( marc catches the flinch, notices the way that bob stays still until marc's at his bike, and marc inhales a breath, slow and steady. it's not an unusual reaction to him, to moon knight, but it's unnecessary here. his fingers curl around the handlebars of the bike, and he squeezes tightly, knuckles turning white beneath his gloves as he hears the doors of the van swing open, hears the crunching of gravel underfoot as bob hurries towards him.
it shouldn't be the darkness, marc's at home in shadows, but this feels wrong, unsettling and enticing all at once. it's probably just him, letting his emotions — ugly — get in the way of things. but bob's not the enemy, bob hasn't done anything other than be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and so marc should— be softer? he's never been good at that. even reese gets marc blunt, and though she might not see all of his edges, though he'd made a point not to allow her to see the worst of him, she got to see enough. he supposes the difference is, reese gave (gives?) it back. for all her youth, she pushes whenever he's being too himself, and he knows that.
bob gets neither an apology nor an explanation. instead, marc lingers, a beat too long, creeping shadows momentarily forgotten as he's aware of bob in his periphery, only acknowledging him with the slightest cant of his head, enough to see his shoes, his pants; catches the flicker of movement that's bob's hands not seeming to know where to settle, but not meeting his gaze until he speaks.
this time, marc doesn't say anything, he just grunts, rocking the bike back once and then forward, the kickstand getting pushed — finally — back all the way, movement punctuated by a clunk, the sharp sound dulled only a touch by wet. the bike's clunky and heavy, but one man can push it, it'll just be the lifting it into the van that'll be awkward, and—
right. on three. )
—Just push it up from the back.
( it's not quite agreement with 'on three', but the lack of disagreement serves as an implicit 'yeah, fine'. )
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it shouldn't be the darkness, marc's at home in shadows, but this feels wrong, unsettling and enticing all at once. it's probably just him, letting his emotions — ugly — get in the way of things. but bob's not the enemy, bob hasn't done anything other than be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and so marc should— be softer? he's never been good at that. even reese gets marc blunt, and though she might not see all of his edges, though he'd made a point not to allow her to see the worst of him, she got to see enough. he supposes the difference is, reese gave (gives?) it back. for all her youth, she pushes whenever he's being too himself, and he knows that.
bob gets neither an apology nor an explanation. instead, marc lingers, a beat too long, creeping shadows momentarily forgotten as he's aware of bob in his periphery, only acknowledging him with the slightest cant of his head, enough to see his shoes, his pants; catches the flicker of movement that's bob's hands not seeming to know where to settle, but not meeting his gaze until he speaks.
this time, marc doesn't say anything, he just grunts, rocking the bike back once and then forward, the kickstand getting pushed — finally — back all the way, movement punctuated by a clunk, the sharp sound dulled only a touch by wet. the bike's clunky and heavy, but one man can push it, it'll just be the lifting it into the van that'll be awkward, and—
right.
on three. )
—Just push it up from the back.
( it's not quite agreement with 'on three', but the lack of disagreement serves as an implicit 'yeah, fine'. )