"Think so, yeah," he says, and his mouth turns up at one corner. Finally, his concern has worn thin enough that a kind of exasperated fondness is visible on his face. He tuts softly, taps his knuckles against Midnighter's chin.
Midnighter closes his eyes, shuts his mouth, lightly presses his lips to Marcus' knuckles, his fingers, his fingertips. Anything to distract him, to keep him from blurting out I love you. "I'm hard to kill," he says softly. "And believe me, it's not from lack of assholes trying their best. Got some new problems, is all. As much as I don't know important shit, your... religion, all that, I know fights. I'll pull through." He looks up, "for you."
Marcus' breath catches, confused: is he that important, really? He almost laughs, a little disbelieving, and then he nods, and thumbs away a bit of blood from Midnighter's lower lip and kisses him. Gentle, mouth closed: he doesn't want to get the taste of blood in his mouth. But he wants to kiss him all the same. Tries to put the stuff he's not sure he can say into it, the stuff that he doesn't have words for, like how when he pictures Midnighter he gets this warm, secret, precious feeling like a candle he wants to cup his hands around to protect.
Midnighter leans into it, a sigh caught in his throat. That was perfect. This is the sort of thing he dreams of, the life he misses most after leaving Andrew-- coming home to (or with) someone who understands, who can withstand it and understand it, and will help with clean up after. He doesn't need a partner, but he wants one.
He can only be so earnest for so long, though; there's a vulnerability there that threatens to let him slip, say something before either of them are ready to deal with it, promise grandiose things and ridiculous gestures that scare rather than amaze and delight.
His expression inches toward wry. "Yeah," he agrees. "Otherwise, how'd I send you more pictures?"
Marcus' laugh comes out a bit frantically relieved: good, he's not sure how much more intensity he can do before he starts getting upset. He scuffs Midnighter's jaw and steps back a moment to recover the first aid kit, and then he's back in reach.
"Yeah, I prefer that kind of heart attack," he murmurs, grinned all crooked as he opens the kit to pull out plasters and what he assumes are alcohol wipes. He wants to cover up some of the nastier cuts on Midnighter's shoulders and neck. "Got your message when I was out in public. Nearly forgot how to breathe."
It feels weirdly easy to say that. Like a brush with the possibility of Midnighter not being okay has loosened his nervousness, put things in perspective.
Midnighter snickers, and much less blood bubbles up this time. He's already healing. "Killing somebody with dirty pictures. That's a new one. Think I'll pass."
He snorts, still thinking it over, a fond memory made more distant from the last week spent fighting. He moves to accommodate whatever medical shit Marcus is putting on him-- Midnighter doesn't need any more patching up at this point, but he suspects it'll make Marcus feel better-- and lets the memory flow back. "Shit, I had this whole routine planned out for you. What I was gonna say and shit. Real impressive, actually; sorry you missed it."
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.
"Well, I'd show you, but red's not really my color." He snorts, and turns his head to the side, giving Marcus more room. He hums a little, trying to recall the exact wording. "Was gonna tell you about the shit I was thinking of that got me off. What I wanted you to do to me ...Maybe hoping I could tempt you into staying the night. Or at least a quickie." He winks.
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."
Midnighter looks up with an expression of surprise, dulled only by tiredness. "Really, huh." He hadn't expected that. "Figuring you'd chew me out for it, not..."
He's not sure. Not want more, maybe, or not like it. The lines of what Marcus wants and adamantly doesn't want are thin and brittle and difficult for Midnighter to predict. He wants Marcus to be comfortable. He also wants to touch him everywhere almost all the time.
Even now, though the desire is more platonic, more lazy; the idea of laying down with Marcus in his arms sounds like a fucking miracle.
"Well, I'll put that on my to-do list when I'm no longer perforated." He gives Marcus a wicked look in return. "That means you got three days to steel yourself, babe."
Marcus laughs: he doesn't know whether Midnighter meant to make a Biblical reference there. Probably not. Businesslike, he pats down a few more strips of sticking plaster across the cuts on his cheek and jaw, and then he leans in and kisses his forehead.
"Well. I was thinking about telling you off for it," he admits. "It's amazing what a bit of metal will put in perspective, huh?" He shrugs, and, defiant and with determined effort, he says, "Life's short. I liked the damn picture."
He holds out his hands. "C'mon. Come up. I'd pick you up, but, you know. Wanna leave you a bit of your pride."
Which is all the invitation Midnighter needs to grin and pick Marcus up, bridal carry, in one smooth motion. Sure, it hurts; it reopens a few wounds in his chest and shoulders, but those will heal in a minute and he doesn't care. He's too busy covering Marcus with kisses and walking toward the bed.
"Oi, fucking — " He squirms automatically, like a resistant cat, but gives up quickly under the patter of kisses. He doesn't shut up, though. Into the crook of Midnighter's neck, he sighs and complains, "Just patched you up, what are you playing at. Arsehole."
"Shut up, you love it." The way Marcus protests and then relaxes into him is so characteristically him, in Midnighter's mind; he loves it. He nuzzles his face into the side of Marcus', humming softly. "Now that I know you like playing doctor, I'm just giving you more opportunities."
He says that as he lets Marcus down on the bed, and sits on the side to take off his shoes and unbuckle the knee and leg guards of his uniform.
Of course Marcus loves it. Getting literally swept off his feet is so deeply satisfying to his hopelessly romantic streak that he has to protest just to save face. He grumbles accordingly into Midnighter’s neck, something-bastard-something, and sighs with pleasure once he’s stretched out on the bed and watching him start to undress.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, and he wriggles on the bed and gets his boots off, letting them thud down onto the floor. “And I don’t get off on seeing you hurt. Just like feeling useful. Always been a bit like that.”
He nudges Midnighter’s thigh with his toe. “Need someone looking after you.”
"Know you don't, babe," he says, turning to watch Marcus watch him. There's real affection in his eyes, there has to be. That's real care and consideration. Love, maybe. He wants to wrap himself up in it, to life up to the opinion of him that Marcus seems to have. He wants to be good to him.
Once he's got his shinguards off, he pulls off his pants, and the protective cup underneath them. With that now strewn over the floor, Midnighter is left only in boxer-briefs and the expansive array of band-aids he's been spackled with. The boxers, of course, have the Superman insignia over the crotch.
He lets himself lay back on the bed, his legs dangling off the side, letting out a tired huff. A smile plays over his face, sharp but genuine. "So you're looking after me, now?"
Marcus shifts so that he's lying lengthways on the bed on his stomach, elbow propped up next to Midnighter's head, chin on his hand. His other hand comes to Midnighter's chest, stroking featherlight over his sternum. "Yeah," he murmurs. "If you'll let me. Spoil you good and proper."
His eyes crinkle up as he smiles. That warm, precious feeling again: centred right where his ribs draw up and in. And he leans in to kiss him, briefly regretting that he can't stay in the morning. It's been too long. "Wanna know about your new problems. The ones throwing you through concrete walls. Don't have to tell me now, just...don't keep me guessing."
Midnighter closes his eyes, and his lips part just slightly; he moves appreciatively under Marcus' hand. It's not sexual, not entirely; he just missed... this. Being touched. Being touched by Marcus. Yeah, if he had more energy, he'd turn this into a bid to get laid. As it is, he just appreciates the feel of it. He wants to ask for more. He doesn't.
"Tell you all about it," he promises. "Just not now. Rather think about you. Missed you in my bed." He lingers a moment, before finally rolling over with a little huff, crawling into bed properly so he can find a place in Marcus' arms.
Midnighter comes up and crawls under the covers, and Marcus wraps about him from behind. As usual, he's almost feverish to the touch, and as usual Marcus couldn't be happier about it. He nuzzles into the back of his neck, and exhales happily.
"Nhnngh," Midnighter says, tension unwinding from him. It's a fair amount of tension, especially when he keeps having to ignore the computer's warning that his neck is about to have some teeth sunk into it. He settles eventually, though he's tired enough to show some tells, occasional twitches and tremors from reactions that stop the moment they begin; defenses against attacks that aren't coming.
His head finds the space over Marcus' heart, its steady beat, sometimes nervous and sped up, but consistent and comforting for that. "You," he says, but he's got a good idea of Marcus at this point, and anything to blatantly complimentary won't be believed. "And the floor. Never got the hang of beds. But I'm not gonna drag you down there just for me."
"Really? The floor?" Mild, interested. Marcus doesn't have Midnighter's technological augmentations, but he's attentive enough to Midnighter's little twitches to notice them — they're unusual. He's concerned a moment, but Midnighter's tired and just pulled a gnarled metal bar from his torso. Maybe muscle spasms are part of the healing process.
All the same, he wraps his arm tighter about him, protective.
"Slept in some weird places. Never made me anything but grateful for beds, though." He scritches his fingers through Midnighter's scalp. "We can sleep on the floor, darling. 'S you that needs the rest."
"Never got the hang of beds. Feels like you're sinking." He shrugs, glad he can't see Marcus' face. The confusion and rejection doesn't hurt, not really, but he's tired and apparently that's making him fucking sensitive. Nobody ever gets the bed thing, boo fucking hoo.
"Don't need it to sleep, though. Good with putting up with shit I don't like." And I like listening to your heartbeat. No, no, that's too strange.
Oh, Marcus doesn't like the sound of that. He can sleep on the floor just fine: he's slept in beds for three nights straight now, what a treat. He doesn't want Midnighter putting up with stuff for his sake. The generous part of him wants to see Midnighter happy and rested and comfortable. The meaner, nastier, clingier part of him is terrified of all the compromises Midnighter makes for him: they all speed them up towards the moment that Midnighter thinks screw this and drops him.
"Oi." Gently grumpy, Marcus squeezes Midnighter's shoulders as if in retribution. "What're you talking about. You want to sleep on the floor, we'll sleep on the floor. Lemme take a pillow and I'll be happy." He tries to roll them towards the edge of the bed, but Midnighter's way too heavy to move like that.
Midnighter does move, but it's to put more of his weight on Marcus and pin him down. He's happy to be a lodestone if it means Marcus will stop being weird about this. And it's very weird. He can't decide what it means. Nobody's ever offered to sleep on the floor for him before.
He appreciates the thought, but he can't take Marcus up on it.
"No," he says, his head still pressed onto Marcus' chest. He's lying flat and boneless, draped over him. "Not fucking letting my boyfriend sleep on the floor. I'm half asleep already." He nuzzles his forehead into Marcus' chest a little, trying to belabor the point.
Marcus grunts from under Midnighter's bulk, a noise of protest like he doesn't love feeling his weight on him. "Mmf, fine. Fine. Fine." Briefly, he thinks: if we're using words like boyfriend, why the bloody hell don't you talk to me more? Or why don't I talk to you more? Should we do something about that?
Probably fine. They're both busy. He doesn't want to nag. And now's not the time anyway.
He shifts and kisses the top of Midnighter's hair. He still smells of sweat and coppery tangy blood. Marcus doesn't mind. "Go to sleep," he murmurs, for the novelty of it. That's usually what Midnighter says to him.
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"Had me worried for a second."
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"Yeah," he mumbles, "you better an' all."
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He can only be so earnest for so long, though; there's a vulnerability there that threatens to let him slip, say something before either of them are ready to deal with it, promise grandiose things and ridiculous gestures that scare rather than amaze and delight.
His expression inches toward wry. "Yeah," he agrees. "Otherwise, how'd I send you more pictures?"
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"Yeah, I prefer that kind of heart attack," he murmurs, grinned all crooked as he opens the kit to pull out plasters and what he assumes are alcohol wipes. He wants to cover up some of the nastier cuts on Midnighter's shoulders and neck. "Got your message when I was out in public. Nearly forgot how to breathe."
It feels weirdly easy to say that. Like a brush with the possibility of Midnighter not being okay has loosened his nervousness, put things in perspective.
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He snorts, still thinking it over, a fond memory made more distant from the last week spent fighting. He moves to accommodate whatever medical shit Marcus is putting on him-- Midnighter doesn't need any more patching up at this point, but he suspects it'll make Marcus feel better-- and lets the memory flow back. "Shit, I had this whole routine planned out for you. What I was gonna say and shit. Real impressive, actually; sorry you missed it."
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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.
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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."
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He's not sure. Not want more, maybe, or not like it. The lines of what Marcus wants and adamantly doesn't want are thin and brittle and difficult for Midnighter to predict. He wants Marcus to be comfortable. He also wants to touch him everywhere almost all the time.
Even now, though the desire is more platonic, more lazy; the idea of laying down with Marcus in his arms sounds like a fucking miracle.
"Well, I'll put that on my to-do list when I'm no longer perforated." He gives Marcus a wicked look in return. "That means you got three days to steel yourself, babe."
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"Well. I was thinking about telling you off for it," he admits. "It's amazing what a bit of metal will put in perspective, huh?" He shrugs, and, defiant and with determined effort, he says, "Life's short. I liked the damn picture."
He holds out his hands. "C'mon. Come up. I'd pick you up, but, you know. Wanna leave you a bit of your pride."
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He says that as he lets Marcus down on the bed, and sits on the side to take off his shoes and unbuckle the knee and leg guards of his uniform.
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“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, and he wriggles on the bed and gets his boots off, letting them thud down onto the floor. “And I don’t get off on seeing you hurt. Just like feeling useful. Always been a bit like that.”
He nudges Midnighter’s thigh with his toe. “Need someone looking after you.”
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Once he's got his shinguards off, he pulls off his pants, and the protective cup underneath them. With that now strewn over the floor, Midnighter is left only in boxer-briefs and the expansive array of band-aids he's been spackled with. The boxers, of course, have the Superman insignia over the crotch.
He lets himself lay back on the bed, his legs dangling off the side, letting out a tired huff. A smile plays over his face, sharp but genuine. "So you're looking after me, now?"
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His eyes crinkle up as he smiles. That warm, precious feeling again: centred right where his ribs draw up and in. And he leans in to kiss him, briefly regretting that he can't stay in the morning. It's been too long. "Wanna know about your new problems. The ones throwing you through concrete walls. Don't have to tell me now, just...don't keep me guessing."
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"Tell you all about it," he promises. "Just not now. Rather think about you. Missed you in my bed." He lingers a moment, before finally rolling over with a little huff, crawling into bed properly so he can find a place in Marcus' arms.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hQo1HIcSVtg
"What helps you sleep," he mumbles.
thx for that earworm.
His head finds the space over Marcus' heart, its steady beat, sometimes nervous and sped up, but consistent and comforting for that. "You," he says, but he's got a good idea of Marcus at this point, and anything to blatantly complimentary won't be believed. "And the floor. Never got the hang of beds. But I'm not gonna drag you down there just for me."
its always playing in my head
All the same, he wraps his arm tighter about him, protective.
"Slept in some weird places. Never made me anything but grateful for beds, though." He scritches his fingers through Midnighter's scalp. "We can sleep on the floor, darling. 'S you that needs the rest."
Re: its always playing in my head
"Don't need it to sleep, though. Good with putting up with shit I don't like." And I like listening to your heartbeat. No, no, that's too strange.
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"Oi." Gently grumpy, Marcus squeezes Midnighter's shoulders as if in retribution. "What're you talking about. You want to sleep on the floor, we'll sleep on the floor. Lemme take a pillow and I'll be happy." He tries to roll them towards the edge of the bed, but Midnighter's way too heavy to move like that.
"Oof. C'mon."
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He appreciates the thought, but he can't take Marcus up on it.
"No," he says, his head still pressed onto Marcus' chest. He's lying flat and boneless, draped over him. "Not fucking letting my boyfriend sleep on the floor. I'm half asleep already." He nuzzles his forehead into Marcus' chest a little, trying to belabor the point.
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Probably fine. They're both busy. He doesn't want to nag. And now's not the time anyway.
He shifts and kisses the top of Midnighter's hair. He still smells of sweat and coppery tangy blood. Marcus doesn't mind. "Go to sleep," he murmurs, for the novelty of it. That's usually what Midnighter says to him.
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