( it's unexpected. marc has never been good at reading the room, it's why he'd been so surprised when jean-paul had told him he'd loved marc, why he'd stammered out a question of 'was I the only person who didn't know?', why he'd followed it up with a frustrated, less-than-gracious 'you should have told me', and why he hadn't had anything to say when jean-paul had pointed out he'd told marc every day by staying by his fucking side. it's why marlene had made the first move, greer too. it's equal parts obliviousness mixed with self-loathing to form a deep-seated response of 'wait, what—?'
there's a half-second, when natasha's lips, wet with shower water, glance his, where he thinks of marlene. it's not because he misses her (he doesn't, not anymore), not because natasha reminds him of her (at all—), but because he thinks, quite suddenly, of all the times she'd instigated something in the indoor pool at grant manor. all the times she hadn't had a care for if samuels or nedda would walk in and interrupt and by contrast, the kiss feels almost chaste.
there are comments he thinks he ought to make — about how the 'not staying dead' thing wasn't exactly a trick, how it's part of his debt, his duty, all part and parcel of being an avatar for an insane bird god, but none of it goes any further than a vague consideration, loose formations of words at the edge of his thoughts. (it'd ruin the — moment? the this.)
his eyebrows arch, eyes wide. a pause and then he kisses her back, one hand settling on the curve of her waist as he lowers his head to make it less of a stretch up for her.
a moment after that, he pulls away, just a touch, just enough to speak and offer a belated— ) I'm not a magician. ( because tricks, right? )
no subject
there's a half-second, when natasha's lips, wet with shower water, glance his, where he thinks of marlene. it's not because he misses her (he doesn't, not anymore), not because natasha reminds him of her (at all—), but because he thinks, quite suddenly, of all the times she'd instigated something in the indoor pool at grant manor. all the times she hadn't had a care for if samuels or nedda would walk in and interrupt and by contrast, the kiss feels almost chaste.
there are comments he thinks he ought to make — about how the 'not staying dead' thing wasn't exactly a trick, how it's part of his debt, his duty, all part and parcel of being an avatar for an insane bird god, but none of it goes any further than a vague consideration, loose formations of words at the edge of his thoughts. (it'd ruin the — moment? the this.)
his eyebrows arch, eyes wide. a pause and then he kisses her back, one hand settling on the curve of her waist as he lowers his head to make it less of a stretch up for her.
a moment after that, he pulls away, just a touch, just enough to speak and offer a belated— ) I'm not a magician. ( because tricks, right? )