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Marcus Flint (marcedflint) wrote in finnigans_rpg,

"I've been reliably informed that I shouldn't yell at you," he said, distracting himself from watching Roger's face as he spoke by paying attention to the potato in his hands and making sure he didn't slice something open accidentally. "Not that I would have anyway, since you're supposed to be recuperating." He paused to try and think of the best way to react to the last part of that statement, and then continued dryly, "And I take it you didn't consider how I'd feel about being the reason you're recovering from, what was it, four broken ribs?"

That really was the worst part of this whole mess, knowing that it was, at least in some small way, his fault that Roger was in the state he was currently in. Yes, he was aware that the man had made his own choices in the matter, but Marcus couldn't help feeling at least partially responsible. It should be such a small thing, nearly insignificant in light of all the other things that he was to blame for, and yet it was the one that had kept him awake for hours the night before.

Looking up at Roger's careful tone, Marcus arched an eyebrow at the younger man, though he didn't comment or question it, and after a moment, he pushed at the fabric gathered at his wrists. The shirt he'd chosen was one of his more comfortable ones, a dark gray that pulled over his head with just a few buttons at the top, ridiculously soft, and he could no longer remember where it came from, but it made the motion much easier than if he'd put on a dress shirt or a button down. The Mark was as ugly as ever, a more muted black than it had been in the past, the lines of it beginning to blur together in such a way that it was almost unrecognizable except for the fact that it was obvious what it was.

Rather than draw more attention to his action, he gave the latest concoction in front of Roger a skeptical look and asked, "Are you even going to have room for real food?" He let the question linger in the air for a moment while he looked a little horrified at himself and then shook his head as he muttered, "Merlin, I sound just like her."

Turning back to the food at hand, Marcus was able to finish peeling the potatoes and begin dicing them. He made himself be extra careful as Roger explained, though really, it was far more information than he needed, because he was certain that it was going to come back and haunt him later. Amuse himself indeed, and Merlin, he had no shame left if he was fixating on that. It took him a few seconds too long to realize that he'd been asked a question, and another few after that to formulate an appropriate response. "Most likely not," he was finally able to admit, feeling as slow and dumb as he was still sometimes accused of being.

With a small, teasing smile Marcus countered, "Stop you from talking? Never." Roger didn't need to know that the sentiment was true, even if he'd made it sound like a joke.