Work Text:
Aliens. It has to be aliens.
To be fair, it’s not like Marc Spector hasn’t seen weirder. In between magical deities and Egyptian afterlifes and a kaiju battle in the middle of fucking Cairo, his definition of ‘weird’ has gotten mildly more flexible than the average person’s.
But still.
Fucking aliens.
“Are those…” Steven trails off in utter confusion and shock, as Marc stares at a swarming pack of unfamiliar lifeforms crawling up the side of a building, all glinting silver and sleek black.
“Think so,” Marc grunts.
“Are we gonna…”
“Guess so.” God, fuck, Marc really just wanted a day out. A normal day. A regular day. They had it all planned out. He was going to get some coffee, Steven was going to swing by Barnes & Noble, Jake was going to grab a whole pizza pie for dinner. One normal day. No supernatural forces or extraterrestrial threats—is that really so much to ask?
Despite his internal complaints, the armor’s on him in a heartbeat, wrapping around his body snugly. Marc draws a crescent dart in each hand and readies himself, flexing his fingers around the smooth metal of his blades.
“Leave some for us, yeah?” That’s Jake’s voice, and Marc huffs out a laugh.
“I’ll do my best.”
———
Thirty minutes into an exhausting, unrelenting battle, and Marc makes a stupid mistake.
They’re up against robotic spider aliens, who don’t seem to have any emotion beside a terrifying sentience to fight and run and maim. He’s destroyed a good fifty or so already, clearing out at least five blocks, and he’s sore.
God, he really fucking hates spiders.
Steven and Jake have popped in a few times to save Marc’s ass when his back was turned on hostiles—the former unleashing hell with his truncheons and the latter almost ripping the aliens in half with his bare hands. So far, so good—the armor’s only had to heal Marc a few times, knitting together flesh when alien shrapnel impales him.
But five minutes and a couple of badly-chosen turns later finds Marc in an alleyway. And not just any other New York City backstreet that narrows and twists and turns but eventually lets out somewhere else. No, this is—
“Dead end,” Jake curses as an unforgiving brick wall looms up before them.
“Turn back,” Steven says warningly. “Now, Marc.”
Turning, Marc sees the mouth of the alleyway blocked by low familiar silhouettes, bristling and aggressive and hungry for blood. “Shit.”
They’re trapped.
He knows it’s not just him in the thick of the battle—as he fought his path through New York City, Marc recognized Spider-Man webbing a pack of the aliens together on Fifth Avenue, Daredevil bashing apart cyborgs in Hell’s Kitchen, a familiar-looking shield cutting hostiles right through the middle and bouncing back to its owner. He’s willing to bet there’s more.
But aside from the growling at the end of the alleyway, Marc doesn’t hear any sound of battle currently going on near him. He curses—why did he have to run so far? Anywhere else in the city, and there could be reinforcements to count on. But a random fucking alleyway?
A menacing click click click echoes down the street, and Marc’s hand flies to his chest.
It grasps armor and nothing else.
He’s out of weapons.
“Marc!” Steven yells, panicked as a pack of feral robotic extraterrestrials come tearing down the alley at them, their spindly black legs grappling for purchase on the concrete and making a horrible clicking noise the entire way. Backed up against a wall, suit fully devoid of any crescent darts, all Moon Knight can do is stare. “Do something!”
Wildly, Marc flings out an arm, concentrating. He squeezes his eyes shut and focuses, willing himself to detect where his blades have gone, to summon them back into his grip. Usually, they’re capable of rebounding on their own—but maybe impaling them deep into metallic corpses impedes that process.
“Marc,” Jake says urgently. “Marc, give me the body.”
Steven snaps, “You can’t take them alone—”
“Better than the fuckin’ alternative—Marc! Now!”
Gritting his teeth, Marc shakes his head and wills himself to hang on for a moment longer. For a miracle, some kind of a fucking miracle.
No dice. Wherever his darts are, they’re too far away for him to sense—too small, and too scattered for Marc to summon them.
But another presence catches his attention.
Something old, ancient, powerful—something he’s only felt while in the presence of Khonshu. The gravity that only a god could have, the natural draw that Marc feels towards his patron deity, the intoxicating rush that comes with having the power of the moon.
That something is almost, quite literally, right around the corner.
“Bloody hell, what is that?” Steven whispers, sensing it too.
Marc strains his arm and calls.
It doesn’t want to come to him. It belongs to another—someone worthier, is that the term? And Marc’s right, it’s powerful, so powerful, and it’s definitely sourced from a pure moon. The familiarity of it calls to him, magnetic and tugging, but it’s also so goddamn stubborn that the effort of trying to summon it wears him down faster than he’d like to admit.
But the pack is almost upon him and there’s only so much Khonshu’s healing armor can do against being torn to bits and pieces, so Marc takes a deep breath.
I channel the power of the god of the moon, he thinks, and time itself seems to slow down as energy starts thrumming through the air. I am his Avatar, and I serve him, and so shall you serve me.
The object seems to hesitate. Considering.
Come to me, Marc commands. I can wield you. Let me wield you.
Dimly, he registers that the ceremonial armor’s floating, his cape gently lifting into the air of its own volition, the hood of the armor buoyant and suspending midair. Despite all that, he feels more grounded than he’s ever been.
When he repeats his order, even the cadence of his voice changes. Deepens. Reverberates through the alley, through the city, even though it’s only said in his head.
Marc later realizes that in that split second, he sounded almost like Khonshu.
Come to me.
It takes five seconds.
Five. The object breaks free of its previous owner’s grip, and Marc sucks in a sharp breath as the momentum sends him stumbling. His hand remains unwaveringly still, outstretched and beckoning.
Four. The aliens are less than five feet away. The one leading the pack has its mandibles snapping threateningly, gnashing for Marc’s outstretched arm.
Three. There’s the sound of a metallic hum, growing steadily louder as it goes on. Marc’s skin starts tingling, as if he’s barely brushing a static shock.
Two. A blur of titanium white and silver crashes through the snapping alien at the front, pulverizing it until all that’s left is an unassuming heap of machine parts and oil.
One. It flies into Marc’s hand.
And oh, fuck.
It feels like holding a live wire—electricity and unbridled power surges into his body from where his hand makes contact with the ridged hilt, so potent it’s almost painful, and his back arches as he grapples with convincing the weapon to work with him.
And it does—it seems to recognize Marc, somehow, or at least recognize his power. The pain eases, tapers just off the edge of overwhelming, and when Marc finally tries to move his arm he finds the weapon to be almost light. Light, but no less powerful than he thought—and most importantly, wieldable.
His.
Mjolnir gripped tight, Marc Spector opens his eyes, and they are glowing white.
Instinctively, he lifts the hammer up and slams it into rough pavement, and a blinding surge of energy fans out from the impact, rushing for the aliens. It slices the robots in half as the shimmering electric blue touches them, the halves of their corpses clattering to the ground in pieces. In no more than three seconds, the entire alleyway is clear.
Marc stares at the weapon in his head, and starts laughing.
Those aliens don’t stand a fucking chance.
———
“Is he dead?”
The voice seems to come from far away. Steven groans, his eyes fluttering open, and tries to remember where he is. His entire body is sore, so sore, and even blinking open his eyes is a small remarkable feat of its own.
Alien invasion. Magic hammer. Empty park. Appealing grass lawn. Quick nap.
Right. Guess Marc’s still asleep.
“No, no, he’s moving—he’s alive, he’s alright.”
“I’m alive,” Steven mutters, and as he blinks the sleep out of his eyes he sees a blur of red and blue Spandex in front of him. “I’m… wh—?”
Spider-Man blinks at him. “Hey, man. You good? You looked pretty out of it a few minutes ago. Are you hurt? Do you need medical attention?”
“Um.” Steven blinks right back. In the back of his mind, he realizes that they’re out of the armor—they probably just look like a civilian caught in the crossfire. He wonders if that’s to his benefit or detriment. “I’m fine. Aces, really.”
“Okay, cool. Nice.” Spider-Man sounds surprisingly young, and a twist of fond concern goes through Steven at that thought. “Just making sure, since, y’know, things were pretty wild back there and ohmygodisthatThor’shammerwhatthefuck.”
As if on cue, Thor appears from what seems like thin air. Though, to be fair, he could also just be approaching from five feet away and it’d seem like instant teleportation, given Steven’s current exhausted state.
Marc, Steven thinks nervously as the Asgardian strides toward him. Marc, wake up.
Marc’s eyes snap open just in time to see Thor’s gaze fall on Mjolnir behind him.
Ah. Yeah. Marc was using the all-powerful weapon as a pillow before he was rudely woken up.
“Did you wield my hammer?” Thor demands after a moment of staring, his booming voice echoing across the empty park.
“Gross,” Marc says automatically. Spider-Man lets out an undignified snort. It’s possible that Marc’s still not fully awake. “What?”
“Mjolnir,” Thor elaborates, graciously not commenting on Marc’s slip-up. “It flew out of my hand in the midst of battle, and I was unable to call it back to me for the remainder. I’ve been searching the city for it.”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry, that… Yeah, that was me,” Marc says lamely. “I needed a weapon, and I was all out, so I had to borrow yours. Hope that’s alright.”
“How?” Thor asks, and there’s no apprehension or hostility in his tone—just genuine curiosity. “How did you summon it? Are you worthy?”
Are you worthy hits almost like an insult, to be honest, but Marc shrugs it off, not really wanting to get into it with a Norse god. Weighing the pros and cons, he sighs and summons the suit in lieu of trying to actually piece together an explanation.
Spidey gasps. “You’re—”
“Moon Knight, Mr. Knight, all known affiliates,” Marc introduces, letting the armor melt away immediately after. “Nice to meet you.”
“Oh my god, I—I’m a huge fan. Did you know you’re ranked third in New York’s favorite vigilantes? After me and Ma—and Daredevil, but we both agree you should at least be tied with me. You’ve got the coolest costume and all, and I love your knives, they’re awesome. How’d you get your powers anyway? Did you have to, I don’t know, stay out in the moonlight for a month and a day? Were you blessed or something? Or…” Spider-Man starts trailing off, clearly having talked himself into a corner. “... bitten by a radioactive… moon? Or…”
(“A radioactive what?” Jake echoes, incredulously.
“Moon,” Steven supplies helpfully.
“Thanks.”)
There’s definitely not enough time to unpack all that. Marc settles for, “It’s a long story.”
Marc looks at Thor and holds out a hand. Mjolnir flies into his grip, and he extends it out to Thor as an offering, not missing the way the other’s eyes light up approvingly. “Dunno about the whole being worthy thing, but your hammer’s made of moon rock. Could sense it from a mile away. It falls under my sphere of influence.”
Thor looks at him, making eye contact, and there’s something in his gaze that’s not unkind. He lifts Mjolnir out of Marc’s hand, and it almost feels like the hammer doesn’t want to go, if the flickers of electricity and light straining towards Marc’s hand are any indication. As the powerful presence leaves him, something in Marc sighs unhappily. (Possibly a very mopey Jake Lockley.)
A big hand comes up to pat Marc on the shoulder. Thor’s voice is gentle but leaves no room for argument as he says, “That makes you worthy, my friend.”
That kind of firm approval from someone Marc’s just met means… well, a lot more than he thought it would, really. Even if it does operate on a logical fallacy.
“Thanks,” Marc mutters. Thor smiles and removes his hand.
“Phew. What a day, huh?” Spider-Man chirps, interrupting the moment. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m starving.”
The mention of food is enough to bring Jake to switch with Marc. “I could eat.”
“Sweet.” There’s a grin in Spidey’s voice, and he doesn’t mention the sudden Brooklyn accent, which immediately endears him to Jake. “I know a guy. He’s got a fancy lawyer job, he’ll pay for dinner, no sweat.”
“No way. I know a lawyer guy too.” Jake shoves his hands into his pockets. “A good one, not one of those money-hungry cabrones.”
“That’s my guy too!” Spider-Man hums, beginning a leisurely stroll up Manhattan, towards the direction of Hell’s Kitchen. “You might like him. His name is Matt—”
“Murdock,” Jake finishes, pleasantly surprised, matching Spidey’s pace. Thor trails alongside them, absentmindedly flipping Mjolnir in one hand as they walk.
Spider-Man’s eyes widen. “You know Matt?”
Jake shrugs, the hint of a grin on his face. “Small world.”