Marcus’ response is to splutter a laugh and tut like he’s exasperated when really he’s delighted — a fact made clear by his grin. His hand skims up and down Midnighter’s spine as Midnighter tucks in tight and presses his face to the crook of Marcus’ neck — sweet, that’s sweet, the word surprising him by how well it fits.

He’s a little more sober when he responds, not unhappy at all, just startled into stark honesty: “I’d love that, darling.” He doesn’t mean getting to fuck Midnighter, though obviously yes — he’s talking about them having time.

He swallows, has to build a quick defence: “My job is — it’s weird, long hours, move around a lot. Gonna be times I’m not reachable.” But he’s talking to the guy who apparently regularly leaves Earth for work. He smiles faintly, his mouth pressed to the crown of Midnighter’s head for a moment. “Guess you know that feeling. If you can put up with that, then I reckon we can find the time to get used to each other.”

It's not a matter of reach, Marcus nearly tries to explain, it's a matter of attention span: his job is consuming, relies upon his single-minded focus. But when he opens his mouth he thinks better of it. It doesn't sound fair. Instead, he settles his hand at the back of Midnighter's neck, and says, "Sweet talker," a gentle accusation.

"Like the idea of helping you relax." His thumb presses gently against the tight muscles at the base of Midnighter's skull, massaging. "I know that tone. Too good at your job, so you never stop doing it, am I right? And nothing ever stays un-fucked-up?"