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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"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.

He swings back on the chair.

"If we both don't say much, that doesn't leave a lot of room to move, you know."

"Of the two of us, Kit?" Darren very seldomly calls him that, "I think I've done my share of admittings for the next short while. Your move."

He winces, slightly, and rubs the back of his head.

Edited 2007-12-01 03:49 (UTC)

Darren snorts, and opens his book.

It possibly takes longer than it should, and it's nothing to do with any form of jealousy or possessiveness.

Just Marlowe.

"I don't mind if you sleep with other people."

"I don't usually."

He was just so angry.

"Don't let that stop you or anything. I just... I'm still not looking for complicated things."

"Neither do I."

Just, sometimes.

Like Spike.

But, this is Marlowe and admitting things...doesn't happen.

"And neither am I."

"And Geoffrey's asked me back to New Burbage to direct Romeo and Juliet."

Which he may have neglected to mention but now seems like as good a time as any and now Darren just looks tired and miserable.

"It's a good play, even if young William stole my line."

"I hate Geoffrey. I've had to stipulate in my contract that he doesn't stab me."

And it's so fucking romantic, he can hardly stand it.

A sharp, wicked grin.

"Sounds perfectly delightful."

"You are insane, you do know."