Chapter Text
Half the population across the galaxy turned to dust, and the world all but stopped. World governments quite literally fell apart; leaving the millions still around in confusion and disarray. But as the saying goes, “nothing is certain except death and taxes.”
Marc still picked up jobs as a contractor every once in a while, he needed to eat after all, and being the “fist of justice” for a decaying Egyptian bird didn’t exactly pay the bills. Frenchie contacted him about a simple job: escorting an art thief and some artifacts to a buyer in Spain. Simple, one week max, and most importantly, the employer was known to pay well.
“It’s simple, mon ami. The employer needs a Spanish speaker, et voilà!” Frenchie had said when Marc questioned his generosity. “Plus, I’ve heard she’s cute,” Marc had rolled his eyes. The subjective beauty of whoever he was escorting had nothing to do with the job.
It is a perfect gig, until–
Knock, knock.
“Ms. El–Fouley,” Oh shit. It’s her. G-d damnit, Frenchie, fucking son of a bitch.
“Layla’s fine,” She says as she extends her hand. Layla El-Faouly, daughter of Dr. Abdallah El-Faouly, the man whose blood stained the desert scarlette all those years ago.
“Marc Spector, we met at your father’s funeral,” Where Marc froze up at her sight, as he was stabbed in the gut with guilt and remorse, and had only fostered enough courage to say ‘I’m sorry for your loss, your father was a good man.’
Maybe this is a second chance for penance. Or maybe this would be a chance for her to enact revenge on her father’s killer.
“Right. The ex-Marine who showed up uninvited. I remember you,” she says as she takes his hand, expression illegible on her face.
“How have you been?” Marc wants to slap himself at the awkwardness of that comment. She just got paired up for a job with some guy who crashed her father’s funeral, who while he didn’t pull the trigger, definitely played a part in his death. What does he honestly expect her to reply?
“Fine. Taking it day by day. You?” She says as she puts her hands back into her pockets, rocking back and forth ever so slight.
“Same…” he just agrees as he gestures towards the car, “So what’s the plan?”
The job went without a hitch, Layla really did know her way around a house break-in. Marc just had to hold his gun and pretend to make himself useful. Which was ideal, if Marc didn’t need to pull out his gun or summon the suit, that met the minimal requirements for a successful job, even if they are the most boring.
The artifact was safely secured in the back truck, and Marc offers to drop Layla and the artifact back at her employer's safe house. They already had tickets to Madrid for the following afternoon, giving them just the narrowest of windows.
The silence is making him paranoid, it always does. It was always quiet before she–no, stop. Don’t trigger yourself, he warns himself. He proceeds to do something so uncharacteristic of himself, clears his throat, and, “So what got you into this line of work? I thought you were in grad school at some university in London.”
“You know, I’m kinda disturbed by how much you already know about considering we just met officially,” she responds, her tone and body language indicating an air of caution and wariness. Fair enough, Marc thinks.
“I worked a job with your father, he liked to brag about you,” he reminds her of the short conversation they’d shared that mournful day, tapping anxiously on the steering wheel.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” she smiles faintly. “I guess I knew the right people, and if half of the earth's population isn’t the perfect time to get into the market, I don’t know when it is,” she jokes morbidly.
“The Decimation really ruined a lot of people's lives and ambitions but we all have to move forwards. I was also disillusioned after what happened to my father, and to be honest, academia in general and the western perspective of North Africa and the Middle East. I guess anywhere labeled as the global south,” she continues as she reaches for her bag from the backseat, “who knows, maybe I’ll go back and finish my PhD one day.”
“So what do you think of the world’s mightiest heroes?” He asks after some silence. Everyone had something to say about the Avengers, Marc hopes it’ll keep Layla talking about anything.
“You mean what do I think about Iron Man and his gang of American sponsor ‘saviors’? They might be a necessary evil against aliens and whatever nonsense but I can’t say I’m thrilled with their role in destabilizing a lot of developing countries,” she scoffs.
“Have you heard of some of the smaller underground ‘enhanced individuals’?” Is Marc only asking to see where he possibly stands in the whole “superhero” scale of acceptability. Definitely. But who’s to judge him? Steven? Khonshu?
“You mean like, what’s his name, Daredevil from New York?” Marc nods, only slightly insulted that she referred to some guy in New York as opposed to white caped vigilantly rumored to appear at night. Layla just shrugs, “Seems like some guy fed up with the system, no? Taking ‘justice’ into his own hands, whatever the hell that means. He seems alright though, like he’s actually trying to help his community.” Was he helping his community? The travels of the night as Khonshu preaches. Or was he just an addict enamored by violence, looking for his fix?
“You’re right about the Avengers though. Stark seemed to cause half of their world-ending problems anyway, then they’d fly off leaving the civilians to deal with the consequences. Stark disappeared off the face of the planet and the rest of his gang are doing jackshit. I get what you mean,” he says, redirecting the conversation.
“You do? Weren’t you in the marines,” she states, skeptical about the hypocrisy of his stance.
“Didn’t have a lot of options. I needed an out and the military offered me that.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“Discharged. PTSD,” not technically a lie but also not actually the truth. He wishes it was as simple as the complexity of PTSD. “Not a lot of options afterwards and the VA benefits are laughable. Met Frenchie and some others, and that’s how I ended up here,” referring to his very legal career as a part-time mercenary for hire, part-time servant to Khonshu.
“Where are you from originally?” she asks curiously, seemingly dropping any malicious suspicion.
“Chicago,” chewing the inside of his cheek in anticipation.
“Jean-Paul said you speak Spanish?”
“Well enough, I guess. Family’s from Cuba and Guatemala,” please don’t ask about my family, please don’t–
“Your family is from Cuba and Guatemala and you joined the US military?” she raises her eyebrow at him in judgment.
“Like I said, I didn’t have a lot of options,” he mutters, annoyed by the interrogation, “You ask a lot of questions.”
“You started, didn't you? If we’re going to do this job together it wouldn’t hurt to be friendly to one another. Plus, you seem to know a lot about me already,” she states.
“I know what your father told me about you, I don’t actually know you.”
“What exactly did he actually say?”
“You got a scholarship to some fancy school in London, international affairs or something, that he used to take you to all the dig sites when you were a kid, that you were a good kid,” Marc can’t help but wonder what his dad–nope, keep your eyes on the road.
“Huh,” she just looks out the window, eyes drifting off, as if to make sure Marc can’t see her expression, “What else do you want to know?”
“If you’re not in school, why are you still in London? Didn’t want to move back home?”
“I know people in London, as much as I dislike the British Empire, I like London. I haven’t been back home since my father’s funeral.”
“Why haven’t you been back to Egypt?”
“Several reasons, mostly due to my current line of work and my involvement in EIPR,” Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights, he can faintly hear Steven chimes in from the back. Marc had heard something about the Egyptian government imprisoning and disappearing a lot of protestors.
“So you ran away,” he projects.
“Choosing to stay alive isn’t running away. I’m actively doing more for Egypt by staying away,” she scoffs, insulted at the accusation. She crosses her arms and takes a moment before looking over at him and stating the obvious, “You’re kind of an asshole, aren’t you.”
“Yup.” he agrees, popping the ‘p.’
Layla just ignores him as she continues to rumble through her bag until she appears to find her prize.
“What’s that?” Marc asks, pointing at the yellow juice box she’s pulled out of her bag.
“It’s Korean banana milk, want to try some?” Layla passes the little box towards him but Marc shakes his head. Layla simply shrugs, “It’s good, it actually tastes like bananas. I went to Korea for a job a couple of months ago and I picked up a slight addiction to these. They used to sell them at any convenience store or supermarket over there. I found them at a Korean market here but they’re a bit expensive so I like to get them as little treats.”
Marc doesn’t know what compelled him to do it, but as soon as he’s come to, he’s standing outside of the Korean supermarket. The trip to the other side of town was a blur, as if his body was on autopilot, but here he is; pushing around a shopping cart as Korean pop music blasts across the store. He passes the colorful display of foreign snacks and candy and the life-sized cutouts of boy band members till he finds the golden treasure. The same little milks that Layla was oh so casually slipping as if she hadn’t just stolen an artifact worth close to a million dollars. He adds 5 packs to his cart, more than enough for the duration of their job.
That afternoon when Marc goes to pick her up for the airport, Marc simply greets her by handing her a little milk box and a packet of Freska Sticks. The cookies were a gamble but from what Marc has observed, Layla has a sweet tooth.
“Is this for me?” she asks, stunned at his generosity.
“Take it as a preemptive apology for having to deal with me for the week,” Marc says, careful not to read too much into the pinky brush spreading across her face.
For the rest of the job, Marc greets her every day with another banana milk and a pouch of Freska Sticks. She thanks him with a smile every time.
Frenchie was right; he already knew Layla El-Faouly was a beautiful woman, but it is becoming abundantly undeniable that she, in fact, is cute.
