( marc didn't think he'd ever miss his iphone, but it's only after he sends the response that he's aware of 1. how blunt it is, and 2. that she'll have no idea he's typing an addendum.
(does he even want to attempt to explain it?) (no.) )
It's not like that.
( —eh, it kind of is, kind of isn't. it's the excuse he's given on occasion, but it's not the reason for it. the reason is 'if I go by mr. knight, then I don't need to be marc spector', but that's not really something a person just says. )
But who a person asks for gives me an idea of what they want.
( it sounds like a lot of work. his explanation doesn't really explain much to her, other than the fact that maybe marc just like being complicated about these things; she barely knows the guy, so who knowsβ )
okay.
( not quite nailed... but it passes. on to what she contacted him for: )
my roommate made a lot of extra dessert-y things. do you want some? with tea?
Sure. ( it's ... not quite the truth. he doesn't have much of a sweet tooth, and he tends to eat for function over pleasure, but being impolite isn't really the image he wants to cultivate. ) If you don't win me over on the merits of tea, the dessert will make up for it.
( wanda finds herself riding her bike up to the lodges; it's not too far from her own motel, just some streets down, but it's good practice for her driving and she needs to make a run to the laundromat afterwards. stopping her bike on the allocated parking lot of the motel in question, wanda gets off and walks to the entrance proper. she's got a backpack (with said laundry) and a tote bag on her shoulder for Tea Time.
she sees marc, steps up to him. )
Mr Knight.
( βshe's kidding, but it's still said in the form of a greeting. )
( he starts to type out a response, an acknowledgement that no, she didn't, but who else gives a shit about whether dessert goes with tea? but then the 'see you soon' comes on through, and he doesn't bother.
he wouldn't have guessed that she'd ride a motorbike — some kind of estate feels like it'd suit her more, but he wouldn't be able to say why.
in contrast to the first time she'd met him, and perhaps a little more in-line with the whole MR KNIGHT thing, marc's dressed in an all-white three-piece, complete with fussy crescent moons serving as cufflinks and buttons on his waistcoat. it's not as pristine as he'd like — at home, he'd had the benefit of owning more white suits than he'd ever, ever admit to, while here it's presently just the one.
still, it speaks to a certain image, an impression that's typically slightly beyond marc. truth be told, it's a little more steven grant, but steven's never really cared for moon knight, and so— )
Wanda. ( marc, steven, the minimally elaborated upon 'mr. knight', it barely matters. that working-class chicago accent is still present in the vowels, in the way he says her name. in spite of himself, it's not distant — it's effusive, more of a 'hello' than he'd admit.
his gaze shifts to the bag, notable, but he says nothing; a beat, he looks to the bike. it's a lingering glance, although for now he doesn't say anything. he'll offer later, if she wants. )
( white makes sense in this hellish weather. it's definitely better than wanda's choice of wear of jeans and a shirt, but she isn't looking to fight off the heat when she opted for the last few of her cleans clothesβwanda just wanted to have something clean to wear.
his pausing, as if building up to what he wants to say, makes her wait for a moment before shrugging and nodding, following him towards his motel room. )
βthe all white's a look. Very... what's the word, elegant?
( white would make sense, if it were linen. if he insisted on less layers. as it is, he wears a shirt and a waistcoat, the jacket otherwise draped over a chair back in his room. dress pants. chelsea boots. gloves. all of it the very opposite of practical, all of it designed for an impression more than practicality. fortunately for him, he's used to spending time in hot countries, and he's used to spending time in locales that are humid. slightly less fortunately, it doesn't mean that he's impervious to sweat, doesn't mean it doesn't affect him, and in spite of himself, there's a dampness to the way his hair curls across his forehead, a slight frizziness, an altogether air of less put-together than he'd like.
it's punctuated by half a glance over his shoulder when wanda speaks. ) I was hoping for approachable. ( compared to moon knight, it likely is.
compared to anything and anyone else, bereft of reputation— well, wanda's assertion is likely more on the nose.
he unlocks the room he's rented with a soft click of the key. the inside is tidy, almost impersonal but for a few plants, placed close to the singular window and on a surface that serves both as desk and whatever-other flat table one might require. the kitchenette is small, but marc wouldn't opt for much else even if he could afford it. )
Mr. Knight's a priest, ( he offers, belated and in answer to a question she hasn't asked, but the one he thinks she means by her statement, the one she probably has after her 'I thought this was [Specter]' remark. )
( she mutters with a light chuckle, hiding it away behind a hand should he turn his head to question her about her retort. there's no doubt in wanda's mind that he's older than herself, with at least a decade of life experience over her own, and that much makes her feel a bit juvenile.
the last thing she wants to do, though, is to say something that he may consider disrespectful.
approachable or not, however, wanda feels comfortable enough to enter his rented room without worry or hesitation. marc doesn't say to make herself at home, but wanda does, anyway, setting her backpack down against the wall and taking the tote bag towards the kitchenette without prompting.
(the plants are a cute touch, she should ask where he's gotten themβ)
she turns to attention, halfway through removing some cups, small plates, and a container with the aforementioned dessert. )
A priest? ( uh, ) And this isn't an undercover thing you're doing?
(sweatpants and a shirt earns a look, longer and more doubtful than he intends it, more indicative of his opinion than he'd ever put into words. it's not that marc's ever been a fashionable man — his definition of comfortable attire has always sat firmly around 'utilitarian', but more 'cargo pants' than 'sweatpants', and he thinks he's just a touch too old for the era that accepts them as appropriate for day-to-day.
but it puts them on a level-pegging, where wanda thinks he's that much older than she is and he thinks she's that much younger than him, the sort where she's an age that puts him at ease for teasing — more reese than an honest-to-god peer, and so while the incredulity sits, it doesn't linger, it doesn't become more than that, not even as wanda begins to unpack her bag. )
No. ( he assumes that by 'undercover', she means 'secret identity'. ) If I wanted to do that, no-one would know my name. Marc Spector would be a dead man. ( his attention lingers on the cups, and he almost mentions that he has some of his own, that it bringing them was unnecessary before it hits him that maybe that's the point.
instead, then, he shifts his weight. instead, he busies himself with cracking open the window, just enough for the lightest of breezes to make itself known. quite abruptly, he asks— ) What dessert?
( what wanda has gathered from marc is that he's very serious about this particular thing. there are moments of nuance, of amusement and obvious teasing, butβ )
I still have no clue why 'Mr Knight' is different from 'Marc Spector', and you're not really answering, so...
( she can assume what she wants. with a shrug, she hopes she transmits to him that she doesn't need an answer. it's just mildly confusing. which is why she gets back to something that isn't as confusing, which is setting down the teacups and small plates in some semblance of order on the counter, the container with the dessert set aside from now, and looking for the electric kettle most motel rooms have. )
It's difficult to get quality ingredients for delicate desserts, apparently, but β we made krofne. They're like doughnuts, but better in my opinion.
( they're small for the size of a donut, but she brought an assortment of them: covered in powdered sugar, some of them having a homemade marmalade filling, while others with a normal egg custard because 'that's a staple' according to her chef-y roommate.
once she finds the electric kettle, she turns back to him. )
Do you have bottled water for the tea?
( apparently this is a very straight-to-the-point tea time. )
(it's complicated is not quite the truth of it, but explaining requires going into more details than marc's inclined towards, and so her remark earns a look. it's level, not especially irritated, but it is punctuated by a brief twitch of his lips, consideration evident before settling into watchfulness as she unpacks her bag. he almost points out that he has mugs — a whole two! — she didn't need to bring them, but evidently mugs are different to teacups and so the remark hangs unsaid, albeit briefly visible in his expression.
instead, he turns to the small fridge in one corner of the room. it's poorly stocked by almost all metrics, but water is one of the few items marc has in near-abundance. he grabs one and holds it out to her.
it's at length, belated when he says, ) With everything you know about Marc Spector, how comfortable would you be going to him for anything that requires a delicate touch? ( it's blunt, a little pointed, and wanda will discover that marc is greatly serious about a great many things. humour's the rarity, infrequent and often difficult to discern, while answering things is also not a skill he has in spades, not in the way that most people expect answers. he tends towards circular, to answers that make sense to his internal logic and little else.
still.
his attention turns to the krofne almost immediately, as if that's the end of it for him, too. ) They look like, (sufganiyot, is what he almost says, the comment slipping out in spite of himself, gentle surprise evident in his tone and the abrupt way he pauses before, ) Something my parents would make when I was a kid. ( barely a beat, a deliberate, conscious choice, and, ) Jelly?
wanda grabs at the water bottle that he holds on, considering it'll be enough for their tea purposes. she wishes she had an actual tea pot, but it's not something she's yet managed to find. she purses her lips, twisting open the lid of the bottle, and filling up the electric kettle, turning it on and waiting for it to boil, leaving the empty bottle by the sink. )
I don't know that I'll ever go to either Marc Spector or Mr Knight for anything.
( right now, this? this is just tea.
what a strange man. but maybe it's that weirdness that wanda feels familiar and comfortable with, because she herself sticks out like a sore thumb wherever she goes. nowβ maybe this is what it's like to be in a sea of similar-like people. even if marc is definitely a lot stranger than her, that she won't fight him about, nor will she admit to.
rather, the surprise he shows at the treats she has brought is enough to dissuade her from wanting to 'argue' with him about these things, focusing instead on what's simple. )
βno, we decided to use orange marmalade this time. It's pretty nice.
( jelly, she will have to keep that in mind for later. she knows what he means: strawberries, plums, cherries, rhubarb... those would have been ideal, but there is so much they can get here. )
We had these a lot for Hannukkah. ( wanda doesn't seem to realize she is saying 'we', referring to her brother, still. ) We β stopped celebrating it, without our parents, but... It isn't an uncommon treat where I'm from.
( she grabs at the container, holds it out for him. )
I was going to have you wait until the tea was ready, but you can β try one. Please do.
( 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. )
( he had mentioned something like it. about his father sounding like the way she talks, likely from somewhere in central or eastern europe; there's a pause at the familiarity, then, of something that had belonged to her family but had been robbed, amidst the bombs and deaths and being made an orphan. it is hard to believe in a benevolent god when, at the age of ten, she lost everything but her life, and just barely. it was easier to put her faith in the teachers and nurses at the orphanage, at the scary soldiers from sokovia's militia who promised to liberate their country. )
Oh.
( is all she manages to say, placing the container down on the counter again. the water in the kettle bubbles, but doesn't boil, yet.
strange, really, to find another similarity with marc or spector or mr knight, or however he wants to go byβ wanda nods at his muffled gratitude, waiting for him to taste the krofne proper, give her his verdict about it. )
My brother, Pietroβ ( a heavy pause, before she bolsters forward, ) he also preferred the ones with jelly.
( there's a point, marc thinks, when potential coincidences stop being coincidences. she says pietro, and marc's gaze, sharp, rests on her for a beat too long before he redirects his attention.
(maximoff. she must be, even if she's not the one he knows—. how many now? a handful. perhaps nothing notable, not really, but it's worth keeping in mind.)
the krofne's good. sweet, and a little sticky against his fingers, but that was to be expected. he wordlessly manoeuvres around wanda to search out a paper napkin, both to wipe the sugar from his hands and in case the marmalade threatens to spill out when he takes another bite. the dull plastic click of the kettle lets them know that the water's boiled, and he glances towards it abruptly.
he could share that randall would eat anything he was given, that he wasn't that picky, but marc and randall's relationship had been difficult, fractious, marred by jealousy and misunderstandings. it's not the sort of thing to offer in return. )
Mm. ( a hum, low andappreciative, before he swallows and places the half-eaten krofne down on the napkin. ) It's good.
( the lingering stare catches her a little off-guard, but theres nothing she can quite pick up on before he's moving around to grab for a paper napkin. she glances at him, almost expecting him to say something more, hands close together on the counter as her shoulders hunch in expectationβ
then there's the kettle clicking, and wanda's attention is stolen away towards it. she starts by placing a tea bag in each cup, then filling them up with water from the kettle, and waits in the awkward silence... until he says something. )
I told you ( she repeats now, ) the base flavor of the krofne was made with the tea's flavor in mind. They're going to compliment each other.
( you'll see!
she turns her attention towards the table, then moves the tea cups there, then looks back up at the plants opposite. )
You said, yeah. ( he hasn't forgotten! he's just not entirely convinced on just how much he is going to enjoy the tea. ) But for what it's worth, my jar of coffee claims it has, ( he raises a hand, the corners of his mouth twitching as he makes finger quotes and adds, ) 'Sweet, fruity notes'. ( the jury's out on how true that is — most of the time, it just tastes like a cup of hot, but as far as marc's concerned, that's fine.
but, you know, the krofne could complement that, too, is the implication.
at her question, though, he follows her gaze. the plants are nothing special, nothing compared to the assortment marc had back in new york. where once he — steven more than marc, although there'd been an element of him, too — had collected art, primarily as an easy way to deal with finances, marc no longer has the wealth for it to matter. plants have served as something of a replacement, a distraction, something to focus his attentions on that isn't BEING MOON KNIGHT.
besides, they require less attention than, say, a pet.
here and now, they're the closest he gets to a personal touch. he veers between being intensely, deliberately utilitarian, with little interest in anything that gives an impression of marc spector, and leaning towards ostentatious drama in terms of furnishings and decor, not dissimilar to the overstated white suit-and-moon details. )
Have you been to any of the parks? ( much of the city's greenery is overgrown, more weeds than flowers, but marc isn't especially fussed by the what, and it's hinted at in the way he offers a small lift of a shoulder before speaking. )
( maybe marc's coffee will work just as well in tandem with the krofne, but, in the same vein of stubbornness, wanda is trying to prove a point here with the idea of teatime. of the fact that it is a shared experience, a moment of coming together, enjoying the company, and leaving with a feeling of warm connection after the fact.
maybe she's also chasing ghosts, and marc is now forced to be part of this chase just because he was willing to ply to the idea of tea. )
I have.
( wanda fixes the cups further still, filling them up with the hot water, and tapping at the seconds with a finger on the counter. she doesn't need to pay a lot of attention to it, though, glancing instead at him. )
I know they're mostly overgrown, but I didn't think the soil would be good to use in a pot. ( she isn't a plant expert, obviously. in any case, ) You didn't seem the type.
( to have a green thumb. not that she knows him well enough!
picking up the cups, wanda maneuvers her way over to the small table in the room to start setting down the elements for tea. she'll bring the krofne shortly after, busying herself with the small elements of this. )
Ground can be made fertile. (well. it's evidence enough that wanda's not wrong, if nothing else.
he watches her do what she does with the cups, still not quite comprehending the person, company, connection part of it all — likely won't, either, not until it's spelled out to him. after a moment's silence, he inhales, the sort that sounds as if it's the precursor to a sigh, but then he gestures broadly and vaguely towards the plants and adds, ) And there are plants that'll grow in near enough anything you pot them in.
( there's a metaphor there, he thinks, but it's not something he vocalises, not yet, not after their last conversation. instead, he rests a hand against the cup when she sets it down, turning it so that the handle's on his right. what he admits instead is, ) They're good for making a space more inviting.
—It's not worth judging this place by Earth's standards.
( there probably is a metaphor there, and the thought crosses wanda's mind, too, especially because of the way he said that. perhaps it's a metaphor for their acquaintanceship, for how it was formed through a few brittle exchanges, and yet here they are, sharing together.
she brings the krofne over, finding a plate in one of his cupboards to set them nicely on. just in time to see him turn the cup around. )
I want them for that.
( to make the space more inviting. there is so little personality in these motel rooms, even if wanda feels attached to her own space.
finally setting down the plate and sitting herself down where the other cup of tea is, wanda motions at him to join her with a hand. )
It's weirdly similar to Earth, though, right? ( the busy city, the cars, all these small tokens that fill their day-to-day lives. ) The concept of motels seem very specific to me.
( he could say that he's used to living out of motels, but it'd open the door to a slightly less pleasant conversation. instead, he hums, soft and considering, as he joins her.
the similarities are there in the things, sure. the roads, the cars, but for him, it's not so much that, it's the people.
he doesn't take a sip from the tea immediately; he waits for wanda, uncertain if it's like some of those fancy coffee places that exist, the ones that insist you wait a certain amount of time before drinking the coffee. something about an optimal temperature, which marc (and jake) think is bull, but steven insists is the correct way to drink coffee. (but, as jake points out, steven has very different ideas of necessary to jake and marc.)
his mouth quirks, and he inhales a breath. )
It's the people, ( he admits, muttered more than spoken, before— ) I was pretty sure I died, ( a touch louder, more certain. not seeking sympathy, just stating facts. they'd somewhat circled round the fact before, in their last conversation, although marc hadn't explicitly said he was certain he died in the preceding moments before awakening to yom crook and friend's faces. ) Thought this was just—. ( he gestures with the fingers of his hand, a kind of half-wave, wholly dismissive. ) Whatever.
But there are names I recognise. ( not faces. it's a very deliberate distinction. ) People I know not to be dead, but reminders of home anyway. Makes me wonder if this a place shaped by the people in it.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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No.
( marc didn't think he'd ever miss his iphone, but it's only after he sends the response that he's aware of 1. how blunt it is, and 2. that she'll have no idea he's typing an addendum.
(does he even want to attempt to explain it?)
(no.) )
It's not like that.
( —eh, it kind of is, kind of isn't. it's the excuse he's given on occasion, but it's not the reason for it. the reason is 'if I go by mr. knight, then I don't need to be marc spector', but that's not really something a person just says. )
But who a person asks for gives me an idea of what they want.
( NAILED IT. )
Hi, Wanda.
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okay.
( not quite nailed... but it passes. on to what she contacted him for: )
my roommate made a lot of extra dessert-y things.
do you want some? with tea?
( what about the weather, wanda!!! )
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Sure. ( it's ... not quite the truth. he doesn't have much of a sweet tooth, and he tends to eat for function over pleasure, but being impolite isn't really the image he wants to cultivate. ) If you don't win me over on the merits of tea, the dessert will make up for it.
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( according to the chef who made the dessert... )
or something like that.
where do you live?
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( pause. pause. eventually, he sends an address for a ground floor room in a motel in the lodges. )
I'll meet you outside.
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( bingo. )
see you soon.
( wanda finds herself riding her bike up to the lodges; it's not too far from her own motel, just some streets down, but it's good practice for her driving and she needs to make a run to the laundromat afterwards. stopping her bike on the allocated parking lot of the motel in question, wanda gets off and walks to the entrance proper. she's got a backpack (with said laundry) and a tote bag on her shoulder for Tea Time.
she sees marc, steps up to him. )
Mr Knight.
( βshe's kidding, but it's still said in the form of a greeting. )
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he wouldn't have guessed that she'd ride a motorbike — some kind of estate feels like it'd suit her more, but he wouldn't be able to say why.
in contrast to the first time she'd met him, and perhaps a little more in-line with the whole MR KNIGHT thing, marc's dressed in an all-white three-piece, complete with fussy crescent moons serving as cufflinks and buttons on his waistcoat. it's not as pristine as he'd like — at home, he'd had the benefit of owning more white suits than he'd ever, ever admit to, while here it's presently just the one.
still, it speaks to a certain image, an impression that's typically slightly beyond marc. truth be told, it's a little more steven grant, but steven's never really cared for moon knight, and so— )
Wanda. ( marc, steven, the minimally elaborated upon 'mr. knight', it barely matters. that working-class chicago accent is still present in the vowels, in the way he says her name. in spite of himself, it's not distant — it's effusive, more of a 'hello' than he'd admit.
his gaze shifts to the bag, notable, but he says nothing; a beat, he looks to the bike. it's a lingering glance, although for now he doesn't say anything. he'll offer later, if she wants. )
This way.
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his pausing, as if building up to what he wants to say, makes her wait for a moment before shrugging and nodding, following him towards his motel room. )
βthe all white's a look. Very... what's the word, elegant?
( formal. )
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it's punctuated by half a glance over his shoulder when wanda speaks. ) I was hoping for approachable. ( compared to moon knight, it likely is.
compared to anything and anyone else, bereft of reputation— well, wanda's assertion is likely more on the nose.
he unlocks the room he's rented with a soft click of the key. the inside is tidy, almost impersonal but for a few plants, placed close to the singular window and on a surface that serves both as desk and whatever-other flat table one might require. the kitchenette is small, but marc wouldn't opt for much else even if he could afford it. )
Mr. Knight's a priest, ( he offers, belated and in answer to a question she hasn't asked, but the one he thinks she means by her statement, the one she probably has after her 'I thought this was [Specter]' remark. )
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( she mutters with a light chuckle, hiding it away behind a hand should he turn his head to question her about her retort. there's no doubt in wanda's mind that he's older than herself, with at least a decade of life experience over her own, and that much makes her feel a bit juvenile.
the last thing she wants to do, though, is to say something that he may consider disrespectful.
approachable or not, however, wanda feels comfortable enough to enter his rented room without worry or hesitation. marc doesn't say to make herself at home, but wanda does, anyway, setting her backpack down against the wall and taking the tote bag towards the kitchenette without prompting.
(the plants are a cute touch, she should ask where he's gotten themβ)
she turns to attention, halfway through removing some cups, small plates, and a container with the aforementioned dessert. )
A priest? ( uh, ) And this isn't an undercover thing you're doing?
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but it puts them on a level-pegging, where wanda thinks he's that much older than she is and he thinks she's that much younger than him, the sort where she's an age that puts him at ease for teasing — more reese than an honest-to-god peer, and so while the incredulity sits, it doesn't linger, it doesn't become more than that, not even as wanda begins to unpack her bag. )
No. ( he assumes that by 'undercover', she means 'secret identity'. ) If I wanted to do that, no-one would know my name. Marc Spector would be a dead man. ( his attention lingers on the cups, and he almost mentions that he has some of his own, that it bringing them was unnecessary before it hits him that maybe that's the point.
instead, then, he shifts his weight. instead, he busies himself with cracking open the window, just enough for the lightest of breezes to make itself known. quite abruptly, he asks— ) What dessert?
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I still have no clue why 'Mr Knight' is different from 'Marc Spector', and you're not really answering, so...
( she can assume what she wants. with a shrug, she hopes she transmits to him that she doesn't need an answer. it's just mildly confusing. which is why she gets back to something that isn't as confusing, which is setting down the teacups and small plates in some semblance of order on the counter, the container with the dessert set aside from now, and looking for the electric kettle most motel rooms have. )
It's difficult to get quality ingredients for delicate desserts, apparently, but β we made krofne. They're like doughnuts, but better in my opinion.
( they're small for the size of a donut, but she brought an assortment of them: covered in powdered sugar, some of them having a homemade marmalade filling, while others with a normal egg custard because 'that's a staple' according to her chef-y roommate.
once she finds the electric kettle, she turns back to him. )
Do you have bottled water for the tea?
( apparently this is a very straight-to-the-point tea time. )
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instead, he turns to the small fridge in one corner of the room. it's poorly stocked by almost all metrics, but water is one of the few items marc has in near-abundance. he grabs one and holds it out to her.
it's at length, belated when he says, ) With everything you know about Marc Spector, how comfortable would you be going to him for anything that requires a delicate touch? ( it's blunt, a little pointed, and wanda will discover that marc is greatly serious about a great many things. humour's the rarity, infrequent and often difficult to discern, while answering things is also not a skill he has in spades, not in the way that most people expect answers. he tends towards circular, to answers that make sense to his internal logic and little else.
still.
his attention turns to the krofne almost immediately, as if that's the end of it for him, too. ) They look like, ( sufganiyot, is what he almost says, the comment slipping out in spite of himself, gentle surprise evident in his tone and the abrupt way he pauses before, ) Something my parents would make when I was a kid. ( barely a beat, a deliberate, conscious choice, and, ) Jelly?
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wanda grabs at the water bottle that he holds on, considering it'll be enough for their tea purposes. she wishes she had an actual tea pot, but it's not something she's yet managed to find. she purses her lips, twisting open the lid of the bottle, and filling up the electric kettle, turning it on and waiting for it to boil, leaving the empty bottle by the sink. )
I don't know that I'll ever go to either Marc Spector or Mr Knight for anything.
( right now, this? this is just tea.
what a strange man. but maybe it's that weirdness that wanda feels familiar and comfortable with, because she herself sticks out like a sore thumb wherever she goes. nowβ maybe this is what it's like to be in a sea of similar-like people. even if marc is definitely a lot stranger than her, that she won't fight him about, nor will she admit to.
rather, the surprise he shows at the treats she has brought is enough to dissuade her from wanting to 'argue' with him about these things, focusing instead on what's simple. )
βno, we decided to use orange marmalade this time. It's pretty nice.
( jelly, she will have to keep that in mind for later. she knows what he means: strawberries, plums, cherries, rhubarb... those would have been ideal, but there is so much they can get here. )
We had these a lot for Hannukkah. ( wanda doesn't seem to realize she is saying 'we', referring to her brother, still. ) We β stopped celebrating it, without our parents, but... It isn't an uncommon treat where I'm from.
( she grabs at the container, holds it out for him. )
I was going to have you wait until the tea was ready, but you can β try one. Please do.
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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. )
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Oh.
( is all she manages to say, placing the container down on the counter again. the water in the kettle bubbles, but doesn't boil, yet.
strange, really, to find another similarity with marc or spector or mr knight, or however he wants to go byβ wanda nods at his muffled gratitude, waiting for him to taste the krofne proper, give her his verdict about it. )
My brother, Pietroβ ( a heavy pause, before she bolsters forward, ) he also preferred the ones with jelly.
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(maximoff. she must be, even if she's not the one he knows—. how many now? a handful. perhaps nothing notable, not really, but it's worth keeping in mind.)
the krofne's good. sweet, and a little sticky against his fingers, but that was to be expected. he wordlessly manoeuvres around wanda to search out a paper napkin, both to wipe the sugar from his hands and in case the marmalade threatens to spill out when he takes another bite. the dull plastic click of the kettle lets them know that the water's boiled, and he glances towards it abruptly.
he could share that randall would eat anything he was given, that he wasn't that picky, but marc and randall's relationship had been difficult, fractious, marred by jealousy and misunderstandings. it's not the sort of thing to offer in return. )
Mm. ( a hum, low andappreciative, before he swallows and places the half-eaten krofne down on the napkin. ) It's good.
The tea's got a lot to live up to.
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then there's the kettle clicking, and wanda's attention is stolen away towards it. she starts by placing a tea bag in each cup, then filling them up with water from the kettle, and waits in the awkward silence... until he says something. )
I told you ( she repeats now, ) the base flavor of the krofne was made with the tea's flavor in mind. They're going to compliment each other.
( you'll see!
she turns her attention towards the table, then moves the tea cups there, then looks back up at the plants opposite. )
Where did you get those plants?
( she wants to get some now... )
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but, you know, the krofne could complement that, too, is the implication.
at her question, though, he follows her gaze. the plants are nothing special, nothing compared to the assortment marc had back in new york. where once he — steven more than marc, although there'd been an element of him, too — had collected art, primarily as an easy way to deal with finances, marc no longer has the wealth for it to matter. plants have served as something of a replacement, a distraction, something to focus his attentions on that isn't BEING MOON KNIGHT.
besides, they require less attention than, say, a pet.
here and now, they're the closest he gets to a personal touch. he veers between being intensely, deliberately utilitarian, with little interest in anything that gives an impression of marc spector, and leaning towards ostentatious drama in terms of furnishings and decor, not dissimilar to the overstated white suit-and-moon details. )
Have you been to any of the parks? ( much of the city's greenery is overgrown, more weeds than flowers, but marc isn't especially fussed by the what, and it's hinted at in the way he offers a small lift of a shoulder before speaking. )
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maybe she's also chasing ghosts, and marc is now forced to be part of this chase just because he was willing to ply to the idea of tea. )
I have.
( wanda fixes the cups further still, filling them up with the hot water, and tapping at the seconds with a finger on the counter. she doesn't need to pay a lot of attention to it, though, glancing instead at him. )
I know they're mostly overgrown, but I didn't think the soil would be good to use in a pot. ( she isn't a plant expert, obviously. in any case, ) You didn't seem the type.
( to have a green thumb. not that she knows him well enough!
picking up the cups, wanda maneuvers her way over to the small table in the room to start setting down the elements for tea. she'll bring the krofne shortly after, busying herself with the small elements of this. )
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he watches her do what she does with the cups, still not quite comprehending the person, company, connection part of it all — likely won't, either, not until it's spelled out to him. after a moment's silence, he inhales, the sort that sounds as if it's the precursor to a sigh, but then he gestures broadly and vaguely towards the plants and adds, ) And there are plants that'll grow in near enough anything you pot them in.
( there's a metaphor there, he thinks, but it's not something he vocalises, not yet, not after their last conversation. instead, he rests a hand against the cup when she sets it down, turning it so that the handle's on his right. what he admits instead is, ) They're good for making a space more inviting.
—It's not worth judging this place by Earth's standards.
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she brings the krofne over, finding a plate in one of his cupboards to set them nicely on. just in time to see him turn the cup around. )
I want them for that.
( to make the space more inviting. there is so little personality in these motel rooms, even if wanda feels attached to her own space.
finally setting down the plate and sitting herself down where the other cup of tea is, wanda motions at him to join her with a hand. )
It's weirdly similar to Earth, though, right? ( the busy city, the cars, all these small tokens that fill their day-to-day lives. ) The concept of motels seem very specific to me.
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the similarities are there in the things, sure. the roads, the cars, but for him, it's not so much that, it's the people.
he doesn't take a sip from the tea immediately; he waits for wanda, uncertain if it's like some of those fancy coffee places that exist, the ones that insist you wait a certain amount of time before drinking the coffee. something about an optimal temperature, which marc (and jake) think is bull, but steven insists is the correct way to drink coffee. (but, as jake points out, steven has very different ideas of necessary to jake and marc.)
his mouth quirks, and he inhales a breath. )
It's the people, ( he admits, muttered more than spoken, before— ) I was pretty sure I died, ( a touch louder, more certain. not seeking sympathy, just stating facts. they'd somewhat circled round the fact before, in their last conversation, although marc hadn't explicitly said he was certain he died in the preceding moments before awakening to yom crook and friend's faces. ) Thought this was just—. ( he gestures with the fingers of his hand, a kind of half-wave, wholly dismissive. ) Whatever.
But there are names I recognise. ( not faces. it's a very deliberate distinction. ) People I know not to be dead, but reminders of home anyway. Makes me wonder if this a place shaped by the people in it.