( for marc, panic tends to make itself known in self-destructive waves. it makes itself known in the way he loses his temper, in the way that he argues. it makes itself known in the shape of steven and jake, two forms, fragments, parts of himself created partly to protect and to shoulder the parts of himself that he can't deal with.
right now, he's not panicked in the typical sense of the word, if only because he's used to feeling lost. he's grown used to questioning his own reality and his own identity. moon knight. marc spector. steven grant and jake lockley. protector of the travellers of the night. vengeance. what of it was real? he hadn't been sure, not until he'd pulled on his mask and been able to see the truth.
his eyebrows dart upwards, just for a second, when she says — questioningly — that it's a long story. dull resignation and a lack of surprise at the extraordinarily unhelpful response, before he looks past her and around, as if searching for something or someone.
I need a second to think, she adds, and his gaze shoots back to her sharply. his thoughts are that it can't be that complicated that she needs time to think about it, even if it's not an explanation he'll be able to make heads nor tails of. he's used to that.
highstorm. springstar. tree. none of it makes any sense — except 'tree', which he can somewhat gather for himself, thank you very much.
he pinches the bridge of his nose, winces, and drops his hand back to his side, a small, dark smudge of dirt remaining. he needs a shower, he thinks suddenly, even as lottie remarks that her hole — grave? it's a grave — is somewhere here, and he looks behind himself in spite of himself to see the expanse of the...
...tree.
nice. )
You haven't answered my question. ( he tells her, standing. watching as she continues to busy herself. )
no subject
right now, he's not panicked in the typical sense of the word, if only because he's used to feeling lost. he's grown used to questioning his own reality and his own identity. moon knight. marc spector. steven grant and jake lockley. protector of the travellers of the night. vengeance. what of it was real? he hadn't been sure, not until he'd pulled on his mask and been able to see the truth.
his eyebrows dart upwards, just for a second, when she says — questioningly — that it's a long story. dull resignation and a lack of surprise at the extraordinarily unhelpful response, before he looks past her and around, as if searching for something or someone.
I need a second to think, she adds, and his gaze shoots back to her sharply. his thoughts are that it can't be that complicated that she needs time to think about it, even if it's not an explanation he'll be able to make heads nor tails of. he's used to that.
highstorm. springstar. tree. none of it makes any sense — except 'tree', which he can somewhat gather for himself, thank you very much.
he pinches the bridge of his nose, winces, and drops his hand back to his side, a small, dark smudge of dirt remaining. he needs a shower, he thinks suddenly, even as lottie remarks that her hole — grave? it's a grave — is somewhere here, and he looks behind himself in spite of himself to see the expanse of the...
...tree.
nice. )
You haven't answered my question. ( he tells her, standing. watching as she continues to busy herself. )