He doesn't shy away from the touch at all, and is grateful for her empathy. It had been fucked. Marcus wasn't about to engage in some kind of pain Olympics. Everyone still alive had suffered, he was sure. But sometimes it helped a person feel human to have their pain acknowledged.
The scars aren't pretty, jagged as they are... but there are shapes there that she can work with as an artist. The gouges at his shoulder were made by evenly spaced teeth that had been dragged down in a way that could be made into rays, perhaps, or something floral... and some of the half-moon tears could be disguised by a lot of of different things. Scars were tricky to get ink into, and he knew that the more successful cover-ups tended to be busy, free-hand affairs that could draw the eye elsewhere. He hadn't actually given too much thought to logistics, however. Mostly, he'd liked the art she'd done on his trailer, and wanting something new.
"Not a wolf," he says wryly, a teasing note to his tone of voice. "Too fucking common, you know?"
Then he allows himself to grow a bit more thoughtful. In his younger years, he'd admittedly gotten ink because he thought it looked badass to do so. Some of his choices had been less classic than others. The Caduceus symbol was the most meaningful to him, signifying his chosen profession. If he could go back and undo any of them, it'd be the skull on his calf. Skulls and corpses no longer held any aesthetic appeal for him, and he was glad he couldn't see the naked women forming the skull low on his back... he suspected it'd be hard not to see them as a pile of corpses. The mythical serpents and snakes might be cheesy, but at least they were obviously alive.
"I love the desert. Born in it, probably gonna die without seeing much else," this used to bother him more than it does now, but it had been realistic statement even before the zombies walked the earth. He'd never had the money to travel. "Takes a lot to fucking live out here, so I respect the shit that does. My mother was Hopi, so I like that imagery, too. Tribal shit. My dad was Mexican, which means I appreciate the elaborate Catholic shit, too. You do sexy real damn well. If I had a picture of my ex-wife, might ask you to make her a saint or a pin-up or something, but I lost the last one. She was sexy as hell..." He realizes he's rambling and shoots her an apologetic smile. "No death, no fucking bones or blood. Seen enough of that. You do script?"