Dust or bleach, Tim had said. Today it's the latter. Marcus stands a long time in front of the picture, and then he says, quietly and to apparently no one, "Yeah, laugh it up," in that voice he uses when he hears precisely what God is saying and hates the fact that he hears it. In this case: you knew what you were getting into, didn't you, deep down?
He'd come to the party relaxed, amused: the bishop had invited him, out of pure embarrassment. Out of pure spite, he'd accepted. The look on the poor man's face had been something to see at the time, and nothing compared to when Marcus had accosted him at the party and clinked their glasses of complimentary champagne together with a wink. Free food is free food, anyway, and it'll be something funny to text Tim about. Which he needs. Because he's mentioned the case being closed, but he hasn't said anything about Batman. It's starting to eat at him because maybe he should, but if he says it now Tim will want to know why he didn't say it immediately...
He's not relaxed anymore, to say the least. Once he's turned away from the picture his shoulders are up and he prowls restlessly, looking for — he doesn't know. Something to fidget with, something to make this make more sense. Or maybe just an exit. Maybe he should just go, he's eaten enough and raised enough eyebrows for this to count as a success, he could just leave and try to forget it.
He actually stops a moment before he realises Bruce is there, as he finds himself in the study and takes a moment to stare and try to make a decision. In his pocket, his fingers curl around his phone. This, he supposes, is also an opportunity to come clean. Maybe that's good. He swallows — and then Bruce speaks, and Marcus jumps.
Christ, does he always just come out of nowhere?
Marcus exhales, spins around and smiles — tight, unhappy, teeth together. Nothing like the wild snarl a few short nights ago. All that restless energy held up tight and stiff in his shoulders, his hands digging hard into his pockets, elbows pinched into his sides. "Keane," he mutters, and tries to work out what the play is here — but he doesn't think he's controlling his features particularly well. He's staring at Bruce with a surly, bitter expression that doesn't fit with being caught snooping.
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He'd come to the party relaxed, amused: the bishop had invited him, out of pure embarrassment. Out of pure spite, he'd accepted. The look on the poor man's face had been something to see at the time, and nothing compared to when Marcus had accosted him at the party and clinked their glasses of complimentary champagne together with a wink. Free food is free food, anyway, and it'll be something funny to text Tim about. Which he needs. Because he's mentioned the case being closed, but he hasn't said anything about Batman. It's starting to eat at him because maybe he should, but if he says it now Tim will want to know why he didn't say it immediately...
He's not relaxed anymore, to say the least. Once he's turned away from the picture his shoulders are up and he prowls restlessly, looking for — he doesn't know. Something to fidget with, something to make this make more sense. Or maybe just an exit. Maybe he should just go, he's eaten enough and raised enough eyebrows for this to count as a success, he could just leave and try to forget it.
He actually stops a moment before he realises Bruce is there, as he finds himself in the study and takes a moment to stare and try to make a decision. In his pocket, his fingers curl around his phone. This, he supposes, is also an opportunity to come clean. Maybe that's good. He swallows — and then Bruce speaks, and Marcus jumps.
Christ, does he always just come out of nowhere?
Marcus exhales, spins around and smiles — tight, unhappy, teeth together. Nothing like the wild snarl a few short nights ago. All that restless energy held up tight and stiff in his shoulders, his hands digging hard into his pockets, elbows pinched into his sides. "Keane," he mutters, and tries to work out what the play is here — but he doesn't think he's controlling his features particularly well. He's staring at Bruce with a surly, bitter expression that doesn't fit with being caught snooping.