The explanation of Midnighter's early life makes Marcus frown, but he holds himself back, recognising he's not being asked for poor yous. Instead he nods, slow. "Yeah. I hate that crap. Holding food and shelter back until someone pays lipservice to God, that ain't right."

He leans into him a bit, surprised by how careful he is with the medal. It makes him smile, makes his heart pick up. Not in a bad way. "I mostly just — wander. When I was younger, I ran away a few times, from a few different places." He offers it in the spirit of a trade: tit for tat.

Midnighter not needing to eat, not needing to sleep, that reminds him of something. Marcus pinches his lower lip between his teeth a moment, remembering how as a younger man he'd prayed for that sort of thing. He'd had this fantasy where after an exorcism he wouldn't stumble and wind down like a broken toy, like he always does; he'd dream of just carrying on, miracle after miracle after miracle and maybe at a certain point he'd never have to stay still ever again. No more resting, no more sleeping, no more feeling, no more wasting time. Being a person was too cluttered and complicated: he'd asked, over and over, to be better than that. Less flawed, less human. God had never answered him, and now Marcus knows it was for good reason.

He wonders how Midnighter gets a bit of peace. If he ever gets a bit of peace. He settles in closer and murmurs, "Seen you eat. You ever, I dunno, sleep for fun?"

Midnighter’s earnest attention to the medal has Marcus pressing a smile into his shoulder, turning his hand up to twine their fingers together. “Not tired? What’s that?” Dumb joke, teeth a bit too much on show. He thinks he’s hilarious, whatever. He leans back, urges Midnighter to come lie down with him.

Compared to real people, Midnighter says, offhand as anything. It makes Marcus’ heart positively crumble. He wants to grab him and fuss over him with don’t say that, you’re just fine, you’re a person, being very bloody weird doesn’t disqualify you, no one should say you ain’t, stop it. He swallows that down and settles for a wry smile as he tugs him down with him. “C’mere, darling. You feel pretty real.”

That gets Marcus' straight face cracking. He laughs right up against Midnighter's neck, a warm rush of air: "I'm beginning to think you don't know what a doctor does, either." He topples them like they're tussling so that he's atop Midnighter, fingers of one hand gripping his thigh, the other bracing beside his head, and then he settles so that he can kiss him: means to keep it sweet, careful, doesn't quite manage it. It turns long, rolls deeper as his hips dip, push — but that's not great, the towels are damp and chafing, so he laughs to break the kiss and, after a moment of hesitation he unwinds the towel from Midnighter's hips. Careful, pleased — slow because this is new, yes, but also slow because he doesn't want to rush it. There's a pleasure in drawing it out.

"You're a bloody...bloody flirt." Fond, happy, a bit breathless. "You, uh, you wanna know what I thought, when you stepped through that portal?" Since he's already embarrassed himself, and in an unpleasant, close-to-the-bone way, he might as well keep sharing, spill some sweeter private thoughts to smooth things over.

"Nah." He sees that attention in Midnighter's eyes, likes it, but shakes his head. Nudges the tips of their noses together a moment. "No, not that. Didn't scare me. Not for longer than a second, anyway, not proper-scared. I know proper-scared." His hand slides to where Midnighter is tugging questioningly at his towel, guides him to pull it away: here, it's fine, go for it. If he keeps talking while he does it it's easier.

"No. I mean, you look fucking terrifying in that get-up and that alien stuff smells awful, but. Wasn't scared, wasn't put off. Once it clicked, I thought — oh, right, work clothes. And it's flattering that he's covered in blood, cos what does that mean? Means he's come right over. Not a second to lose." The towel falls to the side, and he settles low against Midnighter again, mouth coming to his jaw. Kissing between words, between little playful scrapes of his teeth. "So that's a story, I guess, about — my priorities. And how glad I am that you're here."

Excited to see you. Marcus' face is tucked down as he kisses the side of Midnighter's neck, but his shoulders go a little loose at that, his breath pours out of him happily. "Yeah. No, I know. Not many people I've picked up, but." But he's never seen any of them more than twice. He stops himself, not wanting to make a weird limit out of it: if they do this again, it'll officially be the longest thing he's had. He doesn't want to put that pressure on it. "Well. You know how it is. Work commitments. Baggage. Recently divorced from a thirty year marriage to God. Etcetera."

He nips at the join of Midnighter's neck and shoulder: smoothing over, not getting bogged down in that. It's with a smile that he glances up, and says, "I like how you come on strong, though," as his hand slides between them, and comes to pick up where they left off. His fingers curl about Midnighter's prick, stroke him slow, watching his reactions. Voice soft, he murmurs, "That alright?" He's not just talking about how he's touching him. He means: this, is this alright, is it alright how much I like you.

It works, more than works: Marcus preens, shivers, bites his lip on a self-satisfied grin that breaks out regardless. "Jesus. Yeah? That could happen. We could make that happen." He says that before he thinks fuck, Christ, I don't know how to do that, but — first time for everything. And he wants to, he really wants to, can imagine it now. Right down to the twitch and tightening of Midnighter's abs and thighs as Marcus sinks down on him. The idea, and the idea Midnighter has thought about it too, has gotten off to it, to him, takes his breath, makes his hand quicken on his cock.

"That what you want, darling, you wanna — see me like that?" His thumb swipes the head of him as his voice comes low, pushing their foreheads together. "Like being able to look at you like this."

"Ha, uh — gimme a second." His hand doesn't stop working him over, stuttering a little as Midnighter pulls him down to kiss him but not ceasing to move. "Gimme a moment, it's — "

He's so reluctant to move away. Midnighter's so responsive it's addictive: all that twisting and whining, it's lovely, it's just lovely, and Marcus wants to take his time with it. He smears kisses across his mouth and cheek and jaw and neck, loose and cherishing, and only after he's dotted most of the space between Midnighter's lips and his right shoulder with kisses and nips that he lets up. He releases his grip, shakes out his wrist as he moves back — not without a slightly wide-eyed moment of taking him in. "God you're gorgeous." He doesn't actually mean to say it, it just spills over; he sounds vaguely incredulous, like he doesn't know how he ended up here. "Hold — just hold on."

He has lube. That's a relatively new thing, a purchase made along with condoms and without any eye contact with anybody else in the pharmacy. The box of condoms is unopened; the bottle of lube, however, has been cracked open, thanks to a few solitary experiments. He tries not to think about how obvious that makes him as he rescues both from his bag. The condoms he leaves on the bed, the bottle he grips — looks to Midnighter slyly, half-uncertain. "Do you want — ?" And then he stops, amused at himself, at his own diffidence, as he realises he knows the answer to that one. He wants. He can ask. So he does, moving back up Midnighter's body as he says, "Uh. Liked your — mm. Liked your fingers in me. That was good. Wanna try that again?"

"Sap," Marcus says all too fondly, in what has to be the most hypocritical assertion he's ever made. He shifts on his knees, settles his elbows either side of Midnighter's face and kisses him hungrily.

"Ain't done this much before," he admits, gliding smoothly over the details. Once. He's had someone fuck him all of once before, and they were both the wrong side of sober. It had been clumsy and exciting and too rushed and too intense and not intense enough. That said, it's not like his experience of being on the other side of things, or sleeping with anyone in any way, is really so much more impressive. "So you just take your time. Let you know when I can take you, yeah?"

As Midnighter shifts, Marcus shifts with him, hands sliding over his shoulders. He doesn't laugh, and he doesn't look afraid, just thoughtful. And then he's touched. Midnighter, he's fairly sure, doesn't usually make a habit of making himself vulnerable. He smiles at him, thumbs his lower lip, kisses him.

If Midnighter didn't know that Catholic priests don't have sex, he probably also doesn't know why, Marcus realises. He should explain it. Midnighter seems like he wants to understand. So he should take him through the labyrinths of self-recrimination and shame and...yes, the very loving and deeply felt attachments of a long spiritual marriage that came to a difficult end. He should try to explain the links: this is why I do that, that is responsible for this. Maybe it would even help him unravel some of the more complicated knots. But that doesn't have to happen right now. Right now, it's enough to know that they understand each other. And that this isn't too much of a test of Midnighter's patience.

"Thanks," he murmurs, which feels strange to say in bed with someone, but he means it. "I know. I know, I trust you. That's why I'm here, innit." He palms Midnighter's jaw, kisses him again. "C'mon. 'S okay. I know what I want."

"If I like it." Marcus' breath hitches as Midnighter rearranges them, pillows his head on one arm, forehead pressing into the crook of his own elbow. "If I — ha. I like it. Like all of it. C'mon, darling, ain't that obvious?" His hips pick up a little as Midnighter starts to finger him open, enough to make space so that he can slide his hand down between the sheets and his stomach, grip his cock.

"Like your fingers in me. Thought about that — a lot." Rehearsing flashes of memory to himself. "You've got nice hands, big, I like — fuck, I like the way you touch me." A treacherous part of his brain reminds him: Midnighter's hands are just as dangerous as they are gentle now. It's not fear, though, that makes him shiver.

Marcus huffs and pushes his forehead down, eyes screwing tight closed. He feels a defensive stab of embarrassment, but Midnighter isn't mocking him, he's not lying. He wants to make Marcus feel good. When's he had that before? "Yeah. You — oh." His voice slides up-register a little as Midnighter's fingers move in him, his breath roughening slightly and his hips twitching forwards.

"It's all you, gorgeous. Get excited over you. You can — deeper." He has to haul in his breath hard. "You can push deeper."

"Yeah, yeah, you're so goddamn good to me, that's — good, that feels fucking good — " He's working his cock a little faster now, hips stuttering more erratically between pushing into his own hand and pushing back against Midnighter's fingers. He's tentative at first, getting used to being stretched out about Midnighter's knuckles, feeling how the movement works, where he needs to bear down, what feels right. But when he relaxes enough to find the right angle he chases it, bites down on a whine and tries to press back to get more.

"Keep doing — ah, do that again, c'mon," his voice getting hissed and urgent as he squirms.