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He didn't mean to let it slip, he just wasn't thinking. He'd gotten comfortable enough with the Avengers that little comments about his trauma became normal. They all did it. It was fine.
Tony would throw something out there about dead Avenger visions and down a coffee in one gulp. Jake, at any inconvenience, would lament humorlessly about how "I shoulda' drowned, jeez."
Even Steven wasn't an exception. He could vividly remember him laughing through the exact sentence, "Heka priests should've ended me when they had the chance."
But of course, Marc was the one to ruin it all. They'd taken the day off, lounging around the tower with Sam and Tony while the world waited outside.
The conversation had been light, barely there as they all focused on the television, watching the game live on the giant screen in the theater. It was a perk of befriending Tony, he supposed. It definitely beat the small screen he had at home.
But he'd take that small screen over the conversation he backed himself into.
Their team was down—horribly down. They still had a chance to get back up, but it'd be nothing short of a miracle. They watched intently as number 20 made an appearance, gripping the football between his gloves as he sprinted down the field. It would've been a touchdown had his face avoided the dirt a few feet short.
"Oh, death would be better than this," Tony commented, leaning back against the couch in the aftermath of that tragedy. There was no coming back from that, game might as well be over.
"Yeah... not as peaceful as advertised," Marc lulled. He eyed the screen with anguish as the commentators tried in earnest to amuse the crestfallen fans, but they had to have known they were falling short.
Marc didn't notice how quiet the room had become until Jake was in his ear.
"Nice one," he griped, to Marc's confusion. Huh?
He finally tore his gaze from the game, finding an audience instead of company. Sam eyed him widely as he spoke.
"Come again?"
Finally, Marc realized what he'd said. Oh boy.
"The blip," Steven piped in, and Marc hadn't realized he'd shown up. Steven didn't like football. He was grateful for his intrusion, though. They'd need a conversationalist to get them out of a mess like this.
"You didn't blip."
Well. There goes that lie. He'd forgotten Tony had records on just about everything, including blip status.
"FRIDAY, cut the TV," Tony ordered, turning to face him accusingly. Sam's silence spoke volumes. He was debating, processing, maybe more that Marc didn't want to think about. He broke off a moment, leaning forward delicately as he finally spoke.
"Marc," he started, brows raising in worry. "Are you saying you've died?"
He could pinpoint a million moments where he should've died—a million more where he wanted to. But Sam didn't need to know that.
He didn't need to know about the crypt in Cairo that had become his own for a moment either. But...
"Yeah..." he muttered, trailing off uncertainly. "Once."
Sam was silent again if only to force himself to breathe. It would've been a perfect time to slip away had Tony not been there.
"How?" he asked, and Marc considered the rare lack of amusement. Tony was a jokester at heart, he bled sarcasm in place of crimson. The sheer amount of heart-to-hearts they'd had might as well have been all Tony could give.
His breath wavered a moment, eclipsing dangerously in the darkness of the theater. They didn't talk about their death, none of them. It affected each of them differently—so differently that they couldn't even talk to each other about it. Not even Layla knew the extent of it.
"Got shot," he spat quickly, and Tony raised a brow.
"You tank bullets more often than you dodge them," he pointed out. "Try again."
Marc sighed, rubbing a thumb into an eye. He didn't want to explain anything, didn't need to dredge up that experience like he was there all over again. If he wanted to see that stupid boat again, he'd just kill himself.
He didn't know when Steven took over.
"Khonshu was gone," he explained quietly, pushing Marc back like he was delicate glass. It should've been insulting, but he couldn't seem to form words at the moment. "We didn't have the suit to heal."
"Hang on," Sam interrupted, finally freeing himself from thought. "If you died, how are you sitting here now?"
"Got better."
"Such a way with words..."
Jake's laughter broke him out of the stupor he'd fallen into, but he still left the conversation in Steven's more capable hands.
"But really, we're alright now. No need to get into it." He pushed himself against the couch cushions as he spoke, leaning into it more as if the space he took up was too much.
"What, did you meet God or something?" Tony huffed, apparently not giving up despite Sam's side-eye.
Steven sighed, slowly accepting that the matter wouldn't be put to rest so easily. "Not the one you're thinking of. Lean more Egyptian."
"Well, what'd you and this Egyptian god do in... Purgatory?"
Steven ignored the blight, but the question threw him off more. It wasn't something he wanted to get into. Living it was enough for him. Except—
"It was quite beautiful actually. Besides the... um. Well, the boat was brilliant."
—he'd always been a connoisseur.
"Boat?" Sam asked. Curiosity had apparently taken the man too, and Steven really wished it hadn't.
"Taweret's," he muttered. "Hippo goddess."
Listening to himself say it in front of two people unfamiliar with ancient egyptology made him realize just how insane he sounded, but there was no going back.
"She was there to weigh our hearts, right? To see if we could move on to the Field of Reeds."
He was rambling, and his audience noticed. He wasn't so focused on them, though—just worried about making enough sense to satisfy himself. As if he were the one to convince he was sane instead of them.
The little voice inside that claimed he had no one to convince went unheard.
"And there were these long hallways and massive rooms that retold our life like an interactive movie—except you couldn't change anything if you wanted to. Trust me, I tried. Marc tried so hard to keep me out of those rooms but—"
"Pause." Sam said, effectively ending the ramble. "Take a breath."
Steven couldn't, he realized quickly. He could feel his lungs working overtime, pumping air in and out and forcing his heart to the same rhythm. Why did he keep going? He'd basically unloaded the Duat's events with zero preparation.
It wasn't that he didn't want to talk about it. He saw the benefits of talking through things, getting the hard stuff out in the open with a support system or a therapist.
But it was easier said than done.
He welcomed the blurred vision when it came, relishing in the soft ringing filling his ears as someone else took the wheel from him. It wasn't often needed—he could handle himself. Stress ball and allat'.
...
Jake stood harshly, gulping a breath and avoiding the prying eyes as he made for the door. Steven had said too much, and he wasn't planning on sticking around for the Q&A.