vestments | duplicity

( it's not what he expects.

marc — this marc — if so inclined to threaten, wouldn't have bothered with specificities. he knows how to kill. it doesn't matter who, it doesn't matter what. if it comes to it, he's always been good at it. has trod a thin line between hating it (hating himself) and finding it — violence, moreso than the end result; the in-between, the action — a neat way of quietening something in him.

he'd never have said he knows how to kill shifters because what she — it, anything, anyone — isn't the point. marc is good at causing hurt, that's the point.

—still. the thought that a tiger in the middle of the down is absurd occurs to him briefly, momentarily, in a snapshot thought that fades almost as quickly as it occurs to him. he thinks of russell, of lupinar, and he doesn't quite stand still but doesn't make a point of moving either. instead, one hand — gloved, like the first time — reaches into his jacket, an inside pocket, and his fingers curl around a dart. wary. rests there even as she approaches. in an out-and-out fight, he'd lose. there's no debating it.

so it's a matter of not making it an out-and-out fight. one step backwards, then two. she might look harmless, but what the fuck do appearances mean? if her demeanour changes, if she quickens her pace, he'll withdraw his hand, release the dart in a quick, smooth, practised motion and pivot.

if not—.

chicken it is. )

[Her eyes focus on his hand, and her mouth opens. He probably doesn’t speak tiger, and it’s not the first time an inability to act like a housecat would be a barrier to them. She can’t purr.

She chuffs, instead, a steady noise that means that it’s okay. Calm down, buddy. Whatever you have in your hand? Don’t do anything stupid.

She lowers a bit; to her stomach, her tail whipping back and forth casually, like a cat who is perfectly comfortable. She’s blocking the staircase completely.

She chuffs again, and scoots forward this time. This is humiliating, or would be if she thought about it for more than a second.

But she’s genuinely curious if he’ll figure out she won’t hurt him.]

( the hand drops, fingers still curled, to rest by his side. he's tense still, watchful and wary. he doesn't speak tiger — is barely competent at holding a prolonged conversation with other people in general, let alone anyone or anything else, but the chuff and the tail, whilst not exactly setting him at ease, is— something.

he doesn't think of greer, not now, because this is different. she's different. he thinks of the odd stray and not-so-stray cat that makes its way in and around the mission, the way their actions were hinted at in their ears and their tails, and it still doesn't quite help. he doesn't think he's about to get mauled or attacked, at least not imminently, but that doesn't mean he knows how to navigate a tiger taking up the space in front of him.

a hand — the other one — is held out as she scoots forward, as she chuffs again and marc's lips quirk. a quick downwards motion as he mutters, low and entirely to himself, that— ) No-one said anything about tigers.

[She chuffs at the comment; it sounds almost like a laugh, but certainly it's a reaction. This tiger understands English, for sure. She scoots forward a little more, her shoulders and paws in that shape that housecats get when they see something fun, when they're preparing to pounce.

Only there isn't the butt wiggle here, she's not actually preparing to pounce. Instead she's stretching, stretching, so her long body is on the stairs as she gently butts her head against his hand.

She knows she's being a bit of an asshole; she could just shift back, and at some point, well. She will. But this is fun in a way she doesn't get to have very often. At home, she would never approach a human like this, even one she knew. Here, at this point, most people know, ever since the finder outed her at the beginning of the year.

So watching people when they realize they're petting a tiger, well.

It's actually kind of fun.]

( the chuff — the reaction — that's definitely not human but is certainly something manages to catch him by surprise and, just for a moment, he looks startled. by now, by this point in his life, after everything, he should be used to WEIRD, and yet—.

the movement of her paws catches his attention, gaze remaining watchful and careful as it shifts not quite past her, towards the stairs, the traditional exit that's (still) wholly blocked, and part of him thinks it's deliberate.

(is that ridiculous—? no more ridiculous than being stood here petting a tiger in the middle of an insane society built around sex, perhaps.)

the push of her head against his hand is both more gentle than he'd expected and with as large a hint to her power, her strength as he'd expected. still, it elicits a small smile, the sort of twitch to his lips that says it doesn't happen often and it's punctuated by a lingering silence and a hum. )

—And from what I hear, the only zoo around here houses people.

[She chuffs again, pressing her head against his hand a little more, pushing herself forward little by little. She is clearly enjoying the scratches, especially when he catches behind her ear. That’s the spot.

She pushes forward again, and then, quick enough that he won’t see it coming but slow enough that it’s not an attack, she rises up to put her paws on his shoulders and lean her weight - all six hundred plus pounds - against him, her face coming up to his neck, whiskers and fur rubbing there.

Before he can stab her or run away, she shifts, her arms still around his shoulders, her face against his neck .]

I can’t believe you’re better with cats than with women.

( the sudden weight earns a noise that's part oof — a sharp, instinctive exhale of breath — and part groan, nose twitching at the sudden presence of fur against his skin, whiskers brushing his face when, all of a sudden, the weight seems less, the fur seems less, and there's a voice—.

human. not a tiger. a voice he recognises even if it's slightly muffled, slightly dampened by her face being pressed against his neck. this time, the noise isn't a groan, it's not a weighted expulsion of air, it's a sharp inhale. it's something that sounds like a strangled "—gh!", caught somewhere in his throat by the sheer unexpectedness of — everything.

(and yet, it makes more sense than a tiger just strolling the streets—.) )

—Daphne? ( tone equal parts shocked, equal parts questioning and intoned in very much the manner of a more-relieved-than-he'll-admit 'fuck'. )

[She nips his neck, not hard enough to leave a bruise, but a little, and then presses her mouth there in a kiss. She pulls away from him just a little to look up at him; she’s absolutely stark naked. She can shift with clothes, but she was naked when she shifted earlier and so she’s naked now.

Her skin is a little warmer than most humans, and her eyes are bright.]

Honestly, Marc.

I practically hand fed it you.

[Although it’s not like “weretiger” is a common enough thing in any world that he would imagine that would be what she was. She knows she’s being unfair and teasing.

Still.

She gets on her tiptoes to get a little close to his face.]

You didn’t come see me.

( the nip, short, sweet, as unexpected as everything else, earns a quiet, sharp inhale. a jerk of his head down and towards her, expression thoroughly bemused. a second, then two, then a measured response of— )

I missed the part of our conversations where you said you're—. ( he gestures with hand, tight and restrained, at her. it's accompanied by a slight narrowing of his eyes — not irritation, not really, more a weighing of options, and—. ) The 'so, Marc' sits a little more immediate in my memories.

( he leans forward, minutely, as she steps on tiptoes. it's not true, that's not the part of their first meeting and two subsequent conversations he most remembers, but it's the part he's most willing to admit he remembers. )

I guess we both circled around some truths. ( not lie, not really. obfuscation, certainly, but it's a subtle and, to marc, important difference. he pauses to pull at the sleeves of his jacket, to shrug it off and to wrap it around daphne's shoulders. he doesn't ask, and though she feels warmer to the touch than he'd have thought, he reasons it's only polite.

even as she points out he hadn't been to see her. ) —I've been busy.

Naked?

[She laughs, and it’s a deep sound, a woman’s laugh. She looks absolutely pleased with herself even as he covers her with his coat.]

You said you weren’t a gentleman.

[she has a teasing look on her face. She doesn’t point out the hints: priestess of Bast; the Shere Khan. Doesn’t anyone read the jungle book anymore?

But then again, it’s an assumption no sane person might come to. It’s not like Marc turns into the moon. Probably.]

( she knows what he means, it's written in the curve of her lips, the amusement, her laugh even as she says 'naked'. he knows she knows, so he doesn't say anything to that, merely offers her a glance. it's punctuated by a slight shrug: he's not a gentleman, not by any definition of the word. )

Manners aren't the signifier of a gentleman, Daphne.

( and she could have laid as many hints as she'd wanted — they aren't from the same world. t'challa could hardly turn into a tiger, in spite of everything (anything? he's never really been all that up on the ins and outs of wakanda.) nevertheless, it explains a few things. slots a few others into place.

he'd watched the jungle book as a child, enjoyed it, even, but soon enough it'd been replaced by slightly different tales of the fantastical. space. ships. star wars and star trek. a pre-adolescent boy's interest in villains. in everything that wasn't possible and far beyond the reaches of possibility.

(or so he'd thought in the early 80s—.)

a lean forward, a pointed breath as he adds— ) I imagine Quentin would back me up.

( it's not quite what he means to say but it's what comes out regardless. their conversation had hardly taken the course marc had imagined, had hardly resulted in the revelation he'd expected and at the end of it all, afterwards, he'd recalled that first message.

"daphne can vouch for me."

he didn't like quentin and the feeling, evidently, was mutual, so what did that say? )

[At that comment her smile turns into a flat line, and she snorts out her nose. She doesn’t let go of him. She refuses to let him have a snit.

Still.]

Do you want to know the details, or do you not care?

[About Steven. About Marc.]

Quentin is my client so there are things I can’t reveal there. But I can tell you what happened between me, and whoever it was that had your name.

No.

( but that, there — "quentin is my client" — answers more than he'd have likely got if he'd outright asked, if he'd sought clarity as to what 'vouch' meant in this respect. friends? something else? client-lawyer relationship is—

—well, it is something else. technically, murdock could vouch for him, if he was here, but that didn't say anything of his character, of the type of person he is (was, whatever).

it's not, strictly, that marc doesn't care because he does, particularly given the apparent wanton freedom both this other, not-him and quentin had with regards to—him. steven. everything. but—."whoever it was that shared your name." he yields, then. relaxes, just a touch. ) You said you wouldn't hold it against me, and I'll take you on your word.

[Her smile doesn’t quite return but she does soften a bit. Okay. She thinks she knows what this is about, which is to say:]

I don’t know what he told you. But I will say that whatever it was, it was true for him. Quentin is…

[She pauses to find the right word. Special is true but it always sounds so cruel. “Special.” That’s not the implication she wants.]

He’s a kid who got hurt, but he protected whatever secret he knew.

Meanwhile.

I am more interested in you. So can we leave that behind?

That's not what it is. ( a secret, he means. it's not quite true — it's not something he freely shares, is something he has difficulty forming the words to, to admitting. but that doesn't mean it's what daphne says, doesn't mean it's what quentin had called it: a secret. that'd imply it wasn't written on countless documents, in psych evals, in profiles.

but she calls him — quentin — a kid and he doesn't disagree. it'd been his first thought when he'd seen quentin, that he was young. barely older than reese, most likely, and without the experiences that she'd been forced to experience. without the need to accommodate to something that was ultimately her but beyond her control. ) We can leave it. I just wanted to know what "vouch for" meant from your perspective. I've met a lot of people with interests and they're not always something that warrants appreciation or understanding.

[She hums, and sighs. Okay. It's not an untoward or unreasonable question.]

If I send someone to you, and they say I vouched for them, it means that I expect them to tell you the truth, and to not hurt you intentionally.

[Which is, largely, what she expects him to expect from her. Maybe not all the truths, but the truth, whatever that might look like. Whatever slice of it that she may be willing to give. Daphne doesn't like to lie, and of course she will, but she tries to keep that to a minimum.

So.]

And if they do either of those things, they know that they have to contend with me and the consequences after.

[And the consequences, with Daphne, can be severe. So she generally considers it a pretty good indication of her word. That said:]

Besides. I know you don't really know many people here. I don't pretend to imagine you trust me, but I think you should know enough about me at this point to know that my priority with you is less malice and more...horny.

( a handwave, abrupt and dismissive. he's got the answer he wants, is what it says, he doesn't especially care about the details, the ins-and-outs. ) Please. He didn't hurt me. It just wasn't the conversation I was expecting. ( if he'd known, he wouldn't have agreed. if it'd been what he imagined, what he expected of anyone taking issue with a man named 'marc spector', it'd have been far simpler. )

I don't need protection, Daphne. You know who Khonshu is, what he might ask of his priests. I don't doubt your consequences, but mine are hardly pretty.

( still — "leave it". it hangs between them, and marc knows she's right. he doesn't know many people, for better or worse, and for as much as he'd like to point out that doesn't matter, it doesn't bother him, he knows it's not true, has pieced together enough that the difference barely matters. that knowing people is what matters here, enough to survive, enough to make the city something that approaches tolerable.

nevertheless, a cant of his head, considering and contemplative. wry. malice has never been the impression he's gotten — toying, maybe. gaming. playful. in accordance with what she's just told him. ) —Despite the words of the last man to be here with my name?

I didn't think he did. It's not about them hurting you. It's about my word. I only vouch for people I trust.

[She shakes her head, to clear it.]

Nevermind that.

[Instead:]

I don't know who he was. I'm interested in you. I like how you squirm a bit with me. I like that submissive streak you practically radiate from a mile away.

[That's not fair at all - but also it's true. That playfulness is coming back. She stands up against him, her body right up against him.]

I like that I make you just a little unsettled. But that you still kissed me.

( nevermind that. it's a break that marc appreciates. his usual approach to topics of conversation that either require even the slightest of acknowledgement of emotions, of feelings, of personhood, is resolute avoidance, even if he started the conversation in the first place.

usually.

he can't quite decide if what daphne moves on to is better or worse, a kind of reverse profile (what was that dick's actual name—?). he stiffens, eyebrows arching and eyes widening in surprise that he doesn't seem to even think about trying to disguise when she says "that submissive streak". that's — new. true, in spite of the way that he argues, rebuffs and bristles against authority, against being told what to do. like it's part of the game because ultimately, he knows, he's very good at being told what to do.

it's not often that's picked up so quickly.

he doesn't lean away from her as she presses closer into him. he tilts his head, looks down the crooked bridge of his nose at her. a quirk of his lips and, for lack of anything else— ) Most people find me off-putting.

( except here, apparently. )

[She has a nose for it. It was in how he let her kiss him, in how he took the order to kiss her, in the way he hedged and hawed and hemmed. She has a keen sense for submissive men, because she likes them, even though her man, he's not submissive at all.

If Marc was confident, he would have either told her no or come after her again. If the lack of a mark on his neck were honest, he wouldn't have let her pursue him like this without giving back something. She knows.

She reaches a hand up to his hairline, and brushes her fingers through his hair.]

Most people have poor taste and bad judgement.

[She takes one of his hands, then, brings it up her waist.]

I have excellent judgement. And mine is the only taste that matters.

( so close. if she hadn't added on that last part, he might have been won over. the hand she placed on her waist might have stayed, his other running up her arm. instead, he frowns, lips curling, unhappiness cording through his features and he steps away. )

No, it's not.

( marc has never been agreeable and there's something about the remark that sits a little too close for comfort. a little too reminiscent of the remarks that khonshu's made over the years for him to ignore it, to find it charming in its own way. it's not a rejection that'll last — it never is, for marc, disagreement's just part of who he is — but it's there for now. the immediate present. )

[She steps away, and she almost - almost - starts to purr, but that's more instinct than anything else. She's the one here, naked, showing her belly (figuratively and literally) and he-

She tucks her hands behind her back, and catches her tail, which uncoils down her spine and between her legs. It wasn't there a second ago, but shape can be hard and sometimes when she feels a little bump she'll lose her full grasp of it. Better pretend that it's on purpose, as she brings it up to give her hands something to do.]

I said something wrong.

[That is not an apology.]

Do you want me to shift back and leave?

[She asks, even though-

-if he says yes, she might. But honestly? She'll probably shift back and heave herself onto him, lay on him, and then make him wait while she decides what to do next.]

( truthfully, marc doesn't mind the lack of an apology, barely notices it. apologies aren't something that come naturally to him, is an expression of self and an admittance of ill-action that he struggles with. he'd never apologised — not properly — to marlene, whilst the thought of apologising to frenchie had never even occurred to him. most recently, he's sort of, kind of, technically apologised to greer, the words "I'm sorry" leaving his lips for the first time in god knows how long.

it doesn't occur to him now, here, that his response wasn't good. wasn't great. wasn't exactly ideal and deserving of something with more explanation, more situational awareness than a blunt 'no'.

but what he does notice is the tail, the way it seems to appear from nowhere, daphne's hands busying with it instead of resting on him as they had been.

the answer to her question is 'no' but it's not what marc says, not verbally, not in the way he holds his body. there's reluctance, but nothing that says for what. he gestures, loosely. )

If that's what you want.

[She looks at him with a sly little gleam in her eyes. What she wants.

Oh, Marc.]

What I want is for you to find a spot to sit, sit down, and be ready for me to sit in your lap.

[Its not quite said like a curious, thoughtful wish. It’s said something closer to an order, without the bark of a drill sergeant but all the steel. She cocks one hip, and her tail hangs down now, the tip going back and forth.]

( it's not what he meant and though to date they've only had a handful of conversations, he's quickly coming to the realisation that it's not something to be surprised by in the case of daphne. he shifts his weight and eyes her, mindful of the tail not so much swishing back and forth but twitches. he should know what it means, he thinks, and yet. )

Is that why you followed me? ( a breath of a pause; he hasn't missed the tone, the timbre of it, the way it sounds coming from her. a part of him finds no reason nor want to argue, the rest of him—

—doesn't strictly dislike being difficult. dryly, then, ) I've never been known for my agreeability.

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