Marco stayed firmly attached to Oliver's back for a long moment, but after a few false starts, he slipped out from behind him, awkwardly still holding on and sliding under Oliver's arm as he went to pass him. He grabbed Oliver's wrist when he was finally in a better position to see the room, and he held tight as he studied everything.
The trail of ink was gone. The lamp he'd used to smash Hathaway was repaired, and right back on the side of his bed. Hell, the bed was made. The room looked cleaner than it had ever been while he was staying there, and it reminded him of the day that he'd woken up and thought that he was in a model home or a rich person rehab facility. After a moment, he even felt brave enough to let go of Oliver and venture to the bathroom, where he wasn't surprised that the toilet, which had cracked in the process of clubbing Hathaway, was whole again, and there wasn't a trace of the watered down blue blood. He absently checked the medicine cabinet, looking for that trap door that he was sure was in there but he'd never found.
He came back out of the bathroom and went right to the bed, crawling up onto it, laying face down and stretching himself out. "Can we take my mattress back to your room?" he asked, muffled by the sheets.