Chapter Text
When other celebs mainlined a lethal quantity of questionably-sourced heroin and went on a bender that accrued half a mil in property damage, they became a laughingstock. It was a stain they'd never fully wash off; for the rest of their career, they'd be known as the Lindsay Lohans, the Charlie Sheens. The interminable fuckups.
When Jake Berenson, war criminal and hero, did such a thing, it became known in every tabloid as 'The Day the Falcon Fell.’ Marco, aviators shoved up into his hair, took one glance at the rag bearing such a headline and snorted. Such melodrama.
He flicked through the pages as he waited in line at the convenience store, an eyebrow raised at the photos; of 'Get Well Soon!' balloons tied to plushie tigers. The center spread, of course, was the actual photo of said falling falcon. It was a lucky shot; gorgeously rendered against the cloudless California sky, of the tumbling bird, each feather spread in an unconscious effort to break his fall.
He'd shattered every bone in his birdy body upon impact with the asphalt. It'd taken twelve emergency responders, a baby-sized oxygen mask, and a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart to wake Jake long enough to morph back to his human self, good as new.
"Where is he now?" the tabloid asked. "Friends and family are offering no comment. Our hearts and prayers are with the leader of earth's reconnaissance. We love you, Jake!”
"Hey," the store’s teenage cashier called, voice cracking. "If you wanna read the magazines, you gotta buy ‘em first!"
"Oh?" Marco tossed the rag into his shopping basket full of spritzers and gummy Lifesavers. "Ring me up, then." He flashed his Hollywood smile, shifting his weight. The lifts he wore in his shoes scarcely bought him a measly three inches of height, and they were uncomfortable.
The cashier blinked, gawking in pure disbelief. "You!" he gasped, voice rising several octaves. "Y-You— You’re—”
"The one and only, baby."
The stammering requests for autographs, for handshakes, for selfies, were only to be expected. The teen shook Marco's hand so vigorously he thought it would fall off his wrist. ("No, you don't understand, man, my parents were controllers my whole life—")
He refused to charge Marco for any of his purchases. That was the weirdest thing about being a millionaire; people insisted on giving you shit for free. Sure, it would've been more useful when he was thirteen and scraping quarters off the street to put milk and bread on his father's roach-strewn table, but better late than never.
Marco tossed the rag into the trash on his way out, the cashier's final question ringing in his ears as he made his way to the canary-yellow Maz waiting for him in the parking lot: "Do you know anything about the whole Jake thing? You can help him, right?"
Marco didn't bother to explain that he hadn't seen the guy in almost five years. Nobody could help Jake Berenson; least of all himself. Honestly, it was a surprise the guy hadn't turned to drugs sooner. Eventually he too would become a missing person, or a DOA birdy at some animal hospital, just like most people Marco had ever bothered to love.
When he saw leaves and feathers floating in his infinity pool, Marco sighed. His pool guy kinda, sorta quit after finding Marco in bed with his sister (and maybe his dad, too, but just that one time!). Their family had good genes. Nice cheekbones. Great asses.
He hadn't bothered to find a new pool guy yet. Or pool chick. Marco didn't discriminate.
He grabbed the pool skimmer and set to cleaning. He could take care of it, right? Sure, he'd never finished high school, but he knew enough chemistry to mix up some chlorine without blowing himself up, probably.
Hooked to the sides of the pool were a few 'critter catchers,' meant to rescue animals and insects that fell into the water. Marco was hardly a bleeding heart, but it was hard to spend any time as a bee and not feel like shit when you spotted one of their fuzzy little corpses bobbing around.
He saw some movement in a few of the catchers and bent to pull them out of the water; to turn them onto their sides so the insects could dry off and crawl away.
It was here, kneeling beside the pool, that Marco caught a glimpse of orange on the water’s still surface.
His body reacted before his mind registered what it was seeing. Combat PTSD was a detriment ninety-nine-point nine percent of the time... It was classified as a debilitating mental illness for a reason. Having your brain freak out and go into attack mode at every little thing led to some embarrassing moments that scared the ladies. But that point-oh-one percent of the time, it kept him alive.
He was growing, bulking up, black hair sprouting from his chest at a second's notice. His Hawaiian shirt and shorts were shredded by the gorilla’s body. His sandals burst like party poppers. He had to open his mouth to accommodate the massive fangs sprouting faster than his jaw could expand. By the time the tiger launched itself at him, he was big enough to catch it; to spin with its momentum, instead of falling and cracking his skull open on the deck.
<What the hell?!> He screamed in thoughtspeak, throwing the big cat into the water. Was this some sick joke? Some chucklehead took on Jake's favorite morph and came to menace Marco with it?
The tiger didn't respond. It swam to the edge of the pool and climbed back out, not bothering to shake itself off as it rounded on Marco and crouched, prepared to strike again.
That's when Marco paused. All tigers had unique markings. There were only two tigers in the world with that particular facial pattern, and one had been killed with the rest of the zoo animals when the Gardens blew up.
Jake, Marco realized, feeling a pang in his chest that had nothing to do with the shallow claw marks across his flesh. <Jake; the hell, man?!>
Again, no answer from Dear Pussycat. It beat its tail, swiveling its massive head around. Its golden eyes were all animal, no sentience. Marco could see that it was uncomfortable with these hunting grounds; wide open, no tall brush to crouch in. This wasn't how a tiger operated...
Jake was not in the pilot seat here. Talking to him was useless. Instead, Marco ran for him, big arms swinging. He beat his chest and roared in the cat's face, so loud they could probably hear him at the Hollywood sign.
It worked. The tiger scrambled away from him, almost falling on its butt before turning tail and sprinting, not bothering to check if Marco was chasing.
Hell, Marco didn't want to give chase. It went against his instincts as a gorilla and a man. Let the nice apex predator go, now…
Still, if he unleashed America's favorite war criminal upon the city, he'd be next in the tabloids for yet another 'incident', and then Mom would make her tired 'Really, Marco?!' face.
So, like the kid in South Indian folklore, Marco grabbed the tiger by the tail and held on tight, bracing for impact. Jake, predictably, whirled and dashed him to the bone on six-inch claws. <Ow.>
They dropped. On concrete slick with blood, Marco wrestled the tiger, grateful for strong arms, rotator cuffs, opposable thumbs. Score one for the hominids.
When he put his weight on the cat's back, pinning its face down, there wasn't much Jake could do about it. Oh, he thrashed and roared, but he couldn't reach; couldn't bite. They were at an impasse.
<Jake, if you're in there, I need you to calm your ass down, please. I'm bleeding out. I think you punctured my lung.>
The tiger continued to kick. To snarl.
<C'mon, dude. Remember when I loaned you Batman and Robin, and Tom spilled coffee on it, and I was totally crying but pretending not to cry, and you said 'I owe you one'? Yeah, I'm calling in that favor now. Bro code.>
Maybe the nonsense he was spewing was finally getting through to Jake, or maybe — like most large carnivores — the tiger simply knew when it was beaten and tried to conserve some energy by falling still. But it stopped wiggling, at least.
Knowing that he had to act before he lost consciousness, Marco held two tight fistfuls of ruff, wrapping his legs around the cat's middle. If Jake started up again, the safest place to be was out of biting range. With his chin stacked on Jake's head, the tiger could probably turn and bite his legs, but not his face or throat or torso.
Then he demorphed as quickly as possible, losing mass alongside his injuries. Apes were so similar to humans (yes, humans were 'technically apes,' thanks, inner-Cassie), that the morph felt almost comfortable. Just a shrinking; some bone alterations. Not much rearranging of guts or limbs.
The plan was to go human, then ape again... And then what? Wait for his maid to show up the next morning and call animal services? Bad news, World: Jake is a nothlit now. Good news: it'll be harder for him to get his paws on illegal substances!
Oh, please. Dealers would still line up to sell to Jake, even if he was stuck like this for the rest of his life. They'd probably draw lines for him and cram a straw up his kitty nostril.
Instead, though, the feeling of Marco demorphing on top of him seemed to shake something loose in Jake's head. There was a long pause, and then he started to imitate his former best friend. He, too, began to shrink, his fur receding and darkening from orange to brown. It was totally disgusting, feeling all the bones grind and shift beneath him, but it was better than the alternative.
In minutes, both men lay on the pool deck in a puddle of drying gorilla blood, panting and exhausted.
“Jake?” Marco began, his face now buried in the other man’s soft, shaggy brown hair. “We should put some pants on. Unless you want the paparazzi to start another shipping war?”
Jake was in the shower for so long that Marco was tempted to check on him; to see if he was even still there, or if he'd crept away as a flea.
He came out eventually, wearing Marco's too-small pajamas. Way too small. Step one on tomorrow’s agenda: buy the guy some clothes. And a haircut. And a razor. He was looking a little 'Tom Hanks from Castaway' at the moment. Or maybe Robin Williams when he first escaped from Jumanji.
Marco stood at the stove, tossing a heavy frying pan with one hand. On two plates he dumped obscene piles of huevos; each enough to feed a small army. Red chili peppers and green avocado looked cheerful in the mess of yellow egg. He splashed hot sauce over the top of each, making sure to douse the microwave potato cakes on the side, too.
"Here," Marco said, shoving a plate at Jake. "It's not as tasty as dope, but it'll do."
Jake made a ‘Marco, Please’ face so similar to Marco's mother’s that it was a little uncanny, even with the homeless chic look he was sporting. "Nobody eats heroin."
"You just shoot up, right? That makes it better."
Jake didn't dignify this with a response. He carried his plate to the sofa, sat, and ate.
Marco struggled with himself. He kinda wanted to make a scene. Toss his beer; throw his arms out; do some Telenovela-level screeching. What, Jake couldn’t be bothered to shoot him an email for five years, but now he shows up, attacks Marco, and then acts like this isn't weird as all hell? Screw that!
That said... Jake was still his bro. Had been since they were tiny, snot-nosed brats drooling in a sandbox together, unaware that they would someday save the world. Even if Marco sometimes hated his guts, he was still a creature of loyalty.
Instead of talking, he crammed egg and potato into his face; one heaping spoonful at a time. And then he downed one beer, followed by another. He belched, and silence followed.
When Jake shifted his weight, the seam in the crotch of the pajamas split with a loud ripping noise. Marco sighed. "I think my ex left some sweatpants lying around. I'll go get 'em."
Jake cocked his head, trying to smile. Somehow, it just made him look older; sadder. "Big girl."
"Big dude. And yeah, he was. Is."
Jake blinked. "He?"
"Yeah. I like dudes. Always have." Marco shrugged, feeling prickly. Even now, even after so much time, if that was what Jake opted to judge him for... Ouchie.
"You never told me that," Jake said instead. Soft. He sipped his beer.
"I'm sure that would've gone over great. 'Yo, my probably-homophobic best friend in the nineties! This game is totally gay! And speaking of gay, did I mention I had a wet dream about you last night?' Or maybe I should've saved it for battle. 'Hurry, before the ship explodes! By the way! I swing both ways'!"
At least Jake could still laugh, even if it was almost as sad as his smile. "Fair enough.”
Marco slipped off to grab the pants, surprised he still knew exactly where they were in his mess of a mansion. Returning, he tossed them onto Jake’s lap. The feel of soft fleece triggered unwanted memories.
Greg was the last relationship he'd ever had; one he'd genuinely tried to make work. He hadn't cheated on him. He'd been there for him, paying to get his car fixed, his dental work and night classes. They'd moved in together and had date nights and talked about marrying and adopting kids, or whatever else couples were supposed to do.
When Greg left, it was a very quiet breakup. “I’m miserable, Marco. And so are you. Do you even care?”
Marco had gotten drunk later, of course. Smashed some shit. Called some old “friends” over to get railed. The emotions never came. Greg was right; Marco was one cold fish, even if he didn't want to be. It was like none of his emotions ever happened correctly anymore, if they ever had to begin with.
“Go to therapy,” Cassie said every time she saw him. When he’d argued that there wasn’t a therapist alive who could possibly understand what they’d been through, she grew deeply annoyed. Combat and veteran aid exists, Mar-co! We aren’t the only child soldiers the world has ever seen.
Yeah, yeah.
Abruptly, Marco felt exhausted. Tired and grouchy. He couldn’t stand to look at Jake for even a second longer.
He stood and dumped his dishes in the sink, where they’d stay until the maid arrived at dawn to clean. “Stay if you want,” he told Jake, walking back to his room. “Pick a direction; you’ll find a guest room. Or don’t. I really don’t give a fuck.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Jake looking at him like he wanted to stop him; wanted to say something, but in the end, he remained as passive as he’d been since the war ended. He let Marco go without a word.