"Nice," Marcus says, incredulous: no, it's not nice, he's got Midnighter's blood staining his shirt, but — Midnighter's reaching for him, and so he catches his hand, leans his cheek into his palm. He knows what Midnighter means, even if his way of saying it throws him. So he softens and sighs.

"I dunno how you did this stuff alone," he mutters. Then he thinks about it: smaller scale, but he's being a hypocrite. He grimaces. "No, actually. Worse. I know exactly how you did this stuff alone." Gentle, he strokes the back of his knuckles across Midnighter's jaw. "To hell with that, right?"