A breath in sounds like it might carry complaint when its let out again, but doesn't. Marcus positions his arm as moved, then grips onto it with his other hand in an effort to keep it still. Knows some shift in biochemistry, heart beating a little firmer than before and nerves prickling down the back of his neck, all informed by the knowledge of what he's bracing for, which is not a small amount of pain.

The wind outside buffets the tent, sends a spray of water from a nearby tree striking the canvas outside. The lantern swings. The world is very dark and empty and wild around this little flimsy hut. This all feels so stupid.

Maybe he'd be more primed to hackle if not for steady hands, the kindness of practicality (or the other way around). That the other man is now holding something very sharp, and Marcus is concentrating on giving him free and ready access to injury. Still.

He doesn't quite think, in so many words, of how counter this feels to the habit of being on guard with James Flint, of shielding vulnerability, but a little beneath the surface—

"Done this often?"