( the resentment — rather than the sense of apology — goes a long way to communicate dextera's meaning, and marc's eyes widen, surprise mixed with realisation and a pervasive sense of 'oh, fuck'. briefly, suddenly, apropos nothing (he thinks), he thinks of echo (maya), thinks of how he'd made a mess of communicating with her at the best of times. it's not that she and dextera are similar, not at all, it's more that marc has never been good at communication full stop, less so when he needs to make a concerted effort.
(memories of echo are strange — distant, hazy, like they exist as part of another life entirely. marc had been marc, but none of what he'd done was anything he looked back on with fondness. identity crises are nothing new to him, but that'd been the first time (and last, hopefully) he'd ever found himself impersonating other superheroes.
officially, it'd been tame by his standards, but it hadn't been anything anyone else had looked upon kindly, either. after everything he'd done in new york, after running away to mexico and returning (jake, not marc—), it'd been another question mark against his conduct, against his sanity.)
truthfully, he wouldn't really blame dextera from deciding to nope out of the interaction — it's precisely what marc tends to do when he's in the middle of something he'd much prefer not to be. instead — or rather, whilst marc would also like to dip out of this whole thing now he's made it AWKWARD, PROBABLY, he doesn't. he inhales, lets his gaze shift away from dextera. with echo, all he'd managed to do was off-colour jokes, attempts at humour (never a strong point) and relating (just as poor) that'd fallen thoroughly flat.
he waves a hand, slightly dismissive, intended to convey 'don't worry about it', but caught up more in the feeling of not knowing how to respond. there's not a lot he can offer in kind — 'did you hear that?', or 'let me know if you see something dressed in a suit with a skeletal bird head' are questions he knows not to ask, questions he's taught himself ponder only internally. once upon a time, he'd thought new york to be made up of sand and pyramids, its cops to be jackals, and the subway to be a passage to—god knows, actually. a metaphor, he'd decided eventually, belatedly.
he's not convinced now is any different, truthfully. he's not convinced about any of his feelings, contrasting and conflicted as they are, and he's not used to asking. )
Spector, ( he says, then, and it's accompanied by wryness, the mental association of 'spectre', as if it's a private joke that only marc's in on.
(marc spector was a ghost, you see? he'd died, and then he'd been brought back.) )
no subject
(memories of echo are strange — distant, hazy, like they exist as part of another life entirely. marc had been marc, but none of what he'd done was anything he looked back on with fondness. identity crises are nothing new to him, but that'd been the first time (and last, hopefully) he'd ever found himself impersonating other superheroes.
officially, it'd been tame by his standards, but it hadn't been anything anyone else had looked upon kindly, either. after everything he'd done in new york, after running away to mexico and returning (jake, not marc—), it'd been another question mark against his conduct, against his sanity.)
truthfully, he wouldn't really blame dextera from deciding to nope out of the interaction — it's precisely what marc tends to do when he's in the middle of something he'd much prefer not to be. instead — or rather, whilst marc would also like to dip out of this whole thing now he's made it AWKWARD, PROBABLY, he doesn't. he inhales, lets his gaze shift away from dextera. with echo, all he'd managed to do was off-colour jokes, attempts at humour (never a strong point) and relating (just as poor) that'd fallen thoroughly flat.
he waves a hand, slightly dismissive, intended to convey 'don't worry about it', but caught up more in the feeling of not knowing how to respond. there's not a lot he can offer in kind — 'did you hear that?', or 'let me know if you see something dressed in a suit with a skeletal bird head' are questions he knows not to ask, questions he's taught himself ponder only internally. once upon a time, he'd thought new york to be made up of sand and pyramids, its cops to be jackals, and the subway to be a passage to—god knows, actually. a metaphor, he'd decided eventually, belatedly.
he's not convinced now is any different, truthfully. he's not convinced about any of his feelings, contrasting and conflicted as they are, and he's not used to asking. )
Spector, ( he says, then, and it's accompanied by wryness, the mental association of 'spectre', as if it's a private joke that only marc's in on.
(marc spector was a ghost, you see? he'd died, and then he'd been brought back.) )