Chapter Text
Steven was getting sick of it.
They'd been under the Avengers unofficial contract—or rather, parole—for a few weeks, and it really wasn't as bad as they thought it'd be. The Avengers weren't the problem, Marc and Jake were.
It was the same thing every single time: something happens, the Avengers plus Moon Knight go deal with it, and they finally debrief at the tower. Or... Steven debriefs. Despite switching in and taking out thugs with the enthusiasm of a child on Christmas, Marc and Jake outright refused to speak to their teammates.
Steven was getting sick of being screwed over with debrief duty.
("I'd rather not befriend the Avengers. Demandame.")
("Hey, I didn't want to team up in the first place. You negotiated this, you get debriefs.")
He'd dealt with it for a while, swept their words under the rug and befriended the avengers for all the right reasons plus spite. However...
"Steven, tell them. It's important."
Marc used him as a messenger too often, making him a metaphorical mail boy when he could easily deliver the bloody letter himself. One thing after another until he hit the breaking point.
"Get out here and tell them yourself if it's so bloody important," he murmured, glaring daggers at the reflection in his water glass. Apparently, Marc had heard one of the armed robbers they'd faced earlier talking about a 'drop point,' which could mean more thugs waiting for a package that would never arrive. Sure, it was a little important to get that information out in the open.
But Steven was done dealing with Marc's—and Jake's, because he was guilty of it too—utter nonsense.
Tony squinted at him, cocking his head a bit at the tone. Whoops, he hadn't meant to speak out loud.
"Something to share?" he prodded, raising a sarcastic brow. Steven shook his head, ignoring Marc's indignant shout as it echoed through his ear.
"Me? No, not me. Sorry."
"Steven, this would give us a chance to catch them. Do you really think they were only selling jewelry?"
He grimaced, crossing his arms as he eyed the glass again. He could feel the eyes on him, and for the thousandth time he remembered that they knew. They knew he was the unwilling messenger boy for an alter or two that avoided them like the plague.
Which meant that they likely knew he was withholding their parcel.
"What, did we miss something?" Clint asked, knocking his arm against Steven's. It only made him more irritated. He really was not in a good mood.
"I didn't see anything," he offered purposefully. "And I'm not playing telephone like a bloody eight-year-old in a squabble."
He could feel the air still as the room quieted. He couldn't blame them for not really knowing what to say, he'd never refused to pass along information before. Always the good one, did what needed to be done.
Tony cleared his throat, if only to break the ice before diving in the water.
"Alright Bonnie, if Clyde noticed something then we kinda need to hear it. Out with it."
"Tony..." Sam started, but seemed to think twice. Silence rang true again as the room seemed to pause, waiting for Steven to respond in one way or another. He let it ring.
"You're not gonna let this go, are you?"
Good, he was finally getting it. Steven took a quiet breath as he regarded the water glass again, making sure Marc could read his lips.
"Not a chance, mate."
He didn't see Tony take a seat, apparently debating whether the brit was talking to him or not. He seemed to be the only one capable of silencing the great Tony Stark, but he didn't take that medal happily. It only happened when he presented himself a little too sideways, not quite there enough for the billionaire's usual teasing.
The corners of his vision were too blurry to see Sam lean a little forward, regarding him with curiosity.
"I'm not above throwing us off a cliff," Marc commented before finally giving in. He swallowed the nausea, squeezing his eyes shut against the roaring headache following their argument.
"One of 'em mentioned a drop point," he started, taking the chance to mimic Steven's water-glass-glare. Clint shifted beside him, attention successfully grabbed with the American accent. "We should be there."
No one spoke for a moment, silence conducting the bells in his ears. He'd said his piece. Time to retreat—except Steven was an instigator and refused to retake front. He swore under his breath as someone finally cleared their throat.
"Welcome to the table, Marc," Tony said with a grin. "You are Marc, right?"
He got a glare as a response, but it didn't deter him.
"Definitely not Steven. He's not mean. Could still be... Jared? The other one—I'm no good with names."
"Are we looking into this drop point or not?"
Tony opened his mouth again, but—thank God—Sam interrupted.
"I'll look into it. I think we're done here."
Marc didn't waste a second, and he could feel the eyes watching him leave.
He slammed the door for good measure.
"Screw you, Steven."
Marc didn't know his way around the tower—never fronted there long enough to roam the halls. That's what led him there, sitting stiffly on the common room couch and dreading the moment someone would walk in. Steven huffed in response.
"You need to learn to communicate with them. I'm not doing it for you anymore."
It was Marc's turn to huff, and he didn't pass it up. Communicating with the Avengers had never been a priority. Marc's priorities were rooted in survival: just get through the day so you can go home to Layla. Was it healthy? Probably not. Did he care? Definitely not.
Steven didn't feel the same.
"You have one friend outside of Layla, and you haven't spoken to him in years." he said persistently. Marc wished he'd just give it up and let him live. He knew the brit had been getting annoyed, but this was overkill. He didn't need the Avengers. He didn't even really need Duchamp, which was why he hadn't spoken to the man in years. Frenchie hauled him up and dragged him through the war—that's all. War changes a person, and Marc needed to move on from those days.
"Keep your nose out of my business," he muttered, glaring ahead and counting his blessings that there were no reflective surfaces around. He didn't think he could face Steven as it was.
"Sorry to say, but your business is kinda all of ours."
Oh, Marc was going to throw himself out the window.
"Stay out of it, Jake."
He hadn't expected the cabbie to butt in—hadn't expected him to be awake at all actually. He didn't typically concern himself with anything outside of the battle portion. He spent more time than any of them in the suit, but he vanished like a ghost the minute the last threat was down. Actually...
"You're in the same boat, aren't you? I don't see you playing nice with anybody," Marc spat. He could feel the metaphorical eye-roll, could actually hear it in Jakes tone.
"Now who's sticking his nose where it doesn't belong?"
Marc stood without thinking. Oh how he wished they could be face to face just so he could see how bruised he could get the guy's skin. It wasn't fair that the most annoying person on the face of the earth was bound to him, right there yet just out of reach.
He paced the anger away—or at least he tried, but Steven wouldn't let him.
"Marc, we're gonna be working with them for a good long while," he started delicately, as if he didn't take joy in his torture. "It's important to get along with them."
"I do get along with them! We work perfectly fine together in a fight."
Jake huffed, and he barely kept himself from going off again.
"That's not what I meant. Talk to them outside of battle for once."
He went to refuse, but was interrupted by the door clicking open behind him.
"Thought you could use some company," Sam started, plopping down on the couch. If he'd heard the one-sided conversation, he didn't mention it. "Got a little heated back there."
Right, the debrief. Marc wasn't excited to face the others after that disaster.
"I have too much company," he muttered, resuming his angry pacing. Sam watched him go, humming in response. "And blame Steven for what happened."
"I don't know, Steven kinda had a point there."
Marc paused, eyeing the man dangerously. He could feel Steven's attention pique, could feel Jake follow suit. He had half a mind to boot them both out of co-con—the other half fought against retreating himself. Sam continued through his silence.
"He seemed unhappy being the messenger. I can't say I blame him, I wouldn't wanna be stuck translating either."
The words hit like a truck. Was he selfish? Was his distaste for social interaction forcing Steven into a situation he loathed? There he goes again, dampening other people just by being present.
"Mate, it was annoying, but I really am more peeved with you avoiding them."
He finally took a seat, letting their words wash over him as the anger subsided. He didn't see the big deal. Sure, Steven didn't deserve to be stuck as the landline. But he still didn't want to play nice with the Avengers.
Deep down he thought they held some part of the blame for their current contract. Khonshu had been the one holding the gun, but the Avengers aimed it. A loophole kept them armed, and a penance kept them deployed.
"He just wants me in their good graces," he finally said. Sam cocked his head as he considered.
"What's wrong with that?"
"I don't need their friendship."
Sam chuckled, leaning back against the couch in thought.
"You're starting to sound like another guy I know. I wore him down eventually, though."
Marc huffed, eyeing the door as if the cause of his ire was about to bust through. He could almost picture it—the Avengers waltzing in and demanding time and energy he didn't have. They'd mean well, just looking for a half-decent interaction if only to say they'd had one, but Marc wouldn't appreciate the gesture.
"You don't have to talk to them as a group, Marc." Steven offered, and he grimaced in response. "One at a time, if you must."
"I'll think about it."
Sam smiled knowingly, taking the opportunity to leave him be. The doors clicked shut behind him, and Marc breathed for the first time that day.
Marc found himself speaking to them again soon enough. Steven didn't give him any leeway, staying stubbornly back when Marc would rather switch out. The Avengers had to have noticed the dip in his mood if nothing else. He tried to be nice—truly!—but again, he didn't have any interest in their conversations. It was easiest during battles.
("These guys are idiots," Sam commented lowly. They'd been scouting out the drop point Marc had overheard being spoken of, and the criminals there were not very perceptive. "We're basically in plain sight and they haven't noticed us."
Marc hummed, leaning over the rooftop to follow Sam's sightline. The criminals in the alley below seemed confused, just wallowing away their time as they waited for company that would never show. None of them thought to look up. It was a little sad.
"You'd think they'd've seen the news. Maybe then they'd know nobody's coming."
"'Cept us," Sam laughed.)
Marc could handle that—the shallow conversation that came with missions. He could make a comment or two about the task at hand. He could suggest approaches, make a plan. That was easy.
The hard part came when nothing remained. What were you supposed to say to fill the silence when there was no task at hand? Was he supposed to ask about their personal lives? Hobbies? He wouldn't want them asking about his, so he could only assume they wouldn't want him asking about theirs.
What did that leave? 'Nice weather we're having'? No!
He'd rather ditch the conversation entirely, relying on Steven to bridge the gap he was bound to leave. But... it wasn't fair to the brit. He'd already expressed his annoyance at being tossed in the middle, and Marc could only assume that sentiment transferred over to being thrown up front at any inconvenience. It was like Marc had been using their disorder to his advantage, abusing the ability to come and go as he pleased. It didn't always work, of course, but Steven took the brunt of social interaction far too often.
After Steven finally called him out on it, the ability to ditch any conversation got harder and harder. It left them worse for wear, dissociated more often than not. That was something the Avengers absolutely noticed.
Clint elbowed him gently, and he could feel the concerned gaze as he settled nauseatingly into the body.
"Where'd ya go, Cleopatra? We're still debriefing here." Tony's voice was a dagger in his brain, cutting harshly through the fog as he tried to navigate. He glared through painfully squinted eyes, trying to get the point across while simultaneously forcing himself to stay present—even though it was really the last thing he wanted. Steven had denied him again though, dodging his attempts to retreat and forcing him to stay up front. He'd even reached out to Jake, but he knew from the start it was a long shot. The lack of response didn't surprise him.
"Still here," he muttered, swallowing against the nausea. He was almost heavy, a brick in the ocean. To his surprise, Tony backed off without any outside interference. He could still feel the eyes on him, but he couldn't hear anything through the cotton in his ears. He could only guess what the debrief was even about. It didn't matter to him, though, it was rarely ever important. If there was something he needed to know, it'd come up later.
When the meeting ended, he'd made for the common room immediately. It'd become his go-to place when Steven forced him to stay present. FRIDAY had this really nice feature where she'd lower blackout curtains over the giant windows, which was perfect for the migraines he was left with.
"You do it to yourself," Steven commented. "If you'd stop trying to run away from conversations, you wouldn't end up ill."
"If you'd take over then we'd both be better off."
Steven huffed, annoyed. "You'd be better off, you mean. I'd just be stuck picking up the slack again."
Marc ignored him, lying back on the couch and covering his eyes against the remaining light. It trickled in steadily through the cracks in the doors, the lights on the appliances, the gleam of their reflections. It could never be pitch black, but he appreciated the space nonetheless.
He groaned as the door slid open, the light crashing loudly into the room.
"Thought you'd be here."
He groaned again, Tony Stark was the last person he wanted to talk to.
"Migraine. Go away."
He ignored Steven's chiding at the tone. If he could get the billionaire to go anywhere else, he'd call it a win—even if the method didn't sit well with Steven.
"That it?" Stark asked, some muted level of snark dripping through his voice. It was as if he didn't know how far he could take it. "Seemed like a little more than that to me."
Marc listened to the mans footfalls as he stepped around the couch, landing gently in the adjacent chair. He left his arm resting over his eyes, content to ignore his presence in the hope that he'd heed his prior request to 'go away.'
...
He didn't.
"You've been doing that a lot lately," he continued, taking no mind to the quiet disregard of his presence. Marc could only imagine how often he did that.
"Doing what?" Marc finally responded, if only to shut Steven up. If it were up to him, Steven would be the one laying here talking—but apparently Steven was the one making decisions like that instead.
"Screwing off," Stark answered, crossing an ankle over his knee. "Like you're here but not really here. S'not a healthy habit, y'know."
Marc huffed, taking a moment to breathe as the nausea upped its dose. It was a cruel joke that he could still hear Tony's voice through the ringing in his ears.
"Comes with the disorder."
"Not the way you're doing it."
Because Tony knew everything apparently. Sure, he was probably causing some of his own ire, but it was Steven's fault too. If the brit would just take his place when he needed the reprieve, they wouldn't be thrown into dissociation so often.
He ignored Steven's comment about needing reprieve sometimes too.
"Why do you care? Doesn't affect you." He uncovered his face just enough to eye the man distrustfully, but the look he received gave him pause. Tony wasn't... himself. Not really. Something about the way he was holding himself spoke of unease, of experience.
"That look in your eye," Tony started, taking a breath as he eyed the covered window. "It's familiar. That lack of... awareness. I've seen it in the mirror a few times."
He paused, letting the words wash over Marc's headachy brain. He squinted as he considered it: Tony Stark, dissociated. Mentally unwell. All the things he could never imagine the cocky man in front of him being.
But there he was, claiming to be peas in a pod.
"You think you're the only one with PTSD?" Tony continued, laughing humorlessly. "Whole team's got it—what's left of us, at least. We've all got our trauma, whether it happened on the battlefield or in Mom and Pop's house."
Marc listened, really listened. He could feel the breath in his lungs, the expanding of his skin as blood made its way through his veins. He knew, on some level, that the Avengers of all people understood trauma. They'd seen tragedy after tragedy, watched their own die. But...
"Have you ever killed someone you cared about?"
Tony paused, cautious, considering.
"Talk to Legolas about that one."
"Clint," Steven supplied. He'd store that suggestion away for later.
They sat in silence for a moment, not quite comfortable but not so forced anymore. It was almost nice, just toeing the line.
"My point is," Tony started quietly, standing as he spoke. "quit putting yourself through hell. I don't know how your brain works with three people crammed in there, but I know you're somehow making everything worse for yourself. I've done it before. I've been there."
He paused, sighing as he eyed Marc's form on the couch. Preaching to the choir, but preaching nonetheless.
"Whatever you're dealing with—for the love of God—let people help. They're not as bad as you think."
The door clinked shut behind him, leaving Marc with too many things to think about.