"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 He swallows his anger like a bitter pill, though it still lingers in his movements, rigid and withdrawn.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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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."
no subject
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.