Loose and warm and conflicted all the same, still nagged at by a little stubborn guilt, a sense that he's doing too much and not enough, Marcus wraps tight about him, strokes through his hair. Midnighter scowls when he comes, it's pretty, but he looks like he's working hard, concentrating so intensely it hurts. Marcus wants to talk him through it but he doesn't know if it'd be welcome, is too much of a bloody coward to —

He catches that thought, reprimands himself. Stop it. No self-pity spirals, not when Midnighter's all tangled up with him, not when he gasps and Marcus gasps too, tender and pleased to see him pleased. He smears a kiss across Midnighter's brow, and he murmurs, "Darling, darling, darling," a little bit sing-song, cupping his jaw. "Don't have to ask. Made it a habit now." He swallows, wonders if Midnighter saw him getting distracted, getting too in his head. Probably. He's nothing if not observant. "I like that you like that. Darling."