( 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 by— wanda nods at his muffled gratitude, waiting for him to taste the krofne proper, give her his verdict about it. )
My brother, Pietro— ( 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 expectation—
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}
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. )
no subject
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 by— wanda nods at his muffled gratitude, waiting for him to taste the krofne proper, give her his verdict about it. )
My brother, Pietro— ( a heavy pause, before she bolsters forward, ) he also preferred the ones with jelly.
no subject
(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.
no subject
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... )
no subject
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. )
no subject
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. )
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.