[ There is blinding indecisions that grips her, seizes her brain and chest in the most painful of ways when the chaos and fighting is right at her doorstep. She opens her eyes and cries harder, stares evenly at the ground she faces as one man is taken down. Thenβ the other. The only way she can surmise this is from the sheer brutality, how loud it is for someone to get punched or hit or attacked. And some stupid part of her thinks: just like on TV, where it sounds painful, heavy, where there's impact to the sound that makes her wince terribly. Except there's the clear divide of this is all pretend when she's watching a show, or a movie. Now, as she stares down at the door, feels the rope that binds her wrists together digging at her skin uncomfortably, she's reminded that this is real.
And that the shadow meandering at her door, is real. She is not hallucinating this (although that might be possible, too β she hasn't taken her medication, or eaten, done much of anything normal, really). Whoever is opposite to her door, whoever is lingering with some kind of hesitation, stands there. They, are real.
Time slows to a crawl, fear and hope and terror making her breathing pick up in the stark silence of it all. She doesn't think about how her body rips itself from the ground, how her fever is running higher as she shuffles to the wall furthest to the door. She makes it just in time as the door is halfway swung open, back pressed taut against the chilly concrete right as light from the hallway blinds her. Her eyes strain with effort she can barely afford to give, trying to see who it is at her doorstep.
It is hard to place what she feels β when she sees Marc.
(Moon Knight?)
The lines are blurred, so spectacularly blurred that she is both sick (blood, he isβ drenched in blood, so much blood) and elated. She wants to throw up, but she can't tell if it's from relief or disgust. Grinds her teeth together as best she can around the gag, clenching her jaw tight, and she can't tell if it's from the anger or from the cry she's holding back.
(Lottie has stood before Moon Knight before, but all he did was admonish her for not being careful. She was standing then, they were on semi-equal footing, then. Moon Knight looks imposing. Scary. He looks big while she feels so alarmingly small and fragile that it makes her wonder how many people did he beat just to get here.)
Her body relaxes, the strain and anxiety taking hold of her melting away just enough to allow her the chance to move forward. To lean a little his way, towards him, not so he knows that she isn't scared of him and she's just peachy keen with this. It is because she is scared, because Marc is scary, that she's scared of him, too, but he is also safe. Marc is safe, and she wants that, too β wants to feel safe again and he absolutely will make sure she gets it. The truncheon he grips guarantees her as much. The blood-stained white dappled on his cowl, his sleeves, his knuckles most of all, guarantees her more than that.
Lottie can't speak β even if she did, she wouldn't know what to say, she is hardly living as it is now enough to form thoughts. She only has enough in her to bask in simple emotions, desire, impressions, because anything more and she just might freak out again (and she knows what happened the last she did that).
A weak, warbly cry for him leaves her throat, loud enough to be caught dangling in the air. ]
( she's a mess. hair and face and clothes grubby and grimy and wet from tears and god knows what else. she can't talk, the pitching cry that she makes instead makes him wince, a sharp, sudden burst of negativity. it doesn't help his temper, the anger, not so much simmering as cold, feeling as if it's an intrinsic part of him instead of an emotion that'll pass. it's not meant for lottie, isn't because of lottie and her reaction, not really, but is because of — this. all of it. everything.
(despite everything he's done to get here, he'll later make inelegant, hot-tempered comments about making them pay, about cowardice and how he'll kill them, but for now—.)
he kneels in front of her, brings himself down to her level so that they are equal, the noise of his truncheon hitting the ground as he places it down sounding startling loud in the sudden silence. it's only a second, the pause as he studies her features, his gaze — white, not brown; moon knight, not marc — meeting hers, but it feels longer.
she can't see his face, the way his eyebrows are knit tightly together, the way his mouth curls down, the way that concern is etched into his features. moon knight — marc spector — may be deliberately intimidating, marc may go out of his way to ensure that his enemies are scared of him, but anger is how he deals with the rest of it. the guilt, the shame, the worry. the self-loathing. the horrifying thought that what if he can't do anything else other than this?
he reaches towards his belt and pulls out a crescent dart. he could waste time trying to undo the gag, fiddling with the knot and getting frustrated, or he could just cut through the material, quicker and simpler. )
Lottie. ( he doesn't tell her it's okay, that it's going to be okay, because now's not the time, not really. instead, he gestures with his free hand towards her mouth. ) I'm going to take this off first, okay? Then your hands. ( a beat as he reaches forward, toward the side of her head. ) Don't move.
[ His gaze β white, not brown; Moon Knight, not Marc β meets hers in a way that makes her insides twist and turn in anxiety. She knows she shouldn't feel afraid but can't deny the awful churn of her stomach the closer he gets, the moments he gets that crescent dart (something she's always thought thematically cute, being away from the action β now it feels oddly deliberate, intimidating in his hold).
She cries, hot tears dripping down her cheeks and staining her gag as he doesn't tell her it's okay β that's what she wants, platitudes, pleasantries, hugs, comfort, anything that's been the polar opposite of her existence this entire ordeal β just tells her he's going to free her. Her eyes dart to his hand, the way it gently moves to the side of her head, and she feels her heart thrum like a rabbit. The pace unbearable and so nerve wracking she'd laugh, if she could, just to ease her nerves.
But Marc barrages her with different emotions, feelingsβ she's staring at Moon Knight, detailing what he's going to do with her and yet she hears Marc. Hears him so loud and clear that she manages another sob of relief, nods her head briefly before trying to stay still as best she can to allow him what he needs to do. ]
( he doesn't do anything until she stills, until after she nods, tears continuing to run and drip, even as he reaches up with the crescent dart, presses the blade against the cloth and with one sudden movement, slices through.
(they're sharp, designed to pierce flesh and more — the gag, though thick, is nothing really.)
he tugs it away with his free hand, barely mindful of how it — this, everything — plays against the image lottie tries so hard, is so careful, to project. it's soaked with tears and sweat and saliva alike, but marc tosses it to one side — white, gloved hands — with the manner of someone that's seen and dealt with a lot worse.
(because he has. jean-paul and even marlene, both of them had experienced worse with marc — his general lack of interest in self-preservation and inability to ensure the continued safety of those closest to him meant that they'd dealt with worse with marc, and because of marc.)
it won't be until later, until after they've both left and marc's sure she's as safe as she can be, that marc will really allow himself to feel emotions beyond anger. for now, it's just that, simmering below the surface, not quite directing what he needs to do to get lottie out of here — not now, not after the (majority) of the threats have been dealt with — but informing.
after the gag he frees her hands, gaze lingering a fraction too long on the raw, red marks on her wrists, before looking up to meet her eyes once again. it still doesn't occur to him, not quite, that she can't see his expression, can't intuit his feelings thanks to the mask, the cowl, the shadows it casts. he knows he should say something, but it's different to rescuing jean-paul, to saving marlene, to finding jeff. all of them had known what they were signing up to — in a manner of speaking — all of them had known who marc was, what kind of a person he was, what his lifestyle was like. it's danger — continuously — disregard and recklessness.
lottie had never been a part of something like that. she was separate. she was normal in a way that marc had always hoped to be but had never quite achieved. she wasn't even like little scarlet, daughter of a gang boss caught wrong.
he sits, for a second, in front of lottie. quiet. then his head drops, just a fraction, and quietly— )
[ Despite gaining use of her hands, despite gaining access to her mouth, Lottie still feels tied back and chained down when she sees the lack of anything to Marc. And isn't it always like this? She has some unsaid, ridiculous expectation of him and he just disappoints her. What does she expect?
(She is lying. She is telling herself this because it's easier to assign he doesn't care to her like this because she's done it before. She'll always do it when he doesn't react the way that she likes, the way she wants him to, even if she knows he simply isn't capable of it showing it in the way she can recognize immediately.)
The odd thing is, she finds her heart is hurting more than her body, everything else, when he doesn't say anything outright and yet, gently slices through that gag (tosses it to the side rough, in comparison). Frees her hands and stares heavy at the marks on her delicate, slim, wrists (he tosses that, too, something like anger brewing beneath the careful and deliberate control of his fingertips) like he's bothered by it. Is he? She heaves a heavy, strained, breath, and almost asks. In the end, she sits there, gently rubbing at her tied wrists and wincing towards the ground every so often.
Her anger has quickly morphed into something like shame, and embarrassment. She must look ugly. Gross. Terrible. No wonder he isn't saying anything β he's probably finding a way to not hurt her feelings. And how is she going to cover up this bruise? What about her wrists? How is she going to just exist after this? Her head ambles up, a breakdown just seconds away from happening because she can't stop herself from spiraling, but thenβ
Marc says 'I'm sorry'.
He says 'I'm sorry' so softly that she almost doesn't catch it, dips his head down just a fraction and she barely sees it.
Lottie isn't sure what to do, at first, how to take this. What the fuck? Genuinely, honestly, what the fuck? 'Sorry' won't change anything, won't fix anything. 'Sorry' isn't going to make the time she spent here magically okay. But 'sorry' does manage to lessen the intensity of her thoughts, make her mind go blank for a few blissful seconds just to wonder if this is the first time he's ever apologized to her. A broken laugh bursts through her lips, dry as they are, at that, voice cracking halfway from disuse. Marc said he was sorry and she believes it, believes it so much she's reduced to tears because despite that, she can't tell if it's for himself, or for her. She weeps into her hands, looking frailer and smaller than ever. ]
Can you justβ [ Mumbled, watery and hurt. ] please shut up and hug me?
( he says sorry and it only serves to make her cry more and harder, folding in on herself, hands pressed against face. the ensuing words are muffled, slightly garbled in between tears and a stuffy, running nose. it is ugly, but that's all of it. it's marc, in his suit chosen for how bright and stark it is against everything he does — once, a news reporter had opined that maybe moon knight wore white for redemption, an attempt at making up for everything he'd done. the retort to that had been that moon knight's always worn white, it's never reflected his morals, the ethics of how he metes out vengeance.
jake had always been better at it. more measured. more careful. where steven flat-out refused all of it — the violence and the blood and the mess — jake was more pragmatic. he didn't have marc's guilt, marc's worries, marc's obsession with his past and what he'd done. jake has never found pleasure in violence, isn't good at it, not in the way that marc has or is, but he knows that sometimes it is the answer. long before marc had decided to shut out both steven and jake entirely, before he'd decided to set up his midnight mission and rehabilitate his image through "helping his community", jake had been the one tasked with trying to make moon knight respectable again. jake had been the one who'd showed new york that moon knight wasn't just crimson and mutilation, wasn't just inelegant offerings to a moon god no-one else could quite work out the truth of (real? imaginary? the difference hardly mattered when marc was busy operating under the belief that he needed more violence — death, for the "one that eats hearts".)
lottie feels ugly and the situation is ugly, because it's not steven grant crouched in front of her, well-meaning and aghast at what's happened to her and because of her (because of marc); it's not jake lockley, empathetic and roguish, but ultimately warm. it's marc spector, and marc is ugly. she tells him to shut up — all two words that he's uttered, as if he's anything other than laconic at the best of times — and tells him to hug her, and he does.
where their first hug — the one at the mission, after a night of discordant disagreement — had been tentative and unsure, this isn't. marc is not a natural hugger, is not prone to being physically affectionate, but that doesn't mean he's averse to it. doesn't mean he doesn't appreciate tactility.
there's not a world of difference between their heights, but marc is larger, broader, thanks to a lifetime of physicality, of boxing and fighting. he envelopes her tightly, drawing her closer to him, cape partially covering her in response to the sudden movement. it's not gentle — marc rarely is — but it's not rough. it's emotive, emotional. jerky with profound gladness that lottie might not be okay, but she's okay. )
[ Arguably, if Jake had given her the more measured, more careful approach, she'd be upset. She wouldn't want to be treated like she was fragile (she is). If Steven had given her the well-meaning and aghast reaction at what's happened to her (because of Marc) she'd be upset.
She is upset at Marc's genuine, painful, everlastingly aching 'I'm sorry'. She would never be satisfied, any which way, but she would always demand the brute and awkward force of bluntness that Marc gives her, because it is what she's used to, even if she does not like it, even if it is what she doesn't need, right now. It's what she wants. Arguably, if it was anyone but Marc she'd just recede into herselfβ refuse to talk to anyone and go silent until she deemed it safe. Arguably, as ugly as this situation is, it's the best. It's the one that needs to happen, because above all Lottie needs to be held. Needs a shoulder to cry on with someone else, because she's done so much by herself already that it is an action that means nothing to her without someone (without himβ without Marc Spector holding back so much it is thrumming in his bones and vibrating in the air, the intensity this man feels so strongly for things he cares about so much).
Their first hug β the one at the mission, after a night of discordant agreement β had been tentative and unsure. This isn't. Marc wraps his arms around her so tight and warm and comforting that it makes her wheeze. He is larger, broader, to Lottie's impossibly smaller and slimmer frame, meant to look appealing in photographs and nothing more. He dwarfs her easily, her hands getting bunched up around his cape once she realizes what's happening and she burrows her face into his shoulder. Her nails grip onto anythingβ his cape, his suit, his body, anything to get closer. To remind herself that this is real.
She is safe.
She feels like shit but she isn't alone.
There's a long, painful, cry that leaves her lips that settles deep into his skin. When she feels his concern settle into her bones with the way his hold digs into her, it grows louder. And she claws, claws, claws with blunt nails (from scratching at the ground), to make sure he's hooked closeβ and only when she is satisfied does she grip him tight. Does she hiccup and scream into his shoulder, voice breaking at pivotal highs and desperate lows. It is the worst song. It does not echo in the poor acoustics in the room, but is the loudest thing inside. It is the most painful and raw tune he will ever hearβ the muffled symphony of her agony, pain, relief. The way she says, 'Marc,' then 'Marc' on repeat, the underlying 'I was so scared' buried deep in the depths of her tone. ]
( this isn't quite what he usually deals with. marlene's been through a lot — too much — and though she'd clung to him after, though he'd held her tightly in the hours afterwards, she'd never cried like this. frenchie, too — marc had seen him near enough on his deathbed, had spent time with him after he'd lost his legs. they'd sat next to each other when they'd both been convinced that this was the mission that was going to go sideways and that'd be it, and all they'd exchanged had been jokes, or caustic, angry words. marc doesn't often have someone cling to him, relief and pain intertwined.
it says a lot as to how this isn't lottie's life.
it reminds him of how much marlene and jean-paul and rob and diatrice deserved to be free of this life, and — really — lottie too.
it tells him that they were right to leave when they had — and wrong, maybe, not to leave sooner, though they'd tried, hadn't they? and marc had just insisted on drawing them back into his orbit, had acted as if because he needed them, that was what mattered over anything else. that was more important than their safety.
lottie repeats his name and he doesn't let her go, willing to allow her to clutch on to him for as long as she needs to because who knows. once this is over, and they're away from here and she's safe — well and truly safe — there's more than a chance, he thinks, that she'll decide he's not worth it. that everything he's told her is true: knowing him is dangerous and she's better off not.
(marc has never been good with expressing how he really feels, but he's never been good at hiding it either. he cares, a lot. more than he knows how to deal with. he struggles to put it into words, to explain, but it's there in desperate, misguided actions. he's never been able to pretend — except in anger — that people, his people, don't matter to him.
if (when?) lottie decides she's better off remaining in her fashionista, influencer bubble, marc won't be pleased, but he won't claim he doesn't understand, either.)
the more she says his name, the less it sounds real, less like a word, less like his name. nonsense, something to say to fill the oppressive silence. he shushes her, softly and gently, not concerned that anyone will stumble across them — he's certain that won't be the case, but because— )
We need to leave. ( a statement, not a command, not a suggestion, punctuated by a shift in his weight and a tilt of his head, towards the door, to make sure there isn't any unwelcome noises approaching from behind. ) Do you think you can do that for me?
[ Little thought is being spared to practical, bigger, important things like the future. Her brain is only hyperfunctioning on now. On how fucking terrible Marc's suit feels in the palm of her hands, a mix of blood and viscera and sweat laced into the fabric. She focuses on how he smells β this is, for once, easy, because a runny nose means she can grab some scents at least, and he smells like copper, like anger, but the bottom line is he still smells like Marc.
She burns into her mind the way his own hands feel around her body, the desperate and comforting grip to them, so very different from the way they usually touch (which is hardly at allβ it is in fleeting moments, they are physical in ways like this, through barely there grazes of fingertips and her elbowing him playfully).
And then she hears his voice, vaguely muffled by the mask and near impossible to catch with her howls, but she does. Lottie is still grief stricken, still shaking and volatile and sensitive and so very scared but the lulling timber of his voice only manages to semi-soothe her. She is not done β and the terrifying thing is, she's not sure she'll ever be done, because each time the silence settles and she stops, it picks back up. She sees the room he clutches her in and it begins all over again.
She hears him tell her they have to go in between bouts of wails, shaking her head vehemently not because she doesn't want to leave β that is the last thing she wants β but because she doesn't want to leave the safety of his embrace. Leaving means getting up and being separated, it means being in danger again and feeling fear crawl and thrive in its own special made layer beneath her skin. Deep enough where she can't scratch and tug it out. Surface level enough where she'll see the rope marks on her wrists for weeks, see the bruise on her cheek swell down in color and size, too, and as a result will always have to think of this when she looks in the mirror.
(Lottie will no longer feel happy gazing at herself in the mirror. She won't be putting on makeup for fun, she'll be putting it on to hide.)
Lottie wants to stay burrowed into his shoulder to never have to see anything in this stupid building again. So desperately wants her last image of this place to be of Moon Knight β Marc β standing there in her doorway, the bodies of the men holding her prisoner peeking barely into frame. Her eyes squeeze shut, presses her face into him tighter as she refuses to let go, screams turning into sobs. Hiccups. Agonizing cries that are purely so she can wallow in him.
But eventually, eventually, sheβ. Relents. After spending some time thinking that he's right.. They have to. She swallows phlegm down and coughs pathetically, nods weakly. Bunches her hands in his cape in a way that lets him know that while she'll comply, she refuses to leave this spot. That she doesn't care how much of an inconvenience it is. ]
( her first response is to continue sobbing, wailing, a violent, absolute shake of her head he feels instead of her vocalising it in any shape or form. he knows it's not what she wants — who would want to stay here? but he knows, too, that it's because moving — leaving — requires acknowledgement. it'll mean seeing where she's been taken and where she's been kept, seeing the bodies of the men that'd been hired to keep her here and what marc has done to them.
it doesn't occur to marc yet but it will later that lottie has spent most of their friendship pointedly ignoring all the rumours about marc spector, all the stories about moon knight — the violence, the unpredictable behaviour, an unstable personality. she's glossed over everything marc has told her himself — when they've argued, mostly, when he's been trying to prove a point — and though he knows she's seen some of the rumours, some of the news stories, he knows she barely bothered to read them.
it might occur to marc eventually that it's not wholly unlike what marlene used to do — she would try and pretend marc didn't exist, that steven grant could be and was the dominant — only — personality. that with enough prompting, marc spector would be left in the desert, buried alongside her father.
marlene had wanted steven most of all because he wasn't violent. he was urbane. sophisticated. not exactly gentle, but entirely more civilised than marc has ever been. lottie hasn't met steven, likes marc well enough, but she's never quite found peace with each and every facet of marc spector — but has never had to really face all of them either.
this, he'll realise (maybe), is a sharp, rude awakening for lottie that maybe marc hasn't just been moody and angsty and dramatic for the sake of it. that maybe his testy warnings that he's not ever really wanted lottie to heed have been for a reason. it's the same sort of reckoning that soldier's had, that reese has had, that greer has had. all of them — except greer — are early enough in their friendships with marc that it feels excusable, explainable, all part and parcel of the sort of lifestyle that moon knight leads.
after all, it happens to the friends and families of other superheroes, right? other vigilantes.
later, though, it'll come with the realisation that it doesn't matter if it happens to everyone with a CERTAIN LIFESTYLE, what matters is that it doesn't get better. it repeats ad infinitum, a neverending cycle of pain and hurt and betrayal punctuated by periods of time where it feels exciting, where moon knight is a figure of hope rather than questionable vengeance.
eventually — and marc doesn't know if the passage of time is as long as it geels — she relents. the wails die down into hiccuping cries and she nods (still doesn't speak), but still she doesn't move. instead, her hands clutch at him and his clothes more tightly, steadfastly refusing to move and to see. it's not new, but it is—.
it is a touch inconvenient.
he doesn't sigh but he does step awkwardly in an effort both to stand, retain his balance and keep ahold of lottie. a jerky movement punctuated by a HNGH. she's not heavy, but that doesn't mean it's easy, not until he readjusts, until he redistributes his weight and then hers, one arm stretched across her back, his hand resting against her head, tilting it into his shoulder, the other under her legs.
he's lucky, he supposes, that's she conscious. that she's not a dead weight. unluckily, he thinks, he doesn't have the mooncopter anymore. that'd make the journey home (hers or his—?) quicker, but—.
[ Later, when she's by herself, forced to let her thoughts fester will she think about thatβ all of his warnings, all of her brushing away of said warnings, convinced that she somehow knew him better or that he was just being self-conscious and dramatic. It is a rude awakening, one that she thinks she'll never forget. One that she, pointedly, will not be sharing with anyone outside of whoever is already involved.
None of her fans will know what happened, why she'll be disappearing for a month until all the bruising and marks fade away, until her smile becomes perfect again. Not her family, her friendsβ only Marc (and Esther, once she finds out this was all her doing).
When she feels him move to stand, Lottie only clings tighter, awkwardly moving along with him in a way that allows her vision to be completely shrouded by him. That she won't see anything she doesn't want to. It's a tedious process she does not make easier, as he wraps one arm around her and then the other beneath her legs.
The wide expanse of his palm rests in the grody mess of hair on her head and she whimpers into him, nuzzles as deeply as she can when she feels herself begin to cry again. It is silent, the way she indulges in her sorrow and agony, once he hoists her up and carries her properly, this timeβ Marc will be able to feel the way her body trembles every so often in his arms, will feel it strongest beneath his palm. Will be able to feel every shaky, shuddery, inhale and exhale before she begins all over again, tears dropping and staining his suit.
She does not say anything more, doesn't do anything less, just wraps her arms tight around his neck and stays where she feels most comfortable. Lottie will stay like this throughout the entire walk through the building, will stay like this outside, and absolutely will try and stay (unhelpfully, clingily) like this in the car, too. ]
( compared to the journey to lottie, the way out is quicker, much easier, much simpler. the biggest challenge is navigation — balance, given lottie's apparent desire to bury as much of herself as physically possible into marc — and he lets soldier know via the cowl-mic that he's on his way and to make sure the car's ready. soldier's a good lad but he's not frenchie, and marc — not for the first time — finds himself (almost) wishing for jean-paul's bedside manner, his easy charm and presence, his way with people.
it's not that soldier (REAL NAME UNKNOWN) has anything wrong with him per se — no, in many ways, soldier reminds marc of himself, learning to deal with anger and a want for purpose that he's struggled to put into positive action — it's that he is like marc. he's awkward, he's not particularly comforting. lottie shivers and shakes, and she clings to marc — consistently, perpetually — even when marc steps outside, even when the cool air greets them in a sudden wave. even when they reach the car, soldier's expression questioning relief at the sight of marc with lottie — at the sight of marc generally, at the dirty, stained white, the outfit he's had infrequent cause to see like this.
she doesn't seem to want to let go even when marc attempts to put her down in the car, attempts to place her on the back seats. (it's one of his, bought for its unassuming presence on the roads but quick, quite the muted (non-)statement next to the ferraris and the aston martins marc had bought when he'd first started to settle into his (former) wealth.)
her lack of compliance earns a muted groan muttered under his breath and a jerky glance towards soldier in the front of the car. he'd prefer to drive, but how well that will go is anyone's guess. )
Lottie. ( low, earnest. quiet. for her, not for soldier. ) I need you to make this a little easier. Then we can go home.
[ Lottie, as a whole, does not question a lot. She's led a life a easy acceptance, of accepting facts presented to her because it's easier to nod and say yes, to release control to someone else because it's easier. She doesn't question the sound of someone else breathing, the shuffle of leather that doesn't belong to her somewhere in the front. She can barely see it, the way she's still insistent on being beside Marc. And Marc, he says her name and it is full of hesitance, how her head slowly edges up to look at him. Away from his chest, away from her safety.
Her nerves grow louder when she looks past him and sees just where she had been, bits of carnage from Moon Knight's prowl through the premises blurry but evident. His words are a blur. She only sees his mouth moving in her peripheral and she forces her gaze back to him.
Big, brown eyes look up at him, teetering on tears. The only thing her brain really processes is the phrase 'we can go home' and she finally releases her death grip on his suit. Lets her hands hover near his person before dropping down and reluctantly edging into the car, in her seat. Looking stiff and uncomfortable, hardly there even in the safety of his car. ]
( in the end, marc decides against the mission and he decides against lottie's own apartment. he reasons, for better or worse, that her apartment might not be safe — there'd been that person, the one that'd called him and said she needs to be back there by morning, and marc doesn't take kindly to being told what to do.
(half true. he's very good at being told what to do, very good at following orders, but not by strangers. not by anyone he perceives as a potential threat. the voice, the man at the end of the phone had helped him, yes, in a manner of speaking, but he hadn't been help.
marc didn't like him.)
he decides against the mission, too, for much the same reason. anyone — everyone — knew where to find moon knight. he operated an open door on the basis of his need to rehabilitate his image, to work out his guilt, to help "his" people. it was fine for the most part, but then there'd be men like zodiac who took advantage. the committee know he's marc spector (and jake lockley, and steven grant), it's a poorly kept secret, but after the last time, after marc had responded by flying a helicopter into the side of the building, he thinks they won't dare to bother him at his house. the mansion. the monstrosity he has mixed feelings about because it's grant's, really, not his.
he says something to soldier, quiet and low, inaudible to lottie, about soldier driving them part of the way — as far as soldier can reasonably go and still close enough to get home to his mom's without issue — and that marc'll drive the rest of the way. (to long island, he doesn't say.)
at this time of night, it's a quiet drive — or, as quiet as new york ever is — the hum of the motor and the noise of other vehicles the only sounds present beyond lottie's lingering, hiccuping cries. it doesn't take as long as it should — the roads are empty and marc's an incautious driver, speedy and reckless.
grant manor is large and sprawling and open, with private gates at the front and the rear, and a security system that marc had brought with him to the mission — notifications of perimeter breaches and unwelcome intruders, at odds with the tone of the place. the security system had been marc's suggestion, one that steven had agreed to with minimal reluctance because he knew it'd be needed. because he knew what kind of man marc was (is).
it's the type of property that needs a housekeeper and marc hasn't had one of those in a long time. marc doesn't spend much time here at all, in truth. he'd tried to sell it once, steven had argued, jake had been neither here nor there (albeit with a side of 'spector has a point, what does the three of us have any need for that many rooms for?'), and any attempt had fallen through because 'history of being attacked', 'unusual renovations', and 'former home of war criminal and former mercenary, known unstable vigilante marc spector' doesn't attract a host of buyers marc (or steven) had felt inclined to sell to.) )
We're here, ( he says, abruptly, into the silence. )
[ She's completely and utterly checked out by the time they get on the road, feeling an all encompassing sensation of lonely and hurt. In pain, a desperate and debilitating desire to just scream and never speak again all at once. She puts her head against the window, looks aimlessly out the side like the changing scenery will somehow make her feel better. It doesn't. It doesn't make her feel any better when it's Marc driving, Lottie in the same stupor she's been in since he picked her up. Not a word or comment about how he's trying to die with the way he's driving, just crying, so utterly unlike her it's scary.
The fact she is fully inside her head means she doesn't realize for how long they've been driving, doesn't realize she can't recognize anything on these streets much less wherever the hell they're at when they park. She's too busy idly scratching at her skin and crying over, and over, again.
Grant manor is large and sprawling and open, andβ it's a few minutes after he says 'we're here' that she finally moves. Lifts her head away from the window with something like recognition before she slowly turns to look at him. Her lips part sluggishly, trying to catch up with everything she's brutally forced out until now.
It's weak, it's broken, warbly and confused (hurt) when she saysβ ]
You said we'd go home.
[ And she doesn't know if he meant his, or hers, but she doesn't expect this. This weird mix of lavish and unkempt, of foreign and not something she wants, at all. Lottie doesn't want new and unfamiliar. She wants the coffee machine at her house to stir to life so she can stay up until she passes out, she wants the dim and dark brooding man cave of the Mission. She wants to swaddle herself in a blanket and cry beneath her bed, on the floor, because no one will see her and that's for thebest, isn't it? ]
( she can't see his expression, can't see the brief flash of surprise at her response, can't see the way his lips curve down when she — whines. it's whiney and upset and marc hadn't thought she'd find his decision a problem.
(but then, marc does that — he makes decisions for others, doesn't confer with them, and doesn't think of how they'll feel about it. marc wants it and he thinks it'll be fine and it's a good decision, so it must be, in spite of how often that's proven to not be the case.)
he glances from her to the house and back again, hand resting on the door handle before he explains, abruptly— ) My home. You'll be safe. ( a sideways glance as the door's swung open with a soft click and he adds, ) And I need to get changed. Shower. ( all things he can do at the mission, but has chosen not to. he pauses, his boots crunching on the gravel underfoot as he walks round to the other side of the car and opens her door.
he says, a little quieter and a little softer, ) I didn't think you'd want to see Reese. ( or anyone, he means.
he waits until she gets out of the car to turn and head inside, holds the door open for her. the inside is a mix of marc and steven — the foyer more steven, tasteful and modern and simple. expensive and understated. marc lingers, awkwardly, watching lottie. he's mindful that she's not happy, but given what she's just been through, why would she be?
he looks towards the staircase, bypasses the thought of the kitchen and food (for now), and gestures. ) The guest bedroom has an ensuite. You can get cleaned up.
[ It's a problem. Very much a problem, right up until he tells her that it's his home and he needs to take care of himself, too. Taking a shower and getting changed are all things he can do at home, his other home, the Mission. They both know this, so that means it's a deliberate decision that he's staying here. That's how she'll be safe β she'll be with him. And he's letting her know in as little words as possible, not necessarily comforting because they are, but because of what they imply.
So she stays silent, the unpleasant curl of her lips softening when he gets out of the car, when he opens her door. She almost protests on instinct that she knows Reese (sort of) and she'd love to see her (not really), but it hits her. Abruptly, loudly, because Marc is quiet and tender when he speaks to her and she remembers.
Right.
Right.
She slides out of the car and follows after Marc like a duckling, stares at his hands that swing back and forth as he guides her, opens the doorβ ushers her in first so he can stay at her back. And when she sees the foyer it is.. A lot. Who the hell designed this? Because it certainly wasn't Marc. Marc's whole place has theming in it, decisions she's sure he poured his heart and soul into while sketching it out late at night. This is stylish but oddly, she doesn't know, like a spread on a magazine? Like it's someone else's touch. It's enough of a conundrum that she properly forgets the throbbing at her cheek, the ache to her knees and the marks at her wrist. Because she's just a guest at Marc's fancy house, does it need to be more complicated than that?
But she's snapped out of itβ Marc comes back into vision and she lets her eyes drag to the staircase. This house is so fantastically foreign, but it's good to see Marc is still Marc. Lottie doesn't even bark out a laugh, because if she does it might sound watery. Marc has always been like this, but still, 'you can get cleaned up' feels the oddest sort of impersonal for what happened, today. She knows he's trying his best, but it's growing to simply not be enough. Now, she's realizing, it might not be enough, and it's painful, the way those words hit her for no particular reason at all.
(It's the expectations, the ones she has for Marc that can never be fulfilled. He's just not like that, he can't be what she needs, she knows this but she still desperately wants him to be. And now she's wondering if she's setting these on him just so she can have an excuse to be mad, to put her frustrations out on somebody because it's the only thing she has control over right now.)
Maybe, if she waited, Marc would've led her after she gave her consent. But impulsive Lottie doesn't, she mumbles something inaudible, tonally (vaguely) like an mhmm before she makes her way up the stairs step by step, hands curled into loose fists at her side. ]
( he would have led her up — intended to, in fact — and he'd gestured only because he knows it's not a small place. instead, lottie strides ahead of him, her hands balled into fists and he has a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that he's done something wrong.
and so he doesn't immediately point out that she doesn't know which room he's referring to, that when she gets to the top of stairs she'll be greeted by a hallway with a dozen doors — the bedroom that used to be his and marlene's, the room at the other end, a (slightly) smaller mirror of his — the one that used to be jean-paul's. half a dozen smaller guest rooms, ones that had never been used for their intended purpose — marc and marlene had used them for storage, mostly. )
To the right, ( he says as lottie nears the top of the stairs. unlike marc, lottie doesn't pad dirt and blood and more up the stairs — one reason, frankly, why marc (and steven and jake) had all agreed that carpets were a bad idea.
his gaze lingers on lottie for one second, then two. quiet. contemplative. ) Give me a second. ( a statement not a question, and he heads to the left, the opposite direction to where he'd instructed her to go.
(his bedroom, the one that's mostly him (now), barring a few sparse reminders of the life he-and-jake-and-steven had before. there's two wardrobes, one his — a mix of all their belongings, haphazardly organised thanks only to the infrequent amount of time any of them spend here, even more infrequently worn. he doesn't give that one any attention, not now. instead, he heads to the other wardrobe, the one that used to be marlene's. there's not much there — a few t-shirts, a couple of dresses (expensive, that steven had bought), sweatpants. items that marlene hadn't wanted to take with her when she left, items that neither marc nor steven nor jake had managed to find it in them to ask her about.
(for a while, marc had thought it'd meant that, like every break-up before the last, she'd come home until he realised it'd meant that there were parts of her she wanted to leave behind.)
lottie and marlene are about the same height, he thinks, although the similarities end there. lottie's bustier, more slender where marlene had a more athletic build but, at a guess, they're close enough in size that he doubts it'll be too much of an issue.
one t-shirt, then, and one pair of sweatpants.)
he doubts lottie will have lingered at the top of the stairs waiting for him to return, and it's only on approach to the door to the master guest room — the room he assumes she's entered rather than any of the others — that he speaks again.
(it doesn't occur to him that he still hasn't taken off any of moon knight's clothes, that he's still wearing the mask.) )
—Clean clothes. ( he half thinks of explaining that they were marlenes and then promptly thinks the better of it. ) For after you've showered.
[ He's not wrong on both counts β Lottie has no idea where she's going, but that has never stopped her from stomping away before and it won't now, and that she wouldn't wait for him to return. She's already inside the room he instructed her to go in ('to the right') when she hears his footsteps. It's irritating, how much more she strains her ears for any type of sound, for anything that might catch her off guard. She's still jittery when she turns to look at the door, briefly is taken back to the room she was sequestered into before Marc's voice rings out. It's a brief walk to open it (she had been standing and staring at the bed, spacing out and on the verge of an anxiety attack, she thinks), meets his eyes (eye holes?) before they hesitantly track down to the offered clothing. Some of that anger comes crashing back as her eyes begin to blink rapidly, fighting back tears of frustration before she takes them.
Pointedly: not grabs them. She's angry enough to have a physical reaction but aware enough of what he's doing that she doesn't immediately take it all out on him.
The door, however, is shut firmly on him.
Pointedly: not locked.
It takes her a minute to figure out how the shower works, but she manages it after a few tries. She peels off clothing that sticks to her with sweat, dirt, blood (from Marc), and it's a disgusting sensation. Her worst nightmare. She doesn't want to be in her body but she's stuck in it, with every scrape and scratch, every cut and bruise. She sees them all when she looks into the mirror and this time she doesn't blink away the tears. This time, Lottie muffles her cries. An attempt at privacy where she hasn't had any forβ not just today, or yesterday, but all of her life. And for once, she wants to keep this moment to herself. So she stays there, inside the bathroom, sitting on the floor, face in her hands and simply cries.
She does the same inside the shower for more than an hour, some of it in warm water and some of it in cold (for her hair). Lottie still feels like shit by the time she gets out, but her body is as clean as it's going to getβ because she can't scrub bruises away.
Her hair clings to her body, bits of green dye trickling over slender shoulders as she palms at the clean clothes he had given her. Wonders: what the fuck? She picks up the shirt, thinks.. Uhh. She can give this a try? But when it's slipped on she realizes this is very much an issue when she can't get it down past her chest. Lottie spends the next ten minutes trying to get out of the shirt before opting to just wrap a towel around herself for modesty.
(Because wearing the sweats then the towel on top seemed a bit.. Much.) ]
Marc?
[ She calls out, easing her door a smidge open (yes, she is peeking through it like a child). ]
( her stare is accusatory, angry. she's silent and then—
—she shuts the door on him.
he stands there for a moment longer, mouth parted in deep surprise at her reaction. something (someone) at the back of his mind says 'well done', and he presses his hand against the bridge of his nose. well fucking done indeed. he's not sure what he's done to upset her more than she already was, but apparently, he's done it.
he gives her five minutes before padding back towards his bedroom, five minutes before he strips out of the cape, the cowl, the mask, the boots, all of it. it's dumped unceremoniously in a pile in the corner of the bathroom before he showers, years of practise and use meaning the shower's turned on quickly, meaning he showers quickly. takes long enough to become clean, for the water to stop running down the drain tinged with pink.
like lottie, marc's body is adorned with bruises and cuts though his are entirely the result of his own actions and not all from tonight. his are the result of willingness, of choice, of a decision made of his own free will. he doesn't cry about his, never has and never will. they're testaments to how he feels about himself, about what he needs to do to silence the guilt and the loathing that feels like it takes up his entire soul.
they're deserved.
he dresses in his clothes — spector's — a plain, loose-fit t-shirt tucked into an equally plain pair of trousers. he doesn't stay in the bedroom — he heads towards the guest room, pauses outside, and then reaches the conclusion that he's a fucking idiot, and heads back to his room.
it's an unpleasant feeling, the sensation that something's not right and he doesn't know what to move or how to get the pieces to fall into place. he hates it, hates the way that the night's gone, and he's antsy. he knows that if lottie wasn't here, he wouldn't be either, he'd find somewhere else to be, someone — anyone — to take his feelings out on, anything to take the uncomfortable edge off.
it feels like it's caught in chest, in his head, and—
then there's a noise. faint. questioning. a little plaintive.
back to the guest room and the door's open and his breath catches and—
it's lottie, her green hair wet and slick and visible, even through the crack in the door.
[ He calls her own name in turn andβ she pauses. Suddenly a little more aware of the fact she is in a towel and maybe she should've worn the pants, but it's too late now. And Marc looksβ like himself. And, unlike himself, he's in plainclothes, and not his suit. It's nice, it makes the pause turn a little more weighty when she can finally see his eyes. Can finally make out his expression that isn't hidden by a mask. Has more to go on than his voice, the way he touches her.
She has all those things and yet, she doesn't use them. Just.. Stays quiet for another moment, feeling spectacularly embarrassed for no reason at all.
(It's because she can't fit in the shirt, it is definitely because of that.)
She clears her throat nervously, glances down to the ground as she tries to not let the way her hair drips over her skin bug her. Tries to not let the fact she's making a mess on the floor, bug her. ]
..Um, is it okay if I can wear one of your shirts?
( she doesn't answer straight away. if marc wasn't able to see her — some of her, anyway — he'd have pushed into the room to check on her. to make sure she was okay. she's — not okay, but nothing else is wrong, nothing else has happened.
he can see that she's dressed only in a towel and, the longer the silence lasts, the more marc slowly pieces together what she's about to ask. he'd been wrong. marlene's clothes don't fit her.
(is that why she's awkward? embarrassed in a way that marc doesn't often see from her?)
he opens his mouth to speak just as lottie coughs and looks down and away from him. it's not quite a slice of normality because there's nothing normal about any of this for either of them, but it's almost laughably mundane given the events of the night. )
—Yeah, sure.
( like he'd say 'no'? the answer is given immediately, almost before she's finished asking, and it's only a few moments before he returns with something of his in hand, held out towards her. it's given with a— )Sorry, ( said to break the silence that feels palpable. there's a brief, sharp moment where marc wonders if she's going to slam the door in his face (again), and he shifts his weight to push a foot forward, enough to stop the door closing entirely if she decides to just for long enough to ask— )
[ It is laughably mundane, and maybe some part of Lottie would be amused by this all if she weren't so viscerally aware of her body in the opposite way she usually doesβ she is not appraising and preening herself for photos but being forced to remember that some things stretch weirdly over her if she isn't careful with sizing and, if she's really negligent, could be downright uncomfortable across her breasts. And it's nice when, before she can even finish saying anything, Marc is already going back into his room and retrieving a shirt for her. Without even an explanation required.
He apologizes and β Lottie just takes the shirt, odd and quiet because she was going to say that, but now she can't because he said it first so she opts for a weird, ] It's okay.. [ Because it isn't really his fault..? Men, historically (to her), have never managed to get sizing right. All of two times did Sunny buy her a dress and a pair of pants that fit, so her expectations have always been spectacularly low.
She lingers by the door, having truly no idea what else she could say but not wanting to leave just yet either. But there's the issue of the fact she's still wet, still dripping, her wet hair clinging uncomfortably to her skin in a way that makes it crawl. She'd like to be dressed before she gets sick on top of this butβ she doesn't move. Marc does, actually, closing the distance in the thick silence that overtakes them.
(In the moment he does slyly slip that foot between her door, she actually was about to close it. She can't change with an open door β especially with no clean underwear. It's a problem that Esther has admonished her before about, something something "You can't keep kicking me out every time you need an outfit change!") ]
Uh.. [ Marc asks if, of all things, she wants a drink, and.. She clings his shirt a little to her chest, not out of anger or apprehension. She's just a littleβ surprised? ] Uh, yeah, if that's alright?
Coffee? Tea? ( water? something else? the question hangs in the air between them, even as marc slides his foot back, away from the door. it's something to busy himself with in the time it takes for her to get dressed, something for him to give himself the pretence of being occupied with instead of just sitting with his own thoughts.
it won't actually change anything — whatever she opts for, whatever marc takes the time to make, they both know it won't take as long as her making sure she's something approaching presentable, even when it's just the two of them, even when it's a pair of (old) sweatpants and one of marc's t-shirts. )
The kitchen's downstairs and to your left, ( he tells her, gaze shifting pointedly away. as if he can see through the floor to where he's talking about. the kitchen — like the rest of the house — is clearly made for more than two occupants of the house, is made for a family. it's disused, sparse in a way that speaks of its sole (infrequent) occupant leaning into practicality over anything else — coffee, first and foremost, and then food — leftover takeout, no real ingredients to speak of. ) I'll wait down there for you.
( a breath of a pause punctuated by something akin to realisation and a quick, searching glance of lottie's face. ) Unless you want me to bring it back up.
[ Lottie was moreso hoping Marc would just make a decision for herβ that he'd bring something or another back up and that'd be it. So she's glad to see at least one of her assumptions ringing true, when he stares at her a little too much when he offers to come deliver her drink, instead.
She leans back, unsure of what he's searching for and almost too scared to ask (because what is he seeing that she isn't? What kind of Lottie is she showing him, without even realizing it?). She palms at the shirt in her hand, glancing somewhere up and off to the side because his eyes areβ for once, they're a little too intense. Too earnest. She vaguely wishes for the buffer of his mask because eye contact is hard, for some reason. She shuffles her weight from foot to foot, tugging the towel around her tighter. ]
Coffee? You can bring it back up to me..
[ There's a beat, where she opens her lips but has to physically stop herself from adding 'if that's okay'. She knows it is, she really does, but it's hard not to add it when she feels so much like a burden in so little time. She finally meets his gaze again, reaching up to wipe some water off her face. ]
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no subject
And that the shadow meandering at her door, is real. She is not hallucinating this (although that might be possible, too β she hasn't taken her medication, or eaten, done much of anything normal, really). Whoever is opposite to her door, whoever is lingering with some kind of hesitation, stands there. They, are real.
Time slows to a crawl, fear and hope and terror making her breathing pick up in the stark silence of it all. She doesn't think about how her body rips itself from the ground, how her fever is running higher as she shuffles to the wall furthest to the door. She makes it just in time as the door is halfway swung open, back pressed taut against the chilly concrete right as light from the hallway blinds her. Her eyes strain with effort she can barely afford to give, trying to see who it is at her doorstep.
It is hard to place what she feels β when she sees Marc.
(Moon Knight?)
The lines are blurred, so spectacularly blurred that she is both sick (blood, he isβ drenched in blood, so much blood) and elated. She wants to throw up, but she can't tell if it's from relief or disgust. Grinds her teeth together as best she can around the gag, clenching her jaw tight, and she can't tell if it's from the anger or from the cry she's holding back.
(Lottie has stood before Moon Knight before, but all he did was admonish her for not being careful. She was standing then, they were on semi-equal footing, then. Moon Knight looks imposing. Scary. He looks big while she feels so alarmingly small and fragile that it makes her wonder how many people did he beat just to get here.)
Her body relaxes, the strain and anxiety taking hold of her melting away just enough to allow her the chance to move forward. To lean a little his way, towards him, not so he knows that she isn't scared of him and she's just peachy keen with this. It is because she is scared, because Marc is scary, that she's scared of him, too, but he is also safe. Marc is safe, and she wants that, too β wants to feel safe again and he absolutely will make sure she gets it. The truncheon he grips guarantees her as much. The blood-stained white dappled on his cowl, his sleeves, his knuckles most of all, guarantees her more than that.
Lottie can't speak β even if she did, she wouldn't know what to say, she is hardly living as it is now enough to form thoughts. She only has enough in her to bask in simple emotions, desire, impressions, because anything more and she just might freak out again (and she knows what happened the last she did that).
A weak, warbly cry for him leaves her throat, loud enough to be caught dangling in the air. ]
no subject
(despite everything he's done to get here, he'll later make inelegant, hot-tempered comments about making them pay, about cowardice and how he'll kill them, but for now—.)
he kneels in front of her, brings himself down to her level so that they are equal, the noise of his truncheon hitting the ground as he places it down sounding startling loud in the sudden silence. it's only a second, the pause as he studies her features, his gaze — white, not brown; moon knight, not marc — meeting hers, but it feels longer.
she can't see his face, the way his eyebrows are knit tightly together, the way his mouth curls down, the way that concern is etched into his features. moon knight — marc spector — may be deliberately intimidating, marc may go out of his way to ensure that his enemies are scared of him, but anger is how he deals with the rest of it. the guilt, the shame, the worry. the self-loathing. the horrifying thought that what if he can't do anything else other than this?
he reaches towards his belt and pulls out a crescent dart. he could waste time trying to undo the gag, fiddling with the knot and getting frustrated, or he could just cut through the material, quicker and simpler. )
Lottie. ( he doesn't tell her it's okay, that it's going to be okay, because now's not the time, not really. instead, he gestures with his free hand towards her mouth. ) I'm going to take this off first, okay? Then your hands. ( a beat as he reaches forward, toward the side of her head. ) Don't move.
no subject
She cries, hot tears dripping down her cheeks and staining her gag as he doesn't tell her it's okay β that's what she wants, platitudes, pleasantries, hugs, comfort, anything that's been the polar opposite of her existence this entire ordeal β just tells her he's going to free her. Her eyes dart to his hand, the way it gently moves to the side of her head, and she feels her heart thrum like a rabbit. The pace unbearable and so nerve wracking she'd laugh, if she could, just to ease her nerves.
But Marc barrages her with different emotions, feelingsβ she's staring at Moon Knight, detailing what he's going to do with her and yet she hears Marc. Hears him so loud and clear that she manages another sob of relief, nods her head briefly before trying to stay still as best she can to allow him what he needs to do. ]
no subject
(they're sharp, designed to pierce flesh and more — the gag, though thick, is nothing really.)
he tugs it away with his free hand, barely mindful of how it — this, everything — plays against the image lottie tries so hard, is so careful, to project. it's soaked with tears and sweat and saliva alike, but marc tosses it to one side — white, gloved hands — with the manner of someone that's seen and dealt with a lot worse.
(because he has. jean-paul and even marlene, both of them had experienced worse with marc — his general lack of interest in self-preservation and inability to ensure the continued safety of those closest to him meant that they'd dealt with worse with marc, and because of marc.)
it won't be until later, until after they've both left and marc's sure she's as safe as she can be, that marc will really allow himself to feel emotions beyond anger. for now, it's just that, simmering below the surface, not quite directing what he needs to do to get lottie out of here — not now, not after the (majority) of the threats have been dealt with — but informing.
after the gag he frees her hands, gaze lingering a fraction too long on the raw, red marks on her wrists, before looking up to meet her eyes once again. it still doesn't occur to him, not quite, that she can't see his expression, can't intuit his feelings thanks to the mask, the cowl, the shadows it casts. he knows he should say something, but it's different to rescuing jean-paul, to saving marlene, to finding jeff. all of them had known what they were signing up to — in a manner of speaking — all of them had known who marc was, what kind of a person he was, what his lifestyle was like. it's danger — continuously — disregard and recklessness.
lottie had never been a part of something like that. she was separate. she was normal in a way that marc had always hoped to be but had never quite achieved. she wasn't even like little scarlet, daughter of a gang boss caught wrong.
he sits, for a second, in front of lottie. quiet. then his head drops, just a fraction, and quietly— )
I'm sorry.
no subject
(She is lying. She is telling herself this because it's easier to assign he doesn't care to her like this because she's done it before. She'll always do it when he doesn't react the way that she likes, the way she wants him to, even if she knows he simply isn't capable of it showing it in the way she can recognize immediately.)
The odd thing is, she finds her heart is hurting more than her body, everything else, when he doesn't say anything outright and yet, gently slices through that gag (tosses it to the side rough, in comparison). Frees her hands and stares heavy at the marks on her delicate, slim, wrists (he tosses that, too, something like anger brewing beneath the careful and deliberate control of his fingertips) like he's bothered by it. Is he? She heaves a heavy, strained, breath, and almost asks. In the end, she sits there, gently rubbing at her tied wrists and wincing towards the ground every so often.
Her anger has quickly morphed into something like shame, and embarrassment. She must look ugly. Gross. Terrible. No wonder he isn't saying anything β he's probably finding a way to not hurt her feelings. And how is she going to cover up this bruise? What about her wrists? How is she going to just exist after this? Her head ambles up, a breakdown just seconds away from happening because she can't stop herself from spiraling, but thenβ
Marc says 'I'm sorry'.
He says 'I'm sorry' so softly that she almost doesn't catch it, dips his head down just a fraction and she barely sees it.
Lottie isn't sure what to do, at first, how to take this. What the fuck? Genuinely, honestly, what the fuck? 'Sorry' won't change anything, won't fix anything. 'Sorry' isn't going to make the time she spent here magically okay. But 'sorry' does manage to lessen the intensity of her thoughts, make her mind go blank for a few blissful seconds just to wonder if this is the first time he's ever apologized to her. A broken laugh bursts through her lips, dry as they are, at that, voice cracking halfway from disuse. Marc said he was sorry and she believes it, believes it so much she's reduced to tears because despite that, she can't tell if it's for himself, or for her. She weeps into her hands, looking frailer and smaller than ever. ]
Can you justβ [ Mumbled, watery and hurt. ] please shut up and hug me?
no subject
jake had always been better at it. more measured. more careful. where steven flat-out refused all of it — the violence and the blood and the mess — jake was more pragmatic. he didn't have marc's guilt, marc's worries, marc's obsession with his past and what he'd done. jake has never found pleasure in violence, isn't good at it, not in the way that marc has or is, but he knows that sometimes it is the answer. long before marc had decided to shut out both steven and jake entirely, before he'd decided to set up his midnight mission and rehabilitate his image through "helping his community", jake had been the one tasked with trying to make moon knight respectable again. jake had been the one who'd showed new york that moon knight wasn't just crimson and mutilation, wasn't just inelegant offerings to a moon god no-one else could quite work out the truth of (real? imaginary? the difference hardly mattered when marc was busy operating under the belief that he needed more violence — death, for the "one that eats hearts".)
lottie feels ugly and the situation is ugly, because it's not steven grant crouched in front of her, well-meaning and aghast at what's happened to her and because of her (because of marc); it's not jake lockley, empathetic and roguish, but ultimately warm. it's marc spector, and marc is ugly. she tells him to shut up — all two words that he's uttered, as if he's anything other than laconic at the best of times — and tells him to hug her, and he does.
where their first hug — the one at the mission, after a night of discordant disagreement — had been tentative and unsure, this isn't. marc is not a natural hugger, is not prone to being physically affectionate, but that doesn't mean he's averse to it. doesn't mean he doesn't appreciate tactility.
there's not a world of difference between their heights, but marc is larger, broader, thanks to a lifetime of physicality, of boxing and fighting. he envelopes her tightly, drawing her closer to him, cape partially covering her in response to the sudden movement. it's not gentle — marc rarely is — but it's not rough. it's emotive, emotional. jerky with profound gladness that lottie might not be okay, but she's okay. )
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She is upset at Marc's genuine, painful, everlastingly aching 'I'm sorry'. She would never be satisfied, any which way, but she would always demand the brute and awkward force of bluntness that Marc gives her, because it is what she's used to, even if she does not like it, even if it is what she doesn't need, right now. It's what she wants. Arguably, if it was anyone but Marc she'd just recede into herselfβ refuse to talk to anyone and go silent until she deemed it safe. Arguably, as ugly as this situation is, it's the best. It's the one that needs to happen, because above all Lottie needs to be held. Needs a shoulder to cry on with someone else, because she's done so much by herself already that it is an action that means nothing to her without someone (without himβ without Marc Spector holding back so much it is thrumming in his bones and vibrating in the air, the intensity this man feels so strongly for things he cares about so much).
Their first hug β the one at the mission, after a night of discordant agreement β had been tentative and unsure. This isn't. Marc wraps his arms around her so tight and warm and comforting that it makes her wheeze. He is larger, broader, to Lottie's impossibly smaller and slimmer frame, meant to look appealing in photographs and nothing more. He dwarfs her easily, her hands getting bunched up around his cape once she realizes what's happening and she burrows her face into his shoulder. Her nails grip onto anythingβ his cape, his suit, his body, anything to get closer. To remind herself that this is real.
She is safe.
She feels like shit but she isn't alone.
There's a long, painful, cry that leaves her lips that settles deep into his skin. When she feels his concern settle into her bones with the way his hold digs into her, it grows louder. And she claws, claws, claws with blunt nails (from scratching at the ground), to make sure he's hooked closeβ and only when she is satisfied does she grip him tight. Does she hiccup and scream into his shoulder, voice breaking at pivotal highs and desperate lows. It is the worst song. It does not echo in the poor acoustics in the room, but is the loudest thing inside. It is the most painful and raw tune he will ever hearβ the muffled symphony of her agony, pain, relief. The way she says, 'Marc,' then 'Marc' on repeat, the underlying 'I was so scared' buried deep in the depths of her tone. ]
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it says a lot as to how this isn't lottie's life.
it reminds him of how much marlene and jean-paul and rob and diatrice deserved to be free of this life, and — really — lottie too.
it tells him that they were right to leave when they had — and wrong, maybe, not to leave sooner, though they'd tried, hadn't they? and marc had just insisted on drawing them back into his orbit, had acted as if because he needed them, that was what mattered over anything else. that was more important than their safety.
lottie repeats his name and he doesn't let her go, willing to allow her to clutch on to him for as long as she needs to because who knows. once this is over, and they're away from here and she's safe — well and truly safe — there's more than a chance, he thinks, that she'll decide he's not worth it. that everything he's told her is true: knowing him is dangerous and she's better off not.
(marc has never been good with expressing how he really feels, but he's never been good at hiding it either. he cares, a lot. more than he knows how to deal with. he struggles to put it into words, to explain, but it's there in desperate, misguided actions. he's never been able to pretend — except in anger — that people, his people, don't matter to him.
if (when?) lottie decides she's better off remaining in her fashionista, influencer bubble, marc won't be pleased, but he won't claim he doesn't understand, either.)
the more she says his name, the less it sounds real, less like a word, less like his name. nonsense, something to say to fill the oppressive silence. he shushes her, softly and gently, not concerned that anyone will stumble across them — he's certain that won't be the case, but because— )
We need to leave. ( a statement, not a command, not a suggestion, punctuated by a shift in his weight and a tilt of his head, towards the door, to make sure there isn't any unwelcome noises approaching from behind. ) Do you think you can do that for me?
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She burns into her mind the way his own hands feel around her body, the desperate and comforting grip to them, so very different from the way they usually touch (which is hardly at allβ it is in fleeting moments, they are physical in ways like this, through barely there grazes of fingertips and her elbowing him playfully).
And then she hears his voice, vaguely muffled by the mask and near impossible to catch with her howls, but she does. Lottie is still grief stricken, still shaking and volatile and sensitive and so very scared but the lulling timber of his voice only manages to semi-soothe her. She is not done β and the terrifying thing is, she's not sure she'll ever be done, because each time the silence settles and she stops, it picks back up. She sees the room he clutches her in and it begins all over again.
She hears him tell her they have to go in between bouts of wails, shaking her head vehemently not because she doesn't want to leave β that is the last thing she wants β but because she doesn't want to leave the safety of his embrace. Leaving means getting up and being separated, it means being in danger again and feeling fear crawl and thrive in its own special made layer beneath her skin. Deep enough where she can't scratch and tug it out. Surface level enough where she'll see the rope marks on her wrists for weeks, see the bruise on her cheek swell down in color and size, too, and as a result will always have to think of this when she looks in the mirror.
(Lottie will no longer feel happy gazing at herself in the mirror. She won't be putting on makeup for fun, she'll be putting it on to hide.)
Lottie wants to stay burrowed into his shoulder to never have to see anything in this stupid building again. So desperately wants her last image of this place to be of Moon Knight β Marc β standing there in her doorway, the bodies of the men holding her prisoner peeking barely into frame. Her eyes squeeze shut, presses her face into him tighter as she refuses to let go, screams turning into sobs. Hiccups. Agonizing cries that are purely so she can wallow in him.
But eventually, eventually, sheβ. Relents. After spending some time thinking that he's right.. They have to. She swallows phlegm down and coughs pathetically, nods weakly. Bunches her hands in his cape in a way that lets him know that while she'll comply, she refuses to leave this spot. That she doesn't care how much of an inconvenience it is. ]
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it doesn't occur to marc yet but it will later that lottie has spent most of their friendship pointedly ignoring all the rumours about marc spector, all the stories about moon knight — the violence, the unpredictable behaviour, an unstable personality. she's glossed over everything marc has told her himself — when they've argued, mostly, when he's been trying to prove a point — and though he knows she's seen some of the rumours, some of the news stories, he knows she barely bothered to read them.
it might occur to marc eventually that it's not wholly unlike what marlene used to do — she would try and pretend marc didn't exist, that steven grant could be and was the dominant — only — personality. that with enough prompting, marc spector would be left in the desert, buried alongside her father.
marlene had wanted steven most of all because he wasn't violent. he was urbane. sophisticated. not exactly gentle, but entirely more civilised than marc has ever been. lottie hasn't met steven, likes marc well enough, but she's never quite found peace with each and every facet of marc spector — but has never had to really face all of them either.
this, he'll realise (maybe), is a sharp, rude awakening for lottie that maybe marc hasn't just been moody and angsty and dramatic for the sake of it. that maybe his testy warnings that he's not ever really wanted lottie to heed have been for a reason. it's the same sort of reckoning that soldier's had, that reese has had, that greer has had. all of them — except greer — are early enough in their friendships with marc that it feels excusable, explainable, all part and parcel of the sort of lifestyle that moon knight leads.
after all, it happens to the friends and families of other superheroes, right? other vigilantes.
later, though, it'll come with the realisation that it doesn't matter if it happens to everyone with a CERTAIN LIFESTYLE, what matters is that it doesn't get better. it repeats ad infinitum, a neverending cycle of pain and hurt and betrayal punctuated by periods of time where it feels exciting, where moon knight is a figure of hope rather than questionable vengeance.
eventually — and marc doesn't know if the passage of time is as long as it geels — she relents. the wails die down into hiccuping cries and she nods (still doesn't speak), but still she doesn't move. instead, her hands clutch at him and his clothes more tightly, steadfastly refusing to move and to see. it's not new, but it is—.
it is a touch inconvenient.
he doesn't sigh but he does step awkwardly in an effort both to stand, retain his balance and keep ahold of lottie. a jerky movement punctuated by a HNGH. she's not heavy, but that doesn't mean it's easy, not until he readjusts, until he redistributes his weight and then hers, one arm stretched across her back, his hand resting against her head, tilting it into his shoulder, the other under her legs.
he's lucky, he supposes, that's she conscious. that she's not a dead weight. unluckily, he thinks, he doesn't have the mooncopter anymore. that'd make the journey home (hers or his—?) quicker, but—.
a car will do. )
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None of her fans will know what happened, why she'll be disappearing for a month until all the bruising and marks fade away, until her smile becomes perfect again. Not her family, her friendsβ only Marc (and Esther, once she finds out this was all her doing).
When she feels him move to stand, Lottie only clings tighter, awkwardly moving along with him in a way that allows her vision to be completely shrouded by him. That she won't see anything she doesn't want to. It's a tedious process she does not make easier, as he wraps one arm around her and then the other beneath her legs.
The wide expanse of his palm rests in the grody mess of hair on her head and she whimpers into him, nuzzles as deeply as she can when she feels herself begin to cry again. It is silent, the way she indulges in her sorrow and agony, once he hoists her up and carries her properly, this timeβ Marc will be able to feel the way her body trembles every so often in his arms, will feel it strongest beneath his palm. Will be able to feel every shaky, shuddery, inhale and exhale before she begins all over again, tears dropping and staining his suit.
She does not say anything more, doesn't do anything less, just wraps her arms tight around his neck and stays where she feels most comfortable. Lottie will stay like this throughout the entire walk through the building, will stay like this outside, and absolutely will try and stay (unhelpfully, clingily) like this in the car, too. ]
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it's not that soldier (REAL NAME UNKNOWN) has anything wrong with him per se — no, in many ways, soldier reminds marc of himself, learning to deal with anger and a want for purpose that he's struggled to put into positive action — it's that he is like marc. he's awkward, he's not particularly comforting. lottie shivers and shakes, and she clings to marc — consistently, perpetually — even when marc steps outside, even when the cool air greets them in a sudden wave. even when they reach the car, soldier's expression questioning relief at the sight of marc with lottie — at the sight of marc generally, at the dirty, stained white, the outfit he's had infrequent cause to see like this.
she doesn't seem to want to let go even when marc attempts to put her down in the car, attempts to place her on the back seats. (it's one of his, bought for its unassuming presence on the roads but quick, quite the muted (non-)statement next to the ferraris and the aston martins marc had bought when he'd first started to settle into his (former) wealth.)
her lack of compliance earns a muted groan muttered under his breath and a jerky glance towards soldier in the front of the car. he'd prefer to drive, but how well that will go is anyone's guess. )
Lottie. ( low, earnest. quiet. for her, not for soldier. ) I need you to make this a little easier. Then we can go home.
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Her nerves grow louder when she looks past him and sees just where she had been, bits of carnage from Moon Knight's prowl through the premises blurry but evident. His words are a blur. She only sees his mouth moving in her peripheral and she forces her gaze back to him.
Big, brown eyes look up at him, teetering on tears. The only thing her brain really processes is the phrase 'we can go home' and she finally releases her death grip on his suit. Lets her hands hover near his person before dropping down and reluctantly edging into the car, in her seat. Looking stiff and uncomfortable, hardly there even in the safety of his car. ]
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(half true. he's very good at being told what to do, very good at following orders, but not by strangers. not by anyone he perceives as a potential threat. the voice, the man at the end of the phone had helped him, yes, in a manner of speaking, but he hadn't been help.
marc didn't like him.)
he decides against the mission, too, for much the same reason. anyone — everyone — knew where to find moon knight. he operated an open door on the basis of his need to rehabilitate his image, to work out his guilt, to help "his" people. it was fine for the most part, but then there'd be men like zodiac who took advantage. the committee know he's marc spector (and jake lockley, and steven grant), it's a poorly kept secret, but after the last time, after marc had responded by flying a helicopter into the side of the building, he thinks they won't dare to bother him at his house. the mansion. the monstrosity he has mixed feelings about because it's grant's, really, not his.
he says something to soldier, quiet and low, inaudible to lottie, about soldier driving them part of the way — as far as soldier can reasonably go and still close enough to get home to his mom's without issue — and that marc'll drive the rest of the way. (to long island, he doesn't say.)
at this time of night, it's a quiet drive — or, as quiet as new york ever is — the hum of the motor and the noise of other vehicles the only sounds present beyond lottie's lingering, hiccuping cries. it doesn't take as long as it should — the roads are empty and marc's an incautious driver, speedy and reckless.
grant manor is large and sprawling and open, with private gates at the front and the rear, and a security system that marc had brought with him to the mission — notifications of perimeter breaches and unwelcome intruders, at odds with the tone of the place. the security system had been marc's suggestion, one that steven had agreed to with minimal reluctance because he knew it'd be needed. because he knew what kind of man marc was (is).
it's the type of property that needs a housekeeper and marc hasn't had one of those in a long time. marc doesn't spend much time here at all, in truth. he'd tried to sell it once, steven had argued, jake had been neither here nor there (albeit with a side of 'spector has a point, what does the three of us have any need for that many rooms for?'), and any attempt had fallen through because 'history of being attacked', 'unusual renovations', and 'former home of war criminal and former mercenary, known unstable vigilante marc spector' doesn't attract a host of buyers marc (or steven) had felt inclined to sell to.) )
We're here, ( he says, abruptly, into the silence. )
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The fact she is fully inside her head means she doesn't realize for how long they've been driving, doesn't realize she can't recognize anything on these streets much less wherever the hell they're at when they park. She's too busy idly scratching at her skin and crying over, and over, again.
Grant manor is large and sprawling and open, andβ it's a few minutes after he says 'we're here' that she finally moves. Lifts her head away from the window with something like recognition before she slowly turns to look at him. Her lips part sluggishly, trying to catch up with everything she's brutally forced out until now.
It's weak, it's broken, warbly and confused (hurt) when she saysβ ]
You said we'd go home.
[ And she doesn't know if he meant his, or hers, but she doesn't expect this. This weird mix of lavish and unkempt, of foreign and not something she wants, at all. Lottie doesn't want new and unfamiliar. She wants the coffee machine at her house to stir to life so she can stay up until she passes out, she wants the dim and dark brooding man cave of the Mission. She wants to swaddle herself in a blanket and cry beneath her bed, on the floor, because no one will see her and that's for the best, isn't it? ]
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(but then, marc does that — he makes decisions for others, doesn't confer with them, and doesn't think of how they'll feel about it. marc wants it and he thinks it'll be fine and it's a good decision, so it must be, in spite of how often that's proven to not be the case.)
he glances from her to the house and back again, hand resting on the door handle before he explains, abruptly— ) My home. You'll be safe. ( a sideways glance as the door's swung open with a soft click and he adds, ) And I need to get changed. Shower. ( all things he can do at the mission, but has chosen not to. he pauses, his boots crunching on the gravel underfoot as he walks round to the other side of the car and opens her door.
he says, a little quieter and a little softer, ) I didn't think you'd want to see Reese. ( or anyone, he means.
he waits until she gets out of the car to turn and head inside, holds the door open for her. the inside is a mix of marc and steven — the foyer more steven, tasteful and modern and simple. expensive and understated. marc lingers, awkwardly, watching lottie. he's mindful that she's not happy, but given what she's just been through, why would she be?
he looks towards the staircase, bypasses the thought of the kitchen and food (for now), and gestures. ) The guest bedroom has an ensuite. You can get cleaned up.
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So she stays silent, the unpleasant curl of her lips softening when he gets out of the car, when he opens her door. She almost protests on instinct that she knows Reese (sort of) and she'd love to see her (not really), but it hits her. Abruptly, loudly, because Marc is quiet and tender when he speaks to her and she remembers.
Right.
Right.
She slides out of the car and follows after Marc like a duckling, stares at his hands that swing back and forth as he guides her, opens the doorβ ushers her in first so he can stay at her back. And when she sees the foyer it is.. A lot. Who the hell designed this? Because it certainly wasn't Marc. Marc's whole place has theming in it, decisions she's sure he poured his heart and soul into while sketching it out late at night. This is stylish but oddly, she doesn't know, like a spread on a magazine? Like it's someone else's touch. It's enough of a conundrum that she properly forgets the throbbing at her cheek, the ache to her knees and the marks at her wrist. Because she's just a guest at Marc's fancy house, does it need to be more complicated than that?
But she's snapped out of itβ Marc comes back into vision and she lets her eyes drag to the staircase. This house is so fantastically foreign, but it's good to see Marc is still Marc. Lottie doesn't even bark out a laugh, because if she does it might sound watery. Marc has always been like this, but still, 'you can get cleaned up' feels the oddest sort of impersonal for what happened, today. She knows he's trying his best, but it's growing to simply not be enough. Now, she's realizing, it might not be enough, and it's painful, the way those words hit her for no particular reason at all.
(It's the expectations, the ones she has for Marc that can never be fulfilled. He's just not like that, he can't be what she needs, she knows this but she still desperately wants him to be. And now she's wondering if she's setting these on him just so she can have an excuse to be mad, to put her frustrations out on somebody because it's the only thing she has control over right now.)
Maybe, if she waited, Marc would've led her after she gave her consent. But impulsive Lottie doesn't, she mumbles something inaudible, tonally (vaguely) like an mhmm before she makes her way up the stairs step by step, hands curled into loose fists at her side. ]
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and so he doesn't immediately point out that she doesn't know which room he's referring to, that when she gets to the top of stairs she'll be greeted by a hallway with a dozen doors — the bedroom that used to be his and marlene's, the room at the other end, a (slightly) smaller mirror of his — the one that used to be jean-paul's. half a dozen smaller guest rooms, ones that had never been used for their intended purpose — marc and marlene had used them for storage, mostly. )
To the right, ( he says as lottie nears the top of the stairs. unlike marc, lottie doesn't pad dirt and blood and more up the stairs — one reason, frankly, why marc (and steven and jake) had all agreed that carpets were a bad idea.
his gaze lingers on lottie for one second, then two. quiet. contemplative. ) Give me a second. ( a statement not a question, and he heads to the left, the opposite direction to where he'd instructed her to go.
(his bedroom, the one that's mostly him (now), barring a few sparse reminders of the life he-and-jake-and-steven had before. there's two wardrobes, one his — a mix of all their belongings, haphazardly organised thanks only to the infrequent amount of time any of them spend here, even more infrequently worn. he doesn't give that one any attention, not now. instead, he heads to the other wardrobe, the one that used to be marlene's. there's not much there — a few t-shirts, a couple of dresses (expensive, that steven had bought), sweatpants. items that marlene hadn't wanted to take with her when she left, items that neither marc nor steven nor jake had managed to find it in them to ask her about.
(for a while, marc had thought it'd meant that, like every break-up before the last, she'd come home until he realised it'd meant that there were parts of her she wanted to leave behind.)
lottie and marlene are about the same height, he thinks, although the similarities end there. lottie's bustier, more slender where marlene had a more athletic build but, at a guess, they're close enough in size that he doubts it'll be too much of an issue.
one t-shirt, then, and one pair of sweatpants.)
he doubts lottie will have lingered at the top of the stairs waiting for him to return, and it's only on approach to the door to the master guest room — the room he assumes she's entered rather than any of the others — that he speaks again.
(it doesn't occur to him that he still hasn't taken off any of moon knight's clothes, that he's still wearing the mask.) )
—Clean clothes. ( he half thinks of explaining that they were marlenes and then promptly thinks the better of it. ) For after you've showered.
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Pointedly: not grabs them. She's angry enough to have a physical reaction but aware enough of what he's doing that she doesn't immediately take it all out on him.
The door, however, is shut firmly on him.
Pointedly: not locked.
It takes her a minute to figure out how the shower works, but she manages it after a few tries. She peels off clothing that sticks to her with sweat, dirt, blood (from Marc), and it's a disgusting sensation. Her worst nightmare. She doesn't want to be in her body but she's stuck in it, with every scrape and scratch, every cut and bruise. She sees them all when she looks into the mirror and this time she doesn't blink away the tears. This time, Lottie muffles her cries. An attempt at privacy where she hasn't had any forβ not just today, or yesterday, but all of her life. And for once, she wants to keep this moment to herself. So she stays there, inside the bathroom, sitting on the floor, face in her hands and simply cries.
She does the same inside the shower for more than an hour, some of it in warm water and some of it in cold (for her hair). Lottie still feels like shit by the time she gets out, but her body is as clean as it's going to getβ because she can't scrub bruises away.
Her hair clings to her body, bits of green dye trickling over slender shoulders as she palms at the clean clothes he had given her. Wonders: what the fuck? She picks up the shirt, thinks.. Uhh. She can give this a try? But when it's slipped on she realizes this is very much an issue when she can't get it down past her chest. Lottie spends the next ten minutes trying to get out of the shirt before opting to just wrap a towel around herself for modesty.
(Because wearing the sweats then the towel on top seemed a bit.. Much.) ]
Marc?
[ She calls out, easing her door a smidge open (yes, she is peeking through it like a child). ]
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—she shuts the door on him.
he stands there for a moment longer, mouth parted in deep surprise at her reaction. something (someone) at the back of his mind says 'well done', and he presses his hand against the bridge of his nose. well fucking done indeed. he's not sure what he's done to upset her more than she already was, but apparently, he's done it.
he gives her five minutes before padding back towards his bedroom, five minutes before he strips out of the cape, the cowl, the mask, the boots, all of it. it's dumped unceremoniously in a pile in the corner of the bathroom before he showers, years of practise and use meaning the shower's turned on quickly, meaning he showers quickly. takes long enough to become clean, for the water to stop running down the drain tinged with pink.
like lottie, marc's body is adorned with bruises and cuts though his are entirely the result of his own actions and not all from tonight. his are the result of willingness, of choice, of a decision made of his own free will. he doesn't cry about his, never has and never will. they're testaments to how he feels about himself, about what he needs to do to silence the guilt and the loathing that feels like it takes up his entire soul.
they're deserved.
he dresses in his clothes — spector's — a plain, loose-fit t-shirt tucked into an equally plain pair of trousers. he doesn't stay in the bedroom — he heads towards the guest room, pauses outside, and then reaches the conclusion that he's a fucking idiot, and heads back to his room.
it's an unpleasant feeling, the sensation that something's not right and he doesn't know what to move or how to get the pieces to fall into place. he hates it, hates the way that the night's gone, and he's antsy. he knows that if lottie wasn't here, he wouldn't be either, he'd find somewhere else to be, someone — anyone — to take his feelings out on, anything to take the uncomfortable edge off.
it feels like it's caught in chest, in his head, and—
then there's a noise. faint. questioning. a little plaintive.
back to the guest room and the door's open and his breath catches and—
it's lottie, her green hair wet and slick and visible, even through the crack in the door.
(fuck.) )
Lottie?
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She has all those things and yet, she doesn't use them. Just.. Stays quiet for another moment, feeling spectacularly embarrassed for no reason at all.
(It's because she can't fit in the shirt, it is definitely because of that.)
She clears her throat nervously, glances down to the ground as she tries to not let the way her hair drips over her skin bug her. Tries to not let the fact she's making a mess on the floor, bug her. ]
..Um, is it okay if I can wear one of your shirts?
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he can see that she's dressed only in a towel and, the longer the silence lasts, the more marc slowly pieces together what she's about to ask. he'd been wrong. marlene's clothes don't fit her.
(is that why she's awkward? embarrassed in a way that marc doesn't often see from her?)
he opens his mouth to speak just as lottie coughs and looks down and away from him. it's not quite a slice of normality because there's nothing normal about any of this for either of them, but it's almost laughably mundane given the events of the night. )
—Yeah, sure.
( like he'd say 'no'? the answer is given immediately, almost before she's finished asking, and it's only a few moments before he returns with something of his in hand, held out towards her. it's given with a— ) Sorry, ( said to break the silence that feels palpable. there's a brief, sharp moment where marc wonders if she's going to slam the door in his face (again), and he shifts his weight to push a foot forward, enough to stop the door closing entirely if she decides to just for long enough to ask— )
Do you want a drink?
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He apologizes and β Lottie just takes the shirt, odd and quiet because she was going to say that, but now she can't because he said it first so she opts for a weird, ] It's okay.. [ Because it isn't really his fault..? Men, historically (to her), have never managed to get sizing right. All of two times did Sunny buy her a dress and a pair of pants that fit, so her expectations have always been spectacularly low.
She lingers by the door, having truly no idea what else she could say but not wanting to leave just yet either. But there's the issue of the fact she's still wet, still dripping, her wet hair clinging uncomfortably to her skin in a way that makes it crawl. She'd like to be dressed before she gets sick on top of this butβ she doesn't move. Marc does, actually, closing the distance in the thick silence that overtakes them.
(In the moment he does slyly slip that foot between her door, she actually was about to close it. She can't change with an open door β especially with no clean underwear. It's a problem that Esther has admonished her before about, something something "You can't keep kicking me out every time you need an outfit change!") ]
Uh.. [ Marc asks if, of all things, she wants a drink, and.. She clings his shirt a little to her chest, not out of anger or apprehension. She's just a littleβ surprised? ] Uh, yeah, if that's alright?
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it won't actually change anything — whatever she opts for, whatever marc takes the time to make, they both know it won't take as long as her making sure she's something approaching presentable, even when it's just the two of them, even when it's a pair of (old) sweatpants and one of marc's t-shirts. )
The kitchen's downstairs and to your left, ( he tells her, gaze shifting pointedly away. as if he can see through the floor to where he's talking about. the kitchen — like the rest of the house — is clearly made for more than two occupants of the house, is made for a family. it's disused, sparse in a way that speaks of its sole (infrequent) occupant leaning into practicality over anything else — coffee, first and foremost, and then food — leftover takeout, no real ingredients to speak of. ) I'll wait down there for you.
( a breath of a pause punctuated by something akin to realisation and a quick, searching glance of lottie's face. ) Unless you want me to bring it back up.
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She leans back, unsure of what he's searching for and almost too scared to ask (because what is he seeing that she isn't? What kind of Lottie is she showing him, without even realizing it?). She palms at the shirt in her hand, glancing somewhere up and off to the side because his eyes areβ for once, they're a little too intense. Too earnest. She vaguely wishes for the buffer of his mask because eye contact is hard, for some reason. She shuffles her weight from foot to foot, tugging the towel around her tighter. ]
Coffee? You can bring it back up to me..
[ There's a beat, where she opens her lips but has to physically stop herself from adding 'if that's okay'. She knows it is, she really does, but it's hard not to add it when she feels so much like a burden in so little time. She finally meets his gaze again, reaching up to wipe some water off her face. ]
Just my usual, I guess?
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