come_sailaway | sunshine, you're the best time i ever, ever had

Entry tags:

sunshine, you're the best time i ever, ever had

Who: Marc Spector and you
When: Early June
Where: Various locations
Summary: Just trying to get his sea legs, so to speak.
Warnings: Some cursing, some references to substance abuse. Nothing major. Will update later if needed!

I. a little shopping trip

It's the restless urge to be up and doing something that has him browsing through the shop, maybe grabbing a chocolate bar, browsing through the paperbacks. He's not really one to read all that often, but-- there's Steven and maybe he's trying to decide on a book or two to bring back to their cabin and leave inconspicuously on the bed so he can begin hoarding up a new room. It won't be French poetry or books on the Gods, but... honestly. Screw the gods. He'd rather read some trash paperback about some bosomy chick and her dangerous ex-soldier solving some mystery and falling for each other or whatever any day.

When he's not staring down whatever trash novels are in this place, he's plucking up a few extra toiletries on the way out, maybe a few pain meds for any unfortunate hangovers he might acquire along the way.

He might turn a curious eye to anyone who's in there with him and ask, "Does anyone actually see how this stuff's restocked?"

Or who keeps this shit clean and dust free or whatever. Yeah, yeah, ghosts or whatever. But there's got to be more behind it, right?

II. let's hit the sauna

Self-care might come in the form of alcohol and other substances for Marc, maybe the odd brawl here or there, but here he is, trying a little bit of a healthier way at the spa. It's a good thing there aren't any massages -- he'd not be interested in them anyway. But the sauna? Oh, yeah. He can get behind that.

Really get behind it. Marc finds a time when it seems to be empty enough that he can stretch out with his towel spread out over his lap, eyes shut. Fake some of that peace and quiet he's never truly known in his head, maybe.

It's when someone comes in that he seems to go back to alert, sitting up a bit straighter and clearing his throat. "Oh-- uh. Sorry."

He'll even scoot over to give plenty of space to whoever decides to join him.

III. big pills, little pills

Somehow, Marc ends up int he infirmary. Well, not just... by chance. He's curious, just in case he ever needs to perform surprise minor surgery on himself or needs a hit of something stronger when the alcohol isn't enough to knock him out or bury the bad memories.

That doesn't mean he doesn't scowl a bit at some of the-- medieval torture devices, er, medical supplies. "What the fuck is this thing?"

Do they... do they do lobotomies around here still? Bleed people with fucking leeches, what?

But once he finds the pills, he seems to perk up a little bit. "Hey, they got some of the good stuff..."

Guess who's gonna be sleeping a little easier tonight?

IV. tauva

Maybe this isn't his type of joint, generally, but he's finding himself enjoying the atmosphere... and the whiskey doesn't hurt it either. Better than the place that keeps playing Billy Joel too, in his opinion. He might be huffing out a quiet laugh when he picks up a bottle with yet another weird date he's pretty sure is a lie. Whatever. It could have been back from the beginning of time and he's not gonna be choosy.

"Hey," he'll start if he notices someone close enough with an empty glass. "You want a refill?"

Never let it be said he can't be nice on occasion.

V. wildcard

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"Mmmm... Marc..." Steven had had trouble sleeping the first night without his ankle restraint, and with Marc having nightmares. But between what had happened prior to getting on the boat and everything that they've done together since, he couldn't really stay up much longer than he already had. By the time Steven stirs, it's the middle of the day, curtains still drawn, and they're spooning in bed as though they're on their honeymoon voyage to the afterlife.

"Stop it..." Steven giggles still half-asleep with his eyes closed. "That's so naughty...!" He squirms and tries to tug the hem of his shirt down, dragging his arm back and trying not to elbow Marc in the chest or in the face.

"Marc!" He'd passed out from all that drink, he must have forgotten about his stowaway crocodile goddess statuette that's now wedged up against Steven's butt after tumbling out of his pocket.

As it happened, there was a bosomy chick standing next to him, also browsing the books. She glanced up at his question, offering a little half-smile. "Best answer I have is...magic." She held out jazz hands, fluttering them a la Bob Fosse.

Unfortunately, that was kind of the answer for everything around here. And she didn't like it.

Oh, Diana believed in magic. She even believed that magic could be good and wonderful and a source for hope in the world.

Whatever this is...it was something less than beautiful.

Diana shifted her weight, regarding the stranger with some curiosity. She hadn't seen him before. But then again, given her limitations, that wasn't a surprise. Anyway, there were always new people just popping up. "Just arrived?" she asked, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

Let's just say that César's experiments have inspired Rich a little bit. Not to the point that he's going to start dragging extra furniture around, but he sees the appeal of stocking up on things he really needs just in case something ends up not being available later, or he just gets exhausted again and can't leave his room for a few days.

And besides, he should probably replace all the food that he stole from his roommate's fridge. So after a shopping spree at the bric-a-brac and sundries stores, he pops his head in here. He should make sure to stock up on burn cream and his meds at least. He's studying the medical bracelet as he wanders into the infirmary to make sure he remembers the drug names when he hears the guy in the room already.

"Hey, uh... I'm not gonna be a narc, but I'm pretty sure there's sleeping pills over in that cupboard. We don't gotta use shit that's for, you know, actual injuries."

"Oh sure," says the teenage psychopomp, squinting at the ingredients list of a herbal sleep remedy, "it's ghosts. It's all ghosts. Everything that happens on this ship is ghosts, including the restocking."

If he didn't know by now, there was no point in trying to break it gently.

"Except, you know, us."

Says the ghost girl.

"It just reappears," Sarge answers with a little shrug. "Like food floating out of walls. Or the televisions reappearing in your room even if you smash them to hell."

Marc... might recognize him, if he paid any attention to the news back in 2014, when SHIELD fell. That was a long time ago, but the metal hand sticking out of his left sleeves (Sarge tends to wear multiple layers, and today is no exception, despite the warm weather) might jog the memory.

After having more modern customs explained, Kore had 'purchased' a bikini with a simple top ('bandeau' the label said) and a bottom that tied on in a deep, rich blue. It was made in a familiar style and a color she loved. She'd taken to wearing it inside to see if anyone was inside. As there was this time. The towel made her curious - someone else who understood what baths were truly for?

"You needn't apologize. Am I disturbing you?"

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I do what I want

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