Chapter Text
"Do you know who I am?"
The members of your family have many names. Water witches, priests, miracle workers. These weren't your titles, at least not at first—according to the city's local paper, the Advocate, yours was New Orleans' 3rd Best Hair Stylist, by far your proudest and most hard-earned to date. No, to your closest friends and confidants, you were born outside of your family's divinely unique status. Only within the last five years was the family business thrust upon you by universe-shattering circumstances. But you made it work, being a simple barber with a not-so-simple set of tasks.
"Do you know why I'm here?"
Tracking wayward souls was one such task. Your goddess rarely asked you to leave Louisiana these days. Those in need typically stumbled into your salon with nothing but a lifetime of existential problems and a bounty of praise from previous clients about you and your "guidance". However, the borderline comatose man slouched in his wheelchair at the Sienkiewicz Psychiatric Hospital wouldn't be reading your Yelp reviews anytime soon. It was on you to spread the gospel.
"I am the avatar of Naunet," you said after it was clear he wouldn't humor you with a two-way conversation. Arthur Harrow traced imaginary symbols with the tip of his finger on the table between you, never bothering to look up. Even upside down and invisible, you could read the threats and promises of revenge in his hieroglyphs. The aura of the demon trapped within him bristled at your question. You tried again. "I help people like you—"
"I know. And I'm not interested." His words were layered with a hoarse lack of use, hiding the deep tremble of millennia worth of pent up rage which itself masked the raw wails of thousands of souls.
You joked internally that this was the time you'd play the part of the smooth salesman and say, "You don't even know what I'm offering." But this was Harrow. Doing so would be akin to spitting in his face. So you went for an arm bar instead.
"Doesn't seem like you have many other options."
The man finally flicked his gaze up from his ancient scribbles. "My children will come for me. I will be free once more."
"Yeah, I bet. And what a cushy place to stay in in the meantime." You tilted your head to and fro admiring the dated hard plastic furniture and bug corpses lining the fluorescent lights. He didn't rise to the taunts, electing to continue his mock drawing session. The majority of your visit stretched and simmered in the silence of your unrequited questions.
"If they haven't found you yet, what makes you think they ever will?" … "What exactly happened in Cairo?" … "Your hair looks like it could use a trim. I know a good stylist."
You couldn't tell if his unresponsiveness was born of the stubborn demon within him or if he'd slipped back into a catatonic state. Either way, you were left bouncing your foot impatiently. I took a nine hour flight for this. I closed shop and moved to another country for this.
It wasn't your decision. As soon as you had witnessed stars streak like overexposed headlights in the daytime sky, you knew your life wouldn't be the same. As countless TikTok and YouTube videos came out of Cairo—of glowing souls floating into the jaws of an invisible entity—you knew your goddess would come calling. And when your agent, Peter, mailed you a work visa and keys to a flat in London, you knew you were about to dive into the deep end of a churning sea.
"Visiting hours are over, Miss." An orderly gently tapped you from your reverie, letting you know your mission for the day was over. Yet you had nothing to show for it. You shook your head, disbelieving how four hours had sprinted by. You needed more time with Harrow. His cooperation would mean gaining an audience with Ammit. And Ammit's cooperation would mean securing the safety of millions of souls. In effect it would ensure a morsel of order in the chaos of the cosmic ocean.
"Can I have just a few more minutes with my uncle? I haven't seen him in ages." You tried to mask the lie through your teeth with doe eyes and a mopish pout.
The orderly's round face scrunched with an apology. "I'm sorry, Miss. You can come back again tomorrow afternoon."
You sighed, and in a drawling, dejected manner said, "Well, it was a pleasure, Uncle." Harrow never once raised his head in acknowledgment.
From the corner of the room a feminine voice pierced the air. It was part hiss, part raspy chainsmoker. Not a single head turned to acknowledge her presence.
It's only day one. Try again tomorrow.
And so you did.
You returned with darker bags under your eyes and a strong cup of coffee. Your ass whined as you sat yourself in the blisteringly uncomfortable plastic chair once more. Not surprisingly, you received more of the same answers from Harrow.
"My children will find me," he slurred before looking up at you in his sedated haze. "And they will find you too. They won't like what you're doing."
The implication chilled your lungs, making it hard to breathe. Leaning forward in your chair, you stared deeply into his bloodshot eyes, hoping you looked more confident than you felt. "And I will convince each and every one of them to 'take the plunge'. See the error of your ways." Your attempts at bravery didn't resonate with him as he flashed a lopsided smile and returned his attention to his scribbled hieroglyphs. That day he drew them in blue crayon on paper provided by the staff.
A long sigh made a home in you. You checked your surroundings, noting the nurses handing out tea time meds and paying you no mind whatsoever. With subtle movements, you set down the cup of coffee with your left hand and placed your right under the table. The tip of your right index finger traced along the bottom of the table's surface, mimicking his sketches. He stopped as soon as he caught onto what you were doing.
A line of coffee dribbled its way through the mouth hole, down the side of the cup, and across the table toward his paper. In the fluid motions of a serpent over desert sands, it weaved itself into a crude drawing of a tree with willowed branches looming over a turbulent sea. Harrow's wheelchair creaked as he straightened up, taking in your handiwork. You added a knot-work of snakes amongst the tree's roots.
"Is there something you fear in her waters?"
"There is nothing in them for me. I don't need anything they have to offer."
His comment furrowed your brow. "I'll tell Ammit's daughter those exact words."
An alligator took shape under the ocean's choppy waves, and you eyed him curiously. For the briefest second, his body fidgeted, and the ancient being within him revealed itself through his remorseful eyes. Your heart didn't bleed for this man or his demon, only the souls they devoured. Giddiness in making them feel some semblance of regret bubbled in you.
You finished your muddy watercolor with a crescent moon hanging over the rest of the story. "I think there is something you're scared to know. Maybe that he was right about you all along?" The crayon in Harrow's fist snapped in two.
Among the plethora of videos from Cairo, one brave—or idiotic—individual stuck around to film what should have been the end of Harrow. You watched as what looked like a mummy who had stepped out of one of the nearby tombs slaughtered the cult leader's men. His eyes held no remorse for the life lost, the souls with no chance at redemption. A golden moon lain over the white wrappings of his chest immediately clued you into his identity.
"Don't worry, you're not the only one irked by the old bird. Memaw and Naunet won't stop cursing his name after what he did to my great grammy." When watching the video of his fight, your heart fluttered, and you cursed the shaky camera work obscuring his face. You had never seen a Moon Knight before. Call it a morbid curiosity, but despite your family's contempt towards Khonshu and his merciless acts of vengeance, a small part of you wished to meet his avatar.
Harrow focused all of his attention on you. Unblinking and with caution he asked, "And what did he do exactly?"
You drummed the table with your fingers, scrambling for an answer. In all honesty, you didn't know the full story. It slipped into the grave a hundred years ago. The only other who knew was still seething from the transgression, leaving the past unspoken through sheer stubbornness. But that was Naunet for you—as mulish as she was ancient. Since taking up your family's business five years prior, you were left to ponder.
How did a Moon Knight and a water witch break a sacred bond between gods?
You looked about yourself one more time in case someone was listening in, and that was when inspiration struck. Despite the sensible time on a Tuesday evening, you were the only one with a visitor sticker pressed onto your shirt amidst the mumbling, unresponsive crowd. It pained you how little the outside world paid attention to these people. Once someone stepped foot into a hospital like Sienkiewicz, they were spoken about as if already dead. Perhaps you could offer your services here, invite the patients to rest their heads in the wash basin, soak in the warm water. Give them guidance and an attentive ear. You wanted to let them know someone saw them, heard them. Cared.
"Tell you what? We can swap family stories the next time I'm here. And while I'm at it, I can give those locks of yours a nice trimmin'." You leaned back, taking in Harrow's sharper features framed by limp strands of long hair. The aura of Ammit finally settled, interest piqued as well. Maybe you could save them after all.
Volunteering your services proved easier than instant pudding. The head nurse extolled a list of concerns from introducing foreign sharp objects onto the hospital grounds, to handling touch-aversed patients. In the end, it was your soothing voice and welcoming smile that won out. You exuded a calm reassurance that Memaw said, "Makes even the thorniest of briars bloom into the most beautiful roses."
With the head nurse's stamp of approval it was a matter of playing the waiting game for the hospital's director to pencil your appointments into their schedule. This was perfectly suitable for you given your growing list of chores related to moving: Renting a suite for your salon, purchasing equipment for said salon, finding new clients, not to mention buying practically everything for your new flat… the weight of the day finally collapsed over your shoulders making you aware of how your sore, aching body ran on fumes.
What's wrong? You look tired.
Your eyes rolled reflexively. Talking to yourself wasn't exactly out of place in a mental hospital, but you preferred your privacy. Before responding to the disconnected voice, you collected your things from security and escorted yourself outside to wait for a cab. For an extra layer of comfort, you pulled your phone out of your bag, pretending to take a call.
"I'm still jet lagged from a long flight, and I've been talkin' to the vessel of an ancient Egyptian demon for two days straight." You leaned against the exterior wall to shake out your legs and rub your glutes. "I'm not tired. I'm downright haggard."
What are you saying? You need a break? You just got here.
"These jobs are like rodeos hun, and the bull is already buckin' hard. A little 'me' time never hurt nobody." If you didn't slip in self-care days in the coming weeks you'd end up as Harrow's roommate.
A black cab pulled into the visitor drop-off and you hopped in, giving the driver a small wave of recognition and the address to your flat. He looked back under his cabbie hat with a nod.
I suppose ya gonna be pluckin' away at Ammit and her group for a while. Do what all you humans like to do to unwind.
"Get a massage?"
I was gonna say get laid, but that ain't a bad idea either.
You snorted. "And here I thought you'd suggest 'taking the plunge' myself."
And what? Drown in the waters without a guide? Forget about it.
Naunet's suggestion would take time. You were pushing 35 and had standards that called for at least a few dozen swipes to the left on Tinder before landing on someone who ticked the 'maybe' box. And while massages were a temporary relief, relaxed muscles only helped with the physical aspect of your work.
What truly tore you down and spat you out with each new client resided in the mental realm. Hells, Memaw said one's very soul needed mending after a long day guiding others through the waters.
"I need help, Mama." It was more a mumble to yourself than your goddess.
You looked back out the passenger window at a passing jungle gym with two girls tipping back and forth on a seesaw. It wasn't easy for someone like you to go to therapy. Too many secrets. Too many chances to slip up with your job or identity.
On the other hand…
Memories of the remnant dust and ash that had been your parents swirling into oblivion cored you and left you a numb husk. A stiff shot of a bar's bottom-shelf whiskey fueled you through those days. But for the nights when your clients' worst memories haunted your every thought?
You closed your eyes and focused on the bumps of the road vibrating up through your seat.
"Y'know it's high time I see a therapist."
Well, for Atum's sake, do something to clear that head of yours. Ammit's too dangerous to be sitting around in some flesh bag of a man.
"Yes, Mama," you teased. A mischievous grin curled over your face as Naunet grumbled to stop calling her that. You ended your fake call and let your head rest against the window. Shallow breaths fogged the glass and the world outside blurred as your eyelids drooped. The hospital was a fair drive from your new flat, giving you ample time to catch a well-deserved snooze.
The rumble of the car gave way to the smooth takeoff of an airplane, leaving your guts to drop into your seat. Through the small window, a serpentine line of the Mississippi River cut through row upon row of orange street lamps, and the brilliant light of the moon bounced off the plane's wing.
A glassy clink and a flash of white in your periphery coaxed you to turn your head toward what your brain struggled to register as friend or foe. He sat across the aisle from you in a sharp white three-piece business suit. A brown liquid swirled in his highball glass as he tilted it back and forth, and you found it funny that the question "How does he drink?" overrode the horror of asking, "Why does he have a bird skull for a head?"
"It's a complete waste of time, what you're doing." Khonshu's beak swiveled in your direction. A resolve nestled itself in you knowing the old bird despised your mission.
"My goddess doesn't believe it is."
"I know. But what about you?" Facing the creature became unbearable, so you opted to look back out the window. He clicked in the manner of a 'tsk'. "I am giving you one chance."
"You don't get to dictate how this goes down."
"If it were up to me, Harrow would already be dead. But I suppose I must grant Naunet a single courtesy."
"Thank you?"
"Plus he wants to help you. Hel only knows why." His words left an ache in your bones. You waved it off as homesickness as you studied the fading boundaries of New Orleans. That damned itch of morbid curiosity thought otherwise as it crept up your spine.
"Prove me wrong, little one," he said as a parting gift and silently popped out of existence.
The dark waters of the Mississippi began to shimmer, turning into a silvery sheen akin to mercury. With time, it overtook the brightness of the moon, coating everything in the cabin in a blinding glow. You screwed your eyes shut, fighting off an oncoming headache. As the plane continued its ascent, it hit a pocket of turbulence, sending your guts skidding back and forth. The roar of the engine crescendoed, and a voice over the intercom asked the passengers something unintelligible. You strained your ears to hear what the captain had to say over the chaos. Even the light of the waters below emitted a shrill whine. Then it was as if the world pitched downward a few inches, sending you into a freefall before you bounced back into your seat.
"You in need of a head doctor?" The cabbie's voice jolted you awake. For one frenzied second, you swore you were stateside again hearing his thick New York accent. Squinting through the blinding sunlight, you noticed quaint terraced houses far from the medical center where Harrow was housed. A street sign on the corner of a building bore the name of the road to your new flat, reassuring you that you were still very much in London and had passed out for quite some time.
You blinked rapidly, desperately grasping at the sands of your dream, but it crumbled away in your mind's eye. Remembering felt on the verge of critical, like an integral word stuck on the tip of your tongue.
The cabbie's question finally caught up to your sleep-deprived brain, and you breathed deeply to calm your racing heart.
"Sorry. I know cab drivers and barbers are the unofficial therapists of the world. But I'm looking for a professional."
"And I got one for ya." At the next stop sign, he dug through what you could only assume was the glove box and pulled out a business card. He held it over his shoulder between his fingers, never taking his eyes off the road. It irked you a bit that he listened in on your private conversation, but you couldn't turn down this sort of help in a foreign country. Especially coming from a fellow Yank.
"They private?" you asked, and he nodded in return.
"And decently priced."
With a hum of consideration, you took the card, looking over the practice's name and sighing in relief that their office was only a few tube stations away from your new home. Perhaps it was a sign. Memaw would say so. Maybe moving from New Orleans to the other side of the world wouldn't be a complete headache. So you tried to go two-for-two.
"You know any good salons?"
"Eh, the place I go? They wouldn't know what to do with hair longer than their shoulders."
"Not for me. I'm an unofficial therapist myself. Just need a suite and I'll be back in business," you said as the cab rolled up to the terraced house above your basement flat.
"Bring me a card or two when you find a place, aight cariño?" A pair of deliciously striking brown eyes peered at you through the rearview mirror. They froze you to the spot, daring you to look away.
Tinder be damned. That sharp gaze along with the playful pet name and assured tone coaxed butterflies from your stomach. With your face cracking into a wide, stupid grin and cheeks blushing like it was your first prom date all over again, you asked, "What's your name darl'?"
You wished he had turned around. You wanted to see the full face of the man who stole southern endearments from you so easily. But he kept his head straight, hidden away under his cap. Only those dark, measured eyes studied you through the mirror, calculating his next move. It took everything in you not to vibrate with the thrill of his look.
"Jake," he finally said. "And you?" You offered your name in return and he nodded.
"¡Qué nombre más bonito para un rostro tan hermoso!" You didn't know a lot of Spanish, but enough that the words uttered under his breath sizzled your heart like frying butter.
"If we meet again, Jake, you get a style on the house," you replied.
"I'm holding you to that." His tone left no room for you to back out.
You crossed your fingers over your heart. "My word is my bond."
The heat in your cheeks traveled downward to form a hard pit that pleaded he stay a little longer. But what else was there to say? Keep the meter running and come inside for some coffee? If only you were so bold.
Instead you begrudgingly stepped out of the cab and watched him pull away from the curb. He disappeared around a corner, leaving your buzzing form all alone in the unnatural stillness of the street. To calm your nerves you wrapped yourself in thoughts like, He's just that way with all his fares, and, You've been single for far too long girlie, get a grip! Anything else would have felt too bittersweet. An opportunity missed.
Entering your flat with its unnerving quiet and bare bones furniture, you realized just how much those fleeting interactions would mean to you in the coming months. Finding friends in a city as big as London was easier said than done. Romance would prove even tougher. Like looking for a unicorn in a field of pricks.
Your resigned sigh warred with your thoughts. The pain suffered from Thanos' Snap and the proceeding five years shackling yourself to Naunet's work left every fiber of you craving intimacy. In that foreign, unfamiliar—empty—flat, your loneliness stood out. More swipes to the right and the occasional ghosting or awkward one liners might be in your near future after all.
Cariño.
The name pulled a new wave of pleasure out of you followed by a dull ache. You wished to see Jake again someday. He seemed so confident at the prospect of another encounter. Did cabbies have routes? Maybe you should plan another trip to the hospital next Tuesday afternoon. I'd find jackalopes before I ever cross paths with him again. You shook your head at the foolish optimism of such a request from the universe. In a city with millions of people and a sea of black cabs…
What were the chances?