(what if, she says, and though marc doesn't open his mouth to respond, the expectancy the almost of it is in the way his expression shifts — the lift of his eyebrows, the tilt of his chin — and then she continues.
marc's familiar with anger, with the way it courses through a body. the difference between cold, quiet anger and sudden heat, and he looks from her face to her arms, back to her jaw and, finally, snapping back to meet her eyes.
you could never know, and his eyebrows pull together tightly, the corners of his lips curving down. he turns to face her fully, aware of the dwindling crowd around them, aware of how it'd look for someone like him to take a step towards her. the city doesn't seem like the place that'd care in and of itself, except for pockets of people, of individuals, but even so.
if he'd been dressed in the suit, he'd busy his hands with his tie, with smoothing out his waistcoat, pulling at his shirt sleeves. physical distractions that give the illusion of nonchalance, but here, now, he has none of that. instead, he leans forward. it's only a touch, the slightest closing of personal space and, )
You don't know me, Wanda. ( where earlier, her accent had reasserted itself, made itself known, his — otherwise softened by travel, of constantly moving — emerges in rough, hard edges, even as his voice is careful and deliberate; low and level. not precisely calm, but it'd be difficult to pinpoint why not beyond the ever-present tension of marc. it could — might be — a warning, could just be a statement of facts, it's hard to tell.
marc spector's a man that's destroyed everything, a man that buried his father, killed his brother. lost his daughter, pushed away his friends. found a way to ruin every piece of happiness he'd ever ended up with, and as soon as he'd started to build something again—.
"and all I ever got was my miserable life back," he'd said to andrea.
she doesn't need to know that. hasn't earned it. ) Some of us don't get a choice, ( in living, he means. the rest of it — choosing to make something of the pain and the hurt, he still means that. ) Don't get to ask your question. There's no what if, only debt and duty and what has to be done.
( abruptly, he straightens, pulls at the hem of his t-shirt. it's almost idle. )
You got pain, you've got something. It's the emptiness you've got to watch out for.
adding on self-loathing and depression tbh I GUESS
marc's familiar with anger, with the way it courses through a body. the difference between cold, quiet anger and sudden heat, and he looks from her face to her arms, back to her jaw and, finally, snapping back to meet her eyes.
you could never know, and his eyebrows pull together tightly, the corners of his lips curving down. he turns to face her fully, aware of the dwindling crowd around them, aware of how it'd look for someone like him to take a step towards her. the city doesn't seem like the place that'd care in and of itself, except for pockets of people, of individuals, but even so.
if he'd been dressed in the suit, he'd busy his hands with his tie, with smoothing out his waistcoat, pulling at his shirt sleeves. physical distractions that give the illusion of nonchalance, but here, now, he has none of that. instead, he leans forward. it's only a touch, the slightest closing of personal space and, )
You don't know me, Wanda. ( where earlier, her accent had reasserted itself, made itself known, his — otherwise softened by travel, of constantly moving — emerges in rough, hard edges, even as his voice is careful and deliberate; low and level. not precisely calm, but it'd be difficult to pinpoint why not beyond the ever-present tension of marc. it could — might be — a warning, could just be a statement of facts, it's hard to tell.
marc spector's a man that's destroyed everything, a man that buried his father, killed his brother. lost his daughter, pushed away his friends. found a way to ruin every piece of happiness he'd ever ended up with, and as soon as he'd started to build something again—.
"and all I ever got was my miserable life back," he'd said to andrea.
she doesn't need to know that. hasn't earned it. ) Some of us don't get a choice, ( in living, he means. the rest of it — choosing to make something of the pain and the hurt, he still means that. ) Don't get to ask your question. There's no what if, only debt and duty and what has to be done.
( abruptly, he straightens, pulls at the hem of his t-shirt. it's almost idle. )
You got pain, you've got something. It's the emptiness you've got to watch out for.