no_sin_but | (no subject)

(no subject)

Marlowe is not, and has never been, a continuous writer. He's too full of energy for that, too quick and hurried with that impossible perfectionistic streak. Instead, he writes in episodes of fevered inspiration countered by episodes of staring and thinking.

Tonight, he is in the latter.

He is sitting in his chair, leaning it back with his leg braced against the table to keep from toppling. Hands linked behind his head, eye bright and sharp and far away.

On the table, there are papers. His play, scattered here there and everywhere, and Darren's letters.

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It's so very Darren to return without warning or explanation, back and without even complaining about the door being locked.

"Evening," he says, calmly and makes like he isn't annoyed or nervous.

Just as calmly,

"Good even."

"How's the play going?"

Over his shoulder, heading for the bathroom because he needs to splash cold water on his face. It's been a long day.

"Frustratingly."

"Isn't that always the way?"

He disappears, but reemerges momentarily, and watches him from the door frame.

"Oh, yes."

Darren smiles.

"My mother announced yesterday she thought she should get me a cat for Christmas."

Darren gets a glance. Over his left shoulder, of course.

"Oh?"

"She thinks she needs to teach me responsibility. Or that I'm lonely. She couldn't make up her mind which. She means well, but she reminded me well and clearly why I don't talk to her very often."

His fingers explore the grain of wood of the bathroom door frame.

"Mothers tend to be like that."

"They do, don't they?"

A thin smile. He imagines letting his mother loose on Kit. Maybe he's more annoyed than he's admitting to himself. He usually wouldn't wish her on anyone.

Marlowe is back to studying the wall.

This is not helping the prickling sensation between his shoulder-blades, though.

"You could call it Godot."

"Hah," says Darren, with only a very little amount of amusement in his voice.

"Hilarious."

"I am possibly more serious than you think. It's a pretty name. And cats will be cats." His tone is bland, so bland.

There are a lot of reasons why he was turned into a cat, after all.

"Would you cat-sit?"

If he's going to be seriously considering it and all.

"Mm-hmm."

It's an agreement.

Darren smiles.

That's good, then.

And the trouble with studying the wall?

Is that Marlowe can't see it.

"I'm not angry. Any more."

And Darren heads off to the bookshelf to start browsing for something to read. For something to do with his hands, mostly.

"You aren't?"

"You can't help being marginally demented."

Snide, not angry,

"And upon consideration, I don't believe you'd ever mean me a harm."

"I didn't."

"And it's not as though I've never taken a blow to my pride before. I recover."

Darren is resilient. Or at least, persistent. Like dandelions.

"You're a director. Of course you recover."

Or else perish.

"Why didn't you just tell me?"

Curious, not hurt.

(But does Marlowe remember how seamlessly Darren can lie? How sure is he?)