( he knows how it sounds, how it comes across, and it's not exactly that he enjoys the surprise etched in her expression, the way she looks for who and what he means, but it's useful — both in terms of the small, tiny details it gives him about her — she doesn't ask, that's interesting — and in helping to reposition, re-establish his reputation.
he only moves a touch as she walks towards him, enough to allow her to slide in next to him and press her ear to the door, but no more than that. up close, she'll find he smells of sweat — fresh, not stale — and coffee, the cheap kind, instant, probably. strong and dark and bitter, drank more out of need and habit than for taste. up close, too, it'll be easier for her to note the scar in his eyebrow, the one that says he was lucky to be left with an eye; the nose that's not quite straight, that's healed awkwardly from being broken again and again and again.
all of it, from the quiet tension through to the reminders evident on his body say that he's a fighter, rough and used to getting hit, and so it should be no surprise that his gaze lingers on her, sizes her up a touch more blatantly now she's stood next to him, now that there's not just the pale light of the moon through windows to rely on. he's taller, bigger, but he knows well enough that it's not enough, not always. with her sword, she'll have reach; with her size, she'll have speed, be more nimble.
fine. together they'll likely be a match for whoever's inside, and if it's an unfair fight? if the odds are against them? even better. he's always been at his best when he's the underdog.
but where she might think it's rash to break down the door, the same thought doesn't seem to occur to marc. he nods at her — that he'll incur more debt doesn't occur to him either, but even so: money's just money and he's a priest. what need does he have for it?
he takes a step back and doesn't say anything, just gestures with a hand as if to say 'I need you to move' before shifting his weight, fully prepared to kick down the door unless she interjects. )
no subject
he only moves a touch as she walks towards him, enough to allow her to slide in next to him and press her ear to the door, but no more than that. up close, she'll find he smells of sweat — fresh, not stale — and coffee, the cheap kind, instant, probably. strong and dark and bitter, drank more out of need and habit than for taste. up close, too, it'll be easier for her to note the scar in his eyebrow, the one that says he was lucky to be left with an eye; the nose that's not quite straight, that's healed awkwardly from being broken again and again and again.
all of it, from the quiet tension through to the reminders evident on his body say that he's a fighter, rough and used to getting hit, and so it should be no surprise that his gaze lingers on her, sizes her up a touch more blatantly now she's stood next to him, now that there's not just the pale light of the moon through windows to rely on. he's taller, bigger, but he knows well enough that it's not enough, not always. with her sword, she'll have reach; with her size, she'll have speed, be more nimble.
fine. together they'll likely be a match for whoever's inside, and if it's an unfair fight? if the odds are against them? even better. he's always been at his best when he's the underdog.
but where she might think it's rash to break down the door, the same thought doesn't seem to occur to marc. he nods at her — that he'll incur more debt doesn't occur to him either, but even so: money's just money and he's a priest. what need does he have for it?
he takes a step back and doesn't say anything, just gestures with a hand as if to say 'I need you to move' before shifting his weight, fully prepared to kick down the door unless she interjects. )