( it's not the bumps and bruises that are the issue, not in and of themselves, it's the how and the why. in their line of work, they're nothing unexpected, nothing especially — typically — complex, but that doesn't mean they're something he's inclined to just roll over and accept. that he's willing to skip over because they're part and parcel.
he doesn't catch any sign of the disappointment, he's never been aware enough for any of that, not even when it'd been marlene, not even when it'd been greer. he does follow the trace of her finger moving along his cheek and then reaching his hair, before—
oh.
she moves away and he manages to look startled, just for a moment, before she commits — actually commits — to the idea of washing his hair. he hadn't expected it, not really, had thought it not exactly a joke but one of those things that's said to diffuse the moment, to soften and to ease. belatedly, then, he offers her a wave of a hand rather than a verbal answer to her question: yeah, fine, he'll take it.
it's not an approach he gets or would get if it was explained to him. marc's never sought out company as a solution to the problem posed by doing what he does, or as an answer to the struggle of being himself. he wouldn't know where to start and so doesn't imagine, not really, that mundanity — relatively speaking — is something that helps her.
still, he ducks his head, compliant and agreeable. not exactly moreso than usual — marc's disagreeableness is often directed at opinions and suggestions more than actions — but it is without remark. he doesn't have to look up through strands of wet hair to see her, because even with his head lowered down towards her, the height difference is still enough that he can look at her with ease.
there's a comment to be made about how it's been a long time since anyone's done this for him, but even he knows it'd be ridiculous. it'd kill anything approaching a pleasant mood, and he's not funny enough to pull it off regardless.
instead, his gaze is equal parts watchful and equal parts contemplative, almost searching. ) You know I'm not a superhero.
no subject
he doesn't catch any sign of the disappointment, he's never been aware enough for any of that, not even when it'd been marlene, not even when it'd been greer. he does follow the trace of her finger moving along his cheek and then reaching his hair, before—
oh.
she moves away and he manages to look startled, just for a moment, before she commits — actually commits — to the idea of washing his hair. he hadn't expected it, not really, had thought it not exactly a joke but one of those things that's said to diffuse the moment, to soften and to ease. belatedly, then, he offers her a wave of a hand rather than a verbal answer to her question: yeah, fine, he'll take it.
it's not an approach he gets or would get if it was explained to him. marc's never sought out company as a solution to the problem posed by doing what he does, or as an answer to the struggle of being himself. he wouldn't know where to start and so doesn't imagine, not really, that mundanity — relatively speaking — is something that helps her.
still, he ducks his head, compliant and agreeable. not exactly moreso than usual — marc's disagreeableness is often directed at opinions and suggestions more than actions — but it is without remark. he doesn't have to look up through strands of wet hair to see her, because even with his head lowered down towards her, the height difference is still enough that he can look at her with ease.
there's a comment to be made about how it's been a long time since anyone's done this for him, but even he knows it'd be ridiculous. it'd kill anything approaching a pleasant mood, and he's not funny enough to pull it off regardless.
instead, his gaze is equal parts watchful and equal parts contemplative, almost searching. ) You know I'm not a superhero.