Chapter Text
Waking in the mornings always feels like a chore for some people. There is work they have to prepare for; children they need to wake, dress, feed, and pack their bags for school; or simply the exhausting task of pulling themselves out of bed and forcing productivity no matter what has happened — or continues to happen — in their lives. For most, the morning struggle is external, tied to responsibilities and schedules. That wasn’t the case for them.
Their mornings were defined by something far more disorienting. Sore muscles and aching bones that have explanations fleeting into their memories before they fully process. The persistent ache of exhaustion, even though one of them was always resting. And, worst of all, the uncertainty of their next location. They are still having trouble communicating, as they rarely did before, and it seemed to work fine for a while, until the awareness of each other became hard to ignore. Never knowing if they would wake up in their own bed, on a couch, or somewhere unfamiliar entirely, dictated by where the previous front had left the body. Each morning carried the quiet fear of discovery, of piecing together hours they did not own.
Steven Grant is thirty-four years old and lives with the sleep schedule of a father of a rebellious teenager who's constantly sneaking out at night. He is, by nature, cautious and routine-driven. He rarely goes out after dark unless it’s for a quiet, grounding walk through familiar streets or because he’s coming home late from his job at the museum. Even then, he prefers predictability. Despite this, nights are rarely his to control. Someone else always seems to take over, undoing his careful structure and leaving him to deal with the consequences during the day. It disrupts his focus, his energy, and his already fragile sense of stability.
Marc Spector is thirty-eight. He is far more accustomed to the night, often the one who goes out when the sun goes down. Occasionally, he fronts during the day and lives a life close to normal — running errands, interacting with others, and handling responsibilities with practiced efficiency. For the longest time, Marc fronted almost exclusively. It was simply how things were until they attempted to determine which division of control would best serve their survival. Even now, that arrangement barely functions, constantly shifting under pressure.
Jake Lockley lives with them, too, though he exists on the edges of awareness. He only fronts when disaster calls — when danger is imminent, and hesitation could cost them everything. He never really offers up his age, at least not from the moment he first appeared, but Steven and Marc have come to agree that he’s around thirty-eight, the same age as Marc. It makes sense to them. Jake manifested when someone harder, colder, and more resilient was needed — someone capable of enduring what the others couldn’t.
Biologically, they are all the same age. But Steven prefers not to think of it that way. Instead, he measures time by when each of them entered Marc’s life. By that metric, Steven considers himself around twenty-nine, while Jake is closer to twenty-three. It’s a distinction that feels more honest, tied to lived experience rather than the body they share.
Jake was the first to truly understand both Marc and Steven — and his own role among them. His purpose was protection, specifically from Marc's mother. Because of that, he learned how to control and suppress memories, walling off the worst parts of their childhood before they could overwhelm the mind. He became adept at carrying what the others couldn’t bear to see, let alone remember. When the body is threatened — physically or psychologically — Jake is the one pulled to the front without hesitation.
Marc didn’t realize he had created Jake as an alter until the fight against Harrow in Cairo, when they nearly killed him. In the aftermath, shaken and searching for answers, it became impossible to ignore that something — or someone else -- had taken control. Steven couldn’t have done it, and Marc knew that. The realization sent them spiraling, forcing Marc to confront the existence of another alter he hadn’t known about. Unlike Jake, Marc had always been aware of Steven’s presence, calling on him to front during moments of extreme stress or when Marc needed distance from his own life.
They stopped switching regularly after Marc turned fifteen. That was when Jake largely assumed Steven’s role as protector, allowing Steven to exist without constantly bracing for impact. Marc believed there was no longer a need to retreat inward, no reason to cower from the world. Especially since Steven hadn’t manifested at the age of nine, as Marc once assumed. Steven had first appeared as a five-year-old, slowly aging over time as if he were a real child rather than a static manifestation of trauma.
Steven never knew about either of them — not until he woke up in some random town hours away from his flat in London, disoriented and aching, with dirt under his nails and a sickening sense that time had been stolen from him. At first, he thought it was exhaustion. Stress. Another sleepless night bleeding into the next day. But as the questions piled up — receipts he didn’t remember, bruises he couldn’t explain, people who seemed to recognize him when he had never seen their faces before — it became impossible to ignore the truth.
Once he discovered where he had come from, much of his life began to make a lot more sense.
The gaps in memory.
The fuzziness when trying to recall specific events in what was supposedly a happy childhood.
An entire stretch of time that felt like a lost dream more than a static-filled memory.
Especially during his adolescent years. Marc had shoved him so far down into their shared consciousness, desperate to keep Steven hidden, hoping he would never surface at the wrong moment — never appear as a terrified child trapped in the body of a fully trained mercenary. Steven had been too soft, too fragile for the life Marc was forced to live.
Jake never manifested young the way Steven did. There was no childhood innocence stretched thin over years of quiet growth. The circumstances that caused Jake to exist demanded someone fully formed — someone hard, capable, and already the same age as Marc. There was no time for him to grow up.
Their life together has been strange, strained, and has housed many overwhelmingly traumatic events to tie it all together. Every day feels like a compromise stitched together from survival instincts and learned restraint. Slowly, though, they’ve begun to communicate better, learning how to coexist without tearing each other apart. They’ve even managed to establish a system — not perfect, but functional.
Steven takes control when no superhero shenanigans are involved, anchoring them in routine and normalcy. Marc handles those shenanigans when they arise, slipping back into old instincts with practiced ease. Jake deals with them when things go south, when restraint is no longer an option. They do switch — it isn’t purely Steven handling the mundane — but they each fall into familiar roles.
Steven cleans obsessively, making sure their body is pristine, orderly, untouched by the chaos that lurks just beneath the surface. Marc takes control in the kitchen, focused on nutrition and balance, ensuring healthy food goes into their system like it might fix something deeper.
Jake disrupts both efforts, dragging them out for smoke breaks or pushing them toward indulgent, sugary distractions. Steven and Marc only ever protest the smoking. Some battles aren’t worth fighting.
The suit helps them heal from the power Khonshu gave them — not that it was ever really “taken,” not in the way Marc and Steven once believed. Jake had been the sole possessor of the suit long before they understood what was happening, long before they learned how to reach him in their shared headspace. That realization alone nearly broke them. The rest of that story is still buried, waiting for a time when they’re ready to face it.
Jake is also the only one with an actual driver’s license — one that comes with far more uses than Steven or Marc are comfortable acknowledging. Still, it helps tremendously when at least one of your alters knows what they’re doing behind the wheel. Steven never learned to drive; London made it unnecessary, with walking and buses carrying him everywhere he needed to go. Marc, meanwhile, spent most of his time as a passenger, especially during his marriage to Layla, content to let someone else take control for once.
After staring at the ceiling for what feels like hours, trapped in the liminal space between sleep and awareness, they finally force themselves out of bed. The routine follows automatically — food, shower, teeth — movements practiced enough that it barely matters who’s fronting. Then it’s off to work, another day layered on top of the last.
It’s a painfully mundane process, but the routine keeps Steven sane. And as long as Steven is sane, the other two remain stable enough to function. When one alter sleeps, the others drift into their own rhythms, leaving Marc and Jake to do whatever suits them once darkness settles over the city.
Marc uses the night to walk, to lose himself in motion, or to punish his body at the gym when the tension becomes unbearable. It’s the closest thing he has to peace.
Jake uses the night to carry out their duty as Moon Knight.
The other two don’t know.
Jake has grown frighteningly good at pushing Steven and Marc deep into their subconscious whenever he goes out as Moon Knight, sealing them away before they can ask questions or see too much. He doesn’t want them to know they are still — technically — working for Khonshu. All Jake wants is to protect them. Mind, body, and soul. Especially from the moon god’s hands.
That — and the fear of how they would react once the truth finally surfaced — sat heavy in Jake’s chest. He could imagine it too clearly. Marc, appalled that Jake had never thought to mention it, furious that decisions were still being made without him. Steven, sickened at the thought of still being tethered to Khonshu after all these years of believing they had escaped the old bird’s grasp, only to learn that the chain had never really been broken. Or worse, Steven might try to smile through it, relieved — delighted, even — that Jake had taken the burden onto himself. That thought alone made Jake’s stomach twist. Steven would be hurt that it had been kept from him, that trust had been quietly set aside “for his own good.” And Marc… Marc would be livid. Jake knew that kind of anger well. He lived in it.
Even though Jake had grown adept at forcing the others down when he needed to, there were moments — small, dangerous cracks — where his control slipped. Blackouts would hit him after long nights, usually once he was back in their flat, the adrenaline burned off, and exhaustion settled deep into their bones. He always blamed it on fatigue. Told himself Steven had simply taken the reins early to enjoy the quiet mornings, the soft routine of normalcy Jake pretended not to envy. It was easier to believe that than to question himself.
It wasn’t until months later that the illusion began to fray — when Steven, puzzled and hesitant, asked why there was a child’s book hidden under the bed.
The question came after an ill-fated attempt at “spring cleaning.” Steven had found a bug —harmless, really, but enough to send him spiraling so hard into their subconscious that Marc was shoved forward without warning just to deal with it. The aftermath of that incident ended in a rare, unanimous decision: the flat needed to be cleaned properly. All of it. Every corner. Every hidden space. They took turns, swapping out whenever one of them got tired or simply didn’t know what to tackle next.
And that was how they ended up back at the children’s books.
“Marc?” Steven’s voice carried from the bedroom floor. He had pulled The Rainbow Fish from beneath the bed, sitting back on his legs as he turned it over in his hands. The book was worn, its edges softened with age and use — something that definitely didn’t fit with the rest of his carefully curated collection.
“What’s up, bud?” Marc appeared in the tall mirror leaning against the wall, arms crossed as he observed from a slight distance.
“Is this…” Steven angled the book so Marc could see the cover clearly in the reflection, “…familiar to you?”
Marc leaned closer, brow furrowing as he studied the bright, glittering scales on the cover. He shook his head slowly. “No, sorry, Steven. Maybe Jake knows?”
Almost immediately, Jake appeared behind Marc in the reflection, taller, looming slightly as he peered over Marc’s shoulder. One hand settled on his hip while the other scratched absently at the faint scar along their shared jaw.
“Mm, nah, amigos,” Jake said after a moment. “That libro infantil is not mine.” He lifted both hands in a casual show of innocence.
Steven snorted softly. “No, mate. We’re not accusing you of buying a children’s book.” His gaze dropped back to the book, fingers tightening around its spine as something resolute settled into his expression. “But we do need to find out where this came from. And if there are any more.”
Marc nodded once, serious now. Jake followed suit, though unease flickered behind his eyes.
And so they began searching — methodically, carefully — turning their flat upside down in quiet agreement, unaware that what they were really digging through wasn’t just their living space, but the carefully buried edges of their own mind.
During their search, they uncovered more than just one misplaced book. Children’s paperbacks were tucked behind the sofa cushions, wedged between shelves that Steven swore he’d dusted only days ago. Small toys appeared next — plastic figurines hidden in drawers, a worn plush shoved to the back of a closet, its fabric softened by repeated handling. Each discovery only added to their confusion. And, slowly, a creeping concern began to take root: the fear that there might be an actual child somewhere in the flat.
They searched the physical space with urgency, checking corners and cupboards, peering beneath furniture and behind doors that barely ever closed properly. Their focus stayed firmly on the idea of a real child — someone flesh and blood, frightened and hiding — because that thought was easier to confront than the alternative. Easier than accepting that the child might not be in the flat at all.
Easier than considering he might be inside them.
The system has worked for a long time.
But systems built on silence always crack eventually. Just as Steven was discovered. Just as Jake was uncovered.
It was only a matter of time before the little one was found, too.