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.
Midnighter shifts a little, getting more comfortable on the too-soft mattress. He ends up with a fair portion of his bulk on Marcus' side, an arm wrapped around him his head laid in the crook of Marcus' neck. "Night, babe," he rumbles, and finally, fucking finally closes his eyes.
Sleep takes him almost immediately, and there's not much waiting for him on the shores of dreaming. Dark images and numbers, a mess of silver thunder, a man with a pumpkin for a head. No image is lingered on for too long.
Midnighter sleeps like the dead. When his body shuts down, he stops moving completely. After a point, he doesn't breathe, either; his body doesn't need it, and he mostly does it out of habit, when he's awake. As it is, he's completely still, completely silent, a dead, warm weight on Marcus's shoulder that won't wake if Marcus moves. Won't wake for much anything.
The novelty of being awake while Midnighter sleeps keeps Marcus up for a bit. He wants to enjoy it. Midnighter's breath pours rhythmic across his shoulder and chest, and he bleeds feverish heat. Marcus hums happily, curls around him. He drifts off before Midnighter's breathing stills, and he doesn't wake up before light comes through the blinds.
The morning finds him stiff and achy, still not quite used to sleeping tangled up with someone else. His arm's dead where Midnighter's lying on it. First order of the day: extricating himself (Midnighter's head bounces onto the pillows below and he doesn't wake) and stretching.
Second order of the day: settling on his side, facing Midnighter, and reaching out to touch his face...but not getting there.
He's not breathing.
Marcus' hand wavers, frozen between them.
This is, he knows, just a weird quirk of Midnighter's augmented biology. He's still furnace-hot, he's clearly alive. He's just so, horribly still. Still like living bodies just aren't. Marcus has seen enough dead ones to know that. But Midnighter's fine, he's just sleeping very, very deeply...
Marcus knows that. But knowing doesn't make it better. His heart speeds up, anxiety whining quicker in his chest. He blinks, and though he knows there's nothing to worry about a pit opens in his stomach, a horrible twisting black space...
"Midnighter," he says, voice low and hoarse, then he raises it: "Midnighter! Hey. Hey, wake up, love — " He shakes him by the shoulder, fingers digging in, having forgotten or perhaps just discarded Midnighter's warnings to wake him up carefully.
The punch Midnighter sends flying toward Marcus' face changes course at the last second, slamming into the wall at the head of the bed. The headboard snaps, cracking in half, and the wall behind it becomes a spiderweb of cracking plaster, dust shaking from the opened seams and chipping paint. Faintly, someone can be heard yelling, what was that?
Midnighter retracts his hand from the hole in the wall, now covered in plaster dust and wood splinters and blood-- punching that hard that fast with no gauntlets opens up a hundred tiny stratches, peels back the skin on his knuckles, leaves flesh flaking off. Regardless of this fact, he presses both hands to his face.
"Jesus!" Okay — now he remembers. He scrambles back, but he knows it's not his reflexes that have saved him. It's just the modicum of control Midnighter wrested back at the last moment. That punch would most likely have sent his nose crunching back into his brain.
He's panting, eyes wide. Alarmed and shaking and suddenly sick with guilt. Idiot. Midnighter told him not to do that.
"M," he manages. "Midnighter. You — hey. Christ — look at me. Look at me, calm down. Please."
He'd be lying if he said he wasn't angry. Angry with worry, worried with anger, it doesn't matter. He looks up, and his face is scowling, a bloody hand-print over half of it; he looks like the bestial weapon he was meant to be.
He breathes.
"I'm not going to hurt you." He says, "I promised."
Marcus is sat up, his hands half-way to Midnighter's face but frozen again. He doesn't want to spark another reaction. His eyes flit cautiously, wide, over Midnighter's face, taking in the blood smears with only the upset merest twitch of his mouth. "I know," he says, "I know. I — you weren't breathing."
He exhales, and slumps back. Into the corner of the bed, away from Midnighter, huddled and a little sullen, still staring at him. His chest actually hurts. If he has a heart attack in bed with Midnighter for reasons unrelated to sex, he's going to — he's going to be confirmed, once again, in his opinion that God has a sick sense of humour.
"You weren't breathing," he sighs, and rubs his face. "I know, I know, you told me."
There's no point in chastising him. Midnighter can tell the man's guilty enough as it is. This isn't a mistake he'll make again. He swallows his anger like a bitter pill, though it still lingers in his movements, rigid and withdrawn.
"You okay?" But he knows he is; the computer is still registering him as a threat. Midnighter turns away on the bed to grab some clothes. "C'mon, let's get you to wherever." He can't imagine Marcus will want to stick around.
Conflict resolution not involving bloodshed's never been his thing.
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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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Sleep takes him almost immediately, and there's not much waiting for him on the shores of dreaming. Dark images and numbers, a mess of silver thunder, a man with a pumpkin for a head. No image is lingered on for too long.
Midnighter sleeps like the dead. When his body shuts down, he stops moving completely. After a point, he doesn't breathe, either; his body doesn't need it, and he mostly does it out of habit, when he's awake. As it is, he's completely still, completely silent, a dead, warm weight on Marcus's shoulder that won't wake if Marcus moves. Won't wake for much anything.
no subject
The morning finds him stiff and achy, still not quite used to sleeping tangled up with someone else. His arm's dead where Midnighter's lying on it. First order of the day: extricating himself (Midnighter's head bounces onto the pillows below and he doesn't wake) and stretching.
Second order of the day: settling on his side, facing Midnighter, and reaching out to touch his face...but not getting there.
He's not breathing.
Marcus' hand wavers, frozen between them.
This is, he knows, just a weird quirk of Midnighter's augmented biology. He's still furnace-hot, he's clearly alive. He's just so, horribly still. Still like living bodies just aren't. Marcus has seen enough dead ones to know that. But Midnighter's fine, he's just sleeping very, very deeply...
Marcus knows that. But knowing doesn't make it better. His heart speeds up, anxiety whining quicker in his chest. He blinks, and though he knows there's nothing to worry about a pit opens in his stomach, a horrible twisting black space...
"Midnighter," he says, voice low and hoarse, then he raises it: "Midnighter! Hey. Hey, wake up, love — " He shakes him by the shoulder, fingers digging in, having forgotten or perhaps just discarded Midnighter's warnings to wake him up carefully.
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The punch Midnighter sends flying toward Marcus' face changes course at the last second, slamming into the wall at the head of the bed. The headboard snaps, cracking in half, and the wall behind it becomes a spiderweb of cracking plaster, dust shaking from the opened seams and chipping paint. Faintly, someone can be heard yelling, what was that?
Midnighter retracts his hand from the hole in the wall, now covered in plaster dust and wood splinters and blood-- punching that hard that fast with no gauntlets opens up a hundred tiny stratches, peels back the skin on his knuckles, leaves flesh flaking off. Regardless of this fact, he presses both hands to his face.
"Marcus."
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He's panting, eyes wide. Alarmed and shaking and suddenly sick with guilt. Idiot. Midnighter told him not to do that.
"M," he manages. "Midnighter. You — hey. Christ — look at me. Look at me, calm down. Please."
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He breathes.
"I'm not going to hurt you." He says, "I promised."
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Marcus is sat up, his hands half-way to Midnighter's face but frozen again. He doesn't want to spark another reaction. His eyes flit cautiously, wide, over Midnighter's face, taking in the blood smears with only the upset merest twitch of his mouth. "I know," he says, "I know. I — you weren't breathing."
He exhales, and slumps back. Into the corner of the bed, away from Midnighter, huddled and a little sullen, still staring at him. His chest actually hurts. If he has a heart attack in bed with Midnighter for reasons unrelated to sex, he's going to — he's going to be confirmed, once again, in his opinion that God has a sick sense of humour.
"You weren't breathing," he sighs, and rubs his face. "I know, I know, you told me."
no subject
"You okay?" But he knows he is; the computer is still registering him as a threat. Midnighter turns away on the bed to grab some clothes. "C'mon, let's get you to wherever." He can't imagine Marcus will want to stick around.
Conflict resolution not involving bloodshed's never been his thing.