[center][img=http://fontmeme.com/newcreate.php?text=Marlowe%20Hanse%20Faraday&name=FREEBSC_.ttf&size=40&style_color=00C4FF][/center] --- Coffee. Coffee sounded awfully good. But so did alcohol, and that was currently what was available. Now, Marlowe wasn't quite an avid drinker and didn't regularly imbibe; however, today was a much different story. No matter how much he truly wanted, he couldn't stop and that may have been partially because he didn't want to. The sting of the liquid and the heat that welled up in the pit of his stomach was a enough to draw his attention away from his thoughts. But, there was a slight glint in his eyes and a way that he bent forward with a reddish tint to his cheeks, not associated with a drunken stupor. He'd only had about four shots and that wasn't quite enough to tip him over. The furrow in his brow, accompanied by the disregard to comments thrown at him, said otherwise. Pushing the heel of his hand into his eye, Marlowe stood from his perch to survey his surroundings. Seemed like Daisy left the moment Art and Freddie arrived: a cue for him to leave. He didn't quite feel like reducing his reputation as a drunkard teacher. The students wouldn't suffer his incessant rambling; Marlowe was anything but a happy drunk. Every time he'd drink with a problem on his mind, talking about it would somehow become the most important thing in the world. Ryan put up with it because the man actually enjoyed consoling him—masochistic asshole. Or maybe he enjoyed watching him suffer. Marlowe shook his head, running a hand through his hair. His hand dragged across his face, rubbing the redness from his cheek and attempting to wipe away the alcohol from his breath. With his back to a wall, he rested his hand on one of the numerous tables that spotted the hallway—aesthetics. He was currently contemplating whether or not he should stay, seeing as he hadn't ever lived in the X-Mansion when he taught. The thought of going back there, laying his head on a pillow that smelled vaguely familiar was a conflicting mix of yearning and grief. To think he should be equipped to handle that was astonishing. It made for a sudden turn back toward the kitchen, ignoring what was currently going on there to poor him one last shot of whiskey before he stumbled out—not on the account of being drunk, but because he literally rushed his exit so much that his foot caught on itself. Finding his way to one of the living rooms, Marlowe sat himself on one of the plush couches, assorted in a boxed area around a mahogany coffee table. He chose the one directly facing the TV, turning to lay himself down along the stretch of the couch. It was large enough to seat two people, which meant his feet and part of his leg hung over the edge to better accommodate his height. With both hands slowly dragging the length of his face, Marlowe let out a large sigh that faded into a low growl before he settled in and let his body sink into the cushions. He was content to simply stare at the ceiling for the rest of the day, if only to let the light buzz fade away. The stagnant, suddenly sedentary position did more than enough to let his mind wander. It went off to happier memories, though remembering smiling faces and shining eyes, features stretched in joy, did the opposite of what good moments should. It was frustrating and tiresome, to the point where Marlowe shot up, rubbing his eyes fiercely with balled up hands. Sliding across to rest along the arm of the sofa, he simply stared at his feet, clenching his eyes shut the moment the dull shine began to irritate him. He contemplated getting up, finding someone to talk to or just—he didn't know. Just thinking, even during the slight haze of mild inebriation, was a troublesome task. Marlowe during a struggle was a ball of frustration who hadn't any idea whether to wander aimlessly, talk to people, or just sit and let it eat him alive. With a mind like his, the best course of action it determined was to do all of the above. It was a great way to exhaust oneself, but it was also a great way to stay exhausted, as it often ate up time more than anything. And Marlowe was in this state of panic all due to a phone call and one too many whiskey shots. He find himself settling into the wall nearest a window, the curtains perched on a hook where he leaned his head against. The soft, pale fabric wasn't acknowledged by the being that slide his way onto the bay windowsill, a cushion settled into the nook with pillows adorning the windows. This was far less comfortable than a couch, but the sunlight did a lot more for his state of sanity than the dimmed area he'd previously crashed on. This was among various ways he spent his day, usually one of the worst that often happened once a week. He'd not take it out on his students, but he did seem a lot more distant than usual. Marlowe was a social body, but was content to spend these days alone and hopefully secluded. With so many inhabitants that was a tad difficult, but he managed without having to spill the beans completely. No one pried more than necessary and he'd be too stubborn to tell them the full truth.It was a good thing people got the hint when he simply uttered a, "Just a bad day," accompanied with a faint smile that quickly faded with the turn of his head. Stark blue eyes, radiant in the light, never looked duller, substituting the color with a stand-offish gray.