sunset along the clouds
She likes the way Marc frowns.
Layla knows it sounds bad as soon as she thinks about it, but Marc tends to frown when he studies things or is stuck in a thought. As of right now, he's staring outside the window of the bus, glaring at a speck on the glass with such intensity.
"What are you thinking about?" Layla asks.
Her voice brings her out of the trance, blinking as he looks at her. "Sorry, was…thinking. Talking."
"With Steven?"
Marc nods. "Yeah, he's trying to…help."
"Help?"
Marc goes quiet, staring down at the ground now. She wishes she could tell him how gorgeous he is when his jaw is clenched, how he looks beautiful even when he's serious, but she knows he'll just shrug it off. His confidence in himself is lower than the ground, and Layla hopes that maybe that's what Steven was talking to him about.
They get off the bus, and he's still deep in thought, absently following Layla just a half step behind. "Hey," Layla says softly.
"Mm?" Marc grunts.
"What's going on?"
"It's…nothing."
She knows Marc hides things, it's his trauma reaction. It's partly why Steven exists, so he can be honest without Marc himself being hurt. Despite knowing that, it still stings that Marc hides from her like the sun hiding from the clouds, so afraid of hurting her directly that he shields her.
They keep walking towards the bistro she wants to show him, but food is far from either of their minds.
He asks for them to be seated outside on the patio, secluded away from the other diners. Layla doesn't question it; maybe it's for security reasons, paranoia playing with Marc like a spider wrapping up its meal. He waits until the waiter delivers their water to say something. "He's been trying to get me to apologize."
Layla puts her cup down, forgoing her drink of water to ask, "Apologize?"
"Well, it's not that I don't want to, I do," He babbles out. "I really do, but I've spent years alone not knowing how to, and Steven is trying to help but I just…"
Marc takes a shuddering breath, needing to pause, and Layla reaches across the table to squeeze. "Hey. It's okay. I'm safe. I promise. You can say whatever you need to, I won't be upset." Layla brushes her thumb over his, and Marc looks up, eyes frenzied with panic. "I'm not going to leave."
"You're not going to leave because Steven's here," Marc mutters, another defense mechanism to shield himself.
"I'm not going to leave because you're my husband, and I love you," Layla affirms with a stern voice.
Marc looks away in shame. "I'm sorry. For everything. For your father, for…not being honest about it, about us, for leaving you with not even a word, for…not being the person you deserve, for not loving you the way you deserve."
She can see the tears brimming in his eyes; they mirror her own. It's everything she's needed to hear, but she's realizing in the moment that she doesn't want to hear it; not if it's causing him this much pain. She closes her eyes, sighing as she feels something fall off her shoulders. She's clung to this anger for so long, but knowing how much it's burdened him, knowing and hearing the apology so sincere, she knows she has no use for it. She hasn't for a long time. Tears drip down her cheeks, and she looks to see them slowly tracing their way down Marc's as well. She reaches across, wiping them away. "Hey."
Marc turns away from her hand. "Layla, it's okay. I can try to shove myself down, just let you two be-"
She firmly grips his chin, turning his head back towards her. "Hey!"
Marc swallows, waiting for her to say something.
"You are my husband, Marc Spector. I married you for you. I know you have your problems, I know you do things and say things to protect yourself. And that's okay. I'm going to learn how to wait for you, because that's what you need." She brushes his cheek with her thumb. "You don't have to say you love me, I can hear it in every word you say."
He closes his eyes again, a sad smile on his face, and she resists the urge to tell him how beautiful he is again. "I don't deserve you."
"I will decide that for myself," She corrects.
He blinks, and she sees the steely coldness of Marc melt into the warm comfort of Steven. "For the record," Steven says with chipperness. "I told him to say that he wanted to make it up to you and that he was sorry. I never told him to leave."
Layla smiles. "I know, Steven. It's okay. We can work on getting him to open up together. I appreciate the help."
"Yeah, 'course."
Marc rolls his neck. "Traitors, both of you."
Layla snorts, tapping his nose. "You're just upset that people care about you." He scoffs, going over the menu finally. "Marc, can I ask you something?"
He looks back up at her, fear glinting in his eyes. "Yeah?"
"Would you be willing to stay my husband?"
Marc slowly smiles, reaching to squeeze her left hand. "If you'll have me."
And now she realizes the truth.
She likes when Marc smiles more than when he frowns; while Steven's is bright and beaming, Marc's is subtle and safe. The difference is between hot cocoa in the winter and the warm sands between her toes; both comfort her, but in different ways.
Marc is her evening, the beauty of the sun painting the sky purple and orange trapped in his vulnerable face.