catch-all.

[vestments]

Who: marc spector + VARIOUS
Where: AROUND
When: june(ish)
What: catch-all, tdm overflow

Warnings: general moon knight content warnings apply, specifics tba

Comments

⏾ jason

[vestments]

( marc's attention doesn't leave jason, not until he's quite certain that jason does have it handled and won't be needing any immediate assistance. that doesn't mean he doesn't make a point — deliberately — of brushing himself down. it's not entirely for appearances, part of it's to make a mental note of anything that hurts more than it should, of anything that he'll need to give attention to later.

there's nothing that stands out, and so once he's satisfied with is little brush-down, his gaze flickers to the slumped, unconscious and seemingly forgotten about second (third? depends on perspective—) man.

he squats, the sound of jason's words serving as background noise more than anything else. the twenty minutes is a nice touch, he thinks, hand sliding into one of SECOND GUY'S pockets, then the other, checking for anything — weapons or otherwise — that may prove useful. disappointingly, beyond the knife that'd been brandished earlier — which marc does take, even if he's less than impressed by the quality — he comes up short. he hadn't imagined there'd be anything like adamantium here, or even vibranium, but he had hoped for something a little more impressive.

still, he supposes low-quality thugs opt for low-quality weapons.
(he doesn't care for guns, not these days.)

he stands, just in time to catch the sound of retreating footsteps, hurried and accompanied by the heavy sound of a body being dragged more than carried. marc inhales. it's a sharp, sudden noise, not precisely loud but audible in the otherwise quiet of the room and the hallway, and punctuated by an exhale that on any other man might be a laugh — not that there's any accompanying curve or curl of his lips that'd imply as much.

instead, he straightens his tie — fussy, deliberate, he doesn't normally do this without a mask — as he offers, ) Nice. ( a beat; a breath. ) Effective.

( then— )

I always found Health and Safety to be more obstructive.

⏾ karen

[vestments]

( marc is not a fan of guns, typically speaking — not because he has anything against them, per se, but simply because he doesn't like who he is with one in his hand, doesn't like the reminder of the person he was. marc is capable of brutality, but these days he prefers to feel the accountability, whether that be through bruised knuckles and blisters or through cuts and scrapes and bone-deep aches. it needs to be earned, and there's nothing earned with the point-and-click of gun, other than a conscience that goes to sleep easier than it should.

still, he's been shot before. it's fine. the fact that she speaks, doesn't bother to try and maintain the quiet or pretend there's anything other than tension present? indicates that it's not her first choice, that she's probably not liable to shoot wildly, action an inadvertent result of panic.

and yet he doesn't move beyond the doorframe. he stands there, all suit and by-contrast untidy hair curling across his forehead, slightly tacky and damp thanks to a thin sheen of sweat.

dryly, he remarks, ) Then you're in luck, because I was after coffee. ( a breath of a pause. ) I'd wager one of us is going to be more lucky than the other.

( he means it literally, but if it comes across as a convoluted, uncomfortable euphemism—

sorry, karen, that's just marc. )

[tirejacked]

[Something about the way Marc adjusts his tie tips things over to a new level of surreal.  It had been too dark at first to really get the measure of the getup, but the added illumination of the EXIT signs really helps throw it into sharp relief.  (It feels, at once, both utterly strange and uncomfortably familiar. Impossibly incongruous.  A photo negative. Like catching Brucie Wayne busting skulls after a charity ball, all in white instead of black.)

His brows hike up when Marc chooses the continue the bit. His expression goes a little sardonic, and he shrugs. Sticks, stones.

Yeah, well. Way I know it, housekeeping tends to make a lot less mess.

[Not that he's criticizing your methods, bud. But he does make a point of eyeing the spatter of blood. Stark red-on-white, only made moreso by the moodlighting of the emergency lights. If nothing else, it does make a statement.

He'd pocketed the pistol that mook numero uno had pointed his way, and he takes this opportunity to pull it back out to give it a once-over.  (Nearly empty.  Seems like these guys hadn't exactly been packing heavy.  Bullets, it turns out, are expensive.) Unlike Marc, he's not opposed to guns at all.  In fact, he's recently put a lot of work into becoming a real good shot.  So don't mind if he does.]

Guess the both of us are in the wrong line of work.

[Hah.]

[vestments]

( he almost remarks that his housekeeper — back in the day, when he'd been able to afford to keep nedda and samuels on payroll, when there'd be enough of steven present to offset the everything that marc brought into their lives — had been skilled enough with shotgun for when push came to shove.

but then jason makes a remark about the both of them being in the wrong line of work, and marc's eyebrows raise. mild in the way it takes shape, it's still disagreement, and marc cants his head. there may not be enough light to really see by, but there's enough, and he knows that look.

(it's why he wears white.)

quite abruptly, then, he drops the bit and says— )

Hardly. ( deliberate and certain. he raises a hand, empty, palm facing upwards, and then he gestures at himself. ) I'm a priest. ( it's a little too deadpan to be anything other than serious, but there's an edge of a challenge there, as if to say, go on, tell him he's not.

regardless, it doesn't linger. his attention shifts almost as immediately as he's spoken. he looks back towards the hallway, the direction the woman had scarpered in. it's an unvocalised point, his attention returning to jason a beat later as he says, ) She'd probably disagree, too.

( he's not going to pretend that he thinks that jason is really in health and safety: quite clearly, he's in the business of this — or at least, something adjacent. not an avengers type, which as far as marc's particular inclinations and methodologies go, is probably a positive, but beyond that—.

mm.

he settles on adding, ) Spector. ( because he's not mr. knight, not here, not now — and he knows just how much 'spector' and 'spectre' sound alike.

a little joke, all for himself. )

⏾ adrian

[vestments]

( marc doesn't expect thanks, and certainly not immediately. he's drowned before, he knows the crushing weight of water in lungs, the tight pain that comes with the loss of oxygen. the way that adrian's throat probably feels like it's been rubbed raw, even as his body forces itself to expel whatever's left.

he is glad — in more ways than one — that adrian hadn't lost consciousness, but adrian's question cuts through the relief, sudden, blunt surprise taking its place. his eyes widen just a touch, then narrow, brow knitting in bemusement even as he extends his other hand towards adrian to help him up. the desk might be fine for adrian, but extending a hand gives marc something to do other than just stand there.

once adrian's stood — whether or not he accepts marc's help — marc turns away, waving a hand tightly and dismissively over his shoulder. )

I'm fine.

( it's not a no, because the both of them can see the cut, the streaks of blood diluted by rainwater, but as far as these things go, marc is fine. it's not posturing, and it's not bravado — in the silver-white light of the moon and the dull flickering of whatever lights still remain on in the building, it's evident that marc is used to getting hurt. there's a scar through an eyebrow that suggests he's lucky to have both his eye and his sight still, while his nose bears the look of one that's been broken more times than marc can likely recount.

but much like adrian, marc is certain this place is wrong, but without magic, all he has to rely on is his gut, and despite everything, marc's aware that wrong doesn't always equal bad or evil. the place makes him think of the house of shadows, his midnight mission, but now's not the time to test that theory, to see if he has any way of winning it over and getting it on-side, not while he's not alone. )

We should go. ( it's brief, curt, designed to brook no argument — not that it usually stops anyone. )

[faithfall]

[ There's a moment's hesitation, but Adrian takes his hand. Sodden as they are, he's still wearing his gloves, so the risk of contact is extremely small, he reasons. Perhaps some part of him needs to be convinced that Marc isn't some strange illusion or revenant, a horrible twist to match the bitterness of bile in the back of his throat. It's just the sort of thing that would happen in Barovia. No victory, no matter how hard-won, could be without some complication.

But the Marc is just — human, probably. Alive as far as he can tell. ]

...Fine. But you'll let me look at it once we're free of this place. [ Marc looks like the sort of person who's seen more than his fair share of trouble over the years, so he doesn't doubt that the man can handle himself; Adrian knows the type. He's spent what feels like half his life stitching them up, and the other half arguing with them until they take the stitches in the first place.

It's for the best, probably. Adrian is still coughing infrequently, each one is little more than a painful annoyance, a stab to the headache between his temples and the rawness of his throat. ]

I'll keep up. [ He knows there isn't time to debate in a place like this. He'll fall into line and follow Marc's lead unless...

He moves his hair out of the way so that he can look through the blackened eye of his familiar, for anything that might be hidden in the dark beyond the flickering lights, or trying to pass entirely unseen. Even if Marc looks back, Adrian doesn't think that he'll mind if the eye looks a bit gruesome, surrounded by dark veins and deep scars, as if it had once been gouged out.

He sees... Nothing. Just deeper patches of shadow.

Shadow that he ought to be able to see through, with his abilities.

Adrian swears under his breath. ] It's the shadows. Can you see them? I think they're moving.

[ His voice is even, not because he's confident, but because he's well acclimated to this sort of horror. If Marc isn't able to avoid them, he'll take the lead, but if he seems versed enough... as he promised, Adrian will keep up. ]

[pagings]

[ that's probably a fair feeling to have. karen doesn't necessarily love the fact she always has one on her, that she has to have it on her to really feel safe anymore, but she supposes that is also because she knows that even with a gun in her hand, she's far from the most dangerous person she knows. or, if she was really honest, far from brutal. instead, she knows what it's like to be scared, and has been in enough situations where her pistol was the only thing that has kept her going. that's kept her alive.

karen is not here to convince more people to carry. she is far from the poster child of concealed carry. but the feeling of fear, of real fear, still keeps her up at night. and at least here she doesn't feel completely helpless. just a little... out of her depth.

she listens, and he doesn't move, so neither does she. his comment, his tone especially, brings her even more of a pause. ]

Coffee? That's it? [ she doesn't know why that feels oddly... superficial. not that she's anyone to judge.

another beat, an exhale. no, she's not even going to acknowledge the euphemism part. not right now. instead she calls over the bar, still not quite moving from her spot just yet. ]

I can help you look, if you want.

[tirejacked]

[Honestly one could make the same argument about Alfred. (Ex-of her majesties's special forces and all.)  Maybe they’re actually in the right line of work after all.  Why is there such a badass-to-housekeeper pipeline, we just don’t know.

Predictibly, Priest earns an equally deadpan look. Sure you are. Even in Gotham City, he's never seen a priest throw a punch like that.

Oddly, calling back to the woman they'd sent off downstairs seems to kick another little spike of defensiveness into his posture. His chin raises, hands gone still on his newly-looted pistol.  Like Talia making a point of calling him out on his extracurriculars.  Irrational on some level, of course, because it's not like he's been all that subtle. Marc isn't particularly incorrect in the assumptions he's probably making.  But it itches at his nerves that the guy thinks to make them. (He's probably not exactly correct, either.)

He thumbs the safety back onto the gun and tucks it away under his jacket. Dry—]  

Spooky. 

[Jury's out on whether Spector (Spectre?) is a name or a pseudonym, and he's got the right background to wonder. Could be either, really, though to be honest, it's all kind of the same to him right now. There's a moment where he's clearly weighing if he wants to meet him halfway.]

Jason. [He's kind of deliberately between monikers, at the moment. And between jobs, since he doesn't have anything quite as interesting to offer as Priest. Instead—] I'm just passing through.

[New in town, y'know?]

[vestments]

( neither nedda nor samuels ever managed to be quite on alfred's level, but there's only so much time one can spend in the company of two former mercenaries and not pick up a thing or two. jean-paul, former pilot, former engineer, former friend, might have always been more approachable than marc, might have always been better with people, but that'd never made him any less dangerous.

and though he knows jason doesn't know enough to make an informed decision either way, it's funny how that bothers him, sits uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach. at one point he'd have given almost anything to lose the reputation, to have had the chance to just be ...not moon knight. (he didn't want to be marc spector either, but—.)

perhaps he doesn't scream vigilante, but jason's incredulity around the idea of PRIEST is fair enough. it's a title marc's given himself, entirely self-described — it's not as if he worships khonshu, not as if he leads service in his name, not unless anyone decides to classify the violence marc does as a fist of khonshu 'service'.

(khonshu does, of course.)

and in kind, it's the reason why marc doesn't assume jason's a vigilante by trade, either. someone who's grown up around violence, certainly, someone who speaks that, who uses it as a lingua franca, but there are more people with that than those who run around beating up bad guys in the dark. what he does offer is an mm at the 'spooky', a hint of satisfaction in his tone. a remark about being a spectre of the moon, about being a ghost sits unsaid, and he lifts a shoulder in a vague approximation of a shrug.

where jason tenses, where he seems to hold an internal debate over what he makes of marc's response, marc is controlled, feigned ease. he's not comfortable, wouldn't know the definition of the word, and it's easy to note he's watchful, but there's less coil there. )

Nominative determinism. ( as dry as jason's retort, enough that it says it really, really isn't. ) From what I've gathered, most of us are passing through.

( and passing through isn't the same thing as indifference, is it? )

[vestments]

( marc offers a noise that sits between a hum of acknowledgement and a hmph before adding a muttered, dismissive 'sure'. it's not disagreement, but it's not quite agreement either — as far as marc's concerned, it'll depend on the once we're free of it all. maybe a cut's all they'll have to worry about between them, other than adrian's near-drowning experience, but marc isn't so optimistic as to assume that'll be the case.

regardless, the I'll keep up sits more in line with what he'd like to hear, and that earns an incline of marc's head, something that's almost a nod as marc redirects his attention towards the doors he'd entered through. he doesn't get far before adrian swear and he stops sharp, turning abruptly, hand instinctively tightening around the cold, wet, slick metal of his truncheon at his thigh.

for a moment, he's silent. still. his sight is perfectly ordinary, and though he can see the shadows — or at least, he can see the darkness — there's nothing beyond that, that marc's capable of discerning. not unusual, not for him, even if it's unsettling, strange and discomforting; even if it imparts a strange weight not dissimilar to that which he'd experienced outside, and yes, the shadows do seem to be moving, heading towards them, but what can a man with a truncheon do against shadows? nothing, probably. you can't punch your way through them. )

Which is why we need to go, ( he repeats, gaze shifting abruptly to adrian. it's now that he notices the eye, though not all the details, not the extent of it, and as adrian had expected, marc's entirely nonplussed. his expression doesn't change from firm, resolute displeasure, brows knit in a tight frown that could very well be his default expression.

a beat, a lean forward. ) Unless you want this to get unpleasant. ( 'unpleasant' clearly a euphemism, he pivots, reaching out to grab adrian's sleeve as he does so, as if to pull adrian with him. as if in explanation, he adds— ) I don't remember slicing my hand. ( the intonation's awkward, a little like it costs marc something to admit that to a stranger. ) I'm happy to come back to deal with the problem, but I need to know how.

( and to do that, they need to leave, right? so— an inhale of breath. )

So for now, what, stay in the light? Fine.

( well, easier said than done, actually, but whatever. )

[vestments]

( he notes her tone, the thread of incredulity and surprise at his response. what, did she think he was here to find a weapon? or to mug any unfortunate that, like the both of them, seems to consider it a valid stop-off on their journey to fuck knows where? coffee isn't that different to food, and the way his brow furrows, the way his mouth twists, does more than suggest it's a passing thought: what's wrong with hunting out coffee?

the dark circles beneath his eyes, the ones that speak of habitual sleep deprivation rather than a few poor nights here and there, probably go some way towards explaining why coffee, and in lieu of answering her offer, he just lifts a hand — empty — palm facing upwards. )

It's been a while since I slept, ( a beat, and more to himself than her, he mutters, ) Don't really count whatever it was before Yom Crook's.

( he still doesn't turn his back to her, but he does step out of the doorway, a whole two steps closer, the door swinging shut behind him. there's no immediately noticeable weapon on his person, and though it's hard to discern if there's anything hidden beneath the jacket, he keeps his hands visible. he's got both height and bulk on her, if that's what it comes to, and so— ) Sounds like it's been a while since the water's been used. Wouldn't trust it unless you're planning on boiling it.

( then, still not responding to her 'I can help', he nods his head towards her hands. towards the gun. ) I'm not going to hurt you over a jar of instant. I can empty my pockets if that'd make you feel better, but until you lower that, I'm not going to let you anything.

[tirejacked]

[There’s a reason—besides just keeping his identity under wraps—that he’d opted for a full face mask for his planned reappearance in Gotham’s criminal underworld.  For one, it probably wouldn’t strike a ton of fear into the mafiasos if the new threat in the scene couldn’t even buy booze yet in the more reputable parts of the city. But also—he’s just never been all that good at clamping down on what he’s feeling. He has to put intention into obfuscating it, when someone knows how to look. It writes itself into everything he does.  

So, yeah. He’s never been all that good at indifference, either.  (Even when he’s tried to convince himself otherwise.)]

That’s the story. 

[When you put it that way. Of course, “passing through” implies a way out.  The locals have been a lot less solid about that, so far. Some of them say they've been here for generations. 

He toes the door back open to get a better look at Marc’s handiwork with mook number three, still slumped abandoned and unconscious inside.

“Normative determinism,” huh. Name, then. Probably. The carefully easy posture Marc holds up doesn’t do much to ease off his wariness, though that’s pretty par for the course. Jason spent the last several months hopping around the world with some very deadly people. From the League of Assassins and miscellaneous merc groups to explosives experts to hand-to-hand masters. So on, so forth.  So, y’know. He likes to think he has a feel for the type.  (That is: dangerous, by trade. Whatever shape that trade might take. Makes you wonder. Shame about the bloodstains if the suit is supposed to be some kind of cover. What with him being a priest and all.)]

Heard much about that during your sermons?

[pagings]

[ okay but... can you blame her? for thinking that he was one of the raiders, or a looter, or someone hanging around for trouble instead of the alternative? even if she were back home the gut check would still feel the same. he has to admit that all of this feels really suspicious, but she's working through it.

he steps out from the doorway and karen adjusts a bit where she's sitting, finally seeing him standing there in his entirely-white attire. her eyes cross over everything about him that she can see - the clothes, which feel a little too much like something fisk would wear to be comfortable, and the bags under his eyes. he keeps talking, mentioning his lack of sleep, the water, and every second or so she continues to relax even further.

so much that by the time he nods his head to the gun, she... she hasn't forgotten that she's holding it, exactly, but she has lost track of how it might seem to him. she blinks, remembering, and then immediately slips the safety on and tucks it away. ] Sorry. No- it's fine. Just... [ trying to stay safe? trying to not get taken advantage of? she shakes her head, deciding not to finish that statement, and instead pushes herself to her feet. ]

I'm Karen, by the way.

[vestments]

( marc's found that you say priest and people have a very specific idea of what that entails, what that looks like. he knows he doesn't have much of a leg to stand on, knows it's quite a particular image he's invoking when he uses the term, but that doesn't stop it from being useful.

he watches as jason re-opens the door to the room, and rather than look back in at the sight of the man slumped against the wall, he watches jason instead. watches the way his expression does or doesn't change, watches to see where his attention falls. there's very little mistaking the type of man marc is, that's the point. mr. knight might be the more comforting persona, moon knight might be the one that's brutal, but marc spector had come first. there was no moon knight without him — the lines between moon knight and marc have always been thin, and for as much as steven-marc-jake might have tried their best to emphasise the differences—

—they weren't really there. moon knight was who marc had wanted to be, as efficient and as brutal, but without the lingering emotions.

and so he offers a hum of acknowledgement, his weight shifting as he glances first one way down the hall, then the other. it's quiet. not the sort that implies something worse is to come, but the sort that settles after unpleasantries. the sort that's still but unwelcome. uncertain in its own way. )

I just got here, ( he answers bluntly, roughly, gaze returning to jason. it's true enough — a week or two is hardly enough time to gain the measure of a place. barely a breath of a pause and he jerks his head towards the room, before adding, ) How much room for talking d'you think my sermons leave?

[tirejacked]

[He doesn't quite turn his back, this time. But he gives the interior of the room a quick once over. A fucking mess, after getting ransacked, but doesn't look like there's been much left behind but the mook. Even from a distance, he can see that the guy slumped against the wall is very still, out cold...but alive.

He adjusts his evaluation of Marc by a hair. Knocks his knuckles against the doorframe, like an answer.]

I think you get your point across.

[Clearly. A bit of well-applied pressure is worth a thousand words.

He lets the door swing loose again. Steps back.]

What next for you? Going door to door?

[It's what he'd been doing when he found him, after all.]

[faithfall]

[ Adrian fights the instinct to tug out of Marc's reach and just keeps moving with him. He's about to complain that he doesn't need a leash when Marc clarifies further. He doesn't remember what happened.

Adrian's eyes widen briefly, but he absorbs the information like it isn't entirely novel. Maybe holding on isn't such a bad idea, actually. ] Let's hope that another pair of eyes will deter any further... mind games. If we must keep track of each other, it would be easier if you give me your hand.

[ It's more than that, he knows, from the words in the binder and the faces in the water. He would be just as disturbed in Marc's position, yet he wonders if there's something more underneath that, when the man seems so unflappable otherwise.

And Marc isn't wrong. There's no sense in staying to fight when they appear to be the only living souls in the area. What magic he has left isn't enough to combat an unknown number of shadows, and that's if he would be any use at all when he still feels half-drowned.

He worries that someone else might stumble into a similar fate in the meantime, but there's little to be done about that. Their corpses won't make this place any safer. ]

If it's still here, I'll come back with you. I can help with the light after a rest.

[ But at the moment, it's faster just to go. The shadows seem to follow them the whole way, gathering to one-another, growing in size. It's a relief when the front doors open for them, though not for long. The shadows are thick outside as well, moonlight barely fighting through the heavy rain clouds to light the way. ]

We should stay together. Your car or mine? [ In case they follow, he means. ]

[vestments]

You know what they say, ( he murmurs, a ghost of humour evident in his tone, in his expression as his attention flits to the room and then back to jason. this time, he resists the urge to adjust his tie, although he does raise a hand, gestures tightly with his fingers, a half-wave as if to say 'well.' ) A picture paints a thousand words.

( it's grim in intonation, but jason might intuit that's the point. marc may be serious, but there's a solid portion of it that's entirely for show, that's entirely him leaning into his own image just to see what the reaction is. it works better at home, of course, when moon knight is a known entity, but it's not as if he's opposed to building moon knight from the ground up. he's done it before, will probably have to do it again, if he's honest with himself.

but as for the question—. his gaze swings left, then right. a beat and, dryly, he remarks, ) Think the neighbours are out. ( probably not the case — they more than likely heard the ruckus and, for better or worse, chose to keep themselves to themselves.

marc doesn't watch to see what jason makes of that, whether he has any intention on lingering. instead, he reaches into a pocket, comes up short, reaches into another pocket and— ah. a chalk marker. white. he'd prefer spray paint, but beggars can't be choosers and it's a touch more awkward to carry about on the fly, and so— )

But it's a nice night.

( he adds as draws a crescent moon on the door (apologies to the woman—). it's not as crude as one might expect — on the contrary, it's drawn with practised ease, like this is something he does a lot. there is, however, a momentary pause before he starts to fill it in, the kind that's usually signified by an inhale of breath or a sigh, even if neither are visible or audible but for the way that marc presses his lips into a thin line and his brows pull together.

(tedious.) )

—Good time to get to know people.

( 'yes'. )

[vestments]

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. )