( 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
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!!