[She's been in the city for only a pair of months; her firm brought her over from London thinking it might only be a case, but one case led to another, which led to perhaps we can consider keeping you stateside for the rest of year. Which is fine, really. Daphne doesn't exactly have a significant other or keep family ties keeping her in London, just a pair of Khan who mostly mind their own business and a nosy busybody fucker of a Simba who keeps trying to keep tabs on her.
The fact that she was supposed to go back is probably why her profile could stay so low. There are a lot of shifters in New York - a lot being a bit of an exaggeration, but certainly more than in London. And while she was living out of a suitcase, she assumes they figured that she wasn't going to settle.
But now she has an apartment. She called Samesh, one of the other Khan in London, and told him that she was going to be in New York for a while. She assumes that he probably let Hakim know, probably during some stupid nosy invasion of privacy.
She didn't consider that Hakim might tell the Simba on this side of the pond. She didn't even consider that there would be old-world Simba in the New World, which would be stupid of her, because it's not like she's not a perfect exhibit of a post-globalized shifter society herself. But still.
She's working late, and she's getting ready to leave, the last one in her office, distracted, when she hears someone coming. She doesn't look up right away, but he doesn't smell familiar; there's a certain musk to his scent, but it smells more like cologne than anything. She doesn't catch the notes of shifter right away.]
[ It makes sense for them to send him; his position requires a lot of diplomacy, and Ghassan has had plenty of reasons to develop a thick skin and a sweet tone over the years. Doubtless he'd never have become as invaluable as he is otherwise, considering he has no known ties to any Simba tribe that he's aware of (or that his parents are aware of, for that matter).
Fortunately, the local tribe building a corporate empire for themselves are a bit more open-minded than other tribes are known to be, and were willing to make a place for a young shifter with no noble heritage to speak of. Maybe they saw in Ghassan what they wanted to accomplish for themselves, because the growth of their net worth has been exponential - and that kind of thing draws attention.
It was London's suggestion to send them to her.
Ghassan has been warned that this Khan is difficult, in more ways than one, but he's not quite worried. Respectful courtesy is his go-to approach no matter who he's dealing with. If that doesn't work... well, he's developed other skills to make himself useful. ]
I'm sorry to disturb you. [ He remains in the doorway, both paused at the threshold of what is inextricably her territory, and blocking off the cleanest exit from it. ] Are you Daphne Morales-Kocchar?
[Her eyebrows go up, and she stands, then; she tips her head to one side, to look him over. He's cute, she'll give him that. Handsome in a way she likes. She walks around her desk, with the graceful step of someone who has never tripped a day in her life no matter how high the heels, and settles back a bit on the edge of the desk.]
I am.
[She takes a short moment to consider his stance, but decides he's not a danger, at least not like this.]
Who are you?
[She didn't repeat that her office was closed, which is always positive.]
[Fucking Hakim. She doesn't bristle, not right away, at the sudden invasion of her space, because she has manners and she's not afraid of whoever this man is, no matter what. She shakes his hand, firm grip indeed. And nods. Her face is cautiously neutral.]
I know of the Malhotras. I've never had the pleasure of meeting any of them, but that's not a surprise, either.
[ He doesn't know much about Hakim Zuberi, personally, but the name comes up often, usually in the context of whether he's entirely trustworthy or not. The impression Ghassan is under is that he's not, even if he is kin of a sort to the Malhotras. One can never be too careful.
The same goes for the woman standing in front of him now, already guarded. ]
If you had requested an audience, I can't imagine you would have been turned away. My employers are very curious about you.
I anticipated going back to London. I didn’t think it would be worth making a fuss for only a few weeks time, but-
[She dips her head a little. There is no shame in admitting a change of plans, or that she should have done this days ago, at the least, if not weeks. So.
She nods to her sofa, and sits there. If she has to do this, she may as well be comfortable.]
I negotiate arms contracts; I suppose my day job means I work for humans, but they give me my independence and so I don’t mind. I’m guessing you’re not asking about my day job.
[ Ghassan takes the seat across from her sofa as smoothly as if she'd offered it himself. He has that shifter grace, though there's less of the bullying presence of most lions about him; he moves like he doesn't intend to be touched against his will, even so much as a bump.
The way she moves is much the same, but even more effortless. Ghassan has heard other rumors about her; so far, the story is holding up. ]
I'm sure you know that the Malhotras have acquired a substantial stake in manufacturing over the last twenty years. They have been very blessed, and as such you can imagine they are keen to take steps to preserve the legacy they have built for the pride.
[ He smiles at her politely, but he hasn't looked away from her yet. Or blinked. ]
It is their belief that you might be a valuable asset in those efforts.
And I'm sure you know that I don't work for lions.
[She says it as she cocks her head, and keeps her eye on him. She leans forward a little, but not quite into his space. There's a smile in her eyes, now, pleased.]
Pretty thing, why have I never heard about you?
[If she's anything, she's a flirt, but she uses it to unsettle people a little, to knock them off their guard. He's not blinking; he needs to ease up.]
[ It's certainly enough to make him smile back, and he leans forward just a little when she does, like they're sharing a secret. ]
Maybe you're a little behind on your homework.
[ But it does make him relax when he leans back again, draping one elbow across the back of his chair with the fingers laced. ]
And you should think of it more as working with lions. My employers don't presume they'll be yours. You'd be partners. That makes all the difference, doesn't it?
[She considers him for a moment, and rubs her thumb against her mouth like she's thinking.]
I think right now I'm more interested in you than in business proposals. Are you going to make me call someone local to tell me all about you or will you share without me having to fuss?
[Her smile, now, shows a secret dimple on one cheek. She's curious, and it's clear.]
[ Although Ghassan remains well composed, there is an unmistakable glint in his eyes when she smiles at him like that, deliberately drawing his curiosity out with hers. ]
Well, I am here for a business proposal, Ms. Morales-Kocchar.
[ What good would he be if he allowed his assignment to be completely disregarded, after all? ]
But I'll admit I'm getting hungry. Have you been in the city long enough to choose a favorite restaurant? If not, I could introduce you to one of mine.
[ He grins at her as he rises, fixing his coat over his chest. It seems like a fair enough trade, as long as she's willing to draw the line in the right places. The rumors about her, mostly passed from Hakim's pride in London, are enough to keep him from trusting her too much, but he'd rather risk a little, give her the chance to show her own stripes.
[She says it ass she comes in closer and loops one arm around his, without asking, but loosely enough that if he moves away it won't be difficult for him.
She doesn't know anything about him, but he knows a great deal about her. If Hakim told him anything, it was of her obstinance, of her refusal to let him near her, of her growl when he entered her territory. Of exchanging her business in London from Hakim's Pride to dealing with other shifters when he pressed her, of refusing his family passage through her territory if they fussed.
But Hakim is a hothead at the best of times and maybe this handsome young man knows it.]
[ He folds his hand over hers on his arm, respectfully, other than giving her fingers a little squeeze. ]
I hope I don't need to play truth or dare to find out what else you like.
[ Unreliable sources notwithstanding, Ghassan simply wouldn't be where he is now if he wasn't able to guard even the most mundane information as closely as necessary. But so far, Daphne seems rather charming. At the very least, it should be a nice meal. ]
I also hope you don't mind walking. It's not too far, and the weather's beautiful.
[The weather is beautiful, and they are a handsome pair; they turn heads as they go. Daphne clearly likes that kind of attention, preening a bit at the pleasure of it.
She keeps her hand on his arm like it belongs there, like he belongs to her, when they both know that's not true.]
Is it too bold if I skip the pleasantries? Why them, why here, all that? I get the feeling it's all stories I've heard before. There are more interesting things to know.
[ She has an easy laugh; it's refreshing, and perhaps a little surprising, although he's not sure why. Maybe he was expecting to hear an edge beneath it, but if there is one, it's too deep to catch. Very deep indeed.
Even side by side on the street, the two of them move through the crowd like water around rocks, just a little more graceful, a little more agile than everyone else. ]
Oh, by all means. If you'd rather not pretend we don't know what's at stake here, I certainly won't protest. Is there something in particular on your mind?
I think what's at stake is worse for you than for me.
[She is incredibly aware of the power dynamics at play. She's alone, it's true, and they're a pride, that's also true, but the larger global implications-
-she looks at this beautiful young man, and it strikes her that she doesn't care, not really, and maybe that's why they sent him.]
[ Whatever he might have been expecting, that wasn't it, and it makes him grin slowly and then laugh, pleasantly surprised. It's the fact that she clearly means it that makes it so delightful. ]
Ah - well, I have my own question first.
[ He doesn't stop walking, but he does look at her with amusement; he's definitely going to answer her, it's just a question of specifics. ]
Favorite way in the city, or favorite way... at all?
[He has a good laugh, and Daphne is now determined to hear it again. It's so refreshing to meet a shifter with a sense of humor; most of the ones she knows are so serious they might die from it.
[ He turns his grin away, but it doesn't disappear. ]
My favorite way to spend an afternoon is stretched out on a beach, my belly in the sun, holding a very strong alcoholic drink mixed into the shell of a coconut.
[ As nicely as he cleans up, he's still an outdoor cat at heart, a proud sun-soaker. ]
And if I have someone beautiful beside me, so much the better.
[ That makes him laugh again, one hand playfully shielding the spot where she pushed him. ]
Oh, you are a woman after my own heart, then.
[ It surprises him a little, in fact. He expected her to be haughtier, though that was little more than an assumption about the Khan than anything else. So far, Daphne has been a thoroughly pleasant surprise on multiple counts. More all the time. ]
Here in the city, I might say a long lunch with coffee, where I can read or enjoy the view for a bit. Followed by admiring how good all that exposed skin looks. [ This time his grin is more of a smirk, but it smooths quickly. ] What about you?
[That dimple, the secret one, pops up in her cheek.]
Honestly?
[She hums, and brings up a thumb to her bottom lip, rubs it there a moment. She's deciding if she should tell him or be coy about it, but either way he's getting a taste of the truth.]
[Its the kind of bitter night that leaves most people cold or colder; not because it’s cold but because it’s almost as if misery is leaking in the air.
Daphne is, at best, not in a good mood, and when that happens she goes purposely out to pick a fight. Tonight she’s found someone who decided to follow a beautiful woman into a dark alley and found a monster in there instead, and the screams are probably what draw attention.
The truth is that by the time Marc gets there, the man isn’t dead. He’s two hundred pounds of muscle and Daphne is a slip in comparison, straddling his stomach, blood on her mouth, fury in her eyes.
that's the thought that sits at the edge of awareness as he takes in the sight of daphne and the man. blood and piss and trash and damp mixing together to form a not-all-that-unique but distinctly unpleasant smell. it's grim, but—
well, what the man had wanted to do (tried to do?) would have been uglier, he thinks.
it's the sort of attempt at crime that, once upon a time, marc would have killed him for. another time, he'd have left the man a calling card, a little memento, a gift to remember him by and the price of his actions — a moon carved into skin for a reminder every time he looked in the mirror. if he didn't learn, there'd have been another and another, until—.
(not learning wasn't an option.)
it's easy to ignore the wheezing gasps, the struggles for breaths and the attempt at words in between. it's less easy to ignore the sight of daphne, mouth messy and red. her question isn't ignored although he puts off answering it in favour of stepping towards her, towards the useless sack of shit she's straddling.
the growling's a warning, but he's never been very good at heeding those and idly, as he crouches down to meet daphne's gaze (angry, he's not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing—), he wonders what impression she has of what he does and who he is to be asking that question.
(he thinks she knows enough to know that his reaction, at least, is tempered by the knowledge that the only blood here is the man's. none of it's hers, and she's—
to describe the situation as 'under control' wouldn't be quite right, but she has control. )
What do you think? ( he asks, and then his gaze drops to study the man's face. upside down or not, he'll remember it — the lines, the greasy skin, the shape of the eyebrows and the curve of the nose. the fear and the desperation, an ugly mirror of everything he'd wanted to see in daphne.
he pauses long enough to reach into a pocket, to bring out an unused handkerchief, stark white as ever, to hold out to daphne. )
[The growl gets a little louder as he approaches, the sound of a predator warning another away from their kill. Her kill. Her meat.
She isn’t going to eat this man. She doesn’t do that, not just because it shakes her a bit, but for other reasons. Still the instinct is there.
Her shoulders hunch, and the bitter fury is obvious in every line of her, even as she presses one clawed hand against the man’s chest and holds him down. The other reaches for Marc’s offered handkerchief.
She’s dangling right over the line of a rage and she knows it.
Her eyes narrow, though.]
No?
What should I be doing? Screaming my lungs out in hopes someone hears me, and letting this piece of trash get turned on by it?
[There is a wheeze; the man hisses no, no, I wasn’t-
Daphne’s fingers curve into his chest.]
I don’t want to hear your fucking lies, the grown ups are talking.
[She turns back to Marc, and her eyes have a flat, predatory light in them.]
( in spite of himself, he's a little surprised when she takes the handkerchief and it means that the silence that sits between them is partly marc watching and waiting, and partly marc not quite sure where their conversation (of sorts) is going to go until she speaks. )
No, ( heavy and pointed, uttered at more or the less the same time as daphne presses her fingers-no-claws into the man's chest. he thinks, abruptly, of the time when he'd offered a woman the chance at her own retribution before marc took his shot and she'd declined. (more for him, he'd said—.) he thinks of reese and her question — "why, because it'd make me as bad as him?" — and he thinks of his answer (because it'd make you as bad as me).
he reaches out with his hand, fingers curling around daphne's, the fingers pressed into the man's chest. he's aware there are two ways this could go and that his safety isn't guaranteed in either of them. where daphne responds to sack-of-shit (sos), marc's attention is focused on her. ) You've given him an experience to remember. What happens to him now isn't something you have to live with.
( he leans forward and down, gaze dropping for a second time so that he can watch the shifts, subtle and overt, in the man's face. a slight tilt to one side, considering. ) He does, though. ( back to daphne. ) What do you want him to remember this night by? ( what do you want done, he means. )
[The question comes out whip fast, practically cracking as she says it.
This isn’t normal; this isn’t it. The day had been filled with bitter little disappointments and critical messes, with small furious tragedies that built into this.
Her claws move out of the man’s chest, though.]
If he did it, if I were drunk or high or human, you would kill him. I know you would. If not for the fucking moon, then for me, wouldn’t you?
( he almost winces at the question — the first one, the one she asks with barely a second's pause, as if she'd known what marc had been going to say. he's not, never has been and never will be, and it's not what he'd meant. he doesn't think attempting to clarify would make much difference, so he doesn't.
he presses his lips together, the curve tight and sharp, and his head swings from the one side to the other as she puts her second question to him. as daphne's claws loosen, marc's grip does too, shifting instead to press down on his chest. a firm, immediate action, punctuated by a sharp glance down at an exhale that sounds a little too close to relief escapes the man's lips. shh, he says, cold and dispassionate, before answering daphne. )
No, ( he answers, and the breath between words is filled by marc holding up his other hand, a loose fist but for his index finger held up. wait, let him finish. ) He doesn't need to have done it. He knows what he was going to do, and you don't need to be human or drunk or high, or anything other than you.
—I would. ( and it'd have nothing to do with khonshu, not a fucking thing. ) Or anything else.
[She bears her teeth, and they’re stained pink, but she’s not growling anymore. Instead she’s halfway between a snarl and a wobbling lower lip, and she presses the handkerchief to her face.
She presses her face into it.]
You want me to let him go.
[She says it and it sounds like a small accusation. But she tips some of her weight towards him.]
So you can call the ambulance and he can live knowing that any woman could do the same to him.
he looks surprised as she states what she thinks he's trying to say, eyebrows arching in puzzlement. yes he wants her to let him go, but not for the reasons she thinks. marc has no interest in calling an ambulance, has no interest in seeking out medical air for the man. he knows there's a chance that, if he survives, he'd live in fear that he'd encounter another daphne, but there's a chance too that it'd just leave him angry and afraid, and the two together make ugly bedfellows. )
I want you to tell me what you want done. And then you get to not have that on your conscience.
( but as for the question—. his lips quirk. it's unintentional, the barest hint of not-entirely-appropriate amusement. )
By luck, yeah. I don't have a moon tracker or moon alarm, if that's what you're asking.
(mr. knight, not marc, she says and she moves in a way that says he ought to be wary. the man isn't a concern, a threat — either he will deal with him or she will — and he stills. he doesn't think of it — hadn't thought of it — as patronising her, that wasn't why he'd said what he had—.
and in truth, he doesn't have an answer for her. do you think. that's the thing: he doesn't, not really, not in the way she's referring to. it's about his own relationship with guilt, how he'd relate to whatever she chose to do. a twist of his lips, then, and he's silent. reluctant admission— )
[She moves a little closer, each muscle almost slithering under her skin, and without much thought she kicks the other man away. He rolls down the alley, towards the street, as Daphne moves closer, and closer.]
What do you want to do?
[She tilts her head and the humanity is draining from her eyes with every second.]
What would you do to a man who managed to hurt me, Marc?
[This is turning somewhere else, now, but at least she's using his name.]
marc's attention is fully on daphne, and it doesn't quite occur to him that she might not be daphne for much longer, although he's never quite been clear how it works. it was different for her, for him, for anyone else he knew that might vaguely align in terms of abilities.
the first question — that doesn't really matter.
the second question — ) I'd kill him. ( bluntly, to the point. the unsaid half of that is that it'd depend, entirely and wholly, on what daphne would want. if she said no, then he wouldn't — he's very good, after all, at doing as he's told. )
[Her teeth are sharp now, but she pulls him for a kiss, feral and bloody and violent, in its own way. She can't explain how hot it is to hear that, to hear a man say he would kill for her, even though he knows she could kill for herself.
Even though she knows it doesn't take much to make Marc kill in the first place.
Still.
She kisses him and a tooth bites at his lip, and she knows he's bleeding, and she doesn't fucking care.]
( he doesn't quite expect her to pull him in for a kiss and it's there in the momentary pause before he reacts, before he responds in kind. he knows she can take care of herself, he knows she's more than capable of killing if she needs to, but that doesn't change what he'd be willing to do. doesn't change who he is as a person, how far he's willing to go for anyone he cares for.
she kisses him and bites him all at the same time and though marc knows he's bleeding, that doesn't give him pause, not really. he presses into the kiss more deeply, a hand reaching out to rest in daphne's hair, to pull her closer.
( there's almost a smile at her first remark, wry and amused in spite of the way that she's still — on edge, if only slightly. the gracefulness, the ease with which she gathers herself is neither nothing new nor nothing unexpected. he imagines that she could be a wreck in every single other way, but she'd still have that. )
That's not what you said when we first met.
( he remarks, mildly and conversationally. it's not, strictly speaking, that he doesn't care what happens to MISCELLANEOUS, COMMON ASSHOLE, although it's not that he cares either. it's that he's not marc's concern, not really — someone will find him, someone will call an emergency service. the wait will be enough to teach him a lesson or two, and so will the bill.
he stands, then dusts in vain at his trousers, then straightens his tie and, finally— )Sure.
You were an idiot when we first met. You didn’t know who you were talking to.
[That said, Marc is an idiot a lot of the time. He just doesn’t have much in the way of impulse control.
She reaches for his hand, anyway, a human connection to keep her human, and the expectation that he’ll take her hand and hold it is there in the line of her spine.]
I'm always an idiot, ( he says, and it's the sort of agreement that manages to be not in the least bit offended, like it's something he's heard before. like it's something he's thought about disagreeing with but is ultimately aware that— no. he can't.
or: he could, but he'd be wrong. even he's not quite that deluded.
he's never been one to initiate physical contact, not really. it's not that he's opposed to it, not that it bothers him — the opposite, in fact — and so there's a fraction of a pause in between her reaching for his hand and him reciprocating.
it's gentle, soft, oddly intimate in ways that marc often isn't and there's a lingering pause when she speaks again, long before they reach his apartment: tell me you don't love me.
preposterous.
marc, often, is keen to present himself as someone both difficult to love and who finds love difficult, almost entirely because he, as a person, is lonely. not so much afraid of rejection as someone who expects it and so, for a moment that feels longer than it is, marc doesn't answer.
he's not stupid. there's a difference between loving someone and being in love, and he thinks she's chosen her words carefully. and so— )
[The sad and dismal truth is this: he is so easy to love. It’s difficult, in fact, not to love Marc, who hides every emotion he’s ever felt and it still appears right there on his face. It’s like he wears a transparent mask. Just looking at him inspires intimacy, she thinks.
He hides so well, and so badly. It’s apt he serves the moon.
Daphne does love him. She locked a part of herself away when she started shifting, when it became clear what the trajectory of her life would be, and she wants him to love her so badly that she can almost taste it, brittle like chalky candy.
So he can’t. She can’t let him.]
You can’t love me. You’re not allowed.
[She says it as though her permission is all she needs to explain. She reaches for his hand, and curls her fingers before they tangle against his, hesitant for a second-
( he almost laughs at that. it's an absurd statement, almost as absurd as when marc had said he doesn't do love. it'd been a lie — he'd known it, she'd known it, but it'd been easy enough to pretend that it wasn't, that it was as simple as that. it's not as if he hasn't had plenty of practise — not so much with marlene because he'd always been terrible at pretending he didn't care — but with jean-paul. their fallings out over the years had grown and grown until jean-paul had wanted nothing to do with marc, and marc's pride was enough that he couldn't, wouldn't find it in him to apologise for— everything.
jake had called marc's assertion that he never wanted to be loved something marc had come up with for the rubes, and daphne's none of that. marc has never been good at lying, not to anyone that isn't himself.
his gaze lingers on her as her hand slips into his, her touch not quite warm thanks to the weather, but soft. pleasant. appreciated.
he doesn't answer her, not straight away, attention shifting back to the streets, the buildings, the grim dampness. )
I used to have a driver, ( he remarks with all the lamentation of a man who'd quite enjoyed the convenience it'd afforded him and really, actually, quite misses it but is reluctant to admit as much.
(if he said it, it'd mean he'd to admit how much he missed everything else— the mansion, the company, the life he'd managed to completely burn to the ground.)
then, pointedly— ) That's not answering the question. ( a beat. ) Besides, permission's never stopped me before.
( not quite true, of course. marc straddles the line of being very, incredibly fucking terrible at doing what he's told (impulsiveness, erraticism—) with being exceptionally good at it — all in the name of bone-deep daddy issues and a desire to just make someone (DADDY) proud. )
You wouldn't have to manage anyone, ( he says, meeting her gaze. it's edging on grumpy, a hint of frustration and irritation, though it's not clear whether it's meant at that comment, or the rest of it.
(both—. samuels had always been steven's staff more than he'd ever been marc's, and along with nedda, the two of them had only been convinced to return to working for him by telling them they were working for steven, not marc.
but samuels had never questioned marc (or steven, or jake), had just done the job without stopping to ask what was actually going on with steven grant, what the strange tasks marc spector put him up to here and there.
and daphne can't think that a little bit of blood would ever be enough to make someone acquainted with him a risk.)
but, the question: does he want the answer.
marc is not naturally someone who asks questions. he's not someone who needs to know the whats and the whys of everything. he's used to being left in the dark, to knowing — at best — only what's necessary.
so, honestly? )
It doesn't matter. ( ultimately. ) No. Not even if it was a good idea.
( she says his name and he can't quite do anything other than look at her, at the lines of her face, her expression. tenterhooks is what it feels like, and instead of saying anything, he waits.
he's never been very good at giving anyone what they want, let alone what they need, and there's not a part of him that imagines he'll do any better by daphne.
still—.
the answer draws a huff of breath that's almost a laugh, short and sharp and curt. she's greedy—. )
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no subject
The fact that she was supposed to go back is probably why her profile could stay so low. There are a lot of shifters in New York - a lot being a bit of an exaggeration, but certainly more than in London. And while she was living out of a suitcase, she assumes they figured that she wasn't going to settle.
But now she has an apartment. She called Samesh, one of the other Khan in London, and told him that she was going to be in New York for a while. She assumes that he probably let Hakim know, probably during some stupid nosy invasion of privacy.
She didn't consider that Hakim might tell the Simba on this side of the pond. She didn't even consider that there would be old-world Simba in the New World, which would be stupid of her, because it's not like she's not a perfect exhibit of a post-globalized shifter society herself. But still.
She's working late, and she's getting ready to leave, the last one in her office, distracted, when she hears someone coming. She doesn't look up right away, but he doesn't smell familiar; there's a certain musk to his scent, but it smells more like cologne than anything. She doesn't catch the notes of shifter right away.]
My office is closed, unfortunately.
no subject
Fortunately, the local tribe building a corporate empire for themselves are a bit more open-minded than other tribes are known to be, and were willing to make a place for a young shifter with no noble heritage to speak of. Maybe they saw in Ghassan what they wanted to accomplish for themselves, because the growth of their net worth has been exponential - and that kind of thing draws attention.
It was London's suggestion to send them to her.
Ghassan has been warned that this Khan is difficult, in more ways than one, but he's not quite worried. Respectful courtesy is his go-to approach no matter who he's dealing with. If that doesn't work... well, he's developed other skills to make himself useful. ]
I'm sorry to disturb you. [ He remains in the doorway, both paused at the threshold of what is inextricably her territory, and blocking off the cleanest exit from it. ] Are you Daphne Morales-Kocchar?
no subject
I am.
[She takes a short moment to consider his stance, but decides he's not a danger, at least not like this.]
Who are you?
[She didn't repeat that her office was closed, which is always positive.]
no subject
My name is Ghassan Moradi.
[ His grip is firm, expecting hers to be as well. ]
I represent the Malhotra family here in New York City. Are you familiar?
no subject
I see Hakim Zuberi called.
[Fucking Hakim. She doesn't bristle, not right away, at the sudden invasion of her space, because she has manners and she's not afraid of whoever this man is, no matter what. She shakes his hand, firm grip indeed. And nods. Her face is cautiously neutral.]
I know of the Malhotras. I've never had the pleasure of meeting any of them, but that's not a surprise, either.
What can I do for you, Ghassan?
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[ He doesn't know much about Hakim Zuberi, personally, but the name comes up often, usually in the context of whether he's entirely trustworthy or not. The impression Ghassan is under is that he's not, even if he is kin of a sort to the Malhotras. One can never be too careful.
The same goes for the woman standing in front of him now, already guarded. ]
If you had requested an audience, I can't imagine you would have been turned away. My employers are very curious about you.
[ He gestures to the chairs. ]
Will you tell me about your business?
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[There is a soft pause, and she breathes out.]
I anticipated going back to London. I didn’t think it would be worth making a fuss for only a few weeks time, but-
[She dips her head a little. There is no shame in admitting a change of plans, or that she should have done this days ago, at the least, if not weeks. So.
She nods to her sofa, and sits there. If she has to do this, she may as well be comfortable.]
I negotiate arms contracts; I suppose my day job means I work for humans, but they give me my independence and so I don’t mind. I’m guessing you’re not asking about my day job.
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The way she moves is much the same, but even more effortless. Ghassan has heard other rumors about her; so far, the story is holding up. ]
I'm sure you know that the Malhotras have acquired a substantial stake in manufacturing over the last twenty years. They have been very blessed, and as such you can imagine they are keen to take steps to preserve the legacy they have built for the pride.
[ He smiles at her politely, but he hasn't looked away from her yet. Or blinked. ]
It is their belief that you might be a valuable asset in those efforts.
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[She says it as she cocks her head, and keeps her eye on him. She leans forward a little, but not quite into his space. There's a smile in her eyes, now, pleased.]
Pretty thing, why have I never heard about you?
[If she's anything, she's a flirt, but she uses it to unsettle people a little, to knock them off their guard. He's not blinking; he needs to ease up.]
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Maybe you're a little behind on your homework.
[ But it does make him relax when he leans back again, draping one elbow across the back of his chair with the fingers laced. ]
And you should think of it more as working with lions. My employers don't presume they'll be yours. You'd be partners. That makes all the difference, doesn't it?
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[She considers him for a moment, and rubs her thumb against her mouth like she's thinking.]
I think right now I'm more interested in you than in business proposals. Are you going to make me call someone local to tell me all about you or will you share without me having to fuss?
[Her smile, now, shows a secret dimple on one cheek. She's curious, and it's clear.]
Better from the cat's mouth.
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Well, I am here for a business proposal, Ms. Morales-Kocchar.
[ What good would he be if he allowed his assignment to be completely disregarded, after all? ]
But I'll admit I'm getting hungry. Have you been in the city long enough to choose a favorite restaurant? If not, I could introduce you to one of mine.
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[That dimple deepens a moment, and she stands up to get her coat, moving across the room quickly.]
Take me to your favorite place, then. I'm willing to let you pick, this time.
But you have to promise that for every time you bring up business, I get to ask you a question and you have to tell me the truth.
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[ He grins at her as he rises, fixing his coat over his chest. It seems like a fair enough trade, as long as she's willing to draw the line in the right places. The rumors about her, mostly passed from Hakim's pride in London, are enough to keep him from trusting her too much, but he'd rather risk a little, give her the chance to show her own stripes.
In a manner of speaking. ]
I hope you like Mediterranean, Daphne.
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[She says it ass she comes in closer and loops one arm around his, without asking, but loosely enough that if he moves away it won't be difficult for him.
She doesn't know anything about him, but he knows a great deal about her. If Hakim told him anything, it was of her obstinance, of her refusal to let him near her, of her growl when he entered her territory. Of exchanging her business in London from Hakim's Pride to dealing with other shifters when he pressed her, of refusing his family passage through her territory if they fussed.
But Hakim is a hothead at the best of times and maybe this handsome young man knows it.]
I like it very much. Not just to eat.
[There's that dimple again, that flirt.]
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[ He folds his hand over hers on his arm, respectfully, other than giving her fingers a little squeeze. ]
I hope I don't need to play truth or dare to find out what else you like.
[ Unreliable sources notwithstanding, Ghassan simply wouldn't be where he is now if he wasn't able to guard even the most mundane information as closely as necessary. But so far, Daphne seems rather charming. At the very least, it should be a nice meal. ]
I also hope you don't mind walking. It's not too far, and the weather's beautiful.
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I don't mind.
[The weather is beautiful, and they are a handsome pair; they turn heads as they go. Daphne clearly likes that kind of attention, preening a bit at the pleasure of it.
She keeps her hand on his arm like it belongs there, like he belongs to her, when they both know that's not true.]
Is it too bold if I skip the pleasantries? Why them, why here, all that? I get the feeling it's all stories I've heard before. There are more interesting things to know.
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Even side by side on the street, the two of them move through the crowd like water around rocks, just a little more graceful, a little more agile than everyone else. ]
Oh, by all means. If you'd rather not pretend we don't know what's at stake here, I certainly won't protest. Is there something in particular on your mind?
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I think what's at stake is worse for you than for me.
[She is incredibly aware of the power dynamics at play. She's alone, it's true, and they're a pride, that's also true, but the larger global implications-
-she looks at this beautiful young man, and it strikes her that she doesn't care, not really, and maybe that's why they sent him.]
Your favorite way to spend an afternoon.
[No, really.
That's what she's asking.]
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Ah - well, I have my own question first.
[ He doesn't stop walking, but he does look at her with amusement; he's definitely going to answer her, it's just a question of specifics. ]
Favorite way in the city, or favorite way... at all?
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Her lips quirk a bit in response.]
At all.
And then in the city.
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[ He turns his grin away, but it doesn't disappear. ]
My favorite way to spend an afternoon is stretched out on a beach, my belly in the sun, holding a very strong alcoholic drink mixed into the shell of a coconut.
[ As nicely as he cleans up, he's still an outdoor cat at heart, a proud sun-soaker. ]
And if I have someone beautiful beside me, so much the better.
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Did someone tell you to say that to me?
[She loves the beach, the water, sunshine, stretching out and getting a hefty afternoon in the languid heat.]
It’s especially good when you’re with someone who can’t stop looking at you because all they can think about is how good all that exposed skin looks.
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Oh, you are a woman after my own heart, then.
[ It surprises him a little, in fact. He expected her to be haughtier, though that was little more than an assumption about the Khan than anything else. So far, Daphne has been a thoroughly pleasant surprise on multiple counts. More all the time. ]
Here in the city, I might say a long lunch with coffee, where I can read or enjoy the view for a bit. Followed by admiring how good all that exposed skin looks. [ This time his grin is more of a smirk, but it smooths quickly. ] What about you?
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[That dimple, the secret one, pops up in her cheek.]
Honestly?
[She hums, and brings up a thumb to her bottom lip, rubs it there a moment. She's deciding if she should tell him or be coy about it, but either way he's getting a taste of the truth.]
I think it might scandalize you.
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Daphne is, at best, not in a good mood, and when that happens she goes purposely out to pick a fight. Tonight she’s found someone who decided to follow a beautiful woman into a dark alley and found a monster in there instead, and the screams are probably what draw attention.
The truth is that by the time Marc gets there, the man isn’t dead. He’s two hundred pounds of muscle and Daphne is a slip in comparison, straddling his stomach, blood on her mouth, fury in her eyes.
She’s growling.]
What are you doing here?
[The man is wheezing for help.]
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that's the thought that sits at the edge of awareness as he takes in the sight of daphne and the man. blood and piss and trash and damp mixing together to form a not-all-that-unique but distinctly unpleasant smell. it's grim, but—
well, what the man had wanted to do (tried to do?) would have been uglier, he thinks.
it's the sort of attempt at crime that, once upon a time, marc would have killed him for. another time, he'd have left the man a calling card, a little memento, a gift to remember him by and the price of his actions — a moon carved into skin for a reminder every time he looked in the mirror. if he didn't learn, there'd have been another and another, until—.
(not learning wasn't an option.)
it's easy to ignore the wheezing gasps, the struggles for breaths and the attempt at words in between. it's less easy to ignore the sight of daphne, mouth messy and red. her question isn't ignored although he puts off answering it in favour of stepping towards her, towards the useless sack of shit she's straddling.
the growling's a warning, but he's never been very good at heeding those and idly, as he crouches down to meet daphne's gaze (angry, he's not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing—), he wonders what impression she has of what he does and who he is to be asking that question.
(he thinks she knows enough to know that his reaction, at least, is tempered by the knowledge that the only blood here is the man's. none of it's hers, and she's—
to describe the situation as 'under control' wouldn't be quite right, but she has control. )
What do you think? ( he asks, and then his gaze drops to study the man's face. upside down or not, he'll remember it — the lines, the greasy skin, the shape of the eyebrows and the curve of the nose. the fear and the desperation, an ugly mirror of everything he'd wanted to see in daphne.
he pauses long enough to reach into a pocket, to bring out an unused handkerchief, stark white as ever, to hold out to daphne. )
You shouldn't be doing this.
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She isn’t going to eat this man. She doesn’t do that, not just because it shakes her a bit, but for other reasons. Still the instinct is there.
Her shoulders hunch, and the bitter fury is obvious in every line of her, even as she presses one clawed hand against the man’s chest and holds him down. The other reaches for Marc’s offered handkerchief.
She’s dangling right over the line of a rage and she knows it.
Her eyes narrow, though.]
No?
What should I be doing? Screaming my lungs out in hopes someone hears me, and letting this piece of trash get turned on by it?
[There is a wheeze; the man hisses no, no, I wasn’t-
Daphne’s fingers curve into his chest.]
I don’t want to hear your fucking lies, the grown ups are talking.
[She turns back to Marc, and her eyes have a flat, predatory light in them.]
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No, ( heavy and pointed, uttered at more or the less the same time as daphne presses her fingers-no-claws into the man's chest. he thinks, abruptly, of the time when he'd offered a woman the chance at her own retribution before marc took his shot and she'd declined. (more for him, he'd said—.) he thinks of reese and her question — "why, because it'd make me as bad as him?" — and he thinks of his answer (because it'd make you as bad as me).
he reaches out with his hand, fingers curling around daphne's, the fingers pressed into the man's chest. he's aware there are two ways this could go and that his safety isn't guaranteed in either of them. where daphne responds to sack-of-shit (sos), marc's attention is focused on her. ) You've given him an experience to remember. What happens to him now isn't something you have to live with.
( he leans forward and down, gaze dropping for a second time so that he can watch the shifts, subtle and overt, in the man's face. a slight tilt to one side, considering. ) He does, though. ( back to daphne. ) What do you want him to remember this night by? ( what do you want done, he means. )
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[The question comes out whip fast, practically cracking as she says it.
This isn’t normal; this isn’t it. The day had been filled with bitter little disappointments and critical messes, with small furious tragedies that built into this.
Her claws move out of the man’s chest, though.]
If he did it, if I were drunk or high or human, you would kill him. I know you would. If not for the fucking moon, then for me, wouldn’t you?
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he presses his lips together, the curve tight and sharp, and his head swings from the one side to the other as she puts her second question to him. as daphne's claws loosen, marc's grip does too, shifting instead to press down on his chest. a firm, immediate action, punctuated by a sharp glance down at an exhale that sounds a little too close to relief escapes the man's lips. shh, he says, cold and dispassionate, before answering daphne. )
No, ( he answers, and the breath between words is filled by marc holding up his other hand, a loose fist but for his index finger held up. wait, let him finish. ) He doesn't need to have done it. He knows what he was going to do, and you don't need to be human or drunk or high, or anything other than you.
—I would. ( and it'd have nothing to do with khonshu, not a fucking thing. ) Or anything else.
Dying hurts, but it's not very interesting.
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She presses her face into it.]
You want me to let him go.
[She says it and it sounds like a small accusation. But she tips some of her weight towards him.]
So you can call the ambulance and he can live knowing that any woman could do the same to him.
[Its not that the plan is bad.]
You just found me?
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no, that's not quite it.
he looks surprised as she states what she thinks he's trying to say, eyebrows arching in puzzlement. yes he wants her to let him go, but not for the reasons she thinks. marc has no interest in calling an ambulance, has no interest in seeking out medical air for the man. he knows there's a chance that, if he survives, he'd live in fear that he'd encounter another daphne, but there's a chance too that it'd just leave him angry and afraid, and the two together make ugly bedfellows. )
I want you to tell me what you want done. And then you get to not have that on your conscience.
( but as for the question—. his lips quirk. it's unintentional, the barest hint of not-entirely-appropriate amusement. )
By luck, yeah. I don't have a moon tracker or moon alarm, if that's what you're asking.
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Do you think, of all things, I need protection from guilt?
[She moves like a cat more than a woman, right now..]
Don’t patronize me, Mr. Knight.
[At least she seems to have forgotten the wounded man, who is trying to figure out if his legs work.]
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and in truth, he doesn't have an answer for her. do you think. that's the thing: he doesn't, not really, not in the way she's referring to. it's about his own relationship with guilt, how he'd relate to whatever she chose to do. a twist of his lips, then, and he's silent. reluctant admission— )
No.
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What do you want to do?
[She tilts her head and the humanity is draining from her eyes with every second.]
What would you do to a man who managed to hurt me, Marc?
[This is turning somewhere else, now, but at least she's using his name.]
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marc's attention is fully on daphne, and it doesn't quite occur to him that she might not be daphne for much longer, although he's never quite been clear how it works. it was different for her, for him, for anyone else he knew that might vaguely align in terms of abilities.
the first question — that doesn't really matter.
the second question — ) I'd kill him. ( bluntly, to the point. the unsaid half of that is that it'd depend, entirely and wholly, on what daphne would want. if she said no, then he wouldn't — he's very good, after all, at doing as he's told. )
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Even though she knows it doesn't take much to make Marc kill in the first place.
Still.
She kisses him and a tooth bites at his lip, and she knows he's bleeding, and she doesn't fucking care.]
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she kisses him and bites him all at the same time and though marc knows he's bleeding, that doesn't give him pause, not really. he presses into the kiss more deeply, a hand reaching out to rest in daphne's hair, to pull her closer.
(marc bleeds, that's what he does.) )
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You know just how to flatter a girl.
[She unfolds, gracefully.]
Your place is closer.
[Shes absolutely going to leave the guy bleeding there. If he dies, he dies.]
I’ll tell you what happened.
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That's not what you said when we first met.
( he remarks, mildly and conversationally. it's not, strictly speaking, that he doesn't care what happens to MISCELLANEOUS, COMMON ASSHOLE, although it's not that he cares either. it's that he's not marc's concern, not really — someone will find him, someone will call an emergency service. the wait will be enough to teach him a lesson or two, and so will the bill.
he stands, then dusts in vain at his trousers, then straightens his tie and, finally— ) Sure.
( to both, he means. )
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[That said, Marc is an idiot a lot of the time. He just doesn’t have much in the way of impulse control.
She reaches for his hand, anyway, a human connection to keep her human, and the expectation that he’ll take her hand and hold it is there in the line of her spine.]
Sweetheart.
[She says it softly.]
Tell me you don’t love me.
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or: he could, but he'd be wrong.
even he's not quite that deluded.
he's never been one to initiate physical contact, not really. it's not that he's opposed to it, not that it bothers him — the opposite, in fact — and so there's a fraction of a pause in between her reaching for his hand and him reciprocating.
it's gentle, soft, oddly intimate in ways that marc often isn't and there's a lingering pause when she speaks again, long before they reach his apartment: tell me you don't love me.
preposterous.
marc, often, is keen to present himself as someone both difficult to love and who finds love difficult, almost entirely because he, as a person, is lonely. not so much afraid of rejection as someone who expects it and so, for a moment that feels longer than it is, marc doesn't answer.
he's not stupid. there's a difference between loving someone and being in love, and he thinks she's chosen her words carefully. and so— )
No. ( blunt, not unkind. ) Is that what you want?
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He hides so well, and so badly. It’s apt he serves the moon.
Daphne does love him. She locked a part of herself away when she started shifting, when it became clear what the trajectory of her life would be, and she wants him to love her so badly that she can almost taste it, brittle like chalky candy.
So he can’t. She can’t let him.]
You can’t love me. You’re not allowed.
[She says it as though her permission is all she needs to explain. She reaches for his hand, and curls her fingers before they tangle against his, hesitant for a second-
-and then she grips his hand.]
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jake had called marc's assertion that he never wanted to be loved something marc had come up with for the rubes, and daphne's none of that. marc has never been good at lying, not to anyone that isn't himself.
his gaze lingers on her as her hand slips into his, her touch not quite warm thanks to the weather, but soft. pleasant. appreciated.
he doesn't answer her, not straight away, attention shifting back to the streets, the buildings, the grim dampness. )
I used to have a driver, ( he remarks with all the lamentation of a man who'd quite enjoyed the convenience it'd afforded him and really, actually, quite misses it but is reluctant to admit as much.
(if he said it, it'd mean he'd to admit how much he missed everything else— the mansion, the company, the life he'd managed to completely burn to the ground.)
then, pointedly— ) That's not answering the question. ( a beat. ) Besides, permission's never stopped me before.
( not quite true, of course. marc straddles the line of being very, incredibly fucking terrible at doing what he's told (impulsiveness, erraticism—) with being exceptionally good at it — all in the name of bone-deep daddy issues and a desire to just make someone (DADDY) proud. )
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Having a driver is just one more person I would have to manage. I’m not doing that.
[Her hand tightens in his and she makes this very tiny noise, right in the back of her throat. She stays there a moment, and comes in closer.]
Marc.
Do you really want the answer?
[She doesn’t know if it would make any kind of difference. She doesn’t know if she could manage it if it did.]
Would you run from me?
[Shes covered in blood but they both know that would never make a difference.]
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(both—.
samuels had always been steven's staff more than he'd ever been marc's, and along with nedda, the two of them had only been convinced to return to working for him by telling them they were working for steven, not marc.
but samuels had never questioned marc (or steven, or jake), had just done the job without stopping to ask what was actually going on with steven grant, what the strange tasks marc spector put him up to here and there.
and daphne can't think that a little bit of blood would ever be enough to make someone acquainted with him a risk.)
but, the question: does he want the answer.
marc is not naturally someone who asks questions. he's not someone who needs to know the whats and the whys of everything. he's used to being left in the dark, to knowing — at best — only what's necessary.
so, honestly? )
It doesn't matter. ( ultimately. ) No. Not even if it was a good idea.
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Marc.
[She says his name like she’s breathing a prayer. Suddenly the soft part of her underbelly is right there, in the way she’s looking at him.]
What I want.
[She breathes out.]
I’m a cat. I’m greedy.
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he's never been very good at giving anyone what they want, let alone what they need, and there's not a part of him that imagines he'll do any better by daphne.
still—.
the answer draws a huff of breath that's almost a laugh, short and sharp and curt. she's greedy—. )
You think that's enough to make me run away?