[ Lottie so desperately wants to argue that if he wants his life separate, maybe don't make your outfit so stupidly iconic? Don't get so much attention from the press or the news? Don't show your cool mask and get up at your friend's (her) house? Don't have a Mission in the city, maybe?? Don't make yourself so available to everybody else except your friend??? Yet, she doesn't, she wants to so bad because she loves to be petty and dearly wants to be now, but she doesn't.
(Esther would be proud of her, she thinks distantly.)
All Lottie feels right now is that it wouldn't be worth it, she can't even see his face β can't make sure if the hurt lingers through that stupid, tacky, piece of fabric. Because he can see hers, the way she flinches when he corrects her ('It was,' and she'll finish it: stupid)β Lottie feels silly, now, having even done this. Feels regret sink into her bones even though she got what she wanted: an interaction.
She brings a hand up to shield her nose, a sniffle following. Her gaze is tucked down at their feet, her toes curling uncomfortably in her shoes. She hates how he's even giving her the option to go, handing her the reins for her own sanity β almost like he's trying to be polite, to be considerate. ]
Fine.
[ And even though she knows where it is, could probably walk there in the signature bratty way Lottie does when she's hurt, all she does is lamely gesture towards Marc. She wants him to lead, and for her to follow. ]
( it's not far. moon knight's territory is not that large as each of manhattan's superheroes have carved out their own segment so as to keep things as neat and simple as possible — sure, they cross paths on occasion, but those of them that deal predominately with street level threats have an unspoken understanding of what it means to do what they do and why. they — except spider-man, but he's always been different — don't do it out of an intrinsic sense of responsibility like the steve rogers of the world, they do it because they must, because it fills a part of them that's otherwise missing.
that'd been what rogers and stark had both missed back when they'd had their little (""little"") nation-spanning argument about how best to utilise and reign in superheroes. it wasn't a choice for people like him and daredevil and frank. it was a part of who they were.
marc leads the way in silence, only occasionally half glancing over his shoulder to check that she's still following, to make sure she's okay. (it's a loose term, because he knows she's not okay, but there's nothing he can do about it here and now, not until they reach their destination.)
he does not think the midnight mission is an imposing building. it's all glass fronts and soft illuminations, frosted moons decorating each of the windows. he was quite pleased with it, in truth, even if it'd taken him some time to decide on how he wanted the interior to look. where grant mansion had had marlene's touch, the mission is all marc and yet none of him at all. marc had chosen the artifacts, the plants, the ostentatiousness of it all because that was what moon knight was: egyptian stuff.
marc is none of that and so, really, though marc had chosen everything about the mission, he'd done it deliberately so as to show precisely nothing of himself, the building as much of a mask and a costume as everything else of moon knight is.
he grunts a greeting at reese as they enter. he notices the flicker of surprise that says she didn't expect him back so early, notices the way her gaze shifts to lottie, notices the way she deliberately doesn't say anything because by this point, reese knows marc's moods and knows when it's okay to push and when it's not. tonight is not a pushing night.
he leads lottie into a room that's decorated the same as the others, though it's pointedly, deliberately not the room where mr. knight greets those that come to the mission asking for his help. reese's office is separated from that by only a door and marc thinks it unwise, thinks that whatever conversation he and lottie are about to have, reese does not need to overhear.
he gestures, tight and constrained, at a chair. ) —Tea? Coffee? ( he asks, reflexively, not thinking about how it might come across to ask of lottie the same questions he gives mr. knight's guests, as if she's here for anything other than to speak to marc.
(he doesn't think, either, to take off the mask.) )
[ It isn't far, but it still feels like an eternity in silence as Marc (Moon Knight) leads the way with her behind him. His cape sometimes brushes against her legs when she forgets she's upset and walks a little too close to him, so she keeps a respectable distance, enough for her to observe the entity that is Moon Knight in all his gimmicky, costume-y, glory. The same schtick keeps up with the Missionβ Lottie already knows what it looks like, but seeing it like this, in this context, is strangely foreboding.
She almost doesn't follow him in, but her brain is on autopilot so she does.
Her brain is so much on autopilot that she doesn't even notice Reese glance their way (her way), so intently focused on his shoes and how the tile of the floor changes beneath them as they enter another room. The door shuts remarkably soft behind them, and her own steps come to a stop somewhere in the middle of the room. Now, she looks up, sees where they are (a good step in the right direction) and sees Marcβ
βstill with his mask on.
(A.. Bad step. In the wrong direction. Her lips purse.)
Should she say something? She debates over this as he gestures towards a chair, and she stares dumbly at it. Tea? He asks. Coffee? He tries again. What is she, on business? Lottie feels her patience grow thin, fingers curling into her palm once, twice, before she stiffly eases herself down into the offered seat. ]
Since when do you offer drinks?
[ She feels her face grow warm, something like embarrassment sifting through her veins as she pointedly looks at the decor on the wallsβ they get things for each other all the time, sure, but this is different. And the worst part is she can't tell if he's doing this on purpose or not, making her feel like a quaint little visitor or a stranger (the stranger sniffling and picking at the stray piece of fabric lining the arm of this chair) in his home. ]
( he falters, just for a moment, awkwardness taking the place of anything and everything else. he hadn't been much better when marlene had turned up at the mission — worse, in fact, the unexpected, unwanted surprise forcing jake to the front whilst marc desperately tried to compose himself. it hadn't worked, the first sentence he'd uttered to her had been the same fucking thing he said to every single person that came to the midnight mission in search of mr. knight's help because he hadn't known what else to say. he hadn't trusted himself to say anything else because it'd been marlene.
he almost offers lottie water.
instead, he takes a seat across from her, folding one hand over the other. marc has been in this position countless times before: sometimes it's been in anger, barbed, frustrated insults thrown back and forth before whoever he's arguing with has enough and walks out; sometimes it's him, knowing he's edging closer and closer to saying something he won't be able to take back and leaving. other times, it's like this, tense and difficult and strange, where marc isn't really sure how he's gotten here and what can be done to change it. )
We don't always. But there's a kitchen... ( of sorts, anyway. a microwave, a kettle and some judiciously stocked cupboards, the contents of which are ostensibly marc's, his for when he's forgotten to eat a proper meal or when it's 9am and he's rapidly realising he's going to be awake for most of the day and into the next night. ) I thought you might want something warm.
( not true and he knows it even as he says it. he'd offered for lack of knowing what else to say and he'd hoped she'd take it as an olive branch of sorts.
(for what? he still doesn't know! which infuriates him, frankly, and—.) he taps his fingers, gloved still — of course! — against the arm of his chair. ) So. What is it?
[ She almost, almost, asks why, surprised he even said something like that to begin with. Probably because Lottie knows if he was worried about whether she was cold or not he would've done something sooner, something quicker than.. Making a mug of coffee in his kitchen? Making her tea? She digs a little deeper into the cushion on that arm and she breathes through her noseβ tight, pensive. Taut like a wire ready to snap when he says, 'What is it?'
His fingers tap, tap, tap at his desk at the same time and Lottie feels an inkling of irritation. The sound is annoying, grates on her ears in a way that has never bothered her before, and it's the fact she can't see his fingernails tap against that hardwood that probably makes the feeling stir in her gut.
Belatedly, days later, now she kind of gets it. Why Marc talks about himself in third person, why he so vehemently insists Moon Knight and Marc Spector are different peopleβ it's because (maybe? maybe) they are. She likes to think if the mask was off this wouldn't happen, in fact some delusional part of her is almost convinced of this. That maybe she'd find something to say, instead of just staring elsewhere, if she was actually looking at his eyes instead of the ones on his mask.
Now, she gets it. She hates that she does.
His mask and his stupid cape are still on, the cape that doesn't have any reason to even be worn inside because there's no draft in here. Finally, she looks at him, lips tugging down in a frown. Then, a thin line, her attempt at schooling her expression when she's on the spot. ]
I'd like to talk to Marc, [ There's a painfully obvious moment, where she almost says 'please'. There's an equally (painfulβ) obvious moment where she swallows it down, ] if he's not busy.
( marc and moon knight aren't separate, they're just lines in the sand that marc draws and wishes he could will into existence. moon knight is half-formed, a semi-personality that more frequently than marc will ever to admit to, marc wishes were a whole personality that'd swallow him up. moon knight is a redemption that marc never seems to quite be able to follow through on.
lottie asks to speak to marc and marc realises, quite suddenly, that it's perhaps the first time she's vocalised anything of his — condition.
he stills, fingers ceasing their tapping. the unspoken please is almost tangible and marc finds himself, not for the first time, regretting how he is. he knows he makes it difficult, but even with the knowledge — that someone else would do something different, say something else — marc never seems to find any of that in the moment. more than once, marc has been asked if he's even aware that he makes it hard for everyone in his life and the answer, truthfully, is shameful because in all his near-forty years of life, it hasn't once changed.
marc almost wishes he was busy because he's never particularly enjoyed these conversations. it'd be an easy out — oh, sorry, here's jake or even steven, who'd be more than happy to elucidate on all of marc's many, many poor decisions and remarkable lack of emotional presence.
lottie asks to speak to marc and marc sighs. fingers reach up towards his face and he pushes back the cowl, pulls at the mask, hair not so much spilling out from underneath so much as just being disturbed. it's not a great look — hair slick against his forehead, slightly sweaty, slightly greasy (the mask isn't very breathable) — but it's all marc, and his still-gloved hand pushes his honestly-in-need-of-a-wash hair back away from his eyes. the white does nothing for his complexion, only serves to emphasise just how little sun marc sees these days, how much time he spends covered head-to-toe and in the pale cast of moonlight. )
Who do you think you're talking to? ( that's — probably not the something to say. )
Finally. Finally, he stops tapping, finally he starts listening. He eases the cowl and drags the mask back, drops it somewhere she doesn't care to pay attention to. She is silent, the only sound in the room being the remnants of Marc's sigh and the rustling of taking himself apart, piece by piece. While he doesn't give her everything, he, at the very least, understands what she wants. Finally, is willing to bend and give her some of what she asks. ]
I don't know!
[ It's mumbled into the skin of her hand, lips pressing against her knuckles because she does. Lottie does know, but she won't say. He's so bare in front of her, looking every bit burdened by whatever kind of conversation they're going to have on top of everything else that all she can do is stare. Now, she looks the tiniest bit more comfortableβ relaxed. Yes, his fingers are still clad in white, but she can see the dark circles beneath his eyes and how shitty they look in the barely there lighting of the room.
Looking at his face, she can pretend they're in her living room. Like she didn't stalk him online to get to talk to him for the first time in days (because that's normal, right?). That there isn't this weird energy in the air that twists and shifts the longer they dance around each other.
Her teeth dig into her lip and she inhales. Doesn't break eye contact until she says just a touch louderβ ]
( he's tired, he thinks, but he's not really sure in what capacity. he's not really sure if it's the sort of tired sleep can fix or if it's just who he is. sleep would probably help though, would probably do something to quell the headache pushing at the backs of his eyes, would put a halt to what otherwise feels like unceasing restlessness.
maybe it's not tiredness, maybe it's just weariness and marc's certain there's a difference, even if he wouldn't be able to vocalise what that difference is. maybe if he closes his eyes, it'll reset the fabric of the conversation because he doesn't know where to begin with any of that. how many times has lottie said she doesn't know tonight? is there anything she knows?
he watches her as she watches him. she's an odd mix of nervous energy, simultaneous happier now that he's taken off the mask and unquestionably given her marc, but at the same time unsure — because, he thinks, he's him.
she speaks again and he drops his gaze. (fucking hell, she 'wanted to see his face'?) ) Well, that makes one of us. ( he mutters, sullenly and laboured, as if it's her remark that's preposterous and not him, not his pointed aversion to being marc spector. ) I hear there's this great invention, they're called cameras. I'm pretty sure you've heard of them.
[ What the hell? She sits a little straighter at that, not so much at his words but how he says it. Where did that come from? What is she even supposed to say to that? Is he seriously saying, 'take a photo, it'll last longer'? Is that what this is? Christ. She refuses to even voice her acknowledgment of what she thinks he's saying, instead letting her heart skip oddly in her chest at how strange this turned.
But Lottie isn't Lottie without rising to the bait, without feeling hurt and wanting to lash out in turn because what else can you do? Even if she's confused, even if she should think a little more on this, but she just can't. She doesn't get him. ]
Okay, [ She exhales shakily. ] okay. Sure, I'll pull up one of the ten billion photos I have of us so you can wear your mask whenever.
[ And she makes a show of it, decides that fine. She can do this, too. She goes through her gallery and scrolls. Scrolls, continues scrolling, and she feels her spirit wither at the depressing fact there isn't even one photo of them together. The only photo she has of him isβ his mugshot. The one she set to his profile picture on her phone, the one she stared at whenever she checked to see if he maybe texted her. The one that looks back at her with a little less intensity than the real life copy. ]
Becauseβ I [ A beat. ] I'm obviously asking for too much, here.
( marc takes not a single moment in the ensuing silence to self-reflect, to consider that he's misconstrued what lottie's said and what she means as she sits there, sadly, picking at the material of his chair. he doesn't consider that marc's thoughts often make sense only to marc and rephrase or explain what he'd meant.
he does, at least, have the self-awareness enough to wince when she says that she must be asking for too much, when she scrolls through her phone and has precisely nothing to show for it. what he doesn't have is the ability to put that into words, to say now — rather than later, after he's spent hours replaying their conversation and reaching the not-at-all unusual conclusion that he's done a great job of fucking that up — that he's sorry, that it didn't come out right (did it not?), that he hadn't thought (that's generally the problem), and he—
—what, this is just how he is?
I'm asking too much. yes, he could say. if you're expecting someone who is capable of communicating, he could explain, you are expecting too much. he'd never been able to be better for his father, for randall, for marlene, gena or jean-paul, so why would she be any different?
he doesn't say any of that. )
You haven't told me anything, ( he says instead, waving a hand to punctuate the point. ) 'What are you doing?' 'I don't know', 'why are you here?' 'I don't know', 'what is this about?' 'I don't know'. It's incredible—. ( he breathes in, sharply, as it does occur to him — for the first time — how he sounds. he had been trying to be better than this, hadn't he? (too late.) ) You're fine, but you decide to come— you don't know what I do. ( he should probably stop talking, a voice at the edges of his thoughts says. adds that he could maybe still salvage this conversation if he doesn't say anything else, if he apologises.
he doesn't. instead, he leans forward, just a touch. ) What were you hoping for? If I'd been busy? ( 'what if I'd been in the middle of beating the shit out of some guy?' he means. 'what if I'd been covered in blood both my own and someone else's?', 'what if you'd seen how much I enjoy it?'.
abruptly, he stands and turns away from lottie, attention shifting to the window. he can't see the moon from here. the street is instead illuminated by street lamps and the headlights of passing cars. he counts three passing before one of them takes issue with something and blares its horn.
he shoulders slump and he stays like that, back still to lottie. ) I don't need you seeing any of that. ( he turns his head, just a touch. it's not enough to see her, but it's enough to make out the shapes of the room near her. the statues, the books he's never read and will never read, the plants he'd thought would make the mission feel more welcoming. ) That's what you're asking. To see the blood and the bruises.
( he — turns towards and pulls at one glove, placing it down on the table between them. something metal makes a dull thud as he does so, the sound repeated as he does the same with the second glove. )
Would you still be sitting there saying 'I want to talk to Marc', 'Marc, let me see your face'? ( he asks and even he's surprised at how bitter he sounds when the words take shape. he's never really spent too much time thinking about how it'd felt when marlene had asked for steven, thinks she might have stopped that some time after peter had died and she'd realised, perhaps, that there wasn't any escaping marc in their relationship. he swallows the thought down, deep, and makes a note of let's not revisit that ever. )
[ She feels like running away the second Marc starts his barage, feels like hiding somewhere dark, somewhere no one can find her when he tells her exactly how unhelpful she's been. He's rightβ Esther lets Lottie get away with her 'I don't knows' because she knows how she works intimately, already knows how bratty and strange and immature she is for someone her age. Esther humors her and, when she needs toβ be stern with her. She's never crossed that bridge with Marc, has never had to be on the receiving end of whatever this is (his rightful anger, his confusion). Her eyes begin to water profusely when he insists she's fine, because she's not. She's been waiting at her phone for any sign he might care, because he's the one that's fine, and he has no right to think she's okay.
Marc has no right toβ she hiccups, feels her lips wobbleβ to think about her. How dare he think about her! When he's so busy, fuck, she doesn't know. Being bruised and bloody? Doing stupid moon adjacent things. Her eyes track him as he separates them even further, creates a barrier she's both too scared and too stubborn to cross. He can't even look at her when he says this, and that's what makes the tears break and slide down her cheeks. Her nose starts to get clogged, and she has to sniff and shakily breathe as phlegm gathers unhelpfully at the back of her throat.
Those gloves hit the table hard. They make her wince, each time. Her eyes track the way they trail on the table, move to his hands and the way they move back at his side. He asks her whether she'd still be sitting here, parroting her words so bitterly she is torn between being mean and sad. Does it matter? What she says? Is it so stupid that she missed him? That sheβ ]
I justβ I just wanted you to text me.
[ βit's a stupid, broken, whisper. Just as stupid (maybe he's right, she thinks) as the reason why she's here. Marc would never believe she just missed him. Not that she'd tell him, not that she makes it easy to let her emotions be so open, when she's so scared of how people will take it β after all, being honest isn't in. It isn't trendy. It's vulnerable, vulnerable, vulnerable. It's scary and horrifying, because it means she can be hurt. Arguably just as much as she feels right now, with Marc lobbing accusation after accusation. And he's right to think so, in a wayβ Lottie hasn't said anything worthwhile, has dodged every question where she could so she can't be held accountable. ]
I just wanted you to talk to me. I don'tβ [ She grounds her teeth together, fighting against the instinctual desire to say 'I don't know' because it's safer. ] you don't even know what I'm asking! You don't care what I'm asking, right? You know me so well, right?! You haven'tβ [ She tries to laugh, tries to hold onto some semblance of composure but she can't. It just comes out warbly and strange, uncomfortable. It sounds hurt even to her own ears, ] I'mβ you're just assuming so much shit about me.
You don't even want me here, soβ
[ She says this, but she doesn't move. Inadvertently gives him the chance to prove her wrong, to make her feel wanted. To give her the comfort she so dearly craves in this moment. ]
( marc's facial features undergo a journey. she's crying which — he's never really dealt with crying. marlene had never really cried around or to him, and he stiffens. awkward. then there's the words, the quiet admission that she wanted him to text and he's not sure if he wants to laugh or walk out of the room and away from the conversation entirely.
it's an odd sort of horror that sits on marc's face, a bemused lack of comprehension at war with the beginnings of realisation. I wanted you to talk to me lottie says and he has flashes of an argument with marlene, where he'd asked her to stay and she asked him to be honest about his feelings. he can't remember what he'd said but marlene — or at least, marlene-in-his-memories — had laughed and then said that marc really didn't get it, did he? he'd spent the rest of that night alone.
and the night after.
and the night after that.
where marlene had always given him tit for tat until she'd been too tired for it, lottie doesn't. lottie's soft in a way that marc's lifestyle has never afforded him to be, in a way that marlene had never been either. it's there in the timbre of her voice, the way that words shake and are imbued more with hurt and sadness than they are pure anger. he lets her finish, lets her try and fail to laugh, lets her say that he's assuming shit about her and he—
—he doesn't know what to do. he never has, not when the ball's thrown back into his court and he's told do something, because the only way he knows how to fix things is by breaking them and having to start afresh again and again.
it's easier to be angry, to turn all of the negative feelings into something he can use, but—
his mouth thins into a line. (does he have tissues anywhere? he has a first aid box, some sterilising wipes, some— hmm.) ) —My own kid isn't even in the same country as me, ( he blurts out, quite suddenly, unhappily. has he ever mentioned diatrice to lottie? probably not because marc doesn't. ), because it's better to not be around me.
( that is: yes, he's assuming things about her, but why wouldn't he? ) Marlene, Fr— Jean-Paul, my father, my brother. Gena. ( he ticks the names off as he goes, ) Crawley. ( beat. ) My own staff. How many people do you see here, Lottie? In the Midnight Mission. ( his expression twists at that and he almost stumbles over the words. midnight mission. him, a priest. what an absolutely ridiculous idea. ) How many of those names do you even know? None of them want anything to do with me. ( the ones that aren't dead, he doesn't add. ) Yeah, I might be assuming ( finger quotes ) "shit" about you, but the commonality in all of that is Marc Spector.
( he sits back down then, hands hovering momentarily in front of his lap like he's not sure what he wants to do with them. he wants to say he does want her here. he wants to say that he does want friends but it's a hard admission, difficult, as if it's made of the wrong sorts of words because if he says he wants her here and she leaves—.
marc doesn't cry. it's not because he thinks it's unmasculine or that it's not something that men do or whatever that bullshit is all about — he'd watched his father cry. once, when marc was a child and he'd first been taken to see someone and the someone was a doctor who'd said marc was sick, which had been weird and strange because marc had felt fine, hadn't really understood that sick wasn't just something physical.
he'd seen his father cry at night, in the dark, when he thought everyone else had gone to bed. marc had never asked what elias had cried about then, had never wanted to know if it was about where elias had come from, the journey he'd been through to reach the states. hadn't wanted to know if it was about marc and his fights, or about marc and the way he was pulling randall into his orbit.
it'd made him angry because he hadn't understood and because he hadn't understood, he'd wanted to run away from it all.
marc doesn't cry because he doesn't know how to make sense of it or how to use it. if lottie leaves, he won't cry, but he doesn't really know how to say he wouldn't be happy about it. ) Even I'm tired of my shit, Lottie. Whatever you're asking for—. ( you're not going to get it. ) That's not Marc Spector.
[ He ticks those names off a list like he had them ready.
He ticks those names off a list like he had personally picked out, every name to hurt her and remind her how distant they really are. Lottie feels like throwing up, a hand reaching up to her throat the longer he tosses point after point after her.
She can't even look at him anymore, too breathless becauseβ 'How many of those names do you even know?' She doesn't know any, actually. Not about his apparent kid or his friends, in the Midnight Mission. Lottie doesn't even feel like she's on the same plane of existence, her heart thrumming so fast in her chest that it hurts. Her brows furrow, breath picking up as she forces her hands down on the chair, to not clutch at her chest.
Yeah, he might be assuming β her mouth goes dry β "shit" about her, but.. He sits back down, and she can't see his hands hovering quite readily (with her eyes watering, constantly crying) but she can almost feel how he's just as unsure of what to do with himself as she is. It isn't enough to convince her to say anything worthwhile, to try and find a counterpoint to how he says he's tired of his own shit. To how he saysβ he insists that.. She rubs at her face, biting back a sob. God, is there a point? Is there a point to any of this? Does he even care about her?
She thinks about this on repeat, again and again. He says, 'That's not Marc Spector' and all she can think about is how little she apparently matters. Her nose is dripping snot and she can't breathe, has to stand up and fumble her way to the door to turn it and reach fresh air because she needs the space, maybe she's having a panic attack? Might need to run away? She hesitates, though, actively battling how lightheaded she is once she pushes herself out of her seat.
(Still waiting on Marc, still hoping for Marc.)
All she can do is think about his hands, his bare knucklesβ clutching her phone tight as she rests her forehead against the wood of the door. ]
( he had them ready because of course he does. marc hadn't had many friends as a child, had never been popular or even the sort of boy that other children who lived along his street invited home to play with. some of them had done, once or twice, because elias spector was a good man, a good father, a good — fair, kind — member of the community, so surely his son would be too? marc had been reclusive and odd in ways that other children didn't know how to respond to, and it'd only been as he got slightly older, when his abrasiveness could be taken as cocky, teenage rebelliousness that he'd formed relationships of sorts.
marc has never really had friends, which is why the names come so easily and so quickly. he doesn't think that lottie thinks he's using them as a jab, a means of saying 'look at how much of my life you're unfamiliar with', doesn't think that she doesn't have the context of marc spector repeatedly and systematically destroying every positive facet of his life.
as with almost every falling out and disagreement that marc has ever had, marc has done his usual thing of making it entirely about him. it occurs to him in drips and drabs that that's some of the issue, never quite whole and complete enough for him to do anything about it.
(something about not seeing the forest for the trees.)
lottie doesn't say anything as she pushes herself out of the chair and practically tumbles towards the door. he thinks of messaging reese, to ask her to please take lottie some tissues and maybe a glass of water. his fingers get partway to his phone — the battery sits on less than fifty percent, repeated drops and falls and his lifestyle meaning it has a personal vendetta against the general concept of holding a charge — and he stops. he thinks of their last conversation — he still doesn't really know what he'd said that'd upset her then, doesn't think it'll make any more sense to him now; he thinks of his message to her, a questioning 'what?' that had sat unanswered and blankly, belatedly, he comes to the conclusion that he's a fucking idiot.
(nothing new there, then.)
he cracks open the door then takes a seat on the floor next to it. he can tell from the shadow that falls between the gap of the door and the doorframe that lottie's still stood there, at least for the moment. that might change. he wouldn't be surprised if it did. )
—Take deep breaths. Slowly. Hold. Then out. (don't hyperventilate, he means, and he pauses. he hadn't turned the light on when they'd entered the room, and the shadows feel darker now, less friendly, less pleasant. he glances up at a small statue sitting on a shelf, something he'd picked up when he'd been trying to decide if he was decorating the mission with egyptian stuff because he hated khonshu or missed him. ) —You didn't answer me, ( he comments, voice low and more soft than it had been. ) So I didn't text because I didn't think. ( he knows, of course, that lottie likes attention. she likes to feel wanted, to feel known. marc never has, has never found any of it comforting in quite the same way. if he'd taken five minutes to stop and really consider, he'd have realised that she didn't answer him because she'd been hoping he would've put two and two together. )
It's not—. That's what I do, Lottie. It's not you.
( it's not an apology, not yet. that'll come later when he's had more time to think about what he means to say and how he means to say it. he might even explain what he meant by marlene and frenchie (no, not frenchie, jean-paul, how many times had he said he'd grown to hate the childish nickname?) and the rest of it. for now, it's a rephrasing of what he's already said, gentler though by no means gentle. )
[ There's a split second as she stands there, hand grasping tight at the fabric of her shirt, that she wonders why she's waiting. Marc just finished ripping her a new one with all the dramatics she's come to expect from himβ has left her hurting in a way she is desperately wishing to forget the longer she stays at the Mission. Her head positively buzzes at the thought, pure static behind her eyes and she only manages a single half step forward (and even then, can it even be considered a 'step'? Movement? All she's done is shift her weight and her tongue feels like sandpaper at the realization). Lottie still waits, lingers long enough to hear the creak of the door opening between her breaths. And then, she hears him.
Or maybe, she's hallucinating it. There's no way that it's him actually talking to her, helping her, and there's no way she'll ever know, as Lottie refuses to look down. To even angle her head slightly to see him from her peripheral, because what then? She can't go back in (she could). She doesn't want to leave (she could). She can't call Esther, even if she knows it doesn't matter what Esther is doing because she'll come running when Lottie needs her (she could).
Or, she could take a deep breath. Slowly. Hold. Then out
Don't hyperventilate, she thinks.
It works, but she still feels the horrifying pace of her heart thrum in her chest, all the way to her fingertips. Cold sweat dabbles at her skin as her breathing calms the tiniest bit. She forces her lips shut to try and breathe through her nose and she justβ makes a mess of herself, feels ugly with the way her nose runs because that's right! It's plugged from all the crying! Her face twists unpleasantly, dragging the length of her sleeve over her hand to wipe at her nose. She hears that voice again and realizes, dear god, it is actually Marc. He actually isn't just standing stoically at his desk, armed with every and anything to hurt her. To twist the knife a little deeper.
He didn't. Think? That's.. It's. It's what he does? It's not you. 'I didn't think.'
She turns over his words over and over, until they practically have a different meaning and even then she is puzzled. Unsure. Relieved? Happy? Confused? So many weird emotions grasp at her, have her in a chokehold when she thinks of how gently he says it through the crevice of the door. She wants to press herself against it so she can catch the emotion to his voice that much more. ]
Did you.. [ She lets her head fall back, careful to not let it touch the fine wood of the door unless β whatever this is β gets disturbed. This moment feels fragile, feels like it might break if she crosses that barrier. And truthfully, honestly, that is the very last thing she wants. Marc is talking to her and being plain, and simple, explaining himself and that is what she wants. She wants more of this. ] Iknowyousaidβ at leastβ after.. Did you think about, texting me?
[ There is no accusation to her voice, only a want to understand. To be understood, because in a way she is letting him know she was thinking the same. Of giving him that olive branch, even if she thought he was living his best life not even thinking about her. ]
( all he has at first is the quiet sound of subtle movements, the brushing of fabric and the sound of lottie's breaths. in the otherwise quiet of the building, they seem louder than they are and marc wills himself to ignore how distracting, how accusatory they sound in the silence. he's good at this. it's not a good thing to be good at, and his instinct has always been to react with sullen petulance, a want to bury deep the way it makes him feel.
she doesn't respond to him straight away, (fine), but she also doesn't move (fine, question mark). eventually, two words form and, briefly, go nowhere else. did you. he thinks, distantly, that whatever she's about to ask him, the answer's probably 'no, he did not'. she starts, stops and starts again, and marc tries to make sense of the jumbled, hurried words — he said what, after? — and isn't quite sure of the exact pattern of thoughts that lottie's had and so focuses on the question.
did you think about texting me?
abruptly, he thinks it's ridiculous. absurd! they sound like teenagers. did he think about texting her?! he breathes in, then out. he is too old for — this. any of this. it should be a simple question with a simple answer, but it's not quite. he didn't think about texting her, is the short of it, but he'd also thought about the fact (not the why, that'd have made sense) she hadn't responded to him.
he thinks about pointing out the fact that he's not done far more objectively worse things for people he supposedly cares about than not text them.
he stands, brushes his hands over his trousers and opens the door, blinking owlishly in the comparatively bright light of the hallway. lottie's a mess in all the opposite ways of marc and his expression flickers, unhappiness tugging the corners of his lips down, wrinkling his brow. she's tall, but he's taller, and she somehow seems to feel smaller still stood in front of him like this. )
Eventually. ( does it answer the question? everything else he can think of sounds like pathetic excuses designed to avoid responsibility. eventually he'd have texted her, he means, when he thought of something he wanted from her or for her to do. he wouldn't have asked why she didn't reply. he might have asked how she was, but not in the sense of 'what's with the radio silence?'.
it's almost definitely not the answer lottie's hoping for, he thinks, but he's not prone to lying. he doesn't clarify though, doesn't explain what he means by 'eventually'. instead, he allows her to formulate her own answer.
[ It is Marc that ends up breaking that barrier, the safety net Lottie thought he so deliberately put between themβ the door opens, just slow enough for her to not be startled by the movement and the brush of air that follows. This time, she doesn't have to shift her head as much to even see him. For most people, Lottie is tallβ she's kind of gigantic in her heels, actually. 'Most people' aren't Marc Spector, where he has to look down while Lottie has to actively look up, smaller than usual in her tennis shoes.
Her nose, her eyes, cheeks, the tips of her ears, are tinted red. Her brows are furrowed, nose twitching every so often until she aims her gaze down, realizing how gross she must look. That's not something he should see, she thinks. No one should see this Lottie, she thinks. Because he's taken away the door, has been given one long moment to see how she's coped, she decides to find another safety net: hiding the majority of her face behind a hand, her closed fist. She misses the way his brows wrinkle because of that, but she doesn't miss the odd downturn of his lips (probably from the snot, she immediately thinks, not at the fact she is so blatantly upset).
'Eventually,' hits her ears and it's subconscious, the way she curls in on herself. Not only does she seem smaller, so vulnerable, she is trying to make herself smaller. To take up as little space as possible as she ponders what that could mean.
(It means a lot, many things. Ten billion different theories considering how she knows him. The most probable? Eventually, he'd have messaged her. Changing the topic completely just to move on and be 'normal' again. Somewhere, in her dreams, it would be a message asking her how she was doing, or why she hasn't messaged him .. But she didn't get either of those today so she forces herself to be realistic, tenderly so.)
'It doesn't mean I don't care,' hits her ears and she lets out a shuddery (frankly, vaguely, phlegm filled) exhale. Her shoulders relax, ease down the tiniest bit as she lets herself soak in how much weight it carries. Predictably, Lottie doesn't say anything at first, too busy overthinking and replaying his words. Picking apart the cadence, the emphasis, how 90% of her nerves melt away at his admission. Really, her lack of anything could be mildly concerning, could very well leave him feeling tense and unsure of it what he said was the right thing or not.
Lottie knows that the two of them aren't a pair who, traditionally, hug or are overtly physical. The most she's ever done is probably slap him whenever she's felt playful, or the brushing of fingers when she's handing him something β and this is partly because she knows the skinship she has with Esther wouldn't be accepted with Marc (the skinship she likes to have with most of her friends). He has his own boundaries that she respects, even if, hm, she's never really asked him about them.. If he was an affectionate sort of person. She's just assumed this whole time that was how he is: someone who likes their space, rarely likes to touch.
So while she isn't saying anything, is in fact actively hiding the wobble to her lip behind her hand, she hopes he understands what she means, what she isn't saying, when she angles herself to slowly β tentatively, needily β rest the side of her head against his chest. Just a soft, little 'thunk' among the silence. The 'eventually' was not what she wanted to hear, but this definitely is, and she is more than willing to accept it. ]
( marc has no specific aversion to physical contact, he's just not an overly touchy person. it's not, either, that he's incapable of physical affection, it's that it doesn't come naturally to him, not without time spent and a very specific understanding of his relationship with the other individual. marc does not do glancing or incidental touches, he rarely hugs. his touches lean towards the practical, in every sense of the word.
if he were to really sit and think about it, he'd probably reach the conclusion that it's because he associates his touch with pain. of course, as with most things, marc pointedly refuses to self-examine.
he doesn't interrupt the silence, doesn't offer any judgement on the way that she moves from hiding behind the door to hiding behind her hand other than to judge himself for making her feel it's necessary. he doesn't say anything about the way she avoid looking at. he doesn't, either, anticipate her shifting her weight, doesn't expect her to lean into him to place her head against his chest. he stiffens, just for a moment, hands hovering — a very physical externalisation of his detour into feeling VERY FUCKING STARTLED — firstly by his sides and then, once he's recovered, once he's considered their conversation (not so much a conversation, to be frank—), to gently, tentatively place a hand on her back.
if he's bothered by her entire state of being — wet, emotional, slightly snotty — it's not evident in his body language. he's seen worse, caused worse — blood and vomit and all manner of bodily fluids — that a little upset doesn't bother him.
(although, idly, he thinks he's going to have to wash the suit tonight. and then he reminds himself that he'd have had to wash it anyway. at least snot and tears don't stain.)
he thinks he ought to apologise, but it'd mean breaking the silence, fragile and delicate. it'd open him up to questions of 'why' and 'what for' and he doesn't think he'd be able to answer them, thinks he'd only be able to manage something that added up to 'for this' because he is sorry for that, for tonight, for how he is, but he wouldn't be able to articulate anything deeper, wouldn't be able to name specifics.
a voice, somewhere behind him, out of sight and familiar, though nothing (no-one) he cares to put a name to, says that this is just like him: the barest of efforts put into mending something he ought to appreciate a whole lot more. reminds him that there aren't that many people out there that continue to put up with his very specific brand of self-destructive bullshit, that he's lucky to be able to count the number of people who currently do on one hand.
he ignores it, the one hand turning into two turning into something that can, by all objective measures, be called a hug. marc may not be a physically affectionate man in terms of how often he shows it or how often he seeks it out, but that doesn't mean he doesn't find comfort in it. doesn't mean he dislikes it. it's there, clear in the way his arms wrap around lottie's frame, in the way his hold is — just for a second — tight as if to say 'thank you' before he releases, awkwardness and uncertainty taking over. )
[ His suit is probably the worst thing to rest on β it's not soft in the slightest, the material feeling odd (scratchy?) against her cheek. Later, she'll wonder how badly she stained it, will offer to try and take care of her mess like she does for her own pieces (in the middle of the night, usually, her glasses on and furiously squinting down at the fabric on her lap, cleaning products situated right off to the side).
Now, all she can think about is her own comfort, how stiff Marc's chest is at first contact .. How she's probably going to have an imprint from the emblem on his chest somewhere on her face. It doesn't deter her, though, like it usually would. Lottie stays exactly where she is, gives one big inhale and an equally dramatic exhale, precisely because he hasn't given her much a signal to leave. Much a signal to anything, really.
He relaxes the tiniest bit against her and β oh.
..Oh?
There's .. A hesitant, gentle, presence at her back, fingertips finding her first before that palm is splayed flat. Dumbly, she takes inventory of where her own are, before coming to the pleasant (startling? She can't even pretend how she doesn't initially still at first contact because, woah..?!) conclusion that it's Marc's hand. Then, it is both of them that ease their way around her, awkward and unsure but wholly intent in what it is: a hug. Their first! And she'll probably laugh about it later but this is so wholly them that it feels appropriate, how gross she is, how he tests the waters, how awkward they both are. And when he squeezes β just for a second β tight, Lottie finally (finally) feels comfortable. He's already let go but that doesn't stop the decision to ease all of her weight onto him.
It certainly doesn't stop her from wrapping one, then two, arms around his middle.
He's pulled away, but Lottie hasn't. Has solidified her presence against him with her own squeeze, the way her arms wrap snugly around him as she deflates. She hadn't quite expected him to allow her that one tender moment of physical contact β still doesn't believe it happened in a way and probably wouldn't, if it weren't for that clutch of his. The brief up in intensity that she knows is his own way of letting her know he appreciates this (that he maybe needed this? Doesn't mind it? Is supportive? There's plenty of ways she can interpret that one vulnerable second he gave her, and for once she isn't itching for a concrete answer β she likes all of them, all the possibilities). ]
I care, too..
[ It's a light mumble against his chest, only loud enough for him to catch it. Because she's afraid if she says it any louder more of her emotions will bleed through, clue him into just how relieved and happy she is. ]
( lottie caring was never really a question. in spite of everything, in spite of marc's fatalism towards relationships in any capacity (at odds with his determination to not let go, even after he should have), marc has never thought that lottie doesn't care. she doesn't always show it in socially expected ways but that's fine, marc's never particularly cared for that.
she doesn't pull away from the brief hug and marc realises he hadn't expected her to. even so, while there'd been part of him that had expected her to reciprocate, it's not enough to stop him from being slightly surprised at the way she relaxes, the way she rests more of her weight against him and, it occurs to marc, in contrast to the moment they're having (it is a moment, he supposes, and he's ordinarily very good at ruining those—) that he's stuck here now, at least until lottie decides she's had enough of using him as a pillow or until he carefully extricates himself. )
I know, ( he admits, softly. his voice sounds odd to his ears, strange in the not-quite silence of the building. though lottie had just spoken — whispered, really, quiet and thick all at the same time — marc's voice is louder, no wetness, no lingering upset from tears and crying to change how he sounds. he's appreciative, thankful, but still tired — no, drained, maybe. physical exertion has nothing on emotions.
(what an evening.) ) I didn't mean to make you doubt that.
[ Unfortunately, she is not ready to let go any time soon. When Lottie is at her most upset, it is always physical touch she seeks. Some form of comfort to ground her and make her forget whatever it is that is making her cry or groan or ache in the first place. She's thankful that he's willing to become that for however long she wants, needs, because she doesn't loosen her hold when he admits to knowing she cares.
(She figured this, Lottie is the opposite of 'subtle' point blank. But in the way she likes to hear words of support, validation, so open and tangible for her to take, swallow, and blanket herself in, she wanted to offer him the same thing. An understanding that if the hug wasn't enough, her words β blunt, a little raw β will be.)
His voice rings above her, tone soft. She lifts her gaze up like she'd even be able to catch anything other than the sharp curve of his jaw. Truthfully, deep down, some part of her knew that (was hoping for it). But there's a larger, more persuasive, part of her that swims too close to the surface. Is so easy to listen to than the part that screams have some patience, not everyone is like you. It's the lack of self confidence, self esteem, the lack of faith that just being herself will hold any relationship together that made her question him so much in the first place. There's a nod against him after she lets his words sit and settle, swim in her mind. There's an anxious little shuffle of her feet, a firm press of her face closer to his chest because she's gearing up to ask, voice hopefulβ ]
..Are we okay? I want us to be okay. [ Please is somewhere lost in there. ] I won't do anything dumb like I did tonight.. I promise.
( she doesn't let go, not yet, and after she speaks marc shifts his weight. it's not enough to abruptly pull away from her, but to loosen her hold enough for him to take a small step back in order to look at her rather than awkwardly bending his neck and getting nothing in return except the top of her head. she asks if they're okay and the thought that they aren't — wouldn't be — hadn't ever occurred to him.
marc has only ever ended relationships himself with violence: fighting elias, killing randall (several times, technically), killing jeff. the rest, through a certain lens, he supposes it could be argued that he had ended them by being so desperately himself that it left little room for anything else, but marc had never been the one to walk out. he'd been the one to argue for not ending it — with marlene, asking her to take him back (again, and again, and again, promising her he'd be better, different — that he'd talk to her more, give her what she wanted from him rather than taking all the time—); with frenchie, by asking him to fly the chopper or the mooncopter or whatever method of transportation marc was presently enamoured by. gena, by going to her diner and asking her about the kids and trying to wrangle them into helping him.
all of them had ended with the other person saying 'no, marc, that's enough.'
marc's temper has a tendency to get the better of him, leading him to say things in anger he wouldn't otherwise say but often, once it's over, once he's over it regardless of what anyone else might think or feel, he dives straight back into the status quo, of attempting to carry on exactly where he'd left off unless forced to acknowledge his actions. )
We're fine. ( it's a statement, not a question, not even marc looking for confirmation, that lottie agrees with him. it says, bluntly, that marc hadn't thought there'd be an alternative. )
[ It is severe whiplash, what she feels when he so plainly β confidently β states that they're fine. That, maybe, they always were? Somehow? That's the feeling she gets, anyway, when she looks up at him, brows raised and jaw slack, completely at a loss of what to say. He hits her with the offer, no, statement, that he will get her tissues, and she blinks. Then realizes, shit, she's fully looking up at him with snot on her face. Still, she lingers with her arms around him, not quite ready to withdraw and leave the safety of his chest. She frowns to herself, looks up at him beneath her lashes before slowly untangling herself from him. ]
Oh, um.. Yeah!! Sure, okay.
[ Her arms are officially by her side, after a moment of awkward fumbling. Then, her fingers pick at the lining of her hoodie. And then, they curl at her hair, braiding it idly as she scuffs a foot on the linoleum of the floor, a tad anxious, a tad happy that he's even offered to gather her something to spruce herself with. Despite her face being so open, she pointedly looks down, only glances at him from angles she deems safe.
For once, it is not small, her voice β Lottie makes sure to clear her throat before she says (announces? The volume is hard to tell, all considering she's been crying and her throat is scratchy, still tender from all the emotion she's let loose), ]
( lottie doesn't respond, not immediately. instead, she stares at him with an expression that marc thinks is equal parts bemused and conflicted. he notices, files it away and pointedly refuses to linger on it, doesn't spare much of a thought towards what it might mean until she releases him. he doesn't, either, spend too long wondering about the way she falters a little as she responds to him, or the way that she fidgets with her clothes and her hair. (it's fine.)
he busies himself on the other side of the room, trying first one drawer and then another. a first aid box is placed to one side (not helpful, unless lottie fancies gauze dressings or crepe bandages instead of tissues) before locating a box of facial tissues (soft) and, after a moment of brief hesitance, a pack of wet wipes (just in case? he wouldn't really know.)
he starts, taken by surprise when lottie clears her throat and he half glances over his shoulder just in time to catch the 'thanks'. it's an odd utterance and contrasts with the tone of everything else — marc isn't quite sure he'd class it as happy, not given the palpable emotions, but it's — content, almost? he hesitates briefly before humming a noise of acknowledgment — notably not a 'you're welcome' — before walking back over to her, box of tissues in one hand, wet wipes in the other. )
[ Lottie may be ducking her head to hide her face, but she can't help the invasive curiosity that takes her, hearing Marc shuffle around the office. Looking for something that is entirely not Moon Knight appropriate (she always did wonder what he'd do if he had a runny nose under his mask, though). And when he returns, emerges from the barely lit office and lets some of the fluorescent light from the hallway spill onto him, he bringsβ she breathes out in astonishment, something soft and thankful skirting across her face.
He has wet wipes.
Even the tissues that have lotion built in so your nose doesn't get dry (she knows this without having to touch it β she recognizes the box immediately to be from the same family of the one she has in her own home, hidden by her bedside).
When she does touch it (soft), it feels nice between her fingers. Feels just as nice on her nose when she begins the process of cleaning herself upβ something that is strange and has notes of, uh, positively scary and terrifying to do in front of someone that isn't herself. Moments like these she strictly dedicates to a bathroom, to the Lottie in the mirror that looks just as disgusted as she feels. There is none of that here, only Marc, now privy to one of the most personal rituals she's ever created for herself, and only herself.
Because while it's normal, it certainly isn't pretty. Lottie hacks and coughs into a tissue, she blows her nose until she realizes it's just going to stay stuffy now, and she dabs at the corners of her eyes because she is still wearing mascara (of course she is). A wet wipe goes used to make sure there's no stains, no gross bits, left on her face, and she sighs with relief into the action. Her nose and cheeks, even her eyes, are still red, but she looks more comfortable. Infinitely better than she did before.
And, noticeably, a little less stringent on keeping her face tucked away after she's searched for a trash can (and found oneβ just a little ways out of the room and in the brightly lit hallway). ]
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(Esther would be proud of her, she thinks distantly.)
All Lottie feels right now is that it wouldn't be worth it, she can't even see his face β can't make sure if the hurt lingers through that stupid, tacky, piece of fabric. Because he can see hers, the way she flinches when he corrects her ('It was,' and she'll finish it: stupid)β Lottie feels silly, now, having even done this. Feels regret sink into her bones even though she got what she wanted: an interaction.
She brings a hand up to shield her nose, a sniffle following. Her gaze is tucked down at their feet, her toes curling uncomfortably in her shoes. She hates how he's even giving her the option to go, handing her the reins for her own sanity β almost like he's trying to be polite, to be considerate. ]
Fine.
[ And even though she knows where it is, could probably walk there in the signature bratty way Lottie does when she's hurt, all she does is lamely gesture towards Marc. She wants him to lead, and for her to follow. ]
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that'd been what rogers and stark had both missed back when they'd had their little (""little"") nation-spanning argument about how best to utilise and reign in superheroes. it wasn't a choice for people like him and daredevil and frank. it was a part of who they were.
marc leads the way in silence, only occasionally half glancing over his shoulder to check that she's still following, to make sure she's okay. (it's a loose term, because he knows she's not okay, but there's nothing he can do about it here and now, not until they reach their destination.)
he does not think the midnight mission is an imposing building. it's all glass fronts and soft illuminations, frosted moons decorating each of the windows. he was quite pleased with it, in truth, even if it'd taken him some time to decide on how he wanted the interior to look. where grant mansion had had marlene's touch, the mission is all marc and yet none of him at all. marc had chosen the artifacts, the plants, the ostentatiousness of it all because that was what moon knight was: egyptian stuff.
marc is none of that and so, really, though marc had chosen everything about the mission, he'd done it deliberately so as to show precisely nothing of himself, the building as much of a mask and a costume as everything else of moon knight is.
he grunts a greeting at reese as they enter. he notices the flicker of surprise that says she didn't expect him back so early, notices the way her gaze shifts to lottie, notices the way she deliberately doesn't say anything because by this point, reese knows marc's moods and knows when it's okay to push and when it's not. tonight is not a pushing night.
he leads lottie into a room that's decorated the same as the others, though it's pointedly, deliberately not the room where mr. knight greets those that come to the mission asking for his help. reese's office is separated from that by only a door and marc thinks it unwise, thinks that whatever conversation he and lottie are about to have, reese does not need to overhear.
he gestures, tight and constrained, at a chair. ) —Tea? Coffee? ( he asks, reflexively, not thinking about how it might come across to ask of lottie the same questions he gives mr. knight's guests, as if she's here for anything other than to speak to marc.
(he doesn't think, either, to take off the mask.) )
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She almost doesn't follow him in, but her brain is on autopilot so she does.
Her brain is so much on autopilot that she doesn't even notice Reese glance their way (her way), so intently focused on his shoes and how the tile of the floor changes beneath them as they enter another room. The door shuts remarkably soft behind them, and her own steps come to a stop somewhere in the middle of the room. Now, she looks up, sees where they are (a good step in the right direction) and sees Marcβ
βstill with his mask on.
(A.. Bad step. In the wrong direction. Her lips purse.)
Should she say something? She debates over this as he gestures towards a chair, and she stares dumbly at it. Tea? He asks. Coffee? He tries again. What is she, on business? Lottie feels her patience grow thin, fingers curling into her palm once, twice, before she stiffly eases herself down into the offered seat. ]
Since when do you offer drinks?
[ She feels her face grow warm, something like embarrassment sifting through her veins as she pointedly looks at the decor on the wallsβ they get things for each other all the time, sure, but this is different. And the worst part is she can't tell if he's doing this on purpose or not, making her feel like a quaint little visitor or a stranger (the stranger sniffling and picking at the stray piece of fabric lining the arm of this chair) in his home. ]
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( he falters, just for a moment, awkwardness taking the place of anything and everything else. he hadn't been much better when marlene had turned up at the mission — worse, in fact, the unexpected, unwanted surprise forcing jake to the front whilst marc desperately tried to compose himself. it hadn't worked, the first sentence he'd uttered to her had been the same fucking thing he said to every single person that came to the midnight mission in search of mr. knight's help because he hadn't known what else to say. he hadn't trusted himself to say anything else because it'd been marlene.
he almost offers lottie water.
instead, he takes a seat across from her, folding one hand over the other. marc has been in this position countless times before: sometimes it's been in anger, barbed, frustrated insults thrown back and forth before whoever he's arguing with has enough and walks out; sometimes it's him, knowing he's edging closer and closer to saying something he won't be able to take back and leaving. other times, it's like this, tense and difficult and strange, where marc isn't really sure how he's gotten here and what can be done to change it. )
We don't always. But there's a kitchen... ( of sorts, anyway. a microwave, a kettle and some judiciously stocked cupboards, the contents of which are ostensibly marc's, his for when he's forgotten to eat a proper meal or when it's 9am and he's rapidly realising he's going to be awake for most of the day and into the next night. ) I thought you might want something warm.
( not true and he knows it even as he says it. he'd offered for lack of knowing what else to say and he'd hoped she'd take it as an olive branch of sorts.
(for what? he still doesn't know! which infuriates him, frankly, and—.) he taps his fingers, gloved still — of course! — against the arm of his chair. ) So. What is it?
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His fingers tap, tap, tap at his desk at the same time and Lottie feels an inkling of irritation. The sound is annoying, grates on her ears in a way that has never bothered her before, and it's the fact she can't see his fingernails tap against that hardwood that probably makes the feeling stir in her gut.
Belatedly, days later, now she kind of gets it. Why Marc talks about himself in third person, why he so vehemently insists Moon Knight and Marc Spector are different peopleβ it's because (maybe? maybe) they are. She likes to think if the mask was off this wouldn't happen, in fact some delusional part of her is almost convinced of this. That maybe she'd find something to say, instead of just staring elsewhere, if she was actually looking at his eyes instead of the ones on his mask.
Now, she gets it. She hates that she does.
His mask and his stupid cape are still on, the cape that doesn't have any reason to even be worn inside because there's no draft in here. Finally, she looks at him, lips tugging down in a frown. Then, a thin line, her attempt at schooling her expression when she's on the spot. ]
I'd like to talk to Marc, [ There's a painfully obvious moment, where she almost says 'please'. There's an equally (painfulβ) obvious moment where she swallows it down, ] if he's not busy.
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lottie asks to speak to marc and marc realises, quite suddenly, that it's perhaps the first time she's vocalised anything of his — condition.
he stills, fingers ceasing their tapping. the unspoken please is almost tangible and marc finds himself, not for the first time, regretting how he is. he knows he makes it difficult, but even with the knowledge — that someone else would do something different, say something else — marc never seems to find any of that in the moment. more than once, marc has been asked if he's even aware that he makes it hard for everyone in his life and the answer, truthfully, is shameful because in all his near-forty years of life, it hasn't once changed.
marc almost wishes he was busy because he's never particularly enjoyed these conversations. it'd be an easy out — oh, sorry, here's jake or even steven, who'd be more than happy to elucidate on all of marc's many, many poor decisions and remarkable lack of emotional presence.
lottie asks to speak to marc and marc sighs. fingers reach up towards his face and he pushes back the cowl, pulls at the mask, hair not so much spilling out from underneath so much as just being disturbed. it's not a great look — hair slick against his forehead, slightly sweaty, slightly greasy (the mask isn't very breathable) — but it's all marc, and his still-gloved hand pushes his honestly-in-need-of-a-wash hair back away from his eyes. the white does nothing for his complexion, only serves to emphasise just how little sun marc sees these days, how much time he spends covered head-to-toe and in the pale cast of moonlight. )
Who do you think you're talking to? ( that's — probably not the something to say. )
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Finally. Finally, he stops tapping, finally he starts listening. He eases the cowl and drags the mask back, drops it somewhere she doesn't care to pay attention to. She is silent, the only sound in the room being the remnants of Marc's sigh and the rustling of taking himself apart, piece by piece. While he doesn't give her everything, he, at the very least, understands what she wants. Finally, is willing to bend and give her some of what she asks. ]
I don't know!
[ It's mumbled into the skin of her hand, lips pressing against her knuckles because she does. Lottie does know, but she won't say. He's so bare in front of her, looking every bit burdened by whatever kind of conversation they're going to have on top of everything else that all she can do is stare. Now, she looks the tiniest bit more comfortableβ relaxed. Yes, his fingers are still clad in white, but she can see the dark circles beneath his eyes and how shitty they look in the barely there lighting of the room.
Looking at his face, she can pretend they're in her living room. Like she didn't stalk him online to get to talk to him for the first time in days (because that's normal, right?). That there isn't this weird energy in the air that twists and shifts the longer they dance around each other.
Her teeth dig into her lip and she inhales. Doesn't break eye contact until she says just a touch louderβ ]
Just wanted to see your face, I guess..
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maybe it's not tiredness, maybe it's just weariness and marc's certain there's a difference, even if he wouldn't be able to vocalise what that difference is. maybe if he closes his eyes, it'll reset the fabric of the conversation because he doesn't know where to begin with any of that. how many times has lottie said she doesn't know tonight? is there anything she knows?
he watches her as she watches him. she's an odd mix of nervous energy, simultaneous happier now that he's taken off the mask and unquestionably given her marc, but at the same time unsure — because, he thinks, he's him.
she speaks again and he drops his gaze. (fucking hell, she 'wanted to see his face'?) ) Well, that makes one of us. ( he mutters, sullenly and laboured, as if it's her remark that's preposterous and not him, not his pointed aversion to being marc spector. ) I hear there's this great invention, they're called cameras. I'm pretty sure you've heard of them.
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But Lottie isn't Lottie without rising to the bait, without feeling hurt and wanting to lash out in turn because what else can you do? Even if she's confused, even if she should think a little more on this, but she just can't. She doesn't get him. ]
Okay, [ She exhales shakily. ] okay. Sure, I'll pull up one of the ten billion photos I have of us so you can wear your mask whenever.
[ And she makes a show of it, decides that fine. She can do this, too. She goes through her gallery and scrolls. Scrolls, continues scrolling, and she feels her spirit wither at the depressing fact there isn't even one photo of them together. The only photo she has of him isβ his mugshot. The one she set to his profile picture on her phone, the one she stared at whenever she checked to see if he maybe texted her. The one that looks back at her with a little less intensity than the real life copy. ]
Becauseβ I [ A beat. ] I'm obviously asking for too much, here.
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he does, at least, have the self-awareness enough to wince when she says that she must be asking for too much, when she scrolls through her phone and has precisely nothing to show for it. what he doesn't have is the ability to put that into words, to say now — rather than later, after he's spent hours replaying their conversation and reaching the not-at-all unusual conclusion that he's done a great job of fucking that up — that he's sorry, that it didn't come out right (did it not?), that he hadn't thought (that's generally the problem), and he—
—what, this is just how he is?
I'm asking too much. yes, he could say. if you're expecting someone who is capable of communicating, he could explain, you are expecting too much. he'd never been able to be better for his father, for randall, for marlene, gena or jean-paul, so why would she be any different?
he doesn't say any of that. )
You haven't told me anything, ( he says instead, waving a hand to punctuate the point. ) 'What are you doing?' 'I don't know', 'why are you here?' 'I don't know', 'what is this about?' 'I don't know'. It's incredible—. ( he breathes in, sharply, as it does occur to him — for the first time — how he sounds. he had been trying to be better than this, hadn't he? (too late.) ) You're fine, but you decide to come— you don't know what I do. ( he should probably stop talking, a voice at the edges of his thoughts says. adds that he could maybe still salvage this conversation if he doesn't say anything else, if he apologises.
he doesn't. instead, he leans forward, just a touch. ) What were you hoping for? If I'd been busy? ( 'what if I'd been in the middle of beating the shit out of some guy?' he means. 'what if I'd been covered in blood both my own and someone else's?', 'what if you'd seen how much I enjoy it?'.
abruptly, he stands and turns away from lottie, attention shifting to the window. he can't see the moon from here. the street is instead illuminated by street lamps and the headlights of passing cars. he counts three passing before one of them takes issue with something and blares its horn.
he shoulders slump and he stays like that, back still to lottie. ) I don't need you seeing any of that. ( he turns his head, just a touch. it's not enough to see her, but it's enough to make out the shapes of the room near her. the statues, the books he's never read and will never read, the plants he'd thought would make the mission feel more welcoming. ) That's what you're asking. To see the blood and the bruises.
( he — turns towards and pulls at one glove, placing it down on the table between them. something metal makes a dull thud as he does so, the sound repeated as he does the same with the second glove. )
Would you still be sitting there saying 'I want to talk to Marc', 'Marc, let me see your face'? ( he asks and even he's surprised at how bitter he sounds when the words take shape. he's never really spent too much time thinking about how it'd felt when marlene had asked for steven, thinks she might have stopped that some time after peter had died and she'd realised, perhaps, that there wasn't any escaping marc in their relationship. he swallows the thought down, deep, and makes a note of let's not revisit that ever. )
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Marc has no right toβ she hiccups, feels her lips wobbleβ to think about her. How dare he think about her! When he's so busy, fuck, she doesn't know. Being bruised and bloody? Doing stupid moon adjacent things. Her eyes track him as he separates them even further, creates a barrier she's both too scared and too stubborn to cross. He can't even look at her when he says this, and that's what makes the tears break and slide down her cheeks. Her nose starts to get clogged, and she has to sniff and shakily breathe as phlegm gathers unhelpfully at the back of her throat.
Those gloves hit the table hard. They make her wince, each time. Her eyes track the way they trail on the table, move to his hands and the way they move back at his side. He asks her whether she'd still be sitting here, parroting her words so bitterly she is torn between being mean and sad. Does it matter? What she says? Is it so stupid that she missed him? That sheβ ]
I justβ I just wanted you to text me.
[ βit's a stupid, broken, whisper. Just as stupid (maybe he's right, she thinks) as the reason why she's here. Marc would never believe she just missed him. Not that she'd tell him, not that she makes it easy to let her emotions be so open, when she's so scared of how people will take it β after all, being honest isn't in. It isn't trendy. It's vulnerable, vulnerable, vulnerable. It's scary and horrifying, because it means she can be hurt. Arguably just as much as she feels right now, with Marc lobbing accusation after accusation. And he's right to think so, in a wayβ Lottie hasn't said anything worthwhile, has dodged every question where she could so she can't be held accountable. ]
I just wanted you to talk to me. I don'tβ [ She grounds her teeth together, fighting against the instinctual desire to say 'I don't know' because it's safer. ] you don't even know what I'm asking! You don't care what I'm asking, right? You know me so well, right?! You haven'tβ [ She tries to laugh, tries to hold onto some semblance of composure but she can't. It just comes out warbly and strange, uncomfortable. It sounds hurt even to her own ears, ] I'mβ you're just assuming so much shit about me.
You don't even want me here, soβ
[ She says this, but she doesn't move. Inadvertently gives him the chance to prove her wrong, to make her feel wanted. To give her the comfort she so dearly craves in this moment. ]
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it's an odd sort of horror that sits on marc's face, a bemused lack of comprehension at war with the beginnings of realisation. I wanted you to talk to me lottie says and he has flashes of an argument with marlene, where he'd asked her to stay and she asked him to be honest about his feelings. he can't remember what he'd said but marlene — or at least, marlene-in-his-memories — had laughed and then said that marc really didn't get it, did he? he'd spent the rest of that night alone.
and the night after.
and the night after that.
where marlene had always given him tit for tat until she'd been too tired for it, lottie doesn't. lottie's soft in a way that marc's lifestyle has never afforded him to be, in a way that marlene had never been either. it's there in the timbre of her voice, the way that words shake and are imbued more with hurt and sadness than they are pure anger. he lets her finish, lets her try and fail to laugh, lets her say that he's assuming shit about her and he—
—he doesn't know what to do. he never has, not when the ball's thrown back into his court and he's told do something, because the only way he knows how to fix things is by breaking them and having to start afresh again and again.
it's easier to be angry, to turn all of the negative feelings into something he can use, but—
his mouth thins into a line. (does he have tissues anywhere? he has a first aid box, some sterilising wipes, some— hmm.) ) —My own kid isn't even in the same country as me, ( he blurts out, quite suddenly, unhappily. has he ever mentioned diatrice to lottie? probably not because marc doesn't. ), because it's better to not be around me.
( that is: yes, he's assuming things about her, but why wouldn't he? ) Marlene, Fr— Jean-Paul, my father, my brother. Gena. ( he ticks the names off as he goes, ) Crawley. ( beat. ) My own staff. How many people do you see here, Lottie? In the Midnight Mission. ( his expression twists at that and he almost stumbles over the words. midnight mission. him, a priest. what an absolutely ridiculous idea. ) How many of those names do you even know? None of them want anything to do with me. ( the ones that aren't dead, he doesn't add. ) Yeah, I might be assuming ( finger quotes ) "shit" about you, but the commonality in all of that is Marc Spector.
( he sits back down then, hands hovering momentarily in front of his lap like he's not sure what he wants to do with them. he wants to say he does want her here. he wants to say that he does want friends but it's a hard admission, difficult, as if it's made of the wrong sorts of words because if he says he wants her here and she leaves—.
marc doesn't cry. it's not because he thinks it's unmasculine or that it's not something that men do or whatever that bullshit is all about — he'd watched his father cry. once, when marc was a child and he'd first been taken to see someone and the someone was a doctor who'd said marc was sick, which had been weird and strange because marc had felt fine, hadn't really understood that sick wasn't just something physical.
he'd seen his father cry at night, in the dark, when he thought everyone else had gone to bed. marc had never asked what elias had cried about then, had never wanted to know if it was about where elias had come from, the journey he'd been through to reach the states. hadn't wanted to know if it was about marc and his fights, or about marc and the way he was pulling randall into his orbit.
it'd made him angry because he hadn't understood and because he hadn't understood, he'd wanted to run away from it all.
marc doesn't cry because he doesn't know how to make sense of it or how to use it. if lottie leaves, he won't cry, but he doesn't really know how to say he wouldn't be happy about it. ) Even I'm tired of my shit, Lottie. Whatever you're asking for—. ( you're not going to get it. ) That's not Marc Spector.
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He ticks those names off a list like he had personally picked out, every name to hurt her and remind her how distant they really are. Lottie feels like throwing up, a hand reaching up to her throat the longer he tosses point after point after her.
She can't even look at him anymore, too breathless becauseβ 'How many of those names do you even know?' She doesn't know any, actually. Not about his apparent kid or his friends, in the Midnight Mission. Lottie doesn't even feel like she's on the same plane of existence, her heart thrumming so fast in her chest that it hurts. Her brows furrow, breath picking up as she forces her hands down on the chair, to not clutch at her chest.
Yeah, he might be assuming β her mouth goes dry β "shit" about her, but.. He sits back down, and she can't see his hands hovering quite readily (with her eyes watering, constantly crying) but she can almost feel how he's just as unsure of what to do with himself as she is. It isn't enough to convince her to say anything worthwhile, to try and find a counterpoint to how he says he's tired of his own shit. To how he saysβ he insists that.. She rubs at her face, biting back a sob. God, is there a point? Is there a point to any of this? Does he even care about her?
She thinks about this on repeat, again and again. He says, 'That's not Marc Spector' and all she can think about is how little she apparently matters. Her nose is dripping snot and she can't breathe, has to stand up and fumble her way to the door to turn it and reach fresh air because she needs the space, maybe she's having a panic attack? Might need to run away? She hesitates, though, actively battling how lightheaded she is once she pushes herself out of her seat.
(Still waiting on Marc, still hoping for Marc.)
All she can do is think about his hands, his bare knucklesβ clutching her phone tight as she rests her forehead against the wood of the door. ]
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marc has never really had friends, which is why the names come so easily and so quickly. he doesn't think that lottie thinks he's using them as a jab, a means of saying 'look at how much of my life you're unfamiliar with', doesn't think that she doesn't have the context of marc spector repeatedly and systematically destroying every positive facet of his life.
as with almost every falling out and disagreement that marc has ever had, marc has done his usual thing of making it entirely about him. it occurs to him in drips and drabs that that's some of the issue, never quite whole and complete enough for him to do anything about it.
(something about not seeing the forest for the trees.)
lottie doesn't say anything as she pushes herself out of the chair and practically tumbles towards the door. he thinks of messaging reese, to ask her to please take lottie some tissues and maybe a glass of water. his fingers get partway to his phone — the battery sits on less than fifty percent, repeated drops and falls and his lifestyle meaning it has a personal vendetta against the general concept of holding a charge — and he stops. he thinks of their last conversation — he still doesn't really know what he'd said that'd upset her then, doesn't think it'll make any more sense to him now; he thinks of his message to her, a questioning 'what?' that had sat unanswered and blankly, belatedly, he comes to the conclusion that he's a fucking idiot.
(nothing new there, then.)
he cracks open the door then takes a seat on the floor next to it. he can tell from the shadow that falls between the gap of the door and the doorframe that lottie's still stood there, at least for the moment. that might change. he wouldn't be surprised if it did. )
—Take deep breaths. Slowly. Hold. Then out. ( don't hyperventilate, he means, and he pauses. he hadn't turned the light on when they'd entered the room, and the shadows feel darker now, less friendly, less pleasant. he glances up at a small statue sitting on a shelf, something he'd picked up when he'd been trying to decide if he was decorating the mission with egyptian stuff because he hated khonshu or missed him. ) —You didn't answer me, ( he comments, voice low and more soft than it had been. ) So I didn't text because I didn't think. ( he knows, of course, that lottie likes attention. she likes to feel wanted, to feel known. marc never has, has never found any of it comforting in quite the same way. if he'd taken five minutes to stop and really consider, he'd have realised that she didn't answer him because she'd been hoping he would've put two and two together. )
It's not—. That's what I do, Lottie. It's not you.
( it's not an apology, not yet. that'll come later when he's had more time to think about what he means to say and how he means to say it. he might even explain what he meant by marlene and frenchie (no, not frenchie, jean-paul, how many times had he said he'd grown to hate the childish nickname?) and the rest of it. for now, it's a rephrasing of what he's already said, gentler though by no means gentle. )
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Or maybe, she's hallucinating it. There's no way that it's him actually talking to her, helping her, and there's no way she'll ever know, as Lottie refuses to look down. To even angle her head slightly to see him from her peripheral, because what then? She can't go back in (she could). She doesn't want to leave (she could). She can't call Esther, even if she knows it doesn't matter what Esther is doing because she'll come running when Lottie needs her (she could).
Or, she could take a deep breath. Slowly. Hold. Then out
Don't hyperventilate, she thinks.
It works, but she still feels the horrifying pace of her heart thrum in her chest, all the way to her fingertips. Cold sweat dabbles at her skin as her breathing calms the tiniest bit. She forces her lips shut to try and breathe through her nose and she justβ makes a mess of herself, feels ugly with the way her nose runs because that's right! It's plugged from all the crying! Her face twists unpleasantly, dragging the length of her sleeve over her hand to wipe at her nose. She hears that voice again and realizes, dear god, it is actually Marc. He actually isn't just standing stoically at his desk, armed with every and anything to hurt her. To twist the knife a little deeper.
He didn't. Think? That's.. It's. It's what he does? It's not you. 'I didn't think.'
She turns over his words over and over, until they practically have a different meaning and even then she is puzzled. Unsure. Relieved? Happy? Confused? So many weird emotions grasp at her, have her in a chokehold when she thinks of how gently he says it through the crevice of the door. She wants to press herself against it so she can catch the emotion to his voice that much more. ]
Did you.. [ She lets her head fall back, careful to not let it touch the fine wood of the door unless β whatever this is β gets disturbed. This moment feels fragile, feels like it might break if she crosses that barrier. And truthfully, honestly, that is the very last thing she wants. Marc is talking to her and being plain, and simple, explaining himself and that is what she wants. She wants more of this. ] Iknowyousaidβ at leastβ after.. Did you think about, texting me?
[ There is no accusation to her voice, only a want to understand. To be understood, because in a way she is letting him know she was thinking the same. Of giving him that olive branch, even if she thought he was living his best life not even thinking about her. ]
..At all?
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she doesn't respond to him straight away, (fine), but she also doesn't move (fine, question mark). eventually, two words form and, briefly, go nowhere else. did you. he thinks, distantly, that whatever she's about to ask him, the answer's probably 'no, he did not'. she starts, stops and starts again, and marc tries to make sense of the jumbled, hurried words — he said what, after? — and isn't quite sure of the exact pattern of thoughts that lottie's had and so focuses on the question.
did you think about texting me?
abruptly, he thinks it's ridiculous. absurd! they sound like teenagers. did he think about texting her?! he breathes in, then out. he is too old for — this. any of this. it should be a simple question with a simple answer, but it's not quite. he didn't think about texting her, is the short of it, but he'd also thought about the fact (not the why, that'd have made sense) she hadn't responded to him.
he thinks about pointing out the fact that he's not done far more objectively worse things for people he supposedly cares about than not text them.
he stands, brushes his hands over his trousers and opens the door, blinking owlishly in the comparatively bright light of the hallway. lottie's a mess in all the opposite ways of marc and his expression flickers, unhappiness tugging the corners of his lips down, wrinkling his brow. she's tall, but he's taller, and she somehow seems to feel smaller still stood in front of him like this. )
Eventually. ( does it answer the question? everything else he can think of sounds like pathetic excuses designed to avoid responsibility. eventually he'd have texted her, he means, when he thought of something he wanted from her or for her to do. he wouldn't have asked why she didn't reply. he might have asked how she was, but not in the sense of 'what's with the radio silence?'.
it's almost definitely not the answer lottie's hoping for, he thinks, but he's not prone to lying. he doesn't clarify though, doesn't explain what he means by 'eventually'. instead, he allows her to formulate her own answer.
then, heavily— ) —It doesn't mean I don't care.
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Her nose, her eyes, cheeks, the tips of her ears, are tinted red. Her brows are furrowed, nose twitching every so often until she aims her gaze down, realizing how gross she must look. That's not something he should see, she thinks. No one should see this Lottie, she thinks. Because he's taken away the door, has been given one long moment to see how she's coped, she decides to find another safety net: hiding the majority of her face behind a hand, her closed fist. She misses the way his brows wrinkle because of that, but she doesn't miss the odd downturn of his lips (probably from the snot, she immediately thinks, not at the fact she is so blatantly upset).
'Eventually,' hits her ears and it's subconscious, the way she curls in on herself. Not only does she seem smaller, so vulnerable, she is trying to make herself smaller. To take up as little space as possible as she ponders what that could mean.
(It means a lot, many things. Ten billion different theories considering how she knows him. The most probable? Eventually, he'd have messaged her. Changing the topic completely just to move on and be 'normal' again. Somewhere, in her dreams, it would be a message asking her how she was doing, or why she hasn't messaged him .. But she didn't get either of those today so she forces herself to be realistic, tenderly so.)
'It doesn't mean I don't care,' hits her ears and she lets out a shuddery (frankly, vaguely, phlegm filled) exhale. Her shoulders relax, ease down the tiniest bit as she lets herself soak in how much weight it carries. Predictably, Lottie doesn't say anything at first, too busy overthinking and replaying his words. Picking apart the cadence, the emphasis, how 90% of her nerves melt away at his admission. Really, her lack of anything could be mildly concerning, could very well leave him feeling tense and unsure of it what he said was the right thing or not.
Lottie knows that the two of them aren't a pair who, traditionally, hug or are overtly physical. The most she's ever done is probably slap him whenever she's felt playful, or the brushing of fingers when she's handing him something β and this is partly because she knows the skinship she has with Esther wouldn't be accepted with Marc (the skinship she likes to have with most of her friends). He has his own boundaries that she respects, even if, hm, she's never really asked him about them.. If he was an affectionate sort of person. She's just assumed this whole time that was how he is: someone who likes their space, rarely likes to touch.
So while she isn't saying anything, is in fact actively hiding the wobble to her lip behind her hand, she hopes he understands what she means, what she isn't saying, when she angles herself to slowly β tentatively, needily β rest the side of her head against his chest. Just a soft, little 'thunk' among the silence. The 'eventually' was not what she wanted to hear, but this definitely is, and she is more than willing to accept it. ]
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if he were to really sit and think about it, he'd probably reach the conclusion that it's because he associates his touch with pain. of course, as with most things, marc pointedly refuses to self-examine.
he doesn't interrupt the silence, doesn't offer any judgement on the way that she moves from hiding behind the door to hiding behind her hand other than to judge himself for making her feel it's necessary. he doesn't say anything about the way she avoid looking at. he doesn't, either, anticipate her shifting her weight, doesn't expect her to lean into him to place her head against his chest. he stiffens, just for a moment, hands hovering — a very physical externalisation of his detour into feeling VERY FUCKING STARTLED — firstly by his sides and then, once he's recovered, once he's considered their conversation (not so much a conversation, to be frank—), to gently, tentatively place a hand on her back.
if he's bothered by her entire state of being — wet, emotional, slightly snotty — it's not evident in his body language. he's seen worse, caused worse — blood and vomit and all manner of bodily fluids — that a little upset doesn't bother him.
(although, idly, he thinks he's going to have to wash the suit tonight.
and then he reminds himself that he'd have had to wash it anyway. at least snot and tears don't stain.)
he thinks he ought to apologise, but it'd mean breaking the silence, fragile and delicate. it'd open him up to questions of 'why' and 'what for' and he doesn't think he'd be able to answer them, thinks he'd only be able to manage something that added up to 'for this' because he is sorry for that, for tonight, for how he is, but he wouldn't be able to articulate anything deeper, wouldn't be able to name specifics.
a voice, somewhere behind him, out of sight and familiar, though nothing (no-one) he cares to put a name to, says that this is just like him: the barest of efforts put into mending something he ought to appreciate a whole lot more. reminds him that there aren't that many people out there that continue to put up with his very specific brand of self-destructive bullshit, that he's lucky to be able to count the number of people who currently do on one hand.
he ignores it, the one hand turning into two turning into something that can, by all objective measures, be called a hug. marc may not be a physically affectionate man in terms of how often he shows it or how often he seeks it out, but that doesn't mean he doesn't find comfort in it. doesn't mean he dislikes it. it's there, clear in the way his arms wrap around lottie's frame, in the way his hold is — just for a second — tight as if to say 'thank you' before he releases, awkwardness and uncertainty taking over. )
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Now, all she can think about is her own comfort, how stiff Marc's chest is at first contact .. How she's probably going to have an imprint from the emblem on his chest somewhere on her face. It doesn't deter her, though, like it usually would. Lottie stays exactly where she is, gives one big inhale and an equally dramatic exhale, precisely because he hasn't given her much a signal to leave. Much a signal to anything, really.
He relaxes the tiniest bit against her and β oh.
..Oh?
There's .. A hesitant, gentle, presence at her back, fingertips finding her first before that palm is splayed flat. Dumbly, she takes inventory of where her own are, before coming to the pleasant (startling? She can't even pretend how she doesn't initially still at first contact because, woah..?!) conclusion that it's Marc's hand. Then, it is both of them that ease their way around her, awkward and unsure but wholly intent in what it is: a hug. Their first! And she'll probably laugh about it later but this is so wholly them that it feels appropriate, how gross she is, how he tests the waters, how awkward they both are. And when he squeezes β just for a second β tight, Lottie finally (finally) feels comfortable. He's already let go but that doesn't stop the decision to ease all of her weight onto him.
It certainly doesn't stop her from wrapping one, then two, arms around his middle.
He's pulled away, but Lottie hasn't. Has solidified her presence against him with her own squeeze, the way her arms wrap snugly around him as she deflates. She hadn't quite expected him to allow her that one tender moment of physical contact β still doesn't believe it happened in a way and probably wouldn't, if it weren't for that clutch of his. The brief up in intensity that she knows is his own way of letting her know he appreciates this (that he maybe needed this? Doesn't mind it? Is supportive? There's plenty of ways she can interpret that one vulnerable second he gave her, and for once she isn't itching for a concrete answer β she likes all of them, all the possibilities). ]
I care, too..
[ It's a light mumble against his chest, only loud enough for him to catch it. Because she's afraid if she says it any louder more of her emotions will bleed through, clue him into just how relieved and happy she is. ]
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she doesn't pull away from the brief hug and marc realises he hadn't expected her to. even so, while there'd been part of him that had expected her to reciprocate, it's not enough to stop him from being slightly surprised at the way she relaxes, the way she rests more of her weight against him and, it occurs to marc, in contrast to the moment they're having (it is a moment, he supposes, and he's ordinarily very good at ruining those—) that he's stuck here now, at least until lottie decides she's had enough of using him as a pillow or until he carefully extricates himself. )
I know, ( he admits, softly. his voice sounds odd to his ears, strange in the not-quite silence of the building. though lottie had just spoken — whispered, really, quiet and thick all at the same time — marc's voice is louder, no wetness, no lingering upset from tears and crying to change how he sounds. he's appreciative, thankful, but still tired — no, drained, maybe. physical exertion has nothing on emotions.
(what an evening.) ) I didn't mean to make you doubt that.
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(She figured this, Lottie is the opposite of 'subtle' point blank. But in the way she likes to hear words of support, validation, so open and tangible for her to take, swallow, and blanket herself in, she wanted to offer him the same thing. An understanding that if the hug wasn't enough, her words β blunt, a little raw β will be.)
His voice rings above her, tone soft. She lifts her gaze up like she'd even be able to catch anything other than the sharp curve of his jaw. Truthfully, deep down, some part of her knew that (was hoping for it). But there's a larger, more persuasive, part of her that swims too close to the surface. Is so easy to listen to than the part that screams have some patience, not everyone is like you. It's the lack of self confidence, self esteem, the lack of faith that just being herself will hold any relationship together that made her question him so much in the first place. There's a nod against him after she lets his words sit and settle, swim in her mind. There's an anxious little shuffle of her feet, a firm press of her face closer to his chest because she's gearing up to ask, voice hopefulβ ]
..Are we okay? I want us to be okay. [ Please is somewhere lost in there. ] I won't do anything dumb like I did tonight.. I promise.
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marc has only ever ended relationships himself with violence: fighting elias, killing randall (several times, technically), killing jeff. the rest, through a certain lens, he supposes it could be argued that he had ended them by being so desperately himself that it left little room for anything else, but marc had never been the one to walk out. he'd been the one to argue for not ending it — with marlene, asking her to take him back (again, and again, and again, promising her he'd be better, different — that he'd talk to her more, give her what she wanted from him rather than taking all the time—); with frenchie, by asking him to fly the chopper or the mooncopter or whatever method of transportation marc was presently enamoured by. gena, by going to her diner and asking her about the kids and trying to wrangle them into helping him.
all of them had ended with the other person saying 'no, marc, that's enough.'
marc's temper has a tendency to get the better of him, leading him to say things in anger he wouldn't otherwise say but often, once it's over, once he's over it regardless of what anyone else might think or feel, he dives straight back into the status quo, of attempting to carry on exactly where he'd left off unless forced to acknowledge his actions. )
We're fine. ( it's a statement, not a question, not even marc looking for confirmation, that lottie agrees with him. it says, bluntly, that marc hadn't thought there'd be an alternative. )
—I'll get you some tissues.
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Oh, um.. Yeah!! Sure, okay.
[ Her arms are officially by her side, after a moment of awkward fumbling. Then, her fingers pick at the lining of her hoodie. And then, they curl at her hair, braiding it idly as she scuffs a foot on the linoleum of the floor, a tad anxious, a tad happy that he's even offered to gather her something to spruce herself with. Despite her face being so open, she pointedly looks down, only glances at him from angles she deems safe.
For once, it is not small, her voice β Lottie makes sure to clear her throat before she says (announces? The volume is hard to tell, all considering she's been crying and her throat is scratchy, still tender from all the emotion she's let loose), ]
..Thanks.
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he busies himself on the other side of the room, trying first one drawer and then another. a first aid box is placed to one side (not helpful, unless lottie fancies gauze dressings or crepe bandages instead of tissues) before locating a box of facial tissues (soft) and, after a moment of brief hesitance, a pack of wet wipes (just in case? he wouldn't really know.)
he starts, taken by surprise when lottie clears her throat and he half glances over his shoulder just in time to catch the 'thanks'. it's an odd utterance and contrasts with the tone of everything else — marc isn't quite sure he'd class it as happy, not given the palpable emotions, but it's — content, almost? he hesitates briefly before humming a noise of acknowledgment — notably not a 'you're welcome' — before walking back over to her, box of tissues in one hand, wet wipes in the other. )
It's fine.
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He has wet wipes.
Even the tissues that have lotion built in so your nose doesn't get dry (she knows this without having to touch it β she recognizes the box immediately to be from the same family of the one she has in her own home, hidden by her bedside).
When she does touch it (soft), it feels nice between her fingers. Feels just as nice on her nose when she begins the process of cleaning herself upβ something that is strange and has notes of, uh, positively scary and terrifying to do in front of someone that isn't herself. Moments like these she strictly dedicates to a bathroom, to the Lottie in the mirror that looks just as disgusted as she feels. There is none of that here, only Marc, now privy to one of the most personal rituals she's ever created for herself, and only herself.
Because while it's normal, it certainly isn't pretty. Lottie hacks and coughs into a tissue, she blows her nose until she realizes it's just going to stay stuffy now, and she dabs at the corners of her eyes because she is still wearing mascara (of course she is). A wet wipe goes used to make sure there's no stains, no gross bits, left on her face, and she sighs with relief into the action. Her nose and cheeks, even her eyes, are still red, but she looks more comfortable. Infinitely better than she did before.
And, noticeably, a little less stringent on keeping her face tucked away after she's searched for a trash can (and found oneβ just a little ways out of the room and in the brightly lit hallway). ]
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abrupt, weird, and mopey: the name of marc's autobiography
his best selling book to date (his only book To Date)
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