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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"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."

A one-shouldered shrug.

"I do."

"Why?"

"As I said before, I like you. And I've been on my own for too long not accept someone who seems to put up with me just as much."

"You probably wouldn't have any trouble finding company here."

He says this with amusement, not worry.

"A man of your talents."

"But someone I am comfortable with?"

"Picky bastard."

Affectionate.

"Well, yes."

"Any preferences on what kind of cat?"

There is going to be a cat.

"One that doesn't shed quite so much."

Marlowe tends to gravitate towards black, after all.

"Non shedding, hypoallergenic."

Probably a black cat, yes.

"Alright."

"And the rest I leave to you."

"I can live with that."

He doesn't think he's naming it Godot though.

Win some, you lose some.

And Darren gets a quick smile. Not that Marlowe has any idea of where they stand, but...a smile.

"My other question."

A quick gesture at the letters.

"I see no reason why not."

"Alright."

He watches Marlowe closely. This is the part where the whole debacle matters; where Darren has no idea what Marlowe is thinking, and feels like Marlowe can probably read him like a book.

Another quick smile.

"'Alright'?"

"Whatever you..."

Gesture. Vague. Sudden impulse to bolt. Why does Marlowe bring that out in him?

"I can't reply unless you finish the sentence."

"Considering you're not really saying much I don't see why that's an impediment. Or a change."

Ooh, passive aggressive. And a faint internal wince, too because he knows that was probably uncalled for. Eh. It's still true.