no_sin_but | (no subject)

Darren is used to living alone.

This said, he pushes in without knocking.

And gets an eyeful.

"Jesus Christ."

And backtracks fast.

Marlowe doesn't open his eye.

"Darren, Darren, Darren."

'Where the fuck have you been?' or 'What happened?' or 'Did you fuck her?'

Actually, it ends up being nothing at all. Darren heads for the bookshelf instead, because Marlowe will want something to read tonight.

Okay, now that gets Marlowe watching him curiously through the open bathroom door.

"Evening to you, too."

"I'm out of sorts. I've had a busy week."

This is a bold faced lie, but as an excuse for a short temper, a very good one.

This is the moment where Marlowe will be confronted with the fact that all the irritation, worry, frustration and hurt Darren had expressed the past week, none of it at all is being shown on his face. He is a much, much better liar than he lets on. If you hadn't been there to see him without pretense, you'd never know the difference.

Oh, he is impressed. He is very, very impressed.

"Play not going so well?"

"The drama with the lead actress continues. She's taken up with another woman, one also scorned by the lead. He's devastated. His confidence is shot."

None of this is true, it just makes good telling.

Far be it for Marlowe to tell him to stop. So, he smirks.

"Really?"

"The entire thing is like a balancing act."

An elegant gesture.

"I haven't juggled since college. I'm ill equipped."

"Oh, but you are director. Surely you've juggled."

"I meant literally," admits Darren, demonstrating briefly with an apple, a set of keys and a cup that come to hand, "but emotionally? Yes, just not as complicated as this."

"Could be the challenge of your career!"

He sounds far too cheerful about this.

"At this point, I just want the the thing to be over with. One more month of shows and then I never have to see any of them again. And that's the best news I've had since Geoffrey entered the mental hospital."

Anyways. Casual as fuck,

"How's your week been?"

"Oh, you know. Entirely bizare, in a way that only an actor's life can be. I'm sure it'd be a play."

Beat.

"Now there's an idea..."

"You're thinking of writing again?"

Darren forgets himself and looks in and smiles at him, open and blinding and please let Marlowe write again.

"I miss it."

That's not a yes. It's not a no, either.

"Right."

Out again, back to book hunting.

Drily,

"Besides, I have the time. No one to spy on or for."

"Someone said to me once, when you are what you do, when you stop you aren't. Most men die rather quickly after retirement."

He's not trying to be morbid, he just couldn't imagine it.

Marlowe pauses.

"And nine years after I stopped, I still call myself a writer. So what does that mean?"

"That it's just a hiatus."

Obviously.

He snorts.

"Nearly a decade, it's a bloody long one."

"Never say never," says Darren, with faith that's practically childish.

That actually gets a laugh.

Albeit a cynical one.

"Eaten yet?"

He manages to not sound like he's fretting.