But Marc didn’t budge. In fact, some part of him found peace in the noise coming from your side of the small, run-down hotel room that probably hadn’t seen a living occupant in years. The noise was annoying, sure, but your movements were a reflection of his own. Him. Every motion you made to undo and fix was what he taught you. The day he showed you, you had only watched him with an amused smirk and sultry eyes that sent his brow raising. In seconds, you’d taken the gun and disassembled it without looking. He knew you were good, but, that day, he learned you were too good to be underestimated.

To watch you now, wordlessly miming his actions without any indication you were aware of it, pleased him more than he cared to admit. He knew Jake taught you a different way — faster, more forceful. A quick click of the chamber, jerking the weapon forward for a swift release before emptying every part in such a way they clattered uselessly to the ground. Apparently it was a trick Jake had picked up. Marc had seen you try it a few times when the two of you waited for extraction back in Monaco, but your frustrated attempts had made your skin, just above your thumb, red and swollen. 

You stuck with Marc’s way. So much of him was now ingrained in you as you were him. That much made his chest inflate — with pride or an early sense of smugness, it was hard to tell.

The room you two occupied was drafty and small, too unfit for two people to share. Especially for two people who wouldn’t dare to look at one another. Marc couldn’t even remember what it was that had made you so upset, or made him so upset, for that matter. He could only recall the way he bristled when you slammed the car door earlier. He wanted to address it, to talk about the clear annoyance festering inside you both. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. 

Seeing you now, back pressed against the foot of the bed on the furthest side of the room and eyes trained on the ground, was a stark contrast to one of his earlier memories of you. He replayed that night, a night in a different hotel a few locations ago, over and over again. He had felt the most normal he had ever felt in a long while. The mood, now somber, had once felt familiar and … warm. 

“How ‘bout a game of truth or truth?”

Marc’s brow had furrowed, but he didn’t hesitate to take hold of the bottle you were offering him. The two of you had long since sunk to the floor, backs to the side of the bed and gazes fixed on the rising sun, after tailing three suspected thieves. The two of you had finally learned to fight as one — not any different, just cognizant of the other’s presence and need of aid at a moment’s notice. 

Fighting as a team took some adjusting but having another presence after the fact was something that needed no adjustment in the slightest. The familiarity. The comfort. You both failed to admit it, to each other and to yourselves, how nice it was to not have to recuperate alone. 

And the addition of a good bottle of whiskey didn’t hurt either. 

“Truth or truth?” Marc feigned consideration before shaking his head, taking a long swing. “Never heard of it.”

“I’m not surprised.” You held out your hand. Marc took another swig before passing the bottle to you. “It’s a game I used to play a long time ago with some of my college roommates. And then again with coworkers. Then again with some agents in the Bureau.”

“So you played often?”

“Not really.” You threw a teasing smile in his direction before taking a long drink. “We ask each other questions, we get answers, or we take a drink. It’s just a way to get to know each other.”

“I didn’t take you as a get-to-know-you type.”

“Trust me, I’m not.” You took another drink before handing him the bottle with a wry smile. “But I’m drunk and in a giving mood. One of those doesn’t really happen often.”

Marc brought the bottle to his lips to hide the smirk that crept onto his face. “Can’t argue with that. You first.”

“So what’s the deal with Khonshu?”

Your immediacy made Marc turn to you, a humorous glint in his eyes. But you only looked at him with an eyebrow raised in expectation.

Marc shrugged. “Old Egyptian god. Banished by the other gods. Head of a,” he paused, using his hand to gesture to his head, “giant bird.”

You nodded. “Enlightening.”

“Not much else to say.”

“Do you ever regret it — the deal you made?”

 With a wry smile of his own, Marc pointedly handed the bottle to you. “I think it’s my turn.”

You studied him for a moment, taking the bottle from him and consciously ignoring the growing disappointment in the pit of your stomach at his avoidance. 

Marc, on the other hand, never really considered what he wanted to know about you. He knew what he needed to know for the missions. Anything else felt futile. But he wanted to humor you, and the whiskey made him generous. “Why’re you really here?”

For a long moment, he thought you would take a drink. He was going to jest until he saw your lips were parted and your eyes were deftly avoiding his by watching a man across the street hurrying toward his car. 

“My old handler is a good friend of mine. He saved my life more times than should be necessary. I owe him this much.”

Marc only nodded. He could hear your guilt-tinged voice. He understood that feeling, probably better than anyone.

You shook yourself from the thought and casted a side-long glance at him. “Have you ever had a partner?”

“Once. He tried to kill me.”

“Sounds about right.”

Marc looked amused. “Thinking about killing me?”

“No, but the jury's still out.” You smiled to yourself before holding the bottle up to the morning sun, swishing the remaining liquid in hypnotic circles. “I meant your partner. Partners can be like that.”

“Have you had a partner?”

“Yup. She tried to kill me after faking my identity in a botched case that landed our client in prison.”

Eyebrows raised in genuine shock, Marc chanced a look at you. You almost mistook it for concern. “Looks like we have shared experience then.”

“If you would’ve told me we would bond over near-death experiences … I honestly would’ve believed you.”

“Is that what we’re doing?”

You turned to him, realizing how close you’d gotten to each other as your slumped posture made your cheek come dangerously close to his shoulder. Your gazes met, and it was then you noticed the sun’s reflection casted bright, yellow pools in his eyes. It was a brilliant contrast to the crescent shapes you once saw laying claim to his vision.

Though, you still preferred the moon.

For Marc, the way the sun claimed your profile felt like the light he had long since forgotten about now that he spent his time wrapped in the darkness of the night. The luminance surrounding your relaxed figure suddenly seemed hot against his skin as you sunk closer to him. He found himself waiting — rather, expecting — for something to happen. His gaze dropped to the small distance between the two of you, and he couldn’t ignore the desire. He didn’t want to.

He wanted the sun to touch the moon. 

You took a sip and withdrew from him. “So does the suit just … come out of you?”

The bright allure of that memory faded into the gloomy scene before him. Marc tore his gaze from you and tried his best to shake himself of his previous thoughts. Deep down, he always knew the long, and sometimes intimate, nights together might distract from the mission, and he knew neither one of you wanted that.

You have to talk to them, mate. 

That wasn’t the first time Marc heard Steven’s seemingly nagging voice telling him to speak up, to talk to you about gods knew what. And this wasn't the first time he ignored him. 

The ceiling fan twisted above the two beds in an almost unnatural way. For a moment, Marc wondered if it would snap clean off its hinges and land precariously on the edge of the bed closest to him. So he watched it. As you undid and redid the weapon cradled in your hands, Marc’s head rested against the back of the chair he took solace in hours before as his eyes wandered the fan as it spun, and spun, and spun.

He didn’t know how it happened, and neither did you. Between the two of you, what had happened and what was about to happen wasn’t something you wanted to stop to discuss. The mission was harder than you both thought, and the need for relief, or even a moment of respite, was too great. 

You both needed something, anything, to cling to for the sake of your sanity. The way your hands clawed desperately at one another was a clear indication of that.

You had only been in the hotel room for a couple of minutes before the mental walls and barriers between the two of you came tumbling down, collapsing around you as you both sized one another up. And now, with your legs wrapped around Marc’s torso and his body pressing you firmly against the wall, any boundaries had long since been forgotten. 

Marc’s hands trailed over every inch of you in hot, desperate strokes. You tried your best to match his intensity, your own fingers gripping at his jacket and any other part of him you could manage. His hips bucked against you, sending an unexpected, but delicious, thrill through you. You bit back a cry as your head fell back against the wall, your fingers coming to the nape of his neck and gliding through the strands of loose curls.

The incredible sensation was short lived, and you tried to encourage him by desperately grinding your hips against him. His hands faltered as his breathing went ragged. In an instant, he grabbed your jaw and drew your mouth to his. His breath came hot against your lips before swallowing your impending moans in a sloppy kiss. 

Pulling your bottom lip between his teeth, his other hand gripped your waist, holding you with surprising ease. He guided your hip movements, faster and faster, until you broke away from him and wrapped an arm around his neck. 

You wanted him closer. If that were even possible.

“Marc,” you whispered, breath hot against his neck. The sensation nearly sent his eyes rolling backwards as he buried his head into the crook of your neck. “Don’t stop.”

And he didn’t plan to. It was only the beginning.

Marc … say something.

The fan’s blades began to blur together, and Marc’s head nearly dipped low, chin coming dangerously close to landing softly on his chest. Out of frustration, he ran a hand over his face and stood up. Without much thought, he threw a lingering glance in your direction before exiting the room. 

He needed air or space or both, preferably both. He figured he could come back, slip into bed and debrief about the mission with you first thing in the morning when your friend arrived with the documents and transportation you needed.

Stuffing his hands into his pocket, he left without a word. His eyes were pined to the floor as he walked, bounding down the stairs and only stopping short when he saw a lone vending machine at the end of an empty hall. He chanced a glance over his shoulder before taking the short stroll to the machine. 

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Perhaps hoping you had followed him, fury blazing in your eyes and wondering why he left you to stew in your frustrations. 

Leaving you probably wasn’t his best strategy.

Shaking his head, he came to a stop, peering into the glass at the nearly bare assortment of chips and candy. In a matter of moments, he saw Steven in the reflection but dutifully ignored his pitiful expression. 

“Marc.” He tried. “Marc.” He rolled his eyes before throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Marc.”

“What, Steven? What? If you want to say something, just say it. I’m listening.”

“You have to say something to (y/n), mate. It’s like a bloody ice box in there. I can’t stand to watch the two of you like this.”

“Oh, really? Now you can’t stand to watch us? I distinctly remember you couldn’t wait to watch —.”

“Okay, okay.” Steven glanced away, ears reddening. “No need to be crude.”

“Just going at it —.”

“Alright.”

“— Like two dogs. Very, very hungry dogs.”

“Alright, Marc,” Steven said, more firmly this time. “You know what I meant.” He allowed a brief pause before sighing. “If you won’t say something, then give me the body.”

“No.”

Marc’s response came harsher than he intended, and Steven nearly flinched, shoulders sagging before rolling his eyes with a dissatisfied scoff. Marc glanced away to avoid Steven’s expression and to provide some sort of barrier as an ill-attempt to stave off his rising jealousy. It seemed like Steven was always better at handling things with you. For once, Marc wanted to be the one to smooth things over. To watch your anger dissipate and be replaced with the tender yearning he once watched pass between the two of you — you and Steven.

Maybe that — something more — was never meant to be in the cards for him. 

Marc eventually nodded his head, more so to convince himself, as he chose his words carefully. “I need to be in control just until tomorrow’s drop.” He looked up. “You got that? You can have the body back, and soon you won’t have to hear from me for a while, alright? Just like we originally planned.”

“I thought that plan was out the window.” Marc finally met Steven’s gaze. “None of us want you gone, mate.” 

Steven’s reflection was suddenly marred by you — slinking around the corner to settle against the wall, hip jut out and arms crossed. Marc spun around to face you, his mind racing with how much you could’ve heard but stopped short when he saw faint amusement in your eyes.

“Khonshu’s toying with the lights again.”

Truth or truth came easy to the both of you that night. Marc’s back was against the wall, and you lounged lazily across the bed as your elbow propped you up. It was only the third time playing the game, but it was easier than considering the potential outcome of the next night’s mission. 

The game dwindled to a conversation that neither of you remember. As usual, you were both fighting your sleep. For different reasons, of course, but Marc had yet to find out about your nightmares. He didn’t ask. He guessed something close to the fact, but he never asked.

That night, Marc was struggling to contain a smile as you, very outwardly, mocked Khonshu. You even went as far as questioning the deity and his ideology. You had done so the moment you learned of the real manner and extent of Marc’s servitude, and your remarks didn’t go without their fair share of flickering lights as Khonshu made his presence, and annoyance, known to Marc.

You had looked around, eyes alighting as the bulbs in the room continued to blink in and out. “It’s him, isn’t it? Khonshu’s toying with the lights.” 

Marc shook his head, allowing a grin to grace his lips. “Believe it or not, that’s not his only superpower.”

Later in the night, Marc recalled to you how Khonshu had slammed his staff on the ground before announcing. “She cannot even begin to imagine the power I hold! I am a god!”

“Banished,” you had corrected during Marc’s retelling. “Banished god. Might want to get a patent on that mystical power, Thomas Edison.”

Marc had snorted, trying but failing to hide a rare smile that only widened when Khonshu angrily retorted, “Marc, do not entertain this trivial nonsense!”

His throat felt thick with emotion, but the corners of his lips threatened to share in your amusement. His eyes became hooded as he clung to this chance at banter. “That’s not his only super —.”

He never got the chance to finish his sentence. A small canister rolled to a stop near your feet, the movement catching his eye a moment too late. The device went off, and its force threw you off your feet. Marc could feel the device’s impact from here. The pressure sent him backwards, his back nearly slamming into the vending machine. Smoke began to fill the hallway as his suit wrapped around his body, your name leaving his lips before he took off down the hallway. 

The device’s impact sent you barreling into a wall before collapsing to the floor in a mangled heap. You’d barely begun to taste the sharp and sickly metallic tang of blood when Marc appeared over you. His mask withdrew from the planes of his face as he stared down at you, worry creasing his brow. 

“Are you alright?”

You nodded, letting him pull you to your feet before you stumbled toward the stairs. “We need — The flash drive is in our room. I left it on the bed.”

“No.” Marc shook his head vigorously. You didn’t listen, trying to shake your head to rid yourself of the ringing noise. “I said no, (y/n).” When you ignored his pleas, he shouted, “Damnit, (y/n), leave it!”

But you didn’t listen, already fleeing the scene and taking the stairs three at a time. He intended to follow you, to pull you out of the building if he had to, but a swift kick to his side sent him crashing into the wall. His mask covered his face once more as two men emerged from the cloud of smoke. He could just barely make out three men follow up the stairs, closely at your heels, before another kick landed on his side.

More men crowded his line of sight, pulling electric boutons from their belts. Cornered, he was still calculating his moves to get to you as two men boldly began battering him with their boutons. That’s when he heard three shots ring out. They were fired from upstairs.