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Johnny Blaze never worked well with others. He’d regularly get into fights on the playground (though he always maintained that it was because the other kids were making fun of his dead father. And most of the time, that was true). He’d rather play by himself, anyways. Didn’t matter that he didn’t work well with others, because he didn’t want to work with others.
This had been true throughout his life. As a teen, adult, stuntman, and most recently, as a superhero.
Other heroes didn’t really get him. He looked like a villain, and was often mistaken for one. A flaming skeleton in black leather riding an ignited Harley Davidson wasn’t exactly an image that inspired comparisons to Captain America. Of course, it didn’t help that his methods weren’t exactly socially acceptable. Blaze saw nothing wrong with the idea that some people, some very, very evil people, deserved to go to Hell, and he was happy to help them along their way. Apparently, this wasn’t “hero behavior”. So Ghost Rider tended to work alone, because he couldn’t play by other’s rules.
Until he met Moon Knight.
Marc Spector, a former mercenary, currently the priest of the Egyptian god Khonshu. Like Blaze, he didn’t play nice with other superheroes. He was about as brutal, if not more. He played by his own rules, and they were rules Blaze could work with. Also, he wore white so his enemies would see him coming, which was badass.
The two worked very well together. They had similar methods, similar backgrounds, and something about them just clicked . They didn’t have to justify or defend the blood dripping from their hands. They both understood that a rabid dog needs to be put down.
There was also the fact that Marc was easy to be around. He didn’t judge Blaze’s taste in fashion or music, didn’t side-eye him when he mentioned a particularly messy kill. Didn’t say anything about any of his strange behaviors. Maybe because he was strange himself.
Marc wasn’t really a man of words. Actions were enough most of the time. Whereas some goody two-shoes like Spider-Man would make some coy remark about some broken fingers, Marc just dropped a First Aid Kit in your lap and handed you a cup of tea at some point down the line. He made really good tea.
They just understood one another. Whether it was because of their shared experience as outcasts, or because they were screwed out of a normal life by a divine entity, they just got each other.
* * *
The ashes that had once been a man fell to Blaze’s feet, still smoldering with holy fire. Well, holy embers at this point.
“What’s that called again?”
“The Penance Stare.”
“‘The Penance Stare,’” Moon Knight repeated. “Got it.”
He finished his beatdown on the bloody pulp that was apparently named Walter and tossed it to the ground. A vaguely human groan slipped between its broken teeth.
“You didn’t kill him?”
The priest flicked some blood off his gloves. “No. I’m in a good mood tonight.”
“Hm. Lucky him.”
“He’ll be fine. Prison has good healthcare.”
“Good for him. Now, where’s… where’s the lady we were saving?”
“I think she ran off at some point.”
“Shit.”
“I might be able to find her.”
“Let’s not do that. You look like you just jumped out of a slasher movie.”
“Good point. So, what are you thinking? Back to the Mission?”
“Actually, I’m thinking of getting some food.”
“There’s food at the Mission.”
“Yeah, but I want Chinese. There’s this great place that’s open late into the evening.”
Marc scoffed. “That place serves garbage.”
“Yes. That’s why I want to go there.”
Marc rolled his eyes beneath his mask.
“Look,” Johnny said as he made his way to his bike. “You can either come with and I’ll pay for your meal, or you can go back to your haunted house, hungry and alone.”
“I won’t be alone.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Reese is there.”
“Do you want to hang out or not?”
“...”
* * *
“You eat like an animal.”
“Yeah, well,” Blaze said as he scarfed down some cheap, greasy food. “I’m from Texas.”
“Is that how Texans eat?"
“Sometimes.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “We’re just generally uncivilized.”
“I see.”
They made up quite the sight. A smoldering Harley Davidson parked outside, and what looked like a sheet ghost and a shitty Joan Jett cosplayer sitting across from each other in an otherwise empty restaurant. The owner sat behind the counter, calming down after a serious scare. The poor guy had thought he was being robbed when the two had shown up.
Marc had tried to explain that he used to be an Avenger, but his blood-soaked costume didn’t really help his case.
Eventually, Blaze explained the situation and the two ordered.
Blaze had about half the contents of the menu in front of him. Marc, meanwhile, was snacking on a plate of granola bar-looking desserts.
“How do you wash your costume, by the way?”
“Not easily.”
“Got it.”
Those who didn’t know Marc might have interpreted his response as rude, or an attempt at humor. But this was just how Marc was: incredibly, incredibly dry.
“What about you?”
“Yeah, it’s… it’s not easy.”
“Figured.”
“Cause I can’t just throw it in the wash, the detergent would ruin it. So I have to do it by hand. And that means I have to dry all the metal bits or they rust. Learned that the hard way.”
“Have you considered wearing less leather?”
“I have, actually.”
“Do tell.”
“I’m looking at this material- it’s heavy, but not too heavy. And it’s pretty bulletproof. I’m thinking of reviving my old stuntman design.”
Marc cocked an eyebrow, intrigued. “What’s that look like?”
“It’s… it’s hard to describe. It’s like a weird square? Like, a square with some extra bits. Actually, let me just-” he grabbed a napkin from the holder. “Do you have a pencil?”
“Why would I have a pencil?”
“I don’t know, you have all kinds of random bullshit under your cloak.”
“It’s not ‘random bullshit’, it’s the sacred armaments of the Fist of Khonshu.”
“Yeah, yeah. It’s fine, I think I have one here- yeah, here we go.”
“Now why do you have a pencil?”
“In case I need to write something down.”
“Can’t you just remember it?”
“That doesn’t work for me. I think I have a condition.”
“You should probably get that checked out.”
“Probably. Now, let me focus.”
Blaze spent the next few moments sketching out a design on the napkin, then turned it around for Marc to see.
He leaned forward to observe the crudely drawn sketch. It really was a weird square. Well, more like a rectangle, but that was splitting hairs.
“It looks nice.”
“Yeah. Especially on a black suit. Plus, maybe it’d make people a little less afraid of me.”
“Maybe.”
“The jacket would stay, of course. And the gloves. And the boots.”
Marc picked up the last of his dessert. “A spiked choker, maybe?”
“I’m not that into this aesthetic.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“You cosplay as a celestial body every single night, you don’t get to talk,” Blaze retorted.
“I’m a priest.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got an angel in me. Literally.”
“I thought your powers were from Hell?”
“He’s a fallen angel,” Blaze muttered.
“Well,” Marc stood and brushed some crumbs off his suit. “I think it’s time we get back out there.”
“Probably.” He turned towards the restaurant owner. “Hey! I’m getting all this to go, alright?”
“Do you need to pay?”
“Shit, yeah. Wait outside, I’ll be right out.”
* * *
“You want to know something?”
Blaze sighed. “What?”
“You are the only person I have ever met that can take ten minutes to pay for food.”
“I have a lot of pockets!”
“But ten minutes?”
“I couldn’t find my card, so I had to pay with cash. And I had a lot of ones.”
“ Why? ”
“Why not!? I have to buy a lot of cheap stuff for this job, so it’s easier to keep it in low amounts. Besides, you’re one to talk. You probably carry Egyptian coins or whatever.”
“Hm.”
“Cause you’re weird .”
“That’s my charm, isn’t it?”
“You aren’t wrong,” Blaze replied as his flesh burned away and flames ignited on his bones. “So, what’s next on the itinerary?”
“There’s this corner about three blocks west of here. There’s been a series of muggings there. I want to check it out.”
“ Another mugging? Slow night. I wouldn’t mind a supervillain attacking at this point. At least it’d be a bit of a challenge.”
“Careful what you wish for, Blaze.”
“Whatever.” Blaze revved his bike, hellfire erupting along its surface. “Ready to crack some skulls?”
“Always.”