( it's probably the worst place to be having a conversation like this, and the fact doesn't escape marc, but they're here and it is what it is. the people around them have evidently seen more uncomfortable interactions, because not a single one stops to ask what's going on, not even when wanda is close to tears, not even when her response is a rasp.

he inclines his chin in acknowledgement — you don't know me. he doesn't know her grief, either, doesn't recognise it for what it is, and doesn't think to make the assumption — he's never been good with grief, not even his own. his, he balls up and buries down deep, papering it over with blood and fists and anger, refusing to name it for what it is. it's avoidance and denial as one, a response that extends to how he views the shape of it in anyone else.

without context, without elaboration, marc's understanding doesn't stand a chance. it's not that he's unempathetic, it's that where one person might see a circle, marc expects a triangle.

which is why— ) Neither do I. ( it's not gentle and it's probably not comforting, but it is honest. ) I've spent my entire life destroying, not building. But whatever you do with it, it's yours, no-one else's.