Archive of Our Own ^beta

The air in the debrief room was thick with tension. The team sat around the long table, some leaning back, others bracing themselves for what was about to come.

Tony Stark was pacing, fingers drumming against the edge of the table before he finally stopped and looked around. His face was unreadable, but his tone—sharp, biting—said everything.

“Alright, let’s talk about how we almost took out an innocent civilian today.”

Steve stiffened, arms crossed, jaw clenched. He didn’t say anything, but the way he exhaled sharply was enough of a response.

“Tony,” Natasha’s voice was measured, steady, the voice of reason trying to keep the peace. “No one got hurt. We got what we came for, and we got out.”

“That’s not the point, Nat,” Tony shot back, shaking his head. “The point is that we screwed up. And we don’t screw up. So let’s go over it, step by step, and figure out how Captain America here almost turned a bystander into a casualty.”

Tony now stood at the head of the table, fingers braced against the surface, knuckles whitening. The tension was palpable.

Steve exhaled sharply, sitting up straighter. His expression was tight, defensive. "Tony—"

But Tony wasn’t having it. "No, don’t 'Tony' me, Cap. This isn’t something we just brush off. We nearly got a civilian killed today because we weren’t paying attention. Because we didn’t have our intel straight. And you—" He jabbed a finger in Steve’s direction. "Were one second away from making that mistake."

Steve’s jaw clenched. "I reacted to the situation as it was unfolding. We were in a firefight. I made a call."

"Yeah? And it was the wrong one," Tony snapped. "That guy barely ducked in time. One second later, and we’d be having a very different conversation right now. A lot worse than this one."

The rest of the team sat in silence. Bruce stared down at his hands, jaw tight. Clint had his arms crossed, chewing the inside of his cheek. Sam shook his head slightly, looking pissed—not at anyone in particular, just at how close they had come to a disaster.

Moon Knight sat near the end of the table, arms folded, mask still on showing no expression. 

No one spoke, because what was there to say? They all felt it—the weight of almost letting a civilian - no older than 15 - get killed. 

Tony let out a sharp breath. "Alright. Let's go over exactly what happened. Step by step. Because if this happens again, someone might not be so lucky next time."

The tension in the room didn’t let up. If anything, it thickened, pressing in on everyone as Tony folded his arms, waiting.

Natasha sighed, leaning forward with her elbows on the table. “Alright, let’s go through it. The mission was a standard retrieval—black market deal going down in the docks, some very expensive, very stolen Egyptian artifacts changing hands. SHIELD got wind of it, we moved in.”

Tony cut in. “Correction, we stormed in.” He shot a pointed look at Steve. “Because someone didn’t wait for all the recon to come in before making a move.”

Steve exhaled through his nose. “We were losing our window.”

Natasha ignored them both and continued. “We split into teams. Clint and I took the rooftops, provided overwatch while Steve and Sam went in first to cut off their exit. Stark and Moonknight waited to see if we had any runners. Bruce was on standby in case things went sideways.”

Tony let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, you mean like when Steve threw a shield at a guy who turned out to be a bystander?”

Steve’s hands clenched into fists on the table. “He was reaching for a weapon.”

Tony scoffed. “He was reaching for his damn phone, Steve.”

Steve opened his mouth, but Natasha shot him a look before he could argue. She pressed on. “Point is, things escalated. The deal was already in motion, and once we got spotted, it turned into a shootout. We secured the artifacts, but yeah, Steve’s shield came a little too close to taking out an innocent.”

Steve shook his head. “He was in the crossfire. It was an accident.”

Tony threw up his hands. “That’s the problem! We don’t do accidents.”

The room fell into silence again.

Marc Spector sat at the far end of the table, mask pulled up just enough to show his blank expression. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken. If the argument was getting under his skin, he wasn’t showing it.

Tony turned to him, eyebrows raised. “What, nothing to say, Moonie?”

Marc met his gaze, completely deadpan. “Nope.”

The tension in the room tightened. Marc felt it pressing against his ribs, the way his fingers twitched slightly against the table.

Tony huffed, shaking his head.

Marc just shrugged. He could feel the way everyone was on edge, and the last thing he wanted was to add to the fire, the yelling already almost becoming too much, after watching a kid nearly get killed. 

Natasha sighed again, rubbing her temple. “Look, the mission’s over. We have the artifacts. No one got hurt. Maybe we should just take a breath.”

Tony wasn’t letting this go. His hands slammed onto the table, making everyone jolt slightly—except Steve, who was already wound tight, and Marc, who was now bouncing his knee under the table, fingers twitching, growing anxious from the yelling. 

“No! You don’t understand,” Tony snapped. His eyes burned as he turned on Steve, jabbing a finger at him. “If we screwed this up—if you screwed this up—we would have been fucked! Do you get that, Rogers?!”

Steve’s jaw clenched. “Tony—”

“No! Listen to me for once,” Tony interrupted, voice rising. “We were dealing with stolen artifacts from a goddamn black market, Steve! Do you have any idea what kind of people run those operations? Who we just pissed off? This wasn’t some back-alley deal over knockoff handbags! This was serious, high-level, international crime. not to mention we would have pissed off a god” - Tony yells pointing to Marc, “If we killed a civilian—if you killed a civilian—do you know what kind of hellstorm that would bring down on us?”

Steve stood up so fast his chair scraped against the floor. “I know it was a close call, Tony! You think I don’t feel that?”

“Inches don’t mean shit when someone’s dead, Steve!” Tony was yelling now, voice sharp and cutting, his face flushed with frustration. 

The room felt smaller, the air heavier.

Marc’s knee bounced faster. He stared down at the table, lips pressed into a thin line, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. The shouting was getting to him, making his fingers twitch, making his skin feel too tight. He didn’t even realize his breathing had picked up.

The voices in his head were quiet, but they were there. Watching. Waiting.

“Enough,” Steve growled, voice low and dangerous. “I get it, Tony. You’re mad. You need someone to blame? Fine. Blame me. But I don’t need you screaming in my face about it.”

“Oh, you don’t need it? Well, excuse me for thinking maybe you should hear it loud and clear,” Tony shot back.

Steve took a step forward, muscles coiled, eyes burning. Tony didn’t back down. The whole room felt like it was seconds away from exploding.

Marc swallowed hard. The pressure in his chest was building. His fingers flexed against the table, his knee bouncing almost uncontrollably now. He needed air.

But the yelling kept going.

“This isn’t some training exercise! This is real, and if you—” He jabbed a finger toward Steve again. “—screw up like that next time, we might not just be talking about a close call. We might be talking about—”

“No.”

The word was quiet. Almost too quiet to notice under the weight of the argument.

Marc’s leg was bouncing rapidly now, his fingers twitching where they rested on the table. His jaw was clenched, and his glowing white eyes were staring straight ahead—at nothing.

“No, no, no…” It was barely above a whisper, muttered under his breath, as if saying it enough times would make the shouting stop.

Natasha, who had been leaning back in her chair, finally turned her head toward him. Her brows furrowed slightly.

“Moonknight?” she asked, voice low, careful.

He didn’t react. Didn’t blink.

His hands flexed against the table, his breaths coming in shorter bursts now. His chest was tight, his ears ringing, the yelling bouncing around in his skull. He felt trapped.

Trapped between the voices in the room and the voices in his head.

Steven was tense in the back of his mind, saying something Marc couldn’t quite register. Jake was eerily quiet, watching.

“Moonie ?” Natasha tried again, a little more firmly this time.

Nothing. His glowing eyes just stared blankly forward.

Tony was still yelling, Steve firing back just as heatedly.

Marc gritted his teeth, shaking his head harder, his fingers twitching more aggressively.

No. No, no, no. Too much. It was too much.

Natasha’s gaze flicked between him and the others. She could see the tension in his posture, the barely-contained storm underneath his skin.

Tony was livid now, pacing back and forth, running a hand through his hair before pointing at Steve again.

“It would have been all your fault!” he snapped, voice sharp as a blade. “It was all your fault. Only you. All your damn fault, Rogers!”

The words hit like a gunshot.

Marc’s breath hitched.

The room around him warped, blurred at the edges like smeared paint. The voices of the Avengers faded into static. The argument, the table, the cold metal of the chair beneath him—it all felt distant, dissolving into something else.

Something old.

The walls of the debrief room melted away, and suddenly, he wasn’t in Avengers Tower anymore.

He was home.

No. No, no, no.

Marc’s fingers clenched into fists, his whole body tensing as the air shifted, the world around him twisting into something he hadn’t seen in years—his childhood bedroom. The muffled sounds of yelling filled the space, pressing against his ears. His hands were shaking, small, childlike again.

The floor creaked. Footsteps, heavy and deliberate, approached.

Then—

“You.”

The voice cut through the air like a whip, sharp and dripping with venom.

Marc flinched.

His mother stood in the doorway, towering over him, eyes filled with something dark, something blaming.

“It was your fault.”

He shook his head, his chest tightening.

No, no, no. This wasn’t real. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t—

“All your fault,” she spat, stepping closer, the rage in her voice curling around him like a noose. “If it wasn’t for you, he’d still be here.”

Marc’s breaths came faster, shorter. The room spun. His hands twitched violently against his knees.

He could feel it—the weight of it all crashing down on him again, the way it had that night, the way it always did.

The static in his head grew louder. His vision tunneled. He was gasping for air. 

Natasha was still watching him, shifting to something else entirely—concern.

“Hey, Moonknight?”

No response.

His entire body was rigid, his hands shaking, his leg bouncing uncontrollably under the table. His glowing eyes were locked on something no one else could see, his breathing sharp and uneven, choking, gasping, sniffling.

Natasha straightened in her seat, her instincts kicking in.

Something was wrong.

“Moonknight, can you hear me? I need you to breath.” she said more firmly.

Nothing.

The argument came to a sudden, jarring halt.

Tony had one more retort loaded up, ready to fire at Steve, but something in Natasha’s voice—sharp, urgent—cut through his anger like a blade.

“Hey-,” she said again, leaning forward now, her full attention on the man at the end of the table.

Silence settled over the room as everyone turned to look at him.

Marc hadn’t moved.

He sat deathly still, except for his leg, which was bouncing so fast it looked like he was about to launch himself out of his seat. His fingers twitched, gripping at nothing, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths, seemingly choking on the air, gasping for whatever he could get. 

His glowing white eyes were still locked on something in the distance—something no one else could see.

“Uh… Moonie?” Clint asked, brow furrowing.

No response.

Bruce straightened in his chair, concern flickering across his face. “Is he… okay?”

“I don’t think so,” Natasha muttered. She reached out cautiously, about to place a hand on Marc’s shoulder—

And then his eyes blinked.

Slow. Deliberate.

But when they opened again, they didn’t focus on anything.

Then they rolled back into his head.

“Whoa—what the hell?” Sam said, sitting up straighter.

Marc’s whole body twitched, his breathing hitched, his shoulders tensed, and his fingers curled like he was trying to grab onto something, anything, to keep himself grounded.

“What is going on?” Tony demanded, taking a step closer but not sure what to do.

No one had an answer.

Marc’s body jerked.

Then, suddenly—his head dropped forward, hitting the table with a dull thud.

The silence in the room was deafening.

Everyone exchanged uneasy glances, unsure of what the hell was happening. His glowing eyes, were completely still.

And then—

The ceremonial armor of Moon Knight began to unravel.

The glowing wraps that had been laced over his form unwound themselves like slithering tendrils of cloth, dissolving into nothing before reforming into something new—something sleeker.

A black suit. A crisp white tie. A different mask—one without the moon insignia, smooth and almost expressionless.

The Avengers stayed frozen, watching in stunned silence.

“What the hell,” Clint muttered under his breath.

Natasha hesitated for only a second before she reached out, placing a cautious hand on Marc’s back. “Moonknight?”

The second her fingers made contact—

Marc’s head shot up.

Fast. Too fast.

The glowing white eyes of the mask flared as he moved in an instant.

Before anyone could react, his hand darted down to his boot, fingers expertly finding the hidden knife lodged there.

By the time Natasha registered what was happening, it was already too late.

In a blur of motion, Marc turned, twisting Natasha’s arm and pulling her into a hold. The knife pressed against her throat, firm but precise. Not cutting—yet.

Everything in the room stopped.

No one moved. No one even breathed.

Natasha, despite the blade at her neck, stayed eerily calm, her muscles coiled but controlled.

“Whoa—what the hell?!” Sam said, half-rising from his chair.

Steve’s chair scraped back as he moved instantly, but Tony threw an arm out in front of him.

“Moonie,” Tony said, his voice dropping an octave. “I don’t know what’s going on in your head right now, but you’re about five seconds away from making this way worse.”

Marc didn’t respond.

The knife stayed in place. His breathing was ragged.

And those glowing eyes?

Still blank. Still somewhere else.

“Someone better start talking,” Moon Knight growled, his grip tightening around Natasha. His voice was different now. Lower. Sharper.

Not Marc’s voice.

Tony’s brow furrowed. “Dude, what the hell is going on?”

Moon Knight’s head snapped to him, his glowing eyes flickering with something wild and untethered. His breathing hitched, and then—

“Mierda… qué carajo es esto?” he cursed under his breath, his accent thick, his voice edged with frustration.

His grip on Natasha faltered—not enough to let her go, but just enough for her to feel the shift. He wasn’t just angry. He was disoriented.

And he was looking at them like he’d never seen them before in his life.

His gaze flickered from face to face, his grip on the knife tightening again.

The way he was looking at them?

Like they were the strangers. Like they were the ones who didn’t belong here.

Steve took a cautious step forward. “You know who we are.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.

A test.

Moon Knight’s eyes darted to him, his fingers flexing around the knife.

There was a long pause.

Then, a breath of laughter—low and humorless.

“Ohhh…” he muttered, something sharp and bitter creeping into his voice. His grip loosened on Natasha just slightly, but his knife-wielding hand twitched, flicking the blade ever so slightly toward Steve.

“You’re the Avengers, huh?” His tone was mocking now, something almost amused underneath the tension.

The team exchanged uneasy glances.

Jake’s grip on Natasha didn’t loosen completely. His glowing eyes darted around the room, scanning each face, each movement, like he was trying to piece together a puzzle that didn’t make sense.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” he said, his voice low, dangerous. His fingers flexed around the knife, the metal glinting under the fluorescent lights.

His head tilted slightly, voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

“What happened?”

Clint’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean, what happened? Nothing happened, You were there. We got what we needed and got out.”

Jake’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. “Was I?”

The words sent a ripple of unease through the team.

A tense, heavy pause stretched between them—then Jake’s grip tightened on Natasha, just slightly. His breathing was getting sharper, more erratic.

His voice came next, low and seething. “What did you do to him?”

The room stilled.

Tony’s brows furrowed. “What?”

“What the hell did you do to him?” Jake snapped, his voice rising now, more forceful, more accusing. The knife in his grip twitched.

Bruce took a cautious step forward. “No one did anything to you,” he said carefully. “You’re fine. You’re safe.”

“Safe?” Jake let out a bitter scoff. “Bullshit.”

He shook his head, his whole body tensed, as if he were ready to fight.

“You think I don’t know what this is?” Jake’s voice was sharp, defensive. “You think I don’t know when someone’s trying to screw with my head?”

His gaze locked onto Tony now. “This some kinda Stark tech mind game, huh? You mess with my head, throw me in a room, and expect me to just sit here and take your word for it?”

Tony’s jaw clenched. “Oh, give me a break—”

“You’re lying,” Jake cut him off, his voice edged with something lethal. His grip on the knife didn’t waver. “Something happened. And you’re covering it up. You did something to him. You hurt him.”

The Avengers exchanged glances—none of them sure what to say, how to convince someone who genuinely believed they had done something to him.

Jake’s breathing grew heavier, his chest rising and falling in sharp, unsteady movements. His grip on the knife was tight, knuckles white beneath the suit.

They were lying.

They had to be lying.

Bruce looked cautious, his hands still raised, his voice careful, measured. Clint looked confused, glancing between the others like he was waiting for someone to step in.

And Stark?

Stark just looked pissed.

But none of them looked guilty. None of them looked like people who had hurt him.

That didn’t mean they hadn’t.

“You did something to him,” Jake muttered, barely above a whisper, but there was venom in his voice, coiling tight in his throat.

“Moonknight—” Bruce started.

Jake snapped.

“Don’t call me that!”

His voice boomed through the room, raw and furious, his accent thick with rage.

The tension spiked.

No one spoke. No one moved.

Jake’s breathing was ragged now, his head shaking, his body trembling with too much fight and nowhere to put it.

“You think I don’t know how this works?” His voice was shaking with fury now, his whole body wound so damn tightthat it felt like he was about to explode. “You mess with his head—you push him until he breaks—and then I wake up, don’t I? That’s how it always goes.”

His grip tightened on the knife.

“I don’t know what the hell you did to him,” Jake said, voice dropping into something cold, dangerous, deadly. “But if you hurt him—” His voice cracked, but his stance didn’t waver. “If you broke him—”

His glowing eyes flickered.

“I swear to God, I’ll make you pay.”

The Avengers stayed frozen, watching as Jake spiraled—fear and rage coiling so tightly around him that it felt like the air had shifted, charged with something volatile.

Clint raised his hands slightly, trying to de-escalate. “Look, man, we don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No idea,” Sam added, shaking his head. 

“You were with us the whole time,” Natasha said carefully. “Nothing happened to you. You didn’t get hurt. We didn’t hurt you- were your teammates.”

Jake laughed.

A short, sharp, humorless sound that made the team uneasy. His grip on the knife didn’t ease, his breathing still too fast, too unsteady.

“You expect me to believe that?” he spat. His glowing eyes flicked to Tony. “You’re telling me you didn’t screw with something you shouldn’t have?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Oh, for—Jesus, dude, I didn’t touch your head.”

“No one did,” Clint added. “We don’t even know what you’re—”

Then Bruce’s brow furrowed.

He was already processing everything—his erratic behavior, the way he was acting like they were strangers, the way he was demanding answers to things they assumed he already knew.

Bruce inhaled slowly. “Wait.”

Jake’s wild gaze snapped to him.

Bruce took another small step forward. “You… don’t know where you are.”

Jake’s fingers twitched around the knife, but he said nothing.

Bruce’s mind raced. “You don’t remember the mission, do you?”

Jake’s body stiffened.

The Avengers’ eyes widened slightly, realization creeping in.

“Wait,” Clint blinked. “You seriously don’t—?”

Jake shot back, his voice sharp and defensive. “I remember hearing yelling, someone losing their damn mind, and then I was here—with you.”

His jaw clenched. His breathing was still too fast.

Bruce took a careful step forward, hands raised in a gesture of peace. His voice was even, steady. “You’re safe. You’re alright. You’re at Avengers Tower. We all just finished a mission together.”

Jake’s breathing stayed uneven, but his grip on Natasha finally eased.

Then, without warning, he shifted.

The knife lifted from Natasha’s neck—only to be redirected.

Now, the tip was pointed straight at Bruce.

Bruce stilled. The room tensed.

Jake’s hand was steady, his posture rigid, his grip firm.

“Yeah?” he muttered, eyes locked onto Bruce’s. “Then why don’t I feel alright?”

Bruce didn’t move, didn’t flinch, even with the knife pointed at him. His voice stayed calm. Even. Controlled.

“No one here is trying to hurt you.”

Jake’s jaw clenched. His grip on the knife tightened.

He looked around the room again, searching—for what, even he wasn’t sure. Recognition? A threat? Some kind of explanation for why he was here, surrounded by these people, with no memory of how it happened?

Nothing clicked.

The Avengers weren’t enemies—he could feel that much. But that didn’t mean they weren’t dangerous. That didn’t mean he could trust them.

Bruce exhaled slowly. “You were helping us out on a mission,” he said, his voice steady, as if he were trying to anchorJake to the words. “Things went south. But no one got hurt. You’re not in danger.”

They weren’t armed. They weren’t making any sudden moves.

They looked like they wanted to help.

But he still wasn’t sure if he believed them.

Bruce kept his hands up, voice calm but firm. “Let go of Natasha. We’re not going to hurt you.”

Jake’s grip on Natasha didn’t loosen right away. His jaw was still tight, his breathing uneven. Then, under his breath, he muttered something in Spanish—too low for most of them to catch.

Then, finally, he let her go.

Natasha stepped away carefully, rolling out her shoulder but not taking her eyes off him. No one in the room moved. No one spoke.

Jake exhaled sharply through his nose and dragged a hand down his masked face before turning away from them completely.

He started pacing. Back and forth. Boots heavy against the floor.

The Avengers exchanged glances, unsure whether to step in or just let this play out.

Then, as if he had just remembered something, Jake reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, worn notebook. He flipped through the pages quickly, searching, until his eyes landed on the most recent entry.

He read it aloud under his breath.

"Mission with the Avengers to intercept some artifacts for Khonshu. Should only be a couple days. - Marc”

A scoff left him, short and bitter.

“Qué mierda es esta…” he muttered.

He snapped the notebook shut.

Then turned back toward the Avengers, an amused, almost mocking look settling into his posture.

“So that’s why I’m here.”

His grip flexed around the notebook, but the knife was still in his other hand. Still there.

Still not put away.

The team stayed silent. Watching. Waiting.

Jake let out a sharp laugh.

“Ohhh… you’re the Avengers.”

The words dripped with something bitter—mocking, amused, like the punchline to a joke only he understood.

His grip flexed around the notebook, fingers drumming against the cover. But the knife? The knife was still in his other hand. Still there. Still not put away.

The team stayed silent. Watching. Waiting.

Jake exhaled roughly and dragged a hand down his masked face.

"Jesucristo, Spector."

He let the words slip out under his breath, low and exasperated, before looking back at them.

“Welp,” he clapped his hands together once, tone suddenly shifting to something breezy, dismissive. “I have nothing to do with you.” He gestured loosely toward them with the knife, like they were a minor inconvenience. “Spector’s time is up, so I’ll see myself out.”

He turned toward the door.

Tony stepped forward, blocking Jake’s path, his expression a mix of frustration and disbelief.

"No, no, you can't leave," Tony said, voice rising slightly. "Not after that. What the hell was that?" He gestured to the knife still in Jake’s hand. "You think you can just waltz in here and threaten us, then walk away like nothing happened?"

Jake paused, his gaze flicking to Tony before narrowing again, sensing the shift. The Avengers were confused, and for the first time, Jake realized just how much they didn’t know.

He took a breath, his fingers twitching around the notebook and knife. His eyes stayed cold as he tilted his head slightly, a sardonic smile playing on his lips.

“Well,” Jake started, voice low, steady, “Spector obviously didn’t trust you enough to know our name or our—…, so…” He chuckled darkly. “...You’re not getting that much out of me.”

The room fell silent, all eyes on Jake, trying to process what he’d just said.

Steve’s brows furrowed, and his posture stiffened. "Our?" he repeated, glancing around at the team.

Natasha exchanged a look with Clint and Bruce. She wasn’t sure where this was going, but something was clicking in her mind. “Who’s Spector?” she asked, her voice calm, but the question hung heavy in the air.

Jake’s jaw tightened at the mention of the name, and his eyes flicked over to Natasha, colder now. His fingers tapped the knife’s handle, but he didn’t move.

Jake’s eyes glowed faintly, his grip on the knife still unyielding. He shifted his stance, his body language full of tension, every fiber ready to lash out. He glanced from Steve to Tony, then to the rest of the Avengers. His voice was dark, almost mocking as he spoke, his patience wearing thin.

"See, there’s a bunch of shit that you don’t know about us," Jake said, his words biting with a mix of anger and frustration. "Now, let me leave, or I’ll make you regret it."

The threat hung in the air like a storm cloud, but Steve was quick to act.

“Whoa, whoa—enough with the violence, man,” Steve said, stepping forward cautiously, trying to close the distance. His tone was firm but calm, as if trying to ground the situation before it could spiral further. "What's going on here? Why are you so pissed?"

Jake's breath was still ragged, his eyes flickering between the Avengers as he processed everything, "I don’t trust you," Jake muttered, his voice strained with barely contained rage. He took a step back, his eyes scanning the room like it was full of threats. "You knocked Marc back, and now I’m here, trying to figure out where the hell I am, and what the hell you did to him."

The Avengers remained still, trying to make sense of Jake’s words. 

Then, like a slow, dawning realization, Bruce’s mind finally clicked.

He studied Jake’s body language, the way his eyes flickered with uncertainty, the way his mind seemed to jump between a world he didn’t understand and the one that was crashing around him.

Bruce’s eyes widened slightly, his voice low and cautious. “D.I.D.," he said quietly. "That’s what you have, right? That’s why you don’t know us? Or where you are?”

Jake froze for a split second, his eyes locking onto Bruce, searching, almost too intense for a moment, as if he was deciding whether to run or reveal the truth. His fingers twitched, the knife still loosely gripped in his hand, but the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease just a bit.

Bruce took a slow breath, his eyes never leaving Jake, trying to ease the situation, but his mind was still processing everything. He needed to help Jake understand.

“Before you came in,” Bruce began, his voice soft but firm, “before you grabbed Natasha... Tony and Steve were yelling.”

Jake’s body stiffened at the mention of Tony and Steve. His eyes narrowed sharply. “What were they yelling about?” His voice was low, dangerous, like every word was another crack in his control.

Bruce paused, choosing his words carefully. "About the mission," he explained, his tone calm. "Tony was mad that a civilian almost got killed, and he was blaming it on Steve. He started saying it was all Steve's fault. But then... you just went away. Stared into space. I think you had a panic attack.”

Jake’s eyes flicked to Bruce, confused, anger still brimming beneath the surface. 

“Natasha noticed,” Bruce continued, his voice steady, trying to bring clarity to Jake’s spiraling thoughts. “She saw you... start to disconnect. You weren’t... here. You weren’t with us.”

“You’re saying... I just... checked out?” Jake muttered, more to himself than to Bruce. His breath started coming faster again, the weight of the realization settling over him.

Bruce nodded. “You went somewhere else. Your mind... you weren’t present anymore. Natasha tried to reach you, but you were already...” He trailed off, trying to find the right words. “... Somewhere else.”

Jake’s gaze dropped, his fingers curling around the knife again, He didn’t respond right away, but his jaw clenched.

Jake stood still for a moment, the words still hanging in the air. His mind was racing, replaying everything that had happened, the chaos, the yelling, the tension that had clouded the room. But as Bruce’s words sank in, something shifted in Jake’s expression. His glowing eyes flickered, a slight tremor running through him.

Then it hit him.

The phrase that Tony had thrown out in the heat of the argument—the accusation, the blame.

“It was all your fault.”

Jake’s eyes widened slightly, his breath catching in his throat. He hadn’t understood it at first, but now it made sense.

“It... it was that,” Jake muttered, his voice breaking slightly, a rawness creeping in. “That’s what did it. That was the trigger.” His hand, still gripping the knife, started to shake, but he didn’t lower it. He could barely even think straight.

Bruce’s eyes softened, and he stepped closer, careful not to provoke Jake. “What are you talking about?”

Jake’s chest tightened as he looked down, his voice quieter, more vulnerable than before. “Those words, man. ‘It’s all your fault.’” He took a shaky breath, trying to steady himself. “It... it fucked Marc up when he was a kid. It still does. Stillmesses with him. Every damn time.”

The words Tony had thrown at Steve had hit harder than Jake realized, echoing an old wound Marc had never quite healed from. A wound that cut too deep.

“Fuck…” Jake whispered to himself, dropping his head, the knife now hanging loosely in his hand. “No wonder he snapped.”

Jake’s shoulders slumped, the anger in him slowly starting to melt away, replaced by a heavy, quiet exhaustion. His grip on the knife finally loosened entirely, and he dropped it to the floor with a dull thud.

“I... I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” Jake murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. “I didn’t want to bring all that shit here.”

For a moment, the room was silent.

Finally, Jake looked up at the team, his eyes not as cold anymore. “Marc... he’s safe now, right?” His voice was laced with a trace of vulnerability.

Bruce nodded slowly. “Yeah. He’s safe.”

Jake let out a long breath, his body relaxing slightly as the tension drained from him. “Okay... yeah.” He looked at Natasha, the memory of the knife to her throat still fresh, and winced. “I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to do that. You’re fine. You’re all fine. He’s safe. Marc’s safe.”

His words were quiet, but there was a hint of sincerity behind them—an apology he never expected to give, but knew he needed to.

And with that, the storm inside Jake finally started to subside. The anger, the fear, the uncertainty—it wasn’t gone completely, but it had quieted enough to give him space to breathe again.

Natasha, ever the tactician, narrowed her eyes, watching him closely. She took a slow step forward, her voice steady but probing. “So that was Marc—the one we went on the mission with?”

Jake nodded, he didn’t look Natasha directly in the eye, instead turning his gaze elsewhere, somewhere that wasn’t here.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s Spector,” Jake muttered, almost sounding like he didn’t want to be part of the conversation anymore. His hand flicked briefly toward his jacket, as though he were already thinking about leaving.

Natasha’s brow furrowed, not satisfied with just that. “And who are you?” she pressed, voice still calm but now with that sharp curiosity that she didn’t bother to hide.

Jake scoffed, a short, dry laugh escaping him. He shook his head, almost as if the question annoyed him. “Nah, I don’t do this shit,” he said, his voice suddenly hard again. “That’s all Marc and Steven.”

The Avengers exchanged looks, the puzzle pieces of the situation not quite fitting together. They still didn’t have a full picture of what was going on.

Jake caught the look, his eyes flicking over the team briefly before turning his gaze to the floor. “I just come out when shit goes downhill,” he continued, his tone flat, almost bored. “I don’t do names. I don’t do relationships.”

The words hung in the air like a challenge. There was something almost dangerous in how Jake presented himself—not just physically, but in the way he shut people out. He wasn’t like Marc or Steven, not really. Jake was something else entirely.

The Avengers stood there, the weight of what Jake had said settling over them.

“Okay,” Steve finally said, breaking the silence. “So... you don’t even want to work with us? You’re just... here?”

Jake shrugged nonchalantly, a glint of something dark behind his eyes. “I’m here ‘cause I’m here,” he said with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Does it really matter why?”

The room was heavy with silence, everyone digesting the weight of Jake’s words.

“I’m not your problem, I’ll just leave now.” he muttered under his breath, his fingers twitching.

But there was a softness in Bruce’s voice when he spoke again. “You’re not a problem. We just want to help you. Especially since we’ll all be working together. Tell us your name.”

Jake’s body stiffened for a moment, his eyes flicking between the Avengers, caught in a battle with himself. He hesitated, unsure whether to trust them—or if he even could. The anger had quieted, but the walls were still up, the distrust lingering.

A few seconds passed before Jake muttered under his breath, more to himself than to anyone in the room. “Name…”

It was clear he wasn’t used to saying it, like it wasn’t something he was allowed to say—something he never wanted to reveal. But the silence, the calm insistence in Bruce’s words, started to work its way under Jake’s skin.

“Fuck it,” Jake muttered, and the words seemed like a surrender, like he’d made a choice in that moment to let them in. He lifted his chin, meeting their eyes for the first time.

“Jake Lockley,” he said, voice rough, as if saying it out loud was harder than he thought. “That’s my name.”

There was no bravado in his voice anymore, just the weight of someone who had never really had a reason to share who they were. 

Steve took a step forward, his tone sincere. “It’s good to meet you, Jake.”

Jake stood still for a moment, his hands gripping the edges of his mask. The room was eerily quiet, the tension now shifting from anger and confusion to something more delicate. His fingers trembled slightly as he pulled the mask off, the moment the mask left his face, it began to unravel, the black ceremonial tactical suit shifting and falling away. The transformation was swift, almost as though the suit knew it was no longer needed. The once imposing figure of Moon Knight, a force of rage and confusion, slowly became... Jake.

Jake’s posture was still slumped, his hands rubbing over his face like he could somehow erase the feeling of helplessness gnawing at him. His breathing had settled, but the anxiety still lingered beneath the surface.

The Avengers watched him in silence, waiting for whatever would come next. And when Jake spoke again, his voice was low, dangerous—tainted with accusation.

“You really fucked him up, you know that?” he said, his tone sharp and filled with quiet fury. The words hung in the air, heavier than anything he had said before.

The Avengers blinked, caught off guard by the harshness in Jake’s voice. They had been expecting anger, but not this, not this level of accusation.

Tony was the first to respond, but his voice faltered just slightly. “What do you mean?” He took a cautious step forward, sensing that Jake wasn’t finished yet.

Jake’s gaze snapped toward Tony, and for the first time, there was a flash of something else behind his eyes—hurt. He took a step back, trying to create distance between himself and the team.

“I mean, you didn’t just get him angry, you fucking broke him,” Jake spat. “Marc... he was a kid, Tony. A kid. And you yelled at him like that, pushed him into a corner—” He stopped himself, taking a shuddering breath, his fists clenching as he turned away, trying to regain some composure.

The words left a trail of uncomfortable silence in the room. The Avengers were still processing the gravity of what Jake was implying, but Bruce’s expression shifted—he was starting to understand.

“You think that was bad?” Jake continued, his voice shaking now, but there was a hard edge to it. “You don’t know what it’s like to have someone telling you over and over it’s your fault... that you killed him. That’s not just something you walk away from. You don’t.” His voice cracked slightly as the frustration built again.

Steve, unable to ignore the tension any longer, took a cautious step forward, his hands slightly raised. “Jake... we didn’t mean— tony wasn’t telling at Marc- if we had known we wouldn’t have used that wording. It wasn’t aimed at Marc.”

Jake shot him a glance, eyes wild. “You don’t get it!” he snapped. “Those words? ‘It’s your fault’? They don’t just break you in that moment. They stay with you. And Marc…” He trailed off, visibly fighting to stay composed.

Bruce stepped closer, his voice quiet and measured. “Jake, we didn’t know... but we can’t change what’s already happened. All we can do now is... move forward.”

Jake’s eyes flicked to Bruce, but he didn’t speak for a moment. 

Jake stood there, his shoulders tight, his breathing still uneven as the words swirled in the air around him. The anger was still present, simmering beneath the surface, but something had shifted. 

Natasha stepped forward, breaking the silence with her calm, steady voice.

“Jake,” she began softly, “you can trust us. Marc does.” She gave a small nod, her eyes meeting his. “We’ve worked with him before. A couple of missions. We don’t know everything about what you’re going through, but... we’ve been there. We’ve helped Marc. We’ve got his back. And you know what? We’ve got yours too.”

Jake blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in her voice. His eyes flickered over to the others, and they were watching him, not with the same guarded caution as before, but with something softer.

"We’re not strangers to trust issues," Natasha continued, her voice steady, but firm. "We don’t know much about you guys, but we’ve helped Marc. We’ve had his back when things went south. He trusts us, and I think—" She paused, glancing around at the team. "—I think that says something."

Jake’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if the weight of her words was sinking in. He wasn’t sure what to believe. Trust wasn’t easy for him—not after everything that had happened, not after all the layers of betrayal, pain, and fear he’d lived through. But there was something about Natasha’s voice—something that made him pause.

"Marc... trusts you?" Jake muttered, almost to himself.

Jake stood still for a moment, his back to the Avengers as he walked to the window. The room felt suffocating, but the glass in front of him offered a moment of space, a brief escape from everything happening inside his mind.

He could feel Marc pushing in from the edges of his consciousness, a faint, insistent presence pressing against the walls Jake had put up. He was ready to come back. The tug was subtle at first, then more urgent, like Marc was trying to claw his way back into control. Jake closed his eyes and tried to push it away, but the space around him felt smaller, the air heavier.

The tension in his shoulders built, and his hand tightened against the window, nails digging into the cool surface. He felt detached, like his own body was no longer his, like he was slipping further into that space between who he was and who Marc was.

And then—everything snapped.

Marc’s eyes opened wide, the change so sudden it felt like a switch had been flipped. His head snapped around, confused.

“What the hell?” Marc muttered, blinking as he looked around the room, his voice more familiar, more grounded than Jake’s had been. “How the hell did I end up all the way over here?”, he muttered. 

He turned, his gaze landing on the Avengers, who were all still standing, watching him with cautious eyes. His brow furrowed in genuine confusion.

“You… guys? What the hell’s going on?”

The Avengers stared back at him, exchanging confused glances. They hadn’t been prepared for the shift, the sudden return of Marc after the tension had almost hit its peak.

Marc’s hand went to his head, rubbing his temple as if trying to shake off the disorienting feeling of the transition. "Jesus," he muttered under his breath, glancing at the team. "What did I miss?"

Tony was the first to speak, his voice careful but direct. “We were hoping you could answer that, Marc.”

Marc straightened up, a flicker of recognition passing through his expression. His gaze moved from one Avenger to another—Natasha, Steve, Tony, Clint, and Bruce—all still standing in the room, watching him.

Marc’s eyes widened as the realization hit him, and he let out a frustrated exhale. Everything hit him all at once again the switch was so disorienting he forgotten what had happened - the yelling, the flashback, Jake switching, Jake threatening them, "Shit..." He muttered to himself, rubbing his forehead as he pieced everything together. "They just met Jake, didn’t they?"

He glanced at the Avengers with a mix of embarrassment and concern, his shoulders sagging slightly. He felt that familiar guilt begin to gnaw at him. "I… I’m sorry. I should’ve said something sooner. But then again I guess it really isn’t any of your business." He paused, his voice tightening with worry as he looked around at the group. “He didn’t hurt anyone, did he?”

The room grew still as all eyes turned to Natasha. She stood there for a moment, her expression unreadable, before offering a reassuring smile. “No. He didn’t. He didn’t hurt anyone,” she said softly, her voice calm. "Jake was just... a little lost in the moment. But everyone’s fine."

Marc let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, relief washing over him. He sank back into the nearest chair, his head in his hands for a moment. "God, I didn’t... I didn’t mean for any of that to happen," he muttered under his breath, “I just… got caught up in some memories.”

The Avengers looked at each other, exchanging glances, still trying to wrap their minds around the dynamic they were dealing with. But Natasha’s response seemed to calm things down a bit.

"You don’t need to apologize," she said, her voice kind and steady. "We get it. This… this isn’t easy for anyone."

Marc looked up at her, his eyes softening. "It’s like... one second, I’m here, and the next—Jake takes over and it all gets… complicated." He sighed, leaning back in his chair. "This whole thing’s a mess."

Marc took a deep breath, his fingers running through his hair as he let the weight of everything settle on him. He looked at the Avengers, feeling a mix of gratitude and embarrassment. "I... I just needed a break," he said quietly, his voice a little hoarse. "Jake—he's... he's not all bad, he just—" Marc paused, trying to gather his thoughts. "He just gets frustrated. He... he doesn’t know how to deal with this whole situation any better than I do."

He glanced down at his hands, suddenly feeling exhausted. "But he’s not trying to hurt anyone. None of us are. We’re just... trying to survive. He’s just trying to protect me. And when he saw me having a panic attack he just… jumped for control, and I let him, and I had to take a break for a second. He just doesn’t want anything bad to happened to me." His words trailed off, and he took another deep breath, trying to calm the tightness in his chest. "I didn’t mean to scare anyone. Or make things harder. I just... sometimes it gets too much. And when I’m out of control, it’s like I can’t stop it from happening."

The room was still, no one speaking for a moment as Marc let his words hang in the air. Finally, Tony, of all people, broke the silence with a soft, understanding exhale.

"Marc, it’s okay," Tony said, his voice surprisingly calm. "We get it. No one’s mad at you. It’s… it’s alright."

Steve nodded as well, stepping closer. "Yeah, man. We’re not gonna hold any of that against you. You just take your time, okay?"

Marc closed his eyes, taking a moment to breathe in deeply, steadying himself. The tension in his shoulders slowly began to ease as he realized the Avengers weren’t there to judge him. They weren’t here to make him feel like a freak or a liability. They just wanted to help.

"Thanks," Marc muttered, his voice soft as he finally looked up. "I just… I don’t know how to keep going sometimes, you know? It feels like I’m constantly slipping."

Natasha walked over, placing a hand on his shoulder, and for the first time, Marc didn’t flinch. “You don’t have to keep going alone,” she said quietly. “Take a minute. We’ve got your back. Just breathe.”

Marc took her words to heart, focusing on the steady rhythm of his breathing as he closed his eyes again, letting himself relax for a moment. It was hard to trust—especially when every part of him wanted to pull away.

Marc let out a long, tired breath and looked around at the team, his gaze softening as he realized just how much they’d been through together. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice thick with gratitude. “For... not freaking out on me. And for understanding. I’m sorry if I made things more difficult than they needed to be.”

The room was silent for a moment as the Avengers exchanged glances, each of them acknowledging his words without hesitation. Natasha gave him a reassuring smile, her tone gentle. "No need to apologize, Marc. We're just glad you're okay."

Tony leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, but his expression was surprisingly warm. “Yeah, man. Take care of yourself. You’ve got a team here if you ever need us.” He gave a small nod, acknowledging the unspoken bond they were starting to form.

Marc’s lips twitched into a faint smile, though it was tinged with exhaustion. "I appreciate it. Really." He stood up, pushing himself off the chair, and took a moment to look around the room. “I’ll be in touch. Just... need some time to figure things out.”

Steve gave him a nod, a quiet reassurance in his eyes. "Take all the time you need, Marc. We'll be here when you're ready."

Marc looked at them one last time, the weight of the day still heavy on his shoulders, but there was something lighter in his chest now.“Thanks again," he said, his voice more grounded. "I’ll catch up with you all later."

With that, Marc gave a small nod and turned toward the door, his steps slow but steady. 

As Marc walked out of the room, the Avengers remained still for a moment, staring at the door that had closed behind him. 

"Well," Tony said after a beat, rubbing his temples with one hand. "That was... intense."

Steve was the first to speak up, looking over at Natasha. "You think he's gonna be okay?"

Natasha sighed, crossing her arms. "I hope so. He's been through a lot, and it’s clear that everything’s not as simple as it seems. But at least he knows we’re here for him now."

Clint, who had been quiet up until now, nodded. "Yeah, but... how the hell do you help someone like that? I mean, that was a lot to unpack in one sitting."

Bruce, who had been unusually silent, spoke up quietly. "He needs time. They all do. But we can’t rush that, especially with... what he’s dealing with. We’ll just have to be there when he’s ready to reach out. What he has - it comes from deep rooted trauma - childhood trauma. The brain couldn’t take what he was going through and created something can could take what he was going through, and I’m assuming it created Jake."

The group fell silent again, each one deep in thought. The complexity of Marc’s situation, the shifting personalities, the pain they had glimpsed in him—it was a lot to take in.

“Yeah…” Tony said, leaning back in his chair, his tone more subdued. “We’ll be here for him. But, uh... I just hope he knows that. He deserves to have someone on his side.”

Steve, always the optimist, gave a small nod. “I think he knows. He’ll reach out when he’s ready. And we’ll be ready to help.”

The room grew quiet once again, the heavy weight of the situation hanging over them all. Each of them was silently hoping that Marc—and Jake, and whoever else was inside him—would be okay.

With a final, heavy sigh, Tony stood up, stretching. “Well, I’m gonna go get something to eat. This whole day’s been way too much for me.”

Clint smirked, cracking a joke. “Didn’t think I’d ever see the day Tony Stark was too worn out.”

Tony shot him a playful glare, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, well. That was a lot. And I think we could all use a break.”

As the Avengers began to file out of the room, each of them carrying their own thoughts and concerns about Marc, the silence lingered just a little longer.