to bite the hand that feeds
In which you have a calm, adult conversation with your partner, Marc. (in the aftermath of going three for three) ˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚ Tags: 18+; Marc Spector x Reader; A 35 year old in a situationship goes as well as you'd expect; No use of Y/N; Reader's gender is not stated; mentions of Jake, Steven, Marlene, and Diatrice Word Count: 2,762. Warnings: Hurt, no comfort! Miscommunication, angst, Marc wants to hit a hole in the wall (& almost does); Complicated relationships, mental illness, Reader isn't perfect, arguing, relationship fight, no conflict resolution! ˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚
A dimming light buzzes on and off above your head, casting the apartment complex in an unflattering gray-green. You crinkle your nose, mildly assaulted by the distant scent of old cat litter wafting under an adjacent door. The carpet beneath you is holding on by a thread, tattered and torn from years of exposure; you brush one of its loose staples with your fingertips where it pokes out next to your ankle.
You're not sure where to go from here.
Nor if you actually wanted to leave.
To end the conversation, yes. But…what else?
You've been sitting down with your knees tucked against your chest for so long your stomach begins to ache. Begrudgingly, you loosen your body, sprawling out your legs in front of you.
It's with a dull click of your house slippers that you acknowledge two things: You are acting like it's your fault, and you don't want to do that anymore.
Also, you can't exactly go to your apartment wearing slippers out in dreary London.
You tip your chin up, leaning the back of your head against the wall.
It's not your fault Jake decided to front and meet you out of the blue. Surely, Marc will understand that.
It's the bit with Diatrice you're nervous about.
Marc's little girl is his own personal ghost. His most precious, vulnerable secret. As fragile as glass.
And Jake started talking as though he was about to show you her grade school graduation pictures.
But it's not about Diatrice—not exactly. It's what she represents. The pain, the privacy, the things Marc will never be ready to speak about.
It's about you seeing Marc for who he thinks he is.
You study your slippers, dull blue things you bought ages ago.
Maybe you should go home. Give Marc some space, like he undoubtedly wants for himself. Let him deal with Jake on his own, as he's been doing, apparently.
But if you leave now, without talking to Marc—there's not a doubt in your mind that he's fronting and Jake's been left behind—then you're giving up. On him and on yourself. Putting your head in the sand, letting Marc call all the shots, as if you're not an adult with your own agency, too.
So you stand up and brush the lint from your soft pantsleg. When you look at the tall door, with all its scratches and chips in the paint, it's just that: a door. An obstacle between you and the man that you can't help but love so fiercely that you'll bend and twist and adjust, just so he'll be happy—
No. The man you love so fiercely that you will have the tough conversations with him. The confrontations, arguments. Uncomfortable, unfamiliar territory that you will blaze through, side by side with him. Because the thing you share, that raw, human thing, is worth fighting about.
Exhaling through your nose, you reach into the pocket you'd hastily shoved your keys into. Your keyring is nothing impressive. A piece of unpersonalized utility, save for a tiny little silver charm of the Eye of Horus. "To look after you," Steven had said, when he gave it to you as a birthday present some weeks ago.
As you insert your key into the lock, you realize the issue.
You're a doormat. And you've been acting like one for too long.
Marc has his problems. And you've done your best these past three years to understand, to be patient and empathetic, and listen. But in doing so, you've forgotten that you have a stake in this, too.
Rather, you can't expect to be treated like his partner when you've been treating him like a grenade about to go off.
Jake had told you, "That's why he can't keep shit, because he's too afraid to lose it."
Maybe he was right.
But Marc doesn't deserve that. Steven doesn't deserve that.
Most importantly, neither do you.
In trying to be everything Marc needs, not only have you failed him, but you've failed yourself. You haven't stood up or fought back or dissented…well, anything. You're so afraid to lose him that you've forgotten that he could lose you.
But that's no way to love somebody.
You turn the key and open the door.
It's anticlimactic, really. It's not like Marc is having a mental breakdown and you have to pick up the pieces of a poor, unstable, uncontrollable man and apologize for something that wasn't your fault in the first place. He's not breaking furniture or whatever it is angry men do.
The apartment is exactly as you left it; clean, warm, and cozy. A little humid, thanks to the poor weather.
Marc's leaning against the kitchenette's little counter, eating a piece of garlic bread.
You close the door behind you and lock this, this, and this until the door is firmly shut, closing the two of you off from the outside world.
You kick off your slippers by the door. Marc doesn't say anything, so you don't, either—even as you sit directly in front of him on a bar stool, divided by the counter.
Behind him, a gloomy London sky is heavy with yellow rainclouds threatening to spill.
You lean your elbows on the counter. And you feel a lot less anxious than you did mulling everything over in the hallway.
"Weren't sure you were comin' back," Marc says after a few moments. His jaw is tight when he speaks, and he's looking everywhere but at you.
"You didn't come after me," you state pointedly.
"Didn't think you'd want me to."
And it's such a Marc response that your palms begin to sweat. You can get mad at him. He is a safe person to be mad at. And he can be mad at you without pushing you away.
"That's a really convenient answer," you say, and that gets his attention. He fixes you with a dark, flat stare.
"So you've been talkin' to Jake behind my back?" Marc asks, voice low and strangled.
Your breath shallows in your lungs. And, promptly, you stand from the stool. Walking over to Gus and Other Gus' tank, you let Marc struggle with it, your insanswer, your indifference.
You unscrew the little fish-food container and sprinkle in an ample amount, blue light reflecting off your face.
Gus and Other Gus flutter toward the tiny floating bits, their mouths popping open and shut.
Marc's eyes drill holes in your back. "Not gonna say anything?"
"I don't know what you want me to say." And it's a little petty, and worse, it's unconstructive. But as you watch the goldfish eat their dinner, you realize how unfair it is that your own dinner was ruined.
And, if you search deep down, you actually are kind of pissed off.
"That was none of your business," Marc growls,and you can't help but to turn around. His sheer presence takes up every inch of the room. "It's none of your business, that shit, but you just stood there and ate it up. It had nothing to do with you. My- my daughter has nothing to do—"
"Your daughter has nothing to do with you!" You snap back, surprising the both of you. "Christ, Marc, what did you want me to do? Say hi, Jake, glad to know you exist for the first time ever. Please, tell me everything you know about Marc's personal life so that I can use it against him, just like everybody else on the planet."
"Don't engage!" Marc's body caves in on the word, his actions animated, exasperated. He gestures around with a hand. "I don't want you to talk to—to him, to have a fucking conversation about—God, please, can you just go? Can you fucking leave? For once?"
Your shoulders tense, face reddening. "Oh, totally. I can just keep running away when things get too hard for you. That's how adults process their emotions."
"I process just fine!" Marc exclaims, running a hand through his hair. The muscles in his arm flex, taught and tight.
You bark a flat note of laughter. "Yeah, I can tell. That's why you're throwing a shit fit about Jake—who I just met! Just met!—telling me something that I didn't even ask! Literally did not ask. It's not my f-"
Marc's fist crashes hard against the counter, sending little papers scattering to the floor. "You don't fucking know me. You don't. You try, but you don't. You--you walk right in here, stick your nose where it doesn't belong, drive me fucking crazy—"
"You feel good hitting things? Makes you feel like a man?" Aghast, you stride across the floor, backtracking your way to the front door. "I'll stay with you, Marc Spector, but don't you dare think I'll let you intimidate me like that."
The air in the room disappears.
"Stop. Stop walking." Marc's breath heaves in his chest, but his body is solid as stone when he cuts off your path. "Don't—Don't. I'm sorry."
"You have more than that to apologize for," you state, casting a hard stare into his tired, tired eyes.
Silence.
You try to think of something to say—a clever retort, or something your therapist said, or—
But just as quickly as he had riled himself up, Marc visibly deflates in front of you.
It's not the dissasociative stare you've seen before, when he knows he's in the wrong and doesn't know how to right it. This is something grim and raw and utterly exhausted.
You take the opportunity to catch your breath. To collect your thoughts. Resist the urge to jump at the chance to comfort him.
With a voice quiet and low, scraping against his throat, Marc takes a step away from you. "I don't—I don't like it when he shows up. I didn't want him to hurt you."
"He was cooking me dinner," you say, eyebrows drawn together. "Did you really think I was in danger?"
"He kills people, amor. Kills them."
That stops you. "I thought you weren't…doing that. As much. Anymore. I thought Khonshu…"
Marc looks ragged, undone. "I try not to unless it's unavoidable. But he doesn't care. That's why I didn't want you to meet him."
You scrub a hand over your face. "Okay. Just—hold on. Let me reassess the situation."
Marc looks like he's about to say something, but you hold up a hand in pause.
"I was doing the dishes and you—Jake was on the phone with Marlene. How does he know Marlene?"
A pained expression casts over his face. This, normally, is when he shuts you out. Stomps on the conversation until it's dead and you apologize and pretend nothing ever happened.
You tense up like an animal, blood thrumming in your ears, preparing to fight back.
But in a miserable calm, Marc says, "She's his. Diatrice."
Oh. You weren't expecting that.
"I think we should sit down," you say, glancing away from him and at the aging hardwood floor.
It's never been in Marc's nature to follow orders. Not in the Marines, and certainly not under Khonshu. But he storms to the couch anyway.
Casting a quick look out the window, you see the first droplets of rain race down the window pane in thin, interlacing lines. Terribly stereotypical, for it to rain at a time like this. The outside matching your insides.
But you knew what you were getting into when you moved to London.
You step into the kitchenette's little plastered floor and begin to plate for two. You doubt that either of you actually has an apetite, but it's not in your nature to let things go to waste. So you shovel a generous amount of spaghetti into a bowl and place a piece of garlic bread on top. Insert a fork. Snow on some parmesan cheese. Repeat for another bowl.
Are you stalling? Yes. But at least you're trying something new.
When you walk to join him at the couch, Marc is sitting in that masculine way you like. Taking up as much space as possible. Knees spread apart, one arm over the top of the couch. But one hand covers his mouth, and the look on his face is terrible.
Primly, you clear off a little coffee table, placing three books into a neat pile on the floor and replacing them with your dinner.
You sit directly beside him, legs tucked beneath you, your knees pressing against the side of his thigh.
"Let me figure out how to put this," you say, wringing your hands, glancing up at the ceiling as if it can help you. It doesn't.
"I understand that there are things, very personal things, that you don't want to share with me. And I respect that, Marc. I do. But it—there's a line between keeping your privacy and literally shoving me away. And I can't just sit by and let you push me away one day, then bring me back the next. It's been three years of that. All this back and forth. I need—I need honesty from you. Whatever you can give me."
You clear your throat and add, "I want to be with you, Marc. But I can't do that if you don't let me know you."
"You wanna know the real me?" Marc says bitterly, leaning in on himself, elbows on his knees. Clasping his hands, shaking his head once, twice. "This is it. This is what you get. I lie to you and I hurt you and I'm not going to change for you."
Rain pounds against the walls, creating a harsh, white-noise that muffles the room around you. "I don't…agree with all of that," you say softly, and lean back into the couch. "I can't tell you that you're good. You won't believe me. But I have to ask why you've been wasting so much time with me when I can't seem to ever make you happy."
Marc is quick. So quick you can't flinch before he's in your space, grabbing at your hands, yanking you to face him. To take up all of your vision. "You," he says, strained, hurt flashing across his face. "You are the only thing. You and Steven. The only things. You can't—You can't say that. You don't mean that."
And it breaks your heart. All of this. It's a physical sensation, a tightening, winding pain in your chest that wrenches your face and clogs your throat. "Marc," you warble, and it doesn't sound like your voice anymore when you start to cry. Choking against a tightening throat, you say, "We have to just talk. Please."
"God damn it," Marc curses under his breath, defeated, and takes you into his arms.
You sob, poised between the couch cushion and Marc's shoulder. Utterly furious and frusterated. But the words don't come.
The two of you lay there, a pile of shuddering, sweating bodies, for what feels like hours. Outside, the rain is relentless, and soon, thunder shakes the precariously-placed bookshelves that line the flat's thin walls.
Marc keeps you tight against his chest, forcing you to surrender your whole weight on top of him. And you do. You give up. You give up everything and lay there with him. There's no point in speaking. You don't know what to say anymore.
Marc is quiet, too.
He strokes your back in slow circles with his thumb. It soothes you, just as the rise and fall of his breathing against yours does. Slow circles on your back turn to broad, gentle strokes with his palm under your clothes, skin against skin.
Once you're finished after letting your body feel what it feels, you bury your head in the crook of Marc's neck. Soaking him in, willing every minute to take away just the slightest bit of hurt from him and give it to you.
Or, at least, for him to tell you where it hurts.
That's all you want. That's all you've ever wanted.
For him to tell you where it hurts. For him to stay.
"Please figure this out with me," you say, hoarse and quieted by the storm. "It won't be hard. We love each other, don't we? That means we have to talk."
Marc doesn't answer.
What's worse is that you didn't expect him to.
Thunder rumbles deep against the floorboards, rising through the couch, its bass fizzling in your ribcage.
You close your eyes.
When you wake up alone on the couch the next morning, Steven is making chia seed and almond milk pudding for breakfast.
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