( yes, he is talking about himself in the third person, it's fine, it's just a thing he does sometimes. but wanda doesn't draw attention to it (thankfully), and so neither does marc need to try to come up with an explanation as to why. instead, there is, just for a moment, a thin sliver of a smile when she says she doesn't think she'd ever approach marc or mr. knight for anything, and he can't help but think that's because she knows neither of them, not really.
it's not so much that he stills when she mentions hanukkah — marc isn't a man prone to fidgeting, but there's a noticeable lack of anything, punctuated by a shift of his head. his gaze settles, appraising, like he's rethinking his opinion of her, his response. it's not the we, it's not even the way she hesitates before 'stopped', nor is it the admission of being an orphan.
he plucks one from the container, with a delicacy that's not quite intrinsic, not quite characteristic, except for— ) Sufganiyot, ( he concedes. it's not awkward, not really. there's a deep familiarity in how he says the word, either with hebrew or yiddish or both, and it's an admission he hadn't planned on making. ) My father was a rabbi. ( it's what he offers instead of a 'me too' at the mention of hanukkah.
there's something shared there, in the we stopped celebrating, although marc wouldn't know how to put it into words. he stopped celebrating. he doesn't know what randall did, not really, not between joining the marines and dying. he recalls a barbeque held when they were children, where randall had picked up hot dogs from a refrigerator without reading the ingredients, where their mother had scolded randall for picking up something that wasn't kosher, and marc for not keeping a better eye on his younger brother.
it was the sort of mundane moment that'd seemed unimportant at the time, the sort of thing that marc had managed to forget until now.
he exhales a breath, and it's more weighted than he means it to be when he says, ) Thank you, ( a krofne held up to his mouth, slightly muffling the gratitude. )
no subject
it's not so much that he stills when she mentions hanukkah — marc isn't a man prone to fidgeting, but there's a noticeable lack of anything, punctuated by a shift of his head. his gaze settles, appraising, like he's rethinking his opinion of her, his response. it's not the we, it's not even the way she hesitates before 'stopped', nor is it the admission of being an orphan.
he plucks one from the container, with a delicacy that's not quite intrinsic, not quite characteristic, except for— ) Sufganiyot, ( he concedes. it's not awkward, not really. there's a deep familiarity in how he says the word, either with hebrew or yiddish or both, and it's an admission he hadn't planned on making. ) My father was a rabbi. ( it's what he offers instead of a 'me too' at the mention of hanukkah.
there's something shared there, in the we stopped celebrating, although marc wouldn't know how to put it into words. he stopped celebrating. he doesn't know what randall did, not really, not between joining the marines and dying. he recalls a barbeque held when they were children, where randall had picked up hot dogs from a refrigerator without reading the ingredients, where their mother had scolded randall for picking up something that wasn't kosher, and marc for not keeping a better eye on his younger brother.
it was the sort of mundane moment that'd seemed unimportant at the time, the sort of thing that marc had managed to forget until now.
he exhales a breath, and it's more weighted than he means it to be when he says, ) Thank you, ( a krofne held up to his mouth, slightly muffling the gratitude. )