( the address is more than enough for her — she can trace it back to any number of aliases, cross reference it with what she knows of him already (admittedly not much, it’s rude to dig too far on your casual whatever-they-are’s), file it away for later. for the moment, she’s too interested in what is waiting for her there —
she breaks in through the back door with a set of lock picks, disabling the security system with a well-placed mini charge of electricity mostly because she can.
when he comes in, she’s already in the shower. the noise bounces off the tile walls and out through the door she’s left open — not just for an invitation, but for security purposes. blood washes down the drain in rivulets, the bulk of it being washed out of her hair, clothes abandoned in a pile in a corner that she was careful not to let touch any bath mats or rugs in case the blood transfers. )
( he doesn't bother replying, figures the silence is enough of an answer for the two of them. of course it has hot water, he's not completely absurd.
for most of the people he deals with, the security system's enough to put them off. for the remainder, it's enough to warn him that someone's there, that someone's tampered with it. when he gets the alert to his phone — that it's inactive — he thinks that the timing's too convenient for it to be anyone other than natasha.
he's about fifteen minutes after her, long enough for the apartment to have warmed up from the escaping steam from the shower, from the heat of the pipes. he could have gotten changed, could have dressed in either a clean suit (the three-piece, the white everything) or something else entirely, but he hasn't. it's white enough, but with just enough dirt here and there, just enough red on the gloves and the sleeves to say what kind of night he's had.
the gloves are peeled off and dumped on a table that was probably originally a dining table and then repurposed as a desk and then a general dumping ground whilst the jacket and the waistcoat are draped over the back of a chair.
the shower and the open door make it just humid enough to be uncomfortable, and he rolls the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, stopping in the open doorway to the bathroom. his gaze drifts over the discarded pile of clothes pushed neatly into a pile away from anything of his (cute but unnecessary — marc's had a lot of experience with getting blood out of near enough everything, a lot of experience trailing blood over near enough every room in every property he owns.)
a lingering pause, and then his lack of preciousness is emphasised by the way he — finally — opts to remove his boots (white, of course, leather chelsea boots — not entirely practical, but they look good). they're left just to one side of the open door. )
( she hears him come in — pauses long enough to listen to the noise of his boots on the floor and compare it to what she assumes his body weight is, and the unhurried pace of his gait. definitely marc. that established, she goes back to washing the suds out of her hair, having helped herself to the ancient looking shampoo and body wash to one side (his? someone else’s? any port in a storm…)
the footsteps linger around the space, then stop at what she assumes is the door. it’s a nice enough place for just a side property — modern open concept, an updated bathroom, a rainfall shower big enough for four and a glass divider to the rest of the room (steamed up a bit).
turning to watch him out of the corner of her eye through the steam, she drops her hands to a loufa she’s reclaimed from under the sink, pours body wash on it and lathers. )
I know a guy. ( kick ass dry cleaner in china town who will also make sure any trace of DNA doesn’t end up in any database anywhere. ) I never liked that dress anyway.
( the shoes were a real loss, though. )
You know I think that’s the most skin I’ve seen on you ever. ( she gestures with one soapy hand at his forearms, his neck, his uncovered face. ) Aren’t you hot in all that?
( he huffs a breath that's definitely a laugh, albeit quiet enough that it's impossible to hear over the sound of the running water. the quirk of his lips is answer enough in terms of a 'yes' — the suit is perpetually, uncomfortably hot and sticky and humid, but he's used to it.
he loosens the tie next, then the top few buttons of the shirt, and then he shrugs. it's — for him — a relatively relaxed action, lacking in the usual coiled tension he usually carries in his neck and in his shoulders. )
Most people don't need to know who's under the mask, ( he answers. it's not the truth, that'd be too simple. that marc sector is moon knight isn't exactly a secret — in a spectacularly non-violent breakdown (for him), he'd faked his death and run off to los angeles and had opted — he, not steven! — to film a tv show about fucking khonshu—. his identity is not only plastered on news websites from years past, but also on IMDB of all website—.
(it's a matter of personal pride, then.)
still, the heat from the shower is enough to make him feel stickier than normal, for his hair to curl at the edges and fall messily, untidily (mask hair is a problem—) into his eyes. )
( it's odd, this. he's staring, but he's not staring. not ogling at her the way she's used to, the way most men (even the good ones) would be tempted to do in this situation and this proximity. not staring in any way that prickles under her skin or makes her want to shrink. just .. observing. watching. relaxing into pulling at his tie, a shrug that she's nearly certain she's mis-seen through the fog on the glass between them.
soapy water runs a rivulet through a shallow gash on her arm, breaking the moment as she sucks in a quick hiss, clasping a hand to it. so, she'd lied. some of the blood had been hers. but comparatively? not anything to worry about. she's always bounced back faster than most. )
Let me guess — ( she covers smoothly, as though she hadn't just bent in pain; there's a tightness to the edge of her voice. ) Fashion is suffering. It wouldn't be as impressive if you were just wearing normal clothes.
( setting the loofah aside, she turns to focus on washing off her back, her hand still covering the wound. a little soap wouldn't kill her, and she'd bandage it after she was out. )
If you play your cards right, I'll wash your hair for you.
( he could stare. he could make this uncomfortable. he's always been quite good at it — misunderstanding conversations with marlene, misreading signs with maya, mis-everything with greer. it's not that natasha's not attractive (she is), it's not that she's not his type (she is), but that standing and ogling wouldn't do anything. not for her and not for him.
(how many men has she had to put up with staring at her? countless, probably.)
her shape and her movements are partially obscured, unclear behind the fogged-up glass of the shower screen and the pattering and the splashing of the water. still, he catches the slight, sharp movement, though he doesn't manage to piece together quite what nor why before she talks, before she redirects the conversation. )
It wouldn't, ( he agrees, tone mild and almost conversational. it's punctuated by a pause, one that hangs between them as she remarks that if he's good (essentially), she'll wash his hair, and he's not quite sure what to make of it — which means, ultimately, that he ignores it. ) I know I've told you, ( he adds instead, although he's not sure if he has or if he's just so used to it being common knowledge — or as common as anything is in their line of work. ) I like them to see me coming.
( he finishes unbuttoning the shirt and pulls it off, dumping it unceremoniously on the floor. he'll deal with it later. tomorrow? after sleeping, whatever time and day that ends up meaning for his laundry. socks after that, then belt, and then—.
a head, appearing quite suddenly at the edge of the shower. his gaze flickers from her to her face to her arm, pauses, the back to her face. pointedly, dryly. ) Let me look at it.
( marc does that when she says something that he’s not sure how to reply to — skims past it like it never happened, like she’ll forget about it. at first she’d wondered if he was really that clueless, but it’s endearing now that she’s placed it as part of a larger pattern. the same pattern that has him not staring at her (but not not staring). the same one that has him shimmying carefully out of his clothes rather than ripping them off with eagerness.
she hears the belt hit the floor, buckle making a clatter. smiling inwardly, she’s tossed a glance over her shoulder when his head appears around the glass, lips curved. )
What are you going to do? Kiss it better? ( natasha teases, gaze dropping to her arm as she pulls her palm away. the gash isn’t deep; could be a knife or bullet graze. a red angry line, slightly swollen, but not bleeding. ) I’ve had worse.
( there are signs of worse — silvered scars up and down her arms, more dramatic marks (bullet wounds, probably) on her back and stomach, and deeper scars. a body well-worn, experienced. made her envy steve sometimes and the way he could shrug off anything.
shifting under the rainfall shower, she beckons him in, reaching for shampoo. )
If I let you fuss, will you let me wash your back?
( the water from the shower flattens his hair, presses stray, almost-curls into his eyes, irritating, and he pushes them back with one hand, the other extended towards her, towards her arm.
his gaze dances over her scars, not calculating, not exactly curious. somewhere in between, something that understands the sort of life led to get not just one, nor two, nor a handful, but a bodyful. he doesn't ask anyone why they do what they do — not his business, first of all, and two, the answers tend to be personal, even for those that posit 'it's just a job'. it's never just a job, there's always something else there. another reason, whether it's acknowledged or not. )
Sure, tough girl. ( he remarks, lips quirking momentarily as amusement threatens briefly to break free, as his expression smoothes into a there-and-it's-gone smile. )
Just because you've had worse, doesn't mean you have to let this one become worse, ( he adds, ignoring the way she reaches for the shampoo. instead, he curls a hand around her arm, below the cut. his fingers are rough, calloused, but his touch isn't. she's right, it's not that bad, not really, not in the grand scheme of things, but that doesn't mean much given everything.
he knows he doesn't look a whole lot better than her, if at all. his back is lined with scars, some not too dissimilar from the one above his eye (knives), the rest — like her — most likely the result of bullets. knees (both) that have clearly experienced a sharp drop and sudden, unpleasant stop at some point (a fire escape, an open parentheses before a myriad of awful, terrible, shitty fucking decisions bookended by the idea to fake his own death and hide out in mexico). the more recent — a variety of bruises a rich assortment of colours from black and blue to ugly yellow, an overt reminder that marc tends to treat the idea of defense as a vague suggestion, something that's only occasionally useful.
(he'd argue that there's something to be said for the psychological effect it has and whilst it's true — tony (taskmaster, not the other tony) certainly wasn't a fan of the approach — that's not the only reason for it.
he hasn't dwelled too much on the alternatives.) )
( he’s assessing, watching her in a way that she can’t immediately place. it’s not lustful. it’s not pitying (thank god, or she’d kick his sorry ass out of the shower immediately). it’s not … anything. for the first time, natasha wonders who she’s gotten herself involved with. it’s the most neutral reaction anyone has had to her body (not just that, but the scars on it) in years. even clint had sucked in a breath — )
Fine. ( she gives in, hiding how she jumps a little under his touch with a conciliatory smile. her eyes roam from his face, capturing the expression (was that a smile), to the rest of him. he’s as marked as she is, or worse.
reaching out with gentle fingertips, she ghosts them across a mottled purple bruise, frowning. )
Kick in the ribs? Today? ( it’s a guess, with an experienced eye behind it. pressing closer under the spray, she lifts her arm to give him a better look, submitting only because it allows her to get closer to him and give him a second once-over, looking for more egregious injuries. )
( it's not that he doesn't find her attractive — the opposite, in fact. (he's not blind.) but marc spector is awkward. difficult. he's had a lot of practise in making himself unavailable and off-putting, at emphasising his worse traits and refusing to acknowledge anything else.
on a mission in symkaria, one of the few times he'd managed to pull himself together long enough to be an avenger, he'd commented that he'd spent time in the worst places in the world with the worst people in the world, and he still holds that true. not all of them had been like bushman, some of them had been quiet in their cruelty. raoul, though, raoul had been brutal and marc had turned a blind eye. he'd ignored jean-paul telling him that signing up with his crew was a bad idea, ignored his own gut when it'd said that he'd fucked up (again). he'd ignored, too, the first time he'd seen raoul with his metal teeth, sinking them into another man's flesh just to prove a point.
(he'd said something about fear, and marc had just shrugged.)
natasha's scars are a story in and of themselves, but it's not his place to ask what. not now, at least.
he barely notices the way she leverages her agreement with getting a closer look at him, the oddest game of I'll show you mine if you show me yours. his gaze does shift, sharply and suddenly, when she traces her fingertips over a bruise. it's only fleeting, focus moving back to her arm with an inelegant grunt in answer to her question. today, yesterday, most days. )
I've got wipes and bandages. Not much more than that, but you don't need much more than that.
( out of everyone, she'd expect him not to bat an eye at bumps and bruises — least of all on her. she's seen civilians shy away from touching her, seen the moment they recoil, usually accompanied by a gasp. at least he doesn't do that. but marc spector doesn't seem to want to flirt when she's injured and a part of her is ... disappointed. not annoyed, not really; it comes from a good place (probably). but she doesn't want a good place, not after what she just did (had to do).
still, it's his choice. his house, technically. moving her fingers away from the bruise, she touches his cheek and then a lock of hair under the spray. not curly, but not entirely straight either. )
Satisfied I'm not going to bleed to death? ( if it had been that serious, she wouldn't have dragged herself over here. pulling herself gently out of his grasp, she dumps shampoo from the bottle in one hand into the palm of the other, setting it back on a ledge and then reaching for him again. ) At least let me wash your hair.
( it's not about washing his hair. it's not really about him at all. but if she can do this, provide this small amount of comfort... maybe it'll make her feel a little more human. a little less like a machine, a little less like the weapon they made her. it's always a tentative compromise, after a mission like this. how much will she do to revive herself? how much will she lose to a void she's been taught to stare at since childhood? )
You're going to have to lower your head a bit. Must be a super hero requirement to be over six feet. ( there's a distance in the smile in her voice. )
( 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.
( a part of her is surprised when he actually does it — lowers his head, lets her weave her hands into his hair and start massaging, building up suds. it's odd, doing this for another person — but she doesn't dislike it. it gives her something to focus on; making sure that the spray is angled away from him so that the suds don't drip into his eyes, ensuring she doesn't miss any spots and works the shampoo into his scalp. if she's self conscious with him looking down at her when they're both naked, she doesn't bother to show it.
instead, once he speaks, she makes a noise low in her throat — almost like an absent sound, like she's stopped paying attention. )
Says the guy who runs around in a cape and a mask. ( the response is tart, smile a touch more present than before. she glances over at the door, his pile of clothes with those two items conspicuously absent. ) I expected you to wear the mask in the shower, too.
( not that her jumpsuit is any better — but she hadn't been wearing it together. the blood stained heap is much more casual than that. a tight black dress. a wrap that matches but isn't too matchy-matchy. heels that are definitely ruined. the jumpsuit was good for certain situations; breaking and entering, recon, silent wet work. but to get in to normal places? you had to dress like a civilian. and she's an expert at blending in, no matter how distinctive her hair or other parts of her appearance.
snaking her arms around his neck, she massages shampoo into his nape, taking a few extra moments to press her fingers against a few knots she discovers on the side of his neck — irritated muscles. )
You don't seem too much like a priest right now. ( her gaze dropping from his face to his bare chest, the bow of his waist, a little lower pointedly. ) No vow of celibacy?
Edited (bc i forgot what she was wearing at the beginning, rip) 2023-11-03 22:55 (UTC)
Please. You and I both know it's not just heroes that run around in capes and masks. ( and marc had made the point once, to andrea, his doctor, that his outfits, his chosen clothing, were the clothes of a dead man. where the cape was a shroud, the suit was the chosen outfit of funerals; suitable for a man who's died a handful of times and caused more.
but where the remark could be argumentative, it's instead dry commentary, an explanation that circles the edges of amusement as her smile — small but there — is almost audible. it earns a quirk of his lips and a dismissive wave of his hand, movement that brushes against her skin though he doesn't offer immediate acknowledgement. )Besides, the mask gets sweaty. It's not very breathable.
( a foot of height between them isn't all that comfortable, isn't all that easy to manoeuvre and marc shifts his weight, a little awkward, as her arms work around the back of his neck and into his hair (needs cutting, he realises abruptly—), as her fingers press into his skin and he makes a noise that's part surprised, part (almost-not-quite)-pained and part pleasured. mostly, it's a moan-slash-groan of VARYING DESCRIPTION.
and then she speaks again and his gaze shifts. it doesn't meet hers, not as she's busy dropping hers down and down again. he's treated to the top of her head, to a glancing view of her features, to her hair pressed wet, slick against her skin and he—.
exhales. a short, sharp laugh of surprise crossed with disagreement. )
Not all priests are Christian. ( he lowers his head, just a touch. ) The God I grew up with had a very different opinion on the matter.
Not breathable. Right. ( a good natured grumble, blinking as her eyelashes stick together under the water. the steam and humidity is doing a good job at soothing her aches and pains out, drawing attention to places where she'll be more sore tomorrow; a bruise blooming across one hip, another one on her knee. nothing life threatening, definitely nothing as urgent as the cut on her arm, and even that had stopped doing more than throbbing.
the spray of the shower is doing a good job of rinsing his hair, as well as washing the shampoo off her hands, so she gives him (and herself, to be honest) a break. it's easier to rest her wrists on his shoulders to massage a knot in his trapezius that feels like it's lived there for a long time. the noise he makes goes straight through her, and she glances up at him sharply, making sure that she hasn't truly hurt him. the only way to loosen that sort of knot would be to put pressure on it, but her goal wasn't to cause pain. at least — not only. )
You know, I wasn't sure if you could laugh. ( the noise had startled her a bit, eyes widening until they creased at the corners with a smile of her own. a real one; not the one she paints on and rips off at will. amusement. there's lot to be amused about in this case. for starters — the weirdest conversation she's ever had while naked with a man.
(the longest conversation she's ever had while naked with a man, at least pre-'getting down to business'.)
feeling a bit of the muscle under her fingers relax, she digs her thumb into one last stubborn spot. )
So what was his opinion on it? 'Be fruitful and multiply'?
( when she stops moving, stops washing his hair, he closes for one moment, then two. he won't admit how long it's been since he's showered with someone else rather than alone, and it's — nice, the warmth not just from the water and the steam but from the presence of another body relaxing. ordinarily, showers are perfunctory affairs, in-and-out, something done because going to bed covered in blood and dirt and grime is frowned upon.
he reopens his eyes when she suggests she didn't know he was capable of laughing, and the noise the comment earns sits between a hmph and almost good-natured self-awareness. consideration that suggests she might have a point.
he looks as if he wants to retort, offer an equally unflattering but not unkind commentary of her that doesn't get much further than being thought about when his expression sharpens at the question, internal debate reflected in his features. ) Almost. ( a breath of a pause and a searching gaze, curious. natasha's never struck him as particularly religious and though it's not something he relates to in spite of his own difficult relationship with god (—gods), he doesn't blame her. he'd given up one god in favour of another simply because the first had seemed cruel. indifferent. unanswering. the second turned out to be much the same as the first, though easier to find. ) A divine gift and a holy obligation.
( that'd been the first. the second had never stipulated, although khonshu's lack of pleasure over his daughter's existence said enough. his goading, his taunts, his existence during nights spent with marlene said more.
a dry addition— )
—Between man and wife, mostly. I wasn't very good at that part.
( religion is, to be honest, much like political ideology — nice in principle, beautiful even. easily corrupted, so often applied to damage others, and not quite an area of interest of natasha's unless it could be used for leverage. it begs the question why she's even bothering to tease him, given the number of religious figures she's, ahem. corrupted. maybe it's just too easy, the way he becomes serious, his eyes sharp on her face.
she huffs a quiet sound, almost like a snort. divine gift and holy obligation. well, never let it be said that sex positivity is dead —
oh. right. there's the kicker. )
You and everyone else. ( natasha presses her fingers in to the knot one last time, feels it release and muscle unbunch under her hands. satisfied, she smooths her hand over his shoulder, then back up to the nape of his neck, resting there under the spray. he's warm, the smell of shampoo suffusing the small damp space, and for a moment she's tempted to just crowd in close, rest her head against his chest and close her eyes.
sentimental. surprising, given who she is. given who he is. still, the fatigue is apparent in the way she rolls her head to one side, eyes growing slightly more heavy lidded. )
So, what happens now? Divine retribution? Lightning strikes you down for your ... ( her voice trails off in a husky tease — )Indiscretions?
( the teasing is light, inoffensive. it's almost cute, if such a word is applicable. he thinks it's not, not in any typical fashion, but—.
marc had grown up religious — it'd been impossible not to, with his father being who he was. he'd grown up believing in a god he didn't quite understand, couldn't reconcile with what he thought versus what his father taught him. boyish and then teenage rebelliousness and a desire to butt against the idea of pacifism as an answer sitting ugly against frustration and disappointment; estrangement and being disowned. then, he'd died and the lessons had started to make a little more sense.
(then elias had died and marc had experienced a minor crisis of self.)
it doesn't feel judgemental, the way she offers the 'you and everyone else', and it earns a hum of acknowledgement as her fingers brush his skin, down his shoulder and back up again. when she stops, when there's a moment of quiet that feels longer than it is, he looks at her. catches the weariness, the tiredness. he doesn't say anything about it, it'd be hypocritical (not his primary objection, marc has always been a 'do as I say, not as I do' sort), and he can guess as to how it'd end. instead, he answers, wryly— )
If that was going to happen, it would've happened a long time ago. ( a pause, then, and it's as if a thought occurs to marc and he adds, almost brightly (for him)— ) Besides, I don't stay dead. ( it's offhand, dismissive, spoken in the kind of tone that says 'as an explanation, this works'. it doesn't seem to occur to him that it might not.
then, he lifts a hand. it's not quite the raise-and-reach she'd had to do, the height difference working solidly in his favour, and he brushes wet strands of hair away from her face, consideration pulling at his features. ) My water bill's going to be astronomical.
( he's staring. if not staring, than just watching her — her face, even. something about that feels revealing, too intimate, despite the fact that they're both standing naked under the rainfall shower. still, she doesn't pull away. doesn't avert her eyes, or make him avert his. maybe it's the least she owes him for teasing him, or for breaking into not one, but two of his properties today. maybe she's in a mood where it's nice to be seen and not just as as the façade she wants to project. )
Right. Forgot about that part. Convenient trick. ( she snorts again, not pushing for more of an explanation. it doesn't make sense, not really — but maybe that's in the same way that steve is near impossible to get down, or bruce can swallow a bullet and sit back up. she's never had that luxury, for all that she heals faster, gets up quicker.
his hand is warm, calloused — it takes effort not to think too hard about leaning her head into it, pressing into his touch. not to calculate what that means, what he's thinking about it, and just feel it. )
You can afford it. ( half-smile in place, she hesitates — just for a moment. long enough to search his eyes, try and find something that's an indicator that it's not unwelcome to be close to him. she's got evidence enough: he got in the shower, he let her wash his hair, he was touching her.. and still.
pressing up on her toes, she moves slowly, using her hands at the nape of his neck to guide her. gently, natasha brushes her lips across his, a featherlight movement. )
( 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? )
( he... waits. long enough that she thinks she's made a mistake, that she ought to pull away, apologize, gather what is left of her dignity after that and beat a hasty retreat. it's complicated by the fact that her only clothing is covered in blood (black, but still noticeable if you know what you're looking for), that the path to the door is a long way away when you're naked in the shower, and —
marc moves, finally; rests a hand on her hip, pulls her a bit closer and lowers so that she doesn't have to stretch on tiptoes for much longer which is a precarious position to be in the shower. tension drops out of her shoulders, and this time she does give in to her earlier impulse — she closes the gap between them until they're chest to chest (or as close as possible given the height difference) and leans against him. )
No, you're not. I've met one, and I wasn't impressed. ( wasn't that what strange was? it was something like that. eyes searching his face for a long moment, she tilts her head to one side as though unsure what to make of him.
because she's not sure. is he uncertain? nervous? worried? )
That was nice. ( cringe. definitely the fatigue. not her best line, and jesus christ, she's been trained for this. )
( marc exhales and it's a second almost-laugh, sat somewhere in the vicinity of agreement. marc's met a couple, technically, and one he is fond of — impressed by, no less! — and the other's her husband. the other is a man marc's managed to get on the wrong side of more than once, and has rarely been able to see eye-to-eye with.
but neither are relevant. neither linger in marc's thoughts beyond the vagueness of 'ah, yes, magic'. natasha has his attention, his focus; the feel of her against him, wet skin, the roughness of old scars and newer injuries alike, the feel of her talking as much as the sound of it.
(it's not nerves, but there's always a sliver, a slight lack of surety that accompanies marc and anything approaching intimacy, at least at first. it doesn't last, but he's been decked enough and told enough times that he's misinterpreted and misread; has found, plenty of times, that it's fine until marc is marc and not someone else entirely, someone better and more understanding and more normal.)
he ignores the lack of sophistication in her 'that was nice', skips past it entirely to murmur against her ear— ) Not that we have to worry about the hot water running out, but there's more to this apartment than the bathroom.
( his huff whiffs across her skin and natasha smiles — not the coy, half-smile she normally gives him (and most everyone), not the mysterious sphynx curve that says less than a neutral expression ... something more genuine. something that, if he's willing to believe it, might be her underneath it all. it's more comfortable like this, pressed together under the spray, fingers pressing into her skin.
as a general rule, she doesn't do this. oh, she does the mechanics — seduces, fucks if needed, even outside of the job she does and the missions she has. but if she falls into bed with someone outside of work, it's never anyone even close to adjacent to the job. too dangerous. too close. she uses a variety of fake names, fake identities, spends the night, and then disappears.
no one really spends their life mourning a one night stand, anyway.
that makes marc spector dangerous. flirting had been her modus operandi to start, but now? now, this is a calculated attempt at seduction of someone who knows who (and what) she is.
his whisper goes straight through her, a pang that has her pressing her fingers more firmly into his nape, turning her head to brush her lips against the curve of his neck before nipping sharply. )
So, do I get a tour? ( natasha murmurs, pulling back again to study his face for a moment, before using their proximity to walk him back until his back hits the wall of the shower. guiding, his arms more firmly around her, she presses up against him again, slanting her lips over his with more urgency. )
( he doesn't know her well enough to really tell the difference between her smiles, not beyond assumptions and inferences. it doesn't matter, not really, not for the moment.
because where this might not be what she does, but it's nothing out of the ordinary for marc. there'd be candace when he'd worked for the company, there'd been lisa just after. then there'd been marlene — she'd been the odd one out, the one who hadn't exactly been work-related, just work adjacent, and the one who'd stuck with him the longest. there'd been greer and there'd been maya. (and marlene again and in between—.)
marc doesn't really do one-night stands or flings, not these days. once upon a time, perhaps, when he'd been younger, when his life had been more barracks and tents and whatever shithole hotel was most appropriate and most available; and it'd been less about the woman and more about a warm body.
but it's not a deliberate decision and it's not that he expects this, whatever it is now and whatever it becomes, to be anything more than convenience. anything more than the right person at the right time, however fleeting, because sometimes that's all it needs to be.
and so he doesn't say anything as her fingers press into his skin, as her lips graze his skin and then—. oh. sharp and sudden and unexpected, and the noise he makes — a quiet grunt, equal parts surprised and equal parts pleasured — is half-buried by the question she asks, by the sound of their footsteps against wet ceramic. any thoughts of an answer is cut short by the not unpleasant shock of his body being pushed against wet tile.
all at once, it's as if the rest of it — the bloody clothes, the bruises and the injuries — are forgotten. where she's urgent, he's hungry. one arm against the wall for balance, the other dropping from her waist to the curve where thigh meets ass to pull her closer. )
No, ( he answers eventually, and it's said against and into her skin, wet and thick thanks to the spray from the shower and the water running in rivulets from her hair and down her body. )
( marc continues to be nearly impossible to read — so she’ll tell herself that this is for the challenge. she’s doing this because he’s hard to read, because she’s not sure where she stands with him. it’s practice. it’s a bit of fun on the side. it’s something to ensure that her skills stay sharp. it’s harmless.
(there’s comfort in it, too. comfort in the way he finally winds an arm around her waist, in how he takes a handful of skin and pulls her in tight and kisses her like he can’t breathe.) )
Mm. ( murmured against his skin, irrespective of the water between them. she’s sore if he holds her too tight, but she doesn’t care; that’s part of it, too. the sensation of feeling still alive at the end of a difficult night, and having someone there to witness it.
he’d liked when she bit him. noting that, she runs her lips over the muscle where his neck meets his shoulder, nipping with kitten teeth and then sucking a mark there. her hands brush from his shoulders down, fingers skating over his chest, thumbing over his nipples and the smattering of hair, dropping to the lines of his abdomen.
she doesn’t touch his length directly, not yet; instead she’ll press her hips in, trap the hardness of him between their wet, slick bodies. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
redhourglass) wrote2022-10-14 08:28 pm
@ vestments
as long as it has hot water
( the address is more than enough for her — she can trace it back to any number of aliases, cross reference it with what she knows of him already (admittedly not much, it’s rude to dig too far on your casual whatever-they-are’s), file it away for later. for the moment, she’s too interested in what is waiting for her there —
she breaks in through the back door with a set of lock picks, disabling the security system with a well-placed mini charge of electricity mostly because she can.
when he comes in, she’s already in the shower. the noise bounces off the tile walls and out through the door she’s left open — not just for an invitation, but for security purposes. blood washes down the drain in rivulets, the bulk of it being washed out of her hair, clothes abandoned in a pile in a corner that she was careful not to let touch any bath mats or rugs in case the blood transfers. )
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for most of the people he deals with, the security system's enough to put them off. for the remainder, it's enough to warn him that someone's there, that someone's tampered with it. when he gets the alert to his phone — that it's inactive — he thinks that the timing's too convenient for it to be anyone other than natasha.
he's about fifteen minutes after her, long enough for the apartment to have warmed up from the escaping steam from the shower, from the heat of the pipes. he could have gotten changed, could have dressed in either a clean suit (the three-piece, the white everything) or something else entirely, but he hasn't. it's white enough, but with just enough dirt here and there, just enough red on the gloves and the sleeves to say what kind of night he's had.
the gloves are peeled off and dumped on a table that was probably originally a dining table and then repurposed as a desk and then a general dumping ground whilst the jacket and the waistcoat are draped over the back of a chair.
the shower and the open door make it just humid enough to be uncomfortable, and he rolls the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, stopping in the open doorway to the bathroom. his gaze drifts over the discarded pile of clothes pushed neatly into a pile away from anything of his (cute but unnecessary — marc's had a lot of experience with getting blood out of near enough everything, a lot of experience trailing blood over near enough every room in every property he owns.)
a lingering pause, and then his lack of preciousness is emphasised by the way he — finally — opts to remove his boots (white, of course, leather chelsea boots — not entirely practical, but they look good). they're left just to one side of the open door. )
—I know a very good dry cleaner.
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the footsteps linger around the space, then stop at what she assumes is the door. it’s a nice enough place for just a side property — modern open concept, an updated bathroom, a rainfall shower big enough for four and a glass divider to the rest of the room (steamed up a bit).
turning to watch him out of the corner of her eye through the steam, she drops her hands to a loufa she’s reclaimed from under the sink, pours body wash on it and lathers. )
I know a guy. ( kick ass dry cleaner in china town who will also make sure any trace of DNA doesn’t end up in any database anywhere. ) I never liked that dress anyway.
( the shoes were a real loss, though. )
You know I think that’s the most skin I’ve seen on you ever. ( she gestures with one soapy hand at his forearms, his neck, his uncovered face. ) Aren’t you hot in all that?
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he loosens the tie next, then the top few buttons of the shirt, and then he shrugs. it's — for him — a relatively relaxed action, lacking in the usual coiled tension he usually carries in his neck and in his shoulders. )
Most people don't need to know who's under the mask, ( he answers. it's not the truth, that'd be too simple. that marc sector is moon knight isn't exactly a secret — in a spectacularly non-violent breakdown (for him), he'd faked his death and run off to los angeles and had opted — he, not steven! — to film a tv show about fucking khonshu—. his identity is not only plastered on news websites from years past, but also on IMDB of all website—.
(it's a matter of personal pride, then.)
still, the heat from the shower is enough to make him feel stickier than normal, for his hair to curl at the edges and fall messily, untidily (mask hair is a problem—) into his eyes. )
—Sweaty rather than hot.
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soapy water runs a rivulet through a shallow gash on her arm, breaking the moment as she sucks in a quick hiss, clasping a hand to it. so, she'd lied. some of the blood had been hers. but comparatively? not anything to worry about. she's always bounced back faster than most. )
Let me guess — ( she covers smoothly, as though she hadn't just bent in pain; there's a tightness to the edge of her voice. ) Fashion is suffering. It wouldn't be as impressive if you were just wearing normal clothes.
( setting the loofah aside, she turns to focus on washing off her back, her hand still covering the wound. a little soap wouldn't kill her, and she'd bandage it after she was out. )
If you play your cards right, I'll wash your hair for you.
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(how many men has she had to put up with staring at her? countless, probably.)
her shape and her movements are partially obscured, unclear behind the fogged-up glass of the shower screen and the pattering and the splashing of the water. still, he catches the slight, sharp movement, though he doesn't manage to piece together quite what nor why before she talks, before she redirects the conversation. )
It wouldn't, ( he agrees, tone mild and almost conversational. it's punctuated by a pause, one that hangs between them as she remarks that if he's good (essentially), she'll wash his hair, and he's not quite sure what to make of it — which means, ultimately, that he ignores it. ) I know I've told you, ( he adds instead, although he's not sure if he has or if he's just so used to it being common knowledge — or as common as anything is in their line of work. ) I like them to see me coming.
( he finishes unbuttoning the shirt and pulls it off, dumping it unceremoniously on the floor. he'll deal with it later. tomorrow? after sleeping, whatever time and day that ends up meaning for his laundry. socks after that, then belt, and then—.
a head, appearing quite suddenly at the edge of the shower. his gaze flickers from her to her face to her arm, pauses, the back to her face. pointedly, dryly. ) Let me look at it.
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she hears the belt hit the floor, buckle making a clatter. smiling inwardly, she’s tossed a glance over her shoulder when his head appears around the glass, lips curved. )
What are you going to do? Kiss it better? ( natasha teases, gaze dropping to her arm as she pulls her palm away. the gash isn’t deep; could be a knife or bullet graze. a red angry line, slightly swollen, but not bleeding. ) I’ve had worse.
( there are signs of worse — silvered scars up and down her arms, more dramatic marks (bullet wounds, probably) on her back and stomach, and deeper scars. a body well-worn, experienced. made her envy steve sometimes and the way he could shrug off anything.
shifting under the rainfall shower, she beckons him in, reaching for shampoo. )
If I let you fuss, will you let me wash your back?
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his gaze dances over her scars, not calculating, not exactly curious. somewhere in between, something that understands the sort of life led to get not just one, nor two, nor a handful, but a bodyful. he doesn't ask anyone why they do what they do — not his business, first of all, and two, the answers tend to be personal, even for those that posit 'it's just a job'. it's never just a job, there's always something else there. another reason, whether it's acknowledged or not. )
Sure, tough girl. ( he remarks, lips quirking momentarily as amusement threatens briefly to break free, as his expression smoothes into a there-and-it's-gone smile. )
Just because you've had worse, doesn't mean you have to let this one become worse, ( he adds, ignoring the way she reaches for the shampoo. instead, he curls a hand around her arm, below the cut. his fingers are rough, calloused, but his touch isn't. she's right, it's not that bad, not really, not in the grand scheme of things, but that doesn't mean much given everything.
he knows he doesn't look a whole lot better than her, if at all. his back is lined with scars, some not too dissimilar from the one above his eye (knives), the rest — like her — most likely the result of bullets. knees (both) that have clearly experienced a sharp drop and sudden, unpleasant stop at some point (a fire escape, an open parentheses before a myriad of awful, terrible, shitty fucking decisions bookended by the idea to fake his own death and hide out in mexico). the more recent — a variety of bruises a rich assortment of colours from black and blue to ugly yellow, an overt reminder that marc tends to treat the idea of defense as a vague suggestion, something that's only occasionally useful.
(he'd argue that there's something to be said for the psychological effect it has and whilst it's true — tony (taskmaster, not the other tony) certainly wasn't a fan of the approach — that's not the only reason for it.
he hasn't dwelled too much on the alternatives.) )
—But if you want to get soap in it, be my guest.
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Fine. ( she gives in, hiding how she jumps a little under his touch with a conciliatory smile. her eyes roam from his face, capturing the expression (was that a smile), to the rest of him. he’s as marked as she is, or worse.
reaching out with gentle fingertips, she ghosts them across a mottled purple bruise, frowning. )
Kick in the ribs? Today? ( it’s a guess, with an experienced eye behind it. pressing closer under the spray, she lifts her arm to give him a better look, submitting only because it allows her to get closer to him and give him a second once-over, looking for more egregious injuries. )
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on a mission in symkaria, one of the few times he'd managed to pull himself together long enough to be an avenger, he'd commented that he'd spent time in the worst places in the world with the worst people in the world, and he still holds that true. not all of them had been like bushman, some of them had been quiet in their cruelty. raoul, though, raoul had been brutal and marc had turned a blind eye. he'd ignored jean-paul telling him that signing up with his crew was a bad idea, ignored his own gut when it'd said that he'd fucked up (again). he'd ignored, too, the first time he'd seen raoul with his metal teeth, sinking them into another man's flesh just to prove a point.
(he'd said something about fear, and marc had just shrugged.)
natasha's scars are a story in and of themselves, but it's not his place to ask what. not now, at least.
he barely notices the way she leverages her agreement with getting a closer look at him, the oddest game of I'll show you mine if you show me yours. his gaze does shift, sharply and suddenly, when she traces her fingertips over a bruise. it's only fleeting, focus moving back to her arm with an inelegant grunt in answer to her question. today, yesterday, most days. )
I've got wipes and bandages. Not much more than that, but you don't need much more than that.
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still, it's his choice. his house, technically. moving her fingers away from the bruise, she touches his cheek and then a lock of hair under the spray. not curly, but not entirely straight either. )
Satisfied I'm not going to bleed to death? ( if it had been that serious, she wouldn't have dragged herself over here. pulling herself gently out of his grasp, she dumps shampoo from the bottle in one hand into the palm of the other, setting it back on a ledge and then reaching for him again. ) At least let me wash your hair.
( it's not about washing his hair. it's not really about him at all. but if she can do this, provide this small amount of comfort... maybe it'll make her feel a little more human. a little less like a machine, a little less like the weapon they made her. it's always a tentative compromise, after a mission like this. how much will she do to revive herself? how much will she lose to a void she's been taught to stare at since childhood? )
You're going to have to lower your head a bit. Must be a super hero requirement to be over six feet. ( there's a distance in the smile in her voice. )
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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.
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instead, once he speaks, she makes a noise low in her throat — almost like an absent sound, like she's stopped paying attention. )
Says the guy who runs around in a cape and a mask. ( the response is tart, smile a touch more present than before. she glances over at the door, his pile of clothes with those two items conspicuously absent. ) I expected you to wear the mask in the shower, too.
( not that her jumpsuit is any better — but she hadn't been wearing it together. the blood stained heap is much more casual than that. a tight black dress. a wrap that matches but isn't too matchy-matchy. heels that are definitely ruined. the jumpsuit was good for certain situations; breaking and entering, recon, silent wet work. but to get in to normal places? you had to dress like a civilian. and she's an expert at blending in, no matter how distinctive her hair or other parts of her appearance.
snaking her arms around his neck, she massages shampoo into his nape, taking a few extra moments to press her fingers against a few knots she discovers on the side of his neck — irritated muscles. )
You don't seem too much like a priest right now. ( her gaze dropping from his face to his bare chest, the bow of his waist, a little lower pointedly. ) No vow of celibacy?
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but where the remark could be argumentative, it's instead dry commentary, an explanation that circles the edges of amusement as her smile — small but there — is almost audible. it earns a quirk of his lips and a dismissive wave of his hand, movement that brushes against her skin though he doesn't offer immediate acknowledgement. ) Besides, the mask gets sweaty. It's not very breathable.
( a foot of height between them isn't all that comfortable, isn't all that easy to manoeuvre and marc shifts his weight, a little awkward, as her arms work around the back of his neck and into his hair (needs cutting, he realises abruptly—), as her fingers press into his skin and he makes a noise that's part surprised, part (almost-not-quite)-pained and part pleasured. mostly, it's a moan-slash-groan of VARYING DESCRIPTION.
and then she speaks again and his gaze shifts. it doesn't meet hers, not as she's busy dropping hers down and down again. he's treated to the top of her head, to a glancing view of her features, to her hair pressed wet, slick against her skin and he—.
exhales. a short, sharp laugh of surprise crossed with disagreement. )
Not all priests are Christian. ( he lowers his head, just a touch. ) The God I grew up with had a very different opinion on the matter.
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the spray of the shower is doing a good job of rinsing his hair, as well as washing the shampoo off her hands, so she gives him (and herself, to be honest) a break. it's easier to rest her wrists on his shoulders to massage a knot in his trapezius that feels like it's lived there for a long time. the noise he makes goes straight through her, and she glances up at him sharply, making sure that she hasn't truly hurt him. the only way to loosen that sort of knot would be to put pressure on it, but her goal wasn't to cause pain. at least — not only. )
You know, I wasn't sure if you could laugh. ( the noise had startled her a bit, eyes widening until they creased at the corners with a smile of her own. a real one; not the one she paints on and rips off at will. amusement. there's lot to be amused about in this case. for starters — the weirdest conversation she's ever had while naked with a man.
(the longest conversation she's ever had while naked with a man, at least pre-'getting down to business'.)
feeling a bit of the muscle under her fingers relax, she digs her thumb into one last stubborn spot. )
So what was his opinion on it? 'Be fruitful and multiply'?
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he reopens his eyes when she suggests she didn't know he was capable of laughing, and the noise the comment earns sits between a hmph and almost good-natured self-awareness. consideration that suggests she might have a point.
he looks as if he wants to retort, offer an equally unflattering but not unkind commentary of her that doesn't get much further than being thought about when his expression sharpens at the question, internal debate reflected in his features. ) Almost. ( a breath of a pause and a searching gaze, curious. natasha's never struck him as particularly religious and though it's not something he relates to in spite of his own difficult relationship with god (—gods), he doesn't blame her. he'd given up one god in favour of another simply because the first had seemed cruel. indifferent. unanswering. the second turned out to be much the same as the first, though easier to find. ) A divine gift and a holy obligation.
( that'd been the first. the second had never stipulated, although khonshu's lack of pleasure over his daughter's existence said enough. his goading, his taunts, his existence during nights spent with marlene said more.
a dry addition— )
—Between man and wife, mostly. I wasn't very good at that part.
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she huffs a quiet sound, almost like a snort. divine gift and holy obligation. well, never let it be said that sex positivity is dead —
oh. right. there's the kicker. )
You and everyone else. ( natasha presses her fingers in to the knot one last time, feels it release and muscle unbunch under her hands. satisfied, she smooths her hand over his shoulder, then back up to the nape of his neck, resting there under the spray. he's warm, the smell of shampoo suffusing the small damp space, and for a moment she's tempted to just crowd in close, rest her head against his chest and close her eyes.
sentimental. surprising, given who she is. given who he is. still, the fatigue is apparent in the way she rolls her head to one side, eyes growing slightly more heavy lidded. )
So, what happens now? Divine retribution? Lightning strikes you down for your ... ( her voice trails off in a husky tease — ) Indiscretions?
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marc had grown up religious — it'd been impossible not to, with his father being who he was. he'd grown up believing in a god he didn't quite understand, couldn't reconcile with what he thought versus what his father taught him. boyish and then teenage rebelliousness and a desire to butt against the idea of pacifism as an answer sitting ugly against frustration and disappointment; estrangement and being disowned. then, he'd died and the lessons had started to make a little more sense.
(then elias had died and marc had experienced a minor crisis of self.)
it doesn't feel judgemental, the way she offers the 'you and everyone else', and it earns a hum of acknowledgement as her fingers brush his skin, down his shoulder and back up again. when she stops, when there's a moment of quiet that feels longer than it is, he looks at her. catches the weariness, the tiredness. he doesn't say anything about it, it'd be hypocritical (not his primary objection, marc has always been a 'do as I say, not as I do' sort), and he can guess as to how it'd end. instead, he answers, wryly— )
If that was going to happen, it would've happened a long time ago. ( a pause, then, and it's as if a thought occurs to marc and he adds, almost brightly (for him)— ) Besides, I don't stay dead. ( it's offhand, dismissive, spoken in the kind of tone that says 'as an explanation, this works'. it doesn't seem to occur to him that it might not.
then, he lifts a hand. it's not quite the raise-and-reach she'd had to do, the height difference working solidly in his favour, and he brushes wet strands of hair away from her face, consideration pulling at his features. ) My water bill's going to be astronomical.
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Right. Forgot about that part. Convenient trick. ( she snorts again, not pushing for more of an explanation. it doesn't make sense, not really — but maybe that's in the same way that steve is near impossible to get down, or bruce can swallow a bullet and sit back up. she's never had that luxury, for all that she heals faster, gets up quicker.
his hand is warm, calloused — it takes effort not to think too hard about leaning her head into it, pressing into his touch. not to calculate what that means, what he's thinking about it, and just feel it. )
You can afford it. ( half-smile in place, she hesitates — just for a moment. long enough to search his eyes, try and find something that's an indicator that it's not unwelcome to be close to him. she's got evidence enough: he got in the shower, he let her wash his hair, he was touching her.. and still.
pressing up on her toes, she moves slowly, using her hands at the nape of his neck to guide her. gently, natasha brushes her lips across his, a featherlight movement. )
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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? )
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marc moves, finally; rests a hand on her hip, pulls her a bit closer and lowers so that she doesn't have to stretch on tiptoes for much longer which is a precarious position to be in the shower. tension drops out of her shoulders, and this time she does give in to her earlier impulse — she closes the gap between them until they're chest to chest (or as close as possible given the height difference) and leans against him. )
No, you're not. I've met one, and I wasn't impressed. ( wasn't that what strange was? it was something like that. eyes searching his face for a long moment, she tilts her head to one side as though unsure what to make of him.
because she's not sure. is he uncertain? nervous? worried? )
That was nice. ( cringe. definitely the fatigue. not her best line, and jesus christ, she's been trained for this. )
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but neither are relevant. neither linger in marc's thoughts beyond the vagueness of 'ah, yes, magic'. natasha has his attention, his focus; the feel of her against him, wet skin, the roughness of old scars and newer injuries alike, the feel of her talking as much as the sound of it.
(it's not nerves, but there's always a sliver, a slight lack of surety that accompanies marc and anything approaching intimacy, at least at first. it doesn't last, but he's been decked enough and told enough times that he's misinterpreted and misread; has found, plenty of times, that it's fine until marc is marc and not someone else entirely, someone better and more understanding and more normal.)
he ignores the lack of sophistication in her 'that was nice', skips past it entirely to murmur against her ear— ) Not that we have to worry about the hot water running out, but there's more to this apartment than the bathroom.
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as a general rule, she doesn't do this. oh, she does the mechanics — seduces, fucks if needed, even outside of the job she does and the missions she has. but if she falls into bed with someone outside of work, it's never anyone even close to adjacent to the job. too dangerous. too close. she uses a variety of fake names, fake identities, spends the night, and then disappears.
no one really spends their life mourning a one night stand, anyway.
that makes marc spector dangerous. flirting had been her modus operandi to start, but now? now, this is a calculated attempt at seduction of someone who knows who (and what) she is.
his whisper goes straight through her, a pang that has her pressing her fingers more firmly into his nape, turning her head to brush her lips against the curve of his neck before nipping sharply. )
So, do I get a tour? ( natasha murmurs, pulling back again to study his face for a moment, before using their proximity to walk him back until his back hits the wall of the shower. guiding, his arms more firmly around her, she presses up against him again, slanting her lips over his with more urgency. )
no subject
because where this might not be what she does, but it's nothing out of the ordinary for marc. there'd be candace when he'd worked for the company, there'd been lisa just after. then there'd been marlene — she'd been the odd one out, the one who hadn't exactly been work-related, just work adjacent, and the one who'd stuck with him the longest. there'd been greer and there'd been maya. (and marlene again and in between—.)
marc doesn't really do one-night stands or flings, not these days. once upon a time, perhaps, when he'd been younger, when his life had been more barracks and tents and whatever shithole hotel was most appropriate and most available; and it'd been less about the woman and more about a warm body.
but it's not a deliberate decision and it's not that he expects this, whatever it is now and whatever it becomes, to be anything more than convenience. anything more than the right person at the right time, however fleeting, because sometimes that's all it needs to be.
and so he doesn't say anything as her fingers press into his skin, as her lips graze his skin and then—. oh. sharp and sudden and unexpected, and the noise he makes — a quiet grunt, equal parts surprised and equal parts pleasured — is half-buried by the question she asks, by the sound of their footsteps against wet ceramic. any thoughts of an answer is cut short by the not unpleasant shock of his body being pushed against wet tile.
all at once, it's as if the rest of it — the bloody clothes, the bruises and the injuries — are forgotten. where she's urgent, he's hungry. one arm against the wall for balance, the other dropping from her waist to the curve where thigh meets ass to pull her closer. )
No, ( he answers eventually, and it's said against and into her skin, wet and thick thanks to the spray from the shower and the water running in rivulets from her hair and down her body. )
no subject
(there’s comfort in it, too. comfort in the way he finally winds an arm around her waist, in how he takes a handful of skin and pulls her in tight and kisses her like he can’t breathe.) )
Mm. ( murmured against his skin, irrespective of the water between them. she’s sore if he holds her too tight, but she doesn’t care; that’s part of it, too. the sensation of feeling still alive at the end of a difficult night, and having someone there to witness it.
he’d liked when she bit him. noting that, she runs her lips over the muscle where his neck meets his shoulder, nipping with kitten teeth and then sucking a mark there. her hands brush from his shoulders down, fingers skating over his chest, thumbing over his nipples and the smattering of hair, dropping to the lines of his abdomen.
she doesn’t touch his length directly, not yet; instead she’ll press her hips in, trap the hardness of him between their wet, slick bodies. )