frenchie

Marc wasn’t sure that he made the right decision by telling Frenchie once he saw the look on his best friend’s face. There was plenty of emotions running through both of them in that moment, but fear was the most prominent on Marc’s face as he anxiously awaited what his friend had to say.

What was there to say in this scenario, really? An ancient moon god brought Marc back to life with a mystical suit that materialized out of thin air. There was nothing about that that was even remotely easy to process. The fact that he was standing there and breathing and talking to his friend was mind blowing enough.

He stood there quietly as Frenchie stepped closer to him, and his expression grew even more pained as he watched Frenchie’s fingers trace over the bandages of the suit. Over the crescent blade in the center of his chest. Marc didn’t know what any of the symbols on his suit meant, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He at least knew what the crescents were for by now, and he wanted to block out any reservations he had about this deal he’d made so he could carry on with his life.

“He saved me. Khonshu. The suit… it just— comes with the deal that I made. To be his fist, or whatever.” There was more silence after that, and Marc couldn’t stand it anymore. He made the suit disappear once more, the bandages unraveling and fading into the air until he was in his normal clothing again. “You’ve gotta say something here, man. Anything. Please.”

Frenchie pulled his hand away when the suit suddenly disappeared. The shift snapped him out of his racing thoughts and back to the moment, and he took a step back before looking to Marc again.

“I’m still not completely convinced that this is real.” He scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. The suit felt real enough a few seconds ago but now it was gone without a trace. Something told Jean-Paul that he wasn’t hallucinating, but the line between reality and fantasy was currently very hard to find.

He almost wanted Marc to bring the suit back, but he resisted the urge to ask. Seeing it appear out of thin air for a second time wasn’t really necessary. Besides, he would truly start to lose his mind if he started digging into the logic behind all of this. There was no logic to follow, no rules to find that could have been broken. His best friend survived certain death and shattered the rules the moment he showed up at the door. It was up to them to start over and remake the rules with what they’d been given.

Fatigue started to set in again once his adrenaline died down, so he carefully set himself back down on the couch and re-placed the ice pack onto his forehead. “So you.. talked to a god? And made a deal with him?” Frenchie tried his best to not sound unconvinced, but could Marc blame him for being just that?

He had never been a religious person by any means but he now found himself feeling indebted to a deity. There had been no real prayers muttered from this safe house after he huddled himself inside it a week ago, but there had been moments of grief and silent pleading that were as close to prayers as he would ever get. Maybe they had worked. Maybe Khonshu had heard him somehow and made miracles happen.

Steven was still shaking even after Frenchie reached over and put the car in park, and his foot certainly didn’t leave its pressed down position on the brake even as they sat there in the parking lot. He was sure that his heart was seconds away from pounding out of his chest, and he couldn’t really hear much over the pounding of his blood in his ears as he closed his eyes and tried to take a few breaths in and out.

Once he heard Frenchie sigh and mumble in French, his foot slowly eased off of the pedal as he leaned back himself and put a hand on the center of his chest as he breathed. “I’d say it was.” He responded absentmindedly in English as he took a couple more breaths and finally opened his eyes.

He didn’t feel like he was going to spiral into a panic attack anymore, which was good, but the energy in the car was still unsettling him. He wished he could just yank Jake back into the front seat so he wouldn’t have to deal with trying to make conversation, but there was no sign that the cab driver was anywhere near the front of their consciousness.

Fantastic. Clearing his throat before responding, Steven found it in himself to nod his head. “I-I think so, yeah. Just a little shaken up. I don’t have my license. Didn’t really need it in London. Work was just a bus ride away. If I woke up on time, at least, which I scarcely did. I have Marc to thank for that, I guess.”

The reply and acknowledgement of his comment in French caught him off guard. The fact that Steven understood a good amount of his first language wasn’t new to him, but having anyone respond to him when he spoke it wasn’t what he was used to. Even after almost twenty years, Marc was terrible with it. And with Jake, he didn’t much care. If anything, he was more likely to speak Spanish with him.

And then there was Steven— lover of French poetry. It was hard not to see the connection there, even if it was just a happy coincidence.

Frenchie couldn’t help but smile softly and chuckle at the other man’s response. It was endearing, but also he noted that he would have to watch his tongue around him. Speaking French around Marc was often a way to vent a little bit of frustration, or to mess with him, and with Steven that wasn’t going to be possible.

It was strange hearing about the life Steven had been living. Everything he mentioned happened during the time when Marc was quite literally missing. He had been afraid that his two closest friends might never come back, and it turns out they were out there living a double life as a museum-working British man. Frenchie was bitter about it, and he hated that he was.

“I know. And I don’t want to keep any more secrets.” Jake knew that Jean-Paul deserved better than being constantly lied to. And maybe Frenchie helped keep Jake’s existence secret all these years, but he had no idea that this entire time both Marc and Jake were keeping Steven as concealed as possible. They should have known it would come out one day, and Jake was just glad that it didn’t seem to completely fracture their friendship.

But when it came to explaining what happened in the Duat, Jake wasn’t sure where to even begin. He couldn’t help but to shake his head and scoff as Jean-Paul tried to reassure him that he didn’t have to hide anymore. “Marc hates me. I’m pretty sure Steven does too. They both had their bonding time when we died, but you know where I was? Locked inside of a sarcophagus. I was screaming and banging on the walls but I could.. I could barely stretch my arms out. No podía respirar. Even thinking about it now I still can’t breathe.”

Jake didn’t realize it, but he was nearly panting by the end of that as he fought to keep his breathing under control. It took him a couple deep breaths to get his chest level again before he continued. “Marc let Steven out of his sarcophagus, but they both chose to leave me in mine.  Soy el esqueleto dentro del closet.”

It was hard not to feel a bit angry at Marc in that moment. Though the anger quickly dulled to frustration— Frenchie loved him but he knew his friend well enough by now. He had witnessed firsthand just how easily Marc took to ignoring things right under his nose. He was an expert in denial.

Jake’s existence wasn’t anything new in that sense. Jean-Paul was still working through his own guilt about keeping Jake a secret for over a decade, but the reality was that Marc wasn’t exactly looking for the truth. There were years and years worth of breadcrumbs left behind even though Jake and Frenchie did their best to sweep them under the rug. But they both watched as Marc looked at the clues, turned a blind eye, and stepped right over them like they didn’t exist.

So was he surprised that Marc walked right past Jake before taking a journey with Steven in the underworld? No, he wasn’t. But it broke his heart all the same.

Jean-Paul was Jake’s first friend. The two of them were similar in ways that had caught Frenchie off guard when they first met and it ended up drawing them together in ways neither of them expected. Because of that, he was protective of Jake in a way that no one else was. It hurt him to see him and Marc at each other’s throats when the secret was finally out.

“They just don’t understand you yet.” Frenchie shook his head when Jake said the other two hated him. He could feel a lump in his throat as his emotions continued to rise, and then he leaned in even closer. “They had no idea how much you care about them both. But listen to me—”

Jean-Paul hooked a few fingers under his friend’s chin and gently tilted his face up so that they were eye to eye again. “You are not the skeleton in the closet. You did not deserve the be locked away and ignored. For your entire life you have been their shield and they didn’t know it. But you are not trapped anymore, okay?”

For several hours, Marc wasn’t sure if Frenchie would ever wake up again. The doctors essentially said that he needed to wake up on his own time after the surgery, and when those minutes turned into hours and eventually almost an entire day, Marc was losing faith.

He even briefly thought about praying. That was where his mind spiraled to as he sat there and stared off at the white tiles on the floor. Overnight, he even called Jean-Paul’s parents and broke the news as vaguely as he possibly could. There had been an accident, Jean-Paul was badly hurt, no he didn’t know if when Jean-Paul would wake up. He had to hang up the phone when the crying started on the other end.

And now Jean-Paul’s eyes were open and he was talking and Marc couldn’t stop the tears that welled in his eyes as he swallowed back a shaky breath and closed his eyes for a moment. He kept his hand there on Jean-Paul’s arm as he just kept his eyes closed and shook his head. There were too many thoughts swirling in his mind all at once, too many unanswered questions that he had himself about the entire thing.

What happened? What had possessed Layla to do something like this? To try and kill him? If it hadn’t been for Frenchie, Marc was sure those blades would have hit his thighs without hesitation. He felt sick thinking about what S.H.I.E.L.D. was doing with her now, if she was safe, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Not right now. The only thing he could do was be there for his friend, and he wasn’t sure if he even had the strength to tell him the extent of what happened.

“You, uh… you got hurt pretty bad, Jean-Paul. Really bad.” He had to pause after that to pinch the bridge of his nose and brace himself a bit. “I don’t know. That doesn’t matter right now, alright?”

Jean-Paul had been through his fair share of traumatic things. Injuries healed, even if they sometimes left scars like the ones that hid over and in-between the knuckles on his right hand. He could remember broken noses and broken ribs, concussions and bruises, a few bullet wounds and knife slashes (and there was more he was probably forgetting). Considering his line of work, it wasn't surprising that he had racked up quite an extensive list— but he survived them all.

So hearing Marc say that he got hurt 'pretty bad' didn't necessarily phase him at first. Frenchie was more annoyed that his friend had brought him to the hospital— something the two of them had a tendency to avoid if they were able to. It wasn't their best habit, but it was a smart move to make for mercenaries. The two three of them had gotten used to first aid and ice packs at various safehouses after missions, even if Marc and Jake were stubborn about letting Frenchie help. They didn't need people asking questions about the whys and hows of their beat up bodies.

"You're acting strange." The sluggishness Frenchie was feeling throughout his entire body shown through in his voice. Marc was still touching his arm and it was hard for him not to be hyper aware of that even through the haze.

He was tired and wanted to just melt into the bed, but being here made him uncomfortable. The problem was his body didn't seem to want to listen to him— how many fucking drugs did they pump into him exactly? All of his limbs felt heavy like concrete. His mind was slow and foggy— that was probably the blood loss, he figured. And the longer he sat there trying to adjust himself so he could get up, the more frustrated he became. Deep in his gut, Frenchie could feel that something was really wrong and he desperately wanted to ignore it.

“I know Marc is a superhero,” Layla begins. “But it was hard to see him that way when I first learned of the nature of his relationship with Khonshu. The Avengers always seemed so distant, so foreign. Maybe it’s because they seemed so American.” Still, Layla can remember her fathers excitement when Thor had first touched down on Earth. Do you know what this means? He had asked. Confirmation of what we already knew, of what we’ve been saying. The gods are real, yes. Layla knows that now almost better than anyone. They are real and they are flawed. She wonders if her father would be disappointed to learn that the worst parts of their myths loomed large in reality. When she thinks of what the gods have given her, she knows he would be proud. His little scarab, not so little anymore. She’s been “blessed” by the gods, if one could call it that.

There’s strength in knowing a power exists but also being able to say no to it. No god has approached Frenchie that Layla knows of, but his lack of desire to know how it felt reflects well on him. In the past, Layla would have put herself in the same category. She isn’t quite sure now if her desire to be the Scarlet Scarab is weakness or not. She got a taste of power and couldn’t say no. Frenchie hsan’t fallen sway to the temptation, and Layla considers him strong for that.

“Taweret says I’ll be free to go. I was only a temporary avatar at first. It was a necessity kind of thing. According to her, we’ll part on good terms. I want to believe her, but… I don’t know. After watching Marc and Khonshu it’s hard to be anything but distrustful.” 

“If he is, so are you.” Frenchie wanted to make that point right away. “I would argue that you are more so— and I think he would too.” He and Marc started off of mercenaries, so he would never consider himself a hero by any means. He had his morals but he was self-aware enough to know how his line of work influenced how people saw him. Jean-Paul took to violence a bit easier than Marc, but it was his friend who found himself working for a god set on vengeance. It always felt ironic to him— as well as cruel and unfair. If given the choice he would switch places if it meant Marc could be free, but he knew from experience that it was an impossible task. He had no say in the connection between Marc and Khonshu, and it pained him.

But Layla? She was a protector. As far as Frenchie could tell, that was something innate to her. It was a common misconception that kind people are prone to be pushovers, that they maneuvered their way around others as to not step on their toes. But kind people could also be strong, and fierce, and that was exactly what someone needed to be a protector. That’s how Jean-Paul saw Layla. How could he blame her for wanting the strength of her suit to do even more of the same? To be better at what she was good at?

“You certainly know how to spoil a customer, non? You might end up wit’ empty pockets if you’re no’ careful. I’ll let you in on a little secret, mon frere. It’s always tough times around here.” 

“A Frenchman running an Italian restaurant. That’s funny. I like that.” 

Jake didn’t flinch or step back when Frenchie grabbed onto his shoulder, even if he wanted to slap his hand away and scream. Thinking back to their death wasn’t going to put him in a good place, but he could tell that Jean-Paul was just worried. The first time was hard enough on all of them, Frenchie included, but Jake’s time in the Duat was anything but the insightful kumbaya that Marc and Steven seemed to have.

No, while the two of them shared their past with each other, Jake was stuck in a coffin as he banged and screamed and begged to just be let out. He felt his lungs constricting even now as he just thought about it. But he couldn’t shove Frenchie’s hand away. Instead, his head slightly leaned towards his friend’s fingertips as he closed his eyes tightly and shook his head. “Fue malo, Jean-Paul, muy malo. I–” He had to scoff then as tears filled his eyes, but he quickly blinked them back as he steeled himself. 

“Fuck. I wish they hadn’t told you. You didn’t need to know. They don’t need to know.”

"I am not looking to have any more secrets. Not with you, not with Marc. We are done with that." Jean-Paul was surprised that Marc had told him at all— that day in the restaurant had been full of wild, intense emotions from all parties involved. As painful as it was to hear everything they had gone through, and to realize that he had somehow missed Steven's existence all these years, Frenchie was glad to know. He would always be glad to know.

“Oh…–” Billy looked down, his fingers gripping the edges of the menu. “–Thanks, but I’m not really hungry. I just needed to go somewhere. Anywhere.” Away from just about anyone who knew his name, at this point. 

“Do you have any meat?” It’s a little on the nose, but Greer’s found over time it settles with her best. “I’m not happy about what happened. With the explosion, I mean. Marc and Layla are lucky.”

“And your food is always the best.” Layla’s smile is easy. That doesn’t negate the unease she feels after watching an adolescent first get crushed under Marc’s cape and then crawl out of a goo pod. “I’m sure Marc has told you what happened?” That or it’s all over the news.

Bucky didn’t want pity lasagna. He wanted answers. Vengeance for whoever had attacked the Mansion the other day. He’d have to get with Natasha at some point, but he couldn’t do anything without at least trying to feed himself first. “Thanks. I’ll just.. I’ll have whatever your favorite is, then.”