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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"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?)

"Because you had ranted at me, about me."

"So you just thought I'd never find out."

Darren supposes that makes sense.

"Essentially."

Also, Marlowe wasn't sure about how to handle it. When in doubt, lie.

"That's a pretty amateur mistake. And I'm not even a spy. I just played one once."

His mouth twitches into not-quite-a-smile.

"I am not perfect."

"I know."

He selects 'Slaughterhouse Five' and settles on the edge of the bed.

He lowers the chair legs to the floor, and pushes it around so that he can look at him.

"Good."

"I'm glad. Perfection is terrible. Unconvincing."

He's fond of Marlowe the way he is.

"With the incentive to hit said person. Or maybe that's just me..."

"Probably just you. Bizarre, strange little man."

Drily,

"Thank you."

"And the best part is I get to get away with this for the next fifteen minutes, at least. Possibly give or take five depending on how long I can make the guilt last."

"You are an idiot."

But it's fondly said.

"So I've been told."

By most everyone. He doesn't let it bother him.

"But you tolerate me."