( once upon a time, marc had died — he's pretty sure — and he'd awoken in darkness, to the figures of scarlet fasinera and carson knowles, one saving him, the other attempting to kill him. he'd never quite been sure what had been real and what had been khonshu, and what had been somewhere in between. this is no different, only this time there's no khonshu, no familiar faces of any kind, no anything that serves as clue.
then, he'd said something about how he'd died once before and beat it, so he could do it again. now, he knows there's a finite number of times he can manage that, at least with staying himself, and he doesn't yet have an answer. (had he ever reached one then? no, not really, but he'd done enough that a conclusion hadn't really mattered.)
the diner's familiar in the way that so many diners are: tired. sticky, laminated menus with too-cheap coffee and equally sticky tables. he'd say he stopped because it was convenient — it's certainly not welcoming — but in another life, it could've been gena's, could've had ricky and ray running around, and though it doesn't—.
he couldn't help but wonder, up until the point he'd parked, up until the point he'd stepped foot inside.
he's not hungry (he is, when was the last time he'd eaten?) (it's fine—), but he's thirsty (coffee goes a long way), and though he wouldn't trust most anything, there's something to be said for the impossibility of instant coffee, the bitter, terrible taste of freeze-dried granules and boiling water. the marines had taught him not to be picky, whilst africa, south america, the middle east — hot, sweaty countries, where men like him were far from appreciated — had continued the education.
the noise in the dark, then, is marc — or rather, thanks to marc. it's the turning of a tap, the clunk of a water boiler and pipes coming, reluctantly, to life. a whine and a groan, high-pitched and unpleasant, punctuated by a very human wince. god, that wasn't his smartest idea, but he hadn't heard anyone pull up outside, hadn't heard them enter.
what he does notice is the barest flicker of movement out in the diner, away from the kitchen. it's in the falling of shadows, the flicker of dark then light then dark, and marc entirely forgets about the coffee, and edges carefully, with the sort of ease that comes only with training and practice, towards the door. there's no handle — it's the sort of fire-proof door with double hinges that makes sneaking difficult, but it doesn't stop him.
even if he is dressed all in white, even if he is dressed in a three-piece suit, all shirt and jacket and tie and waistcoat.
with the sort of confidence that only accompanies such a baffling sartorial choice, marc pushes open the door with a foot, a white chelsea boot the only discernible part of marc visible as, ) It's impolite to sneak.
( chicago-accented, hard-edges and vowels softened by years of travel. )
diner.
then, he'd said something about how he'd died once before and beat it, so he could do it again.
now, he knows there's a finite number of times he can manage that, at least with staying himself, and he doesn't yet have an answer.
(had he ever reached one then? no, not really, but he'd done enough that a conclusion hadn't really mattered.)
the diner's familiar in the way that so many diners are: tired. sticky, laminated menus with too-cheap coffee and equally sticky tables. he'd say he stopped because it was convenient — it's certainly not welcoming — but in another life, it could've been gena's, could've had ricky and ray running around, and though it doesn't—.
he couldn't help but wonder, up until the point he'd parked, up until the point he'd stepped foot inside.
he's not hungry (he is, when was the last time he'd eaten?) (it's fine—), but he's thirsty (coffee goes a long way), and though he wouldn't trust most anything, there's something to be said for the impossibility of instant coffee, the bitter, terrible taste of freeze-dried granules and boiling water. the marines had taught him not to be picky, whilst africa, south america, the middle east — hot, sweaty countries, where men like him were far from appreciated — had continued the education.
the noise in the dark, then, is marc — or rather, thanks to marc. it's the turning of a tap, the clunk of a water boiler and pipes coming, reluctantly, to life. a whine and a groan, high-pitched and unpleasant, punctuated by a very human wince. god, that wasn't his smartest idea, but he hadn't heard anyone pull up outside, hadn't heard them enter.
what he does notice is the barest flicker of movement out in the diner, away from the kitchen. it's in the falling of shadows, the flicker of dark then light then dark, and marc entirely forgets about the coffee, and edges carefully, with the sort of ease that comes only with training and practice, towards the door. there's no handle — it's the sort of fire-proof door with double hinges that makes sneaking difficult, but it doesn't stop him.
even if he is dressed all in white, even if he is dressed in a three-piece suit, all shirt and jacket and tie and waistcoat.
with the sort of confidence that only accompanies such a baffling sartorial choice, marc pushes open the door with a foot, a white chelsea boot the only discernible part of marc visible as, ) It's impolite to sneak.
( chicago-accented, hard-edges and vowels softened by years of travel. )