Buttoning his collar recalls Flint's hand reaching for it first. Can you stay? It's difficult not to put his mind to the task of assessment, of evaluating things said and done in search of error, not so unlike an imperfect fight—of measuring the depth of a bruise and thinking of the actions that led to its forming. To balance that against the circumstances that informed it, bigger than only he, or temper this niggling feeling of regret against the certainty they're being reasonable.
It is likewise impossible to do so with any effectiveness while he's busying himself with getting his boots on, and so firmly stops thinking about much of anything except the wind of a bootlace or clasp of a buckle.
It's also a little deliberate that there is no lingering glances to Flint, but Marcus is certainly not ignoring him. Keyed into the sounds of fabric shuffling, of his gathering the books together, the sigh of the mattress when he leaves the bed. Marcus leaves the bedroom with the expectation he'll be followed out. There, his coat draped over the chair, but first he makes for the belt, crossing the room to collect it as he tucks his shirt into his waistband.
The rings, after that. He pockets them with the absent thought that he ought to have washed his hands, (and maybe this careful order of getting himself respectable enough to leave is not as carefully ordered as he's made it out to be. Something like a hasty retreat, actually, in its unhurried structures), before going to collect the coat.
"Were you intending to convey to the division about the fortifications work tomorrow?" is something he only sort of cares to know.
When Flint surfaces in the adjacent office, he has found his drawers and resumed the upright posture of someone who has made a decision and has decided it's a rational one. Nevermind the undone sleeve cuffs, or the long shirt tails; he isn't really so rumpled as all that, and the leather ledger and novel under one arm lend a certain businesslike air (or at least an organized one) where rightly there should be none. Or nearly none. Or—
Though, the question seems to catch him off guard. As if he has forgotten the ostensible motivation for Marcus to be in this room to begin with.
"I'll make the relevant parties aware," is the obvious, easy answer. Meanwhile, the ledger and book are shuffled out from under his arm, transfered into both hands and held at some angle that invites passing over custody.
What little remains of the light here is dusky and greying, and mostly too dark to make out finite details by the farther one ranges from the windows. Here, the pair of them are more shadow than they're not.
"If not personally, then I'll see that Matthias passed word and keeps you informed. I've some other work to see to now that we're back in Kirkwall."
Sliding arms into sleeves, resitting his coat on his shoulders, there is nothing to say that Marcus hadn't just endured either an agonisingly extensive work meeting or just an ordinary one should no one in particular be watching Flint's door and otherwise could not speak to who's gone in and out of it and when. Still, even with his offhanded query just now, Marcus isn't interested in engaging in needless pretense.
He accepts the books and doesn't immediately set off on a trajectory for the door, for instance, laying a hand down on the novel balanced on the ledger. The shadows wash out fine detail, and with his back turned for the thick-glassed windows, Flint's expression is rendered in pools of darkness and vague slants of dusky light. Tries to discern something from that much.
Arranges the books beneath an arm. "Alright," he says.
Freed of any responsibility, Flint's hands falling to his sides. Turn. Catch an unbuttoned cuff unthinkingly between a thumb and forefinger where he might absently work the fabric between the two. An inability to stand entirely still under observation, and to do nothing with either hand.
Or because he is aware of an itch beneath the skin that comes from the unsatisfied urgency to snake his hand out and catch Marcus' by the wrist. Were he not committed to this, he might indulge in it. But they are being unselfish, him in particular, and it wouldn't do to make a mess of it when they've been so plain tonight.
"Go on," he says, though with a sway of the shoulder it's Flint who first makes for the door. "Before I change my mind and we find ourselves renegotiating all of this in another four hours.
It's not so serious as all this prickling in the air suggests. Crack a joke. Send a long look in Marcus' direction and then set to drawing back the bolt.
It's a good joke—or rather, well-applied. Not in the sense that it makes him laugh or anything, but 'good' as in it smooths a few ruffled feathers in an ego-wards direction. Good, that going separate ways in this moment should be a little like a mutual disentanglement. Marcus turns as Flint moves passed him, then follows that path after a faint breath of acknowledgment.
Have it your way. This time, there's no lingering, no implicit sense of waiting for something else. Go on, and Marcus goes, a measure of wry humour in the flicked glance that meets that longer look.
"Good night," muttered, as he catches the edge of the door to lever it open and himself out of the office. The scuff of footfalls project an image of a direct and unhesitating route for the stairwell.
There's no sense in lingering there in the doorway. So the door is closed after him, and the bolt is thrown. Done. Nominally speaking, let it not be discarded that this is the longest they've spent in one another's company without some work or disaster to necessitate it. There's little need to feel the thing has in any way been only half way satisfactory, or that anyone has been short changed by driving Marcus from the room rather than inviting him back into it.
Crossing back through that dim room, Flint is familiar enough with all the furniture in it that he doesn't need to mind his shins. Returning to the apartment awash in the low glow of candlelight, the air over warm and half his clothes still scattered and the bed clothes twisted, he—
Draws shut that door as well, which is not rare, and bolts it too, which is.
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no subject
It is likewise impossible to do so with any effectiveness while he's busying himself with getting his boots on, and so firmly stops thinking about much of anything except the wind of a bootlace or clasp of a buckle.
It's also a little deliberate that there is no lingering glances to Flint, but Marcus is certainly not ignoring him. Keyed into the sounds of fabric shuffling, of his gathering the books together, the sigh of the mattress when he leaves the bed. Marcus leaves the bedroom with the expectation he'll be followed out. There, his coat draped over the chair, but first he makes for the belt, crossing the room to collect it as he tucks his shirt into his waistband.
The rings, after that. He pockets them with the absent thought that he ought to have washed his hands, (and maybe this careful order of getting himself respectable enough to leave is not as carefully ordered as he's made it out to be. Something like a hasty retreat, actually, in its unhurried structures), before going to collect the coat.
"Were you intending to convey to the division about the fortifications work tomorrow?" is something he only sort of cares to know.
no subject
Though, the question seems to catch him off guard. As if he has forgotten the ostensible motivation for Marcus to be in this room to begin with.
"I'll make the relevant parties aware," is the obvious, easy answer. Meanwhile, the ledger and book are shuffled out from under his arm, transfered into both hands and held at some angle that invites passing over custody.
What little remains of the light here is dusky and greying, and mostly too dark to make out finite details by the farther one ranges from the windows. Here, the pair of them are more shadow than they're not.
"If not personally, then I'll see that Matthias passed word and keeps you informed. I've some other work to see to now that we're back in Kirkwall."
no subject
He accepts the books and doesn't immediately set off on a trajectory for the door, for instance, laying a hand down on the novel balanced on the ledger. The shadows wash out fine detail, and with his back turned for the thick-glassed windows, Flint's expression is rendered in pools of darkness and vague slants of dusky light. Tries to discern something from that much.
Arranges the books beneath an arm. "Alright," he says.
no subject
Or because he is aware of an itch beneath the skin that comes from the unsatisfied urgency to snake his hand out and catch Marcus' by the wrist. Were he not committed to this, he might indulge in it. But they are being unselfish, him in particular, and it wouldn't do to make a mess of it when they've been so plain tonight.
"Go on," he says, though with a sway of the shoulder it's Flint who first makes for the door. "Before I change my mind and we find ourselves renegotiating all of this in another four hours.
It's not so serious as all this prickling in the air suggests. Crack a joke. Send a long look in Marcus' direction and then set to drawing back the bolt.
no subject
Have it your way. This time, there's no lingering, no implicit sense of waiting for something else. Go on, and Marcus goes, a measure of wry humour in the flicked glance that meets that longer look.
"Good night," muttered, as he catches the edge of the door to lever it open and himself out of the office. The scuff of footfalls project an image of a direct and unhesitating route for the stairwell.
no subject
Crossing back through that dim room, Flint is familiar enough with all the furniture in it that he doesn't need to mind his shins. Returning to the apartment awash in the low glow of candlelight, the air over warm and half his clothes still scattered and the bed clothes twisted, he—
Draws shut that door as well, which is not rare, and bolts it too, which is.