( marc feels it. he feels, too, the dull distant awareness that feeling does not make it so (but would he doubt? should he?). he'd told andrea — doctor sterman — that he was good at following orders, good at not questioning, good at ignoring what was in front of his eyes and in the depths of his soul pulling at the edges of his conscience even when he knew he should. this does not feel like that. it does not even feel like the near-madness that'd gripped him tightly after bushman, after his legs, after raoul's face—
—does it?
but she agrees and she is real which must mean so too is this. )
Yes.
( his gaze shifts from her face to her tattoo, the change evident only in the way his head moves, and for a brief moment marc is unsure if the apparent glow is inherent or if it's thanks to the cool, cold light of the twin (fake) moons. it doesn't last long and he looks back to her, mask wrinkling at the bridge of his nose as his brows beneath knit together in a tight frown. )
no subject
—does it?
but she agrees and she is real which must mean so too is this. )
Yes.
( his gaze shifts from her face to her tattoo, the change evident only in the way his head moves, and for a brief moment marc is unsure if the apparent glow is inherent or if it's thanks to the cool, cold light of the twin (fake) moons. it doesn't last long and he looks back to her, mask wrinkling at the bridge of his nose as his brows beneath knit together in a tight frown. )
Like it's being held.