[ 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). ]
( marc doesn't watch — it'd be weird and slightly uncomfortable, personal in a way that marc isn't entirely comfortable with. sure, marc's seen, been present at and participated in situations objectively far, far worse than a woman cleaning herself up after crying, but the fact remains that lottie has a carefully cultivated image. marc's aware — loosely, vaguely — that he's privy to more than perhaps most (it's a trade-off: she sees marc and not just moon knight or mr. knight, she sees his face when he'd sooner hide both it and the free expression of feelings under a mask), but he knows he doesn't see everything — and that he shouldn't, either. there are some things, aspects of oneself that a person keeps private for a reason and this — lottie, so exposed — feels like one of those.
he parks himself at his desk, busying himself with a newspaper he tries to read before realising he's read the same paragraph three times or more without the contents really sinking in (something about dreams and nightmares and a lack of mental presence? eh. maybe something for him, maybe not—). he only looks up when lottie's movements are large enough, loud enough to reasonably draw his attention. he watches as she disappears into the hallway, her shadow hovering between the two rooms but not actively going anywhere. marc stills, watching the shapes of not-quite-lottie flicker in the light of the hallway before she re-enters the room and marc, abruptly, awkwardly, hurriedly tries to make it seem as if he wasn't waiting to see if she was going to come back in.
his fingers still, hovering over the newspaper as he takes a moment to decide what he ought to say (what can he say?)
[ Of all things, she didn't expect to see Marc situated in his chair, opposite to the one she originally ran out of. Actuallyβ hm.. She wasn't sure what the hell would happen, to begin with, now that the drama (the fight? Could it really be a fight? Their first fight..??) is over, still trying to find her footing in this conversation. They've already established they're fine, he offered to let her clean herself up and.. Now what?
Apparently, an extremely (startlingly) loud (it isn't loud at all, Lottie is just actively straining her ears so she can know what to prepare herself for) shuffle of paper and limbs before she spies Marc.. Looking up at her, his fingers coming to a stop above the newspaper laid out on his desk. How can he read that? It's so dark.. Was sheβ was she gone that long? Why is he looking at her like that? Why isn't he saying anything?? He freezes, and so does she, fingers somehow finding the knob of the door and curling them for better lack of anything else to inflict her nerves on. She was feeling fine before but now she's, she doesn't know, anxious? Nervous? Worried she might say something dumb?
The silence is just awful. She can feel it ease over her skin and bones probably in the same pervasive way Marc can, but neither of them say anything. Neither of them make a move, part their lips, to figure out the next step that works for them.
(Distantly she wonders, where did he get that paper? Did he have it before? Is he.. Is he posing?)
She licks her lips, feels her heart thrum with newfound anxiety as she.. Lets her eyes flick to the door beside her and .. Right. There's a few painstakingly soft steps she takes inside, hyperaware of every breath they're both taking and how heavy her footsteps might be in the silence, before she awkwardly eases the door closed. It clicks shut, and she lets it go, has her hand drop to her side.
Noβ they go into her pockets. And thenβ ]
..Uh, [ Her eyes roam over his suit (yes, she is trying to see how badly she damaged his Very Expensiveβ’ Bad Guy Fighting Suitβ’ with her snot), taking a couple steps closer towards him, not entirely sure if she should sit where she did before orβ stand over him? Would that be weird? She gestures a hand towards the newspaper, ] what are you reading?
( marc's eyesight is not that good. there's a small part of him that suspects he might need glasses β you know, for reading β but whilst marc doesn't dislike optometrists as much as he detests, no, loathes doctors and hospitals, he's never considered putting 'get eye test' anywhere near his own personal to-do list. so he squints, then, in the dim light of the room. lottie's expression isn't unreadable β it rarely is β but the dark shadows don't help make it more clear. she looks unsure, more hesitant than he usually sees her. just as she starts to speak, he decides that no, it's too dark and he reaches out towards the lamp on his desk, the click of the switch dampened by lottie asking him what he's reading.
marc glances back down at the paper, gaze skimming the headlines across the spread of pages again. there's something about the baxter building, stilt man, something about jameson's new radio show, and the one article he'd managed to not-read three times that reminds him loosely of morpheus.
(but only loosely because it's not like he's been able to actually parse the article enough to decide one way or the other.)
lottie hovers near him, tentative in her movements before her hands are shoved into her pockets, and marc lifts a shoulder in an approximation of a shrug. )
Nothing exciting, ( he admits. ) Yesterday's news. ( his fingers skim the paper before curling around one of the edges and pulling it closer. in one corner, he spots a small line of text mentioning a story on the midnight man (to be found on page five), and marc makes a mental note to read it later. ) Seeing if there's anything I need to be aware of.
( typically, marc tries not to involve himself in the affairs of other superheroes — three(ish)times he's tried to join the avengers, only to first infuriate natasha; then abruptly decide that nah, the teamwork thing wasn't for him; then to completely alienate himself from almost every current member of the team. the defenders hadn't worked out too well, either, and the WCA had been — well, more khonshu than marc. but it's good to have an idea of what else is going on so that he doesn't accidentally involve himself in, say, whatever weird ninja thing might be going on over in hell's kitchen, or animal escapades and bank robberies happening a little closer to queens. )
There's not, ( he adds afer a moment, in case she'd been about to ask if there was anything. then, in an abrupt switch of topics— ) —I'll ask Reese for coffee.
[ There's something kind of endearing and, dare she say, hokey, about Marc actually having bought and read the local newspaper now that she thinks about it. Can't he watch the news? Or read it on his phone? Read about it on his laptop from whatever Twitter is pushing that day? She wonders if he has the paper delivered or if he goes out and buys it in person, as he curls the corner of that page quietly, as if stalling to figure out an answer real time. Lottie doesn't notice, either way β she's staring intensely at his chest, at the stains she left on his suit, and it's making her itch. And now that he's so helpfully turned the lamp on, she can see the extent of her impact (oof) even better (oof).
She should clean it. She has to clean it. Doesn't that feel gross? Isn't it? He mentions seeing if there's anything he needs to be aware of and she has to fight the desire to say your shirt dude. In fact, she almost does, but Marc anticipates some type of Lottie brand nosiness and answers for her.
Her mouth promptly closes, a curious look to her. She's both impressed and a little put out. But at the mention of coffee, rather than the stubborn refusal, the judgement, she passed on him for his earlier offer at the beginning of the evening.. Now, she sees a chance. Perfect. ]
βOr I could, I don't know, Doordash something for us?? No pressure, obviously!
[ She still has her phone, after all, still charged just enough to fool around on social media and run a couple apps in the background.. Apps like Doordash. Or Grubhub. Whichever one has the places Marc haunts the most, has picked up coffee (for the two of them) before at. ]
Or we can walk! I don't mind walkingβ I know you know all the places around here so we could just.. Go wherever?
( lottie looks as if she's about to speak before appearing to think better of it, her gaze fixated on his chest and not his face. he could try and guess what she'd been thinking of, but it'd be futile and privately, he's kind of pleased that he'd anticipated it just enough to give her pause.
marc could — does — watch the news (sometimes), reads it on the internet (also sometimes) and does not use twitter, but he prefers newspapers due to the fact that if there's something important, he can keep hold of it and refer back to it later. it's been useful in the past, and that hasn't changed as the internet has become more prolific.
at home ("home"), marc has a room dedicated to storage of paperwork: old newspapers (ones that mention marc, ones that mention moon knight; ones that mention his enemies), and boxes of files he'd asked samuels to locate (and send away) more than once in a fit of — self-pity, really. files that contained information on every single person he'd been hired to kill or work for, files he'd kept as a reminder he tried not to reach for of who he was trying not to be.
it wasn't nice, but it was practical.
her enthusiasm at the mention of coffee takes him by surprise and he pauses, just for a second. 'no, I can just ask reese' is on the tip of his tongue again before he reminds himself that there's a very solid chance reese will just tell him to be an actual adult and get his own coffee (which is fair enough, but he still likes to try his luck. sometimes she does get him coffee). and — for better or worse, he's not sure which category this falls into just yet — he's come to find that when lottie makes a suggestion, there's generally a reason for it.
delivery or going somewhere.
he doesn't mention coffee because she'd turned down his offer earlier and thinks that now they've reset things, re-established that they're — fine, or whatever, that she'll have changed her mind (the fact that she has is neither here nor there). he mentions coffee for a second time because he's tired and he's had the subtle beginnings of a headache for about an hour and coffee might help. (sleep might help, too, but that's not an option open for consideration.)
he doesn't answer her straight away (it's not a difficult question, and yet), turning instead to look out the window. the streets are a little quieter now, fewer cars and people but enough still to make the city feel alive. he's always found it funny, the different levels of 'quiet' a person can grow accustomed to depending on where they are.
at certain times in his life, he wouldn't have considered any of this quiet; at others, it'd have been unbearably so.
he turns back from the window, looks down at his clothes — briefly, and his expression remains carefully neutral (he's been covered in far worse, even if lottie is disinclined to believe it), and— )
Doordash. Reese will let me know if there's anything—. ( he waves a hand. "moon knight's needed for". )
[ There is a reason for it β this is her own olive branch, an exact carbon copy of the one he initially offered to her that she virtually smashed and smothered in her refusal. Now, she is open to it, is kind of (desperately) hoping that he'll take the bait and he'll let her buy him some absurdly expensive coffee. It may not be good coffee, since it's so late at night, but it'll mean something. An apology of sorts, even if she technically did nothing wrong. Even if they're now fine.
("Technically". She recognizes that she feels some sort of bad for making Marc worry, for storming her way into his home turf virtually ready to dig herself into an even bigger hole all the while handing him the shovel to help her out. Knows that maybe she should've texted him to talk, like a normal person, but she's never really been normal, or functional.)
She hardly pays attention to the outside world, wants her attention to be centered on this little bubble that consists of this room and them. Because they're not important right now, they're randos and, really, Lottie just had one of the craziest nights of her lifeβ that she will definitely be telling Esther about come morningβ and she at least wants it to end on a pleasant note. More for herself than him, she thinks. So at Marc's word, Doordash, she opens up the app as nonchalantly as she can, like she isn't happy he said 'yes' to her offer, and scrolls through some nearby places. ]
Cool! Cool.
[ Oh god, that's right. Reese. Lottie internally screams and desperately hopes she hasn't heard anything embarrassing and emotional from this room. She'd just die. In fact, she's dying right now, withering as she plants her butt at the edge of his desk to sit. Her phone is planted on top of that newspaper, the coffee shop she picked open for him to see. It's one that's a little ways away, with pictures alluring enough to draw anyone in. She's already got her coffee drink picked out (a half-caf cold brew with nonfat almond milk and one pump of lavender syrup, specifically, he'll see at check out).
She taps a nail right beside the side of her phone, places her other hand down to rest flat on his desk so she can lean, get a little comfortable. ]
( she sits on the edge of his desk and marc bites back the urge to say please don't because it's not as if she's disturbing anything, it's not like it's really a problem, he just — hates it. there's seating right there, chairs that he bought for the express purpose (whose sole purpose, even!) is to be sat in and—
—she chooses his desk.
he drags his attention to her phone, fixing his eyes on the screen and ignoring lottie in his peripheral vision. if he selects his coffee, maybe she'll get off his desk and he won't have to say anything.
her phone is near enough the polar opposite to his: newer, screen protector, uncracked screen (uncracked anything, actually). near enough mint condition, remarkable (to marc) given how much she uses it. his, by contrast, is a disgrace — marc doesn't know how many times he's dropped it (the first time had been heart-stopping, infuriating as a spiderweb of cracks spilled out from the point of impact because phones used to be better than that, then he'd decided 'fine, whatever'). it's been stepped on and, on days when he can't be bothered with communication, shoved unceremoniously in a drawer or at the bottom of a bag.
the stark difference in condition is a neat summary of their at-times very different priorities.
he hovers over one coffee before scrolling back up. most of the time, marc drinks black coffee, no sugar, no milk, nothing. occasionally he opts for something different — typically a latte, rarely anything else, almost entirely dependent on whether he's eaten much (or anything) that day. black coffee on an empty stomach isn't always his favourite experience in the world, especially if it's not great coffee in the first place.
(marc may not particularly care about good coffee or bad coffee, but his stomach does. sometimes.)
tonight, he chooses a latte, doesn't take lottie up on the offer of a bagel despite the vague thought that he probably should. )
—Please don't sit on my desk.
( is what he ends up saying instead of 'thank you' because she decides to lean in instead of leaning away or even (preferably) getting off when it becomes clear that marc is (is!) selecting coffee. )
[ He chooses a latte (interesting) and then eases into telling her to get her ass off his desk (in nicer words, in a much more pained tone).. Literally. She jerks back at that, straightening almost immediately because she hadn't thought it to be a big deal. There's not anything important she can see on his desk, and it's not she isn't ramming a snowglobe off the side or anything with her butt, soβ soβ ]
Um, [ She stutters out, thinking great, good job Lottie, buy the man coffee and then irritate him with your big fat booty on his things. She stands soon after, smoothing her hands over her leggings before giving him an apologetic smile. ] yeah, I should'veβ [ She reaches over to pluck her phone away and into her hands, cheeks coloring lightly. ] I'll go ahead and sit over there now. Sorry.
[ Aaahhhhhh!! Ahhhh!! She screams (internally) even louder (far louder) at this entire interaction, making her way as casually she can to the chair he originally had her sit in. Now, at least, with how awkward she feels for a mistake that is relatively small in the grand scheme of tonight, she's not thinking about the seam she tore when she was picking at it earlierβ or how it feels with her fingertips resting over it. She's too busy confirming the order and letting the Doordash driver know, yes, he is delivering it here. No, it isn't a prank. To please knock so the receptionist in the front can get it.
(She thinks Reese getting it would be far more preferable to Marc, masked and ready to get his cute little latte as Moon Knight. Especially when the person ordering it is named "Lottie Person", her profile picture unhelpfully broadcasting her face in all its glory.) ]
Should be here in about.. Ten? Fifteen maybe?
[ Realistically five, with the tip payout she put (she hasn't had a cup all day today in preparation for this visit, so she's feeling a little antsy now that everything is smoothed over and they're talking again). ]
So, uh, what have you been up to lately? Other than, you know..
( marc is not naturally messy: everything has its place, is labelled and organised. (most of the time, anyway.) he wouldn't be able to say if it was just how he was or if it was the result of having a meticulous, fastidious father, or whether it'd been none of that and whether it was the result of his brief stint in the military. whatever the cause of the why, it's a consistent thread throughout his life — he likes tidiness, he dislikes food being brought into his car(s), and he — hypocritically, because marc can and will use any surface for anything if he's got the mind for it — likes furniture being used for its prescribed purpose.
lottie slides off the desk and marc is instantly relieved. the faint flush of lottie's cheeks is ignored and goes unremarked on. marc has never been one for platitudes and smoothing over misunderstandings and so, whilst she busies herself with finishing their order, marc reaches a decision: the moon knight outfit's a bit much to be wearing sat around drinking coffee.
the tap of her nails against the screen is the only real noise for a few moments, until marc starts the laborious process of untying his boots, detaching his cape, removing the outer layer(s) of his top. it's plain black underneath: ordinary, boring, utilitarian. very marc.
lottie speaks up partway through to tell him the coffee'll be here in ten minutes (suggests fifteen but realistically, how many people are getting coffee at this time of night? not many, marc knows. the biggest holdup will be traffic, but for two coffees, they might even be delivered by bicycle, so—.) he makes a noise, a vague kind of grunt to say 'yes, I hear you', and then—
then she asks him what he's been doing, clarifies that she means other than this, other than moon knight stuff and he freezes for a fraction of a second, eyes snapping back up to meet hers. the answer's: nothing. marc doesn't do anything else, not really. he goes to therapy and he — is occasionally dragged out of the mission by greer, made to watch kids movies with her and william.
('made' is a harsh assessment. he enjoys it, really, even if he'd have to be pushed into admitting it.)
he can't think of an answer. he usually leaves doing stuff to jake and steven, and even then—. )
The usual. ( it's not an answer. or, it is, but it's not a satisfying answer. plant watering (he has so many), contemplating and then pointedly ignoring the myriad of ways he's ruined his life. he'd thought about trying to phone marlene and diatrice and then decided that no, that was a stupid idea because it'd only put them in danger again, and marlene wouldn't want to hear from him anyway. he tugs off a boot, a dull thunk bookending the action (he hadn't loosened it enough—), and exhales. ) Mostly this, ( he admits. then, as a concession, vocalises— ) Therapy. Cleaning. ( he doesn't have anyone to clean the mission, so that's now a 'marc spector' job. ) Being bullied into helping babysit Greer's kid.
[ He peels away his layers and officially becomes: Marc. Just himβ in his plain black clothing, without his added flare of white for all types of crime fighting* (*definitely fighting of some kind). It's utilitarian, ordinary, maybe boring, sure, but it is very Marc and Lottie enjoys this sight more than the one previous.. Even if she is arguably more used to him wearing his 'uniform' than she is seeing him in plain clothes.
It could also have something to do with the fact she is taking this as a sign of things being slowly shifting back to their normal β which.. Hm.
Apparently she's still not stepping into that quite right, because his eyes snap up to her after she asks him a pretty fair question. Yeah, it's only been a couple of days since they talked, but what if he picked up a hobby? Or did something interesting?? Or.. Does something else outside of Moon Knighting?
And when she holds his gaze for a fraction longer, she cavesβ who is she kidding, she doesn't expect him to do anything outside of Moon Knighting, really. It's his thing. His bread and butter. She just wanted to know because she's nosy and wants to feel included, to be caught up on what she potentially missed out on within his life because texting him is so integral to hers (there is never not a day where she won't send him something stupid, or bug him at odd hours for her own entertainment).
Really, she would've took 'the usual' (Marc commits to shoving his boot off instead of just lacing the whole thing down, and the way he chucks it onto the floor is loud enough she can hear and she wonders: steel toe boots?). She thinks about how 'the usual' means that the both of them were too busy wallowing by themselves to do anything cool. It's a nice answer, it's plain, it's simple. He elaborates, though, and Lottie keys in that the added flourish of details is definitely for her sake, Marc deliberately indulging her and her curiosities even. She decides, no, actually, this is nicer. She likes this, the offering of arguably mundane events, the opening up.
..The mention of being bullied absolutely helps, too, to reinforce her feelings on this. She relaxes into the seat, tries to hold back the genuine smile that spreads because hello? The image is hilarious and kind of silly?? ]
I was just wondering.. We haven't been texting, so, I guess I wanted to catch up. [ She shrugs her shoulders lightly. ] Nothing super crazy happened for me, either, by the way. I did some work with Esther and hung out with a friend? That's about it.
[ Lottie offers this, in turn, crosses her legs and lets the one resting at the top bounce every so often. Is vaguely proud of herself and how she doesn't immediately veer into 'I don't know but I do but I'm playing coy but not really' territory. But unfortunately (for him), she is absolutely veering into some kind of territory with the way she quirks her head to the side, lets her elbow dig into the arm chair and rests her cheek in her hand. ]
..So, you were being bullied? Do I have to talk to someone's parents about this?
( marc doesn't take nights off from being moon knight often, but they do happen — sometimes it's because he's simply too tired and in need of sleep (that comes, as always, fitfully and in starts, often punctuated by dreams that run the spectrum of weird to horrifying, until he awakens in a start, pulse-racing and sweaty); other times it's because he's managed to promise to do something else — a promise that, more often than not, is broken but occasionally, once in a blue moon, he manages to keep to.
sometimes it's like this: there's no-one, specifically, that's asked for his help, no little old ladies with problems in their apartment complex, no kidnapped children that need to be found, no immediate slights against his person or anyone he cares about that needs dealing with — and he knows deep down, this is not going to be a productive moon knight night.
she responds to him with both the answer to the question he'd asked and the question he hadn't. he should have, he realises belatedly, awkwardly. she'd asked him because she wanted to know (of course) and because she'd wanted him to ask her.
and yet she doesn't seem perturbed by the omission, glaring as it was. instead she smiles and makes herself more than comfortable in the chair (he assumes, it doesn't look comfortable, but who's marc to talk?) before coming out with — god, that. he eyes her, briefly, before the sound of movement just beyond the door and a knock indicates that, hey, their coffee arrived early (probably, marc isn't sure how much time has passed).
the door doesn't open, there's no commentary from reese and marc's first thought is: interesting, followed by ah as he realises she'd probably cottoned on to the fact that he and lottie had been having a DISAGREEMENT. he knows she probably won't ask about it — or, if she does, knows well enough not to push.
he pads over to the door, the sound his footsteps muffled between the rugs on the floor and his socks. )
It's probably payback, ( he tells her, only tangentially, loosely responding to her question before opening the door, a soft click the only sound as marc's greeted by two coffee cups sat on the floor. there's a couple of sachets of sugar, too, and marc briefly wonders if that'd been the coffee shop, lottie, or reese. )
And don't get me wrong, I'm sure you can be terrifying enough, ( he adds, appearing beside lottie, holding her coffee out for her to take, and he eyes her critically for one moment, then two, before removing the lid to his coffee. it's true: marc has no doubt that in her own way, in the right circles, lottie is awful. ) But if it came down to it, I'm sure I could do a very convincing impression of an upset parent talking to a very ashamed parent. Lots of experience of sitting in on those conversations.
[ There's a slight jump, the tiniest one Lottie has given this night, when she hears that knock knock. She immediately casts her gaze towards the door, reminded of the outside world when she so stubbornly insisted to keep locked out and away from this. There's a moment where she lingers in her seat (wonders, who the hell is knocking? Who needs Marc, right now? Who is interrupting this very important hangout?!), debates on getting up, before Marc takes the initiative. Lottie manages to relax in the time it takes for him to softly pad over to the door, to open it and retrieve β .. Their coffee? She glances down to her phone, thinks fuck, she needs to pay more attention next time.
She quickly puts her phone to sleep, lets the insane urge to check her horoscope wither and die inside her chest as he turns back towards her, their drinks in hand. A hand reaches out towards her cup of brew and it feels cold to the touch, feels comforting in the oddest of ways as Marc β eyes her? Her lower lip juts out in response, wondering if he's scrutinizing her just to do it or if he's adding emphasis to his very real, very truthful fact: Lottie Person can be terrifying. Maybe not in the way Marc is as Moon Knight, but she can be scathing with her words. Can be impulsive to the point she will ruin people if it means a brief chance at something like happiness. Has said things with the intent of making her friends cry and even then, it isn't enough.
(Distantly, she thinks, huh. Maybe it is in the same way Marc is? Not as Moon Knight, but..)
But on that note, she figures that Marc has more on her. After all, he.. Is also cut from the same cloth, but is also a dad? 'My own kidβ' she remembers, distantly, the memory making her fingers scrape against the cup holding her delicious coffee. He tells her, insists in that casual nonchalant way he does, he has experience in it. If he's been Moon Knight for as long as she assumes, she can see why. Lottie lets sipping her coffee drink disguise the subtle, odd, twist to her features.
And in the end, the taste soothes her. She missed this, drinking her coffee. Maybe she missed drinking it with him, but she won't focus on that too much. No, she has to say something, right? She eyes the ground, a subdued sort of smile on her face, clearly in thought, before flicking her gaze back up towards him. ]
Okay. Go. Give me the most convincing impression you have, but I want you to use the coffee as a prop. [ She wiggles her own cup gently, ] You're an upset parent that's like, just come from Starbucks. Waited in line and everything!
Hmm. ( his coffee lid is placed down on his desk, oddly delicately (he'd prefer not to spill any, thanks), before pouring two sachets of sugar into his cup. for the moment, he doesn't think of diatrice — it doesn't occur to marc that lottie had remembered that comment at all — because marc hasn't done any of that with her. he hasn't taken her to kindergarten, hasn't met her teachers, hasn't done much of anything that a dad should do. that was all on marlene (and, he supposes, whoever she's with now, not that marc's ever asked or marlene's ever brought it up — not anything marc needs to know).
he thinks of elias instead, called in for countless meetings when marc had been at school. endless stories of how marc had done x or punched y, of how marc caused problems and how at a certain point, it didn't matter who started it (no-one particularly cared who started it), the issue was always with how it had ended. elias had always been very apologetic. he'd never tried to make excuses for marc's behaviour, never tried to reason it away as an understandable reaction. marc was supposed to be better than that. they — as a family, as a people — were supposed to be better than that.
he stirs his coffee with one of the stirrers and then stalls for time by hunting out a napkin. marc doesn't act, doesn't play pretend — not as such. he's stood in front of the mirror practising threats on occasion, not out of need but because he'd needed to check the suit was as it should be and found himself caught up in the moment.
(he's never asked if anyone else has ever done that but privately, he thinks they must. spider-man's jokes and nicknames are far too constant to be anything other than practised.)
but here — he's opened the door to something very different. pretend you're an upset parent. (and then he does think of diatrice.) he can do that, but his version of 'upset parent' is entirely unreasonable (lottie specifies in this scenario, he's waited for starbucks, so 'unreasonable' may be the default, may be precisely what she's imagining), but marc knows, too, that if he were an upset parent, his 'unreasonable' would slide straight past regular unreasonableness (yelling probably, name-calling maybe, pointing) and jump straight to 'quiet anger and threats'.
do not pass go, do not collect $200, you are never invited to any parent-teacher conferences.
he takes a sip of his coffee (warm), and god— he needed that. ) Starbucks wasn't really popular when I was at school, ( he says into the top of his cup. ) No pumpkin spice lattes back then.
[ Initially, she doesn't see his tending to his cup as stalling for time (the irony in this, as she was doing the exact same thing just moments before) β Lottie sees it as Marc cozying up and winding down. Not so much a ritual of sorts like how she makes her own cup every morning for her breakfast, but something he does to enjoy what he has. So she waits, takes the opportunity to take another sip of her own drink before the silence becomes a little too strange, having gone on so long, and then she raises a brow beneath her bangs.
Usually, it doesn't take him this long to enjoy his coffee. She's been around him long enough to know what's 'normal' (used loosely, here) behavior for him around her, what's 'normal' behavior for him and this is definitely toeing the line.
Did she ask something strange? What's taking him so long? She asks these questions as she brings her cup down, rests the bottom of it on her thigh and she shivers at the touch of cold through her leggings. And while his answer isn't what she asked for β by any means, really. There's no playful pretending or roleplaying, goofing around, it's just Marc completely aging himself in a way that makes Lottie reel because.. Well, he's not wrong?? ]
Oh my god! Don't remind me..
[ Also β of course he'd mention pumpkin spice lattes!! And of course he's making her think about the difference in age between them, another thing on a long list of things that are different about them. Which isn't bad, per se, because now she tunes in to the History Channel to shit all over it when she's bored, when she would've never gave it the time of day otherwise. But now she's thinking, oh god, he didn't probably. She grew up with it, had access to it pretty early on in her school life. It was more her sisters that enjoyed it β she'd maybe tag along to get something sweet, being the youngest gave her leeway to mooch off them, but that'd be it.
Lottie only managed to get an actual caffeine addiction β and a Starbucks card β somewhere in her last year of high school. And while she's made herself comfortable in more posh, local, places, she still visits Starbucks every now and then.
(And yes, sometimes it's for the stupid pumpkin spice lattes. She can't help but do it even if it's a joke at this point.)
She brings up her phone, has google open and ready to go. For what?? It may become more obvious after she asksβ ] How old are you again?
( marc, typically, doesn't care enough about how his coffee tastes to really bother with a routine. it's more, simply, that there are ways that he prefers his coffee to taste — if he has a choice, but if not, that's fine too. (choice had never been plentiful in his previous lines of work, after all.)
he's oblivious, then, to her thoughts, to her at-first belief that he's just making himself comfortable (marc and comfort aren't often two words that go hand-in-hand) until he finds himself started by her exclamation. (about pumpkin spice lattes? he's not sure). whatever it is, it does not become more obvious when she asks how old he is and instead, bemused, marc answers her question. ) Forty.
( give or take a couple of months. he doesn't know if they've actually spoken about ages before, not in terms of numbers. he knows she's younger than him — either that, or they've aged very, very differently — it's always been evident in their different cultural touchstones, in their references, in the way that there are things that marc just doesn't get about lottie and lottie doesn't get about marc. hobbies (well, maybe not hobbies) and interests that aren't just personality related.
she has google open, marc thinks — he can just about see the colours of the logo from here, bright primary colours that even he wouldn't mistake for anything else. it's not a calculator, so she's not trying to work out the year he was born (1981), though it occurs to him she might be trying to work out his age-proximity to the existence of pumpkin spice lattes. or even starbucks in general. ) —Why?
[ Why? Hah. That's such a dumb question, he must be so embarrassed right now even asking that! Why?? To google "coffee chains popular in the 90s?". She assumes that's when he was in high school, anyway, since forty is just a few years ahead of her oldest sister, a couple more than Rosie (the middle sister). A decade or so ahead of Lottie, the youngest.
Predictably, she actually doesn't learn anything from that google search, just realizes she'd have to do a whole lot of reading and clicking and she doesn't want that, so she tries again. She types in, "first pumpkin spice latte" and sees: 2003. Then: "first ever starbucks" (1912, and she thinks okay, overkill much?). She puts her phone face down, but still holds onto it. Ponders and does the math in her head. And then, a pointed sip of her tasty coffee drink. ]
I guess you're right.
[ It doesn't pain her to say it, but it sure does complicate this imaginary scenario she wants him to act out!! After a beat, she elaborates: ]
The pumpkin spice latte wasn't invented until 2003.. You were definitely out of high school by then.
( he watches her type, the blue glare of her phone screen shining into her face and telling him nothing. her face tells hims nothing either, other than she doesn't really like the first set of results, her fingers scrolling up and down briefly before she tries something else, then something else again, and finally, she agrees with him.
(it didn't need to take a google search—.)
and then she tells him when the first pumpkin spice lattes came out and— )
Iraq, ( he says on auto-pilot, not really thinking about. his tone is blunt realisation, the kind of thoughtfulness that comes from knowing something's important, but when the mouth works faster than the brain and words form faster than recognition puts them together. if she'd said 2001 or 2002, he probably wouldn't have said anything, but 2003 had been the year he'd been discharged (kicked out).
(hmm.) (moving on.)
he sips his own coffee, presses his lips together and tries again. ) I came back in 2003. ( briefly, anyway. it'd been the odd interim of his life, where there'd been a chance — fleeting — for him to reconcile with his family, and marc had pointedly decided no and he'd left (again). fighting — boxing — in underground rings because it was an easy source of money, because no-one asked questions and no-one really cared who he was other than how good he could throw and take a punch, and then he'd met jean-paul.
he has no way of making any of that — well, anything.
Lottie can't tell if this calls for an 'oh', or an 'oops', so she tries both, because it's not like Marc presents this as a bad thing, something she should treat delicately.
He simply just β hands it off to her. Not exactly presented as a fun fact, like how she does sometimes, giving information about herself for free on a silver platter in the hopes of impressing somebody. In fact, it looks like he isn't even thinking about it, when he says 'Iraq', probably isn't with how quickly he says it. In the seconds that follow, where he sips his coffee and tries his hand at a proper sentence, she thinks: shit. That's right.
Lottie's aware of his history, of vague events that are more markers for her reference and nothing explicitly personal (like the minute details of it all, because whatever Marc gives, Lottie will always take). The information escapes her because she always makes sure to be loose with it. Loose, like in a way that she's aware of what he does as Moon Knight but expressly decides to not think about it because it'll hurt her head and make her think.
And nobody, not even herself, wants her thinking. ]
How was it?
[ Coming back, she means, after all of that. She figures not exciting, if Marc's last comment is anything to go by (she doesn't key in to the fact he might mean: wow, a historical year for the world, Marc Spector returning home and pumpkin spice latte's being born!) but β Lottie finds herself asking, anyway. Lets her nail thumb at the lid of her cup, scraping ever so lightly at it. ]
I mean, I already know there was no PSL's for you, but..
Iraq? ( he asks quizzically, doubtfully, like he's not sure why she's asking the question or what she thinks his answer will be. it doesn't strike him as a particularly lottie-esque question: how was iraq? / oh, you know, messy. she barely tolerates knowing details about moon knight, let alone anything more gruesome (or, not necessarily more gruesome, but as uncomfortable). it hits him, after he half-questions what she means, that she means coming back and he has even less of an answer to that question: it was shit.
the sound of her nail against the plastic of her coffee cup lid is loud and distracting, though lottie doesn't seem to notice. his eyebrows arch upwards and he lifts his shoulders in a shrug. he almost says that he did everything he could to get out of chicago and the subsequent thought of going back hadn't been a barrel of laughs. ordinarily, marc does anything and everything he can to avoid talking about chicago, only mentions his family when he has to, or when struck by (very infrequent) bouts of sentimentality, but lottie hasn't presented him with an immediate, obvious avenue for skipping past the topic.
(except for coffee, but he can't think of a way to use that to move the conversation on, either.) ) —Hot. ( iraq, he means, not chicago, and in lieu of being able to think of an actual answer to her question that doesn't involve a degree of honesty marc is more comfortable avoiding, he tells her— ) Dishonorable discharge. There wasn't exactly a grand welcome home waiting for me. ( he doesn't say that his departure hadn't exactly been a cause for celebration, either. it'd been argument and disagreement after argument and disagreement; three years of non-communication. he doesn't admit that he hadn't enlisted out of a genuine desire to serve country, but because it'd been a way to escape his life and do something he felt he was good at.
if marc had wanted it to, his return home could have meant something, but he'd been determined to continue the status quo. ) I left as soon as I could. Probably missed out on all sorts of cultural touch points.
[ The words 'dishonorable discharge', frankly, mean little to Lottie. She hears it but doesn't quite grasp the meaning behind it, or the possible reasons why that'd happen. So it goes in one ear, out the other, a fact for her to ponder over months from now when she's reminded of it eventually. For now, she lets him talk, effectively gets what she wants when he tells her there wasn't a grand welcome waiting for him and that he left as soon as he could.
This time, it isn't hard for her to recall the context she needs for that β she remembers very clearly him talking about his family with her, right after he had made fun of her for subtly ("subtly") quoting Barney. Mostly because it's not often she talks about her family, Lottie refusing to even have let her closest circle know she even had siblings until she couldn't anymore (when Rosie bummed at her place for a few months during her almost-maybe divorce).
She figured that it's the same case for him, being cagey about details because it's easier to just ignore it. Because that's normal, right? So she listens, takes an appreciative sip of her coffee as she thinks, yeah, he did miss out on a lot. Lots of shows, lots of artists β 2003 was the year before she started high school, another year she was mousey, plain, wallflower Lottie Person. Quiet, soft, but terribly bitter. Maybe more than she is now, probably. She wonders how Marc was, at the time, if he was just a mini-Marc (sans the moon) or if he was entirely different.
And, god, she could think over that for what feels like hours, but she is very much still having a conversation. Very much is looking at Marc and thinking about how much he must've missed throughout his complicated life, thinking about her life in comparison. Sure, she could maybe pull up a list of everything iconic and amazing that's happened since then to, she doesn't know, make him feel included? But she doesn't. She stays off her phone and, tries to be nonchalant.
You know, casual. ]
I mean.. I started my blog in 2008.
[ Extremely casual. She brings her drink to her lips and raises her brows, trying not to toot her own horn because yes, she is totally implying her blog is a cultural touch point. And she is hoping he'll see it as a fun, silly, thing β a self aware jab at herself so Marc can.. She doesn't know? Take the out if he wants it? Laugh? ]
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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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he parks himself at his desk, busying himself with a newspaper he tries to read before realising he's read the same paragraph three times or more without the contents really sinking in (something about dreams and nightmares and a lack of mental presence? eh. maybe something for him, maybe not—). he only looks up when lottie's movements are large enough, loud enough to reasonably draw his attention. he watches as she disappears into the hallway, her shadow hovering between the two rooms but not actively going anywhere. marc stills, watching the shapes of not-quite-lottie flicker in the light of the hallway before she re-enters the room and marc, abruptly, awkwardly, hurriedly tries to make it seem as if he wasn't waiting to see if she was going to come back in.
his fingers still, hovering over the newspaper as he takes a moment to decide what he ought to say (what can he say?)
a lingering, palpable silence, and—
—no, he's got nothing. )
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Apparently, an extremely (startlingly) loud (it isn't loud at all, Lottie is just actively straining her ears so she can know what to prepare herself for) shuffle of paper and limbs before she spies Marc.. Looking up at her, his fingers coming to a stop above the newspaper laid out on his desk. How can he read that? It's so dark.. Was sheβ was she gone that long? Why is he looking at her like that? Why isn't he saying anything?? He freezes, and so does she, fingers somehow finding the knob of the door and curling them for better lack of anything else to inflict her nerves on. She was feeling fine before but now she's, she doesn't know, anxious? Nervous? Worried she might say something dumb?
The silence is just awful. She can feel it ease over her skin and bones probably in the same pervasive way Marc can, but neither of them say anything. Neither of them make a move, part their lips, to figure out the next step that works for them.
(Distantly she wonders, where did he get that paper? Did he have it before? Is he.. Is he posing?)
She licks her lips, feels her heart thrum with newfound anxiety as she.. Lets her eyes flick to the door beside her and .. Right. There's a few painstakingly soft steps she takes inside, hyperaware of every breath they're both taking and how heavy her footsteps might be in the silence, before she awkwardly eases the door closed. It clicks shut, and she lets it go, has her hand drop to her side.
Noβ they go into her pockets. And thenβ ]
..Uh, [ Her eyes roam over his suit (yes, she is trying to see how badly she damaged his Very Expensiveβ’ Bad Guy Fighting Suitβ’ with her snot), taking a couple steps closer towards him, not entirely sure if she should sit where she did before orβ stand over him? Would that be weird? She gestures a hand towards the newspaper, ] what are you reading?
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marc glances back down at the paper, gaze skimming the headlines across the spread of pages again. there's something about the baxter building, stilt man, something about jameson's new radio show, and the one article he'd managed to not-read three times that reminds him loosely of morpheus.
(but only loosely because it's not like he's been able to actually parse the article enough to decide one way or the other.)
lottie hovers near him, tentative in her movements before her hands are shoved into her pockets, and marc lifts a shoulder in an approximation of a shrug. )
Nothing exciting, ( he admits. ) Yesterday's news. ( his fingers skim the paper before curling around one of the edges and pulling it closer. in one corner, he spots a small line of text mentioning a story on the midnight man (to be found on page five), and marc makes a mental note to read it later. ) Seeing if there's anything I need to be aware of.
( typically, marc tries not to involve himself in the affairs of other superheroes — three(ish)times he's tried to join the avengers, only to first infuriate natasha; then abruptly decide that nah, the teamwork thing wasn't for him; then to completely alienate himself from almost every current member of the team. the defenders hadn't worked out too well, either, and the WCA had been — well, more khonshu than marc. but it's good to have an idea of what else is going on so that he doesn't accidentally involve himself in, say, whatever weird ninja thing might be going on over in hell's kitchen, or animal escapades and bank robberies happening a little closer to queens. )
There's not, ( he adds afer a moment, in case she'd been about to ask if there was anything. then, in an abrupt switch of topics— ) —I'll ask Reese for coffee.
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She should clean it. She has to clean it. Doesn't that feel gross? Isn't it? He mentions seeing if there's anything he needs to be aware of and she has to fight the desire to say your shirt dude. In fact, she almost does, but Marc anticipates some type of Lottie brand nosiness and answers for her.
Her mouth promptly closes, a curious look to her. She's both impressed and a little put out. But at the mention of coffee, rather than the stubborn refusal, the judgement, she passed on him for his earlier offer at the beginning of the evening.. Now, she sees a chance. Perfect. ]
βOr I could, I don't know, Doordash something for us?? No pressure, obviously!
[ She still has her phone, after all, still charged just enough to fool around on social media and run a couple apps in the background.. Apps like Doordash. Or Grubhub. Whichever one has the places Marc haunts the most, has picked up coffee (for the two of them) before at. ]
Or we can walk! I don't mind walkingβ I know you know all the places around here so we could just.. Go wherever?
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marc could — does — watch the news (sometimes), reads it on the internet (also sometimes) and does not use twitter, but he prefers newspapers due to the fact that if there's something important, he can keep hold of it and refer back to it later. it's been useful in the past, and that hasn't changed as the internet has become more prolific.
at home ("home"), marc has a room dedicated to storage of paperwork: old newspapers (ones that mention marc, ones that mention moon knight; ones that mention his enemies), and boxes of files he'd asked samuels to locate (and send away) more than once in a fit of — self-pity, really. files that contained information on every single person he'd been hired to kill or work for, files he'd kept as a reminder he tried not to reach for of who he was trying not to be.
it wasn't nice, but it was practical.
her enthusiasm at the mention of coffee takes him by surprise and he pauses, just for a second. 'no, I can just ask reese' is on the tip of his tongue again before he reminds himself that there's a very solid chance reese will just tell him to be an actual adult and get his own coffee (which is fair enough, but he still likes to try his luck. sometimes she does get him coffee). and — for better or worse, he's not sure which category this falls into just yet — he's come to find that when lottie makes a suggestion, there's generally a reason for it.
delivery or going somewhere.
he doesn't mention coffee because she'd turned down his offer earlier and thinks that now they've reset things, re-established that they're — fine, or whatever, that she'll have changed her mind (the fact that she has is neither here nor there). he mentions coffee for a second time because he's tired and he's had the subtle beginnings of a headache for about an hour and coffee might help. (sleep might help, too, but that's not an option open for consideration.)
he doesn't answer her straight away (it's not a difficult question, and yet), turning instead to look out the window. the streets are a little quieter now, fewer cars and people but enough still to make the city feel alive. he's always found it funny, the different levels of 'quiet' a person can grow accustomed to depending on where they are.
at certain times in his life, he wouldn't have considered any of this quiet; at others, it'd have been unbearably so.
he turns back from the window, looks down at his clothes — briefly, and his expression remains carefully neutral (he's been covered in far worse, even if lottie is disinclined to believe it), and— )
Doordash. Reese will let me know if there's anything—. ( he waves a hand. "moon knight's needed for". )
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("Technically". She recognizes that she feels some sort of bad for making Marc worry, for storming her way into his home turf virtually ready to dig herself into an even bigger hole all the while handing him the shovel to help her out. Knows that maybe she should've texted him to talk, like a normal person, but she's never really been normal, or functional.)
She hardly pays attention to the outside world, wants her attention to be centered on this little bubble that consists of this room and them. Because they're not important right now, they're randos and, really, Lottie just had one of the craziest nights of her lifeβ that she will definitely be telling Esther about come morningβ and she at least wants it to end on a pleasant note. More for herself than him, she thinks. So at Marc's word, Doordash, she opens up the app as nonchalantly as she can, like she isn't happy he said 'yes' to her offer, and scrolls through some nearby places. ]
Cool! Cool.
[ Oh god, that's right. Reese. Lottie internally screams and desperately hopes she hasn't heard anything embarrassing and emotional from this room. She'd just die. In fact, she's dying right now, withering as she plants her butt at the edge of his desk to sit. Her phone is planted on top of that newspaper, the coffee shop she picked open for him to see. It's one that's a little ways away, with pictures alluring enough to draw anyone in. She's already got her coffee drink picked out (a half-caf cold brew with nonfat almond milk and one pump of lavender syrup, specifically, he'll see at check out).
She taps a nail right beside the side of her phone, places her other hand down to rest flat on his desk so she can lean, get a little comfortable. ]
My treat! Even throw in a bagel, if you want.
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—she chooses his desk.
he drags his attention to her phone, fixing his eyes on the screen and ignoring lottie in his peripheral vision. if he selects his coffee, maybe she'll get off his desk and he won't have to say anything.
her phone is near enough the polar opposite to his: newer, screen protector, uncracked screen (uncracked anything, actually). near enough mint condition, remarkable (to marc) given how much she uses it. his, by contrast, is a disgrace — marc doesn't know how many times he's dropped it (the first time had been heart-stopping, infuriating as a spiderweb of cracks spilled out from the point of impact because phones used to be better than that, then he'd decided 'fine, whatever'). it's been stepped on and, on days when he can't be bothered with communication, shoved unceremoniously in a drawer or at the bottom of a bag.
the stark difference in condition is a neat summary of their at-times very different priorities.
he hovers over one coffee before scrolling back up. most of the time, marc drinks black coffee, no sugar, no milk, nothing. occasionally he opts for something different — typically a latte, rarely anything else, almost entirely dependent on whether he's eaten much (or anything) that day. black coffee on an empty stomach isn't always his favourite experience in the world, especially if it's not great coffee in the first place.
(marc may not particularly care about good coffee or bad coffee, but his stomach does. sometimes.)
tonight, he chooses a latte, doesn't take lottie up on the offer of a bagel despite the vague thought that he probably should. )
—Please don't sit on my desk.
( is what he ends up saying instead of 'thank you' because she decides to lean in instead of leaning away or even (preferably) getting off when it becomes clear that marc is (is!) selecting coffee. )
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Um, [ She stutters out, thinking great, good job Lottie, buy the man coffee and then irritate him with your big fat booty on his things. She stands soon after, smoothing her hands over her leggings before giving him an apologetic smile. ] yeah, I should'veβ [ She reaches over to pluck her phone away and into her hands, cheeks coloring lightly. ] I'll go ahead and sit over there now. Sorry.
[ Aaahhhhhh!! Ahhhh!! She screams (internally) even louder (far louder) at this entire interaction, making her way as casually she can to the chair he originally had her sit in. Now, at least, with how awkward she feels for a mistake that is relatively small in the grand scheme of tonight, she's not thinking about the seam she tore when she was picking at it earlierβ or how it feels with her fingertips resting over it. She's too busy confirming the order and letting the Doordash driver know, yes, he is delivering it here. No, it isn't a prank. To please knock so the receptionist in the front can get it.
(She thinks Reese getting it would be far more preferable to Marc, masked and ready to get his cute little latte as Moon Knight. Especially when the person ordering it is named "Lottie Person", her profile picture unhelpfully broadcasting her face in all its glory.) ]
Should be here in about.. Ten? Fifteen maybe?
[ Realistically five, with the tip payout she put (she hasn't had a cup all day today in preparation for this visit, so she's feeling a little antsy now that everything is smoothed over and they're talking again). ]
So, uh, what have you been up to lately? Other than, you know..
[ Moon Knighting, she means. ]
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lottie slides off the desk and marc is instantly relieved. the faint flush of lottie's cheeks is ignored and goes unremarked on. marc has never been one for platitudes and smoothing over misunderstandings and so, whilst she busies herself with finishing their order, marc reaches a decision: the moon knight outfit's a bit much to be wearing sat around drinking coffee.
the tap of her nails against the screen is the only real noise for a few moments, until marc starts the laborious process of untying his boots, detaching his cape, removing the outer layer(s) of his top. it's plain black underneath: ordinary, boring, utilitarian. very marc.
lottie speaks up partway through to tell him the coffee'll be here in ten minutes (suggests fifteen but realistically, how many people are getting coffee at this time of night? not many, marc knows. the biggest holdup will be traffic, but for two coffees, they might even be delivered by bicycle, so—.) he makes a noise, a vague kind of grunt to say 'yes, I hear you', and then—
then she asks him what he's been doing, clarifies that she means other than this, other than moon knight stuff and he freezes for a fraction of a second, eyes snapping back up to meet hers. the answer's: nothing. marc doesn't do anything else, not really. he goes to therapy and he — is occasionally dragged out of the mission by greer, made to watch kids movies with her and william.
('made' is a harsh assessment. he enjoys it, really, even if he'd have to be pushed into admitting it.)
he wonders if she genuinely thinks he does anything else. if she thinks he has a secret life as marc spector he keeps thoroughly, desperately hidden. with the exception of a very literal handful of people, all of marc's (current) friends (quote-unquote) are also employees. aspects of his old life with jean-paul and marlene occasionally rears its head, makes itself known in the shape of communiquΓ© requesting him somewhere for something (not dissimilar to how his and jean-paul's past lives made itself known in his life with marlene — requests for marc to come and mop up the pieces of something left half-finished from years ago), but that's about it.
he can't think of an answer. he usually leaves doing stuff to jake and steven, and even then—. )
The usual. ( it's not an answer. or, it is, but it's not a satisfying answer. plant watering (he has so many), contemplating and then pointedly ignoring the myriad of ways he's ruined his life. he'd thought about trying to phone marlene and diatrice and then decided that no, that was a stupid idea because it'd only put them in danger again, and marlene wouldn't want to hear from him anyway. he tugs off a boot, a dull thunk bookending the action (he hadn't loosened it enough—), and exhales. ) Mostly this, ( he admits. then, as a concession, vocalises— ) Therapy. Cleaning. ( he doesn't have anyone to clean the mission, so that's now a 'marc spector' job. ) Being bullied into helping babysit Greer's kid.
Why?
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It could also have something to do with the fact she is taking this as a sign of things being slowly shifting back to their normal β which.. Hm.
Apparently she's still not stepping into that quite right, because his eyes snap up to her after she asks him a pretty fair question. Yeah, it's only been a couple of days since they talked, but what if he picked up a hobby? Or did something interesting?? Or.. Does something else outside of Moon Knighting?
And when she holds his gaze for a fraction longer, she cavesβ who is she kidding, she doesn't expect him to do anything outside of Moon Knighting, really. It's his thing. His bread and butter. She just wanted to know because she's nosy and wants to feel included, to be caught up on what she potentially missed out on within his life because texting him is so integral to hers (there is never not a day where she won't send him something stupid, or bug him at odd hours for her own entertainment).
Really, she would've took 'the usual' (Marc commits to shoving his boot off instead of just lacing the whole thing down, and the way he chucks it onto the floor is loud enough she can hear and she wonders: steel toe boots?). She thinks about how 'the usual' means that the both of them were too busy wallowing by themselves to do anything cool. It's a nice answer, it's plain, it's simple. He elaborates, though, and Lottie keys in that the added flourish of details is definitely for her sake, Marc deliberately indulging her and her curiosities even. She decides, no, actually, this is nicer. She likes this, the offering of arguably mundane events, the opening up.
..The mention of being bullied absolutely helps, too, to reinforce her feelings on this. She relaxes into the seat, tries to hold back the genuine smile that spreads because hello? The image is hilarious and kind of silly?? ]
I was just wondering.. We haven't been texting, so, I guess I wanted to catch up. [ She shrugs her shoulders lightly. ] Nothing super crazy happened for me, either, by the way. I did some work with Esther and hung out with a friend? That's about it.
[ Lottie offers this, in turn, crosses her legs and lets the one resting at the top bounce every so often. Is vaguely proud of herself and how she doesn't immediately veer into 'I don't know but I do but I'm playing coy but not really' territory. But unfortunately (for him), she is absolutely veering into some kind of territory with the way she quirks her head to the side, lets her elbow dig into the arm chair and rests her cheek in her hand. ]
..So, you were being bullied? Do I have to talk to someone's parents about this?
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sometimes it's like this: there's no-one, specifically, that's asked for his help, no little old ladies with problems in their apartment complex, no kidnapped children that need to be found, no immediate slights against his person or anyone he cares about that needs dealing with — and he knows deep down, this is not going to be a productive moon knight night.
she responds to him with both the answer to the question he'd asked and the question he hadn't. he should have, he realises belatedly, awkwardly. she'd asked him because she wanted to know (of course) and because she'd wanted him to ask her.
and yet she doesn't seem perturbed by the omission, glaring as it was. instead she smiles and makes herself more than comfortable in the chair (he assumes, it doesn't look comfortable, but who's marc to talk?) before coming out with — god, that. he eyes her, briefly, before the sound of movement just beyond the door and a knock indicates that, hey, their coffee arrived early (probably, marc isn't sure how much time has passed).
the door doesn't open, there's no commentary from reese and marc's first thought is: interesting, followed by ah as he realises she'd probably cottoned on to the fact that he and lottie had been having a DISAGREEMENT. he knows she probably won't ask about it — or, if she does, knows well enough not to push.
he pads over to the door, the sound his footsteps muffled between the rugs on the floor and his socks. )
It's probably payback, ( he tells her, only tangentially, loosely responding to her question before opening the door, a soft click the only sound as marc's greeted by two coffee cups sat on the floor. there's a couple of sachets of sugar, too, and marc briefly wonders if that'd been the coffee shop, lottie, or reese. )
And don't get me wrong, I'm sure you can be terrifying enough, ( he adds, appearing beside lottie, holding her coffee out for her to take, and he eyes her critically for one moment, then two, before removing the lid to his coffee. it's true: marc has no doubt that in her own way, in the right circles, lottie is awful. ) But if it came down to it, I'm sure I could do a very convincing impression of an upset parent talking to a very ashamed parent. Lots of experience of sitting in on those conversations.
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She quickly puts her phone to sleep, lets the insane urge to check her horoscope wither and die inside her chest as he turns back towards her, their drinks in hand. A hand reaches out towards her cup of brew and it feels cold to the touch, feels comforting in the oddest of ways as Marc β eyes her? Her lower lip juts out in response, wondering if he's scrutinizing her just to do it or if he's adding emphasis to his very real, very truthful fact: Lottie Person can be terrifying. Maybe not in the way Marc is as Moon Knight, but she can be scathing with her words. Can be impulsive to the point she will ruin people if it means a brief chance at something like happiness. Has said things with the intent of making her friends cry and even then, it isn't enough.
(Distantly, she thinks, huh. Maybe it is in the same way Marc is? Not as Moon Knight, but..)
But on that note, she figures that Marc has more on her. After all, he.. Is also cut from the same cloth, but is also a dad? 'My own kidβ' she remembers, distantly, the memory making her fingers scrape against the cup holding her delicious coffee. He tells her, insists in that casual nonchalant way he does, he has experience in it. If he's been Moon Knight for as long as she assumes, she can see why. Lottie lets sipping her coffee drink disguise the subtle, odd, twist to her features.
And in the end, the taste soothes her. She missed this, drinking her coffee. Maybe she missed drinking it with him, but she won't focus on that too much. No, she has to say something, right? She eyes the ground, a subdued sort of smile on her face, clearly in thought, before flicking her gaze back up towards him. ]
Okay. Go. Give me the most convincing impression you have, but I want you to use the coffee as a prop. [ She wiggles her own cup gently, ] You're an upset parent that's like, just come from Starbucks. Waited in line and everything!
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he thinks of elias instead, called in for countless meetings when marc had been at school. endless stories of how marc had done x or punched y, of how marc caused problems and how at a certain point, it didn't matter who started it (no-one particularly cared who started it), the issue was always with how it had ended. elias had always been very apologetic. he'd never tried to make excuses for marc's behaviour, never tried to reason it away as an understandable reaction. marc was supposed to be better than that. they — as a family, as a people — were supposed to be better than that.
he stirs his coffee with one of the stirrers and then stalls for time by hunting out a napkin. marc doesn't act, doesn't play pretend — not as such. he's stood in front of the mirror practising threats on occasion, not out of need but because he'd needed to check the suit was as it should be and found himself caught up in the moment.
(he's never asked if anyone else has ever done that but privately, he thinks they must. spider-man's jokes and nicknames are far too constant to be anything other than practised.)
but here — he's opened the door to something very different. pretend you're an upset parent. (and then he does think of diatrice.) he can do that, but his version of 'upset parent' is entirely unreasonable (lottie specifies in this scenario, he's waited for starbucks, so 'unreasonable' may be the default, may be precisely what she's imagining), but marc knows, too, that if he were an upset parent, his 'unreasonable' would slide straight past regular unreasonableness (yelling probably, name-calling maybe, pointing) and jump straight to 'quiet anger and threats'.
do not pass go, do not collect $200, you are never invited to any parent-teacher conferences.
he takes a sip of his coffee (warm), and god— he needed that. ) Starbucks wasn't really popular when I was at school, ( he says into the top of his cup. ) No pumpkin spice lattes back then.
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Usually, it doesn't take him this long to enjoy his coffee. She's been around him long enough to know what's 'normal' (used loosely, here) behavior for him around her, what's 'normal' behavior for him and this is definitely toeing the line.
Did she ask something strange? What's taking him so long? She asks these questions as she brings her cup down, rests the bottom of it on her thigh and she shivers at the touch of cold through her leggings. And while his answer isn't what she asked for β by any means, really. There's no playful pretending or roleplaying, goofing around, it's just Marc completely aging himself in a way that makes Lottie reel because.. Well, he's not wrong?? ]
Oh my god! Don't remind me..
[ Also β of course he'd mention pumpkin spice lattes!! And of course he's making her think about the difference in age between them, another thing on a long list of things that are different about them. Which isn't bad, per se, because now she tunes in to the History Channel to shit all over it when she's bored, when she would've never gave it the time of day otherwise. But now she's thinking, oh god, he didn't probably. She grew up with it, had access to it pretty early on in her school life. It was more her sisters that enjoyed it β she'd maybe tag along to get something sweet, being the youngest gave her leeway to mooch off them, but that'd be it.
Lottie only managed to get an actual caffeine addiction β and a Starbucks card β somewhere in her last year of high school. And while she's made herself comfortable in more posh, local, places, she still visits Starbucks every now and then.
(And yes, sometimes it's for the stupid pumpkin spice lattes. She can't help but do it even if it's a joke at this point.)
She brings up her phone, has google open and ready to go. For what?? It may become more obvious after she asksβ ] How old are you again?
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he's oblivious, then, to her thoughts, to her at-first belief that he's just making himself comfortable (marc and comfort aren't often two words that go hand-in-hand) until he finds himself started by her exclamation. (about pumpkin spice lattes? he's not sure). whatever it is, it does not become more obvious when she asks how old he is and instead, bemused, marc answers her question. ) Forty.
( give or take a couple of months. he doesn't know if they've actually spoken about ages before, not in terms of numbers. he knows she's younger than him — either that, or they've aged very, very differently — it's always been evident in their different cultural touchstones, in their references, in the way that there are things that marc just doesn't get about lottie and lottie doesn't get about marc. hobbies (well, maybe not hobbies) and interests that aren't just personality related.
she has google open, marc thinks — he can just about see the colours of the logo from here, bright primary colours that even he wouldn't mistake for anything else. it's not a calculator, so she's not trying to work out the year he was born (1981), though it occurs to him she might be trying to work out his age-proximity to the existence of pumpkin spice lattes. or even starbucks in general. ) —Why?
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Predictably, she actually doesn't learn anything from that google search, just realizes she'd have to do a whole lot of reading and clicking and she doesn't want that, so she tries again. She types in, "first pumpkin spice latte" and sees: 2003. Then: "first ever starbucks" (1912, and she thinks okay, overkill much?). She puts her phone face down, but still holds onto it. Ponders and does the math in her head. And then, a pointed sip of her tasty coffee drink. ]
I guess you're right.
[ It doesn't pain her to say it, but it sure does complicate this imaginary scenario she wants him to act out!! After a beat, she elaborates: ]
The pumpkin spice latte wasn't invented until 2003.. You were definitely out of high school by then.
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(it didn't need to take a google search—.)
and then she tells him when the first pumpkin spice lattes came out and— )
Iraq, ( he says on auto-pilot, not really thinking about. his tone is blunt realisation, the kind of thoughtfulness that comes from knowing something's important, but when the mouth works faster than the brain and words form faster than recognition puts them together. if she'd said 2001 or 2002, he probably wouldn't have said anything, but 2003 had been the year he'd been discharged (kicked out).
(hmm.)
(moving on.)
he sips his own coffee, presses his lips together and tries again. ) I came back in 2003. ( briefly, anyway. it'd been the odd interim of his life, where there'd been a chance — fleeting — for him to reconcile with his family, and marc had pointedly decided no and he'd left (again). fighting — boxing — in underground rings because it was an easy source of money, because no-one asked questions and no-one really cared who he was other than how good he could throw and take a punch, and then he'd met jean-paul.
he has no way of making any of that — well, anything.
dryly, then, he opts to say: ) Big year.
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Oops?
Lottie can't tell if this calls for an 'oh', or an 'oops', so she tries both, because it's not like Marc presents this as a bad thing, something she should treat delicately.
He simply just β hands it off to her. Not exactly presented as a fun fact, like how she does sometimes, giving information about herself for free on a silver platter in the hopes of impressing somebody. In fact, it looks like he isn't even thinking about it, when he says 'Iraq', probably isn't with how quickly he says it. In the seconds that follow, where he sips his coffee and tries his hand at a proper sentence, she thinks: shit. That's right.
Lottie's aware of his history, of vague events that are more markers for her reference and nothing explicitly personal (like the minute details of it all, because whatever Marc gives, Lottie will always take). The information escapes her because she always makes sure to be loose with it. Loose, like in a way that she's aware of what he does as Moon Knight but expressly decides to not think about it because it'll hurt her head and make her think.
And nobody, not even herself, wants her thinking. ]
How was it?
[ Coming back, she means, after all of that. She figures not exciting, if Marc's last comment is anything to go by (she doesn't key in to the fact he might mean: wow, a historical year for the world, Marc Spector returning home and pumpkin spice latte's being born!) but β Lottie finds herself asking, anyway. Lets her nail thumb at the lid of her cup, scraping ever so lightly at it. ]
I mean, I already know there was no PSL's for you, but..
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the sound of her nail against the plastic of her coffee cup lid is loud and distracting, though lottie doesn't seem to notice. his eyebrows arch upwards and he lifts his shoulders in a shrug. he almost says that he did everything he could to get out of chicago and the subsequent thought of going back hadn't been a barrel of laughs. ordinarily, marc does anything and everything he can to avoid talking about chicago, only mentions his family when he has to, or when struck by (very infrequent) bouts of sentimentality, but lottie hasn't presented him with an immediate, obvious avenue for skipping past the topic.
(except for coffee, but he can't think of a way to use that to move the conversation on, either.) ) —Hot. ( iraq, he means, not chicago, and in lieu of being able to think of an actual answer to her question that doesn't involve a degree of honesty marc is more comfortable avoiding, he tells her— ) Dishonorable discharge. There wasn't exactly a grand welcome home waiting for me. ( he doesn't say that his departure hadn't exactly been a cause for celebration, either. it'd been argument and disagreement after argument and disagreement; three years of non-communication. he doesn't admit that he hadn't enlisted out of a genuine desire to serve country, but because it'd been a way to escape his life and do something he felt he was good at.
if marc had wanted it to, his return home could have meant something, but he'd been determined to continue the status quo. ) I left as soon as I could. Probably missed out on all sorts of cultural touch points.
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This time, it isn't hard for her to recall the context she needs for that β she remembers very clearly him talking about his family with her, right after he had made fun of her for subtly ("subtly") quoting Barney. Mostly because it's not often she talks about her family, Lottie refusing to even have let her closest circle know she even had siblings until she couldn't anymore (when Rosie bummed at her place for a few months during her almost-maybe divorce).
She figured that it's the same case for him, being cagey about details because it's easier to just ignore it. Because that's normal, right? So she listens, takes an appreciative sip of her coffee as she thinks, yeah, he did miss out on a lot. Lots of shows, lots of artists β 2003 was the year before she started high school, another year she was mousey, plain, wallflower Lottie Person. Quiet, soft, but terribly bitter. Maybe more than she is now, probably. She wonders how Marc was, at the time, if he was just a mini-Marc (sans the moon) or if he was entirely different.
And, god, she could think over that for what feels like hours, but she is very much still having a conversation. Very much is looking at Marc and thinking about how much he must've missed throughout his complicated life, thinking about her life in comparison. Sure, she could maybe pull up a list of everything iconic and amazing that's happened since then to, she doesn't know, make him feel included? But she doesn't. She stays off her phone and, tries to be nonchalant.
You know, casual. ]
I mean.. I started my blog in 2008.
[ Extremely casual. She brings her drink to her lips and raises her brows, trying not to toot her own horn because yes, she is totally implying her blog is a cultural touch point. And she is hoping he'll see it as a fun, silly, thing β a self aware jab at herself so Marc can.. She doesn't know? Take the out if he wants it? Laugh? ]
We can start there.
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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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