( it's not much of a shrug, given the way he's sat on the sofa and her kneeling beside, but there's the ghost of one. he doesn't know how old natasha is — either of them — but he's picked up enough to know that one he knows is older than she looks. there's no reason to assume the one he doesn't know — or knows in a very different way — is any different, that she's that much younger than him to have never heard the saying. still— )
It's what they called it in my day. ( a light answer that sits as a contrast to her sharp look, noticeable and notably disbelieving. even if she's never heard it, it's self-explanatory enough that he'd love to see her argue his condition as otherwise.
he takes the icepack, holds it in a hand but does little more with it until natasha moves. her touch — no, grip, deliberate and knowing — earns a narrowing of his eyes and a thinning of his lips. despite the fact that it's not enough to cause him pain (chance would be a fine thing), it doesn't mean he's thrilled even as he remains still. stiff. without any choice but to listen to natasha as she speaks, proximity less comfortable than he'll ever admit.
at length— )
I don't actually care what Ororo did or didn't tell you, ( even if, in his personal opinion, she needs to learn to take things less personally. too much time spent with people who do agree with her, perhaps; or too much time spent around people who agree too easily. either way, disagreements of the sort with which marc is intimately familiar aren't anything to hold onto, to sulk over (in contrast to what he is sulking over—?) ) I'm— (embarrassed is the truth of it, angry and annoyed with himself.
if she was someone else, if there was more to their experiences together than a handful of awkward conversations and a somehow more awkward experience of only-loosely-and-vaguely star trek themed sex, he might have been better at spelling it out. "made to look like an amateur" and all of that. instead—. )Tired.
( not strictly wrong. though they've only seen each other once before this — properly, without marc hiding behind a mask — it's likely clear to natasha that the dark circles are more than a one-off, more than an allusion to poor sleep making itself known infrequently and instead a signifier of a consistent habit. a lifestyle.
a pause, muted, as if he's aware it's not much of a response at all; then, his gaze dips and drops, accompanied by an exhale of breath that's not so much a laugh as a huff of almost amusement. take care of yourself. technically, but—
—how many times had he died? ) Curiosity killed the cat. Satisfaction brought it back. Is that where you're going with that? Because no, not especially.
( it's easier to see the flicker of emotions across his face like this — without the cowl, with him looking her head on. perhaps she should feel guilty for that, but she can't. she is what she is, and in this case it's for a good cause. there's a heavy dose of shame there, embarrassment, and she considers that, stores it away for later. whatever it was that had happened, it didn't seem likely he was going to tell her.
better to focus on what she could fix, like patching him up. pressing with the pad of one thumb, she traces the line of his cheekbone on the left side, trying to identify any places where bone might be broken instead of bruised. it won't feel great, but it shouldn't hurt too bad (unless something is broken). )
She didn't tell me much. ( she cuts in with a click of her tongue, satisfied with his left side and then moving to the right. her eyes drop from his to his face, intense in her focus. how many times had she done this for clint? for steve? for herself, holed up in some shithole alone? )
I'm just saying you're not getting rid of me that easily. So you might as well let me fix you up over trying to throw me out. ( a bland smile, the one she uses when she's being contrary and she knows it. finally dropping her hands from his face, natasha turns slightly to grab a tube of ointment from the table behind her, settling back on her heels. )
( he'll tell her if asked. there's a lot that marc doesn't talk about, won't talk about, but it's a messy division that tends to fall into matters of marc spector (those are no, don't touch) and matters involving marc spector (those are a yes). anything that involves a conversation about how he feels, his thoughts— the only way those are getting shared are if he's able to reframe them into something more palatable, more moon knight than marc.
and he's done this before, had his ass handed to him by people who he'd thought shouldn't have been able to beat him. a matter of numbers, sometimes, a matter of preparation others. enough times to be able to whip up a smart(ish) response or two in company and then throw a tantrum about it in private.
it's embarrassing but it's nothing that marc, sans a few details, wouldn't share, and natasha doesn't quite know him well enough to be subject to the truly ugly parts of his personality, his reactions — at least, not unless she manages to poke and prod in the wrong places.
he mms a vague noise of acknowledgement at her assertion ororo didn't say much and lets her continue exploring the bruises on his face without saying anything, no interjection to explain what had happened. it's not pleasant, not as such, although the sharp pain as she presses her and there, shooting and sudden is— —there's a satisfaction to it. pain's just pain. he'd told jeff once that pain is what tells you you're alive. it hadn't been his best turn of phrase, but it'd got the point across. they've both been dead, he'd known what marc had meant.
she won't find any broken bones — he thinks a couple of ribs, maybe, but there's not a whole lot that can be done for those. he lifts his chin, just a touch, when she says he won't get rid of her that easily, and there's a part of him that wonders. it's an easy comment to say, and he doesn't doubt there's truth to it if she's half as stubborn, half as infuriatingly self-righteous as the smile she plasters on implies.
his lips curve as she drops her hands, finally, and it's clear he's about to speak and then she tells him not to be a baby. he moves forward, perches on the edge of the chair and reaches across to curl a hand — not tight, not rough, but not gentle — around her wrist as she reaches for the ointment. enough to get her to look at him.
he can imagine jean-paul saying the same, but she's not duchamp. )
Don't be condescending. ( and then he lets go, abrupt and sudden. ) Do you normally do what Ororo asks?
( he grabs her wrist and she pauses. stills long enough to look at him, to search his eyes more than she had earlier. she's crossed a line somewhere, but she wouldn't have thought that was the line; it's nothing worse than she's said to steve or tony before, and it's on the tip of her tongue to continue to push. condescending? she can show marc spector condescending, if that's what he really wants.
but he's injured. and she's.. well, she's doing whatever it is she's doing here. putting him back together, or trying. still, he's hit a nerve a bit when he asks if she normally does what ororo asks and when he lets her go, she turns, picking up the ointment.
her movement to unscrew the cap is deliberate, slow. giving her time to regroup. )
She didn't ask. I offered. ( if you must know. ) She thought you'd rather see the other me.
( she's not sore about that. or at least, she hopes there isn't anything to be sore about. other natasha romanova's business is just that - hers. better for the both of them if they keep mostly out of it, doppelgangers, multiverses, and name confusion aside. there are enough parallels already to make things complicated. )
( he meets her gaze, level and firm. he doesn't know what she's looking for in his expression, doesn't know if she'll find it. marc has an assortment of lines and boundaries, some of them hardset, the others more temperamental and dependent on his mood and state of mind. it may not be worse than anything she's said to anyone she's worked with, is friends with, but marc isn't steve and he isn't tony — and marc would be less than thrilled to be told that it's how she talks to tony.
(the guy's a dick, as far as marc's concerned.)
regardless, he doesn't quite expect the answer she gives but the shift in his expression is subtle until—
was she right? that's a weird question, natasha, and marc's surprise sits on his face, in briefly wider eyes, a twitch of his lips; a studying, searching stare. ("why?"). of the two, well— yes? not that he has the kind of relationship with either of them where he's inclined to call them up and ask (demand) help or assistance, but natasha — the other one — knows him, his history. has more than likely (has definitely if he had to put money on it) seen his file, has worked with steven in symkaria. he knows her more than he knows the one sat in front of him.
relenting, he rests his elbows on his knees (they ache, but when do they not these days), gestures tightly with a hand. a non-verbal 'oh, you know'. )
We've worked together. She knows what to expect. ( not exactly an answer and though marc doesn't think better of leaving it vague and unanswered, he does think to explain— ) Ororo asked if there was anyone I knew from our world.
Hilarious that's what she thinks it comes down to.
( ah — she's caught him off guard, but not in the way she'd expected. so it's not surprising to him that she'd show up at his door to fix him up but it is that she'd ask openly about the other natasha (she's got to think of a better way to refer to her). more than that, he gives her an answer — and if he's lying, it's not necessarily anything that she doesn't already know.
there's no easy way to broach "i met steven who seems to be another you, or some kind of alter ego", so she hasn't.
dabbing ointment on the tips of her pointer and middle fingers, she glances back at his face for and then adds another healthy dab for good measure before setting the tube aside. turning back to him, she smooths the first pass over his cheek; it shouldn't hurt, but it should start to help, at least a little bit. she's careful, gentle, avoiding spots she's noted as particularly painful on her first examination. )
For some people, that's enough. ( she's not so much defending ororo as she is herself; if clint were to show up today? it wouldn't matter if he hadn't even met her yet, it'd be enough that it was him. but... ) I'll be out of your hair soon enough.
( he hadn't exactly said he was expecting the other natasha, but in so many words... )
( the ointment's cold enough to draw a reaction, an involuntary press of his lips and a scrunch of his nose. it's enough to be distracting and reason enough not to immediately respond.
he doesn't quite know if natasha means for some people, that's enough, as in, the sense of community that's formed from being of the same place — which is what he suspects it is for ororo, likely thanks to being an x-man; or whether she means for some people, that's enough in the sense that for the right person, being from the same place is enough regardless of anything else. he thinks there are certain people for which that would ring true for him — if tomorrow, he found that marlene was here, or jean-paul, or gena or ray or crawley, the everythings of home wouldn't matter, wouldn't outweigh them being here. )
—That's not what I meant, ( he settles on instead, a response to her second comment though he doesn't clarify. it sits as an answer to both. ) She's a member of the X-Men, it's different for them. ( is it? would it be different for the avengers? it's easier to say it's different for ororo rather than admit that it's difficult for him. he's mentioned — to natasha, to ororo — that he'd never been able to stick being a member of the avengers and he'd mentioned it simply because taking control, ownership of that specific narrative — I'm Moon Knight and I'm a liability — is easier than trying to pretend otherwise and then having it all fall apart (again). )
( she's seen enough people march through this place that it feels like natasha's seen every single permutation of relationship from 'home' — wherever home happens to be. enemies, lovers, friends, casual acquaintances. the program doesn't care; they're relentless in their pursuit of this gene, or whatever it is they are looking for. she's not so sure anymore if the premise really matters at this point.
smoothing the ointment over his face, she pauses when he wrinkles his nose, then picks up once he adjusts. )
X-Men. Logan told me about them, a little. ( she replies, almost absently, eyes more on his wounds on his face than meeting his. ) They don't exist where I'm from. The people do, sometimes. But not the group.
( as far as she was aware, the avengers, SHIELD, and HYDRA (unfortunately) were the only major players in the 'super powered' space. mutations aren't widespread the way ororo, kurt, or logan described. just people like wanda and pietro; exposed before or at birth, or through accidents later. )
You could have let Ororo help you. Then I wouldn't be here.
( the mention of logan earns a curious glance, unreadable otherwise — if only because marc's experiences with him have been mixed and he's not quite sure how to feel about the revelation logan had been here. he has the distinct impression that logan isn't overly fond of him, and if he's honest, he can't exactly blame him. spider-man hadn't been overly thrilled by that short period of time where marc, not exactly AT HIS BEST, had opted to dress up as other superheroes and—
—be all MOON KNIGHT about things. fortunately, perhaps, rogers had chosen not to comment.
(marc doesn't think he's ever made a good decision whilst living in los angeles.) )
Is that how she made it sound? ( it's a frank question, not inherently curious. he could argue, point out that the first thing — more or less — she'd done was suggest finding someone to make a house call to check up on him. instead, he makes a noise that's equal parts resigned and equal parts a scoff, leaning away from natasha. ) I didn't stop her. She reached that conclusion by herself. She doesn't seem to like being disagreed with, so she chose to take herself out of the equation.
( it's punctuated by a flicker of consideration-come-acknowledgement, and then, wryly— ) Like you said, she thought there'd be an Avenger I'd prefer to have act as my nurse.
Technically, I wouldn't even be on the roster for you back home.
( natasha shrugs. ororo hadn't made it sound like anything — except that marc had been reluctant to accept help of any kind. still, she's not surprised it went down the way it did; she could see ororo assuming that she wouldn't be welcome, could see marc making assumptions back. still, the inherent idiocy of this entire conversation that they're having — that she has to convince him that someone would help, whether her or someone else. knowing what little he's told her of his history with the avengers, she can see the irony in it.
honestly, all that doing it alone and assuming no one would help had probably gotten him into this mess in the first place.
satisfied with the spread of ointment, natasha settles back on her heels and caps it, setting it back on the table. )
Shirt. Off. ( her voice brooks no argument, though she busies herself with picking up a bandage wrap in lieu of ogling. ) I know you've got at least one broken rib.
( not from ororo. from him and the way he's been sitting, carefully avoiding a specific set of movements and micromovements. )
You going to tell me what the deal is with the gangs?
And I would?( he counters immediately, the words out of his mouth before he's even had time to think about them. he's not on the roster in his world, let alone any other world — and natasha had never shown any hint of recognition of 'marc spector' (wanted mercenary, by most counts, famously unpopular, incredibly on doom's shitlist thanks to a magnificent misread of a completely innocent situation—), 'steven grant' (fair enough, in truth—), or 'moon knight'. ) I know you don't need me to tell you I'm not even on the roster in my world, we've already had that conversation.
( the thought occurs to him, quite suddenly, that maybe in hers someone saw his file and decided, quite rightly, that he just wasn't worth the effort. capable, but risky. lying about medical history to enlist in the marines wasn't exactly a shining, commendable move, and his conversations with quentin, few though they've been, have implied a certain difference with his past and the (other) marc that'd been here, marc can't imagine he was ever more—
—likely to make good decisions. not given everything he's managed to piece together.
still, his expression is flat when she says, pointedly, commanding, for him to take his shirt off and he doesn't. not for one second, then two, then reluctantly, slowly, he lifts his arms and gets to removing his shirt with as few big movements as possible, avoiding any movements that might be too overtly uncomfortable (easier said than done, given everything).
the slight groan (pained, not pleasured—) that accompanies it all is involuntary, punctuated by a soft, whispered fuck that's definitely meant more for marc than it is natasha.
it's petulant, the way his stare remains fixed on her even as she busies herself with bandages, until there's a soft thud of clothing hitting wood flooring. in and of himself, marc is neat, tidy — everything in his apartment has its place and stays in that place. is orderly in a way that marc, himself, as a person, often is not. it's hard to say whether it's just how marc is, a deliberate pushback against what he perceives to be his own flaws, or whether the neatness is a mixed result of his upbringing — a father that could be too strict combined, later, with the military.
it means the odd bit of mess stands out — a discarded glass here and there, a towel (white, of course—), slightly bloody, thrown haphazardly in a corner. and now, a top dropped to the floor.
( not for the first time, she wracks her brain trying to think if she’d ever heard of a moon knight — even a whisper. but there’s nothing that comes to mind, nothing that she can place … and frankly, if it’d been in the last five years? she’d been busy trying to fill all the holes and gaps that the absence of SHIELD, the disappearance of fury and hill, and the overall collapse of governments world-wide left behind.
whoever marc spector was in their world, she didn’t know him. certainly not well enough to ask for assistance, or to consider him an ally — or anything but a civilian. maybe ‘marc spector’ was buried somewhere in her ‘files to watch’ for past actions or (mis)deeds, but he’s not on her active radar. )
You’d be on my list here. (that feels personal, but she forces herself to meet his eyes when she says it, catching the way pain flickers across his face and in his movements. she gives him a few seconds to catch his breath, hands swathed with bandages, before she sits back up on her knees and reaches for the opposite side of his waist from where a large purple bruise is blooming. )
Pretty sure this isn’t your first time - hold that in place. ( she orders again, ignoring his comment for now. stuff indeed. once he’s braced a hand on the edge of the bandage, she starts to wrap — she has to put her arms around him to move the bandage across his back, but the proximity is stoically chaste.
she goes around his chest a few times, bandage sturdy enough to serve as a brace and tight enough to keep him from irritating already broken ribs while also loose enough to allow him to breathe. it’s a wrap that speaks of way too much practice, either on herself or others. )
What’d they do to you? Other than … ( a nod at the ribs, his face. )
( it's a startling admission, one that marc doesn't quite know what to do with and he stiffens, though it's got nothing to do with natasha's actions, not this time. he's puzzled, eyebrows knitting together in an expression that reflects marc's immediate response of trying to work out just why. trying to decide if she's being truthful, and what she expects from him in return.
—and ending back up at 'why?'. because he'd been an avenger in another life (or two)? that was stupid. sentimental in ways he—
—can appreciate, but not admit to. not here and now, anyway. )
I used to box, ( he says. they both know that this — the moon knight thing — isn't limited to here, that it's quite clearly something he's thrown himself into for an unclear, unstated amount of time back home. knowing the black widow he knows, he thinks she's smart enough to be able to read between the lines in a way that even steve rogers hadn't managed — not at first, anyway, not before he'd rocked up at marc's (steven's—) manor on long island and told him that he'd be better off in a straitjacket. he thinks she'd be able to piece together how much marc needs to be moon knight, how much he needs to do everything that he decides (he, not khonshu—) is part of his duty and his debt, his service.
but he decides to say that he used to box because it reframes it. it repositions how used to it all — the blood, the sweat, the loose teeth, the bruises, the violence — marc is. how if it wasn't this, it'd be something else. )
Nothing quite legal, nothing with gloves.
( "no, it's not my first time."
he does as he's told, pliant and agreeable even if his expression says otherwise. he's not surprised that natasha has practice and experience; and he doubts she imagines that marc doesn't have experience in doing exactly the same thing — either bandaging his own wounds, or sitting there whilst someone else does what she's doing. )
—What do you mean, 'what else'? Kicking the shit out of me and making me look like an amateur wasn't enough?
( it’s not a con — but she wouldn’t fault him if she knew that was his line of thinking. hadn’t tony stark said it best? must be hard to shake that double agent thing. trust is hard to come by, a commodity that she had needed to earn, even among those she considered her chosen family. she could say it was the profession, but there’s always the fear… that it’s something about her, something that makes her inherently wrong…
and if she’s wrong, it’s only because she is what they’ve made her. the perfect specimen, the black widow. some things you couldn’t shed like a second skin. some monikers were writ into the dna. )
I used to dance ballet. ( she jabs back with a snort, shrugging her shoulders. it was a convenient excuse most of the time — and the truth. ballet requires strength, fine motor control, discipline, endurance; all things that make a good spy or widow. mysterious bruises could be explained away from dancing en pointe, or having a bad fall. twisted ankle? bad practice.
just like his boxing.
tucking the edge of the bandage into the wrap, she secures it with another wind around a pre-existing strip, then settles back to observe her handiwork. much neater than she normally manages on herself. )
I’m guessing they outnumbered you. ( her tone is pragmatic and she turns back to the medical supplies on the coffee table, hunting for another portable ice pack. so. this is the root of it. he’s embarrassed because he was made to look like a novice. ) How many?
( it's less about her and more about him, about his own inability to accept that other people might be honest and forthright about things, especially in matters of caring about marc.
there were exceptions, of course — marlene, greer, jean-paul, crawley. people that marc had slotted into being a part of his personal life, even if that personal life crossed over with his quote-unquote professional life. the line, as far as marc was concerned, if not anyone else, was clear.
it'd never been particularly reciprocal though — marc had always found it easier to term other superheroes as his friends than he'd ever found it to believe they'd feel the same about himself — predominately because of how he feels about himself. and it'd happened, hadn't it? time and time again, marc had proven just how much of a mistake it'd be to care about him—.
but of course, it's a topic they don't broach. marc had pointedly avoided responding, and so natasha hadn't said anything else. it sits between them, even as natasha shares she used to do ballet. it's a cute little fact, one that serves about as much use as knowing he used to box, and he deserves the retort, he realises. )
I wasn't counting, ( he mutters and it's a lie, but she's right. that is the crux of it. marc doesn't deal well with embarrassment, doesn't deal well with being made a fool of. most of immediate reactions had faded by now, the impulsive anger, the penchant for throwing a tantrum — ororo had been more privy to that, both by virtue of being the person to find him, to accompany him home, and by being — uniquely, it seemed — able to push his buttons. ) But if you're asking if it normally takes more than a one-on-one situation to put me down—.
( he stops, quite abruptly, and inhales. his hand hovers at the bridge of his nose before he waves it at her. tense, frustrated. ) Do you want to know if I should have been able to deal with them? Yes. But it's not relevant.
( she fixes him with a look that, at best, is unimpressed. before taking sam, wanda, rhodey under her wing, she'd be even less than unimpressed — but god if he doesn't sound like he's sulking like a new recruit. steve was normally better at this sort of thing than she was; she didn't believe in coddling, much more focused on how she could improve to do better next time.
but marc has her here instead. her — not the other natasha, not ororo, not anyone else. just her. and so that means... )
I'm saying that you were outnumbered. ( she rests her hands on his knees, forcing her way into his personal space so that at the very least he can't avoid her. ) No one is perfect, Marc.
( and even she's been outnumbered before. granted, outnumbered generally takes more than just a couple extra — but there comes a time when numbers have supremacy, no matter what you do. she'd been trained to run in those instances, or to use other circumstances against her attackers... but every now and then, your luck just runs out. there's nothing to use, nothing to exploit.
you take the loss. because that's all there is that you can do. )
( she rests her hands on his knees and he doesn't move. he meets her gaze and stays like that, obstinate and petulant and petty. if she wants to make this uncomfortable, he's happy to make this uncomfortable, although when she says that's no-one's perfect, his mouth twists and his eyebrows arch. there's a question in his expression, and it's not kind. it's full of doubt, him reconsidering her. does she really think he thinks he's anywhere near fucking perfect? )
—Then why did you ask?( rhetorical, like he doesn't really expect an answer — or, perhaps, doesn't really care for whatever answer she might give and so he doesn't really give her chance. there's half an answer sat unsaid — 'only my pride' — but he's not in the mood for being smart about it. not in the mood for playing games, so he answers with the truth—. )
I don't use guns, not these days. So the only stuff of mine they took was my darts and truncheon. Nothing more dangerous than anything they've already got.
( well, that helps. she didn’t want to think about any of the gangs running around with better weapons than they already tended to have — living in the down, she’d picked her own fights with them time and time again. it’d been a convenient excuse before she signed a contract — i’m protecting the submissives who can’t protect themselves. but maybe she’d really just been blowing off steam.
slipping her hands off his kneees, she catches him gently under the chin, tilts his head to one side and then another to see how (if) his pupils dilate correctly. )
You hit your head? ( if he’s got a concussion, it won’t be safe to just leave him. )
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It's what they called it in my day. ( a light answer that sits as a contrast to her sharp look, noticeable and notably disbelieving. even if she's never heard it, it's self-explanatory enough that he'd love to see her argue his condition as otherwise.
he takes the icepack, holds it in a hand but does little more with it until natasha moves. her touch — no, grip, deliberate and knowing — earns a narrowing of his eyes and a thinning of his lips. despite the fact that it's not enough to cause him pain (chance would be a fine thing), it doesn't mean he's thrilled even as he remains still. stiff. without any choice but to listen to natasha as she speaks, proximity less comfortable than he'll ever admit.
at length— )
I don't actually care what Ororo did or didn't tell you, ( even if, in his personal opinion, she needs to learn to take things less personally. too much time spent with people who do agree with her, perhaps; or too much time spent around people who agree too easily. either way, disagreements of the sort with which marc is intimately familiar aren't anything to hold onto, to sulk over (in contrast to what he is sulking over—?) ) I'm— ( embarrassed is the truth of it, angry and annoyed with himself.
if she was someone else, if there was more to their experiences together than a handful of awkward conversations and a somehow more awkward experience of only-loosely-and-vaguely star trek themed sex, he might have been better at spelling it out. "made to look like an amateur" and all of that. instead—. ) Tired.
( not strictly wrong. though they've only seen each other once before this — properly, without marc hiding behind a mask — it's likely clear to natasha that the dark circles are more than a one-off, more than an allusion to poor sleep making itself known infrequently and instead a signifier of a consistent habit. a lifestyle.
a pause, muted, as if he's aware it's not much of a response at all; then, his gaze dips and drops, accompanied by an exhale of breath that's not so much a laugh as a huff of almost amusement. take care of yourself. technically, but—
—how many times had he died? ) Curiosity killed the cat. Satisfaction brought it back. Is that where you're going with that? Because no, not especially.
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better to focus on what she could fix, like patching him up. pressing with the pad of one thumb, she traces the line of his cheekbone on the left side, trying to identify any places where bone might be broken instead of bruised. it won't feel great, but it shouldn't hurt too bad (unless something is broken). )
She didn't tell me much. ( she cuts in with a click of her tongue, satisfied with his left side and then moving to the right. her eyes drop from his to his face, intense in her focus. how many times had she done this for clint? for steve? for herself, holed up in some shithole alone? )
I'm just saying you're not getting rid of me that easily. So you might as well let me fix you up over trying to throw me out. ( a bland smile, the one she uses when she's being contrary and she knows it. finally dropping her hands from his face, natasha turns slightly to grab a tube of ointment from the table behind her, settling back on her heels. )
Don't be a baby.
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and he's done this before, had his ass handed to him by people who he'd thought shouldn't have been able to beat him. a matter of numbers, sometimes, a matter of preparation others. enough times to be able to whip up a smart(ish) response or two in company and then throw a tantrum about it in private.
it's embarrassing but it's nothing that marc, sans a few details, wouldn't share, and natasha doesn't quite know him well enough to be subject to the truly ugly parts of his personality, his reactions — at least, not unless she manages to poke and prod in the wrong places.
he mms a vague noise of acknowledgement at her assertion ororo didn't say much and lets her continue exploring the bruises on his face without saying anything, no interjection to explain what had happened. it's not pleasant, not as such, although the sharp pain as she presses her and there, shooting and sudden is—
—there's a satisfaction to it. pain's just pain. he'd told jeff once that pain is what tells you you're alive. it hadn't been his best turn of phrase, but it'd got the point across. they've both been dead, he'd known what marc had meant.
she won't find any broken bones — he thinks a couple of ribs, maybe, but there's not a whole lot that can be done for those. he lifts his chin, just a touch, when she says he won't get rid of her that easily, and there's a part of him that wonders. it's an easy comment to say, and he doesn't doubt there's truth to it if she's half as stubborn, half as infuriatingly self-righteous as the smile she plasters on implies.
his lips curve as she drops her hands, finally, and it's clear he's about to speak and then she tells him not to be a baby. he moves forward, perches on the edge of the chair and reaches across to curl a hand — not tight, not rough, but not gentle — around her wrist as she reaches for the ointment. enough to get her to look at him.
he can imagine jean-paul saying the same, but she's not duchamp. )
Don't be condescending. ( and then he lets go, abrupt and sudden. ) Do you normally do what Ororo asks?
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but he's injured. and she's.. well, she's doing whatever it is she's doing here. putting him back together, or trying. still, he's hit a nerve a bit when he asks if she normally does what ororo asks and when he lets her go, she turns, picking up the ointment.
her movement to unscrew the cap is deliberate, slow. giving her time to regroup. )
She didn't ask. I offered. ( if you must know. ) She thought you'd rather see the other me.
( she's not sore about that. or at least, she hopes there isn't anything to be sore about. other natasha romanova's business is just that - hers. better for the both of them if they keep mostly out of it, doppelgangers, multiverses, and name confusion aside. there are enough parallels already to make things complicated. )
Was she right?
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(the guy's a dick, as far as marc's concerned.)
regardless, he doesn't quite expect the answer she gives but the shift in his expression is subtle until—
was she right? that's a weird question, natasha, and marc's surprise sits on his face, in briefly wider eyes, a twitch of his lips; a studying, searching stare. ("why?"). of the two, well— yes? not that he has the kind of relationship with either of them where he's inclined to call them up and ask (demand) help or assistance, but natasha — the other one — knows him, his history. has more than likely (has definitely if he had to put money on it) seen his file, has worked with steven in symkaria. he knows her more than he knows the one sat in front of him.
relenting, he rests his elbows on his knees (they ache, but when do they not these days), gestures tightly with a hand. a non-verbal 'oh, you know'. )
We've worked together. She knows what to expect. ( not exactly an answer and though marc doesn't think better of leaving it vague and unanswered, he does think to explain— ) Ororo asked if there was anyone I knew from our world.
Hilarious that's what she thinks it comes down to.
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there's no easy way to broach "i met steven who seems to be another you, or some kind of alter ego", so she hasn't.
dabbing ointment on the tips of her pointer and middle fingers, she glances back at his face for and then adds another healthy dab for good measure before setting the tube aside. turning back to him, she smooths the first pass over his cheek; it shouldn't hurt, but it should start to help, at least a little bit. she's careful, gentle, avoiding spots she's noted as particularly painful on her first examination. )
For some people, that's enough. ( she's not so much defending ororo as she is herself; if clint were to show up today? it wouldn't matter if he hadn't even met her yet, it'd be enough that it was him. but... ) I'll be out of your hair soon enough.
( he hadn't exactly said he was expecting the other natasha, but in so many words... )
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he doesn't quite know if natasha means for some people, that's enough, as in, the sense of community that's formed from being of the same place — which is what he suspects it is for ororo, likely thanks to being an x-man; or whether she means for some people, that's enough in the sense that for the right person, being from the same place is enough regardless of anything else. he thinks there are certain people for which that would ring true for him — if tomorrow, he found that marlene was here, or jean-paul, or gena or ray or crawley, the everythings of home wouldn't matter, wouldn't outweigh them being here. )
—That's not what I meant, ( he settles on instead, a response to her second comment though he doesn't clarify. it sits as an answer to both. ) She's a member of the X-Men, it's different for them. ( is it? would it be different for the avengers? it's easier to say it's different for ororo rather than admit that it's difficult for him. he's mentioned — to natasha, to ororo — that he'd never been able to stick being a member of the avengers and he'd mentioned it simply because taking control, ownership of that specific narrative — I'm Moon Knight and I'm a liability — is easier than trying to pretend otherwise and then having it all fall apart (again). )
head in hands over mcu xmen, rip
smoothing the ointment over his face, she pauses when he wrinkles his nose, then picks up once he adjusts. )
X-Men. Logan told me about them, a little. ( she replies, almost absently, eyes more on his wounds on his face than meeting his. ) They don't exist where I'm from. The people do, sometimes. But not the group.
( as far as she was aware, the avengers, SHIELD, and HYDRA (unfortunately) were the only major players in the 'super powered' space. mutations aren't widespread the way ororo, kurt, or logan described. just people like wanda and pietro; exposed before or at birth, or through accidents later. )
You could have let Ororo help you. Then I wouldn't be here.
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—be all MOON KNIGHT about things. fortunately, perhaps, rogers had chosen not to comment.
(marc doesn't think he's ever made a good decision whilst living in los angeles.) )
Is that how she made it sound? ( it's a frank question, not inherently curious. he could argue, point out that the first thing — more or less — she'd done was suggest finding someone to make a house call to check up on him. instead, he makes a noise that's equal parts resigned and equal parts a scoff, leaning away from natasha. ) I didn't stop her. She reached that conclusion by herself. She doesn't seem to like being disagreed with, so she chose to take herself out of the equation.
( it's punctuated by a flicker of consideration-come-acknowledgement, and then, wryly— ) Like you said, she thought there'd be an Avenger I'd prefer to have act as my nurse.
Not my usual choice.
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( natasha shrugs. ororo hadn't made it sound like anything — except that marc had been reluctant to accept help of any kind. still, she's not surprised it went down the way it did; she could see ororo assuming that she wouldn't be welcome, could see marc making assumptions back. still, the inherent idiocy of this entire conversation that they're having — that she has to convince him that someone would help, whether her or someone else. knowing what little he's told her of his history with the avengers, she can see the irony in it.
honestly, all that doing it alone and assuming no one would help had probably gotten him into this mess in the first place.
satisfied with the spread of ointment, natasha settles back on her heels and caps it, setting it back on the table. )
Shirt. Off. ( her voice brooks no argument, though she busies herself with picking up a bandage wrap in lieu of ogling. ) I know you've got at least one broken rib.
( not from ororo. from him and the way he's been sitting, carefully avoiding a specific set of movements and micromovements. )
You going to tell me what the deal is with the gangs?
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( the thought occurs to him, quite suddenly, that maybe in hers someone saw his file and decided, quite rightly, that he just wasn't worth the effort. capable, but risky. lying about medical history to enlist in the marines wasn't exactly a shining, commendable move, and his conversations with quentin, few though they've been, have implied a certain difference with his past and the (other) marc that'd been here, marc can't imagine he was ever more—
—likely to make good decisions. not given everything he's managed to piece together.
still, his expression is flat when she says, pointedly, commanding, for him to take his shirt off and he doesn't. not for one second, then two, then reluctantly, slowly, he lifts his arms and gets to removing his shirt with as few big movements as possible, avoiding any movements that might be too overtly uncomfortable (easier said than done, given everything).
the slight groan (pained, not pleasured—) that accompanies it all is involuntary, punctuated by a soft, whispered fuck that's definitely meant more for marc than it is natasha.
it's petulant, the way his stare remains fixed on her even as she busies herself with bandages, until there's a soft thud of clothing hitting wood flooring. in and of himself, marc is neat, tidy — everything in his apartment has its place and stays in that place. is orderly in a way that marc, himself, as a person, often is not. it's hard to say whether it's just how marc is, a deliberate pushback against what he perceives to be his own flaws, or whether the neatness is a mixed result of his upbringing — a father that could be too strict combined, later, with the military.
it means the odd bit of mess stands out — a discarded glass here and there, a towel (white, of course—), slightly bloody, thrown haphazardly in a corner. and now, a top dropped to the floor.
at length, he answers her question. )
They had some stuff I wanted.
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whoever marc spector was in their world, she didn’t know him. certainly not well enough to ask for assistance, or to consider him an ally — or anything but a civilian. maybe ‘marc spector’ was buried somewhere in her ‘files to watch’ for past actions or (mis)deeds, but he’s not on her active radar. )
You’d be on my list here. ( that feels personal, but she forces herself to meet his eyes when she says it, catching the way pain flickers across his face and in his movements. she gives him a few seconds to catch his breath, hands swathed with bandages, before she sits back up on her knees and reaches for the opposite side of his waist from where a large purple bruise is blooming. )
Pretty sure this isn’t your first time - hold that in place. ( she orders again, ignoring his comment for now. stuff indeed. once he’s braced a hand on the edge of the bandage, she starts to wrap — she has to put her arms around him to move the bandage across his back, but the proximity is stoically chaste.
she goes around his chest a few times, bandage sturdy enough to serve as a brace and tight enough to keep him from irritating already broken ribs while also loose enough to allow him to breathe. it’s a wrap that speaks of way too much practice, either on herself or others. )
What’d they do to you? Other than … ( a nod at the ribs, his face. )
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—and ending back up at 'why?'. because he'd been an avenger in another life (or two)? that was stupid. sentimental in ways he—
—can appreciate, but not admit to. not here and now, anyway. )
I used to box, ( he says. they both know that this — the moon knight thing — isn't limited to here, that it's quite clearly something he's thrown himself into for an unclear, unstated amount of time back home. knowing the black widow he knows, he thinks she's smart enough to be able to read between the lines in a way that even steve rogers hadn't managed — not at first, anyway, not before he'd rocked up at marc's (steven's—) manor on long island and told him that he'd be better off in a straitjacket. he thinks she'd be able to piece together how much marc needs to be moon knight, how much he needs to do everything that he decides (he, not khonshu—) is part of his duty and his debt, his service.
but he decides to say that he used to box because it reframes it. it repositions how used to it all — the blood, the sweat, the loose teeth, the bruises, the violence — marc is. how if it wasn't this, it'd be something else. )
Nothing quite legal, nothing with gloves.
( "no, it's not my first time."
he does as he's told, pliant and agreeable even if his expression says otherwise. he's not surprised that natasha has practice and experience; and he doubts she imagines that marc doesn't have experience in doing exactly the same thing — either bandaging his own wounds, or sitting there whilst someone else does what she's doing. )
—What do you mean, 'what else'? Kicking the shit out of me and making me look like an amateur wasn't enough?
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and if she’s wrong, it’s only because she is what they’ve made her. the perfect specimen, the black widow. some things you couldn’t shed like a second skin. some monikers were writ into the dna. )
I used to dance ballet. ( she jabs back with a snort, shrugging her shoulders. it was a convenient excuse most of the time — and the truth. ballet requires strength, fine motor control, discipline, endurance; all things that make a good spy or widow. mysterious bruises could be explained away from dancing en pointe, or having a bad fall. twisted ankle? bad practice.
just like his boxing.
tucking the edge of the bandage into the wrap, she secures it with another wind around a pre-existing strip, then settles back to observe her handiwork. much neater than she normally manages on herself. )
I’m guessing they outnumbered you. ( her tone is pragmatic and she turns back to the medical supplies on the coffee table, hunting for another portable ice pack. so. this is the root of it. he’s embarrassed because he was made to look like a novice. ) How many?
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there were exceptions, of course — marlene, greer, jean-paul, crawley. people that marc had slotted into being a part of his personal life, even if that personal life crossed over with his quote-unquote professional life. the line, as far as marc was concerned, if not anyone else, was clear.
it'd never been particularly reciprocal though — marc had always found it easier to term other superheroes as his friends than he'd ever found it to believe they'd feel the same about himself — predominately because of how he feels about himself. and it'd happened, hadn't it? time and time again, marc had proven just how much of a mistake it'd be to care about him—.
but of course, it's a topic they don't broach. marc had pointedly avoided responding, and so natasha hadn't said anything else. it sits between them, even as natasha shares she used to do ballet. it's a cute little fact, one that serves about as much use as knowing he used to box, and he deserves the retort, he realises. )
I wasn't counting, ( he mutters and it's a lie, but she's right. that is the crux of it. marc doesn't deal well with embarrassment, doesn't deal well with being made a fool of. most of immediate reactions had faded by now, the impulsive anger, the penchant for throwing a tantrum — ororo had been more privy to that, both by virtue of being the person to find him, to accompany him home, and by being — uniquely, it seemed — able to push his buttons. ) But if you're asking if it normally takes more than a one-on-one situation to put me down—.
( he stops, quite abruptly, and inhales. his hand hovers at the bridge of his nose before he waves it at her. tense, frustrated. ) Do you want to know if I should have been able to deal with them? Yes. But it's not relevant.
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but marc has her here instead. her — not the other natasha, not ororo, not anyone else. just her. and so that means... )
I'm saying that you were outnumbered. ( she rests her hands on his knees, forcing her way into his personal space so that at the very least he can't avoid her. ) No one is perfect, Marc.
( and even she's been outnumbered before. granted, outnumbered generally takes more than just a couple extra — but there comes a time when numbers have supremacy, no matter what you do. she'd been trained to run in those instances, or to use other circumstances against her attackers... but every now and then, your luck just runs out. there's nothing to use, nothing to exploit.
you take the loss. because that's all there is that you can do. )
Did they take anything valuable? Dangerous?
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—Then why did you ask? ( rhetorical, like he doesn't really expect an answer — or, perhaps, doesn't really care for whatever answer she might give and so he doesn't really give her chance. there's half an answer sat unsaid — 'only my pride' — but he's not in the mood for being smart about it. not in the mood for playing games, so he answers with the truth—. )
I don't use guns, not these days. So the only stuff of mine they took was my darts and truncheon. Nothing more dangerous than anything they've already got.
lol look what i found in my inbox
slipping her hands off his kneees, she catches him gently under the chin, tilts his head to one side and then another to see how (if) his pupils dilate correctly. )
You hit your head? ( if he’s got a concussion, it won’t be safe to just leave him. )