[ Marc stares at her and Lottie is wondering if he's going to call her out on her blatant lie. He's seen her room, he knows she has three cups in rotation at any given time (one water, one coffee, one a 'silly' calorie dense drink). Knows she has tissues strewn about, has stains on her carpet she hasn't cleaned yet. Has seen how her closet spills out into the living space of her room, making it all feel vaguely claustrophobic and chaotic.
(A great metaphor for her life, really.)
She doesn't clue in on the fact Marc is worried about whether this Lottie is still his Lottie. The one he knows who doesn't really listen to music and doesn't really like doing things by herself. The one who still has makeup on to wear around the house even when she's by herself, or not going anywhere. The one who bought him his own mug in her cupboard and forced matching slippers upon him, among other things (like her merch, like her general presence in Marc's life when she's bored and wants attention). She probably never will, just forever waiting for the other pin to drop and for him to tell her she's in trouble.
That Lottie is buried somewhere. Shows in fleeting glimpses of creature comforts like her having combed her hair, the way she hesitantly grabs the fork and.. Thumbs at the food (because she doesn't like it, like she vaguely might kick up a stink about it). It doesn't look.. Bad. Or good. It looks beige. Bland. But it's also the only semblance of food she's even had sinceβ. Her eyes flit up to Marc at his ladies first, torn on if she has it in her to put up a fight because she knows Marc. He probably won't be eating any of this at all, will probably spend his time watching her to make sure she eats.
Eventuallyβ ]
Fine.
[ Not necessarily clipped, but she certainly isn't expending her energy on any more words. She scoops up a reasonable portion of the mush and hesitates before putting it in her mouth. There's a winceβ her cheek is still bruised up and it turns out you tend to use that part of your face when you eat, so she adjusts to mainly using only one side of her face. Something like embarrassment flits onto her features, vaguely shame, as she makes the adjustment. It makes it difficult for her to swallow that first bite, throat thick with emotions. But she doesn't cry, Lottie's too tired for that. She simply says: ]
Now you.
[ And instead of waiting for him to grab his own, she just hands him her fork. ]
( he doesn't watch her eat. he catches the flicker of a glance when he tells her to eat first, the way that she seems unsure on how she wants to take the remark and how she wants to respond. it's another reminder of the night, of everything, because although lottie can be unsure, although she'll backpedal and rework her opinion depending on who she's with, it's never about things like this.
lottie, always, is quite certain about how she feels — flighty, yes, temperamental, certainly, but in the moment? her emotions are always assured. not always pleasant but then, neither is she.
it feels like the two of them are giving each other unprecedented grace. unspoken, uncertain, tentative. a mindfulness of eggshells that neither wants to do anything to really, truly acknowledge. fine, she says, and it's reluctant and he knows that if this was any other day, if they were anywhere else, 'fine' would be the last word to leave her lips. it's not fine, it just is.
and so he doesn't watch her because it'd be weird and because she's not a child. he misses the wince, the embarrassment, the awkwardness, attention fixed on not-really-anything in the corner of his room. distant, distracted until she says now you and it registers a beat too late. registers as she holds out the fork he'd given her to him and he looks at it, looks at the food. looks at lottie, reticent.
he doesn't—.
he inhales, the precursor to a resigned sigh that sits in his lungs instead of being expelled as he takes the fork, digs at the plate, and eats. it's fine. a vague thought that he ought to go to the dentist, that grant's going to be furious (something something this is coming from your pile, same as the haircuts and the treatments and the everything that marc should do but doesn't.) no embarrassment, no shame; familiarity. )
[ Thatβ Lottie plays with her knife, just sort of tapping at it with her nail and staring down at it. Her eyes flick up as she runs her tongue over her teeth, catching bits of the not-quite-gruel that he made that are still lingering. By all accounts Marc's right, she definitely won't get food poisoning from this. The grey might actually be a healthy hue, for all she knows (look at oats! Bread! Cauliflower!). And she's trying to be normal, but the way he says that just makes her feelβ defensive? ]
Iβ
[ That's the word: defensive. It doesn't outweigh the rest of her feelings, the odd ginger mix of it all. Because where Lottie would usually bark out her denial, she stutters. Pauses and thinks. Actually (actually!) parses though her feeling and realizes she feels a little upset Marc would even say that. Like what she (they) went through didn't happen, or like she hadn't wondered the same thing, if they were or weren't (going to kill her). Wondering what everybody would say if they found her body, another influencer dead and gone.
At least it wouldn't be from a stupid cash grab, at least it's what the fans would want. The drama, the spectacle.
(True Crime Youtube would love her, actually. No, but they'd probably use really shitty photos of her. Would probably make Marc out to look bad, like it's his fault. And it is, but it isn't. Marc wouldn't want this for herβ he may be Moon Knight but that isn't all he is. The blood and violence, the branding, the obsessive guy who moon graffities his neighborhood, every bad thing the internet says about him. He's more than that, him and all his odd and frankly irritating mannerisms.
Like a bad host. An okay cook. A tone deaf friend .. But a friend, nevertheless. Because she can tell he's just trying to get her to eat, really, not jabbing at her personally for the night.) ]
I never said that. I ate it.
[ She separates the grey from the vegetables with her knife, scooting them to his side. ]
( the insensitivity of the comment doesn't occur to him. won't, either, not unless or until it's pointed out to him. the problem is that marc, like lottie most of the time, doesn't take the time to stop and think about his feelings. he doesn't consider why he feels a certain way, only that he does. reflection and consideration is not innate to marc spector, and he has tried and tested methods of dealing (not dealing) with his emotions.
denial. ignoring. punching.
marc knows, objectively, that lottie's ordeal has been difficult. that it'll take time for her to work through, and he knows this because the evidence is sat in front of him. it's never been easier for him to acknowledge anyone else's emotions — he'd been dire at it with frenchie, exceptionally poor with marlene. it's only in recent years and after concerted effort that he's made any improvement at all — with reese, with greer. still not with steven or jake.
and so, because lottie is so often like him in that she feels but that she doesn't care to think on why because it'd require more self-examination than she'd be comfortable with, would result in a discomforting analysis of flaws and personality that she already knows in general if not in specifics, he doesn't think. )
A mouthful, ( he points out, watching lottie move the food around the plate. watches her pointedly not eat. a brief flash of something that makes itself known as an internal 'for fuck's sake' that he refrains from externalising, and he realises he doesn't know what to say.
realises that every time something like this has happened before, he deals with it by going. by heading into the city or wherever and using his fists to work through his feelings, leaving — what? marlene to visit jean-paul in the hospital? leaving marlene with jean-paul and samuels and nedda after her brother had died? realises—ish. enough to recognise that in spite of how tired he is, he's antsy. difficult. that his patience is thin.
[ A mouthful is better than nothing, she wants to say, with how her body flips between one thing and another. Between her emotions, exhaustion and a never-ending stream of adrenaline to keep her alert and kicking because a shadow moved too fast or a sound startled her too quickly. It'd be better if he stopped looking at her so.. So. She presses her lips together, puts down her knife with a clang and reaches over for the fork still laying plainly by Marc's side, untouched. She wonders if he knows he's giving her a vibe, how it makes her want to recede into herself because it's probably because of her.
There's a shift of her legs as one is drawn to her chest, as she curls over it. Realizes that neither of them have said anything and now that their fires have dwindled (no more arguments and personal drama to focus on, nothing but why they're here and the ensuing consequences thereof, how it makes the air tangy and her tongue bitter) it's awkward. Middling on unpleasant. Different from their normal awkward, the one she can navigate out of whenever she likes with a swipe of her phone.
(Her free hand twitches, like it's instinctively reaching for itβ or maybe like she already expects it to be there. Her eyes briefly dart down in realization, forcibly planting her palm flat against her shin after.)
Since she doesn't have her crutch, she leaves the duties of conversation guru to Marc because she doesn't have it in her to do much more than focus on herself. And surprisinglyβ he delivers? Her eyes look up to him, blink once, then, ]
..MREs?
[ He pointed out mouthful and she's venturing for another, glancing up to him as if to say see? I can be good. As if it'll help him look less ready to leap out of a window and away from the situation. Because of course he's uncomfortable, who wouldn't be? And so she chews, slow, careful, dutifully ignoring the throb to her cheek that trickles into her jaw when her teeth slam together too hard, when she stops being careful and resumes being normal. ]
( aside from the inherent discomfort, the obliviousness to what lottie might need or want from him — which ultimately has nothing to do with lottie and everything to do with marc — this is easier for him. it's part of his day-to-day. marc tends towards paranoia and uncertainty — not twitchiness, not concern about what hides in the shadows because he's the shadows, scarier than anything else, but doubt. a lack of trust.
the mission has a security system adapted from the one he'd had installed here. the one that means he doesn't have to be concerned by noises, but that doesn't mean he doesn't frown when she drops the knife noisily to the plate, features pinching and pulling tight even if he doesn't say anything. it's helped by the way she — eventually — takes a second bite. this time, he does catch the flash of discomfort, the pain, the way it hits her unexpectedly as she chews, not yet used to the different pressure points, the way she needs to adapt what she's doing.
it's—. guilt, cold and all-encompassing, filling and tense in his stomach, stretching across his limbs, and he says nothing. instead, his gaze flickers to her when she says 'army stuff', the instinctual response that he wasn't army sitting unsaid. she's not like rogers, from whom the remark of 'soldier' had felt pointed. she doesn't know the differences, the minutiae and it's not meant as anything other than what it is: a question. )
Meals, Ready to Eat, ( he answers, dryly agreeing— )Army stuff. A meal, a snack, and something masquerading as dessert. Some of them are, ( his gaze flickers to the food, to lottie. a quirk of his lips. ) Edible. Some of them— ( he waves his hand, loose and vague. ) There was a veggie omelette called the Vomlette. One of those was two too many.
[ Much in the same way Marc doesn't realize how his words can come across, it pings the same way for Lottie. There's very little thought in the distinction between where he actually was (military schmilitary right?? They're all the same!), just that she remembered it enough to even recall the detail. And since he doesn't correct her, even agrees with her, she hums. The first sign of a pleasant tune to leave her mouth all evening, really. ]
Ew!
[ Vomlette. She wonders how much one too many he's talking from experience. As disgusting as he implication is (is the 'v' for vomit, or veggie?) it's.. A little funny. Lottie doesn't laugh, but she expels a puff of air like it's the ghost of one. Maybe, the suggestion of humor. Like the idea of Marc eating this concoction is funny when put next to Marc eating a ready to eat meal that isn't from the freezer aisle.
(Marc in his suit in the grocery store, mask on and loafers shiny. She disguises the weird little quirk of her lips with another small, portioned out, bite.) ]
So it's like the stuff preppers eat? The dusty food you put water in. [ Not a question, just her trying to piece together where she thinks she's seen it in media, on TV. ] Did you have a favorite?
( her ew! is sudden but entirely expected, and marc exhales through his nose, short and nasal. ew doesn't begin to touch on it, if he's honest. she doesn't ask any details, not really, but he'd elaborated if she had vomit omelette courtesy of the texture, the taste, and the appearance. a truly unholy trifecta. technically the 'v' came from 'veggie', but—.
he pauses for a fraction of a second when she asks a completely unexpected question, eyebrows arching and expression questioningly blank. thinking. ) —Yeah, ( he answers, decision reached. (for the first part.) as for the second—.
god. )
Lottie, ( slightly pained, desperately and suddenly aware. remembers, suddenly, their first conversation, the one where lottie had mentioned still being in fucking high school whilst he was deployed in iraq. ) That was almost twenty years ago.
( he's fairly certain he said he got kicked out even if he didn't elaborate on why, but he's also fairly certain he didn't explain that it was a handful of years at most. three, maybe four. awkwardness interspersed with normality interspersed with increasingly odd and unexplainable behaviour, the sort that the crowd he ran with afterwards was willing to overlook because crazy meant payday meant who gave a fuck. yeah, sure, marc spector, sometimes jake lockley, sometimes steven grant, didn't always know when to stop, couldn't always explain what he'd done or why, but he always got results. )
Do you know how many times I've been hit in the head since then? You're asking me to choose my favourite like I'm choosing between my least favourite children.
She pauses her fork scraping down for another bite. Now she's remembering how she was in high school while he was in fucking Iraq. Lottie frowns deeply, only mildly hindered by the swelling to her cheek because she's so preoccupied with the thought that Marc is as old as her sisters and doing all of this. Has done so much more than she ever will. When her back feels like death because she's too top heavy and she's not even thirty yet.
Distantly she wonders how bad it's going to get when she's olderβ how it is for Marc who never will bear the burden she does (being beautiful is truly a burden) but gets the shit beaten out of him and vice verse for a living. How much wear and tear he's already put through his skin and bones, especially tonight, at her expense.) ]
..How many times has that happened?
[ Forget the chicken Marc, clearly, because that has quickly lost steam to her. She just notes it down as Marc's least favorite child right next to whatever is on their plate and she ushers him to take another, now more aware of how he's not eating but more so supervising her. It's here where she's actually recalling how much of his life has been bathed in violence, the continuing trend that has never stopped. Now with horror or scandal, but with disbeliefβ ]
An expert? ( he repeats, bemused. unsure. not really sure what he's supposed to have been an expert on. MREs? eh, not really. a handful of years and he's been out four or five times as long as he was in. or does she mean—
getting hit? fighting? maybe, given the question he hasn't answered yet, the question that doesn't have an answer because who knows! lottie knows the type of life he leads, knows what he gets up to, how he comes home looking. these days it's better than it used to be, he's better than he used to be — overall, he's less violent, if only because of the midnight mission, the help that his neighbours come to him for that isn't always beating some thug senseless. less violent because, right now, he doesn't feel as if he's got something to prove to khonshu, doesn't need to prove anything except that—.
he's not that guy. he's not the one who kept to the shadows talking to things no-one else could see, he's not carving threats and reminders and promises into flesh, not cutting off faces.
'the only thing I'm an expert in is dying', he thinks of saying and then decides better. thinks then that it's not true — two things, the other being causing hurt.
a weighted pause, the process of deciding working its way across marc's features before he speaks. ) There was a kid I used to know. He once told me he'd never met anyone that knew how to punch someone in the fist with their face as well as me. ( or: yes, lottie, he's an expert—. ) After I got kicked out of the forces, ( a pointed reminder that it wasn't something marc chose, for whatever that means. ) I boxed.
( a glance, level. ) The sort of boxing that you only get to watch if you know a guy who knows a guy. Good money in it, though.
[ Wellβ. She definitely means fighting, not so much the getting hit part. She figured with age came experience, or something. At some point you're supposed to be good and start getting hit less, every training montage boasts the same results. And training montages don't lie, that's why they're so popular. But things probably aren't always like the movies (like, usually costumed guys mean they're professionals), she guesses. She grabs another forkful of their food and gestures vaguely with it, spilling some of it on the blanket and over the pillow.
No, she does not notice. ]
..So like Fight Club? You did Fight Club.
[ She knows it's a stupid question. Lottie knows that and asks anyway, because she knows it'd make him upset or rile him up to correct her (typical Lottie, being annoying for the sake thereof, especially when she knows she can get away with it). Because the more he talks and lets her to listen, the more at ease she feels. Her muscles are still sore and achy, but they're far more tolerable with him talking at her.
It gives her a chance to use her brain elsewhere, and right now Lottie is focusing more so on what ifs, the odd tidbits he's giving her. He says 'after I got kicked out of the forces' and she goes, right. He did that. She wonders if they ever would've met if he were still 'in the forces'. Wonders if she'd cross paths with him, too, if he were an underground boxer. Would they still be friends? Or just strangers on the street? Is their only connection who they are right now β Moon Knight and Lottie Person? Two sad saps sitting on his dusty ass bed, her in his clothes eating gruel? Or would Marc Spector, the boxer, the military man, and Lottie Person exist, too?
Her lips open and close around nothing. Leaning some of her weight back and away from around her leg, opening herself up more to him. Her eyes flick down to the plate, her fork, remembering what she was doing and scooping up some more. Carefully chewing on one side as she speaks, ]
That's kinda cool. [ A beat, vaguely distracted. ] You definitely look like you'd be into boxing.
( marc's thing is that he treats defence as a mere suggestion, something for other people, people who don't find in enjoyment in how much it bothers the person you're fighting. who haven't noticed that it's demoralising for someone to keep knocking their opponent down and having them keep getting back up. for marc, it's all about taking as much as he can to give everything back. to intimidate, to gain an advantage.
it doesn't matter how he looks or feels at the end of it, because he always wins.
he notices the food dropping from her fork to his bed and he can't quite stop himself from looking towards it. he doesn't move his head, just his eyes, a side glance that doesn't last long because lottie says fight club.
he hasn't seen it, certainly hasn't read it. steven's seen it. once. a good movie apparently, but not really steven's thing — good acting, a little gratuitous, a little over-the-top, but the twist, the everything, the discontentment with expectations — steven had muttered something about having to live with that (marc), and that'd been the beginning and end of it.
the side glance is redirected. rests on her, pensive. brows knit in that way that suggests marc has a question, a thought that he doesn't particularly want to put into words. uncomfortable. )
You haven't seen it. ( is what he says. it's not a question, it's an assumption. fight club isn't the sort of movie lottie person would watch, he'd put money on it. it's not an accurate comparison, not really, not in the way he thinks she means, but the way she doesn't—
[ She sees it. The way she's been staring at him allows her it, the way his body shift from casual to vaguely tense to straight uncomfortable. She sees it in his shoulders, his neck, before she does his face. Lottie doesn't expect it, hoping for more a Marc-esque response a la his dry humor orβ something. She doesn't mean it as anything more than something at face value, that she saw it with Sunny and something something Brad Pitt fat sweaty tits etcetera, etcetera.
She doesn't think it offensive, either, that he might be hurt by comparisons unsaid because she doesn't know. Marc hasn't let her in to those facets of himself, despite everything else blaring so loud. His home. His past. His moon everything. ]
I saw it.
[ She defends weakly, not bothering to call out the fact he is tactfully avoiding her question. ]
Just not well. [ A pause. ] I maybe like half saw it. Enough to know what's happening!
( marc knows she doesn't mean anything by it, only has that further confirmed when lottie says she sort of watched it — that she watched it at all, to any extent, is a surprise he doesn't try to disguise. she doesn't know. how would she? why would she? marc's let her into snippets of his life, little details here and there. things that are safe and semi-comfortable.
he'll tell her at some point, he thinks. intends to. when the moment's right, when—.
when he has to.
but that doesn't make it sit any better, doesn't make the pointedness of the comparison, inadvertent as it may be, any less discomforting.
he huffs, dry acknowledgement in lieu of humour. enough to know what's happening. bull. )
[ He doesn't even need to make his surprise known for her to already know he's shocked. Arguably, the fact he makes it overtly known is worse, and for some odd reason she feels embarrassed and it frustrates her she can't fathom why.
She puts her fork down, makes a little face that manages to look silly despite the discoloring that dapples at her skin. ]
Why is it so shocking I watched Fight Club??
[ She knows it isn't because Lottie Person Watching Movies, but specifically the genre. She's aware of her brand, of what people expect from her because of what she puts out. And her content doesn't scream movie connoisseur, let alone men. Her demographic is teens to young adults! Mostly girls!!
But that's just her contentβ Marc has the privilege of knowing her personally and the fact that assumption bleeds through to her private life manages to make her feel almost proud at the consistency. Almost. ]
—although truthfully, it's not entirely the thought of lottie watching fight club, it's the subject matter. the topic. the revelation that edward norton and brad pitt are two facets of the same guy. it's the inadvertent and uncomfortable adjacency to marc's own life. it's the deep-buried awareness that the primary reason he hasn't mentioned it — his issues, his condition, whatever — is because he's not been able to decide how he thinks lottie will react. what she'll think.
it hadn't been easy to tell reese or badr or even soldier. it'd been less easy to spell it out to marlene, they'd spent years dancing in circles, with all four of them — her and marc and steven and jake — talking about each one as an alternate identity, a disguise, something steven (not marc and not jake) occasionally lost himself in.
he doesn't think he'd ever told frenchie, it'd just been a realisation gleaned off a decade of behaviour, of abrupt changes in personality and name. he'd known, marc thinks, for much longer than marc has any idea. he'd never been as oblivious, as self-centred and self-absorbed as marc had been to not notice what was being said in actions alone.
he lifts a shoulder in a shrug, an awkward movement made more difficult by the half-lounge position he's found himself in on the bed. ) Anti-capitalism, dissociative identity disorder, and anarchic fight rings, three of your favourite topics? ( a pause. ) But mostly, it's because it came out in ninety-nine. ( or: how old were you, lottie? )
[ Out of everything he just listed, every little worry etched and coded into his sense of self at finally getting a notion as to how much she might care about his conditionβ ]
It was anti-capitalism?
[ It is this she questions. Not about anarchic fight rings, or dissociative identity disorder, but the fact it's apparently anti-capitalism (sheesh)?? Because really, the other two she can't be bothered to care about. The fact that the less hot guy was actually also Brad Pitt meaning nothing to her except, neat, she guesses?
And yeah. I know. I'm aware! God. [ She was nine!! Alsoβ ] I watched it like last year.
I watched Gone Girl this year. [ Only because she saw a gif set of the main character mentioning Coolgirlβ Lottie's own nickname for Caroline and thought, wow, someone I can relate to in media? Wrong. So very wrong. But Neil Patrick Harris was cute! ] It's about this girl who married this guy and he pissed her off so she pretended he murdered her.
( marc's in too deep now to admit that he hasn't seen it either, absolutely can't admit — can't, in more ways than one — that his knowledge of it is in impressions, passing thoughts and feelings and recollections that aren't really his, just — shared. in commentary and emotions directed his way, a pointed frustration that said less of the movie itself and more a projection of how steven felt about how marc insisted on conducting his life.
something something metaphor, something something you could learn a thing or too. something something marc had not been very fucking thrilled.
—was it anti-capitalist? there were elements of anti-capitalism, the sort that marc had ended up with an impression of as 'edgy', the kind that early twenty-somethings would lean into during drunken conversations of how to change the world and make things better. (or that had been steven's impression—.) )
It wasn't a celebration of the rich, corporate lifestyle, Lottie. He tried to kill himself. ( or part of him, the part of the story marc was most unclear on, wanted the least amount of clarity on because that hit a little too close to home. the wanting to bury — literally, metaphorically — a whole personality. a tale of destructiveness, of how to systematically destroy an entire facet of one's life with insomnia and depression and violence.
what a fucking apt movie she'd chosen. he hates it.
a raise of a hand and a wave, dismissive and disinterested. )
I did it for the money. ( he adds, and it's true. it's true in the way that it was a reason, not the main one, but the one it was acceptable to talk about. the one he doesn't mind acknowledging, the one that's in all the files and reports on marc spector. the one that sits alongside the others and implies something of his morals and his ethics.
but that's enough of that. her explanation of gone girl earns an expression of bemused acceptance, the sort that says fine and fair enough all at once. )
—And I thought I had it bad when Marlene moved halfway across the globe to get away from me.
[ Yikes? Marc seems to be taking this movie discussion a little too.. Not personal, but he's a little more bitey than usual? Or maybe he's always like this, and she's just forgotten. Has gotten used to the odd slink of his demeanor tonight as they both navigate a situation startlingly new and unpleasant. Now, at least, things are.. Alright. They're okay. She watches his hand rise and twists her brows up, thinks better than to push on this when he's made it clear he's different.
Obviously! Obviously, Marc Spector is different. In more ways than the obvious. He isn't Brad Pitt or Other Guy but he's got enough personality and presence to dwarf both. Whether that's a good or bad thing remains to be seen but, her point still stands. And see? He said he did it for the money. Different.
Apparently, not so different to cut out the ohh my girlfriend haha jokes. Lottie grimaces. ]
Yeah well, try being Ben Affleck with a crazy hot wife.
[ It must be very hard!! Lottie knows a portion of his strugglesβ after all Caroline is no walk in the park with how little she knows of where she stands with her. Despite the dates, despite the kisses. How Caroline's bomber jacket still hangs in her closet, pristine and maybe the only thing well taken care of in her bedroom. ]
( the look he gives her is odd, almost indecisive when she says 'try being—' and he's not entirely sure if she means crazy comma hot, or crazy hot. the latter, probably, knowing lottie, and he half wants to point out that marlene was (is, that hasn't changed) hot.
instead, his eyebrows dart up in doubt and skepticism. marriage? not for him, thanks, is written in his expression even if he doesn't say it. there aren't a huge number of responses he can think of to that — lottie's — comment that don't slide towards slightly weird. uncomfortable. more information than he'd necessarily be happy to share. I spend enough time pretending to be someone else—. it'd be a good joke if he'd ever been remotely open with lottie about himself, about the positioning of marc spector and mr. knight and moon knight, let alone grant and lockley. )
I've got enough on my plate being Marc Spector, ( is the version he settles on, before glancing down at the plate still sat between them. the food isn't finished, but at least she's eaten something. ) —Are you done?
[ Oh, she means both. Crazy comma hot and crazy hot. Hot crazy. Hot enough to ignore all the red flags, arguably embrace them. And boy, has she been thereβ is still there. Instead he's stewing in all the noncommittal, simple, things she said. Only to prove a point that Ben Affleck had it harder than all of them, and he still chose to stay with her after all the insane shit she did.
(..#truelove?)
She didn't get it, the ending, but she thinks Marc might genuinely enjoy it (and truly what does that say about her opinion of him and things he'd like?). He seems finished with the topic as soon as she sees his eyes settle on the plate, something like confusion dotting on hers. ]
βUh. Yeah? I guess.. But you didn't eat any of it.
( marc's problem β one of them, at least, the main one β is how much time he spends in his own head. how little he talks β actually communicates and elaborates on his thoughts and feelings in a meaningful way. in a way that allows understanding. he could explain, of course he could, but he doesn't and he won't unless cornered and forced into it.
where lottie's expression reflects burgeoning confusion at his response, he opts to ignore her when she points out that he didn't eat any of the food. he shifts his weight and picks the plate up, placing it to one side off the bed, aware, still, of the mess lottie had managed to make and not notice. at length, then, he offers her a vague noise of acknowledgement, of agreement β no, he didn't, but it's fine. that wasn't the point. )
[ Sadly, she has yet to notice the mess she made (will she ever...) but on a surprisingly somber note, she does realize that yes.. This is grey gruel. But it's grey gruel Marc made for her, that he didn't have to. She scratches idly at her neck, watching him move the plate and settle. Only looking a little more relaxed than she is. It's with a glance towards the empty, pillow-less, side of his bed does she mumble outβ ]
( marc is certain she won't notice, isn't particularly interested in drawing attention to the fact, to potentially causing another to-do. he lets it slide, gaze following lottie's as she glances towards — him? his sparse side of the bed given she's created a hovel for herself with every single pillow available.
he knows that if he'd told her earlier, given her any idea that whilst yes, he's hungry but no, he can't really be bothered to eat anything right now, his suggestion of food was for her benefit alone, she'd have pushed back. argued. made it difficult for him and refused. it's easier to pretend otherwise until it's too late.
(he'll eat — at some point.)
a wave of a hand, dismissive in lieu of awkward. ) Don't thank me.
[ He says don't thank me and it's here, sitting on his bed, surrounded by his things, belly semi-full with Marc coddling her that she hyper focuses on it. 'Thank'. That that was the first time she ever said it tonightβ despite how much has happened. How many tears, how many mean words she readily gave him rather than any real expression of gratitude. She hates how he tries to play casual and she hates how she really, really, can't stop herself from sayingβ ]
No. Thank you.
[ It is still light and soft, but there's weight to it. An unspoken nod to everything he's done for her despite her lack of appreciation, her being so unnaturally difficult and sad. Wholly unpleasant. ]
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(A great metaphor for her life, really.)
She doesn't clue in on the fact Marc is worried about whether this Lottie is still his Lottie. The one he knows who doesn't really listen to music and doesn't really like doing things by herself. The one who still has makeup on to wear around the house even when she's by herself, or not going anywhere. The one who bought him his own mug in her cupboard and forced matching slippers upon him, among other things (like her merch, like her general presence in Marc's life when she's bored and wants attention). She probably never will, just forever waiting for the other pin to drop and for him to tell her she's in trouble.
That Lottie is buried somewhere. Shows in fleeting glimpses of creature comforts like her having combed her hair, the way she hesitantly grabs the fork and.. Thumbs at the food (because she doesn't like it, like she vaguely might kick up a stink about it). It doesn't look.. Bad. Or good. It looks beige. Bland. But it's also the only semblance of food she's even had sinceβ. Her eyes flit up to Marc at his ladies first, torn on if she has it in her to put up a fight because she knows Marc. He probably won't be eating any of this at all, will probably spend his time watching her to make sure she eats.
Eventuallyβ ]
Fine.
[ Not necessarily clipped, but she certainly isn't expending her energy on any more words. She scoops up a reasonable portion of the mush and hesitates before putting it in her mouth. There's a winceβ her cheek is still bruised up and it turns out you tend to use that part of your face when you eat, so she adjusts to mainly using only one side of her face. Something like embarrassment flits onto her features, vaguely shame, as she makes the adjustment. It makes it difficult for her to swallow that first bite, throat thick with emotions. But she doesn't cry, Lottie's too tired for that. She simply says: ]
Now you.
[ And instead of waiting for him to grab his own, she just hands him her fork. ]
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lottie, always, is quite certain about how she feels — flighty, yes, temperamental, certainly, but in the moment? her emotions are always assured. not always pleasant but then, neither is she.
it feels like the two of them are giving each other unprecedented grace. unspoken, uncertain, tentative. a mindfulness of eggshells that neither wants to do anything to really, truly acknowledge. fine, she says, and it's reluctant and he knows that if this was any other day, if they were anywhere else, 'fine' would be the last word to leave her lips. it's not fine, it just is.
and so he doesn't watch her because it'd be weird and because she's not a child. he misses the wince, the embarrassment, the awkwardness, attention fixed on not-really-anything in the corner of his room. distant, distracted until she says now you and it registers a beat too late. registers as she holds out the fork he'd given her to him and he looks at it, looks at the food. looks at lottie, reticent.
he doesn't—.
he inhales, the precursor to a resigned sigh that sits in his lungs instead of being expelled as he takes the fork, digs at the plate, and eats. it's fine. a vague thought that he ought to go to the dentist, that grant's going to be furious (something something this is coming from your pile, same as the haircuts and the treatments and the everything that marc should do but doesn't.) no embarrassment, no shame; familiarity. )
—See? Not going to kill you.
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Iβ
[ That's the word: defensive. It doesn't outweigh the rest of her feelings, the odd ginger mix of it all. Because where Lottie would usually bark out her denial, she stutters. Pauses and thinks. Actually (actually!) parses though her feeling and realizes she feels a little upset Marc would even say that. Like what she (they) went through didn't happen, or like she hadn't wondered the same thing, if they were or weren't (going to kill her). Wondering what everybody would say if they found her body, another influencer dead and gone.
At least it wouldn't be from a stupid cash grab, at least it's what the fans would want. The drama, the spectacle.
(True Crime Youtube would love her, actually. No, but they'd probably use really shitty photos of her. Would probably make Marc out to look bad, like it's his fault. And it is, but it isn't. Marc wouldn't want this for herβ he may be Moon Knight but that isn't all he is. The blood and violence, the branding, the obsessive guy who moon graffities his neighborhood, every bad thing the internet says about him. He's more than that, him and all his odd and frankly irritating mannerisms.
Like a bad host. An okay cook. A tone deaf friend .. But a friend, nevertheless. Because she can tell he's just trying to get her to eat, really, not jabbing at her personally for the night.) ]
I never said that. I ate it.
[ She separates the grey from the vegetables with her knife, scooting them to his side. ]
It's edible.
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denial. ignoring. punching.
marc knows, objectively, that lottie's ordeal has been difficult. that it'll take time for her to work through, and he knows this because the evidence is sat in front of him. it's never been easier for him to acknowledge anyone else's emotions — he'd been dire at it with frenchie, exceptionally poor with marlene. it's only in recent years and after concerted effort that he's made any improvement at all — with reese, with greer. still not with steven or jake.
and so, because lottie is so often like him in that she feels but that she doesn't care to think on why because it'd require more self-examination than she'd be comfortable with, would result in a discomforting analysis of flaws and personality that she already knows in general if not in specifics, he doesn't think. )
A mouthful, ( he points out, watching lottie move the food around the plate. watches her pointedly not eat. a brief flash of something that makes itself known as an internal 'for fuck's sake' that he refrains from externalising, and he realises he doesn't know what to say.
realises that every time something like this has happened before, he deals with it by going. by heading into the city or wherever and using his fists to work through his feelings, leaving — what? marlene to visit jean-paul in the hospital? leaving marlene with jean-paul and samuels and nedda after her brother had died? realises—ish. enough to recognise that in spite of how tired he is, he's antsy. difficult. that his patience is thin.
reluctantly, then, he adds— )
It's better than MREs.
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There's a shift of her legs as one is drawn to her chest, as she curls over it. Realizes that neither of them have said anything and now that their fires have dwindled (no more arguments and personal drama to focus on, nothing but why they're here and the ensuing consequences thereof, how it makes the air tangy and her tongue bitter) it's awkward. Middling on unpleasant. Different from their normal awkward, the one she can navigate out of whenever she likes with a swipe of her phone.
(Her free hand twitches, like it's instinctively reaching for itβ or maybe like she already expects it to be there. Her eyes briefly dart down in realization, forcibly planting her palm flat against her shin after.)
Since she doesn't have her crutch, she leaves the duties of conversation guru to Marc because she doesn't have it in her to do much more than focus on herself. And surprisinglyβ he delivers? Her eyes look up to him, blink once, then, ]
..MREs?
[ He pointed out mouthful and she's venturing for another, glancing up to him as if to say see? I can be good. As if it'll help him look less ready to leap out of a window and away from the situation. Because of course he's uncomfortable, who wouldn't be? And so she chews, slow, careful, dutifully ignoring the throb to her cheek that trickles into her jaw when her teeth slam together too hard, when she stops being careful and resumes being normal. ]
What is that? Army stuff?
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the mission has a security system adapted from the one he'd had installed here. the one that means he doesn't have to be concerned by noises, but that doesn't mean he doesn't frown when she drops the knife noisily to the plate, features pinching and pulling tight even if he doesn't say anything. it's helped by the way she — eventually — takes a second bite. this time, he does catch the flash of discomfort, the pain, the way it hits her unexpectedly as she chews, not yet used to the different pressure points, the way she needs to adapt what she's doing.
it's—.
guilt, cold and all-encompassing, filling and tense in his stomach, stretching across his limbs, and he says nothing. instead, his gaze flickers to her when she says 'army stuff', the instinctual response that he wasn't army sitting unsaid. she's not like rogers, from whom the remark of 'soldier' had felt pointed. she doesn't know the differences, the minutiae and it's not meant as anything other than what it is: a question. )
Meals, Ready to Eat, ( he answers, dryly agreeing— ) Army stuff. A meal, a snack, and something masquerading as dessert. Some of them are, ( his gaze flickers to the food, to lottie. a quirk of his lips. ) Edible. Some of them— ( he waves his hand, loose and vague. ) There was a veggie omelette called the Vomlette. One of those was two too many.
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Ew!
[ Vomlette. She wonders how much one too many he's talking from experience. As disgusting as he implication is (is the 'v' for vomit, or veggie?) it's.. A little funny. Lottie doesn't laugh, but she expels a puff of air like it's the ghost of one. Maybe, the suggestion of humor. Like the idea of Marc eating this concoction is funny when put next to Marc eating a ready to eat meal that isn't from the freezer aisle.
(Marc in his suit in the grocery store, mask on and loafers shiny. She disguises the weird little quirk of her lips with another small, portioned out, bite.) ]
So it's like the stuff preppers eat? The dusty food you put water in. [ Not a question, just her trying to piece together where she thinks she's seen it in media, on TV. ] Did you have a favorite?
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he pauses for a fraction of a second when she asks a completely unexpected question, eyebrows arching and expression questioningly blank. thinking. ) —Yeah, ( he answers, decision reached. (for the first part.) as for the second—.
god. )
Lottie, ( slightly pained, desperately and suddenly aware. remembers, suddenly, their first conversation, the one where lottie had mentioned still being in fucking high school whilst he was deployed in iraq. ) That was almost twenty years ago.
( he's fairly certain he said he got kicked out even if he didn't elaborate on why, but he's also fairly certain he didn't explain that it was a handful of years at most. three, maybe four. awkwardness interspersed with normality interspersed with increasingly odd and unexplainable behaviour, the sort that the crowd he ran with afterwards was willing to overlook because crazy meant payday meant who gave a fuck. yeah, sure, marc spector, sometimes jake lockley, sometimes steven grant, didn't always know when to stop, couldn't always explain what he'd done or why, but he always got results. )
Do you know how many times I've been hit in the head since then? You're asking me to choose my favourite like I'm choosing between my least favourite children.
—Chicken was normally safe. It's hard to fuck up.
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She pauses her fork scraping down for another bite. Now she's remembering how she was in high school while he was in fucking Iraq. Lottie frowns deeply, only mildly hindered by the swelling to her cheek because she's so preoccupied with the thought that Marc is as old as her sisters and doing all of this. Has done so much more than she ever will. When her back feels like death because she's too top heavy and she's not even thirty yet.
Distantly she wonders how bad it's going to get when she's olderβ how it is for Marc who never will bear the burden she does (being beautiful is truly a burden) but gets the shit beaten out of him and vice verse for a living. How much wear and tear he's already put through his skin and bones, especially tonight, at her expense.) ]
..How many times has that happened?
[ Forget the chicken Marc, clearly, because that has quickly lost steam to her. She just notes it down as Marc's least favorite child right next to whatever is on their plate and she ushers him to take another, now more aware of how he's not eating but more so supervising her. It's here where she's actually recalling how much of his life has been bathed in violence, the continuing trend that has never stopped. Now with horror or scandal, but with disbeliefβ ]
I thought you were like an expert or something!
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getting hit? fighting? maybe, given the question he hasn't answered yet, the question that doesn't have an answer because who knows! lottie knows the type of life he leads, knows what he gets up to, how he comes home looking. these days it's better than it used to be, he's better than he used to be — overall, he's less violent, if only because of the midnight mission, the help that his neighbours come to him for that isn't always beating some thug senseless. less violent because, right now, he doesn't feel as if he's got something to prove to khonshu, doesn't need to prove anything except that—.
he's not that guy. he's not the one who kept to the shadows talking to things no-one else could see, he's not carving threats and reminders and promises into flesh, not cutting off faces.
'the only thing I'm an expert in is dying', he thinks of saying and then decides better. thinks then that it's not true — two things, the other being causing hurt.
a weighted pause, the process of deciding working its way across marc's features before he speaks. ) There was a kid I used to know. He once told me he'd never met anyone that knew how to punch someone in the fist with their face as well as me. ( or: yes, lottie, he's an expert—. ) After I got kicked out of the forces, ( a pointed reminder that it wasn't something marc chose, for whatever that means. ) I boxed.
( a glance, level. ) The sort of boxing that you only get to watch if you know a guy who knows a guy. Good money in it, though.
—So, I don't know.
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No, she does not notice. ]
..So like Fight Club? You did Fight Club.
[ She knows it's a stupid question. Lottie knows that and asks anyway, because she knows it'd make him upset or rile him up to correct her (typical Lottie, being annoying for the sake thereof, especially when she knows she can get away with it). Because the more he talks and lets her to listen, the more at ease she feels. Her muscles are still sore and achy, but they're far more tolerable with him talking at her.
It gives her a chance to use her brain elsewhere, and right now Lottie is focusing more so on what ifs, the odd tidbits he's giving her. He says 'after I got kicked out of the forces' and she goes, right. He did that. She wonders if they ever would've met if he were still 'in the forces'. Wonders if she'd cross paths with him, too, if he were an underground boxer. Would they still be friends? Or just strangers on the street? Is their only connection who they are right now β Moon Knight and Lottie Person? Two sad saps sitting on his dusty ass bed, her in his clothes eating gruel? Or would Marc Spector, the boxer, the military man, and Lottie Person exist, too?
Her lips open and close around nothing. Leaning some of her weight back and away from around her leg, opening herself up more to him. Her eyes flick down to the plate, her fork, remembering what she was doing and scooping up some more. Carefully chewing on one side as she speaks, ]
That's kinda cool. [ A beat, vaguely distracted. ] You definitely look like you'd be into boxing.
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it doesn't matter how he looks or feels at the end of it, because he always wins.
he notices the food dropping from her fork to his bed and he can't quite stop himself from looking towards it. he doesn't move his head, just his eyes, a side glance that doesn't last long because lottie says fight club.
he hasn't seen it, certainly hasn't read it. steven's seen it. once. a good movie apparently, but not really steven's thing — good acting, a little gratuitous, a little over-the-top, but the twist, the everything, the discontentment with expectations — steven had muttered something about having to live with that (marc), and that'd been the beginning and end of it.
the side glance is redirected. rests on her, pensive. brows knit in that way that suggests marc has a question, a thought that he doesn't particularly want to put into words. uncomfortable. )
You haven't seen it. ( is what he says. it's not a question, it's an assumption. fight club isn't the sort of movie lottie person would watch, he'd put money on it. it's not an accurate comparison, not really, not in the way he thinks she means, but the way she doesn't—
ouch. )
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She doesn't think it offensive, either, that he might be hurt by comparisons unsaid because she doesn't know. Marc hasn't let her in to those facets of himself, despite everything else blaring so loud. His home. His past. His moon everything. ]
I saw it.
[ She defends weakly, not bothering to call out the fact he is tactfully avoiding her question. ]
Just not well. [ A pause. ] I maybe like half saw it. Enough to know what's happening!
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he'll tell her at some point, he thinks. intends to. when the moment's right, when—.
when he has to.
but that doesn't make it sit any better, doesn't make the pointedness of the comparison, inadvertent as it may be, any less discomforting.
he huffs, dry acknowledgement in lieu of humour. enough to know what's happening. bull. )
So what did you think of the twist?
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She puts her fork down, makes a little face that manages to look silly despite the discoloring that dapples at her skin. ]
Why is it so shocking I watched Fight Club??
[ She knows it isn't because Lottie Person Watching Movies, but specifically the genre. She's aware of her brand, of what people expect from her because of what she puts out. And her content doesn't scream movie connoisseur, let alone men. Her demographic is teens to young adults! Mostly girls!!
But that's just her contentβ Marc has the privilege of knowing her personally and the fact that assumption bleeds through to her private life manages to make her feel almost proud at the consistency. Almost. ]
I watched Gone Girl the other day.
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—although truthfully, it's not entirely the thought of lottie watching fight club, it's the subject matter. the topic. the revelation that edward norton and brad pitt are two facets of the same guy. it's the inadvertent and uncomfortable adjacency to marc's own life. it's the deep-buried awareness that the primary reason he hasn't mentioned it — his issues, his condition, whatever — is because he's not been able to decide how he thinks lottie will react. what she'll think.
it hadn't been easy to tell reese or badr or even soldier. it'd been less easy to spell it out to marlene, they'd spent years dancing in circles, with all four of them — her and marc and steven and jake — talking about each one as an alternate identity, a disguise, something steven (not marc and not jake) occasionally lost himself in.
he doesn't think he'd ever told frenchie, it'd just been a realisation gleaned off a decade of behaviour, of abrupt changes in personality and name. he'd known, marc thinks, for much longer than marc has any idea. he'd never been as oblivious, as self-centred and self-absorbed as marc had been to not notice what was being said in actions alone.
he lifts a shoulder in a shrug, an awkward movement made more difficult by the half-lounge position he's found himself in on the bed. ) Anti-capitalism, dissociative identity disorder, and anarchic fight rings, three of your favourite topics? ( a pause. ) But mostly, it's because it came out in ninety-nine. ( or: how old were you, lottie? )
—I don't know what Gone Girl is.
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It was anti-capitalism?
[ It is this she questions. Not about anarchic fight rings, or dissociative identity disorder, but the fact it's apparently anti-capitalism (sheesh)?? Because really, the other two she can't be bothered to care about. The fact that the less hot guy was actually also Brad Pitt meaning nothing to her except, neat, she guesses?
(If he were to tell her, he'd find her blasΓ© attitude would be the same. That everyone has their own shit going on and Steven and Jake are now part of it. That so long as he doesn't question her about her own condition β the allergies that seem to worsen as she gets older β she truly could not care. But she would, at the very least, try and google as much she can by herself because she'd know even admitting that much to her meant Marc stewing on it for hours. Months. Awkwardly (maybe) thank him for letting her know, before realizing they're having a moment she's unprepared to have and she'd change the subject.) ]
And yeah. I know. I'm aware! God. [ She was nine!! Alsoβ ] I watched it like last year.
I watched Gone Girl this year. [ Only because she saw a gif set of the main character mentioning Coolgirlβ Lottie's own nickname for Caroline and thought, wow, someone I can relate to in media? Wrong. So very wrong. But Neil Patrick Harris was cute! ] It's about this girl who married this guy and he pissed her off so she pretended he murdered her.
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something something metaphor, something something you could learn a thing or too.
something something marc had not been very fucking thrilled.
—was it anti-capitalist? there were elements of anti-capitalism, the sort that marc had ended up with an impression of as 'edgy', the kind that early twenty-somethings would lean into during drunken conversations of how to change the world and make things better. (or that had been steven's impression—.) )
It wasn't a celebration of the rich, corporate lifestyle, Lottie. He tried to kill himself. ( or part of him, the part of the story marc was most unclear on, wanted the least amount of clarity on because that hit a little too close to home. the wanting to bury — literally, metaphorically — a whole personality. a tale of destructiveness, of how to systematically destroy an entire facet of one's life with insomnia and depression and violence.
what a fucking apt movie she'd chosen.
he hates it.
a raise of a hand and a wave, dismissive and disinterested. )
I did it for the money. ( he adds, and it's true. it's true in the way that it was a reason, not the main one, but the one it was acceptable to talk about. the one he doesn't mind acknowledging, the one that's in all the files and reports on marc spector. the one that sits alongside the others and implies something of his morals and his ethics.
but that's enough of that. her explanation of gone girl earns an expression of bemused acceptance, the sort that says fine and fair enough all at once. )
—And I thought I had it bad when Marlene moved halfway across the globe to get away from me.
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Obviously! Obviously, Marc Spector is different. In more ways than the obvious. He isn't Brad Pitt or Other Guy but he's got enough personality and presence to dwarf both. Whether that's a good or bad thing remains to be seen but, her point still stands. And see? He said he did it for the money. Different.
Apparently, not so different to cut out the ohh my girlfriend haha jokes. Lottie grimaces. ]
Yeah well, try being Ben Affleck with a crazy hot wife.
[ It must be very hard!! Lottie knows a portion of his strugglesβ after all Caroline is no walk in the park with how little she knows of where she stands with her. Despite the dates, despite the kisses. How Caroline's bomber jacket still hangs in her closet, pristine and maybe the only thing well taken care of in her bedroom. ]
But then again he cheated on her, so..
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instead, his eyebrows dart up in doubt and skepticism. marriage? not for him, thanks, is written in his expression even if he doesn't say it. there aren't a huge number of responses he can think of to that — lottie's — comment that don't slide towards slightly weird. uncomfortable. more information than he'd necessarily be happy to share. I spend enough time pretending to be someone else—. it'd be a good joke if he'd ever been remotely open with lottie about himself, about the positioning of marc spector and mr. knight and moon knight, let alone grant and lockley. )
I've got enough on my plate being Marc Spector, ( is the version he settles on, before glancing down at the plate still sat between them. the food isn't finished, but at least she's eaten something. ) —Are you done?
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(..#truelove?)
She didn't get it, the ending, but she thinks Marc might genuinely enjoy it (and truly what does that say about her opinion of him and things he'd like?). He seems finished with the topic as soon as she sees his eyes settle on the plate, something like confusion dotting on hers. ]
βUh. Yeah? I guess.. But you didn't eat any of it.
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where lottie's expression reflects burgeoning confusion at his response, he opts to ignore her when she points out that he didn't eat any of the food. he shifts his weight and picks the plate up, placing it to one side off the bed, aware, still, of the mess lottie had managed to make and not notice. at length, then, he offers her a vague noise of acknowledgement, of agreement β no, he didn't, but it's fine. that wasn't the point. )
βIt wasn't for me.
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Wellβ. Thanks..
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he knows that if he'd told her earlier, given her any idea that whilst yes, he's hungry but no, he can't really be bothered to eat anything right now, his suggestion of food was for her benefit alone, she'd have pushed back. argued. made it difficult for him and refused. it's easier to pretend otherwise until it's too late.
(he'll eat — at some point.)
a wave of a hand, dismissive in lieu of awkward. ) Don't thank me.
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No. Thank you.
[ It is still light and soft, but there's weight to it. An unspoken nod to everything he's done for her despite her lack of appreciation, her being so unnaturally difficult and sad. Wholly unpleasant. ]
Seriously, Marc.
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