word count -> 4.2k

plot summary -> your date night takes an unexpected turn and steven doesn't know what day it is

a/n -> this is my first moon knight fic i've written, i hope you enjoy it ! feel free to send me prompts, and check out my tumblr @/isawanangell

...

You arrive early, and he's sat waiting.

The sight of him sends a familiar thrill through you, despite the fact that you've barely ever spoken to him. Steven with a V, the guy working in the gift shop; the bane of Donna's existence. You've heard your boss complain about Steven more than all of your other co-workers at the museum combined.

Given your dislike of Donna, this has only served to make you like him more.

Steven looks tired, as per usual, and his knee is bouncing at a rapid pace underneath the tablecloth, his fingers tapping out a nervous beat on the table.

You hover several feet away, uncertain. Two thoughts coexist in your head: one, why is he here? And more importantly, two, can you go over? Because he's waiting, yes, but definitely not for you.

Only this week had you finally managed to pluck up the courage to decide that you were going to ask him out. Or at least talk to him. There had been less of a plan, more of a whim borne of the several glasses of wine you'd consumed with your chinese takeaway the night before.

Upon waking up the morning after, you'd swiftly decided that no, you would not be asking anyone out, until you crossed paths with Steven as he was rushing into work.

'Late again, Stevie,' Donna reprimanded him from across the room as he'd hurried through the door. He'd turned to the sound of her voice, and subsequently hadn't seen you walking towards him, also looking over your shoulder.

'It's Steven,' he'd replied. 'Ste-'

You'd gasped as the two of you collided, turning just in time to catch the flask of coffee which Steven had been about to dump all over your chest.

'Oh, bollocks, I'm so sorry,' he'd apologised hastily, looking at you with genuine worry in his eyes. Genuine worry which you did not see, preoccupied as you were with finding yourself at such close proximity to his chest.

'It's okay,' you'd smiled, recovering quickly, before looking up at him and having the breath inadvertently knocked out of you again. He was inexplicably better looking up close, his eyes a richer shade of brown than you could have possibly imagined, which you had. The unfairness of it had jolted you back to reality.

'Here,' you'd said, pushing his flask back into his hands and taking a step back.

'Thanks,' he'd replied, and with another smile you'd carried on walking. Fuck, you'd thought to yourself as you walked away to the dulcet tones of Donna complaining to someone how Steven couldn't even walk in a straight line properly.

How were you supposed to ask him out if you couldn't even look at him without being rendered totally useless?

The rest of your day was spent giving tours on autopilot and trying to supress the adrenaline that insisted upon aggressively coursing through your veins every time you saw Steven out of the corner of your eye, stronger and more intense than it had been in previous weeks. You had to do something about it. He would say yes, or he would say no, and that would be the end of it.

As it turned out, you wouldn't even have to ask him to get your answer. You'd just finished up your penultimate tour for the day and were hanging around by the gift shop bidding people goodbye when one of the other tour guides walked past you, her heels clicking on the marble floor, and went straight up to Steven, who was doing something behind the counter.

'Hello,' she had said, and you'd heard the smile in her voice.

'Hello,' Steven replied.

'How's the sugar trade?'

It was at this moment that you'd recognised that eavesdropping like this might be considered less than normal, and started to walk away. Before you could leave however, you were waylaid by some of the visitors from your tour, wanting to thank you. It was for this reason that you'd heard the woman at the counter say: 'We still on for seven tomorrow?'

Long story short, you'd left work that day in the most awful of moods, and when a guy from the post office had asked you on a date the day after you'd practically bitten his hand off.

Which is why you're stood outside this restaurant at seven pm on a Sunday, wondering what Steven is doing here with flowers and chocolate when his date was scheduled for two days ago.

Before you've even had time to think about deciding whether to approach him or not, his eyes glance sideways and meet yours. His eyebrows shoot up, and you freeze, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline shoot through you, followed by embarrassment as you catch his gaze skimming from your face to your shoes and back up again.

Then he's waving, and you should not be finding it at all endearing because he isn't your date, but you can't help it. You can't not go to him now. Autopilot kicks in, and you let your legs carry you forward and your lips tug upwards into a smile, which grows wider as Steven bumps the table when he stands up and has to grab at it to stop everything from falling to the ground.

'Hi,' you say as you reach him, glancing at the table. God fucking damnit. He's bought Belgian chocolates. You love Belgian chocolate.

'Hi,' he replies, and you look back up at him and his sheepish smile. 'I'm not always knockin' into things, I promise.'

You laugh, and then realise that you're not thinking of anything to say back to him.

'What are you doing here?' you ask him hastily. Nice. Real smooth.

You're inwardly cursing yourself as Steven frowns slightly before giving half a laugh and gesturing at the flowers and chocolates on the table.

'Isn't it obvious?'

You can't ask him what you want to ('Why are you two days late to a date?') without him probably filing a restraining order against you, so instead you smile and incline your head.

'Sorry, yes. You look nice,' you tell him, resisting the urge to reach out and straighten the collar of his jacket.

'Not as nice as you,' he says quickly, before proceeding to look mortified. You're smiling as he briefly closes his eyes, you can't help it.

'Sorry. That was weird, I just meant -'

'No, it's fine. Thank you,' you smile, struggling to resist the grin which is fighting to plaster itself across your face. He's biting his lip and shaking his head at the ground as though it's personally wronged him, and then he looks back up at you apologetically, and all you want in the world is to sit down across from him and have this date for yourself.

'Y/N?'

You turn, and the spell is broken, because here's your date. You smile at him before turning back to Steven, who is looking past you now, towards the man behind you.

'I've gotta go. Good luck,' you smile, and it's selfish but you've never meant anything less in your life.

'Yeah. Yeah, thanks. You too,' he says sincerely, moving his gaze back to you. It's almost physically painful to turn and walk away.

...

Half an hour later you're already a bottle of wine deep, and it's shaping up to be one of the worst dates ever. You've been asked exactly one question about yourself ('What are you having to eat?'), and have for the rest of the time been subjected to listening to tales from the life of a man who works in a post office.

The only saving grace has been the sight of Steven, who incidentally is still sat alone, behind your date about forty feet away.

'Excuse me, can we get another bottle of the red please? Thanks,' your date asks a passing waiter. Bold of him to assume you'll be sticking around for another bottle of wine.

He launches back into his anecdote about one of his work colleagues who sounds just about as boring as him, and your eyes drift slightly left to find Steven again. He looks utterly fed up, and something white-hot starts simmering deep in your chest when you think about the woman who has clearly stood him up.

'Am I boring you?'

Shit.

'No, no. Sorry,' you apologise, looking quickly back to your date. His eyes narrow, and he smiles.

'Tell me about yourself,' he says, leaning forward on his elbows. Ah. Maybe he's not a lost cause after all.

It takes him twenty minutes and half a bottle of wine to prove you wrong.

'Sorry, just need to use the bog. Won't be a sec,' he says eventually, hauling himself to his feet and walking away. Without him sat opposite you, you have a clearer view of Steven, who is now on the phone, still waiting. You have to give him credit, it's been almost one hour. You'd have left ages ago.

The wine you've consumed has been fuelling that boiling, simmering feeling in your chest which you can't quite place, and it's grown so strong that you simply can't sit here and ignore it anymore. Just as you think this, Steven looks up and meets your gaze.

You stand up abruptly and grab your bag with one hand, and the bottle of wine from the table with the other. This is happening. Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you walk swiftly over to Steven's table and hold your hand out.

'Let's get out of here,' you say, acutely aware that if you didn't currently have that lovely, heady feeling that wine gives you, this wouldn't be happening.

'What?' he asks, looking from your face to your hand and back again.

'Please. Before he comes back,' you say desperately, already walking backwards, motioning for him to follow you. He stares at you for a second longer, and for an awful moment you think he's going to say no, but then he's grabbing your hand and standing up.

The feel of his palm against yours sends electricity zipping up your arm, and a laugh bubbles in your throat.

'Bring the chocolate,' you tell him, and he seizes them and then you're pulling him down the steps to the restaurant, out towards the road, scanning for a cab.

'There,' Steven says, and then he's pulling you along instead and you're letting him, lightheaded with more than just wine. He flags down a cab with the hand holding the box of chocolates, your hand still clasped in his other one, and when it stops lets you go and holds the door open for you.

You slide across so that he can follow you in, heart banging against your rib cage as if you've just run the hundred metre sprint. Steven pulls the door shut and you give the driver your address, before sitting back in your seat heavily. Exhilarated isn't the word.

'I've never ditched a date before,' you say, before turning to look at him. He's staring at the back of the headrest in front of him, looking vaguely horrified. Your smile fades when he doesn't reply.

'Hey, you okay?' you ask, reaching out to touch his arm. He just shakes his head. The simmering feeling in your chest makes itself more apparent as the adrenaline fades.

'Getting stood up is horrible. I'm sorry,' you sympathise, letting your head fall back against the headrest. He just shakes his head again, and you frown.

'Are you-'

'What day is it?'

Your expression is one of confusion as he finally turns to look at you. You search his features, looking for a joke, but can't find one. There's genuine panic flickering behind his eyes.

'It – it's Sunday, right?' you say, and apparently that was the wrong answer because Steven buries his head in his hands and makes a noise low in his throat. You're at a complete loss, suddenly feeling very out of your depth.

Where before you'd been glad of the haziness which comes with drinking wine, you wish now that your head was clear so that you might be of more use.

You sit in silence for a while, cradling your stolen wine in your lap and sobering up by the second as you slowly make your way through London traffic, fighting to think of something to say.

Steven finally mumbles something into his hands, and you jump on it.

'What?' you ask immediately. He removes his hands from his face and blinks.

'She didn't stand me up. I stood her up,' he tells you quietly.

'Wait, you thought today was Friday?' you ask incredulously. He nods, and then frowns and looks over at you.

'How'd you know the date was on Friday?'

You open your mouth and then close it again. Guilty.

'I just – I overheard her asking you the other day. It wasn't weird or anything...' you trail off as he presses the palms of his hands into his eyes.

'Are you sure? Are you sure it's not Friday?' Steven asks you, letting his hands drop into his lap and looking at you with something like desperation. You can only nod.

You're so busy wondering what the hell is going on that you don't realise you've stopped outside your place until the driver asks you for the fare. You pay it, and then open your door.

'Come on,' you say to Steven.

'What?'

'I'm not letting you go home on your own like this. Come on,' you repeat. He looks like he wants to argue, but apparently he doesn't have it in him. He follows you out of the cab to the door of the apartment complex, then up two flights of stairs to your front door, and then Steven Grant is in your apartment.

It's not messy, but you hadn't exactly left it tidy before you'd left for your date, and you have to stop yourself from apologising for the mess.

'Here, sit down,' you say, putting the wine down to pick a pile of books up off of your sofa so that he can sit. He looks as though he's in a trance, his eyes sliding over things instead of seeing them as he sits, dropping the chocolates beside him.

You discard your bag on the coffee table next to the wine and kick your shoes off before sitting down next to him gingerly.

'I'm gonna order food, you want anything?' you ask tentatively, opening your phone.

'I- yeah, actually. Cheers,' he nods, and it's not much but at least he's speaking.

'I was gonna get pizza, what do you want?' you ask.

'Whatever you want.'

'Margherita?'

'Oh, I'm vegan.'

You frown, and he turns to look at you when you don't reply.

'What?'

'We just – why were you going on a date to a steak house if you're vegan?'

He laughs, and you're really worried about him now. He brings a hand up to his forehead and rubs, hard.

'I – I dunno,' he replies, his voice cracking.

You can't think of a response, so you order two pizzas, one vegan, one margherita, and then drop your phone in your lap, sitting back and slinging your arm over the back of the sofa. If you can't feel confident managing a practical stranger having what you're pretty sure is a mental breakdown in your living room, at least you can look it.

'You wanna talk about it?' you ask, and Steven sighs heavily.

'I think – I think I'm goin' mental,' he says, staring at something you can't see in the middle distance.

'Why do you think that?'

He exhales sharply and then turns to smile ruefully at you, and you have to remind yourself that you are confident and that the way he's looking at you isn't making your chest go tight.

'I keep havin' these periods where I just... I black out. And I can't remember anythin' afterwards, where I was or what I was doin'. It's exhaustin'. And scary,' he tells you, pulling at the ends of his sleeves so that they cover his hands.

'So you – you blacked out on Thursday, and woke up today? And didn't even realise?' you ask him incredulously.

'I... yeah,' he nods, shifting in his seat. You try and shake the feeling that he's not telling you something.

'Have you talked to anyone about it? Like a doctor, I mean?' you ask, concern creeping its way into your voice. Steven shakes his head.

'It's not like that, I'm not ill,' he says, and his tone is so firm that any thoughts you'd had about arguing with him vanish instantly.

'What do you think it is, then?'

He just shakes his head, bringing his shoulders up towards his ears. His hair falls forward on to his forehead and he reaches up to push it back before it's fully settled there: a reflex, just like the way your fingers curl in on themselves in an attempt to stop the obtrusive thoughts which enter your head as you watch him.

'I'm really sorry, about this. I shouldn't be draggin' you into my problems,' he says abruptly, turning to look at you again as your gaze falls from his hair with his hand.

'No, don't be silly. It's fine; it's not like I've got anything better to be doing,' you smile, hoping he hadn't seen you staring at his hair. He definitely had.

'I'm sorry your date didn't go well,' he tells you, and you're stunned because he's going through this huge, terrifying thing and still finding the time to care about other people. To care about you.

'Yeah, well,' you say, and it's your turn to shrug as you bring your hand hanging behind the sofa up to lean your head on it. 'Next time, maybe.'

'What happened? If you don't mind me askin',' he says, shifting his weight so that he's facing you.

'Ah, he was just self-centred, you know? He asked me two questions in an hour, and one of them was about what I wanted to eat.' And the other was because he was trying to distract me from you.

You push the thought down, deep. 'I could literally see him spacing out when I told him about my job.'

Steven pulls a face. 'His loss. You have the best job in the world.'

You raise your eyebrows. 'Is that so?'

He stares at you, incredulous. 'Uh, yeah! Museum tour guide? I'd do anything for that job.'

'Really? You're into Egyptology?'

Something shifts in him; his eyes light up as though a fire has been lit behind them and he comes to life, words spilling out of him like water from a dam which you've unintentionally opened.

He talks and he talks, but not in the way your date had, this is different. He's not trying to impress you; there's no personal gain to be had from telling you any of it, he just genuinely wants to share his information with you.

Information that, yes, you mostly already know, but you'd rather climb out of the window and jump than tell him that.

As he talks, his sleeves which he'd pulled down over his hands are pulled back to his wrists by his hand gestures, and you're trying to listen to what he's telling you, you are, but he's just so distracting like this. Animated. Happy. You couldn't look away from him if you tried.

He's broken from his flow only by the sound of someone buzzing up from the front door.

'Pizza,' you say, getting to your feet and grabbing the bottle of wine. 'Come on, we'll go up to the roof.'

'Yeah, sure,' Steven blinks, standing up and grabbing the chocolates before following you to your front door.

'What were you saying?'

'Oh-'

He talks all the way down to the door, and then all the way up to the top floor in the elevator. He's on to Egyptian mythology now, which you actually don't know all that much about, so you listen avidly the whole time.

Steven stops talking when you exit the elevator on the top floor as you hand him your pizza box and start climbing up a ladder leading to a trap door, which is very clearly labelled 'Do Not Use'.

'Uh, is this... safe?' he asks you as you fiddle with the latch on the trapdoor.

'Sure,' you say, heaving the door open upwards with one hand. 'We're not technically supposed to come up here, but everyone does.'

You hold out your hand for the pizza boxes. He passes them to you and you lift them through the trapdoor, before pulling yourself up on to the roof. It's grown dark since you got home and there are no lights on the roof, but you're in central London and it's a cloudless night; the roof is bathed in moonlight.

'Are you sure this is okay? I don't want you gettin' evicted 'cause of me,' Steven asks again as he emerges from the trapdoor.

'I come up here all the time, I promise. And look, proof that other people come up here too,' you say, pointing to the old chairs scattered at various intervals around the roof top.

'Fine,' he concedes, and you smile and make your way towards two of the comfier looking chairs.

'Voila. The best view in London,' you proclaim, handing him his pizza back and placing the wine on the floor as he sits down next to you.

'Yeah. It's not bad,' he agrees, and hunger hits you like a truck as you open your pizza box and inhale, eyes closed, not seeing Steven grin as he watches you.

'Best pizza in London,' you say, almost subconsciously, before taking your first bite.

'Wow, best view, and best pizza? All in one evenin'?' he teases, and you shrug, eyebrows raised. What can I say?

You reach for the wine and then groan when you realise you didn't think to bring glasses with you.

'What?'

'I forgot wine glasses.'

'We could just drink from the bottle,' Steven suggests, and you turn to him with a wide smile. He's wearing a lop-sided grin which makes your heart stutter for a second.

'Cheers to that,' you say happily.

You eat and talk and finish the wine, inviting that heady feeling back again as the moon drifts slowly higher into the sky above you.

When the pizza boxes are empty and discarded behind you, along with the bottle of wine, Steven turns to you and says, 'Do you like Belgian chocolate?' and all you can do is smile and nod and hope that he can't see in your eyes how much you adore him in this moment.

It's getting late, and cold, but you're reluctant to say anything. You feel like you're in your own little safe bubble up here, where it seems as though you're closer to the sky than the ground, and sharing it with Steven has only served to make it better.

'Aren't you cold?' he asks you, and you're truly not, the wine you'd drunk seeming to heat you from the inside out, but he's already shrugging off his jacket before you've even started to shake your head.

'No, really, I'm fine-'

'Take it,' he insists sincerely, holding it out to you.

So you find yourself sat in the sky, wrapped in Steven's jacket, drunk on wine and the moonlit air and the way it illuminates the man sat next to you.

'I don't remember askin' her out.'

You turn your head to look at him, and he's watching something in the sky which you can't see.

'Your date?' you frown, and he nods. Oh. He'd blacked out before he'd asked her. Which meant...

'I kinda had my eye on someone else at work, to tell the truth,' he admits, and your heart flies upwards to lodge itself in your throat. You swallow hard in an attempt to push it back down.

'Yeah?' you ask, but it comes out as a sort of hoarse whisper.

'Yeah,' he replies, turning to look at you with a small smile gracing his features. You've not yet met this Steven: self-assured, forth coming, even if he is blushing. You like him a lot. Heat blossoms in your face and you have to look away, smiling.

'Turns out I didn't even have to ask you on a date to get one,' he chuckles. You look back to him, eyebrows raised.

'A date?'

'What do you call this?' he asks you, gesturing around.

Wine, chocolate. Moonlight. His jacket around your shoulders. He has a point. You tell him so.

'Maybe that 'next time' you were talkin' about could be with me? On a real date. Not an accidental one,' he asks you, his eyes searching your face for an answer nervously as though you're going to reply with anything other than yes.

'I would love that.'

His shoulders drop and he exhales swiftly, a grin replacing the hopeful look on his face.

'Really?'

'Yeah,' you nod, not even attempting to rid your face of the smile which has occupied it. You're truly doubtful it will ever leave, after tonight.