[ Why is he asking her what's so important about it? Is he being serious right now? After he just went and posed that heavy hypothetical to prove how heavy and monstrously important this house was, to him? How much it meant, to him? And while Lottie knows it's true β she was in no state to offer an opinion on where to go, she was clinging onto him like she would die without him β she'd like to think she'd offer something.. If she knew. So when he asks her, point blank, a little mocking, if she's upsetβ.
βYes. She is. She's very upset. She's hurt. A little embarrassed, because he makes it seem like she shouldn't. Like this isn't a big deal and she's just being insane, but she isn't. She knows she isn't.
And rather than admit this, tell him that his inability to open up and share anything deep with her (like this) actually makes her sad, she bottles it up. Because would she ever have known about this place if she hadn't got kidnapped? If he hadn't had to show her?
The answer is no, and it stings. ]
Fine. Have fun sitting in your not important manor and I'll go do non important things by myself!
[ She crawls up to stand, one hand settled on the towel wrapped around her still wet hair and the other used to ease herself up. Whether she simply opts to leave her tea there, or if she forgets it, is not clear (but Marc knows her well enough to know it's definitely on purpose), but what is clear is: she's wandering off somewhere.
Where? The fact she doesn't know the layout of this gigantic manor at all means that it's a guess for everybody, and in a matter of seconds she is goneβ stomping her way elsewhere rather than simply admitting the truth to him. Because what's more embarrassing than letting the people you're close with know you have feelings, that you care? Nothing. ]
(his response, the one about how had she expected him to bring it up, had been meant on face value: they haven't had any conversations, bar the one about marlene and sunny, where neither of them had been quite what marc would describe as sober (though marc moreso than lottie, certainly, lottie who'd barely drank anything alcoholic before that evening), where it'd fit into the conversation organically.
of course, that's not to say that marc could've have brought it up. couldn't have mentioned it in relation to his almost endless assortment of issues, few of which he's shared with anyone, let alone lottie. how is he supposed to admit that it'd taken him years to open up — properly — to marlene? that he'd been friends, close, would-die-for-you friends with jean-paul but there had been innumerable (important) facts they hadn't known about each other.
(no, facts that marc had missed for starters. others he'd never considered important enough to ask about, and frenchie had indulged him in kind, had known marc well enough not to ask, known him well enough to know that asking would just result in an argument.)
she knows that marc wouldn't have told her about the manor. she knows because that's the type of person marc is. he attempts to decide what is and isn't important for other people based off his own feelings. he has to have it explained that just because he feels a certain way, doesn't mean that everyone else feels that way. has to be reminded of consideration.
it's not, strictly, that he's uncaring, it's that he finds linking it all together hard.
still.
he lets her leave. lets her stand, one hand held up to the precarious tower of hair and towel, the other used as leverage, tone petulant and angry all at once. she's leaving, but she's not leaving. she wouldn't know where to go — would be lucky to navigate the manor, let alone leave long island.
it won't last long, his frustration and annoyance. it'll disappear in a flash of embarrassment and guilt, to sit alongside the guilt that's come with everything to do with this evening. then he'll go in search of her, but only after taking some time to wallow and to stew, to mull over his own thoughts and how much he's mishandled all of this.
(how hard would it really be to admit the truth?) )
[ She is in fact, not lucky to navigate the manor. Lottie has no idea where she's going and worse, in her anger, can't be assed to care just how lost she gets. About how she doesn't have a phone, that Marc doesn't have a landline for her to call.. And, wow, big assumption β even for her β that she's even remembered his number to call it. She hasn't, she's that girl who exclusively relies on contacts and not memory.
But her memory is working just fine now, replaying over and over again the way his lips enunciated every word, the way he looked at her. How stupid she feels for even trying to bring it up β how stupid she feels for crying all over again, because she's so tired of it. Tired of the snot, tired of her head throbbing from how hard she's been crying, how dry her eyes are between the spouts. The phlegm stuck in her throat, too, is icing on top of the cake, and it makes her feel all the more disgusting as she wanders through what she thinks is the basement.
Or.. Marc's fun-land. Another thing he didn't tell her aboutβ the stupid extravagant show of money that is so unlike him, laid out over the longest floor she's ever walked across. What is this, a hotel? A casino? A theme park?
There's a few minutes where she stops to lean against a wall, her lungs stinging and demanding a moments rest from how harshly she was breathing, how quickly she was walking (it doesn't help she spent a lot of her time in captivity in odd positions, spine uncomfortably curled or slouched for hours on end).
By the time Marc finds her, whether it's a few minutes or longer after that, he'll find her completely submerged in the hot tub. With the clothing on (not sorry). And no matter what direction he approaches, behind or facing her, she refuses to acknowledge him, makes a show of turning the opposite way childishly. ]
marc sits and stews at first, his temper remaining before it slides into being directed at himself, before it shifts into something more muted. marc has never had an argument with anyone that hasn't resulted in one of them storming out and leaving for hours if not days. it doesn't occur to marc that it's not, necessarily, the most adult of responses, that it's not especially mature.
he goes upstairs, looks into the guest room with its minimal evidence of anyone ever having used it as a permanent bedroom, and just as minimal evidence of lottie having used it for a whopping several hours. he lingers on the floor, considers retreating to his bedroom and just, say, going to bed. it's a fleeting thought, not at all serious because marc knows he wouldn't be able to sleep, knows that even amongst the frustration, he'd worry about lottie.
back downstairs, then, and downstairs again to the basement. he bypasses the gym, the storage rooms (those are still full, home to various trinkets he barely remembered buying, items and weapons relating to khonshu that he assumes might come in handy one day). the pool's empty, the sauna too, but the hot tub—.
he stops abruptly, the sight of lottie in the tub still fully clothed in marc's long-sleeved top and marlene's sweatpants absolutely absurd. his expression twists — not that lottie can see it, given the way she pointedly turns away from him, the way she chooses not to acknowledge him at all. it twists and marc can't seem to decide what to make of the situation, standing still and remaining silent.
a few moments and then he approaches, stands to one side and as ever, seems not entirely sure how to proceed. reconciliation has never been a strong point of his — it'd been different with marlene, easier — but it'd been difficult and awkward with anyone he's in a romantic relationship with. (""in"". on and off—.) )
After I was kicked out of the Marines, I did a lot of freelance work. ( has he ever told lottie that? he's implied it, but he doesn't think he's ever explained what it meant. lottie's never been curious — seemed curious, he corrects, because he'd never have thought she'd be so upset about not being told he ("he") had a fucking mansion. ) Bad things for bad people for however much money I could get. What the job was didn't matter. I was very good at not asking questions, not caring if I was on the right side of a war or the wrong side. Espionage. Theft. Assassinations. ( a beat and a lingering, watchful glance at lottie. ) Kidnappings.
( a momentary silence, heavy and oppressive. )
After Egypt, I— Marc Spector stayed in Egypt. Died in Egypt. Steven Grant returned to the States. Steven Grant bought this house. Invested Marc Spector's blood money.
You've never wanted — needed — to know about any of that and there's no sanitary version I can pretend happened to tell you instead.
[ It's absurdβ good, Lottie thinks, she wants it to be absurd. Wants him to feel vaguely as baffled and uncomfortable as she felt this entire night. Too bad she can't see the effect she has on him, back turned to him already and just wallowing in the pit of misery she's made for herself (or: sitting in a hot tub in arguably the worst clothes to do it in.. A turtleneck and a pair of sweatpants). The tub continues to bubble loudly, Lottie looking her brattiest submerged neck deep and pointedly not even acknowledging him as he approaches, begins his apology.
Or.. His not-apology. He gives her an explanation. He gives her the truth. It sounds like something Marc would never want to say aloud, because saying it to her means recognizing he really did all those things. Maybe, if he wasn't Moon Knight and still doing contract work, it could've been him kidnapping her. He doesn't say it, and it's not implied, but she thinks it when he takes that heavy pause. Turns to finally face him β the water sloshes loudly, a little awkward in how serious the conversation is because the fact this is all happening with only one of them in the tub is hitting her.
It's weird, and it's odd, imagining Marc doing all the things he lists. When she knows he does so much the opposite as Moon Knight. He's not your typical good guy, typical vigilante (in the way that he's not a spider or a dude doing backflips in a janky ass costume), but he's.. Doing things?? For his community?? She thinks? She doesn't know the details, it's not like she reads about him, but she knows when he wanders around at night he isn't exactly hated. But he definitely would be for.. Assassinations? Kidnappings? Theft is more excusable, honestly.. Espionage??
It doesn't hit her in the way it should, how terrible these all are. What "blood money" means. That Marc Spector actually died in Egypt. That Steven Grant returning to the states isn't just a metaphor for his sense of self, but the truth. Lottie takes it all as Marc's battle with his identity, like the way she fights with her own before putting her makeup on and committing to the illusion she's got her shit together. And there's a silence, where she visibly thinks over all this. Feels a vague sense of satisfaction curl in her chest at the fact she got what she wanted! (Yay!) All just might be right in the world, after all.
And rather than horror, disgust, fear, revulsion, Lottie looks up at him (in that same way she always does when she's gotten her way and is ready to communicate again) and asks (in a tone that is genuinely just asking for clarification of intent, not out of anger or irritation): ]
( marc deliberately doesn't clarify that dying in egypt was literal, that steven grant buying the house — not marc — was literal. he lets the ambiguity hang as he had with marlene at first, lets her make her own assumptions. lets the misunderstanding that steven grant is just an identity marc had assumed sit as one possibility. it's easier because lottie doesn't ask about that, doesn't ask about any of it — about how much blood money there must have been to buy a place like this, doesn't ask for clarification about grant.
(it'll come back to bite him (them?) later, in the same way all of this has. marc's avoidance of being clear about what he means and thinks and feels and has experienced works not exactly fine for the most part, but it works in a manner of speaking, a delicately constructed house of cards that only requires one light breath to tumble down.
he knows this but he so often does anything to change it.)
his not-apology eases the tension, makes the absurdity of marc hovering near the hot tub and lottie submerged, fully clothed, all the more pronounced. makes the contrast of where they are — a room ostensibly meant for relaxing — versus what marc's just told her all the more striking.
she turns to him, finally, watchful in her own way, considered in her own way. there's no horror there, no disgust at the blunt admission of the type of person marc was (is). instead, there's — relief? satisfaction. a muted happiness that says that marc's given lottie what she wanted and marc, for his part, isn't sure how to take it. isn't sure if her frank question as to whether everything he's just said is meant to be an apology is better or worse than the alternative.
the question hits him and he just stares at her for a moment, blank surprise sitting amongst the frown, the tight unhappiness pulling at his brows and the corners of his lips. it's not not an apology, but it's not quite an apology either, and he thinks they both know it. marc seems to find the actual words, the admission that he's acted poorly a deep, personal challenge, and though marc isn't pleased with the way the night's gone, isn't happy with his actions, is deeply unhappy with the knowledge that lottie's here, in grant manor, because of him, he's not quite sure what lottie's asking for an apology for.
for not telling her about grant manor? about his past, the half a dozen or so years between getting the boot from the marines, the ten, twelve years after that where he tried to desperately balance his life, where he veered between honesty and acknowledgement and understanding, and denial. ugly breaks with reality. institutionalisation in his worse moments, moments where the rest of the superhero community were busy fighting amongst themselves over morals and ethics and choices, where marc was busy fighting with himself.
'I don't know' is the honest answer. is it an apology? it's an explanation at very least. the barest, most minimal of roadmaps of marc's life, small moments of honesty that he's dropped here and there throughout their friendship, most often in moments like this where it's wrenched out. )
You wanted honesty, ( he says instead. it's not quite the same way he'd respond to marlene, the way he'd try to win her back by telling her what he thought she'd asked for and then getting frustrated when she told him that, actually, that wasn't what she'd asked and his failure to understand was the fucking sticking point, but it's not entirely divorced from it.
lottie had asked him why she didn't know about grant manor, and now he's told her. )
[ She's asking for an apology because she knows she's right, and he needs to apologize for thinking she was wrong. Simple as that. βMaybe, a teensy bit, for hurting her feelingsβ because how flippant he was absolutely gutted her. And while this isn't an 'apology', this is as much an 'apology' as it'll get from Marc (it's not in either of their languages, but she can tell he is offering an olive branch by giving into her demands, giving her what she wantsβ he is letting her in where he didn't want to before, because he knew it was important to her).
Honesty was part of what she was genuinely asking for, anyway, and having the context (history? knowledge?) behind all of this makes it a little less.. Overbearing. Daunting. Now she can maybe ask why he has a gun range (Marc doesn't use guns), or a fucking pool in his basement instead of outside (Marc doesn't swim or go outside), like most normal people would (and does he clean it? Is this water sanitary? Has she been soaking in dirty chlorinated water this whole time?).
(Really, this response is better than the other. Lottie's blind acceptance, tunnel vision in regards to herself, versus her actually stewing in the moral applications of Marc having killed before, many, many, timesβ being so remarkably nasty just for some cash. Because once she opens that box and considers "blood money" connected to real people, the wave of discomfort will wash over her and continue to blanket her every time she sees him.)
She replays his words again, 'You wanted honesty'. Punctuated by the silly little furrow of his brow and the way his lips stretch thin in a way that is wholly sure and unsure of himself at the same time (a feat she is sometimes jealous of). Her eyes flick down to the water, tries to see the way her toes wiggle beneath the water as she moves as quietly as she can out of the tub. Predictably, it's loud. Water practically seeps off of her, wet clothes uncomfortably clinging to her body as she stands there, arms out stretched and looking like a wet, mangy, cat.
Then, anβ ]
..Okay.
[ Okay? Okay. It's really as simple as that, getting back in Lottie's good graces again. No more tears, no more snot, no more purposely blocking him out because even looking at him is upsetting her. She is looking at him straight on in all her strange, stiff, gloryβ glory that is comprised of her shaking as the temperature is vastly different outside of a hot tub, as it turns out. The air nips at her skin and she looks like she's trying to bend and twist out of his shirt so she won't have to feel the wet-cold embrace of his turtleneck on her skin. ]
( if he were to sit and think about it — later, of course — marc will find himself reaching the conclusion that lottie heard his answer but she didn't really listen to it. that she took from it the parts that were appeasing, the parts that gave her what she wanted. he knows — will be reminded, again — that lottie doesn't really acknowledge the darker parts of marc, of who marc is and has been.
(what marc doesn't — won't — piece together is how it's not so different from how marlene used to treat him (and grant), used to believe that marc (the ugly parts of grant-spector-lockley) could be buried and ignored and that he could just be steven. a deliberately skipping over of everything that had come before, even as marc had been involved in peter alraune's death.
even as marc had been the reason why tonight was what it was.)
she climbs out of the tub even before she verbally acknowledges him, and he knows — roughly — what the response is going to be. she wouldn't have moved if she hadn't felt inclined to at least semi accept the (slightly pathetic) olive branch held out to her. she stretches out her arms, water dripping from — god, everywhere, the clothes he'd pulled out of his and marlene's wardrobes sodden and soaked.
okay, she says, and marc doesn't really hear her because she shifts awkwardly, not at all gracefully, as if trying to separate herself from the clothes without getting undressed, as if trying to create a layer between them and her so that she won't feel so cold.
it's ridiculous.
(lottie person is ridiculous, he reminds himself.)
he exhales, the sound loud against the patter of water dripping from lottie to the floor and then he closes his eyes, just for a second, wondering how badly she'd take it if he pointed out how fucking stupid her idea to crawl in the hot tub fully clothed had been. his lips quirk and he turns away, back towards the direction he'd come from (and lottie too, presumably, unless she'd managed to get completely lost in her wanders. )
Elevator, ( and there's an odd tone to his voice, one that suggests he's trying to hide a laugh. )
[ She would take it terribly. Personally, even, if he pointed out what she already knows to be a stupid idea. It'd walk back everything they'd managed to do in the span of however the two of them have been awkwardly sharing this space togetherβ him standing, watching her, her pointedly turned away from him in the tub.. Now, standing, watching him. Sopping wet and cheeks slowly flushing a pretty pink (she can't tell whether it's from the loose sense of embarrassment she feels, or the fact she might be getting sick). It's hard to say if she'd get right back in the water just to spite him or not but she definitely would consider it.
But he doesn't do that, instead opting to do that weird smug little thing with his mouth and turns away, takes a couple of steps towards the exit (that she definitely took, probably the only sensible thing she did all night rather than really get lost). She takes two loud, audibly wet, steps towards him before he speaks and sheβ gapes at him. Looks positively affronted despite knowing how silly she must look, and she stops her movement to stare at the back of his head with every ounce of bratty energy she can muster.
..With chattering teeth. ]
Are you laughing?
[ 'Seriously?' her tone says. Seriously, is he laughing?? Granted, she doesn't really mind thisβ on some level she likes that the tone, the air in the room, has shifted so much. So audibly, palpably. It means they're okay and it means that they're back to normal (normalβ it's so funny how she uses this word when she is still ignoring the very shift in how she functions from her kidnapping). But Lottie Person is known for a lot of things, and one of them is definitely kicking up a fuss, and she intends to follow through. Even if the act itself is a little half hearted, not one hundred percent her usual pouty shrill but definitely an act that tells him: I have a reputation to uphold and I won't let you giggle about this without griping.
She reaches up for the towel at her head, more damp than her hair (which is semi-wet, even now, since her hair is so thick and also chemically altered it's a bit of a mission to get it completely dry). Wraps it around her body in a way that screams I don't like this as she uses the modesty it affords her to shimmy out of her sweats. ]
No, ( he says, and it's true in a very technical sense because marc is not laughing. it's true only because marc does not tend to laugh, his amusement is often more muted and more restrained. it's not true in the sense that whilst the way that marc tries to keep his amusement from being too audible results in an uncommon tightness to his voice and it's not the closest marc tends to get to laughing, it's still—
there. the amusement is not well-disguised.
still, he doesn't stop walking until she says his name, pausing and looking back over his shoulder only to find that she'd taken the brief interlude to take the towel she'd used for her hair and use it to cover herself instead, wet clothes bedraggled and sad in a pile by her feet. near-laughter all but gone, he opens his mouth to speak, the words getting caught somewhere in his throat because lottie is, without a shadow of doubt, the most ridiculous human being he's ever encountered. five minutes and they'd be back upstairs. five minutes and he'd be able to give her fresh clothes.
(it's selfish and spoilt of him, but at times like this, he really misses nedda—.) )
I'll get you some— ( a twist of his lips, indecisive, like he's not sure how he wants to feel about the situation, ) —dry clothes.
( the heat makes the difference between lottie's usual pallor and the red against her cheek all the more stark, an unpleasant blotchy red, and he hesitates, lingering, thinking of all the questions he'd meant to ask earlier, the ones before all of this had happened, the ones he's normally better at asking but he'd not quite known how to in between the awkwardness — his and hers — and his shame. )
A first aid kit. ( uttered as he turns back towards the elevator before adding, firmly— ) And food. When was the last time you ate?
[ Lottie stares at him, expression edging on a sarcastic sort of disbelief when he asks her when it was the last time she ate. Probably when she was last with him? She thinks this much is obvious, having a tendency to consume smaller meals (snacks) by herself. Or, commonly, coffee and some chips. Maybe donuts if Esther brings her some.
But even then, she can't quite recall when it was they last hung out, memory hazy at the worst possible time. Eventually her expression morphs, reflects a bit of her own confusion that'd be answer enough for him. She simply can't recall, is the easy answer. And they definitely didn't feed her inβ ]
Um, um.. Yesterday??
[ All of a sudden, that awkward air they had waltzed into rises again. Makes her feel unsure of what she's even doing, stopping just to take off her clothes? Because Marc is saying he'll get her some dry clothes.. A first aid kit (no), and food (no?). Is she supposed to stay here? Stay and wait? By herself?
(Now, she cares, because it is different from when she was staying and waiting by herself at the tub, in a fit. She had anger and bitterness keeping her blood running hot, fueling the self indulgent and stupid part of her brain that makes impulse decisions active. Because eventually, he would come. Now, that she's on the comedown, it's uncomfortable to think that this fight didn't make things better. Or worse. Not that she wanted either of those things to happenβ. Marc is still treating her like she's careful and fragile, prone to crying and needy, and it's true but it's not what she wants right now? Marc is no longer amused, no more mirth in his voice, and what's she supposed to do?)
Slowly, she bends down to pick up the two articles of clothing, presses them tight against her chest and the towel covering it. Her feet hesitantly pitter patter after him like a lost duckling, only a few steps taken after she deems herself ready (because Marc already has a plan, typical of him to not ask her thoughts on itβ and she's just not sure where she fits in all this). ]
( she's not supposed to stand here and wait. or — she can but she doesn't have to and, frankly, marc would prefer it if she didn't. would prefer if she followed him back up to the second floor so that he could find more (!) clothes that'll hopefully fit her without having to come all the way back down here.
her reply is at first hesitant, questioning, and he waits by the elevator door, hand resting on the panel as lottie's feet pad, wetly, against the floor. she speaks again, asserts that she's not hungry and the expression marc gives her is doubting and skeptical. she might not feel hungry — that'll be everything to do with the situation — but she should eat. he hmms lightly, disbelievingly, the sort of tone one takes when they've heard the answer but because it's not the one they want to hear, they've decided it doesn't count. )
Well, I am. ( or — he's not either, actually, but he should eat, in much the same way that he knows lottie should eat. it won't occur to him, not now, not later, not unless lottie says anything, that marc's decision to make choices for lottie is part of the problem here — although if she does bring it up, his response will be much along the lines of 'well, she's not giving him much to work with'.
the elevator dings, a bright, trill sound in the otherwise tense atmosphere of lottie and marc together, and he takes a step inside, just the one, to stand in the way of the doors closing to let lottie get in, too. )
[ He is? No way. In all her time of hanging out with Marc he has never admitted to actually being hungry. No, he'd just pick up their food and eat as they talked everything about nothing. He's hungry? Something must be wrong with him.
(What she fails to think about is that, maybe, he's trying his best to make food and Lottie orbit the same planet so that she can get something in her system. That he's familiar with the aftereffects of a traumatic event (in a way that is helpfulβ the last time this happened to Lottie she couldn't look at anything that oozed or could splatter, Caroline's bloodied head too vivid in her memory, and she hardly ate for the month following). And with the added fact they habitually eat full meals together, whereas in their regular lives they subsist on snacks, buttered bread if they felt like making it, it just might work.)
The doors to the elevator ease open and the light β bright, a little blinding, a tad intimidating β spills into the room. Nothing about it should seem intimidating, but it does. It is. And it takes the form of Marc's strong silhouette smack dab in the middle, staring expectantly at her as the mechanisms of the door whirr and stall, trying to close but being blocked by the solid body in the way. ]
You are?
[ It's so very delayed, but she can't help but ask him this, as she steps past him and settles off center inside the elevator. Tracks a path of water into it that pools and drips without a care by her feet, her toes wiggling to try and get some of it off of her skin. This time rather than waiting, she steps up to the console, presses the button for the ground floor once he follows her in (mostly because she's used it before, accidentally becoming the one thing she's semi-familiar with in this manor). ]
( marc is familiar with traumatic events but unfortunately, he's not familiar with healthy methods of dealing with them. there'd been a reason he'd taken reese to see sterman as soon as he could, a reason why he'd demanded to stay — not because he thought he knew better than andrea, not at all, but because he wanted to intrude on a private moment, but because he felt like he should be there. because he felt like it was his fault reese was in that position in the first place, and it's not any different with lottie.
worse, even. magnified.
she doesn't seem to pick up on why he's said he's hungry and he's glad for it, knows that if she had even an inkling he was trying to force the issue, she'd refuse. she'd argue with him.
she steps into the elevator, finally, and he exhales. it's heavy, tired. relieved. and his gaze flickers over to lottie as she leans past him, pushes ground and—.
he presses the button for the floor above it. he doesn't say anything, doesn't tell her that she's more than welcome to sit in whatever room she chooses holding wet clothes and dressed in nothing more than a towel, that he'll find her, fresh clothes in hand, but it'd be easier if she'd just come back upstairs first. he lets the glance he shoots her do it (or an impression of it, anyway), questioning and quizzical. )
Yes. ( in answer to her question and he glances, out of habit, towards his left wrist. (watchless, he'd left it upstairs—.) ) It's been— ( a vague wave of his hand. he could guess but he'd prefer not to, would prefer not to really know because he knows he functions better with routine. he knows he's better when he has a schedule, something approaching regularity with regards to sleep and food and remembering to take his meds—.
he knows, too, that he's not good at it. ) A while. ( a beat and wryly, he adds— ) Turns out, coffee can only do so much.
[ She can't help but watch the way he stretches an arm past her, across her body, to simply press the button above the one she did. Lottie withholds the comment that she can feel just aching to get out ('Why didn't you press it? 'Way to make me feel dumb!' among others), instead choosing to stay silent as she exhales deeplyβ a true display of her trying to keep herself together and just.. Be normal. Be normal inside Marc's mansion that has an elevator inside it because he's too bougie for stairs.
(His glance is ignored, too. Not out of malice, but because she can feel it and she knows she's going to feel some type of way seeing him look at her like that, like it's so hard to believe she's just trying to help and be useful.)
The elevator sets into motion, tugging the two of them up, and she stands and dissociates. So when he looks down to his wrist, she misses it. Barely catches the tail end of it and he makes her wonderβ what time is it? Dark. Late. Night, because Marc wouldn't be parading around in his Moon Knight get-up if it were day time (arguably, he'd be scarier during the daylight wearing all that). It doesn't take long to make it halfway to the ground floor, the sound of a-ha's Take on Me gaining volume in a slow and ominous crescendo the closer they get. It hits its peak when the elevator dings and eases to a stop, doors sliding open to the view of a barren lounge. It's peppy instrumentals cutting through the stilted conversation they've been havingβ ]
..You're always bad at eating stuff.
[ She says wryly, just a hint of it, after the elevator doors shut, the peek (reminder, visual, audible, as it is) of what they had left behind in that room lingering as long as those notes continue to blare through the walls. ]
( he doesn't think he's going to be able to listen to a-ha ever again, not after tonight. the record is still playing and for quite possibly the first time in his life, marc finds himself wishing he had one of those players that didn't reset once whatever side of the record that was playing reached the end, and it occurs to him quite suddenly, that lottie probably hadn't realised that's what would happen. if her family had records when she was younger, she'd probably been too young to pay any real attention to how they worked.
it's a mundane thought, thoroughly uninteresting, and he's half tempted to get out and turn the stereo off and meet her upstairs, the lounge taunting, embarrassingly empty against the stark sounds of 80s pop.
that's about as far as it goes because lottie speaks. it's sudden, not especially loud, but — compared to everything else — almost humourous. almost light. it's an observation that's unequivocally true, but the glance that marc gives her says he wants to disagree. says he doesn't want to admit she's right, that despite the way he dedicates himself to vigilantism, to a lifestyle that would massively benefit from regular sleep and regular meals, marc is utterly terrible at all of it.
it'd be futile and by the time the doors close again, marc's expression has shifted to resignation. acknowledgement. )
That's why I used to have a housekeeper, ( he admits. it manages to be an awkward utterance, somewhere between reluctance and self-awareness. nedda and samuels had always been steven's staff, really — jake rarely involved himself in anything to do with grant manor, whilst marc (marc) had. marc had managed to both be difficult and to make steven's life difficult, nedda and samuels both distinctly unfond of marc's personality and his fondness for moon knighting at the expense of everything else.
it'd not ended particularly well. marc, in the middle of a spectacular breakdown. moon knight in the news for carving crescent moons into the foreheads of criminals. framed for murder — which no-one in their right minds would have doubted, not given marc spector's history, not given moon knight's activities. they saw the news and marc had seen them watching the news. he'd thrown a crescent dart (or two, he can't remember—) at the screen and told them to leave.
and they had, of course.
the elevator dings for a second time — first floor — and marc gestures at the hallway as the doors slide open. )
Left, ( he says, and it's the opposite direction to the room he'd given her before. now that she's showered, now that she's just in a towel, it'd probably be easier if they go straight to his room, if he just gives her a(nother) fresh pair of clothes instead of traipsing between rooms, letting her shiver and grow cold.
he'll just get started on the food whilst she changes, he thinks—. )
[ ..Huh. Another thing she finds out, all by happenstance. If she never made a comment about his eating habits (truly, meant to be lighthearted), she probably would've never known thisβ Marc had a housekeeper. Someone who was meant to, she assumes, help get his shit together and clean this place. Make him food. Coffee. She wonders if Marc took his coffee any different back then or if it's always been the way she knows it (barely sweet, more coffee than milkβ mainly coffee, really). She wonders what exactly made them quit before she remembers.. Right.
The way he says it, admits it, looks, means she doesn't have to think that hard. It lingers, all that he has left unsaid. Sits a little clearer now, than before. Than all the other times he told her (warned her).
'This is what happens. This is why they're gone, I'm sorry.'
She refused to look at Marc, when he said this. But she heard itβ smelled the fresh scent of shower and coffee and tea and him all intermingling. Smelled the dust, the stale air that always lingers inside places forgotten to time, to memories. The weird way it sat on her skin. At the time, it made her upset, just like his clothes and how they made her feel itchy with nerves all of a sudden. Made her blow up at him and cry. Now, all she can hear is the sad and melancholy notes of his admission replaying over and over as the elevator dings for the second time. Lottie's bare feet pad out onto the floor, the sound vaguely wet and surely unpleasant, but it doesn't show on her face. The soggy clothing against her chest is something she's grown semi-used to now, but the abrupt note of left when she moves to the right is unheard of.
Her eyes dance between her room and his, then him. She can't deny she's curious to see whatever is in here, if it's just as barren and old and lifeless as the guest bedroom she's staying at. So she ambles towards it properly, instead of lingering some ways between when presented with something unexpected. Wanders her way to the doorframe for the room to the left and briefly glances up to Marcβ as if to say, 'are you sure?'
Of course, she does this even as she steps in, lingers nearby inside for him to wait for instructions. ]
( she doesn't say anything. she doesn't have to, her expression shifting enough to make the series of thoughts all but transparent. the way that she puts together what that means, the way that she didn't know before — marc's mentioned nedda, of course, in tangents and off-shoots that did nothing to explain who she was — and that it's yet something else that she's learning. something new to sit alongside everything else she's discovered this evening.
it's not quite understanding, not yet, but there's an edge of it there before her expression changes again as she steps out of the elevator, as marc directs her to go the opposite direction. this time, it's questioning, not so accusatory, not so hurt as their first trip up to the floor. it's curious and marc doesn't quite acknowledge it because he's not quite sure of the questions that will follow.
she doesn't ask, hesitancy gone in a flash as she steps inside the bedroom that'd been marlene and steven's, and then marc and marlene's, and then just marc's. it's his in the same way the rest of the house is theirs — a bookcase, dusty; two large wardrobes, one his and one hers (technically); a large bed, half-made. his suit, dirty and bloody, thrown haphazardly onto the plush chair sat by the window, boots equally as disinterestedly discarded on the floor in the same place.
it's not lived in, not in the way that the mission is, even if the mission is carefully constructed, a deliberate facade designed to say that he is mr. knight. he has his life under control, he helps his community. he's capable. the mission is opulent, egyptian-themed and alive — with plants, at least. there are hints, here and there, that the manor might have been much the same at one point, but—.
he goes straight to one of the wardrobes, the inside carefully partitioned. the largest by far is dedicated to moon knight and it's easy to imagine that marc's wardrobe away from here is the same. )
The bathroom's through there. ( through that door, he means. a beat, distractedly— ) —There should be another towel. ( a clean one, he means, not wet from his shower, not dirty with blood.
he pulls out another top, a black t-shirt this time, and places it on the bed. he hesitates before gesturing at the other side, the other wardrobe. marlene's. his lips quirk and he glances at lottie. given how hit and miss his guessing at her size had been the first time—. ) You can see if there's something in there you can wear.
[ Someone used to live here. Definitely Marc. He directs her to the closet opposite of his own, on the other side of the roomβ pointedly. And then she amends that thought: people used to live here. Marlene, above all else. Maybe his Frenchie. Her hair is drying properly, frizzy in the air it basks in, makes her look a little more unkempt and strange than she usually would be. After all, Lottie is prim. Proper. She woke up like this, hair silky and bouncy and skin smooth, perfect. To die for. She is every bit the opposite but it isn't actively plaguing her, this time.
She eyes the black shirt he lays out (she sighs out softly in relief, happy at his choice) before slowly moving to Marlene's wardrobe. When she opens it, it'sβ the polar opposite of her own. Somewhere in the back of Lottie's own closet she has a section for clothing like this. For working out, for comfort, practicality, fabric you can move in. The rest of it is clothing she's only worn maybe once, things she has to sport shapewear for and fashion tape, to be careful not to do much more than standing because bending means flashing people.
So the sweats she grabs, after moving some hangers around and looking down at the neatly folded pairs of bottoms, are a godsend. They, too, are black this time, and they meld together when she turns back to grab Marc's shirt and mumbles aβ ]
...Thank you.
[ βin his direction, eyes briefly making contact with him before she scuttles off to the bathroom. She makes quick work of it, dropping her towel and the clothes with his, bloodied and dirty, cleaning herself with the new one. She drops that, too, after she runs it through her hair to get it as dry as possible. Then, she puts her new outfit on. It feels better than the firstβ the opposite of form fitting, and for once she likes how much skin it covers. Likes the way it feels on her skin, breathy and loose. How she looks like am amorphous blob rather than a person, if she doesn't look too hard. She almost wishes she had a hairband, thoughβ a brush.
And ever careless, she shifts through his things in the bathroom. Finds Marlene's hair brush, complete with blonde strands of hair stuck between the bristles and she stiffens. Feels weird and like she's intruding on something, that she shouldn't be touching anything that wasn't explicitly given an okay. That it might make Marc mad or hurt, if she does. So she doesn't. She shuts the drawer, blinks a few times at how her hand lingers on the handle before thinking, nevermind. Maybe this is for the better. ]
( he sits on the bed at first, briefly entertaining the thought of going downstairs and making a start on whatever meal he's able to cobble together from the sparse ingredients he has in the fridge and cupboards. it doesn't last long — no, about as long as it takes lottie to get changed, to dump her (his, really) clothes in an unceremonious pile near his (moon knight's) — and he flops back, heavily, onto the bed.
god, he's tired, is the overwhelming thought. the one that seems to play at every facet of his mind in the ensuing silence, in the interim where he's not quite sure what to do when lottie re-emerges.
the door re-opens and marc looks over, brow pulling together in a tight frown, this one the kind that says he's attempting to piece together information, attempting to figure something out. in this instance, it's how receptive lottie is, how she's feeling compared to earlier. she's not quite a mess, not as such, but she's still not lottie, not in the way he knows her. her hair's frizzy, untamed in a way he doesn't think he's ever seen; even when he's spent time at hers when she's been dressed casually, it's never been in anything quite so loose, quite so obviously ill-fitting. it's—
discomforting. an unpleasant reminder. and so he sits up, his hair messy and untidy in a way that's utterly familiar, so much a part of him. more dry now then wet, unkempt and in as equal need of a comb as hers is a brush. he doesn't quite think that she'd got so far as looking for a brush, got so far as finding a long-forgotten belonging of marlene's and changed her mind (he wouldn't have been bothered if he'd known, or discovered later. would have been quietly thankful, in fact, for the difference.
marc is not a man that moves on easily, needs to be prompted to it. forced.) )
I don't have much, ( he states, apropos nothing, with no other explanation, and despite the fact she'd said she wasn't hungry. ) And not much in the way of Doordash to Long Island. b>( not nothing, but—. )
[ Why is he looking at her like that? Like he's trying to figure her out? It makes her pause at the doorway of the restroom, vaguely uncomfortable at being perceived so openly. Which β she wouldn't mind ordinarily. Lottie loves having eyes on her when she wants them, when she's pretty. Marc's gaze only serves to remind her she is not pretty, right now. That her eyebags are more prominent, that she's slouching and she probably looks as haggard as she feels.
Despite that, Lottie almost comments he looks like shitβ but then she remembers, right. They kind of both look terrible right now, just in different ways. Marc because he spent the better part of his evening rescuing her and Lottie being rescued by him.
(On top of everything elseβ Marc's state of being is always a variation of this, tired and world weary. Usually he's in a suit, making the decidedly messy qualities of his appearance a little charming. She can even pretend it's intentional, maybe, if she squints. Now? Not so much. Marc just looks as exhausted as she feels, tired in a way that is bone deep and only grows because nothing is being done to sate it.) ]
..Like the drink?
[ Because, predictably, Lottie has no idea where Long Island is in relation to anything. Marc does, the only one of the two who has a better sense of direction and geography, so him admitting Doordash is a bust must mean they're essentially in the boonies (also, he drove her ass all the way out to Long Island? He used to live here??). Despite having said she wasn't hungry, she looks put out by this, vaguely disappointed at another thing that hasn't gone her way, tonight.
She takes a few steps closer towards him, hands reaching up to cross at her chest, shoulders up high and only slightly tense. ]
I mean, isn't there a Denny's or something? Long Island has to have a Denny's at least..
( briefly, he looks perplexed, bemused, like he's trying to think about just what there is. marc hadn't chosen long island for its night life or its food or — anything, really, other than the knowledge that neighbours were few and far between. that privacy was assured and no-one paid more attention to each other than was necessary. that the house — large and odd in its internal construction — would fit his purposes. it suited him fine and it suited grant, too. lockley didn't care too much either way, happy as long as he had his people.
he shrugs, the movement awkward and not entirely fluid from the way he sits on the bed, the way that he's aware of burgeoning bruises and the fact he'd really, honestly, truly sooner be sleeping, but needs must.
he huffs out a breath, somewhere between amused and disbelieving. )
The drink? ( a long island iced tea. strong and an easy way to get drunk. a breath of a pause and— )Sure. ( what else is long island known for? truly, marc wouldn't know. ) Like that.
( the pause is lingering, thoughtful, the kind that says he's trying to remember what's around. bistros, the odd seafood place, a couple of italians— nothing that'd be open at whatever godforsaken hour it is now. lottie says denny's and marc, wryly, counters and admits that there's a— ) McDonald's.
( which he knows is open because he's eaten there a frankly embarrassing number of times on the way back from some moon knight adventure, sent frenchie off to get something for the two of them because nedda and samuels will be asleep and it wouldn't be fair to wake them, and he doesn't want to bother with reheating something, not at 5am—. )
That name is a loaded answer, Lottie easily surmising that there must be a reason by β above all other places β it's a McDonald's he knows is up 24/7. Not a Denny's, a restaurant that is arguably better and also under the same curse of being open 24/7, but a McDonald's.
The last time she ate there was years ago, when she decided to have a cheat day and have some chicken nuggets. She tries to eat as "healthy" as possible, counting calories enough to where her figure is still slim and curvy. McDonald's to her is synonymous with family trips when she was younger, synonymous with more mindful moments as an adult where she just wanted a snack and not to be full.
Right now, the mention of McDonald's invokes the opposite. So her expression that settles into her face after he wryly brings it up isβ open. Vaguely interested. She wonders how many times he must've gone to know about the McDonald's nearby if he hasn't lived here in forever (because it's dusty, because it's empty, because she knows he's sleeping somewhere in the Mission).
But because he doesn't move off the bed, Lottie doesn't move from her position either. Though her shoulders do relax, glancing down to the floor before meeting his eyes again. ]
I'd be down for some McDonald's..
[ She admits, finally, after a long moment of staring at Marc and visibly mulling over how to not-admit he was right, that she should eat and she is hungry. ]
( long island does have denny's, but none near where marc's ostentatious mansion resides. the (formerly) closest denny's closed down years ago, the inhabitants of southampton quote-unquote too good for it (but not too good for mcdonald's, evidently—.)
there's a moment between them, one where marc's expression is suggestive, offering in the sense that it's the only place that comes to mind, the only place he can be certain of without futilely scrolling through a meagre list of restaurants, almost all of which closed five hours ago. at least. mcdonald's is terrible, but it's safe and it's known.
lottie's expression doesn't say quite the same thing — it's tentative, then cautiously interested, then minutely relaxed. the sort of movement that says she's agreeing in spite of herself, and marc realises, suddenly, acutely, that if there was a better option, he'd take it. she's accepting but not quite sure, and marc isn't quite sure how he feels about that. there's no smugness to be found, no pride in the knowledge that he's right, that she's hungry and she should eat, because if it wasn't due to him, neither of them — no, that's not quite true, she, specifically, wouldn't be in this situation. she'd likely be asleep. comfortable. at ease.
he looks at her, questioning, hesitant. she's happy with mcdonald's (not quite the term), but he hasn't exactly given her a wealth of options to choose from. )
—Or I can cook, ( he says, still not sure quite what he'd manage to pull together. some kind of protein sat alongside some kind of carb sat alongside some kind of seasoning, the sort of bland-but-edible that speaks of his experience in eating for necessity not for want or desire. ) McDonald's will take maybe 20 minutes. ( beat. ) This time of night.
[ He looks at her and offers her another option andβ. Lottie isn't quite sure what he expects her to do, at all? Give her too many options, and she becomes overwhelmed. Don't give her enough, and she's in agony. She inhales deeply, uncrosses her arms to rub them down and over her tired face. Her eyes are starting to sting from the lack of sleepβ or maybe the irritation that's bubbling at how indecisive the two of them are. Twenty minutes does sound like a long time.. But in the grand scheme of things, is it really? But what does he want her to say? Does he want to stay in?
Is it because he doesn't want to be seen with her? If they're in the drivethrough her face won't look that bad.. Lottie takes a very long time just thinking over this, in pain at being given the option to backtrack when she already agreed to one thing. Beforeβ ]
Let's just stay in, then.
[ It's an unspoken fine that graces her tone, the same sort of tired reluctance she gave earlier. But rather than stand there and allow him the chance to say something else, a secret third possibility, she moves forward to tug him up and off the bed. It's not with the same usual confidence she'd carry thoughβ there's a lot of hesitance and anxiety dancing in the way she reaches for him, something even she doesn't quite clock before justβ grabbing a hand. Getting him on his feet so the two of them can leave the room properly. ]
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βYes. She is. She's very upset. She's hurt. A little embarrassed, because he makes it seem like she shouldn't. Like this isn't a big deal and she's just being insane, but she isn't. She knows she isn't.
And rather than admit this, tell him that his inability to open up and share anything deep with her (like this) actually makes her sad, she bottles it up. Because would she ever have known about this place if she hadn't got kidnapped? If he hadn't had to show her?
The answer is no, and it stings. ]
Fine. Have fun sitting in your not important manor and I'll go do non important things by myself!
[ She crawls up to stand, one hand settled on the towel wrapped around her still wet hair and the other used to ease herself up. Whether she simply opts to leave her tea there, or if she forgets it, is not clear (but Marc knows her well enough to know it's definitely on purpose), but what is clear is: she's wandering off somewhere.
Where? The fact she doesn't know the layout of this gigantic manor at all means that it's a guess for everybody, and in a matter of seconds she is goneβ stomping her way elsewhere rather than simply admitting the truth to him. Because what's more embarrassing than letting the people you're close with know you have feelings, that you care? Nothing. ]
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of course, that's not to say that marc could've have brought it up. couldn't have mentioned it in relation to his almost endless assortment of issues, few of which he's shared with anyone, let alone lottie. how is he supposed to admit that it'd taken him years to open up — properly — to marlene? that he'd been friends, close, would-die-for-you friends with jean-paul but there had been innumerable (important) facts they hadn't known about each other.
(no, facts that marc had missed for starters. others he'd never considered important enough to ask about, and frenchie had indulged him in kind, had known marc well enough not to ask, known him well enough to know that asking would just result in an argument.)
she knows that marc wouldn't have told her about the manor. she knows because that's the type of person marc is. he attempts to decide what is and isn't important for other people based off his own feelings. he has to have it explained that just because he feels a certain way, doesn't mean that everyone else feels that way. has to be reminded of consideration.
it's not, strictly, that he's uncaring, it's that he finds linking it all together hard.
still.
he lets her leave. lets her stand, one hand held up to the precarious tower of hair and towel, the other used as leverage, tone petulant and angry all at once. she's leaving, but she's not leaving. she wouldn't know where to go — would be lucky to navigate the manor, let alone leave long island.
it won't last long, his frustration and annoyance. it'll disappear in a flash of embarrassment and guilt, to sit alongside the guilt that's come with everything to do with this evening. then he'll go in search of her, but only after taking some time to wallow and to stew, to mull over his own thoughts and how much he's mishandled all of this.
(how hard would it really be to admit the truth?) )
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But her memory is working just fine now, replaying over and over again the way his lips enunciated every word, the way he looked at her. How stupid she feels for even trying to bring it up β how stupid she feels for crying all over again, because she's so tired of it. Tired of the snot, tired of her head throbbing from how hard she's been crying, how dry her eyes are between the spouts. The phlegm stuck in her throat, too, is icing on top of the cake, and it makes her feel all the more disgusting as she wanders through what she thinks is the basement.
Or.. Marc's fun-land. Another thing he didn't tell her aboutβ the stupid extravagant show of money that is so unlike him, laid out over the longest floor she's ever walked across. What is this, a hotel? A casino? A theme park?
There's a few minutes where she stops to lean against a wall, her lungs stinging and demanding a moments rest from how harshly she was breathing, how quickly she was walking (it doesn't help she spent a lot of her time in captivity in odd positions, spine uncomfortably curled or slouched for hours on end).
By the time Marc finds her, whether it's a few minutes or longer after that, he'll find her completely submerged in the hot tub. With the clothing on (not sorry). And no matter what direction he approaches, behind or facing her, she refuses to acknowledge him, makes a show of turning the opposite way childishly. ]
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marc sits and stews at first, his temper remaining before it slides into being directed at himself, before it shifts into something more muted. marc has never had an argument with anyone that hasn't resulted in one of them storming out and leaving for hours if not days. it doesn't occur to marc that it's not, necessarily, the most adult of responses, that it's not especially mature.
he goes upstairs, looks into the guest room with its minimal evidence of anyone ever having used it as a permanent bedroom, and just as minimal evidence of lottie having used it for a whopping several hours. he lingers on the floor, considers retreating to his bedroom and just, say, going to bed. it's a fleeting thought, not at all serious because marc knows he wouldn't be able to sleep, knows that even amongst the frustration, he'd worry about lottie.
back downstairs, then, and downstairs again to the basement. he bypasses the gym, the storage rooms (those are still full, home to various trinkets he barely remembered buying, items and weapons relating to khonshu that he assumes might come in handy one day). the pool's empty, the sauna too, but the hot tub—.
he stops abruptly, the sight of lottie in the tub still fully clothed in marc's long-sleeved top and marlene's sweatpants absolutely absurd. his expression twists — not that lottie can see it, given the way she pointedly turns away from him, the way she chooses not to acknowledge him at all. it twists and marc can't seem to decide what to make of the situation, standing still and remaining silent.
a few moments and then he approaches, stands to one side and as ever, seems not entirely sure how to proceed. reconciliation has never been a strong point of his — it'd been different with marlene, easier — but it'd been difficult and awkward with anyone he's in a romantic relationship with. (""in"". on and off—.) )
After I was kicked out of the Marines, I did a lot of freelance work. ( has he ever told lottie that? he's implied it, but he doesn't think he's ever explained what it meant. lottie's never been curious — seemed curious, he corrects, because he'd never have thought she'd be so upset about not being told he ("he") had a fucking mansion. ) Bad things for bad people for however much money I could get. What the job was didn't matter. I was very good at not asking questions, not caring if I was on the right side of a war or the wrong side. Espionage. Theft. Assassinations. ( a beat and a lingering, watchful glance at lottie. ) Kidnappings.
( a momentary silence, heavy and oppressive. )
After Egypt, I— Marc Spector stayed in Egypt. Died in Egypt. Steven Grant returned to the States. Steven Grant bought this house. Invested Marc Spector's blood money.
You've never wanted — needed — to know about any of that and there's no sanitary version I can pretend happened to tell you instead.
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Or.. His not-apology. He gives her an explanation. He gives her the truth. It sounds like something Marc would never want to say aloud, because saying it to her means recognizing he really did all those things. Maybe, if he wasn't Moon Knight and still doing contract work, it could've been him kidnapping her. He doesn't say it, and it's not implied, but she thinks it when he takes that heavy pause. Turns to finally face him β the water sloshes loudly, a little awkward in how serious the conversation is because the fact this is all happening with only one of them in the tub is hitting her.
It's weird, and it's odd, imagining Marc doing all the things he lists. When she knows he does so much the opposite as Moon Knight. He's not your typical good guy, typical vigilante (in the way that he's not a spider or a dude doing backflips in a janky ass costume), but he's.. Doing things?? For his community?? She thinks? She doesn't know the details, it's not like she reads about him, but she knows when he wanders around at night he isn't exactly hated. But he definitely would be for.. Assassinations? Kidnappings? Theft is more excusable, honestly.. Espionage??
It doesn't hit her in the way it should, how terrible these all are. What "blood money" means. That Marc Spector actually died in Egypt. That Steven Grant returning to the states isn't just a metaphor for his sense of self, but the truth. Lottie takes it all as Marc's battle with his identity, like the way she fights with her own before putting her makeup on and committing to the illusion she's got her shit together. And there's a silence, where she visibly thinks over all this. Feels a vague sense of satisfaction curl in her chest at the fact she got what she wanted! (Yay!) All just might be right in the world, after all.
And rather than horror, disgust, fear, revulsion, Lottie looks up at him (in that same way she always does when she's gotten her way and is ready to communicate again) and asks (in a tone that is genuinely just asking for clarification of intent, not out of anger or irritation): ]
..Is this you saying sorry?
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(it'll come back to bite him (them?) later, in the same way all of this has. marc's avoidance of being clear about what he means and thinks and feels and has experienced works not exactly fine for the most part, but it works in a manner of speaking, a delicately constructed house of cards that only requires one light breath to tumble down.
he knows this but he so often does anything to change it.)
his not-apology eases the tension, makes the absurdity of marc hovering near the hot tub and lottie submerged, fully clothed, all the more pronounced. makes the contrast of where they are — a room ostensibly meant for relaxing — versus what marc's just told her all the more striking.
she turns to him, finally, watchful in her own way, considered in her own way. there's no horror there, no disgust at the blunt admission of the type of person marc was (is). instead, there's — relief? satisfaction. a muted happiness that says that marc's given lottie what she wanted and marc, for his part, isn't sure how to take it. isn't sure if her frank question as to whether everything he's just said is meant to be an apology is better or worse than the alternative.
the question hits him and he just stares at her for a moment, blank surprise sitting amongst the frown, the tight unhappiness pulling at his brows and the corners of his lips. it's not not an apology, but it's not quite an apology either, and he thinks they both know it. marc seems to find the actual words, the admission that he's acted poorly a deep, personal challenge, and though marc isn't pleased with the way the night's gone, isn't happy with his actions, is deeply unhappy with the knowledge that lottie's here, in grant manor, because of him, he's not quite sure what lottie's asking for an apology for.
for not telling her about grant manor? about his past, the half a dozen or so years between getting the boot from the marines, the ten, twelve years after that where he tried to desperately balance his life, where he veered between honesty and acknowledgement and understanding, and denial. ugly breaks with reality. institutionalisation in his worse moments, moments where the rest of the superhero community were busy fighting amongst themselves over morals and ethics and choices, where marc was busy fighting with himself.
'I don't know' is the honest answer. is it an apology? it's an explanation at very least. the barest, most minimal of roadmaps of marc's life, small moments of honesty that he's dropped here and there throughout their friendship, most often in moments like this where it's wrenched out. )
You wanted honesty, ( he says instead. it's not quite the same way he'd respond to marlene, the way he'd try to win her back by telling her what he thought she'd asked for and then getting frustrated when she told him that, actually, that wasn't what she'd asked and his failure to understand was the fucking sticking point, but it's not entirely divorced from it.
lottie had asked him why she didn't know about grant manor, and now he's told her. )
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Honesty was part of what she was genuinely asking for, anyway, and having the context (history? knowledge?) behind all of this makes it a little less.. Overbearing. Daunting. Now she can maybe ask why he has a gun range (Marc doesn't use guns), or a fucking pool in his basement instead of outside (Marc doesn't swim or go outside), like most normal people would (and does he clean it? Is this water sanitary? Has she been soaking in dirty chlorinated water this whole time?).
(Really, this response is better than the other. Lottie's blind acceptance, tunnel vision in regards to herself, versus her actually stewing in the moral applications of Marc having killed before, many, many, timesβ being so remarkably nasty just for some cash. Because once she opens that box and considers "blood money" connected to real people, the wave of discomfort will wash over her and continue to blanket her every time she sees him.)
She replays his words again, 'You wanted honesty'. Punctuated by the silly little furrow of his brow and the way his lips stretch thin in a way that is wholly sure and unsure of himself at the same time (a feat she is sometimes jealous of). Her eyes flick down to the water, tries to see the way her toes wiggle beneath the water as she moves as quietly as she can out of the tub. Predictably, it's loud. Water practically seeps off of her, wet clothes uncomfortably clinging to her body as she stands there, arms out stretched and looking like a wet, mangy, cat.
Then, anβ ]
..Okay.
[ Okay? Okay. It's really as simple as that, getting back in Lottie's good graces again. No more tears, no more snot, no more purposely blocking him out because even looking at him is upsetting her. She is looking at him straight on in all her strange, stiff, gloryβ glory that is comprised of her shaking as the temperature is vastly different outside of a hot tub, as it turns out. The air nips at her skin and she looks like she's trying to bend and twist out of his shirt so she won't have to feel the wet-cold embrace of his turtleneck on her skin. ]
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(what marc doesn't — won't — piece together is how it's not so different from how marlene used to treat him (and grant), used to believe that marc (the ugly parts of grant-spector-lockley) could be buried and ignored and that he could just be steven. a deliberately skipping over of everything that had come before, even as marc had been involved in peter alraune's death.
even as marc had been the reason why tonight was what it was.)
she climbs out of the tub even before she verbally acknowledges him, and he knows — roughly — what the response is going to be. she wouldn't have moved if she hadn't felt inclined to at least semi accept the (slightly pathetic) olive branch held out to her. she stretches out her arms, water dripping from — god, everywhere, the clothes he'd pulled out of his and marlene's wardrobes sodden and soaked.
okay, she says, and marc doesn't really hear her because she shifts awkwardly, not at all gracefully, as if trying to separate herself from the clothes without getting undressed, as if trying to create a layer between them and her so that she won't feel so cold.
it's ridiculous.
(lottie person is ridiculous, he reminds himself.)
he exhales, the sound loud against the patter of water dripping from lottie to the floor and then he closes his eyes, just for a second, wondering how badly she'd take it if he pointed out how fucking stupid her idea to crawl in the hot tub fully clothed had been. his lips quirk and he turns away, back towards the direction he'd come from (and lottie too, presumably, unless she'd managed to get completely lost in her wanders. )
Elevator, ( and there's an odd tone to his voice, one that suggests he's trying to hide a laugh. )
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But he doesn't do that, instead opting to do that weird smug little thing with his mouth and turns away, takes a couple of steps towards the exit (that she definitely took, probably the only sensible thing she did all night rather than really get lost). She takes two loud, audibly wet, steps towards him before he speaks and sheβ gapes at him. Looks positively affronted despite knowing how silly she must look, and she stops her movement to stare at the back of his head with every ounce of bratty energy she can muster.
..With chattering teeth. ]
Are you laughing?
[ 'Seriously?' her tone says. Seriously, is he laughing?? Granted, she doesn't really mind thisβ on some level she likes that the tone, the air in the room, has shifted so much. So audibly, palpably. It means they're okay and it means that they're back to normal (normalβ it's so funny how she uses this word when she is still ignoring the very shift in how she functions from her kidnapping). But Lottie Person is known for a lot of things, and one of them is definitely kicking up a fuss, and she intends to follow through. Even if the act itself is a little half hearted, not one hundred percent her usual pouty shrill but definitely an act that tells him: I have a reputation to uphold and I won't let you giggle about this without griping.
She reaches up for the towel at her head, more damp than her hair (which is semi-wet, even now, since her hair is so thick and also chemically altered it's a bit of a mission to get it completely dry). Wraps it around her body in a way that screams I don't like this as she uses the modesty it affords her to shimmy out of her sweats. ]
Marc??
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there. the amusement is not well-disguised.
still, he doesn't stop walking until she says his name, pausing and looking back over his shoulder only to find that she'd taken the brief interlude to take the towel she'd used for her hair and use it to cover herself instead, wet clothes bedraggled and sad in a pile by her feet. near-laughter all but gone, he opens his mouth to speak, the words getting caught somewhere in his throat because lottie is, without a shadow of doubt, the most ridiculous human being he's ever encountered. five minutes and they'd be back upstairs. five minutes and he'd be able to give her fresh clothes.
(it's selfish and spoilt of him, but at times like this, he really misses nedda—.) )
I'll get you some— ( a twist of his lips, indecisive, like he's not sure how he wants to feel about the situation, ) —dry clothes.
( the heat makes the difference between lottie's usual pallor and the red against her cheek all the more stark, an unpleasant blotchy red, and he hesitates, lingering, thinking of all the questions he'd meant to ask earlier, the ones before all of this had happened, the ones he's normally better at asking but he'd not quite known how to in between the awkwardness — his and hers — and his shame. )
A first aid kit. ( uttered as he turns back towards the elevator before adding, firmly— ) And food. When was the last time you ate?
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But even then, she can't quite recall when it was they last hung out, memory hazy at the worst possible time. Eventually her expression morphs, reflects a bit of her own confusion that'd be answer enough for him. She simply can't recall, is the easy answer. And they definitely didn't feed her inβ ]
Um, um.. Yesterday??
[ All of a sudden, that awkward air they had waltzed into rises again. Makes her feel unsure of what she's even doing, stopping just to take off her clothes? Because Marc is saying he'll get her some dry clothes.. A first aid kit (no), and food (no?). Is she supposed to stay here? Stay and wait? By herself?
(Now, she cares, because it is different from when she was staying and waiting by herself at the tub, in a fit. She had anger and bitterness keeping her blood running hot, fueling the self indulgent and stupid part of her brain that makes impulse decisions active. Because eventually, he would come. Now, that she's on the comedown, it's uncomfortable to think that this fight didn't make things better. Or worse. Not that she wanted either of those things to happenβ. Marc is still treating her like she's careful and fragile, prone to crying and needy, and it's true but it's not what she wants right now? Marc is no longer amused, no more mirth in his voice, and what's she supposed to do?)
Slowly, she bends down to pick up the two articles of clothing, presses them tight against her chest and the towel covering it. Her feet hesitantly pitter patter after him like a lost duckling, only a few steps taken after she deems herself ready (because Marc already has a plan, typical of him to not ask her thoughts on itβ and she's just not sure where she fits in all this). ]
I don't even feel hungry, so..
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her reply is at first hesitant, questioning, and he waits by the elevator door, hand resting on the panel as lottie's feet pad, wetly, against the floor. she speaks again, asserts that she's not hungry and the expression marc gives her is doubting and skeptical. she might not feel hungry — that'll be everything to do with the situation — but she should eat. he hmms lightly, disbelievingly, the sort of tone one takes when they've heard the answer but because it's not the one they want to hear, they've decided it doesn't count. )
Well, I am. ( or — he's not either, actually, but he should eat, in much the same way that he knows lottie should eat. it won't occur to him, not now, not later, not unless lottie says anything, that marc's decision to make choices for lottie is part of the problem here — although if she does bring it up, his response will be much along the lines of 'well, she's not giving him much to work with'.
the elevator dings, a bright, trill sound in the otherwise tense atmosphere of lottie and marc together, and he takes a step inside, just the one, to stand in the way of the doors closing to let lottie get in, too. )
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(What she fails to think about is that, maybe, he's trying his best to make food and Lottie orbit the same planet so that she can get something in her system. That he's familiar with the aftereffects of a traumatic event (in a way that is helpfulβ the last time this happened to Lottie she couldn't look at anything that oozed or could splatter, Caroline's bloodied head too vivid in her memory, and she hardly ate for the month following). And with the added fact they habitually eat full meals together, whereas in their regular lives they subsist on snacks, buttered bread if they felt like making it, it just might work.)
The doors to the elevator ease open and the light β bright, a little blinding, a tad intimidating β spills into the room. Nothing about it should seem intimidating, but it does. It is. And it takes the form of Marc's strong silhouette smack dab in the middle, staring expectantly at her as the mechanisms of the door whirr and stall, trying to close but being blocked by the solid body in the way. ]
You are?
[ It's so very delayed, but she can't help but ask him this, as she steps past him and settles off center inside the elevator. Tracks a path of water into it that pools and drips without a care by her feet, her toes wiggling to try and get some of it off of her skin. This time rather than waiting, she steps up to the console, presses the button for the ground floor once he follows her in (mostly because she's used it before, accidentally becoming the one thing she's semi-familiar with in this manor). ]
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worse, even. magnified.
she doesn't seem to pick up on why he's said he's hungry and he's glad for it, knows that if she had even an inkling he was trying to force the issue, she'd refuse. she'd argue with him.
she steps into the elevator, finally, and he exhales. it's heavy, tired. relieved. and his gaze flickers over to lottie as she leans past him, pushes ground and—.
he presses the button for the floor above it. he doesn't say anything, doesn't tell her that she's more than welcome to sit in whatever room she chooses holding wet clothes and dressed in nothing more than a towel, that he'll find her, fresh clothes in hand, but it'd be easier if she'd just come back upstairs first. he lets the glance he shoots her do it (or an impression of it, anyway), questioning and quizzical. )
Yes. ( in answer to her question and he glances, out of habit, towards his left wrist. (watchless, he'd left it upstairs—.) ) It's been— ( a vague wave of his hand. he could guess but he'd prefer not to, would prefer not to really know because he knows he functions better with routine. he knows he's better when he has a schedule, something approaching regularity with regards to sleep and food and remembering to take his meds—.
he knows, too, that he's not good at it. ) A while. ( a beat and wryly, he adds— ) Turns out, coffee can only do so much.
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(His glance is ignored, too. Not out of malice, but because she can feel it and she knows she's going to feel some type of way seeing him look at her like that, like it's so hard to believe she's just trying to help and be useful.)
The elevator sets into motion, tugging the two of them up, and she stands and dissociates. So when he looks down to his wrist, she misses it. Barely catches the tail end of it and he makes her wonderβ what time is it? Dark. Late. Night, because Marc wouldn't be parading around in his Moon Knight get-up if it were day time (arguably, he'd be scarier during the daylight wearing all that). It doesn't take long to make it halfway to the ground floor, the sound of a-ha's Take on Me gaining volume in a slow and ominous crescendo the closer they get. It hits its peak when the elevator dings and eases to a stop, doors sliding open to the view of a barren lounge. It's peppy instrumentals cutting through the stilted conversation they've been havingβ ]
..You're always bad at eating stuff.
[ She says wryly, just a hint of it, after the elevator doors shut, the peek (reminder, visual, audible, as it is) of what they had left behind in that room lingering as long as those notes continue to blare through the walls. ]
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it's a mundane thought, thoroughly uninteresting, and he's half tempted to get out and turn the stereo off and meet her upstairs, the lounge taunting, embarrassingly empty against the stark sounds of 80s pop.
that's about as far as it goes because lottie speaks. it's sudden, not especially loud, but — compared to everything else — almost humourous. almost light. it's an observation that's unequivocally true, but the glance that marc gives her says he wants to disagree. says he doesn't want to admit she's right, that despite the way he dedicates himself to vigilantism, to a lifestyle that would massively benefit from regular sleep and regular meals, marc is utterly terrible at all of it.
it'd be futile and by the time the doors close again, marc's expression has shifted to resignation. acknowledgement. )
That's why I used to have a housekeeper, ( he admits. it manages to be an awkward utterance, somewhere between reluctance and self-awareness. nedda and samuels had always been steven's staff, really — jake rarely involved himself in anything to do with grant manor, whilst marc (marc) had. marc had managed to both be difficult and to make steven's life difficult, nedda and samuels both distinctly unfond of marc's personality and his fondness for moon knighting at the expense of everything else.
it'd not ended particularly well. marc, in the middle of a spectacular breakdown. moon knight in the news for carving crescent moons into the foreheads of criminals. framed for murder — which no-one in their right minds would have doubted, not given marc spector's history, not given moon knight's activities. they saw the news and marc had seen them watching the news. he'd thrown a crescent dart (or two, he can't remember—) at the screen and told them to leave.
and they had, of course.
the elevator dings for a second time — first floor — and marc gestures at the hallway as the doors slide open. )
Left, ( he says, and it's the opposite direction to the room he'd given her before. now that she's showered, now that she's just in a towel, it'd probably be easier if they go straight to his room, if he just gives her a(nother) fresh pair of clothes instead of traipsing between rooms, letting her shiver and grow cold.
he'll just get started on the food whilst she changes, he thinks—. )
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The way he says it, admits it, looks, means she doesn't have to think that hard. It lingers, all that he has left unsaid. Sits a little clearer now, than before. Than all the other times he told her (warned her).
'This is what happens. This is why they're gone, I'm sorry.'
She refused to look at Marc, when he said this. But she heard itβ smelled the fresh scent of shower and coffee and tea and him all intermingling. Smelled the dust, the stale air that always lingers inside places forgotten to time, to memories. The weird way it sat on her skin. At the time, it made her upset, just like his clothes and how they made her feel itchy with nerves all of a sudden. Made her blow up at him and cry. Now, all she can hear is the sad and melancholy notes of his admission replaying over and over as the elevator dings for the second time. Lottie's bare feet pad out onto the floor, the sound vaguely wet and surely unpleasant, but it doesn't show on her face. The soggy clothing against her chest is something she's grown semi-used to now, but the abrupt note of left when she moves to the right is unheard of.
Her eyes dance between her room and his, then him. She can't deny she's curious to see whatever is in here, if it's just as barren and old and lifeless as the guest bedroom she's staying at. So she ambles towards it properly, instead of lingering some ways between when presented with something unexpected. Wanders her way to the doorframe for the room to the left and briefly glances up to Marcβ as if to say, 'are you sure?'
Of course, she does this even as she steps in, lingers nearby inside for him to wait for instructions. ]
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it's not quite understanding, not yet, but there's an edge of it there before her expression changes again as she steps out of the elevator, as marc directs her to go the opposite direction. this time, it's questioning, not so accusatory, not so hurt as their first trip up to the floor. it's curious and marc doesn't quite acknowledge it because he's not quite sure of the questions that will follow.
she doesn't ask, hesitancy gone in a flash as she steps inside the bedroom that'd been marlene and steven's, and then marc and marlene's, and then just marc's. it's his in the same way the rest of the house is theirs — a bookcase, dusty; two large wardrobes, one his and one hers (technically); a large bed, half-made. his suit, dirty and bloody, thrown haphazardly onto the plush chair sat by the window, boots equally as disinterestedly discarded on the floor in the same place.
it's not lived in, not in the way that the mission is, even if the mission is carefully constructed, a deliberate facade designed to say that he is mr. knight. he has his life under control, he helps his community. he's capable. the mission is opulent, egyptian-themed and alive — with plants, at least. there are hints, here and there, that the manor might have been much the same at one point, but—.
he goes straight to one of the wardrobes, the inside carefully partitioned. the largest by far is dedicated to moon knight and it's easy to imagine that marc's wardrobe away from here is the same. )
The bathroom's through there. ( through that door, he means. a beat, distractedly— ) —There should be another towel. ( a clean one, he means, not wet from his shower, not dirty with blood.
he pulls out another top, a black t-shirt this time, and places it on the bed. he hesitates before gesturing at the other side, the other wardrobe. marlene's. his lips quirk and he glances at lottie. given how hit and miss his guessing at her size had been the first time—. ) You can see if there's something in there you can wear.
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She eyes the black shirt he lays out (she sighs out softly in relief, happy at his choice) before slowly moving to Marlene's wardrobe. When she opens it, it'sβ the polar opposite of her own. Somewhere in the back of Lottie's own closet she has a section for clothing like this. For working out, for comfort, practicality, fabric you can move in. The rest of it is clothing she's only worn maybe once, things she has to sport shapewear for and fashion tape, to be careful not to do much more than standing because bending means flashing people.
So the sweats she grabs, after moving some hangers around and looking down at the neatly folded pairs of bottoms, are a godsend. They, too, are black this time, and they meld together when she turns back to grab Marc's shirt and mumbles aβ ]
...Thank you.
[ βin his direction, eyes briefly making contact with him before she scuttles off to the bathroom. She makes quick work of it, dropping her towel and the clothes with his, bloodied and dirty, cleaning herself with the new one. She drops that, too, after she runs it through her hair to get it as dry as possible. Then, she puts her new outfit on. It feels better than the firstβ the opposite of form fitting, and for once she likes how much skin it covers. Likes the way it feels on her skin, breathy and loose. How she looks like am amorphous blob rather than a person, if she doesn't look too hard. She almost wishes she had a hairband, thoughβ a brush.
And ever careless, she shifts through his things in the bathroom. Finds Marlene's hair brush, complete with blonde strands of hair stuck between the bristles and she stiffens. Feels weird and like she's intruding on something, that she shouldn't be touching anything that wasn't explicitly given an okay. That it might make Marc mad or hurt, if she does. So she doesn't. She shuts the drawer, blinks a few times at how her hand lingers on the handle before thinking, nevermind. Maybe this is for the better. ]
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god, he's tired, is the overwhelming thought. the one that seems to play at every facet of his mind in the ensuing silence, in the interim where he's not quite sure what to do when lottie re-emerges.
the door re-opens and marc looks over, brow pulling together in a tight frown, this one the kind that says he's attempting to piece together information, attempting to figure something out. in this instance, it's how receptive lottie is, how she's feeling compared to earlier. she's not quite a mess, not as such, but she's still not lottie, not in the way he knows her. her hair's frizzy, untamed in a way he doesn't think he's ever seen; even when he's spent time at hers when she's been dressed casually, it's never been in anything quite so loose, quite so obviously ill-fitting. it's—
discomforting. an unpleasant reminder. and so he sits up, his hair messy and untidy in a way that's utterly familiar, so much a part of him. more dry now then wet, unkempt and in as equal need of a comb as hers is a brush. he doesn't quite think that she'd got so far as looking for a brush, got so far as finding a long-forgotten belonging of marlene's and changed her mind (he wouldn't have been bothered if he'd known, or discovered later. would have been quietly thankful, in fact, for the difference.
marc is not a man that moves on easily, needs to be prompted to it. forced.) )
I don't have much, ( he states, apropos nothing, with no other explanation, and despite the fact she'd said she wasn't hungry. ) And not much in the way of Doordash to Long Island. b>( not nothing, but—. )
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Despite that, Lottie almost comments he looks like shitβ but then she remembers, right. They kind of both look terrible right now, just in different ways. Marc because he spent the better part of his evening rescuing her and Lottie being rescued by him.
(On top of everything elseβ Marc's state of being is always a variation of this, tired and world weary. Usually he's in a suit, making the decidedly messy qualities of his appearance a little charming. She can even pretend it's intentional, maybe, if she squints. Now? Not so much. Marc just looks as exhausted as she feels, tired in a way that is bone deep and only grows because nothing is being done to sate it.) ]
..Like the drink?
[ Because, predictably, Lottie has no idea where Long Island is in relation to anything. Marc does, the only one of the two who has a better sense of direction and geography, so him admitting Doordash is a bust must mean they're essentially in the boonies (also, he drove her ass all the way out to Long Island? He used to live here??). Despite having said she wasn't hungry, she looks put out by this, vaguely disappointed at another thing that hasn't gone her way, tonight.
She takes a few steps closer towards him, hands reaching up to cross at her chest, shoulders up high and only slightly tense. ]
I mean, isn't there a Denny's or something? Long Island has to have a Denny's at least..
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he shrugs, the movement awkward and not entirely fluid from the way he sits on the bed, the way that he's aware of burgeoning bruises and the fact he'd really, honestly, truly sooner be sleeping, but needs must.
he huffs out a breath, somewhere between amused and disbelieving. )
The drink? ( a long island iced tea. strong and an easy way to get drunk. a breath of a pause and— ) Sure. ( what else is long island known for? truly, marc wouldn't know. ) Like that.
( the pause is lingering, thoughtful, the kind that says he's trying to remember what's around. bistros, the odd seafood place, a couple of italians— nothing that'd be open at whatever godforsaken hour it is now. lottie says denny's and marc, wryly, counters and admits that there's a— ) McDonald's.
( which he knows is open because he's eaten there a frankly embarrassing number of times on the way back from some moon knight adventure, sent frenchie off to get something for the two of them because nedda and samuels will be asleep and it wouldn't be fair to wake them, and he doesn't want to bother with reheating something, not at 5am—. )
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That name is a loaded answer, Lottie easily surmising that there must be a reason by β above all other places β it's a McDonald's he knows is up 24/7. Not a Denny's, a restaurant that is arguably better and also under the same curse of being open 24/7, but a McDonald's.
The last time she ate there was years ago, when she decided to have a cheat day and have some chicken nuggets. She tries to eat as "healthy" as possible, counting calories enough to where her figure is still slim and curvy. McDonald's to her is synonymous with family trips when she was younger, synonymous with more mindful moments as an adult where she just wanted a snack and not to be full.
Right now, the mention of McDonald's invokes the opposite. So her expression that settles into her face after he wryly brings it up isβ open. Vaguely interested. She wonders how many times he must've gone to know about the McDonald's nearby if he hasn't lived here in forever (because it's dusty, because it's empty, because she knows he's sleeping somewhere in the Mission).
But because he doesn't move off the bed, Lottie doesn't move from her position either. Though her shoulders do relax, glancing down to the floor before meeting his eyes again. ]
I'd be down for some McDonald's..
[ She admits, finally, after a long moment of staring at Marc and visibly mulling over how to not-admit he was right, that she should eat and she is hungry. ]
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there's a moment between them, one where marc's expression is suggestive, offering in the sense that it's the only place that comes to mind, the only place he can be certain of without futilely scrolling through a meagre list of restaurants, almost all of which closed five hours ago. at least. mcdonald's is terrible, but it's safe and it's known.
lottie's expression doesn't say quite the same thing — it's tentative, then cautiously interested, then minutely relaxed. the sort of movement that says she's agreeing in spite of herself, and marc realises, suddenly, acutely, that if there was a better option, he'd take it. she's accepting but not quite sure, and marc isn't quite sure how he feels about that. there's no smugness to be found, no pride in the knowledge that he's right, that she's hungry and she should eat, because if it wasn't due to him, neither of them — no, that's not quite true, she, specifically, wouldn't be in this situation. she'd likely be asleep. comfortable. at ease.
he looks at her, questioning, hesitant. she's happy with mcdonald's (not quite the term), but he hasn't exactly given her a wealth of options to choose from. )
—Or I can cook, ( he says, still not sure quite what he'd manage to pull together. some kind of protein sat alongside some kind of carb sat alongside some kind of seasoning, the sort of bland-but-edible that speaks of his experience in eating for necessity not for want or desire. ) McDonald's will take maybe 20 minutes. ( beat. ) This time of night.
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Is it because he doesn't want to be seen with her? If they're in the drivethrough her face won't look that bad.. Lottie takes a very long time just thinking over this, in pain at being given the option to backtrack when she already agreed to one thing. Beforeβ ]
Let's just stay in, then.
[ It's an unspoken fine that graces her tone, the same sort of tired reluctance she gave earlier. But rather than stand there and allow him the chance to say something else, a secret third possibility, she moves forward to tug him up and off the bed. It's not with the same usual confidence she'd carry thoughβ there's a lot of hesitance and anxiety dancing in the way she reaches for him, something even she doesn't quite clock before justβ grabbing a hand. Getting him on his feet so the two of them can leave the room properly. ]
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