Chapter Text
“Didn’t this guy have a wife or something?”
Frenchie tamped down the dirt with his shovel, pretending not to hear Marc. That was an act he couldn’t keep up for long, glancing at his friend. Marc was still standing on the other side of the unmarked grave, leaning on his shovel by his elbows with the spade firmly planted on the ground. He didn’t look up even as he asked the question, since he also knew the answer.
“It was…like, an ex-wife. He divorced Maddie Rothschild in record time, according to what I could find about him. She changed her surname back to Russell too.” He didn’t move, too hesitant to pick up the shovel and help Frenchie pat together the new plot of ground. “He didn’t have anything left. Is…is that what we do to people?”
“He had something left, I’m sure,” Frenchie replied.
“What? He didn’t have a family. He was glued to his work to catch me, then he lost his job. It’s clear not even Layla liked him that much.”
“He had Detective Flint.”
“Who can never know what happened to him.” Marc scratched the back of his head, trying to figure out a puzzle that’s already been solved. “I guess it’s a good thing not many people were connected to him in the end. Makes it less sad.”
“Except to you.”
“Except to me. The person who—well, the person who shares a body with someone who killed him.”
“I’m sure Gabriel is more than happy to shoulder the burden of murder since he’s done it before,” Frenchie muttered wryly, inspecting the ground to make sure they were finished.
“...he says you should fuck off.”
Frenchie snorted, covering his mouth with one hand to hide the smile. He tossed down the shovel, holding up both hands. “I surrender to the mass murderer.”
“They were in a big…psychic plane…or something!” Marc protested, handing over his shovel as Frenchie gestured with one palm out, “They were in the—what is that thing called?”
“Why are you asking me?”
“Because he would never give me a straight answer on it. But come on, getting chased around by avatars kind of sucks.”
“Eh. I have to hang around two of them and it isn’t so bad.” Frenchie tossed the shovels into the open trunk of IAH, fishing a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. “Or I guess it’s…five? Five people? Are there five now?” He shook his head in indignation as he flicked the lighter. “That’s too many, mon lapin.”
“Frenchie, please don’t. Smoking is bad for you.”
“As is not sleeping.” He puffed, letting it steam out of his nostrils.
“I literally can’t sleep. That’s going to ruin your throat, bud.”
“You sound like Rob.”
“Your husband’s a physical therapist and you’re not listening to him?” Marc leaned against the car door, giving it a light tap with one hand to signal Frenchie to lean beside him. He obliged immediately.
“I’m pretty sure Jake smokes.”
“Jake does not smoke.”
“How would you know?”
“Could you imagine me hacking up a lung while trying to sneak around on a mission? Or itching at all hours with withdrawals?” Marc wagged one finger. “No thank you.”
“I’m surprised. I really would’ve thought one of you would do something like that to pass the time.”
“Steven’s a lush.”
Frenchie smirked, refusing to believe that for a second. “How can one of you be a lush and another be such a lightweight?”
“Hey!” Marc growled, “I can hold it together.”
“You’d fall asleep halfway through a bottle of wine.”
“That was a decade ago!”
“And you’re saying that you wouldn’t still do that?”
“Yes, absolutely!”
Frenchie swirled the car keys around on one finger. “Let’s put money on it.”
Reese knew that they didn’t need to knock when they showed up at the apartment. Hell, they didn’t even have to use the door. Nowadays Marc just keeps a window cracked open in the study so they can come and go whenever they please.
They were a bit surprised to find someone flopped over on the couch, arms trapped beneath them as they were forcefully propped up on one hip. The man had his head on Frenchie’s chest as he counted bills in one hand. Frenchie’s prosthetic legs were laying next to the couch like someone’s discarded shoes.
“Aren’t they not able to sleep?”
“They can’t sleep naturally. Passing out because you can’t hold your liquor is fair game.” Frenchie shifted to put the money in his back pocket before laying back down. “How was your day at school, mon chouchou?”
“What are you, my dad now?” They dropped the bag on the floor as they dropped themself into the chair.
“Only if you want three dads. Me and Rob are a package deal.”
“Three?”
“Me, Rob, and Gabriel. And Marc. And Steven. And Jake. I guess you actually would have six.”
“Gabriel’s not—none of you are that!” Reese resisted the urge to pout as they crossed their arms.
“I may have lost my legs but I did not lose my eyes. They care about you a lot. More than just a friend would care about just a friend.” He shrugged, putting one hand behind his head. “You should be honored. It’s not often someone gets welcomed into this family.”
“You mean the old gay men club?”
“I am not a day over thirty-five!” Frenchie huffed, face turning pink.
“I’m very sorry, le pere, but you are clearly missing some hair dye on the sides of your head.”
He lightly brushed the hair that was buzzed against his ear, like he was seriously considering a dye job. Then he thought better of it and hunched his shoulders in annoyance. “You pronounced that wrong,” he muttered finally.
“I did?”
“You could not have pronounced that worse. It was also incorrect grammatically.”
“Remind me to get your help on my French homework then.”
“Now who’s acting like we’re family?”
Reese didn’t have a response to that.
“No sign of Layla?” Gabriel asked, sitting down next to Reese on the rooftop. They had one leg swinging over the side, with the other propping up their elbow, so Gabriel didn’t see a problem with squatting down right on the edge. The moon was swollen in the sky, slowly shaving down its edges in preparation for the waning crescent.
“Nope.” Gabriel held out a styrofoam cup for them, receiving a dubious look.
“Coffee.”
“Ew.” Reese took it anyway, sniffing and taking a sip. “Thought you freaks all drank tea.”
“Marc and Jake both like tea, I could take it or leave it. Steven gags when he smells it, even if he’s just in the headspace.” Gabriel shifted his weight to let him swing both legs over the side, leaning back on the heels of his palms. “You need to get caffeine though if you’re so insistent on this.”
“I could also just do this stuff during the day while you work at night.”
“True, but you have classes.”
“I can drop out.”
“Don’t.” He turned to look them in the eyes, making them go quiet. “That’s an amazing opportunity you have that none of the rest of us did.”
“You said something about not going to college earlier.”
“Marc dropped out of high school at fifteen.” Gabriel went back to scanning the empty rooftops, as if daring someone to disturb them. “I wasn’t there when it happened but I know it did.”
“Why did he?”
“The Spectors didn’t have a good life when they were little. ‘S part of why Rand ended up like that, I guess.”
Reese leaned forward. “Well, if we’re going to have this quiet of a night, you might as well tell me that story.”
Gabriel smiled back at them.
~I’d rather take control of this, if you don’t mind.~
Be my guest.
On March 30th, 1990, Marc Spector was born. His father was a rabbi, and his mother was an office clerk. Elias and Sarah had two children: Marc and Rand. For a long time, they were very happy together.
That happiness was not destined to last. On Rand’s twelfth birthday, when Marc was only nine years old, Sarah Spector committed suicide. No one knew why she did it, since it was difficult to imagine back then. After all, why would the joyous couple who led worship in the synagogue be subject to such tragedy? Money was tight, sure, but couldn’t they make it work? Marc and Rand were told it was an accident, but they knew it wasn’t. Marc was the one who saw it happen with his own eyes. He saw his dear mother hanging there and knew there was no accident.
The next day, Steven Grant came to visit. He was just a little boy, only nine years old. He saw Marc Spector hesitating in front of the big doors to the synagogue. How afraid he was. How could he go somewhere so scary without his mother by his side? How could he stand those people looking down at him, knowing that something horrible happened to his family? He wouldn’t be able to stand those pitiful gazes, not after the sleepless night tossing and turning and wondering why it all happened. Why his mother was gone.
So Steven Grant was in his head. He introduced himself, and promised that he would help him however possible. Marc agreed. Now, every Shabbat, and at every holiday where his father the rabbi must be at attendance, Steven took over for him. He made sure that Marc wasn’t scared anymore.
His father still knew something was wrong. Why did his boy act so differently in service? Why does he play so curiously by himself? Why does he want such different foods at dinnertime? He took him to a doctor. Elias couldn’t stop crying. Steven didn’t understand why.
It hurt to be around his father since then. It hurt a lot. He wanted to play with his big brother Rand and pretend nothing was wrong, but Rand didn’t really see him as a brother. He only wanted to see Marc. Marc was too scared of what would happen if he came back around. He’d let Steven be in charge for weeks at a time so he didn’t have to see his father that sad.
It was too much when they got to high school. Too much to bear, too much to handle. Just like their mother before them, they simply couldn’t see a life like this. They couldn’t imagine how they could live normally. They just wanted to disappear. So they did.
Marc and Steven ran away at fifteen years old. Sure, some cops tried to find him, but it died out quickly. They probably just told the boys’ father that they jumped some tracks, maybe fell into Lake Michigan. They never saw their father again, even though it is likely he has long since passed without a family.
Eventually, they were found by Crawley. Scared of making him cry like their father, they always pretended their name was Marc, even when it was Steven. What else could they do? So Crawley taught them how to live. He taught them how to cook and clean, how to defend themselves and keep watch over their surroundings. They were still homeless, but they might have something close to a family. He surprised them with a bit of money he’d been saving up for years as their eighteenth birthday present. He urged them to go somewhere else, to start over for a new life. It was a very fleeting, idealistic dream, but they pursued it. They thanked Crawley for everything and never planned to return to Chicago.
After wandering several countries, crossing borders by hiding in trucks and scuffing together boat fare in pocket change, they knew they needed a real job. They couldn’t speak a language other than English, they had no credentials to their names, and they couldn’t dream of self sufficiency. They used the last of their funds for a gun to learn how to shoot. Enough hours alone in the woods emptying magazines and someone will notice.
Raoul Bushman found them alone, introduced them to his other recruit, Jean-Paul DuChamp. DuChamp hated them at first, insisting someone so baby-faced should never be allowed in a fight. Marc thought it was someone looking down at him, just like those people who stared so pitifully at synagogue. He took it as a challenge.
The challenge blossomed into a friendship.
The blossom was crushed under the foot of the Bushman.
The Bushman was crushed under the weight of DuChamp’s grief.
Marc opened his eyes to the sight of a large bird. Maybe it was a man. The man reached forward, one hand outstretched to his bleary gaze. He asked Marc what he wanted. He said he could stop the final rest if he just shook his hand.
When Marc awoke, he was cold and alone. The corpse of Professor Alraune was rotting beside him. He didn’t know Jean-Paul was still fighting, if only mentally, down in the catacombs of Khonshu’s temple. He stood up, found a pale old cloak, and walked away.
He had nowhere else to go, so he found a boat. He returned to Chicago.
He had a new friend to help him ease the burden. Someone who didn’t have a name back then, but fought to help and protect him all the same.
He wanted to find his father again, but all he found was his grave. He wanted to find Crawley, but the sight of this man greying hurt him too much. He struggled so much to let Marc run away and start a new life, and what did he do? He joined up with a warlord without even really knowing what that word meant, and got killed for having a heart. He couldn’t do it.
He also couldn’t leave Crawley alone with the thoughts weighing on his mind of if he was alright. Jake promised to look after Crawley for him. He agreed.
He still couldn’t sleep.
Ten years without rest, just making some uphill climb he had no idea was just a plateau. What can you do for a god you have no proof of? How do you continue with no family? He stayed alone, sitting in the Midnight Mission with a mattress on the floor for a bed and a tub for a sink and a pile of clothes for a closet. He didn’t expect anyone to come back for him. He just thought he would be alone.
Then he had a message left for him.
A simple message.
You should really come and see me, Marc.
Memphis Darling, 7pm.
We need to talk.
Someone really cared for him enough to find him after ten years. Then someone else, someone he believed was just another victim he would leave the life of, stuck around too.
Sure, he never thought it would last.
Sure, he made enemies along the way. His brother spent his last moments hating him. A man lost his life trying to pursue him. His relation to a police officer was…strained. Maybe that could be more some day, even if it’s not today.
Even with those mistakes weighing on him, Marc knew he would be fine.
He just had to let himself truly believe it would last. He believed in the rich guy always fighting to keep his mood light even when his anxieties showed through. He believed in the trying-to-be-gruff smooth talker that always checked in on his friends when he was too scared to. He believed in the man who hurt a lot of people in a quest for forgiveness and is now taking it one day at a time. He believed in the foreign mercenary who could whip a pastry out of nothing and a smile out of a frown. And he certainly believed in the college kid who wanted to make his job a little easier and life a little brighter.
Just don’t tell Reese he said that, they’d never let it go. It’s better off as a secret in his head.