"Heh." Marcus gave her a triumphant smile as she moved past him into the room. He followed suit, and did go straight to the bed himself, in order to take up a position very much like the one he'd been in when she'd arrived; reclined with his feet up, hands folded behind his head. At least the bed didn't whine about it, having been properly designed to the task. "I can pull that refined shit when I need to. I clean up good, chica. Used to have to wear a suit at a nightclub I worked at. Fucking tie and everything. I bet you clean up real good, too."
The room was spartan, and meticulously clean. He kept his bed made. Like many others, Marcus simply did not have a lot of possessions. Unlike a lot of others, he hadn't taken on any pack-rat tendencies to create a semblance of having more. He'd pulled in the desk and the chair, and there was a waste bin in the corner that looked like it had been kicked around some. Centered on the desk was a large, overused hunting knife, which was also pretty clean. That was it. No borrowed library books were in sight, nothing on the walls, his phone wasn't even sitting out. He lived out of his travel bag, still, which was situated on the floor by the foot of the bed. Whatever he owned or used that wasn't inside that bag had to be hidden in the desk. There simply were no other options. The sweat pants, socks and t-shirt ensemble didn't offer much in the way of pockets.
Truth was, Marcus tried to spend as little time in that room as possible. Sometimes that wasn't possible, however. He hadn't been back to the infirmary in a while, and sort of figured that he might not be needed now that the crisis had passed. Usually, he was in the rec room raising hell, and he did spend an obscene amount of hours in the gym... but he'd find himself anywhere so long as it wasn't the place designated as his. When he was at home, it was usually for a reason, like tonight. An ill-temper, situational depression forcing him into an antisocial funk. He hated that, and often reacted against it by making noise. Loud music when he could manage it, and just arguing with ghosts when that wasn't a possibility. He knew the lyrics to a lot of metal songs, which helped counter the silence, and had the added benefit of irritating the unfortunate who lived next door. This wasn't actually all that unlike the way he'd lived before it all went to shit. He'd had more options for avoiding his old apartment, and a lot more bitchy neighbors (as well as one very disapproving landlord), and his clothes were largely in a closet rather than a pack. But he'd still hated being stuck at home alone, and had never been able to do it quietly.
"Get your hands on some Don Julio," he suggested to her, rather pleasantly. "You'd be fucking amazed at how nice I can be."