Don't worry, ( he mutters, although whether it's to adrian, whether it's to himself, or whether it's meant for the shadows is unclear. )Mind games tend to end in my favour.
( —it's not quite true. a certain kind of mind game tends to end in marc's favour, the sort where he can fight back with fists, the sort where his mind is found to be a less enjoyable playground than first impressions would imply. his has already been laid claim to, and khonshu's nothing if not territorial. it's not yet been tested whether that holds true here, but marc's certain that if he's any degree of living, then khonshu will seek to assert ownership as and when necessary.
the other kind of mind game, though? the sort where marc has to be certain of fact and fiction, has to be certain in his perception of reality? those are the ones he tends to lose. those are the ones where he travels off-piste, where he loses track of lines in sand, where he forgets when they were drawn and why. the kind where marc can be manipulated and persuaded. those, he won't admit to struggling with — he'd barely managed it with greer, had settled on an 'I needed a friend' admission instead. it'd been true, but there'd been more depth to it than anything he'd vocalised.
still, ego doesn't entirely win out. at adrian's it would be easier, marc's gaze meets his, briefly petulant, briefly unhappy. marc's used to control on his terms, used to push-and-pull only within known quantities, and adrian isn't known. it's with reluctance, then, that he holds out his hand. it's rough, calloused in the way that hands belonging to people who've made a living handling weapons are calloused — guns, knives. fists. broken bones that didn't set right or weren't given enough time to heal. a trigger finger.
bluntly, brusquely, he chooses not to pass comment and instead, ) I'm not afraid of the dark. ( there'd be adrian's name there, if he knew it. as he doesn't, the utterance hangs, a little awkward, almost notably unfinished. it's ultimately unnecessary, they reach outside with almost disconcerting ease compared to the rest of it and—
oh.
there's a moment, one that for marc, feels longer than it is, where he falters over the question about whose car. )
I don't have one, ( he admits under the dull, broken light of the moon. there's no immediate elaboration on what he means by that, or how he travelled here in the first place, not until marc's attention settles on an almost obnoxiously orange motorbike. there's a small topbox behind the pillion seat, and it's both outdated and with a smaller engine than what marc would've preferred, but practicality has never entirely been his preference. recklessness, speed, and adrenaline have always won out, even if steven and jake both think marc's a fool in that regard.
(he's privately come to the conclusion that he might have been better suited with a car after all — it'd have given him somewhere to crash when he didn't want to pay to stay somewhere, when he didn't want company, when he didn't want to implicitly trust his surroundings.)
the way his gaze returns to adrian, then, the way it settles— there's a very obvious sentiment of if you're going to insist we travel together, it'll have to be your car.
even if the truth of the matter is that while it might be adrian's car, marc would prefer to drive.
it's with a glance back over his shoulder, then, back into the dark depths of the building, the shadows that for the moment are still at the doorway, that he asks— ) How long have you been driving?
( it's slightly politer than 'give me the keys', at least. )
no subject
( —it's not quite true. a certain kind of mind game tends to end in marc's favour, the sort where he can fight back with fists, the sort where his mind is found to be a less enjoyable playground than first impressions would imply. his has already been laid claim to, and khonshu's nothing if not territorial. it's not yet been tested whether that holds true here, but marc's certain that if he's any degree of living, then khonshu will seek to assert ownership as and when necessary.
the other kind of mind game, though? the sort where marc has to be certain of fact and fiction, has to be certain in his perception of reality? those are the ones he tends to lose. those are the ones where he travels off-piste, where he loses track of lines in sand, where he forgets when they were drawn and why. the kind where marc can be manipulated and persuaded. those, he won't admit to struggling with — he'd barely managed it with greer, had settled on an 'I needed a friend' admission instead. it'd been true, but there'd been more depth to it than anything he'd vocalised.
still, ego doesn't entirely win out. at adrian's it would be easier, marc's gaze meets his, briefly petulant, briefly unhappy. marc's used to control on his terms, used to push-and-pull only within known quantities, and adrian isn't known. it's with reluctance, then, that he holds out his hand. it's rough, calloused in the way that hands belonging to people who've made a living handling weapons are calloused — guns, knives. fists. broken bones that didn't set right or weren't given enough time to heal. a trigger finger.
bluntly, brusquely, he chooses not to pass comment and instead, ) I'm not afraid of the dark. ( there'd be adrian's name there, if he knew it. as he doesn't, the utterance hangs, a little awkward, almost notably unfinished. it's ultimately unnecessary, they reach outside with almost disconcerting ease compared to the rest of it and—
oh.
there's a moment, one that for marc, feels longer than it is, where he falters over the question about whose car. )
I don't have one, ( he admits under the dull, broken light of the moon. there's no immediate elaboration on what he means by that, or how he travelled here in the first place, not until marc's attention settles on an almost obnoxiously orange motorbike. there's a small topbox behind the pillion seat, and it's both outdated and with a smaller engine than what marc would've preferred, but practicality has never entirely been his preference. recklessness, speed, and adrenaline have always won out, even if steven and jake both think marc's a fool in that regard.
(he's privately come to the conclusion that he might have been better suited with a car after all — it'd have given him somewhere to crash when he didn't want to pay to stay somewhere, when he didn't want company, when he didn't want to implicitly trust his surroundings.)
the way his gaze returns to adrian, then, the way it settles— there's a very obvious sentiment of if you're going to insist we travel together, it'll have to be your car.
even if the truth of the matter is that while it might be adrian's car, marc would prefer to drive.
it's with a glance back over his shoulder, then, back into the dark depths of the building, the shadows that for the moment are still at the doorway, that he asks— ) How long have you been driving?
( it's slightly politer than 'give me the keys', at least. )