( ooc— wheezes deeply HELLO. i haven't watched tbolts but i'm a-okay with spoilers! marc has met bob in the comics a few times, but since mcu!bob looks very, very different, marc absolutely won't recognise him by sight.
cw — matching you on the history of depression and addiction, but also adding in marc's mental health struggles (and others) — a lot won't come up other than his mental health since that's fairly inescapable, but if you want me to go lighter/vaguer on that, please just lmk! )
( marc's quite used to voices, but here, things have been quiet — at least, comparatively. no khonshu. it's not quite unsettling, khonshu's been quiet before — asgard, when he's sulking, when he's frustrated with marc, when he thinks marc needs to learn a lesson — and marc's used to the cycle, marc's buried the desperate need for approval somewhere he hopes he won't find it again.
he thinks, knows, he'd died. he knows this isn't what awaits him after death — whatever and whenever he manages to be taken out permanently — and so he'd taken yom crook's words with a degree of 'sure, fine, whatever' because there's a chance that this is real, but there's a chance that this is all—
in his head.
how would he know? he's not sure, and so the only answer — probably — is to act like it's not.
he's soaked through thanks to the rain, hair that'd usually curl lightly across his forehead pressed flat, droplets of rain dripping from the ends into his eyes, across his cheeks. he doesn't seem to mind it, doesn't seem to mind the bone-deep cold of the water, or the way his suit — literal, a jacket, a waistcoat, shirt and tie — sticks and clings to him, even though his expression errs towards unhappy — it's the sort of unhappy that suggests it's his default expression, not any specific indicator of mood.
the parked (discarded? hmm, not sure—) vehicle that tells him someone else got here before him gets a glance, appraising rather than curious, thoughtful, and then— whatever. not his business right now. he'll deal with them (or not) once inside.
—or at least, that's his expectation, up until a flicker of movement in a window catches his attention. water. a beat and a thud, the sort marc recognises as a fist against glass. a person? he walks closer, quick, determined, gaze sliding from bob to the water, to the shadows and the dark and for a second, it's hard to pull his attention away, and then—.
is the water rising? he's not sure. whatever, not important. (or, it is, but not the most important, which is how to get inside—.) he holds up a hand — gloved (fingerless) — one finger pointing upwards, 'wait'.
his mouth twitches, the corners curling in a mixture of thought and determination before he takes a step back, grabs a truncheon from somewhere on his person, and swings.
the wide-eyed surprise that very, very quickly turns to irritation settling in his features at the thud-come-thunk reflects the fact that he'd been expecting the high-pitched shattering of glass instead. )
lockdown, a
( marc's quite used to voices, but here, things have been quiet — at least, comparatively. no khonshu. it's not quite unsettling, khonshu's been quiet before — asgard, when he's sulking, when he's frustrated with marc, when he thinks marc needs to learn a lesson — and marc's used to the cycle, marc's buried the desperate need for approval somewhere he hopes he won't find it again.
he thinks, knows, he'd died. he knows this isn't what awaits him after death — whatever and whenever he manages to be taken out permanently — and so he'd taken yom crook's words with a degree of 'sure, fine, whatever' because there's a chance that this is real, but there's a chance that this is all—
in his head.
how would he know? he's not sure, and so the only answer — probably — is to act like it's not.
he's soaked through thanks to the rain, hair that'd usually curl lightly across his forehead pressed flat, droplets of rain dripping from the ends into his eyes, across his cheeks. he doesn't seem to mind it, doesn't seem to mind the bone-deep cold of the water, or the way his suit — literal, a jacket, a waistcoat, shirt and tie — sticks and clings to him, even though his expression errs towards unhappy — it's the sort of unhappy that suggests it's his default expression, not any specific indicator of mood.
the parked (discarded? hmm, not sure—) vehicle that tells him someone else got here before him gets a glance, appraising rather than curious, thoughtful, and then— whatever. not his business right now. he'll deal with them (or not) once inside.
—or at least, that's his expectation, up until a flicker of movement in a window catches his attention. water. a beat and a thud, the sort marc recognises as a fist against glass. a person? he walks closer, quick, determined, gaze sliding from bob to the water, to the shadows and the dark and for a second, it's hard to pull his attention away, and then—.
is the water rising? he's not sure. whatever, not important. (or, it is, but not the most important, which is how to get inside—.) he holds up a hand — gloved (fingerless) — one finger pointing upwards, 'wait'.
his mouth twitches, the corners curling in a mixture of thought and determination before he takes a step back, grabs a truncheon from somewhere on his person, and swings.
the wide-eyed surprise that very, very quickly turns to irritation settling in his features at the thud-come-thunk reflects the fact that he'd been expecting the high-pitched shattering of glass instead. )