To do to him. Marcus huffs and flushes pink and grins, smoothing down the edge of a fabric plaster and moving on to clean out a small but deep slash across Midnighter's collarbone. "Might've worked." He thinks about it. Thinks about struggling to get his hand down his jeans in that cramped little convent room. "Would've almost definitely worked. You can, uh."

This is good, having something to keep his hands busy with is good. He sticks butterfly bandages neatly into place. "You can send me more of those whenever you like." With a flash of something a bit wicked and teasing: "When you're all better, I mean."