[ It is petulant and petty and ridiculous, all of it. It would be embarrassing for anyone else to witness this, them, acting so needlessly like this, but they're left to their own devices and it's the action that makes the most sense. Lottie is mad, but she still wants him hereβ Lottie prefers Marc here, when he can. It's a lovely mix of wanting his presence in her home to wanting his presence beside her, at her beck and call. Close enough for her to touch but just far enough in case they both need to exist by themselves.
Lottie, also, prefers him to come and apologize at some point in the night, or even in the morning. He can come in with coffee, or have something delivered to her apartment and he can coo and whisper at her that he was so very wrong and that she's so sexy babe let's go watch all of Jersey Shore.
..Realistically, she knows this will never happen, but it's a nice fantasy to have. One she is thinking of right now as she gets ready for bed. In usual Lottie fashion, even after she has banished him to the couch, she is still getting ready to go to sleep. Taking off her face, putting her falsies away after cleaning those (getting rid of glue, running a soft wash over them and drying), moisturizing her face and plucking her brows.
It takes just shy of an hour by the time she's done, by the time her face is natural and the dark circles under her eyes are a little more prominent on her soft skin. She's traded in her dress for one of his shirts (black), and her shorts (also blackβ freshly bought because she hardly wears dark colors and she wanted to match). By the time she does fall asleep, it is hours later. Her phone is off to the side somewhere, half hidden under her pillow and half out. Lottie Person is not a pretty sleeper by all means, but she is a clingy one when her mood dictates. And considering she went to bed feeling sour, feeling sad and angry, needy, the pillow they've both designated as his is held tight in her arms, her face buried into it like she's trying to smell him as much she can. ]
( at home, both at the midnight mission and at the long island manor; in the apartment he'd bought in manhattan after his FACE CARVING fiasco in an attempt to cut ties, start afresh, ignore the fact that marlene had dumped him—, marc has books. not all of them are his — the less interesting ones (he and jake are in agreement on this), the ones about finance and stocks and something something how to run a business question mark, those are stevens. there are others — a little bit of history, some texts he'd saved from his father's home in chicago after his death that marc couldn't bring himself to throw out; others still that are more to add flavor than they are anything that marc'll ever read, but still: he has books.
things to do and things to read to pass the time. (what time? who knows, it's not as if marc spends any time by himself relaxing if he can help it.)
here, at lottie's, there's none of that. sure, he could turn on the tv but the sound would travel and he doesn't want to give lottie the satisfaction of knowing he's given in. that he's been bothered enough by the evening to turn to netflix, or whatever other streaming channels she has programmed to her tv.
which is to say, the hour (or so) is a long hour. dull and tedious. he's left with his thoughts, which are equally tedious, equally as frustrating, and do little in the way of not winding him up further.
(not in the sense of antagonism, but in the vague, perpetual guilt that marc's so skilled at encompassing.)
it's a little (lot) while after that, after he's had time to mull over his own self-flagellation, after he's had time to toss and turn on the uncomfortable-yet-more-comfortable-(technically)-than-his-sarcophagus couch, that he makes his way towards the bedroom. brief hesitancy at the door before it's pushed minimally open, light from the hallway spilling in through the crack.
lottie's either asleep or pretending to be, he can tell from the way her hair's fanned out (inelegantly) across the bed, from the way that her face is pressed—
—oh.
he sighs and shifts his weight, then pads quietly towards the bed, stilling at the foot. debating, silently, as to whether to leave her like that or—.
eventually, he decides to make his way around the bed, to the side closest to the pillow she's gripping. slowly, carefully, cautiously, he starts to pull it from her grasp. )
[ Lottie has no booksβ the ones she does have are magazines, and usually have herself in it.
They're books that she got given to for free and has never read, collects dust in a box somewhere or is clearly used for decoration rather than any real purpose to entertain. When she's bored, she has her computer or phone. She has her TV. She has Marc, who she pointedly is devoid of in bed, so she breathes in his pillow a little deeper in her sleepy stupor to make up for his absence. She dreams of something pleasant, of the two of them at the beach (an uncharacteristic action for Marc, because his skin is so pale and in her dream he's still wearing his suit).
They're sat on the sand and the sky is pinks and purples, it's dreamy and atmospheric. She curls her arms around the pillow tighter as the door creaks open, as Marc surveys her from the safety he's always allowed himself: distance. It's idyllic as they hold hands, his gloves off and calloused skin brushing over her soft one. She looks him in the eyes and leans in for a kiss, her hair tickling at his face.
He won't see how she melts into him in her dreams, but he'll see the way she nuzzles into the pillow as he makes his way around the bed.
Marc's footsteps as he pads through her messy room are quiet, a stark contrast to the way Caroline enters the frame in her fantasy. Marc's face twists away from Lottie's and it is right in time for when he gently tries to coerce the pillow away from her. Her brows twist, Lottie making the tiniest little noise of discontent as her grip lessens and he's allowed his pillow.
Even in her sleep, the lack of him (his smell, his scent) makes her begin to twist and turn. Frown, in that usual Lottie way that means she's upset. Eventually, she settles on her sideβ the opposite to where she was before, reaching somewhere behind her for the blanket, in her daze. ]
( marc is usually that exhausted that he can't remember his dreams, if he dreams at all. most of the time, it's nothing or nightmares, the latter of which isn't something he's ever been embarrassed by per se, but is something he's felt awkward about. has been mindful of. there have been nights (mornings, really), where he's laid awake next to lottie, refusing to sleep because he knows it'll end in metaphorical tears and unpleasantry.
he has no idea that she might be dreaming of them. no idea that her thoughts are of something — for him — absurd. the beach! the sun! absolutely nothing he's likely to indulge in any time soon. he would have, when he'd been younger, before he'd discovered his conscience and guilt.
the pillow's released into his grasp and lottie makes a noise. it's cute, even if it's slightly laboured, even if it's slightly stuffy. she turns away from it all, twists at the same time as her features twist, and grasps blindly, automatically, for the covers.
marc inhales and pauses, gaze resting on lottie, on the way she's sprawled across the expanse of the bed, on the way she's somehow managing to take up every aspect of the bed despite being curled up on one side. it's remarkable, and—.
he presses his weight onto the bed, slowly and carefully, readjusts the pillow so it's sat against the headboard. then, he pulls the blanket and drapes it over lottie, makes sure she's covered. it's tender and delicate in a way that marc doesn't often let anyone see. )
[ Whatever is in her head only manages to get worse, but it doesn't show other than through her little scowl, the way she sniffles miserably and grumbles to herself. The arm that was flailing out for the blanket gets trapped beneath it as Marc tugs it over her, makes sure she's tucked in nice and comfortable. Marc is tender and delicate with her, his actions enough to briefly sooth her active brain when she curls in a little on herself.
She's calmed enough to allow him a few precious minutes of getting cozy, of thinking he succeeded in sneaking into bed and maybe her good graces. He could've curled an arm around her and tugged her close and he'd succeed, or he could've nuzzled his face into her hair (still, miraculously, taking up his space and his pillow) and she wouldn't do a thing.
(She'd probably make a sleepy little whimper, in fact.)
The calm doesn't last, though, because once those minutes are up she jolts awake, body jerking to life as she gasps. And if it were anyone else other than Lottie, it'd end there. But noβ because she woke up so quickly, so dramatically, her nose is running and she's groaning. She's coughing out phlegm against her will because she breathed a little too hard and she's lightheaded. A hand reaches out for a tissue to clean herself, that same arm trembling slightly as her heartbeat skyrockets for no reason other than her stupid dream.
So into herself, Lottie doesn't even notice Marc's presence at first. Doesn't even see him, either (her eyes are, predictably, watery and blearyβ the usual routine for a Lottie who is waking up and can't see). ]
( there are a couple of moments where marc thinks that's it, lottie's going to resettle and stay asleep and it'll be fine, even in spite of the way she sniffs and grumbles, indistinct and unclear. it's absolutely a false sense of security, though, ruined within moments when lottie shifts and jerks abruptly, marc startling, tense at the abrupt movement.
he doesn't move, doesn't say anything, not immediately. his gaze rests on her, watchful and uncertain because it's clear lottie hasn't registered his presence. their approach to waking and wakefulness are worlds apart out of necessity: marc's tends to be immediate. it's reluctant but necessary awareness of his surroundings because the opposite's always been dangerous. the opposite's always sat uncomfortably, always been at odds with the creeping paranoia a near-permanent part of him.
lottie's is always like this, a laboured, almost resigned focus on herself because she needs to deal with herself first — her nose, her eyes, the stream of quote-unquote liquids that leak throughout the night. it's—
—well, it's not charming, but given marc usually ends up covered in an assortment of biohazards on a nightly basis, he doesn't have any room to talk.
what he does do though, is shift his weight, ever so slightly. a near-silent announcement of his presence. )
[ It's near-silent, but not silent enough, because she is groggily saying his name like she has no idea why he's even there. And it's because, hm, she doesn't. Lottie has no idea why Marc is in her bed, because she remembers how their conversation went. How she stormed off and, most importantly, how he didn't stop her. She balls up the tissue in her hand slowly, glancing around as if she can tell the time from how dark it is (late?).
And it's terrible, because Lottie immediately is relaxed with his weight to the side of her. With his smell finally coating the sheets, and she almost gives in and reaches out to hold him but doesn't. That's right, it settles on her face, she's upset. And tired! And she doesn't care if Marc looks like a needy cute cat. It's a tired whisper, ]
( the way she says his name is questioning and uncertain, like she's trying to piece together a jigsaw she hadn't even realised she'd started. it doesn't quite give him an opportunity to gain the upper-hand because even in the dim lighting of the bedroom, in the way the glow of electronics cast light and shadows here and there and that's it, marc can see (tell) the way that her expression shifts. the way it goes from bemused to unhappy in an instant and marc realises that any chance of grace is slim.
story of his life—.
his pause is weighted, considered. the pull of his features says he's deciding between two answers but it doesn't last long. marc has never been all that great when presented with AN OPTION in terms of choosing the correct response. reading the room isn't an inherent skill he's ever been blessed with, isn't soemthing he's ever succeeded in developing. he's almost constantly, consistently, far too caught up in his own head to be able to really, truly figure anything like that out.
so, instead of something like 'I missed you', which isn't untrue and more likely to be the sort of comment lottie would like to hear, he settles for— )
[ If he had said something she'd like to hear, she would've let him stay for many fifteen minutes and then kicked him out. Butβ the couch was uncomfortable? She's suddenly far more awake than she was seconds ago because Marc used to sleep in a sarcophagus but the couch is where he draws the line? She sits up, blinks down at him before swinging her legs off the side and groggily (read: almost falling) standing to her feet.
Her hands snatch her own pillow and a comforter she's had folded off to the side from when Rosie spent a month or so with her during her almost divorce. Lottie is no stranger to sleeping on her off white, stylishly semi-in-season couch, so if Marc's sensibilities are too muchβ ]
It was fine when I slept on it before.
[ And she opens the door, leaves it ajar for him to do whatever he wants as she sets up her own little bed on the section of cushion his body clearly didn't touch, making a quiet but compelling show of it as she unfurls the blanket in one dramatic upswing. ]
( marc has slept in a sarcophagus. marc has slept in tents on the ground. marc has slept in trucks and small cars, on planes and boats. marc is used to not sleeping much at all, but it's only when lottie propels herself up and off the bed that he realises how fucking preposterous his remark sounded.
there's a moment where lottie's expression isn't even annoyed, it's groggy and sleepy and piecemeal, and then she grabs her pillow and a cover, and marc's expression twists into an expression of annoyed, frustrated dismay. a non-verbal expression of fuck— at lottie's reaction (rather than an apology, rather than acknowledgement that he's fucked up.)
he watches her, coldly but not exactly calmly because that's never been marc. he likes to think he is, likes to think he's cold rage and ice and calculated, but he's never been. he's awkward, immediate volatility punctuated by regret. this is that. there's a small, vague part of him (not him) that knows he should apologise, that knows he's in the wrong.
it's not any part of him that he chooses to acknowledge right now, not any part of him that he wants to acknowledge beyond the low, petulant, petty, belated exclamation (mutter) of— )
[ Yeah!! Exactly. That's right Marc. It's quiet enough in this house (because she's got the air conditioner on a system, to where it cools and stops and right now it isn't on so she can hear everything for once) to where she can catch that fuck's sake. She's alert enough to thoroughly enjoy the petty, the angry, the stupidly bitter way it leaves his lips because good. He did this to himself! Marc thinks he can just get mad at her for nothing, get banished to the couch, then sneak into her bed to hold her and cuddle her tight??
(If she weren't as pissed he absolutely could've got away with this. Lottie would've got on his case in the morning after refusing to give him kisses and blueballing him for a little bit. Make him squirm on her playing field so she could interrogate him with the same bravado he gave her.)
The door opens one more time after she's clearly done arranging her bed for the night. The light illuminating her form, letting him see his shirt on her frame and her little shorts in far clearer lighting. She slips in through the crack, and what does she do?
That's right. She grabs her phone to take with her. ]
( it's past the point where anything that had made sense about their argument is still there, is still remembered. instead, there's only the remnants of frustration and anger. marc knows he's in the right and that's why it's so infuriating that lottie's continuing to act like this, like he's wronged her.
and so he doesn't move when the door opens, doesn't move at the spilling of light from behind her. silently, with only the barest inclinations of his head, he tracks her movements. listens to the deliberate, pointed quiet of her footsteps. it's only when he realises what she's come back into the room for that he turns to look at her, a sharp snap of attention and an expression that's equal parts demanding as it is challenging.
a scrunch of his nose and the curve of his lips and though he doesn't say anything, not for the moment, the meaning's clear: what are you doing? )
[ Marc and Lottie often don't need to use words to communicate, necessarily. But, god, they definitely should. Marc makes a face that she reads instantlyβ pointedly, reads after a glance to her phone. And it's like clockwork, near perfect timing: Caroline's sent her a message right as she's got the screen up ( u up snozzers π). She looks at it briefly, debates on texting her back right in front of him, and it's clear on her face, too, the consideration. How she wonders if the pain he'll get from this will make up for the way she hurt earlier. Because she knows he's listening.
(She does the same thing when Marc gets up, that tiny little tilt of the head, one ear out, when he can't sleep and he moves to stare out of her balcony window. Does it until he comes back to bed or until she finds the silence lulling.)
He's devoting every second of himself to her in this moment and it makes Lottie feel good to know it, how he wants her to come grovel to him that he was right but he's not. In the end, she doesn't. She turns the brightness down and just looks down at Marc, who is looking up at her so childishly, so curiously. And after a moment of staring, keeping their eyes locked, she brings a hand up to kiss her fingertipsβ moves those same fingers over to his cheek. Pats it onceβ ]
Don't stay up too late.
[ (Is it catty and a little rude to say that when she knows he has sleeping issues?? Yes.) ]
( he can see the way that she contemplates replying, can see the way she weighs up her options. it's annoying, does precisely nothing to better his mood, but it's— something he can put up with, more or less. something they'll get over at some point, until she does that.
he bats her hand away impatiently and doesn't say anything. he sits up and away from her, swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands before carefully, item by item, collecting his (few, almost entirely moon knight) belongings. a dismissive, disinterested wave of a hand over his shoulder to say how he little he doesn't care (he cares) before informing her, brusquely, bluntly, that— )
I have work to do.
( then, his boots. he sits back down to put them on (it's easier), and there's a second, just one, where he looks up towards lottie. the set of his jaw, the knit of his brows, all of it says there's another comment sat right there, on the tip of his tongue and that it's not indecision that has him not speaking. it's not hesitancy. it's him giving her the chance to say something before he adds it. )
It stings and it shocks her, how he bats her hand away. That wasβ that is not how this is supposed to go! He picked a fight with her, she has a right to be mad because he's being unreasonable! He's being rude and mean and making her feel bad when none of this is her fault. It's his. If he didn't get weird about Caroline none of this would've happened. Why is Marc so frustrating??
It doesn't matter that he's standing up, sitting back down, his broad back cast to her. It doesn't even matter that he's looking to her, giving her one chance to say something, to maybe change his mind, because the dam is broken and Lottie's eyes water. She isn't even looking at him, just staring down at the imprint he left behind on the sheets. How he's taking the time to gather his Moon Knight ensemble so delicately but not even making her (their) stupid bed before he..? He. Heβ ]
Why is it okay for you to be mean to me but when I do it, Marc has to go home? Marc has work! Marc doesn't want to talk!
[ It bursts out, pure frustration coupled with an unattractive wobble to her voice. ]
What the fuck! It's like I don't get you sometimes!
( marc's a hypocrite. that much is true and has always been true. his expression flickers — tightens — when she suggests (no, tells him) he's being mean and he thinks, darkly, that mean isn't the word for it. that's not to say he can't be and isn't, that's not to say cruelty's beyond him (it's not, not by a long shot), but he thinks that this isn't being mean. he'd been mean — nasty — to frenchie, to crawley, to marlene. he'd thrown their worries back at them, disregarded their concerns, and used their fears to make a point. not habitually, but enough.
marc has, often, been not nice to lottie. she's seen his temper and his moods — not the worst of them, not the sort of tantrums that'd led to marlene walking out, or steve rogers to tell him he should be nicer to his housekeeper. not the sort that had led to samuels and nedda being DISAPPOINTED that they weren't working almost solely for steven grant like they used to, when marc spector was an infrequent appearance. but lottie's seen enough to have a picture. an idea.
the sort of cold anger that is pointed until it's burned out, replaced with regret. now it's the former rather than the latter, and he shifts his weight when she more-or-less asks him what the fuck he's doing and, in not so many words, who the fuck he thinks he is. a dismissive gesture, and— )
You don't. (get him, he means. ) You had a chance to talk. It's passed.
[ Somewhere, probably in Caroline's bougie apartment in the more expensive part of New York, she is thriving just knowing she's caused a rift to this extent between Lottie and Marc. Now, right here, Lottie is not living. She's not exactly thriving. She is all the unpleasant things she thinks of herself and more as Marc doesn't give into her tears and talks to her. He doubles down and confirms that she doesn't get him, that it's actually her who messed all this up.
He hits her where it hurts and for that, she simmers. Feels stupid wearing his things and wants to yank it off her frame, so she does. She throws his black shirt over to his side, angry and topless and bristling at how fucking cold she leaves it in this house. She shivers, but not before grabbing her side of the blanket to wrestle up and give her some modesty. ]
Fine! Go home to your dusty ass coffin!
[ A beat, where she turns her back to him, huffy and upset before she says over her shoulder. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Lottie, also, prefers him to come and apologize at some point in the night, or even in the morning. He can come in with coffee, or have something delivered to her apartment and he can coo and whisper at her that he was so very wrong and that she's so sexy babe let's go watch all of Jersey Shore.
..Realistically, she knows this will never happen, but it's a nice fantasy to have. One she is thinking of right now as she gets ready for bed. In usual Lottie fashion, even after she has banished him to the couch, she is still getting ready to go to sleep. Taking off her face, putting her falsies away after cleaning those (getting rid of glue, running a soft wash over them and drying), moisturizing her face and plucking her brows.
It takes just shy of an hour by the time she's done, by the time her face is natural and the dark circles under her eyes are a little more prominent on her soft skin. She's traded in her dress for one of his shirts (black), and her shorts (also blackβ freshly bought because she hardly wears dark colors and she wanted to match). By the time she does fall asleep, it is hours later. Her phone is off to the side somewhere, half hidden under her pillow and half out. Lottie Person is not a pretty sleeper by all means, but she is a clingy one when her mood dictates. And considering she went to bed feeling sour, feeling sad and angry, needy, the pillow they've both designated as his is held tight in her arms, her face buried into it like she's trying to smell him as much she can. ]
no subject
things to do and things to read to pass the time.
(what time? who knows, it's not as if marc spends any time by himself relaxing if he can help it.)
here, at lottie's, there's none of that. sure, he could turn on the tv but the sound would travel and he doesn't want to give lottie the satisfaction of knowing he's given in. that he's been bothered enough by the evening to turn to netflix, or whatever other streaming channels she has programmed to her tv.
which is to say, the hour (or so) is a long hour. dull and tedious. he's left with his thoughts, which are equally tedious, equally as frustrating, and do little in the way of not winding him up further.
(not in the sense of antagonism, but in the vague, perpetual guilt that marc's so skilled at encompassing.)
it's a little (lot) while after that, after he's had time to mull over his own self-flagellation, after he's had time to toss and turn on the uncomfortable-yet-more-comfortable-(technically)-than-his-sarcophagus couch, that he makes his way towards the bedroom. brief hesitancy at the door before it's pushed minimally open, light from the hallway spilling in through the crack.
lottie's either asleep or pretending to be, he can tell from the way her hair's fanned out (inelegantly) across the bed, from the way that her face is pressed—
—oh.
he sighs and shifts his weight, then pads quietly towards the bed, stilling at the foot. debating, silently, as to whether to leave her like that or—.
eventually, he decides to make his way around the bed, to the side closest to the pillow she's gripping. slowly, carefully, cautiously, he starts to pull it from her grasp. )
no subject
They're books that she got given to for free and has never read, collects dust in a box somewhere or is clearly used for decoration rather than any real purpose to entertain. When she's bored, she has her computer or phone. She has her TV. She has Marc, who she pointedly is devoid of in bed, so she breathes in his pillow a little deeper in her sleepy stupor to make up for his absence. She dreams of something pleasant, of the two of them at the beach (an uncharacteristic action for Marc, because his skin is so pale and in her dream he's still wearing his suit).
They're sat on the sand and the sky is pinks and purples, it's dreamy and atmospheric. She curls her arms around the pillow tighter as the door creaks open, as Marc surveys her from the safety he's always allowed himself: distance. It's idyllic as they hold hands, his gloves off and calloused skin brushing over her soft one. She looks him in the eyes and leans in for a kiss, her hair tickling at his face.
He won't see how she melts into him in her dreams, but he'll see the way she nuzzles into the pillow as he makes his way around the bed.
Marc's footsteps as he pads through her messy room are quiet, a stark contrast to the way Caroline enters the frame in her fantasy. Marc's face twists away from Lottie's and it is right in time for when he gently tries to coerce the pillow away from her. Her brows twist, Lottie making the tiniest little noise of discontent as her grip lessens and he's allowed his pillow.
Even in her sleep, the lack of him (his smell, his scent) makes her begin to twist and turn. Frown, in that usual Lottie way that means she's upset. Eventually, she settles on her sideβ the opposite to where she was before, reaching somewhere behind her for the blanket, in her daze. ]
no subject
he has no idea that she might be dreaming of them. no idea that her thoughts are of something — for him — absurd. the beach! the sun! absolutely nothing he's likely to indulge in any time soon. he would have, when he'd been younger, before he'd discovered his conscience and guilt.
the pillow's released into his grasp and lottie makes a noise. it's cute, even if it's slightly laboured, even if it's slightly stuffy. she turns away from it all, twists at the same time as her features twist, and grasps blindly, automatically, for the covers.
marc inhales and pauses, gaze resting on lottie, on the way she's sprawled across the expanse of the bed, on the way she's somehow managing to take up every aspect of the bed despite being curled up on one side. it's remarkable, and—.
he presses his weight onto the bed, slowly and carefully, readjusts the pillow so it's sat against the headboard. then, he pulls the blanket and drapes it over lottie, makes sure she's covered. it's tender and delicate in a way that marc doesn't often let anyone see. )
no subject
She's calmed enough to allow him a few precious minutes of getting cozy, of thinking he succeeded in sneaking into bed and maybe her good graces. He could've curled an arm around her and tugged her close and he'd succeed, or he could've nuzzled his face into her hair (still, miraculously, taking up his space and his pillow) and she wouldn't do a thing.
(She'd probably make a sleepy little whimper, in fact.)
The calm doesn't last, though, because once those minutes are up she jolts awake, body jerking to life as she gasps. And if it were anyone else other than Lottie, it'd end there. But noβ because she woke up so quickly, so dramatically, her nose is running and she's groaning. She's coughing out phlegm against her will because she breathed a little too hard and she's lightheaded. A hand reaches out for a tissue to clean herself, that same arm trembling slightly as her heartbeat skyrockets for no reason other than her stupid dream.
So into herself, Lottie doesn't even notice Marc's presence at first. Doesn't even see him, either (her eyes are, predictably, watery and blearyβ the usual routine for a Lottie who is waking up and can't see). ]
no subject
he doesn't move, doesn't say anything, not immediately. his gaze rests on her, watchful and uncertain because it's clear lottie hasn't registered his presence. their approach to waking and wakefulness are worlds apart out of necessity: marc's tends to be immediate. it's reluctant but necessary awareness of his surroundings because the opposite's always been dangerous. the opposite's always sat uncomfortably, always been at odds with the creeping paranoia a near-permanent part of him.
lottie's is always like this, a laboured, almost resigned focus on herself because she needs to deal with herself first — her nose, her eyes, the stream of quote-unquote liquids that leak throughout the night. it's—
—well, it's not charming, but given marc usually ends up covered in an assortment of biohazards on a nightly basis, he doesn't have any room to talk.
what he does do though, is shift his weight, ever so slightly. a near-silent announcement of his presence. )
no subject
[ It's near-silent, but not silent enough, because she is groggily saying his name like she has no idea why he's even there. And it's because, hm, she doesn't. Lottie has no idea why Marc is in her bed, because she remembers how their conversation went. How she stormed off and, most importantly, how he didn't stop her. She balls up the tissue in her hand slowly, glancing around as if she can tell the time from how dark it is (late?).
And it's terrible, because Lottie immediately is relaxed with his weight to the side of her. With his smell finally coating the sheets, and she almost gives in and reaches out to hold him but doesn't. That's right, it settles on her face, she's upset. And tired! And she doesn't care if Marc looks like a needy cute cat. It's a tired whisper, ]
What the heck are you doing?
no subject
story of his life—.
his pause is weighted, considered. the pull of his features says he's deciding between two answers but it doesn't last long. marc has never been all that great when presented with AN OPTION in terms of choosing the correct response. reading the room isn't an inherent skill he's ever been blessed with, isn't soemthing he's ever succeeded in developing. he's almost constantly, consistently, far too caught up in his own head to be able to really, truly figure anything like that out.
so, instead of something like 'I missed you', which isn't untrue and more likely to be the sort of comment lottie would like to hear, he settles for— )
The couch was uncomfortable.
no subject
Her hands snatch her own pillow and a comforter she's had folded off to the side from when Rosie spent a month or so with her during her almost divorce. Lottie is no stranger to sleeping on her off white, stylishly semi-in-season couch, so if Marc's sensibilities are too muchβ ]
It was fine when I slept on it before.
[ And she opens the door, leaves it ajar for him to do whatever he wants as she sets up her own little bed on the section of cushion his body clearly didn't touch, making a quiet but compelling show of it as she unfurls the blanket in one dramatic upswing. ]
no subject
there's a moment where lottie's expression isn't even annoyed, it's groggy and sleepy and piecemeal, and then she grabs her pillow and a cover, and marc's expression twists into an expression of annoyed, frustrated dismay. a non-verbal expression of fuck— at lottie's reaction (rather than an apology, rather than acknowledgement that he's fucked up.)
he watches her, coldly but not exactly calmly because that's never been marc. he likes to think he is, likes to think he's cold rage and ice and calculated, but he's never been. he's awkward, immediate volatility punctuated by regret. this is that. there's a small, vague part of him (not him) that knows he should apologise, that knows he's in the wrong.
it's not any part of him that he chooses to acknowledge right now, not any part of him that he wants to acknowledge beyond the low, petulant, petty, belated exclamation (mutter) of— )
—Fuck's sake.
no subject
(If she weren't as pissed he absolutely could've got away with this. Lottie would've got on his case in the morning after refusing to give him kisses and blueballing him for a little bit. Make him squirm on her playing field so she could interrogate him with the same bravado he gave her.)
The door opens one more time after she's clearly done arranging her bed for the night. The light illuminating her form, letting him see his shirt on her frame and her little shorts in far clearer lighting. She slips in through the crack, and what does she do?
That's right. She grabs her phone to take with her. ]
no subject
and so he doesn't move when the door opens, doesn't move at the spilling of light from behind her. silently, with only the barest inclinations of his head, he tracks her movements. listens to the deliberate, pointed quiet of her footsteps. it's only when he realises what she's come back into the room for that he turns to look at her, a sharp snap of attention and an expression that's equal parts demanding as it is challenging.
a scrunch of his nose and the curve of his lips and though he doesn't say anything, not for the moment, the meaning's clear: what are you doing? )
no subject
(She does the same thing when Marc gets up, that tiny little tilt of the head, one ear out, when he can't sleep and he moves to stare out of her balcony window. Does it until he comes back to bed or until she finds the silence lulling.)
He's devoting every second of himself to her in this moment and it makes Lottie feel good to know it, how he wants her to come grovel to him that he was right but he's not. In the end, she doesn't. She turns the brightness down and just looks down at Marc, who is looking up at her so childishly, so curiously. And after a moment of staring, keeping their eyes locked, she brings a hand up to kiss her fingertipsβ moves those same fingers over to his cheek. Pats it onceβ ]
Don't stay up too late.
[ (Is it catty and a little rude to say that when she knows he has sleeping issues?? Yes.) ]
no subject
he bats her hand away impatiently and doesn't say anything. he sits up and away from her, swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands before carefully, item by item, collecting his (few, almost entirely moon knight) belongings. a dismissive, disinterested wave of a hand over his shoulder to say how he little he doesn't care (he cares) before informing her, brusquely, bluntly, that— )
I have work to do.
( then, his boots. he sits back down to put them on (it's easier), and there's a second, just one, where he looks up towards lottie. the set of his jaw, the knit of his brows, all of it says there's another comment sat right there, on the tip of his tongue and that it's not indecision that has him not speaking. it's not hesitancy. it's him giving her the chance to say something before he adds it. )
no subject
It stings and it shocks her, how he bats her hand away. That wasβ that is not how this is supposed to go! He picked a fight with her, she has a right to be mad because he's being unreasonable! He's being rude and mean and making her feel bad when none of this is her fault. It's his. If he didn't get weird about Caroline none of this would've happened. Why is Marc so frustrating??
It doesn't matter that he's standing up, sitting back down, his broad back cast to her. It doesn't even matter that he's looking to her, giving her one chance to say something, to maybe change his mind, because the dam is broken and Lottie's eyes water. She isn't even looking at him, just staring down at the imprint he left behind on the sheets. How he's taking the time to gather his Moon Knight ensemble so delicately but not even making her (their) stupid bed before he..? He. Heβ ]
Why is it okay for you to be mean to me but when I do it, Marc has to go home? Marc has work! Marc doesn't want to talk!
[ It bursts out, pure frustration coupled with an unattractive wobble to her voice. ]
What the fuck! It's like I don't get you sometimes!
no subject
marc has, often, been not nice to lottie. she's seen his temper and his moods — not the worst of them, not the sort of tantrums that'd led to marlene walking out, or steve rogers to tell him he should be nicer to his housekeeper. not the sort that had led to samuels and nedda being DISAPPOINTED that they weren't working almost solely for steven grant like they used to, when marc spector was an infrequent appearance. but lottie's seen enough to have a picture. an idea.
the sort of cold anger that is pointed until it's burned out, replaced with regret. now it's the former rather than the latter, and he shifts his weight when she more-or-less asks him what the fuck he's doing and, in not so many words, who the fuck he thinks he is. a dismissive gesture, and— )
You don't. ( get him, he means. ) You had a chance to talk. It's passed.
no subject
He hits her where it hurts and for that, she simmers. Feels stupid wearing his things and wants to yank it off her frame, so she does. She throws his black shirt over to his side, angry and topless and bristling at how fucking cold she leaves it in this house. She shivers, but not before grabbing her side of the blanket to wrestle up and give her some modesty. ]
Fine! Go home to your dusty ass coffin!
[ A beat, where she turns her back to him, huffy and upset before she says over her shoulder. ]
And we are not going to the museum tomorrow!!