Jake is the one that ends up breaking the tension. Him and Marc are butting heads again, over something small that’s grown into something larger, and Jake snaps at him. “You’re not fucking alone in this, Spector.”

Marc quiets for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you aren’t the only one that’s gone through this shit. I was there too. I pulled our ass out of that house, I pulled our ass out of the military when you were running straight into fire, and I pulled our ass out of Cairo. It’s not just you. It never has been. So I get it, yeah? It can really suck, to have to keep going, to have to cover yourself up, to keep track of everything, but you get over it and get in line. I’ve had to.”

It’s not really the way he meant to say it, but once it’s out there’s no going back. Marc slips away, leaving a ruffling of anger and something heavy right beneath their sternum, and Jake throws his hands up and gets back to whatever they were doing

It’s over the next week that the interaction really settles in

It changes something for Marc, in how he sees Jake. He can’t unhear what was said, can’t shake the tactile push of Jake’s words. It was so fucking familiar, the feelings in them, and he—Dammit

Steven talked once, about recognition of the self through the other, but this… Marc doesn’t want this. This isn’t what it’s supposed to be like

It’s hard not to notice, afterwards, the way Jake doesn’t snap at him for why he’s doing something, but what he’s doing as a result (like he knows, like he’s been through this himself)

It’s hard not to notice the way his presence is always felt with a heaviness in their hands and around their shoulders, an ache in the joints, making everything feel more worn

It’s hard not to notice that when he’s mad he hasn’t been listened to, mad that he’s been alone, that he knows why it happened

It’s a terrible thing, for Marc to realize how alike they are

It makes it hard to hold onto his anger. Instead of an obstacle, and enemy, a Someone to shove away so the world can be simpler, Jake becomes a synchronized step, old footprints Marc knows the rhythm to

He’s pissed about it anyway, though

Jake doesn’t comment, when Marc stops pushing back and trying to draw answers out of him, and just hovers. Just watches

Jake’s in the flat one night after being out serving Khonshu, sitting in their kitchen with his gloved knuckles pressed into a small bowl of ice, when Marc settles forward. Their neck tingles and the world blurs a bit, and Jake hisses when Marc helps register more of the pain

“Can you go?” Jake asks through gritted teeth.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Why are you still wearing gloves?”

“Ice burn isn’t great, Spector.” And cold, bloody, wetness is one of the last things Jake wants to subject his fingers to

There’s something like a sigh and then the world thins as Marc pushes through him, shouldering Jake to the side. He lets him, too tired to push back

Marc stares for a moment after the switch, and then peels off the gloves, wincing at the tug on their badly split knuckles. “Clean first,” he mutters. “Then ice.”

He takes them to the bathroom and rinses their hands, working gentler than he usually does. Maybe because he thinks Jake will snip at him if he’s too rough, or maybe just because he’s always been better at being careful with others than himself

Marc does the alcohol rub too, the little strips of gauze, the band aids. Then he swipes a dishcloth from the kitchen and a bag of peas from the freezer, and settles on the couch, coolness seeping over their fingertips

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

Together they stare up at the ceiling, a bitter acceptance settling deep and hesitant somewhere in the quiet

They don’t end up talking much more, after that. Not in full Words and Voice conversations, at least

When they do it’s usually from the fallout of something building, from the difficulty of Working through feelings, or knowing How to

They continue to get frustrated, continue to miss the mark on assumptions and bottle things up.

Marc fronts for most of a mission for Khonshu once, when they’ve been dosed with some toxin that throws their brain out of wack, and Jake simmers angrily for a week before Marc realizes it was his recklessness got Jake pissed

In turn, Marc constantly gets annoyed at Jake’s clothes being left around the flat or his shoes tracking dirt in the door, and it bursts into a rather long trail of back and forth notes in their phone about how to share their space and what their cleanliness boundaries are

Keeping up Work and Home and Hobbies and Moon Knight is a lot. Jake is busy, Marc is busy, Steven is busy, and collectively they are tired, so clear talking doesn’t happen all the time. But…

There’s another aspect to what settles that’s… different

Sometimes the lack of Words isn’t the silent treatment, or a volcano building pressure. Sometimes it’s just… that they don’t need to

Jake gets when Marc is tense and snappy the morning after a nightmare. Marc knows what it’s like to crash after a bad mission and to wake up with their body sore and hardly wanting to move. They both know what it’s like to stare at the numbers on their phone and wish it felt good to call them

They get each other, as much as Marc may loathe to admit it at first. They both understand what it’s like to lose themselves in protecting others, to squirrel feelings away where they won’t hurt, to hide. It’s something different than they can get with other people or with Steven. Not better, just different

They both try to say the quiet part through actions, to Show whatever kind of appreciation has grown instead of Admitting it. They do little things, passively, with the other in mind. Just because they know better, of course, or because it makes their life easier. It doesn’t mean much in the big scheme, really

Jake begins casually checking that Marc eats a varied diet, that he’s getting himself good food and not sacrificing flavor for efficiency (or allowing Steven to snack without getting any actual meals in). That shifts into getting him to get fancy takeout now and then (whether by Jake ordering it himself or by Marc finding a menu and a number left on the counter), to allow Marc little pleasures that are his and to find enjoyment without being afraid

Marc does his own little upkeep. When he’s annoyed at clothes being left around, he folds them, and at some point it becomes a relaxing routine instead of a pointed move. He sets Jake’s shoes by the door, and puts the coffee pot on when he feels the slow, slushy shift of him coming towards front after a night of something tiring. Marc gets the car washed, and dusts the vents, and swaps out the air freshener when it goes stale, and buys new pocket tissues.

They never discuss it beyond passing comments (“Is this the right place?” “Best on the South Side.” or “You wrinkled my tie, Marc.”). Discussing it would be too far. Discussing it would be something different.

In times they meet in headspace, when Jake emerges from his locked up corners of the inner world, they mostly do things in parallel play

Jake fiddles with the old cab he has in there, the one that always needs some kind of repairs, and Marc will sit quietly and pretend he’s not flipping through old NASA magazines they still have memorized from childhood

Jake strikes up a conversation about that once. (“You still into space?” “You still into driving?” Jake laughs loud and Marc cracks a grin. He’s tugged forward to a Mars exhibit at Steven’s old work a few days later)

The arguments that pop up get shorter. The miscommunication gets a bit better. The flames lull to embers, and it takes both of them time to admit that means there’s warmth there now

Wasn’t it meant to be rotten work? All of this. Especially to the other, especially if it was them.

Because it isn’t

Marc thinks it’s nice to make jokes in Spanish again, and to have rock and jazz and Latin pop stuck in his head on bus rides

Jake can admit that seeing Marc smile gives him way more of a kick than getting him to swear, and that having someone there to keep him company on late nights is better than a lonely parking lot

None of that means the bite goes away, that the struggle to fit edge to edge ever smooths, but at the same time…

At the same time there are distant hands to care for bruised knuckles, and a leather anchor to cling to during flashbacks, and someone else to say “I know right?” when memories resurface that make the floor shake.

There’s a camaraderie there, in their mutual weariness, in their shared fear of failing to protect the people they love, and their history of fighting and surviving

And sure, they both get that after a point, but… well shit, it wasn’t meant to feel like this

Marc isn’t meant to find himself fiddling with Jake’s gloves, only to lean down and rest his cheek on the leather. Jake isn’t meant to smile a bit wider and feel a warm heat in his throat when Marc’s close to front. They aren’t meant to have silent, parallel activity turn into hips side by side as one of them tells a story, and then into hands brushing together, and into the muted touch of holding.

But fuck if it isn’t nice, if it doesn’t feel good, and safe, and sweet

Neither of them know how to say it. They pinch and gripe and snap, but Love is not a word they know how to say. It’s so sappy

Not that they need to. Not that they’ve ever really had to Say the things that matter. It comes through anyway

There are weary cuddles, looks that pass meaning easily because they’ve seen the same one on their own face in the mirror, reassurances, strong hands and safe corners of headspace when the world outside is too loud

Marc leaves unfinished tic tac toe boards and messages in morse code in Jake’s jacket pockets. Jake gets him an in-box Blast Off from eBay for Chanukah one year. They make a Google doc to argue over sports

One afternoon, Marc’s helping get food ready for Shabbat (at Steven’s insistence for them to actually rest and focus for a weekend) when he’s hit with a thick wave of dissociation. Nothing happens for a bit. No thoughts, just the untethered movement of a chest and eyes staring down, and then the hand reaches up, and the hand presses against lips. A little flash of red and green and deep brown bloom behind Marc’s eyes, and when his hand settles down again, brushed with a kiss of wetness, he huffs slightly, smiling

Jake keeps Marc floating. He tugs him up by his collar and says You aren’t allowed to drown, it will get better. You do not get to give up.

Marc gives Jake a place to stand. He straightens his hat and looks him dead in the eyes and knows him for it. You don’t get to disappear. You don’t get to be overshadowed by this weight.

And within all of it there is something gentle, something that stems from having been through the same type of wars, and being a safe understanding place for the other to retreat to

They’re dual hands holding the same mug of sweet coffee. The “Got onions. Check freezer for ice cream.” in their notes and the “Jake, did you tape the game?” sticky noted onto the front door. They’re warm kisses pressed against temples and curls and facial hair waiting to be shaved (Not a chance, Spector, let me have this one). They are a pause, and rolled up sleeves, and thumbs rubbing absentmindedly on the chafed impression of watch bands and glovelines