Patching Midnighter up feels good, reparative, useful. Feels like he's building himself back up, too. Marcus is careful and obviously well-practiced, cleaning up a nasty abrasion on his shoulder. He snorts, wry, and says, "Don't say that, don't tell me what I missed."

But that's not what he wants, not really. It just takes him a while. After a few moments of quiet, he wets his lips and murmurs, tentative, his hands not stilling and his eyes on his work, not Midnighter's face: "What were you gonna say?"

He's not turned on, exactly. Blood and pain have never done it for him. But there's something intimate about this chance to be tender with Midnighter, and he wants to hold onto it however he can.