It was the insult that did it, really. Bad enough that she'd dragged him back to a den of blondes, leveling little except for threats, but this attitude after he'd attempted civility was a bridge too far. That, and the fact that she was tossing threats again. She'd gotten the drop on him in the truck, and he'd respected that, respected her gun and let her have control of the situation without so much as a fight. He hadn't wanted a fight. Surviving alone was not only hard as shit, but it was dull on top of it. Even bitchy company was still company, and even if she hadn't kept her gun aimed at his skull, Marcus would have been inclined to hear her out. Maybe he'd have given her his pitch, which he was rather good at by now. But she apparently still had shit to prove, throwing around her fucking attitude.
He had no idea if the man she spoke to agreed with her, and at that point, Marcus didn't really care. His eyes had narrowed to slits and his color started to rise at pendejo, so whatever she said to her partner or brother or boyfriend or whatever after that was mostly lost. He caught idiot, clear as day, as well as shoot him and take... which was all he needed.
“Carajo! Fucking puta!” He spat, and made a lunging move towards her. The bag was precious, but it was also heavy. Marcus might not be able to bludgeon her to death before getting shot down, but he was fairly certain he could fuck up her face one way or another. In the truck, he had been docile. Largely because he didn't want to die, but also because he wasn't desperate. Her threats had been seen as self-defense. Not to be taken lightly, but not unexpected. Here, on her turf with her people, he was backed into a corner. There was really no choice but to lash out and try to drag the bitch down with him.
Seeing red, he almost tries to go through the man who gets in front of him, but the hand stopped him effectively enough. It wan't a love-tap, and while it didn't knock him does, it does get his attention – in part because it wasn't meant to. “Fuera el medio!” He started to yell, but the rational-sounding Hey halts his tirade. Lifting his eyes from the hand between them to meet the stranger's gaze, Marcus listens. He still looks crazed, panting, furious... every firing synapse telling him to just fuck it and have done with the bitch. But the man between them was treating the situation like it was a bar dispute threatening to get out of hand, which triggered a gut-wrenching sense of familiarity. Almost nostalgia. Tinged with just a hint of shame.
Maybe he wasn't backed into a corner. It might not be fight or flight. Was... he just losing his fucking temper and getting called on it? That was a confusing development. He hadn't seen a drink in weeks, but it wouldn't be the first time he'd been exactly that stupid.
Marcus doesn't want to risk looking at her again, so he doesn't. A smug look or nasty smirk would be enough to set him off. So when the man turns to look over his shoulder, Marcus keeps his own gaze steady into the middle distance. Taking a beat to reassess the situation and catch his breath until he was spoken to again. Don't let the bitch be right. Don't be a fucking idiot.
“Wasn't granola,” he replied, feeling dazed. Like this might all be some fucked up dream with fucked up dream rules. Getting eaten by cannibal blonds was starting to seem as likely as getting invited to an orgy, though, so he was feeling calmer. “Fruit bar. Dunno about here, hombre, but fruit was the first fucking thing we ran out of.” In hindsight, it did seem ridiculous, but he couldn't quite manage to laugh over it. Not yet. He shrugged. "Found the truck, found the food, took a fucking break."