( how is marc doing, what a great question, one he'll avoid answering in perpetuity, thank you.
but in the here and now, he's almost having a good time. marc is a man who admits his relationship to and with violence is unhealthy, is a man who considers pain to be a measure of being alive, and this — beating up bad guys in the dark — is the closest thing he has to a hobby. unfortunately for marc and his near-enjoyment, he's used to a higher calibre of criminal, and his own fight is almost as short-lived as hers.
his opponent will also likely have a concussion, but it'll sit alongside a split lip and bruised, if not broken ribs. a black eye, too, not from a punch, but from a well-timed, well-placed headbutt.
he glances over to lucina, quick and appraising and questioning, meeting her gaze even if he doesn't answer the unasked question. 'fine' sits in the way he immediately turns towards the bathroom door once he's established she's unhurt, sits in the way he sniffs, a little wet, but otherwise ignores the trickle of blood from his nose. it's not broken, doesn't hurt enough for that, and dealing with whoever's in the bathroom will serve as a two-birds-one-stone kind of deal, assuming it's got running water.
he's not willing to bet on how likely he thinks that is, given the state of the motel and electricity.
the bathroom door's unlocked, although whether that's thanks to luck or a broken lock isn't something marc wastes time in wondering, not as the door swings open and marc realises the small window is entirely inadequate at illuminating the space, tiny as it is. luckily for marc, the person inside doesn't take a swing at him, and luckily for them, marc's not that impulsive and instead he stops, still mostly in the doorway, the question evident in the way he holds himself even before he speaks.
'is this your room?', 'are you hurt?'
a beat.
he leans forward, doesn't seem to consider if it's ill-advised, before— )
If it's not your room, ( the rest of the utterance remains unsaid. )
no subject
but in the here and now, he's almost having a good time. marc is a man who admits his relationship to and with violence is unhealthy, is a man who considers pain to be a measure of being alive, and this — beating up bad guys in the dark — is the closest thing he has to a hobby. unfortunately for marc and his near-enjoyment, he's used to a higher calibre of criminal, and his own fight is almost as short-lived as hers.
his opponent will also likely have a concussion, but it'll sit alongside a split lip and bruised, if not broken ribs. a black eye, too, not from a punch, but from a well-timed, well-placed headbutt.
he glances over to lucina, quick and appraising and questioning, meeting her gaze even if he doesn't answer the unasked question. 'fine' sits in the way he immediately turns towards the bathroom door once he's established she's unhurt, sits in the way he sniffs, a little wet, but otherwise ignores the trickle of blood from his nose. it's not broken, doesn't hurt enough for that, and dealing with whoever's in the bathroom will serve as a two-birds-one-stone kind of deal, assuming it's got running water.
he's not willing to bet on how likely he thinks that is, given the state of the motel and electricity.
the bathroom door's unlocked, although whether that's thanks to luck or a broken lock isn't something marc wastes time in wondering, not as the door swings open and marc realises the small window is entirely inadequate at illuminating the space, tiny as it is. luckily for marc, the person inside doesn't take a swing at him, and luckily for them, marc's not that impulsive and instead he stops, still mostly in the doorway, the question evident in the way he holds himself even before he speaks.
'is this your room?', 'are you hurt?'
a beat.
he leans forward, doesn't seem to consider if it's ill-advised, before— )
If it's not your room, ( the rest of the utterance remains unsaid. )