[ 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. ]
( the thanks is uncomfortable and marc doesn't quite know how to acknowledge it. he's been thanked before, of course he has — by people who'd come to the midnight mission for help, by people who asked for mr. knight and not marc. by people who knew marc and who knew steven and who knew jake, but in the case of the former, it wasn't often. marc — marc, specifically — tends not to do much worthy of thanks, tends to fuck things up more than he fixes them, and he's aware, intimately, of how much all of this is his fault.
and she repeats herself despite his protestations. a heaviness to her utterance that's not exactly unlike her because they've had heavy, uncomfortable conversations but they've almost always taken the shape of disagreements, of anything and everything that isn't one or the other giving gratitude. it's not something marc's ever been good at giving or receiving, and he resists the urge to sit up, to leave the bed and the conversation, to find something else entirely to focus on.
his lips curve, unhappy, and his gaze rests on hers for one moment, then two, then he looks away. can't quite help himself when he remarks, )No, ( more bitter, more caustic than he'd intended. ) It was my fault, so don't—. ( punctuated by a sharp, sudden pause, an inhale of breath that isn't so much audible as it is marc shutting himself up, cutting himself short because admitting that something's his fault, out loud, doesn't come easily, doesn't sit well, and—.
he sits up, an abrupt movement punctuated by a glance away from her before he swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands, not wanting to wait and see the change in lottie's expression, her reaction, her response. her agreement.
[ Lottie already sees itβ the way he blows up. Can see it in the tick of his jaw and the way the air grows stale and unbreathable for the time it takes for him to admit his fault, to deliberately turn away from her. She doesn't expect him to say it, to tell her that this was all because of himβ they both know it is. But he said it, felt uncomfortable and queasy all at the fact he gave life to it. Spoke it into the universe, and she wishes he hadn't because now that's all she can think about.
It was my fault, so don'tβ.
He gets up, turns away.
It was my fault, so don'tβ.
She stays, watches.
Doesn't cry, no matter how badly she wants to. She's passed that now, too tired and emotionally drained to give time to it, the fat globs of tears that so badly want to stream down her cheeks. Lottie knows he's running away, tooβ knows he is maybe just as fragile as she is when it comes to this topic, the thing they've been pointedly avoided mentioning all night. It's not like she wants to talk about it, either, but it happenedβ it was his faultβ he hurt her. But.. He didn't mean to. Her eyes stare down at his back, softening. A little hurt, a little mad. The usual complicated mix they force on each other because it's easier than facing the unpleasant truth. ]
..I know.
[ It pains her to say it, as much as it pains him to hear it. And the crazy thing is her tune would be so different if she was still mad at him, too, would've used this as an opportunity to hurt. To make his chest sting like hers did, to get inside his head and stomp all over it. ]
( it'd almost be easier if she was mad or was upset. it'd give him something else to focus on and to react to that isn't the tired remnants of the night. lottie's emotional and it's alternately infuriating and tiring and — sometimes — funny. here and now there's none of that. instead, it's quiet sincerity that doesn't give marc any leeway, anything else for him to latch onto.
I know. soft and unpleasant but only because she's not. she's agreeable and accepting and not holding it against him and that almost makes it worse because what is marc supposed to do with acceptance? with it sitting alongside thanks?
a half-glance over his shoulder, back towards her. he can't see her, not really, not beyond the vague shape of part of her body. him, tense and uncertain. for now, he thinks. she means it for now. no-one holds it against him at first. if the night was slightly different, if their conversation was slightly different, he'd point it out. (not for the first time—.) but her offering — a gentle response — doesn't deserve marc's petulance, his pointed antagonism, his self-loathing that edges dangerously close to self-pitying at times, if not for the anger that emerges instead of whining. )
[ Lottie doesn't realize how difficult this must be for himβ how many times he's gone through this same song and dance always knowing the inevitable change of tune when it becomes the third or fourth time it's occurred. That this sense of calm and agreeable-ness won't last. All she sees is someone unwilling to take credit where credit is due, because if he didn'tβ
She presses her lips into a thin line when he half-glances over his shoulder, feeling her stomach churning. Forcing her brain to shut off for a few blissful moments because she doesn't really want to consider what would've happened to her if he didn't. If she were still there.
(Cold concrete. Smell of dust. Tongue and lips dry. Chest constricted and wrists sore from the bindings, body aching and cheek stinging. Copper tang in the back of her throat. Salty tears rolling down her cheeks. Snot drying on her hair.)
She stifles the sensation, her memories, down her throat. Lets her confusion win over when her brows furrow and her spine slouches, Lottie looking and feeling slowly unsure the longer he keeps his back to her. ]
Yeah.. Of course I do.
[ She offers in response, unwilling to go with her gut instinct of challenging him, of asking what he means by that. She doesn't want that right now, fights, harsh words. Hurt feelings, more than what this is. Rejection of some kind? ]
( he circles around the bed, oblivious still to lottie's thoughts. to the myriad of feelings she's trying to keep at bay, to the way she's trying not to think of any of it at all. the antithesis to marc, who thinks too much.
jean-paul would tell lottie, marlene would tell lottie. speak of the not-too-distant past, of peter alraune (senior and junior), of ricky and ray — gena's kids, the boys marc had gotten involved in his shit as teenagers. of the way that marc seemed to have a type — that is, enemies that seemed to become obsessed with him, with besting him, with proving him wrong. raoul. mogart. knowles. ryan trent. jeff.
zodiac wasn't — isn't a once-off. neither is (was) the committee — they were grudges, inherited from father to son, to daughter. marc, singularly, has a way of appealing to men (mostly men) who, as a way of hurting marc, seek to hurt the people he cares about. a catch-22 because marc is so very good at helping those that don't know him.
(perhaps precisely because they don't know him.)
it turns out it's harder when it requires consistency.
he turns to her, then, expression not exactly defeated, but in the proximity of it. accepting, but not exactly happy. he believes her, it's just that he has the benefit (question mark) of experience on his side. he doesn't want to get into it, though—. )
[ It's a terrible, terrible, mixture of satisfaction and dissatisfaction that grips her when he says that. Marc says he believes her and it isn't with joy or explicit happiness, not with anger or disappointment, how it sits in the air. It middles somewhere between all of that and her own face shows how she feels: tired. Like she isn't sure what else she can do to get the conclusion she wants, to see the way he'd light up at her appreciation. To, maybe, give her a hug. To be a little warm in the face of her own warmth. To be happy that something has arguably gone right tonight (she ate dinner, they're talkingβ they're not normal but they can be. She knows they can be.)
Idly, it hits her that he says it like he's tired, too, like he shouldn't revel in its sincerity now because soon β eventually β it will wither away into something else. She doesn't know whatβ they know each other but Marc and Lottie are both loose and tight lipped when it suits them, when it's easiest for them. And while she helped him expose some of himself, his past, to her, it's never all of it. Just like how there's still plenty of her he doesn't know yet, always lingering in the back of her mind when it's relevant but never moving past that, past her lips.
He's made his way around the bed, putting more impossible distance between them, and she miraculously doesn't feel slighted. Understanding crosses her face, one that denotes she won't ask because she knows he probably won't tell. Like as much as she'd want to it'd be a waste of effort, she'd just make things worse somehow. ]
..Okay.
[ And just like that: she deems it over, doesn't want to linger in this odd energy any longer. So, she swings her legs off the side of the bed, too, plays with her fingers at her lap. Ignores how dry they are because the lotion Marc has here isn't the expensive medicated one in her room, her bathroom cabinet. ]
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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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and she repeats herself despite his protestations. a heaviness to her utterance that's not exactly unlike her because they've had heavy, uncomfortable conversations but they've almost always taken the shape of disagreements, of anything and everything that isn't one or the other giving gratitude. it's not something marc's ever been good at giving or receiving, and he resists the urge to sit up, to leave the bed and the conversation, to find something else entirely to focus on.
his lips curve, unhappy, and his gaze rests on hers for one moment, then two, then he looks away. can't quite help himself when he remarks, ) No, ( more bitter, more caustic than he'd intended. ) It was my fault, so don't—. ( punctuated by a sharp, sudden pause, an inhale of breath that isn't so much audible as it is marc shutting himself up, cutting himself short because admitting that something's his fault, out loud, doesn't come easily, doesn't sit well, and—.
he sits up, an abrupt movement punctuated by a glance away from her before he swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands, not wanting to wait and see the change in lottie's expression, her reaction, her response. her agreement.
god, sometimes he really hates himself—. )
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It was my fault, so don'tβ.
He gets up, turns away.
It was my fault, so don'tβ.
She stays, watches.
Doesn't cry, no matter how badly she wants to. She's passed that now, too tired and emotionally drained to give time to it, the fat globs of tears that so badly want to stream down her cheeks. Lottie knows he's running away, tooβ knows he is maybe just as fragile as she is when it comes to this topic, the thing they've been pointedly avoided mentioning all night. It's not like she wants to talk about it, either, but it happenedβ it was his faultβ he hurt her. But.. He didn't mean to. Her eyes stare down at his back, softening. A little hurt, a little mad. The usual complicated mix they force on each other because it's easier than facing the unpleasant truth. ]
..I know.
[ It pains her to say it, as much as it pains him to hear it. And the crazy thing is her tune would be so different if she was still mad at him, too, would've used this as an opportunity to hurt. To make his chest sting like hers did, to get inside his head and stomp all over it. ]
But I mean it.
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I know. soft and unpleasant but only because she's not. she's agreeable and accepting and not holding it against him and that almost makes it worse because what is marc supposed to do with acceptance? with it sitting alongside thanks?
a half-glance over his shoulder, back towards her. he can't see her, not really, not beyond the vague shape of part of her body. him, tense and uncertain. for now, he thinks. she means it for now. no-one holds it against him at first. if the night was slightly different, if their conversation was slightly different, he'd point it out. (not for the first time—.) but her offering — a gentle response — doesn't deserve marc's petulance, his pointed antagonism, his self-loathing that edges dangerously close to self-pitying at times, if not for the anger that emerges instead of whining. )
—Of course you do.
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She presses her lips into a thin line when he half-glances over his shoulder, feeling her stomach churning. Forcing her brain to shut off for a few blissful moments because she doesn't really want to consider what would've happened to her if he didn't. If she were still there.
(Cold concrete. Smell of dust. Tongue and lips dry. Chest constricted and wrists sore from the bindings, body aching and cheek stinging. Copper tang in the back of her throat. Salty tears rolling down her cheeks. Snot drying on her hair.)
She stifles the sensation, her memories, down her throat. Lets her confusion win over when her brows furrow and her spine slouches, Lottie looking and feeling slowly unsure the longer he keeps his back to her. ]
Yeah.. Of course I do.
[ She offers in response, unwilling to go with her gut instinct of challenging him, of asking what he means by that. She doesn't want that right now, fights, harsh words. Hurt feelings, more than what this is. Rejection of some kind? ]
Do you not believe me or something?
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jean-paul would tell lottie, marlene would tell lottie. speak of the not-too-distant past, of peter alraune (senior and junior), of ricky and ray — gena's kids, the boys marc had gotten involved in his shit as teenagers. of the way that marc seemed to have a type — that is, enemies that seemed to become obsessed with him, with besting him, with proving him wrong. raoul. mogart. knowles. ryan trent. jeff.
zodiac wasn't — isn't a once-off. neither is (was) the committee — they were grudges, inherited from father to son, to daughter. marc, singularly, has a way of appealing to men (mostly men) who, as a way of hurting marc, seek to hurt the people he cares about. a catch-22 because marc is so very good at helping those that don't know him.
(perhaps precisely because they don't know him.)
it turns out it's harder when it requires consistency.
he turns to her, then, expression not exactly defeated, but in the proximity of it. accepting, but not exactly happy. he believes her, it's just that he has the benefit (question mark) of experience on his side. he doesn't want to get into it, though—. )
I believe you, Lottie.
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Idly, it hits her that he says it like he's tired, too, like he shouldn't revel in its sincerity now because soon β eventually β it will wither away into something else. She doesn't know whatβ they know each other but Marc and Lottie are both loose and tight lipped when it suits them, when it's easiest for them. And while she helped him expose some of himself, his past, to her, it's never all of it. Just like how there's still plenty of her he doesn't know yet, always lingering in the back of her mind when it's relevant but never moving past that, past her lips.
He's made his way around the bed, putting more impossible distance between them, and she miraculously doesn't feel slighted. Understanding crosses her face, one that denotes she won't ask because she knows he probably won't tell. Like as much as she'd want to it'd be a waste of effort, she'd just make things worse somehow. ]
..Okay.
[ And just like that: she deems it over, doesn't want to linger in this odd energy any longer. So, she swings her legs off the side of the bed, too, plays with her fingers at her lap. Ignores how dry they are because the lotion Marc has here isn't the expensive medicated one in her room, her bathroom cabinet. ]
I, ah, think I'm ready to go to bed, now.
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