( while bob swings round to try and find something useful inside the room, marc's attention is on the water. it's rising, but not in any way that marc would expect. it stops and starts, the ebb and flow sudden and abrupt, and marc reaches the conclusion that it's nothing to do with the storm — or at least, not in any 'a pipe's burst' or 'there's a leak' way, it's something else. it means he can't work out how long bob might have in there before the water's too deep — could be minutes, could be hours — and so he decides he'll work on the assumption it's the former.
(he's drowned before. he knows what it's like. he wouldn't recommend it.)
and then, quite abruptly, bob's pressed up against the glass, that same binder in his hand, and marc's expression shifts towards incredulous, sharp and tight, mouth quirking before— oh. are those symbols? he squints, blinking rainwater out of his eyes and leans closer to the window, ignoring the way his breath fogs up the glass. he doesn't miss bob's panic, but he doesn't know what he can do to relieve it other than find a way in.
he reaches into a pocket and pulls out the shitty phone he'd been able to purchase. ideally, ideally it'd have a camera function and he'd be able to take a photo of the instructions and the code but it doesn't. it reminds him of the first phone he'd ever owned, some unbreakable brick he'd bought in his twenties that'd served him well in the middle east, in africa, in south america, because it didn't seem to matter if it got buried in sand, if he dropped it, if he forgot about it for days on end. the screen's small, but it does give some illumination, and he holds it up to the glass, his free hand cupping it on the other side in an effort to read the text on the page bob's holding up.
part of him really wishes he'd gone with the 'drive the guy's car into the fucking doors' solution, because it'd save a hell of a lot of time.
still.
here they are.
he exhales, an abrupt, frustrated sigh. bob can't hear it, but it's visible in the way that marc's features twist into momentary annoyance. back of the building, he thinks it'd said, and he takes a step back, prepared — reluctantly — to go in search of said panel, before—. )
WAIT HERE, ( he types, holds up to the window. his gaze swings, noticeably, from bob to the page, lingers. (fuck. is he going to remember all of them at once? probably not.) his mouth thins, and then he types into his phone, a record for himself,
a pause, another glance at the sheet. marc's gaze shifts, just a touch.
SQUIGGLE.
(whatever—. if it's stupid and it works, it's not—.)
and then he's gone. marc doesn't know for how long, it feels like too long by the time he's back. it's not that he looks more dishevelled by the time he returns — the rain covers a multitude of sins in that respect, or at the very least, it's harder for him to look worse — but his gaze doesn't quite settle in any one place, instead drifting to shadows, to corners, to anywhere the pale glow of moonlight doesn't settle.
he doesn't seem to have noticed the blood on his hand, staining the sleeve of his shirt. what he does do is try and seek out bob in the window, try to establish if the doors had opened immediately, or if there's a delay, or if he's done it wrong, or if he's too late—. )
no subject
(he's drowned before. he knows what it's like. he wouldn't recommend it.)
and then, quite abruptly, bob's pressed up against the glass, that same binder in his hand, and marc's expression shifts towards incredulous, sharp and tight, mouth quirking before— oh. are those symbols? he squints, blinking rainwater out of his eyes and leans closer to the window, ignoring the way his breath fogs up the glass. he doesn't miss bob's panic, but he doesn't know what he can do to relieve it other than find a way in.
he reaches into a pocket and pulls out the shitty phone he'd been able to purchase. ideally, ideally it'd have a camera function and he'd be able to take a photo of the instructions and the code but it doesn't. it reminds him of the first phone he'd ever owned, some unbreakable brick he'd bought in his twenties that'd served him well in the middle east, in africa, in south america, because it didn't seem to matter if it got buried in sand, if he dropped it, if he forgot about it for days on end. the screen's small, but it does give some illumination, and he holds it up to the glass, his free hand cupping it on the other side in an effort to read the text on the page bob's holding up.
part of him really wishes he'd gone with the 'drive the guy's car into the fucking doors' solution, because it'd save a hell of a lot of time.
still.
here they are.
he exhales, an abrupt, frustrated sigh. bob can't hear it, but it's visible in the way that marc's features twist into momentary annoyance. back of the building, he thinks it'd said, and he takes a step back, prepared — reluctantly — to go in search of said panel, before—. )
WAIT HERE, ( he types, holds up to the window. his gaze swings, noticeably, from bob to the page, lingers. (fuck. is he going to remember all of them at once? probably not.) his mouth thins, and then he types into his phone, a record for himself, a pause, another glance at the sheet. marc's gaze shifts, just a touch. (whatever—. if it's stupid and it works, it's not—.)
and then he's gone. marc doesn't know for how long, it feels like too long by the time he's back. it's not that he looks more dishevelled by the time he returns — the rain covers a multitude of sins in that respect, or at the very least, it's harder for him to look worse — but his gaze doesn't quite settle in any one place, instead drifting to shadows, to corners, to anywhere the pale glow of moonlight doesn't settle.
he doesn't seem to have noticed the blood on his hand, staining the sleeve of his shirt. what he does do is try and seek out bob in the window, try to establish if the doors had opened immediately, or if there's a delay, or if he's done it wrong, or if he's too late—. )