“Mm,” Marcus says and — gives up. “Yeah, okay. Sod this.” He gives into that urge to swallow down all the scotch left in his glass and does just that, not wincing this time. His hackles are too far up for him to enjoy the burn or really feel the warmth of it. He pushes off from the desk to stride off, back turned to Bruce: “Thanks for the offer of, uh, collaboration. Maybe some day. And cheers for —” He holds the glass aloft, taps his fingernail on it: fine crystal, it rings out bright. He puts it down on the arm of the chaise longue instead of exerting himself to reach the end table a mere step away from it. “This. It’s nice stuff.”