Summary: Marc was never good at showing his father how much he truly loved him.
Warnings: Mentions of character death, angst, mentions of neglectful parents.
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All it took was one message to send Marc's mind spiraling.
A deep-rooted chill bled through his armor as rain pelted his crouched form, the tremble in his hand threatening to send the phone careening down into the alleyway below. The smell of copper and ancient sand permeated the air, blending with the petrichor of the overhanging storm. He had grown accustomed to the smell that seemed to cling to his God and, in turn, his armor throughout the few years he had acted as his Avatar, but it did nothing to ease the growing pit in his stomach.
The message that stared up at him was a painfully simple one, one that took him all night and multiple drafts to type out. It was not the content of the message that bothered him, though, but rather who the message was meant for.
His mother died almost a year ago and, in wake of her passing, Marc was left with a bitter cocktail of grief, anger and regret. He used to think that gifts would bring his mother back to him-that the handpicked bouquets of dandelions would grace her sullen features with a smile as bright as the sun. But after years of finding crumpled up paintings and wilted weeds tossed haphazardly into the kitchen trash, he grew to learn that he could not breathe new life into something that's already dead.
"There's movement coming from inside the warehouse," The echoing voice of the Moon God bellowed from the other side of the roof, but the observation fell upon deaf ears. The downpour was loud, muddled with the sound of linen gracefully whipping the empty space beside him. Marc was usually on high alert during his nightly patrols, a habit that was instilled into him during his time in the service. Tonight, however, his mind was elsewhere.
"Marc," another voice spoke over the dissonance, and Marc turned his attention to the small puddle of rainwater that had gathered beside him. He was greeted with the sight of white and red, speckles of blood dotting the surface of his mask and hood as a pair of moon-lit eyes gazed up at him, "You don't have to send it if you don't want to. I can send it."
Marc shook his head," I know, Steven, it's just-I can't-" he let out a soft sigh, "I don't want him to think that I don't love him, you know?"
Unlike his mother, his father did not retreat into his grief. Instead, he tried his best to hold together what was left of their broken family, gluing together any cracks that formed between the three of them. He was the one who took care of Marc growing up; patching him up after a rough day outside, tucking him in at night and comforting him when he would wake up in a panic. It was as if he were trying to make up for his mother's distance. But it did not make it hurt any less. If anything, it made it worse.
It felt like he did nothing to really protect Marc from her wrath, almost excusing her abuse with his lack of input. He always made sure to be there for him during the aftermath, but you can only glue the cracks together for so long until everything falls apart.
"He knows we love him; a text won't make him think any differently."
"I should have gone to see him today, took him out to lunch and-and-" he shook his head again, "I should have done something that isn't this," he gestured down at the phone in his hands, the urge to let it slide from his grasp returning tenfold.
Even after leaving home, he could never bring himself to reach out to his father. He used to blame him for his mother's torment. But as he grew older, the resentment melted into regret as he came to realize that his father had been just as helpless as him. Much like Marc's gifts, nothing his father did seemed to free his mom from her grief. And when she died, Marc did not want to let his dad believe that he had truly lost everyone.
"Look, I personally think the message you've got typed up there is perfect, really. I think he'll appreciate it." Steven assured him tilting his head up slightly towards the phone.
"Are you sure? I don't want-" a volley of gunfire echoed up from the alleyway below as a chorus of screams followed in suite. Marc sprang to his feet, a string of curses escaping his mouth as he peered over the ledge of the roof. The same group of men he had been tailing all night now stood at the entrance of the docking bay, firing into the darkened warehouse. He turned his attention to Khonshu.
"The idiots activated the scarab," Khonshu clarified as he too peered down at the warehouse, "you need to get down there, my son, and retrieve it before the curse makes its way onto the streets." Marc simply nodded in compliance, turning his head back towards the action before pausing. He glanced down at the phone still weighing his hand down; it would only take a second to send the text and get it over with. To let his dad know that he does still care and that he loves him. But to send the message is to commit to something he quite frankly couldn't right now, not tonight. With a heavy sigh, he returned the phone to his pocket before diving over the ledge. Father's Day had to wait.
