The tension that Marcus matches in turn is more readied and defensive than a rise in anger. As Thot's poisonous hiss begins to fill the room, white fangs and blue gullet, he once again transfers his attention to her, as if seriously considering her input and response to the conversation just as much as the real possibility she might attack. That Richard might attack.
She disappears. Marcus stops short of glancing back into the room, restraint helped along by Dick's answer. Just barely.
This next assurance gets only flat regard. That it's also dismissal does not compel Marcus for the door, but there is a resentment in his expression—matte with resignation, more than Richard's brightness—that seems to recognise an end of something, at least in this conversation. Still. The temptation to keep worrying at this bone in particular locks through his posture.
"You know," and now he does glance back, more comfortable in search of a missing cat on his own terms than when it was his instinct, then back to Richard, "I would have thanked you for your actions in our shared dream, but it wasn't my place to do so. It wasn't for my sake but Derrica's, I would think. But I don't mind saying that I'm grateful."
The resentment hasn't left his voice, the ashy leftovers of brief flame colouring his tone, but it doesn't sound like a lie, really, too direct, no hint of irony.
"Notify me," Marcus says, and then goes to see himself out, "if you change your mind."
Marcus' hand rests on the handle of the door without yet curling, gripping.
Then it does, tugging the door open. Out through it at an efficient clip, and the way he tugs it closed again is sharp and hard, the rush of air from the swing of its edge carrying with it the faint aroma of a bitterer, coarser smoke than anything that's packed into pipe or paper. Only almost invisible in the air, and fading.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
She disappears. Marcus stops short of glancing back into the room, restraint helped along by Dick's answer. Just barely.
This next assurance gets only flat regard. That it's also dismissal does not compel Marcus for the door, but there is a resentment in his expression—matte with resignation, more than Richard's brightness—that seems to recognise an end of something, at least in this conversation. Still. The temptation to keep worrying at this bone in particular locks through his posture.
"You know," and now he does glance back, more comfortable in search of a missing cat on his own terms than when it was his instinct, then back to Richard, "I would have thanked you for your actions in our shared dream, but it wasn't my place to do so. It wasn't for my sake but Derrica's, I would think. But I don't mind saying that I'm grateful."
The resentment hasn't left his voice, the ashy leftovers of brief flame colouring his tone, but it doesn't sound like a lie, really, too direct, no hint of irony.
"Notify me," Marcus says, and then goes to see himself out, "if you change your mind."
no subject
The words leave him while he’s still looking down, vinegar from the belly of a slit bladder, nothing left to hem them in.
A two for one deal. Think of all the nightmare trauma the rest of Riftwatch might have been spared.
“I’m sure your intentions were noble,” he adds. “Thank you for the warning.”
no subject
Then it does, tugging the door open. Out through it at an efficient clip, and the way he tugs it closed again is sharp and hard, the rush of air from the swing of its edge carrying with it the faint aroma of a bitterer, coarser smoke than anything that's packed into pipe or paper. Only almost invisible in the air, and fading.