( marc's gaze sharpens when jonathan introduces himself, not because marc has any dislike of either name, not because he does think jonathan's name is odd, but because it is strange and he is a sorcerer. magician. whatever.
the chances of a coincidence are slim — or that's what his mind tells him — but quite what it means, he doesn't know. is this some in-between, some kind of near-death, in-the-midst-of-dying experience? unlikely, he's had those before and they weren't like this. a reaction to meds? maybe, wouldn't be the first time. khonshu? or just his brain, trying to fill the gaps of—
he cants his head, eyes narrowing, appraising, trying to work it out— —he's never been good at puzzles, at figuring out what things mean— (maybe it's nothing.)
and then strange — jonathan — says 'or we have a good night's sleep', and for the first time in their conversation to date, marc smiles. it's thin and small and fleeting, but it's there, like strange has managed to utter the punchline to a private joke and marc can't help himself. )
I work the graveyard shift. ( it's quick and immediate, oddly dismissive despite the there-then-gone ghost of a smile. there might not be any overt indication of it, but he thinks he's funny. ) But no.
( marc has not contemplated a job. he's aware that he needs money, but he isn't convinced he'll need a job for that, the distant noises in the hotel — scuffles, arguments, disagreements — are all proof of it. there'll be thugs and criminals alike on the streets, and some of them'll have more money than they deserve, than they ought, than they've earned through legitimate means.
if he needs to, he'll do what he's done before: he'll make a list, and he'll work his way down it. he'll make himself interesting.
but as for strange, marc waves a hand at him, the white of his gloves visible even in the dinginess. ) You can do magic. There must be a market in it. The man I know's taken to doing house calls.
no subject
the chances of a coincidence are slim — or that's what his mind tells him — but quite what it means, he doesn't know. is this some in-between, some kind of near-death, in-the-midst-of-dying experience? unlikely, he's had those before and they weren't like this. a reaction to meds? maybe, wouldn't be the first time. khonshu? or just his brain, trying to fill the gaps of—
he cants his head, eyes narrowing, appraising, trying to work it out—
—he's never been good at puzzles, at figuring out what things mean—
(maybe it's nothing.)
and then strange — jonathan — says 'or we have a good night's sleep', and for the first time in their conversation to date, marc smiles. it's thin and small and fleeting, but it's there, like strange has managed to utter the punchline to a private joke and marc can't help himself. )
I work the graveyard shift. ( it's quick and immediate, oddly dismissive despite the there-then-gone ghost of a smile. there might not be any overt indication of it, but he thinks he's funny. ) But no.
( marc has not contemplated a job. he's aware that he needs money, but he isn't convinced he'll need a job for that, the distant noises in the hotel — scuffles, arguments, disagreements — are all proof of it. there'll be thugs and criminals alike on the streets, and some of them'll have more money than they deserve, than they ought, than they've earned through legitimate means.
if he needs to, he'll do what he's done before: he'll make a list, and he'll work his way down it. he'll make himself interesting.
but as for strange, marc waves a hand at him, the white of his gloves visible even in the dinginess. ) You can do magic. There must be a market in it. The man I know's taken to doing house calls.