always forget about Jake? 

"But you helped me see that I derived my strength and abilities from my own will and commitments, not from some long-dead mythology. You redeemed my soul and my sanity, Marlene...

And I'm not about to lose either of them again. So no more talk of witchcraft, okay? Just sleep tight while Moon Knight makes the rounds." 

Steven sure is in a mood. I don't blame him. 

(I also love how depending on who tells it or remembers it, we either see bloody beaten up Marc at the foot of the statue or we see a gently and sexily sprawled out Steven rendition with a gently weeping Marlene memory. I’d love to see how Jake remembers it.) 

Moon Knight takes off and a clearly possessed Marlene mutters a classic line about “After thousands of years we have met once more, fool Thosbi. Now Amutef’s spirit, given voice by inhabiting the mortal frame, shall utter incantations of revenge.” 

Classic. 

Meanwhile, Stephen Strange is doing his own thing. 

Stephen is...wordy. I'm going to summarize the WALL OF TEXT that is his ramblings and chantings. 

Marlene is possessed by an ancient sorcerer. Steven Grant has been mystically endowed with the spirit of an ancient priest of Khonshu. 

Meeting up on this moonlit night spells trouble with a capital T and now the curse is real. 

He must get Steven Grant to cooperate with him or it will spell doom for them both. 

And then we cut to Moon Knight, still angry about the implication of something supernatural happening to him. 

"Steel and glass and concrete. There's reality for you. No room in a city like this for superstitions." 

He spots some thugs assaulting a couple and he decides to glide down to intercept. 

Yeah that…that seems about right. 

He barely manages to dodge a gun shot, his crescent dart whacks a guy right in the face and cuts him, and he barely manages to catch up with the other two fleeing villains. 

And of Course Detective Flint arrives to drive in the nail. 

"Say, everything okay? Not like you to lose your wind over a trio of amatures." 

"Just an accident, Detective--Cape got caught, you go on and treat the punks to a night in the slammer. Put it on my tab." 

And to make his night even better, Stephen Strange shows up. 

"It was no accident, Steven Grant." 

"YOU again!? Am I supposed to admire your persistence or--Wait, you called me Grant?"

"Yes, it was Steven Grant I sought, and I'm afraid your costume does little to disguise HIS psychic aura. But, that is inconsequential--It is your life, not your identity, that is in jeopardy." 

I...Could have SO much to say about breaking down that statement and we'd be here all night as I talked about the psychic aura of Steven vs. the others, his life vs. his identity, and all that fun stuff... But I have a feeling the writer wasn't aiming for that line...sadly... SO I'll leave it alone....this time. 

He tells Steven that he's in danger and Steven demands to be shown the demons after him. 

Stephen tells him that they were the ones that grabbed his cape, but he banished them before they could destroy him. 

Moon Knight still isn't buying it. 

I swear, half the Dr. Strange cross-over comics are spent with Stephen trying to convince everyone that magic is real and that he isn't full of it. 

"I have learned that you are endowed with the spirit of a priest of Khonshu whose mystic powers are needed to save Ms. Alraune from the evil spirit which possesses her." 

Honestly, while this isn't the first instance of the OG comic showing the cult of Khonshu and the priests, this is the first time someone has considered Moon Knight to be imbued with the spirit of a priest of Khonshu. 

As many of you may be aware, the current run with MacKay pushes heavily into the Priest of Khonshu plot line, which has often been dropped and lost by subsequent writers after this one. 

However, Strange is insisting that the priest himself is inside Moon Knight, while it's long been determined that Khonshu himself has imbued Marc and the others with his own power to make Moon Knight his own sort of priest. 

Let's see how this issue plays it out. 

"I would have mesmerized you without asking in order to summon the Ancient Priest within your being... But even your unconscious will is incredibly strong and I could not break through it." 

I'm cackling about this. Imagine Strange trying to get in there and just being met by a really pissed off Jake Lockley. 

"Bet on it, Mister." Steven is thinking the same thing. You know it. "My will's like granite, because that's what holds the real world out there together for me. It's my sanity." 

Oh Steven... 

Moon Knight calls Khonshu a myth and make-believe. "Do you think I'd ever embrace that madness again?" 

He calls for Frenchie. He's done with this. 

"If the spirit is not exorcised from Ms. Alraune by tomorrow night, she will be the one who knows true madness. Without the mystic aid of KHonshu, my spells can protect her no longer than that." Stephen Strange calls after him. 

Moon Knight calls him a "blasted Looney" and takes off. 

The next evening at Grant Mansion, the doctor informs Steven that he can't figure out what's wrong with Marlene. 

Steven tells her that he'll cut the Moon Knight patrol short and be back before midnight. 

(She's still wearing the necklace). 

As Moon Knight leaves, Marlene sits up, possessed again, and sending the evil spirits out after the Khonshu priest Thosbi. 

This time they attack the chopper. 

Oh no. Not the chopper! 

While the possessed Marlene chants of vengeance from the balcony, cats start to gather in the nearby tree. 

Dr. Strange arrives to the chipper and starts to fight off the invisible demons that only he can see. 

Frenchie tells Moon Knight to glide to safety. The chopper is going down. (My dear Frenchie always looking out for his friend.) 

Moon Knight refuses to jump and the chopper starts to function again. 

A particularly nasty demon shows up to fight Strange. 

"Begone, Mage, for my chaotic powers are summoned by a spell more ancient than any your mortal lips can utter." It taunts him. 

While Strange battles the demons, Frenchie manages to land the chopper. 

Side note, I do love the way they draw Moon Knight’s costume. This is the start of the era where his shorts start to actually look like shorts and not underwear outside his outfit. You also see more black mixed in with his top and leggings. While you see the muscles, he isn’t drawn HUGE and ridiculous. It’s believable. 

Also behold Strange before the goatee! It looks wrong… 

Anyways, Moon Knight is not pleased to see Strange again. 

They argue and give me my most favorite image of Frenchie EVER. 

This man. I love this man. 

Look at it. The moon hat. The lighting on his face. The relaxed sit. The smoke rings. Not one not two but THREE pens in his pocket. The gloves. The match book in his other hand. This is just another day for him. 

The copter nearly crashed for unknown demonic reasons and his BFF super hero buddy is outside arguing with a wizard about being possessed by an ancient Egyptian priest. 

Jean-Paul Duchamp I love you. 

Strange tells him that if they don't contact the priest of Khonshu within the hour, Marlene is going to be lost to them. 

Moon Knight concedes. He jumps in the chopper and they follow Strange back to the mansion. ....Why he doesn't let Strange fly in his chopper but makes him fly...You got me? 

They arrive to find the mansion crawling with cats and Marlene in a trance staring contest with one of them. 

Moon Knight decides to take a short cut to get to Marlene as fast as he ....OH FOR CRYING OUT LOUD. THERE ARE SO MANY Other WAYS TO ENTER YOUR MANSION! YOU BUILT IT! 

(Adds another hash tag to the list) 

Moon Knight crashing through his own window with his nunchucks out in a room full of cats. I just... He is the ultimate catboy. 

They send away the cats, who were apparently there to attack the evil. 

Stephen sets the room up for the ritual and Steven carries Marlene to a chair. "Save her, Strange... Even if it costs me my mind." 

We get some interesting art here... They made Steven look like a bad anime magical girl transformation reaction or something. I can't even begin to describe this. I apologize for what I’m about to show you. 

Flew too close to the sun with Frenchie. Now we must all pay the price with anime boy Steven Grant. 

So Strange does his thing and forces the demons to show themselves. 

"Do you think to conquer Amutef with glibness of tongue, mage?! I who was first among necromancers, who dared blaspheme the names of Khonshu and Osiris.." He summons his own demons to battle Strange. 

He summons the priest of Khonshu through Moon Knight and we get some CLASSIC Dr. Strange art. We got the symbols, we got the squiggle lines, we got the colors, we got the eyes, we got the floating heads and we even got the floating hour glass. 

As much as I love Dr. Strange, it takes me a while to read his old comics. My processing skills can't handle the barrage of EVERYTHING on every page. I’m glad it’s just a little in this comic. 

We watch the two men do battle through time and space and in King Arthur's backyard for some reason... We see the great pyramids and some temples that my geographically challenged mind does not recognize... 

Just as the battle is picking up...

"What?! I sense emotions of abnormal pitch. No! They flow from the mind of Grant. The strain on his will is too great! But he can't succumb now---!" 

We see chanting and...wait... those words... They sound familiar...

"Khonshu, Nehem kua her entet ari-na maat! Amutef, thosbi! Affirms thee no longer to be!" 

Parts of that sound suspiciously like something Harrow chanted from the MCU show. HMMMMMM....

Yeah, the battle is over and Marlene and Steven come out of their trances. 

"You've survived, Steven Grant, and your mind is whole, stronger than before. You have experienced life AND death, the natural and supernatural. You have mastered your will and become a complete man." 

Then Strange essentially does the "I must go now" thing and zips away to fight the occult forces of evil elsewhere. 

We are left with Steven thinking things over. 

"Occult forces. Like Marc Spector's dying and being reborn through the ghost of an ancient priest. You know, Marlene? I believe him. I don't for one minute like the idea...But I believe him." 

The End! 

Okay you guys… This was a wild one. It was a disaster start to finish but it did what comics are meant to do and it made me laugh and it was fun. 

The art was…all over the place. It worked for an issue with Dr. Strange, but they made everyone FAR too baby faced and pretty. What’s weird is that the next issue is the same artist but he gets his shit together and it’s back to Moon Knight nitty gritty. What the hell happened? Let’s blame Dr. Strange on this one. 

But….

Can you imagine THIS being the face of Steven Grant, Marc Spector, and slap a mustache on that and you got Jake Lockley!? THIS?! 

He’s so judgy! 

I’m dying out here you guys. Someone draw a mustache on that and I’ll love you forever. I think this broke me. 

So… Aside from the… What ever all this was… It reminds me of the issue recently with Mackay. Where we got to go into Moon Knight’s mind-scape and we got to see Marc, Steven, and Jake all work together to defeat outside forces. They worked as a team and it was their special weapon. Going after Marc? No you aren’t. You’re gonna get punched in the face by Jake and Steven (steven gonna look at you like a highly disapproving father). In this early run, we don’t have the wonderful understanding and research into DID to fully comprehend or experience this, but looking back, I like to imagine it’s there under the surface. 

I also look at the priest as not being the one that revived them. Again, I cite Khonshu himself. The priest issue can be folded into current and then building lore of the Priesthood of Khonshu. This was an early and powerful priest that happened to have a grudge against this particular bad guy. Perhaps this is where Mackay starts taking his ideas and lore from. We’re already seen other ideas from the OG run that he’s explored. If this is the case, it’s nice to see him doing his research and getting back to basics. 

So what did you guys thing? Did it make you laugh too? Are we all cursed by the Magical Anime Steven image? 

Next time I’m dipping back into the past to cover some of the issues I skipped. We’re getting to the home stretch you guys. 

[mephsation]

I need someone to talk to me about Frenchie

[comicwaren]

From Moon Knight: City of the Dead #004, “An Unquiet Grave”

Art by Marcelo Ferreira, Jay Leisten, Rachelle Rosenberg and Fer Sifuentes-Sujo

Written by David Pepose

[grycensharp07]

The way Greg Smallwood drew Moon Knight’s dad and Frenchie looks a hell of a lot like Paul Rudd and Shane Madej

From Jeff Lemire’s moon knight run, which is amazing

[satisfiedmoonwatcher]

Rituals

Summary: Everyone has their pre and post rituals for battle. Isn't it time someone took care of Marc? Frenchie steps up to tend to his wounds and bring him back out of a post battle haze. Hurt comfort with some sexiness mixed in for fun.

Warnings: 18+. Contains: Oral , wound care, mild talk of battle and violence, mild mentions of blood. Some dissociation.

Word count: 8,700 - A pocket of love.

Pairings: Marc Spector x Jean-Paul "Frenchie" Duchamp

~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~

They knew him at the strip clubs. 

The ladies flocked to him, screaming his name as he stepped through the doors, arms spread to greet them with a grin. 

He knew all their names. At least he knew their stage names. He would coo their names as they sat next to him, arms around his shoulders with a fancy drink in his hand. He often made a habit of ordering his drinks based on which lovely lady was sitting with him that night. 

Stage names often were like that. 

Lemon-Drop was the one that got him into trouble the most often. She was a pretty gossip who was far too perceptive for her own good. 

She was the first one to notice that when Jean-Paul came into the club, he wasn’t there to grope the girls. 

He came in on paydays. Any time he had more money lining his pockets than he was comfortable with, he’d hit the clubs and hand out the cash like it was nothing. He liked to think it was paying some girl’s way through college or helping a tired mom keep her kid off the street. Keep people from falling into his way of life. 

More so, he did it for the company. He didn’t care about the skimpy g-strings or peekaboo lingerie. When the topless dancing started, he’d hand over his stack of cash and sit back, chatting with the ladies at his side. 

Sure, he’d watch the shows. He found their dancing to be beautiful and far too talented. He liked when they spun on the pole and clapped when they did gravity defying stunts. But his whistles and cheers hardly held the lust that the other men in the club brought with them. 

Especially the other men that came in with similar garb. The sand crusted rough clothes that smelled of gunfire and foul things that were better left in the desert. 

The girls had long learned to ignore the blood crusted under the nails and the cuts and bruises across their faces. These were men of fortune and what did they care so long as the fortune ended up in their pockets? 

The ladies had long learned which of the men to keep their distance from and which of them just needed a warm touch and gentle reminder that they were still alive. 

Jean-Paul was absolutely on the side that needed that gentle reminder. His laugh and smile longed for friendship. His hands touched skin looking for softness and warmth and never dove for the places that made the girls cringe. 

Only the more seasoned girls recognized a man with something to hide. What did a man that fought wars for money have to hide? 

Lemon-Drop figured it out the second she saw the other man walk into the club. 

Marc Spector. Marc never visited the club on his own. He only arrived when the unit came together, often dragging him along with them with instances of him loosening up and enjoying himself for once. 

He was certainly a handsome one. The kind of face that broke hearts and left scars across young and naive emotions. His sullen dark eyes tugged at the desire to draw him in and hold him close. His frown that was desperately trying to turn into warm smile certainly made more than a few on-the-house drinks appear at his table. 

When Marc walked through the door, the younger girls would flock to him with dreams of a fat tip and perhaps a chance to melt that cold shoulder. Lemon-Drop smiled as she thought about the betting pool that had been started to see who could get Marc to smile and crack open for them first. 

Considering many of them thought Marc was secretly a millionaire looking to be someone’s sugar daddy, it was any wonder that Marc didn’t get every girl in the house suddenly fighting for his lap the second he sat down. 

Marc was not as easy with his money as Jean-Paul was. Marc stayed in the back near the bar and only nodded to the ladies on stage if they happened to catch his gaze. When a girl snuggled up to him for a little one on one attention, Marc would sit back and give her his full attention, his dark eyes taking her in like she had a spotlight on her. 

Lemon-Drop had to admit that his attention was addictive. He would offer soft compliments and slide the bills gently across the table. If he had to touch them, his fingers would float lightly as he gently tucked a folded bill securely into place as if he were afraid she might lose it. 

It was all a mask. You didn’t have to get that close to notice that Marc Spector often held more cuts and bruises than the other men. His hair was always wind blown and he tended to smell more like blood and gunpowder than the others. He was a man that got too close to the fire and didn’t know how to avoid getting burned. 

So what did Marc have to hide? What made him sit in the booth time after time as he downed the booze and looked for all the world like a man that would rather be left alone? 

Lemon-Drop was trying her luck with Marc one night, bent over and waiting for those gentle fingers to slide a large bill into her thong when she spied Jean-Paul across the room, his eyes locked onto Marc and filled with the lustful gaze that was often directed at her. 

Oh. Jean-Paul fell into place in her mind. She had seen it before. The kind of man that visited a strip club or brothel with no desire to partake of the delights found there. 

Yet there sat Marc, his eyes focused on her like she was the only thing left in the world. A centering point. Something that he could latch onto and try to be present with when he looked as if every ounce of his strength and concentration was being forced to staying where he was and keeping her in his sights. 

Oh. 

Her heart dropped and she kissed the betting pool goodbye. There was no use trying to win the heart of this man. Her youth had been wasted on broken men before. Men that were so fragile and shattered that it would take a miracle to reach them. 

Lemon-Drop sighed and she forced a smile as she turned to him. “You boys staying in town much longer? You know it makes us so sad when you run off for so long.” 

Marc nodded, not really listening. It took him a moment to realize she had actually asked him a question. He blinked and she watched as there was a visible struggle to pull himself back together. 

“We’re out first thing tomorrow morning.” He ran a hand through his hair and she glanced over to see Jean-Paul look away, forcing a laugh as he chatted up the pretty girl to his side. 

“Are you going to stay safe out there, Baby?” She sat next to him and pointed at a nasty looking gash that was scabbed over, running down his arm. “You gotta learn to doge, hun.” 

Marc glanced down as if seeing the old wound for the first time. He ran a finger over it then shrugged and looked away. “Safe as I always am.” 

“Mmnh. I think you could use a little backup.” She gently ran her fingers over the back of his neck. 

“Think our bosses might frown at me bringing you out to the field with me.” He gave her a dashing smile that could have fooled anyone that wasn’t paying attention. He was a charmer and she was certain he had charmed his way in and out of many people’s lives. 

“Oh honey, I’m not talking about me. As distracting as I am, I don’t think they’re going to take pity on me and simply roll over.” She chuckled trying to imagine where she might hide the gun. “I’ve got someone else in mind.” 

Her fingers gently slid up into his hair and directed his gaze across the room. “Know him? He looks like he’s from your unit.” 

Marc’s eyes glanced over Jean-Paul and he frowned. “Frenchie? Yeah he fights pretty good. Good driver.” 

She sighed and leaned in to whisper in his ear. “I wasn’t talking about fighting, hun.” 

Marc gave her an annoyed look. “Then what are you talking about?” 

“I make a strict rule not to get involved in personal life. As a matter of fact, I think it’s part of the contract I had to sign to work here.” She moved to straddle his lap and leaned back, giving him a full view. She doubted very much that he had intended to pay for the lap dance, but the prices were listed and he had paid for it. 

To his credit, he did stare down at her chest. The haze in his eyes told her that he was not fully seeing it. 

Lemon-Drop utilized her flexibility to bend back and caught an upside-down view of Jean-Paul. He was now watching them fully. Was he jealous? Was he watching to see if Marc was enjoying himself? Was there a chance that this was something he wanted to see? 

She leaned back up and pressed into Marc fully and ground her hips against his lap. Normally it was all about the tease. The men wanted to feel thrilled and excited. They wanted to get worked up, but they didn’t want to be exposed. 

It used to surprise her how controlled the men that came here were. It was rare to push a man to orgasm. 

She slowly started to rock her hips, pushing the boundaries as she ground down against his groin. She wanted to know if it was possible. She wanted to know if Marc Spector could feel. 

His eyes flickered and he let out a slow breath then suddenly put his hands to her hips and stopped her. “Thanks for the show.” He gently lifted her and slid her off his lap then stood up. 

He pulled a wad of folded cash out of his pocket and held it out to her. 

Oh there it was. A peak behind the mask. She smiled and took the cash then watched as he collected himself and left the club. 

Lemon-Drop stopped by the bar and ordered the drink with her name then swung over to Jean-Paul’s seat. 

“Hey stranger.” She smirked down at him and handed him the drink. 

Jean-Paul looked up at her and patted the empty seat to his side. He whispered something to the girl on his other side and she quickly left them alone. 

“Your last customer looked a little sour.” Jean-Paul took a drink. “Such a shame to not enjoy a show like that.” 

She laughed. “That one? I don’t think there is much he enjoys. I think anyone after that piece of ass is wasting their time. That one is a heartbreaker.” 

Jean-Paul took a long drink to hide the frown on his face. “I would rather have a broken heart than an empty one.” 

He paid for his drink and her time then got up, gathering himself as he waved to the other girls. If he survived till the next pay day, he would be back to pretend that he was loved and with friends again. 

She smiled and watched him go. With any luck, they would arrive at the same place together eventually. The heartbreaker and the broken hearted. 

—

Jean-Paul sat up at the door to his tent. They were set to pack up and move out at dawn. The camp was going to stay with a relief group. Mostly the men that were too damaged to do much good in this mission. It was good land and there was no sense in leaving a perfectly good camp. 

With any luck, they would all return before the week was out. Those that did not return had their personal items scavenged by those that did. It was an unspoken understanding and nothing was ever personal. 

He was already packed. Always packed. There was no sense in unloading when they would just turn around and head out again in a few days. His personal items stayed in the tent. If he came back to them then they remained undamaged or lost. If he fell in the mission then they would be passed to the next young recruit. 

In the tent across from him, another way of life played out. The guns were laid out, taken apart and meticulously cleaned before being loaded and placed into their holders. Knives were sharpened and cleaned and a uniform was dusted off and folded at the end of a bed that would not be slept in. 

A man that did not let go of a way of life that pretended to be organized and have meaning. 

Jean-Paul glanced at his watch. There was a rustling and Marc emerged from his tent in his boxers and little else. He was right on time. 

When he first noticed the nightly wanderings, he thought it was some sort of sleepwalking. A dangerous thing to do when you lived and died by the bullet. Yet the more he watched him, the less like sleepwalking it seemed to be. 

Perhaps a ritual? Marc seemed to always do it right before a battle. The tension in the air would buzz and everyone had their superstitious performances. 

The guy in the next tent would count on his rosary for hours and hours, his sins stacking up till his fingers were blistered. The old man in the tent behind his would take long cold showers, believing it kept his senses sharp and body going. Jean-Paul could hear the water in the shower stall going. The man with a missing finger three tents over would eat a single hard boiled egg for dinner and wash it down with a bottle of sparkling water. 

He’d yet to figure out the significance on that one. 

Marc wandered. He would walk out into the night and stare at the sky, completely unaware of anything around him. Sometimes he talked to himself, sometimes he just stood in one spot and stared at everything and nothing all at once. 

Eventually, Marc would blink out of it and sheepishly head back to his tent and pretend like it never happened. 

Before Marc, Jean-Paul’s routine had been to smoke half a pack of cigarettes and look at the old pictures of men he had fallen for over the years. Now, he watched Marc. 

“Heartbreaker.” He muttered around his cigarette. He could easily see the trail of carnage that Marc left behind. He was certainly handsome enough. Tall, dark, mysterious, quiet, and when he put it on, he had the most dashing smile. 

He had seen women cling to him, dance for him, beg and plead and demand to be loved. He had even seen a few men take their shot and leave wondering if perhaps they had guessed wrong. 

None of it was malicious. Jean-Paul had spent a lot of time trying to figure out if he even had a shot with being this man’s friend. To be honest, he still didn’t know. 

Yet as he watched Marc come to a stop and simply stare, he wondered how many people had seen this side of Marc. How many had simply let him drift without trying to tether him back down or lost their shit at him. 

Sometimes it was only minutes before Marc would blink and become aware of things and head back to his tent. Sometimes he would stand for hours. On more than a few occasions Jean-Paul had followed Marc out into the desert at a respectable distance, concerned that Marc might wander into a mine field or enemy territory in the dark. 

This time, Marc stood still for half an hour, his face blank as he stared at the stars. Jean-Paul had just finished a cigarette and was fishing out another when Marc turned around and started to head back. 

He paused, looking down at Jean-Paul with an unreadable expression. “Backup.” He mumbled. 

Jean-Paul blinked and glanced around as if expecting to see something that made sense of the word. 

“When you fight. I trust you to watch my back if you trust me to watch yours.” 

Jean-Paul swallowed hard and nodded, forgetting how to make any sort of sounds, much less how to form words. 

It seemed to satisfy Marc as he nodded to himself and went back to his tent. 

Jean-Paul slowly put the new cigarette away and stared at Marc’s tent. He had been working with this man for a couple of years now. They had gotten into and out of more situations than he could name. They had shared space, ridden together, covered one another, and sat comfortably next to one another in the mess hall each and every day they shared a camp together. 

They had conversations about military tactics, training, weaponry, places they had been, places they wished to go, places to avoid, food, and languages they could understand. They had even touched on religion a few times. 

How was this the first time he felt like he had ever really spoken to Marc Spector? 

He ran a hand over his hair and cursed himself for not even trying to say something back. He went back inside to try to get some rest. 

–

“That was a complete and utter shitshow.” Jean-Paul flopped back on his cot and stared at the ceiling of his tent. 

He didn’t know how much they were going to get from this job, but he hoped it was worth the amount of crap they had walked into. 

Some jobs were just like that. 

He winced as he sat up and checked the bandage on his leg. He hadn’t bled through it yet. At least there was that. 

A shower and some practice in first aid had cleared his head. Now he just needed to hope he could sleep it all away. There was still a ringing in his left ear that he really hoped would go away and every time he closed his eyes he still felt like he was moving. 

A memory came to him of Marc sitting in the back of the truck with blood staining through multiple spots of his uniform. He’d taken a bad fall and gotten into a scuff with someone with a big knife. 

There were two types of men after a mission. The loud and boisterous ones that were still high on adrenaline, and the quiet contemplative ones that were lost in what they had survived.  

Jean-Paul was the quiet type that would simply sit and contemplate the fact that he had survived another day. 

Marc appeared to be the quiet type as well, but there was something telling him that perhaps there was something more there. Something that said that perhaps Marc was lost in surviving a different battle. 

One that only he knew about. 

This particular one had been brutal for all the wrong reasons. There was no heavy gunfire or explosives or screaming. The fighting had all been very up close and personal. Fists had bruised up faces and knives had sliced through flesh. 

When the battle could be won from a distance with bullets and quick thinking, it was easier to walk away and leave it all behind. When it was won with faces sneering into faces and knuckles breaking bone, it was easy to become lost in personal traumas. 

Jean-Paul got up and before he knew it, he was standing outside of Marc’s door. Courtesy dictated that he announce himself before entering. 

“Marc? I’m coming in.” It wasn’t a question. He gave it three seconds then marched into the tent. 

Marc was sitting on his cot, leaning on his knees and looking down at his hands. If he noticed Jean-Paul, he didn’t show any indication. He was still in his uniform and he had dried and crusted blood on his face. 

“Christ, Marc.” He sighed heavily and glanced around the tent. It wasn’t the first time he had been in there, but it was the first time he was able to really take it in. 

There were no pictures up. No memorabilia or decorations. A gold necklace with the star of David dangled from a support pole next to a hand mirror where he probably shaved when he remembered to. The guns were all laid out and disassembled for cleaning. One knife sat on his trunk, wiped clean. The bloody rag was on the floor, cast aside. 

There was very little of Marc Spector in there. 

“I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.” Jean-Paul went back to his tent and gathered up supplies then stopped by the supply area and gathered up a few things. 

Going back to Marc’s tent he was not surprised to find he had not moved an inch. 

Pulling up a trunk, Jean-Paul took a seat before Marc and set down a bowl of warm water and a washrag. 

“Come. Let me see.” He gently took Marc’s hands in his and turned them over. 

Marc stared down as Jean-Paul gently wiped his knuckles with the washcloth. They were bruised and scabbed, covered in grime and dirt. 

He couldn’t help but reflect of the first time he had come across Marc. A man taking a beating that no one deserved until he decided he had had enough and he fought back. He knew the damage those hands could do. 

They had done their damage again today. 

Jean-Paul cracked the instant cool pack and shook it to mix the chemicals then gently lay it across those bruised knuckles. They would heal and harden until they were needed again. 

Next, he focused on the knife wound that ran across Marc’s forearm, just under his right elbow. A defensive wound. He could have easily avoided it, but ducking and moving out of the way would have slowed him down and prevented him from landing the left hook that had crunched in the attacker’s nose. 

Watching Marc fight was an experience. The way he moved was always so confident. He was a man that understood how deadly he could be and he was not afraid to use it in the moment. He knew the limits of the body and chose to ignore them. 

Looking at him now, Jean-Paul suddenly understood that Marc carried an unknown amount of pain and torment with him that he could unleash on the battlefield like a bomb. 

The wash cloth dabbed at the deep gash and Marc didn’t so much as exhale or flinch. 

Once clean, he gently applied a bandage. He briefly wondered if Marc would bother changing it daily or if he would have to do it himself. Glancing up at Marc’s dark eyes, he decided to just do it himself. 

“Are you injured anywhere else?” Jean-Paul slid his hand gently up to Marc’s shoulder and sighed at the blood splatter he found across his shirt. The blood mostly belonged to the people that made the mistake of getting too close. No one that decided to fight Marc up close walked away. 

Yet there was a fresh spatter along the collar that didn’t match the others. 

When Marc didn’t respond, Jean-Paul looked up and leaned in, tilting Marc’s head back gently by his chin. 

A split lip that was scabbed over. It would probably sting for a while. Nothing he could do about that now. Traces of dried blood around a nostril. The nose had been broken before, but this time it seemed to have withstood the barrage of blows. A black eye that needed ice to bring down the swelling along his cheekbone. 

A gash just under the hairline. It was trying to scab over but probably needed more than that to heal properly. 

The wash cloth was dipped back into the warm bowl of water and gently dabbed at the gash. Marc let out a hissing sound then at last flinched and pulled back, suddenly seeming to take in that there was someone else before him. 

Fists clenched and his body tensed, lost in another time as he registered pain and closeness. There was rage and fear. Marc had just spent the day fighting for his life and unleashing everything in him. Unleashing the emotional pain that was always there, threatening to swallow him whole. 

Jean-Paul recognized the look of a man trapped in a battle in his own head and knew he was about to take a punch to the face that would probably send him spinning into next week. Too close to safely backup without triggering the fight response he did the next best thing he could think of and moved closer. 

He kept his grip on Marc’s chin and tilted his head back, moving in to capture the swollen lips in a tender kiss. 

Years ago, Jean-Paul had learned that most manly men were inherently self conscious and insecure. When he found himself bullied and cornered, he would turn tactics and play into their insecurities. He’d honestly kissed more men than he could remember. It often left them stunned and gave him just enough time to get the upper hand before their rage came down on him. 

Secretly, he liked to think that some of those men still thought about him as they discovered that perhaps they were experiencing self hatred and internalized bigotry. He hoped that the next time they kissed a man it opened new worlds for them. 

Marc did not flinch or try to push him away. His breathing calmed and his body relaxed as Jean-Paul slowly explored the rough and chapped lips, tasting blood and salt there. 

Pulling back, he found clear eyes looking at him in question. 

“You looked like you needed some medical attention.” Jean-Paul shrugged and held up the wash cloth. 

Marc looked down at the bandage on his arm then reached up and touched the gash on his forehead. “Did…” Marc’s voice trailed off and he glanced at Jean-Paul as if debating something. He shook his head then sighed. “Did the battle go well?” 

Jean-Paul sighed. “Well, neither of us are dead.” 

Marc looked off into the distance for a moment as if trying to decide if that statement was true or not. “No such luck this time.” 

So he was that sort of soldier. Jean-Paul oftened wondered if Marc was a man out for fortune, glory, or death. 

He never stopped to consider what type he himself was. He didn’t want to think about it. That would be admitting something he wasn’t ready to admit. 

“Do you often black out in battle?” Jean-Paul reached up and brushed Marc’s hair back, gently dabbing at the gash again, wiping the dirt and grime from his skin. 

Marc winced then laughed softly as he held still. “You have no idea.” 

“Seems dangerous. Not knowing what’s going on around you. Do you just live off of luck?” He pulled out a special band-aid that would help pull the wound close to let it heal. It seemed a shame to mark up such a perfect face. 

Yet, his face seemed to hold old scars well. His fingers dipped down to slide over the old gash in his eyebrow. 

“Luck has nothing to do with it. There… Let’s just say there’s a part of me that disagrees with death and knows how to fight.” Marc smiled and it was dashing beyond belief. 

Jean-Paul swallowed as he stared at those lips. “You should take your clothes off.” 

Marc’s smile faltered then turned into a teasing grin. “Pretty forward of you.” 

“I mean. They’re filthy. It is unsanitary to wear someone else’s blood. Not to mention the smell.” Jean-Paul tried to recover. “Plus there could be other wounds on you. I think it’s clear you aren’t going to take care of yourself at this point. Someone has to watch your back.” 

Marc sighed and he stood up. He tossed his coat to the side then started to undo his shirt buttons from top to bottom. 

Forget the strip club. Forget the acrobatic and flexible girls that defied gravity and lustful gazes. Each slow button was enough to send Jean-Paul’s heart pounding. He felt dizzy as the shirt was shrugged off and tossed aside. 

Of course he had seen Marc naked before. The joys and pain of having to share a shower tent with his fellow soldiers. 

It also didn’t help that Marc seemed to lack any sense of the word ‘modesty’. When it was time to shower, he would often drape a towel over his shoulder and walk to the tent completely nude. Why waste time stripping there? 

Then how could he forget Marc’s pre-battle wanderings? 

Yet there was something completely intimate and soft about watching a man strip in his personal space. 

The blood left Jean-Paul’s face as Marc’s hands dropped to his pants and he undid the button and zipper. His mouth fell open to tell him it was fine to leave those on, but no words came out. 

Shoes and pants were kicked aside recklessly and Marc held out his arms for inspection. 

It took Jean-Paul a solid minute to realize that he was supposed to be inspecting Marc for injuries and not just admiring his body. 

“Uh… Looks…Looks good. Spin. Let me see your back.” He felt light headed as Marc turned and glanced back at him. 

“My shoulder hurts a bit.” Marc rolled his shoulder. “I’ve dislocated it a few times. Do you know if I had to pop it back in back there?” 

Jean-Paul shook his head then tried to think back. He pictured Marc after he had taken the blow to the head. The utterly savage look that came over his face as he took the attacker down. How he had gotten back up and stood there, dripping in sweat and blood before he moved on to the next target. 

“You stopped using that arm for a bit. You must have popped it in mid battle. You took out a whole group that got the drop on us. Probably saved my life.” He got up and moved closer, reaching out a shaky hand as he longed to touch those muscles. 

“Hm.” Marc sighed. 

“Do you really not remember?” Jean-Paul slowly looked the back over and lightly touched a few abrasions with feather light fingers. How he wished to brush his lips across them. To taste the salt of Marc’s skin again. 

Marc was quiet a moment then glanced back at him. “I’ve known you a long time now.” 

“Longer than most.” Jean-Paul had hopped companies for years. He would stay long enough to almost know the names of everyone there, then move to the next. His secrets were his own and the less he knew, the less likely he was to have his heart broken. 

The reason for staying in this company for so long was now standing before him in his skivvies and he cursed his weak heart as it pounded inside with such need. 

“I was kicked out of the Marines because I have a disorder. I lied about it to get in and they found out about it.” Marc shrugged. 

“We all have disorders out here.” Jean-Paul let his fingers ghost over a forming bruise on Marc’s side. The man was lucky he didn’t have any broken ribs. 

Marc chuckled softly and glanced down at the bruise, laying his fingers across it to test how far it went. “Some more than others.” 

“So what’s your disorder?” Jean-Paul flushed as Marc lay his hand over his and moved it down to his hip. 

“Here.” Marc winced. “Feels like I rolled through barbed wire.” 

“You did.” Jean-Paul held his breath as he slowly pulled down the hem of Marc’s boxers and found a long gash that traveled down into no man’s land. He turned to grab a tube of antibiotic ointment. 

“I dissociate.” Marc pulled his boxers down and tossed them to join the rest of his bloody clothes. “Among other things…” 

Jean-Paul nearly dropped the tube when he turned back around. “Mon Dieu…” 

“You’re telling me.” Marc muttered as he followed the cuts down his hip and across his thighs. “That was fucking close.” He lifted a leg and ran his fingers along his inner thigh. “Nearly got castrated out there. Fucking hell.” 

“Uh huh.” Jean-Paul was breathing hard. He could feel the sweat building up on his brow and he wiped it away with a shaking hand. He held out the tube to Marc and looked away at anything else but at the naked man before him. 

Marc took the tube and started to apply the ointment to his cuts, his fingers moving where Jean-Paul could only dream of. 

“You need to take better care of yourself, Marc.” Jean-Paul swallowed. “I would be torn up if you died from some stupid infection or an injury that could have been avoided.” 

“Guess I’m going to have to start relying on you to patch me up, Frenchie.” Marc grinned. 

Jean-Paul rolled his eyes at the nickname. “Honestly, Marc. I don’t call you ‘Americany’ do I?” 

“I’m from Chicago.” He held out the tube of ointment. “Would you mind?” He pointed to the back of his thigh where the last of the scrapes ended. 

Jean-Paul sighed and knelt down on his knees. He slowly slid his fingers over the gashes, working the ointment into them gently. His fingers traced the cuts over his inner thigh and slowly worked up higher. What he would give to touch and feel him. To feel the blood rush and pulse there. To feel any ounce of desire for once be directed towards him. 

He exhaled softly and ghosted a kiss across the back of Marc’s thigh. 

Marc’s legs spread slightly and a hand lay over his, holding him there. “Make sure to get it all, Frenchie.” 

Jean-Paul’s heart was suddenly in his throat as Marc guided his fingers higher till they were brushing over Marc’s dick. 

His hand was cupped and Jean-Paul let his fingers slowly curl around the shaft and squeeze. 

Marc let out a soft sound that almost sounded like a moan and Jean-Paul nearly blacked out as the blood drained from his head and pooled in his suddenly far too tight pants. 

He felt the cock in his hand twitch and he held his breath as it slowly hardened. He dared not utter a single word, terrified that he might break the spell and be sent out of the tent for luring Marc into such a situation. 

Marc’s hand squeezed around his and slowly stroked up and down the shaft, letting him feel each bulging vein and how stiff he had gotten. 

Jean-Paul slowly rolled his thumb over the head and gasped out as Marc shuddered and his hips jerked. 

Guilt overcame him as he suddenly felt an inequality in the situation. “Marc…” He pulled his hand back and stood up. “You don’t have to do this.” 

Marc turned to face him and looked him over. Marc’s face was calm and lacked any sort of hesitancy or embarrassment. “Did I misread the situation?” His eyes settled on Jean-Paul’s bulging groin for a moment then moved back up. 

“You must surely know by now that I don’t fancy the ladies.” Jean-Paul tried to hold his gaze, ready to bare his soul and be abandoned and cast out again. 

Marc raised an eyebrow. “I’m not a lady.” 

“Neither am I.” Jean-Paul flushed. “This isn’t that kind of thing. I’m not looking for a pity fuck. I’m not looking to be some man’s substitute pussy.” An old wound torn open as he recalled his first mistake and first rejection. 

Marc gave him a serious look. “I enjoy the ladies. I love their curves and I’m just as willing to get down on my knees for them as any one.” 

Jean-Paul felt his heart drop. 

Marc leaned in and breathed into his ear. “And I love men just as much. Are you going to stand there making excuses or are you going to let me suck you off?” 

Jean-Paul blushed and moved his trembling hands to his fly, struggling to undo his belt and fly quickly. 

Marc rested his hands on his and slowly pushed them away as he sank to his knees. He undid the belt slowly and parted his fly. “Keep your clothes on. I think I like this dynamic…” 

Marc pushed him back to the cot and Jean-Paul sat down heavily. He looked down at the naked man that was slowly coaxing his dick out of his pants and groaned. “Marc… Are you sure? You don’t owe me anything for helping you…” 

Marc cupped his balls and slowly massaged them. “I miss a lot of things, Frenchie. I know I’m an idiot at the best of times. I honestly would never have noticed if someone hadn't pointed it out to me just the other day. The idea that you would do all this for me and then go back to your tent frustrated and alone doesn’t sit well with me. This isn’t because I owe you.” 

Jean-Paul groaned as Marc leaned in and slid his tongue across the head of his dick slowly. 

Marc pulled back and grinned up at him. “When was the last time you got a proper blow job?” 

Jean-Paul flushed. “I’m usually the one giving.” 

Marc thought about that for a moment then laughed. “At least that means I don’t have much to live up to then. You’re my first.” 

“Wait… What?” He didn’t have time to process that as Marc swirled his tongue around the head slowly then wrapped his lips around the head and sucked, sliding down on him with ease as he focused on relaxing his throat. He felt Marc’s throat clench around him as it threatened to gag then relax and push further until he was fully in.

“Mon Dieu… Marc!” His hands flew to Marc’s hair and dug in, gripping tightly as he arched his hips up. Marc swallowed and he felt every motion of Marc’s tongue and throat move around him. He groaned as Marc bobbed on him a moment then pulled off with a wet pop. 

Jean-Paul gasped and stared down at his picture perfect wet dream as Marc licked his lips and looked up at him with a grin. He could see Marc’s pulsing erection begging for attention and slowly dripping in need. 

A string of curses left his mouth as Marc gripped his dick and started to lick him over top to bottom while his other hand rolled and massaged his balls slowly. 

If there was one thing to be said about Marc Spector, it was that he never did anything half-assed. The man took punishment like a sadist but he also strived to do anything he did like a professional. Perhaps he had some trauma in his past that forced him to want to do everything with such perfection, but at the moment, Jean-Paul could only thank his lucky stars as Marc was now setting out to give the best damn blow job in the world. 

His tongue curled and twisted in ways that should not have been possible. He found sensitive nerves and teased them, feeling the way his dick twitched and pulsed as he neared his edge then was held at bay each time Marc pulled off to lick his lips. 

He hummed and deep throated, learning quickly to breathe through his nose and then when to hold off his gag reflex when Jean-Paul couldn’t control himself anymore and bucked up, fingers tangled in the dark hair as he struggled not to force Marc’s head down. 

Even more so, Marc was in his head. The beautiful naked body between his legs, untouched and in desperate need as Marc neglected his own wants. He could feel the heat as Marc’s body begged for any sort of tender touch. He could feel the way Marc tensed when Jean-Paul squirmed and brushed against him. He watched the way Marc’s hips twitched now and then each time he pulled off and looked up at him with that almost playful smirk. 

“Marc… Marc!” Jean-Paul moaned and arched his hips as Marc once more pulled off to lick his lips and watch his friend squirm. “Cock tease!” He groaned and panted. “I cannot last much longer. I’m either going to die or I’m going to cum.” 

Marc laughed softly and leaned in, slowly licking the tip. “Which do you want? I can swallow or you can cover me.” 

Jean-Paul stared at him with wide eyes. Logically he understood that if this really was Marc’s first time, he didn’t know which was expected of him. Staring at that face, as sexy as it might have been, he didn’t want to mess it up more than it already had been in battle. Another part of him wanted to become a part of Marc. The idea of being his first… 

He gripped his hair and pulled him back in. “Swallow!” He groaned as he rubbed his dick across Marc’s lips. Marc obediently parted his lips and took him in easily. 

He came hard, gasping as he felt Marc swallow without losing a single drop. He sat back and wiped his lips. 

“Shit…” Jean-Paul sank back for a moment, breathing heavily. He looked at Marc and immediately felt regret as he remembered the split lip that must have ached and stung the whole time. 

He sat up and gently cupped Marc’s face, sliding his thumb over the swollen lips and tracing the fresh split. “Look at you… Not a care for yourself…” 

Marc blinked as if just now noticing the state of his own body. He glanced down and shrugged. “I’ve been in worse shape.” 

Jean-Paul could only stare at him, taking in everything that sat before him. If he could take a picture and keep it somewhere next to his heart forever, he would die a happy man. 

“Let me take care of you.” Jean-Paul tucked himself away and fixed his pants before pulling Marc up into his lap. 

Marc straddled him easily and looked down at him, a blank slate with no idea on what he was doing. 

Jean-Paul looked up at him and slowly slid his hands over Marc’s chest. “Hey. Don’t drift off on me. This is your body. Let me take care of it for you.” 

Marc frowned for a moment. He didn’t enjoy having a body. He much preferred to drift and not feel it. He didn’t want to feel the pain that he caused or the damage that he took. 

His eyes followed Jean-Paul’s hands for a moment before he finally relaxed and took a few slow deep breaths. He shuddered and breathed out as the first sensation was of rough fingers rubbing across his nipples that sent shivers down his spine. 

“Moan.” Jean-Paul leaned in and nuzzled his neck. “I want to hear you make sounds, Marc. Let me know that you’re feeling this.” 

Jean-Paul dipped down and kissed across Marc’s collarbone, careful to avoid any of the dark bruises or scrapes that he had patched up earlier. 

Marc’s breath hitched and he let out a forced soft moan. The moan turned into a whimper as Jean-Paul moved his hands down and slowly started to stroke over Marc’s thighs. 

“Good… Just like that.” He draped an arm around Marc’s neck and pulled him in, kissing him softly as he slowly tasted him. 

Hands ran up his thighs and teased around his cock slowly. 

Marc squirmed and arched his hips, clinging to Jean-Paul tightly as he groaned into the kiss. Marc would not beg. He was a man that would rather suffer than beg. Jean-Paul had no interest in watching Marc suffer, but he did want to see if perhaps he could push Marc in a different direction. 

He gripped his dick and gave it a gentle squeeze as his thumb rubbed over the slit and head slowly. 

Marc whimpered and arched into him, nuzzling into Jean-Paul’s neck as he gasped and thrust his hips. 

“That’s it. I liked watching you suck me off. Did you even notice how much your dick ached? Sucking me must have really turned you on. I could see your hips moving in need as you swallowed me. Look how hard you are, right now. How can you be this hard and not notice?” He squeezed softly and gave a tug. 

Marc groaned and his hips twitched. “I’m used to it…” He gasped. “I don’t need anything.” 

“I think you’re full of it.” Jean-Paul stroked him roughly, feeling his dick swell and drip his pre-cum heavily before he squeezed and released him. “Maybe you think you don’t need anything but you want this. It’s okay to want pleasure, Marc.” He kissed him gently. “To want a little tenderness now and then.” 

Marc’s breathing grew heavier and his eyes fluttered as he groaned and ground his hips into him, desperately seeking out touch again. “Jean-Paul…” He whispered and flushed as the name escaped his lips. 

“Tell me you want to feel good.” He slid his hands over Marc’s chest again, taking great pleasure in mapping out each curve and muscle he found. His hands moved to Marc’s back and slowly traced his spine down till he was firmly gripping his ass in both hands. 

Marc squirmed in his lap and started to pant. “I want…” He bit his lower lip and groaned as his teeth dug into his swollen lip. “Ah… I want to feel…” 

Jean-Paul captured his lips in a kiss again, chasing away the pain as he tenderly sucked on the lower lip. “You want to feel good.” 

He teased fingers over Marc’s cock again, memorizing the way he felt in his hand. He was certain he would dream of this later. Far better than his usual nightmares. 

“Yes…” Marc moaned and tilted his head back, closing his eyes as he breathed deeply. His hips rocked and he let his whole body start to move as he leaned into the touch. “I want to feel you… I want to feel good…” 

Jean-Paul blushed as he watched Marc give in and squirm on his lap. It was like watching him slowly open up and let his guard down. Any cocky show or feelings of desperate separation from the world melted away and here he was, Marc Spector, laid bare before him. 

Jean-Paul instantly rolled and pushed Marc down on the cot, leaving a train of kisses down his chest to his stomach before circling his thighs slowly. “Beautiful… Say it again… Tell me what you want…” 

Marc was gasping now, the sounds coming from him barely contained as he squirmed back and gasped around, unsure where to put his hands as he sought something to cling to. 

“I want you… I want to feel you!” Marc groaned and grasped at Jean-Paul’s shoulders tightly, fingers digging in as lips brushed over his balls and a tongue slid across his dick. 

Jean-Paul kissed the head passionately, grinning to himself at the notion of what a true ‘French Kiss’ was as he worked his tongue around the swollen gland. He lapped at the sensitive slit for a moment then wrapped his lips over the head and sucked gently until it was red and tender, ready to blow. 

Marc arched his hips and rubbed his dick across Jean-Paul’s lips eagerly, gasping as he reached for pleasure and attention. “Yes… I want it… I want to feel it…” 

How long could Marc hold out as he clung to this feeling? Jean-Paul suspected Marc could push himself on the brink for far longer than was healthy. Reaching for but never letting himself have that satisfying release. 

He would not let Marc ride this one out. As skilled as he was at dragging men along past their breaking point, Jean-Paul decided he was going to end it here and now. 

He licked his lips then quickly took all of Marc in, swallowing and clenching his throat around him tightly as he slid his tongue down the sensitive underside fully. 

Marc took a sharp intake of breath and clenched his hands as if he was prepared to fight it. Jean-Paul groaned, letting the vibrations slide through him as he started to bob his head, pulling off to the tip before sliding back down easily. 

Another intake of breath and he could feel Marc starting to squirm, his leg muscles tightening as his hips stuttered and thrust. “Nnh…Ahh!” 

This was it. He sank down on him fully, sucking him to the deepest part of his throat. A hand flew to his hair and ran through it, unsure if it was trying to cling to him and hold him there or if he wanted to pull him off and deny it all. 

It didn’t matter as he felt Marc’s dick twitch and finally give up the fight as he came, shooting a thick load down Jean-Paul’s throat steadily. 

The strangled sound Marc made only encouraged him to suck harder, drawing it out in victory as he drank him down. Only when Marc was gasping and his hips started to thrash did Jean-Paul release him, letting his dick slide out of his mouth with a satisfied smile. He hovered there a moment, watching as Marc’s dick lay against his stomach, slowly softening. 

A soft kiss to remember him by and Jean-Paul slid up to collapse next to Marc, draping over him gently and feeling the heavy rise and fall of Marc’s chest. 

He peaked up at Marc’s face, desperately hoping to find him still present and not trying to drift off again to the place he always went after battles so he wouldn’t have to feel anything. 

Marc looked back at him, their eyes meeting for a moment. “Fuck.” Marc ran his hands through his own hair slowly as he lay back and processed. 

“Was that your first blow job?” Jean-Paul suspected that Marc was not a virgin, but he wondered how much Marc had ever let himself truly experience vs. what he had simply coasted through. 

Marc lay back for a moment then shook his head. “I’ve had a few before. But none…None like that.” 

“It’s the mustache.” Jean-Paul grinned and lay his head against Marc’s shoulder. “You should always look for the man with the mustache. He knows how to have a good time.” 

Marc groaned and sat up a moment. He grabbed the ice pack from before and lay back down, laying the ice pack on his face. “It doesn’t hurt as much, but I can feel it more. I’m aware of it.” 

Jean-Paul sighed and reached up to gently move the ice pack to the swollen part of Marc’s face. “It will fade again. Endorphins can only take you so far.”

He envied Marc’s ability to block out all the pain and sensation. Yet… The price he paid for it… 

He thought back to before, watching Marc gaze up at the night sky as he settled into whatever numbness he told himself he needed to live. 

Here Marc was again, naked in the night and fighting against being real and being here. He was a heartbreaker, but not for the reasons that everyone thought of. 

Marc’s breathing evened out and he looked to Jean-Paul fully, eyes open and asking. “I think I liked this. I could get used to this ritual.” 

Jean-Paul rested his head against Marc and slowly wrapped an arm around his naked waist, holding him close. “Keep your pre-battle ritual. Wander as far as you need to. As long as I survive, I’ll be here after to help bring you back.” 

Marc nodded, though he was already starting to drift again, his breathing slowing as sleep started to claim him at last. “Thank you…” 

“I’ll bring you back…” Jean-Paul promised him. “I’ll take care of you. No matter how broken we are, we’ll come back together…” 

[bringbackwendellvaughn]

[erinptah]

Propaganda for my "Frenchie secretly already knows about Jake" headcanon.

Also, my "Jake still has strong opinions about Animorphs" headcanon.

[age-of-moonknight]

“Knight Time in the City,” Phases of the Moon Knight (Vol. 1/2024), #2.

Writer: Jed MacKay; Penciler and Inker: Jorge Fornès; Colorist: Lee Loughridge; Letterer: Cory Petit

[why-i-love-comics]

Phases of the Moon Knight #2 - "Knight Time in the City" (2024)

written by Jed MacKay art by Jorge Fornes & Lee Loughridge

[liliegrayson]

moon knight (2016) #2

[drifting-pieces-blog-blog]

Nothing and Everything - Part 5

Summary: Certain times of the year are harder than others. This is the first year where they have all been present to face the memories of all the trauma. How can they come together when they each have their own traumas to face?

Pairings: Gen fic (they love Layla and she loves them)

Warnings: Heavy dissociation, Mentions of child abuse, some mentions of violence, Depression, mentions of self harm, Mentions of hospitalization, PTSD.

Word Count: 5016

Part five: What do you do when the protector tells you to run? What if running isn't the answer? Sometimes logic disappears when all you see is pain.

Previous Chapter HERE

You were really mean.

“Shut up.” 

Go back and apologize.

“Shut up, Steven. You don’t even know what was going on.” 

He seemed so nice. Who was that?

“Go away. It was no one.” 

He looked familiar. Do I know him? Is he a friend? Marc knows him, right? 

“Mind your own business and shut up.” 

It seemed like it should be my business. What did he want? It felt like he was trying to help.

Jake kept walking. Maybe if he ignored Steven, he’d get the message and go away. 

Where are we going?

He focused on the sidewalk ahead of him. They had left the more familiar area of the touristy part of London and were quickly moving to the more industrious areas. 

Are you mad at Layla? She’s tried calling twice and texted. You shouldn’t ignore her. You know she gets worried. 

As if on cue the phone buzzed again and Jake didn’t even glance at it. He was mad at her. Mad that she didn’t trust him. That she would think that he wouldn’t be able to stop Marc if he even thought about hurting them. Mad that she thought Steven was hurting and he couldn’t do anything about it. Mad that she thought he was a danger to them. 

Jake pulled out his phone and switched it off. 

Jake, it looks like it might start raining. Can we go home? Layla is going to be upset.  

Jake started to run. If he could just focus harder he could block out that nagging little voice named Steven. 

The voice grew quiet and Jake at last found himself blocked off and alone. It was just the way he liked it. No one to tell him what he was supposed to do or accuse him of being a problem. 

Jake kept going. It was what he did. He got them out of trouble. He moved them to safety. No matter the threat, he was there to get them out. 

He didn’t want to see familiar faces or deal with problems that weren’t his. He didn’t want to think about Marc Spector or Steven Grant. 

All he wanted was to do what he did best and fade into the background. Jake Lockley was no one. 

And if he was no one, then he didn’t have any problems that needed solving. 

– 

Her mantra of “I’m sure he’s fine” had at one point turned into “I’m going to kill him” and eventually devolved into “He’s gone”. 

After her conversation with Jean-Paul on the phone, she had tried to call them all day. When her calls started going straight to voicemail she settled for texts. The first two had been marked as seen but since then, they all sat there unread. 

It was just like last time. Him leaving one day, walking out and kissing her goodbye and disappearing. 

Steven wouldn’t do this to her. Steven would never let them run off like this. 

Layla clung to the hope that was Steven. 

So who was running? Marc once more trying to quit his life? Jake, who must have been so angry at her? Someone else who woke up and decided to go have their own life? 

Fears that she had thought irrational in the beginning started to fester as the sun went down and the rains picked up. 

What if Marc really did decide to leave her? What if Jake hated her so much that he convinced them all to leave? What if Steven was mad at her? What if there really was another in there that she didn’t know about? Would she find them months later in another city living under another name? 

She wanted to cry but her fear and anxiety clenched down on her too tightly to even let the relief of tears flow. 

She messaged Jean-Paul again pleading with him to find them. 

It took him a few minutes to respond this time. “Let them walk it off. They won’t go far. If they are not back by tomorrow I will find them.” 

She threw her phone at the couch and screamed. Frustration, anguish, fear, and anger. She wasn’t done. She was so angry. She was angry at herself. She was angry at Jean-Paul. She was angry at THEM. 

Angry at Marc for keeping so much from her and taking away her decision to be involved in this life. Angry at Steven for being so wonderful that she had no choice but to love him. Angry at Jake for doing so much and not letting her be the one to help. 

She was angry at herself for not asking more questions. For not demanding to know what made Marc wake up screaming. For not needing to know what made Jake fight so violently. For not asking Steven why he cried at night. 

She screamed again and sank down. She had suffered loss too. Didn’t they know? Didn’t they understand that she carried her own pain? Pain that was so often ignored because she was doing so much to try to make them happy. 

How many times did she tiptoe around memories of her father because she was afraid of Marc’s guilt? She wanted to honor him and instead she swept his life and memories away. She wanted to cry for him and instead she smiled and pretended his life hadn't mattered. 

She looked around the apartment. She saw books and decorations and piles and piles of things that were not hers. Things that Steven refused to move. Things that Steven clung to out of fear of being erased. Where were her things? 

Stashed into a drawer in the dresser. Pushed aside in the closet. Marc’s things barely made a dent. A drawer full of random items and a storage locker full of dangerous things that he clung to. The only one with less presence in here was Jake, who kept his life hidden away in his car. 

It hit her then as she tried to find the life of the four people that occupied this space. The whole system was unbalanced. 

They were all broken, her included. 

It didn’t stop there. Tears fell as she went to pick up the phone and she dialed Jean-Paul again. 

He picked up on the second ring. Always there, always waiting. Clinging to a friend that ignored him, hoping all these years for something… 

“You love him, don’t you?” She wiped the tears from her cheek. She was met by silence. “It’s okay. I love him too. It’s never been easy to love him.”

“It’s even harder not to.” Jean-Paul whispered. 

The rain outside started to fall harder and thunder gently rolled across the city. 

“Please, come spend the night. I don’t want to be alone.” She looked out the window wondering where they were. 

“Of course.” Jean-Paul sighed softly and she could hear the sadness there. “They will come back, chérie.” 

“I know… But things have to change. I can’t keep doing this.” She sighed and brushed her hair back. “What if they don’t?” 

“I’ll be there soon.” He hung up. 

The unanswered question hung heavily in the air. The other, unasked question sat in the back of her throat heavily. 

What if they do?

–

Keep going. 

They walked across the desert, feeling the weight of death dragging them down as they bled out into the sand. 

Keep going.

They walked across the stone and earth, feeling the water rise and fill their lungs. 

Keep going.

They walked across the slick tile floor that smelled of chemical cleaners and medicine, feeling the drugs pull them down as their legs turned to rubber under them. 

Keep going.

They walked through the halls of their school, tired and in pain from bruises hidden by their clothes. They hunched inward protectively as things flew at them, launched by yelling and jeering classmates. 

Keep going.

They walked through the museum, exhausted and confused as the haze of missing memories clung to them. Sadness sinking deep into them as their fellow co-workers whispered and stared with such unkindness. 

Keep going.

A shaking hand reached out to lift the lid of the sarcophagus, feeling how heavy and impossible to move it must be. Twin fists pounded on the wood. They could hear the pounding down the hall from one another. One cried and screamed, the other remained silent. Always silent. Only one of them would be rescued. 

Keep going.

Shock kept the pain away. Cold and squeezing down on them as the second bullet tore into their heart. They could feel the emptiness as blood drained from their vital functions, tearing into their lungs till it suffocated them. They would drown after all. 

Marc woke up screaming. 

The panic surged through him as he flailed, clawing at everything around him in an attempt to get up and flee. Fingers dug into mug and grit and he felt the smear of water against his face. 

It was dark and he could hear the rumble of approaching death. He scrambled to his feet, took three steps then fell off a curb into a stream of dirty water rushing for a nearby gutter. 

He lay there for a moment, gasping and trembling. Slowly, the confusion faded and he found himself looking up at the dark night sky. The stars were far away and faded, washed out by the street lights around him and the falling rain. 

Marc slowly sat up and took in the state of himself. 

He was soaked to the bone, cold, and covered in mud. He felt for the essentials. His wallet was at least in his pocket, but his phone appeared to be missing. He had his keys, but there was no sign of their car nearby. 

His palms were scraped up from his recent fall and he had a cut on his elbow that didn’t exactly look fresh but it didn’t look older than a few hours. 

He was alive and in one piece. He could work with this. Next step: Where the hell was he? 

He slowly got out of the gutter and back onto his feet. “Steven?” He tried, though he doubted very much that Steven had anything to do with this. No answer. With any luck, Steven was resting. Marc had a feeling that if Steven saw their state he’d be more than a little upset. 

Marc took a slow breath then moved to the next logical conclusion. “Jake?” 

Run. Keep running. 

It was more of a feeling than anything. Communication with Jake was difficult for Marc. It came in bursts of images, feelings, and abstract thoughts. 

Marc took a moment and looked around. The street was empty except for a passing car every now and then. There were rows of closed up shops and buildings. It all looked a little grim and dirty and Marc suspected they were in a rough part of town. 

A bar down the street had a flickering neon sign that buzzed loudly, the only place that offered warmth and safety. 

“Wonderful.” Marc took a step towards the bar, knowing it would be a mixed pressing and a curse. He could ask where he was and maybe even figure out why they were there…. And then he could continue to drown. 

Jake fought back. Their legs stalled and Marc stumbled as he turned around and started to walk back towards the street. 

“Fuck… Jake… Jake stop it!” Marc punched a leg and winced at the pain. “Fine. We’ll just stay out here and catch pneumonia. What the fuck happened?” 

They stood still and a flurry of emotions washed over him. Anger, betrayal, and fear. 

He saw glimpses of things he associated with Layla and some things he didn’t understand. 

“We’re running from Layla?” Marc wiped the mud from his face. “That doesn’t make any sense.” 

A memory surfaced, quick and violent as it showed him white and bright halls and a chair with straps on it. 

Sweat beaded across Marc’s forehead and his heart started to beat faster. “Oh.” 

The hospital. The one thing Jake would run from no matter what. Run. 

Marc tried to make sense of it. Run from Layla. Run from the hospital. Had Layla tried to have them committed? 

It was unrealistic. She would never do such a thing to them. To him. Yet, here Jake was, running. 

Marc tried to look at it logically. It wasn’t like it was all those years ago. It wasn’t his parents putting him in a car and driving him there. Wasn’t his parents signing the papers and then leaving him without a word. There were no orderlies there to drag him away and lock him up. No one to drug him and keep him from fighting. 

He was a lucid and sensible adult. He was three adults if he was honest with himself. He knew that he could only be held for so long on a committal against his will. He’d looked it up. He knew his rights as a mental patient. 

It made him wince that he’d have to look these things up, but the fear never really left him. 

Even being committed against his will, they had to have probable cause. Intention to cause harm against himself or others. 

Jake didn’t seem the sort and neither did Steven. As far as he was aware, he’d been trying to sleep through any funny ideas that snuck their way into his brain when he wasn’t looking. 

He frowned more as the second option came to mind. Self committal. 

Jake would never go willingly. He’d burn down the hospital before he set foot in there again. 

Marc couldn’t recall signing any forms. 

“Steven?” He called out, willing to risk the reserved English man’s wrath to sort this out. 

The world blacked out and Marc found himself on a different street, stumbling forward with a determined stride. 

Run. 

Marc groaned and stopped them, looking around. He recognized less and less. Were they even still in London? The sky was a little lighter. How long had they been walking? 

He eyed someone that walked by, bundled up and carrying a large bag.

“Hey.” He mumbled. “What area are we in? What’s the borough?” 

The man paused and looked at him suspiciously at first then took in the scraped up appearance and mud. Another traveler of the night. 

“Hackney.” The man clutched his bag tighter. 

“Cheers.” Marc sighed. “Thanks mate.” 

The man nodded then carried on. 

Steven was suddenly very awake. Did that man just say we were in Hackney? Hackney?! 

The utter shock and disgust was almost palpable. 

“Settle down, Steven.” Marc grumbled. “I’m just trying to work out what’s going on. We’re perfectly safe and you know it.” 

Safe in Hackney! Steven reached for the front and took it long enough to look down at himself then look around. He was utterly appalled. 

Marc took the front back and tried to settle Steven down. “Jake says there was trouble and we had to get away. Do you know what it’s about? Did… Did someone try to put us in the hospital?” He knew better than to accuse Steven outright. 

Steven was quiet for a moment as the wheels turned then suddenly Marc felt a mental door slam and his anxiety climbed. He didn’t know what was going on but his nerves were suddenly shot. 

All he knew was that it wasn’t Steven that had tried to lock them up, but Steven knew something. Something that Jake had tried to relay to him. There was suddenly a scramble inside and everything blacked out. 

Marc came to facing a different direction, walking quickly in a blind direction with the urgency of a man trying to find a familiar location. 

“Not in bloody Hackney.” The words slipped out in disgust. “Can’t believe you took us to Hackney. Thought you were the smart one.” 

Marc shook his head and tried to push back Steven. “Get us out of here. I want to go home.” Steven continued to prattle on. “Don’t you let him have the body back. I’m going to have words with him once we get home.” 

Marc shook his head again and looked around. He had no mental map of this part of London. He’d been all over many of the boroughs, but it was hard to figure things out when it was so dark out, raining, and the landscape kept changing. 

As if on cue, he was suddenly running down a different street. “Fuck you. I’m not going back. We have to get out.” 

“Stop!” Marc clenched his eyes shut and tried to hold his ground. He was tired and sore and the rain wouldn’t stop coming down. 

He didn’t want to be a part of this anymore but he couldn’t stop slipping in. He also couldn’t just leave Jake and Steven fighting for their safety. Steven, who desired comfort and familiarity and Jake who demanded freedom and security. 

He gritted his teeth and found a payphone, his fingers fumbling with the controls as Jake tried to fight him. 

He pushed in the proper currency and dialed. The phone rang three times before he heard a scramble and thunk before a rushed and breathless “Hello?”. 

“Layla!” Steven pushed forward and stumbled across Marc. Jake tried to hang up and suddenly it was like a blank slate slid down over them. 

“Steven?” Layla’s desperate voice called over the phone and they blinked slowly, suddenly feeling sluggish and confused. 

“I don’t know where I am.” They managed to get out, feeling detached and so far away. “I don’t… I don’t know what’s going on.” 

“Marc? Are you alright?” Layla sounded afraid. “Are you safe?” 

“I’m cold.” They looked down at the body, wondering if it was even theirs. It had to be. It moved when they moved. A hand came up and they stared at the cuts on the palm. “Hackney? I think… Someone is saying Hackney? There’s a… There’s a sign. Someone doesn’t want to say it. A bus stop. Twenty six?” 

He could hear someone else in the background talking to Layla. 

“Okay. I’ll find you. Don’t move okay? Can you do that? Can you stay there?” She sounded rushed. 

They looked up at the sky for a moment, watching the water come down. “I don’t know. Someone wants to go. I don’t know where we’re going. I… I don’t know. I feel weird. I don’t like it.” 

“Please. Please stay there. Can you stay on the line? Keep talking to me, okay? If the line cuts off, you have to call me back.” She was out of breath, running maybe? 

“I don’t think I’m supposed to be talking.” They were being pulled in so many different directions. It hurt to try to focus. It was exhausting. 

“Baby, please? You don’t have to talk about anything in particular. Just… Just hold the phone. Don’t hang up. We can sit in silence.” She was scared. 

“I don’t like the silence.” Someone was also scared. 

“Okay. It’s okay. Hey, I heard the cubs won a division the other day.” She was fishing. Trying to ground them? To pull one of them out, maybe? 

It hurt and they shook their head, desperately trying to clear things. “Stop.” They looked up at the enclosed phone booth. They were floating here in this sarcophagus. 

“We need to go.” 

“No! Don’t hang up! Just stay here!” 

“I gotta go.” They hung up and opened the door, slowly stepping out as the world under them failed to feel real. 

The rain was fake. The sensation of their body feeling cold and in pain wasn’t real. It wasn’t their body. This wasn’t who they were. 

Who were they? Who was in control? Was it the man that wanted to run, the man that wanted to stay, or the man that didn’t want anything? 

They sat down on the curb and stared up at the sky as cars went by and more and more people started to move around them. 

Time was unreal as the sun rose and the rain stopped. The light stretched on forever and steam came off their drenched clothes. 

“Marc!” A voice floated around them and time jerked forward awkwardly. 

“The body hurts.” He mumbled and held up his hands, showing the cuts. 

Someone was pulling them up and wrapping something warm around their shoulders. They were pulled towards a car and time jerked, skipping fractions of seconds. 

Someone was resisting the motion and someone else was desperate to get in. They turned away from the car and started to walk away. They only made it a few steps before they stopped and stared down at their hands again. 

They blurred again and looked at the woman before them with blank confusion. “Please don’t…” He felt so small. So far away. “Don’t hurt us.” 

“Oh, Baby… Baby no…” She wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly, rocking and stroking his back gently. “No one’s going to hurt you.” 

They nodded and slowly got into the car, curling up in the seat and closing their eyes as the woman got in next to them and pulled their head into her lap, gently stroking their hair. 

Marc felt himself shift and he reached out, desperately reaching for something solid to cling to. They couldn’t do this. They hated this. They hated this sensation. They didn’t know who they were and they didn’t know why they weren’t. This… This body that belonged to no one and everyone. 

For the first time in his life, Marc struggled to be real. To ground and fight back. 

“I don’t know who I am.” He gasped and clung to Layla. 

“Shhh…” She soothed as she stroked his hair. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re safe here with me. I love you. I love you so much…” She had tears running down her cheeks and her fingers trembled as they worked through his curls. 

Marc nodded and swallowed, feeling Steven start to relax but Jake still fighting. Multiple times they sat up and reached for the door, visions of them jumping out and running filled their thoughts. Each time, Layla gently pulled them back and continued to whisper soothing words to them as Marc jerked back into control and clung to her. 

Time was hard to place. The car carried on forever. There was an awkward skip as someone lifted them from the car and carried them. Strong hands and arms that cradled them like a baby. Marc stared up at the face that he felt he should know. The mustache that curled and eyes that carried deep pain and sadness… 

“Frenchie.” Marc wrapped his arms around the man’s shoulders and rested his head there, breathing in the past. He could still smell the faint traces of places they had once been. The wind and the heat at their backs. The campfires and spices of places they slept in. He breathed deeply, lost in memories and a different time. 

The whole body jerked when hot water rushed over their body. He knew it was only lukewarm, but it seared them as it ate through the cold numb layer that he built up over night. 

He watched old blood, grime, and mud swirl down the drain until the water ran clear. 

Stepping out, they dried off with a soft towel that felt too soft and unreal. 

Getting dressed was an automatic motion. Their eyes settled on a window and there was a crash as they climbed the sink and pushed the window open, intending to slide out and crawl up onto the roof. 

Marc fought Jake as he still screamed about running. He was furious. Their yelling brought in Layla an Jean-Paul who took hold of their ankles and pulled them back inside, crashing them all down onto the floor. 

Marc lay back and stared up at the ceiling. He started to cry. “I don’t want to do this… It’s so hard. So hard to fight. Why does it have to be me? Why do I have to stay?” 

He laughed a little at the absurdity of it all. “Just give him the fucking car. Let him go. Let him run away. It’s all we do, right? We run away. Just give him the fucking car and let us go…” 

“I can’t do that.” Layla clung to him. “It won’t help anything. He’s supposed to keep you safe, but how is this safe? Look at you all? Look what it did to your body? Look what it’s doing to you! Steven doesn’t want to go! How is this protecting you when it’s hurting you?” 

Marc lay there and closed his eyes. He felt Jake shift and slam his fists into the floor. He heard someone yelling inside and then felt so very tired. They were so tired. 

Steven sat up and wordlessly got up and walked them to the bed. He crawled across it till he could slip into the blankets and curl up into a tight ball. “I hate you.” He mumbled and clung to the sheets as if it might keep them still. “I hate you.” 

The body had had enough and they fell asleep at last. 

–

“Sometimes I wonder who this man was supposed to be before the trauma.” Jean-Paul was still laying on the floor, his hands over his face as he decompressed from everything. 

Layla sat next to him, staring at the lump in the bed across the room. “I can’t think about that.” She sighed. “The trauma gave me the man that I love. It gave me all three of them, for better or worse… And I feel like a horrible person for being thankful for the pain he had to go through to become these people.” 

The night was almost over and they had gotten no sleep. She didn’t think she would sleep after everything. 

She couldn’t stop hearing the small scared voice on the phone, pleading for help. Most of all, she couldn’t stop seeing the lost look on his face. She had never seen them get so lost before. So mixed up that they didn’t know who they were. 

She closed her eyes and the intrusive thought whispered Do you really want to keep doing this?

“Do you want some coffee?” She got up and went to the kitchen. 

“Please.” He stayed on the floor. “If he tries to run again, I will be here.” 

Layla turned from the coffee pot and started to make her own special brew that Marc joked would have been useful in the army. They would need the energy. 

“Do you think he hates me?” She brought him the coffee and they moved to the table. 

“No.” Jean-Paul sipped the coffee. He made a face and looked at the cup then nodded and took another sip. “Marc could never hate you. There is too much love in him, though he would never admit it.” 

“I meant Jake.” Layla sank down in her chair and stared at her own mug. It had a cheesy picture of one of the pyramids. She was pretty sure Steven had bought it in the Cairo airport. 

Jean-Paul let out a long hum as he thought it over. “No…” He at last relented. “Dealing with Jake is like trying to hold water in your hand.” 

“Refreshing on a hot day?” Layla peeked up at him. 

Jean-Paul smiled. “So refreshing. It will also slip through your fingers if you don’t do it right.” 

“I’ve never seen him like that before.” She sipped the coffee and leaned forward to rest her chin on the table. 

“Jake is a hell of a fighter, but he also knew when to run. Marc never knew when to retreat. He’d fight till the end. Jake has had to get them to safety so many times in their lives. Away from situations and away from threats, real or not.” 

“I set off his flight response.” She mumbled. “He was trying to get away from me.” 

“I’m the one that botched it.” Jean-Paul sat back in his chair and set the coffee down. “His worst fear was presented to him and he could see no other response than to run. He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew he needed to get them out. Fear is not always practical, you know.” 

She nodded awkwardly, chin still on the table. “I’m sorry I put you in that position. I should have just done it myself.” 

He snorted. “Please. It was good to know I am better off retired than still in the field. It was also good to see him again and know that I still care very much for them… And if I can help them in any way, I will always be there to try.” 

“Thank you, Jean-Paul.” She slowly sat up and pulled her hair back. “Do you want to stay for breakfast?” 

“Only if I’m cooking.” He pushed the coffee aside. 

She smiled. “I am sorry I don’t match up to your fancy European taste.” 

“I think my taste is exquisite. Why else would I have such wonderful and interesting friends?” He glanced back at the sleeping lump in the bed. 

“Hm. Interesting is right.” She got up and plopped a pillow and blanket on the couch. “Get some rest. I need to lay down for a little bit. I think it’s not going to get any easier in the morning.” 

He nodded and moved to make himself comfortable on the couch, picking out one of Steven’s books of french poetry to relax into. 

Layla slowly sank down into the bed next to the sleeping lump under the blankets. She was more ginger this time as she curled up next to it. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off of him, but not close enough to disturb him. Was this a distance she could learn to respect? 

An arm snaked out from under the blankets and wrapped around her waist, pulling her close. 

Maybe she didn’t need to. Maybe it was time for her to start pushing for her own comfort too. 

Part Six Here