"So you meant — " Marcus cuts himself off, folding his arms and gripping tight. It's cold without the water, goosebumps prickling on his skin. He's still wearing his boxers, soaked through and clinging uncomfortably. He feels ridiculous. But that expression on Midnighter's face, pure deliberate determination — that makes him pause, makes him stop. He's not sure he's ever seen someone put so much visible effort into offering him reassurance.

He sighs, unlaces his arms, and reaches carefully to push Midnighter's wet hair back off his forehead. "My programming ain't so great either. Reckon this one is between us." But he doesn't want to linger on whose fault it is. Gentle, still careful, his thumb tracks Midnighter's brow, his right cheekbone. "Everything else in my life, I know how to do. Everything else in my life I'm very bloody good at, maybe the best, have been for years. I'm...I ain't good at not being good at things." He's not quite apologising — doesn't want to get into a spiral of sorrys. But he wants Midnighter to know where he's coming from. Can't say why, only that he does. He steps back, but it's with a jerk of his head, beckoning. "C'mon. I'm cold. Bed?"