By the time Flint is on his feet and negotiating arms into coat sleeves, Marcus is preoccupied with rubbing thumb and forefinger into his eyesockets. His other arm loosely splayed across the broad space Flint had been laying, and draws in feel out the edge of the sheets he is still half-under as he slowly, lazily, makes his way to the surface.
Enough to evaluate Flint through the close press of eyelashes. Dressed. Then, assess the quality of light at the window. Early.
Another murmur. This one manages some crisper edges to the words as he says, "Morning," which also has enough tone to it to make it a greeting rather than just an observation.
It's an attractive picture: Marcus Rowntree all long lines in his bed, half under a sheet slightly twisted sheet with his hair loose across the pillow, and only something like three parts awake. If he is being square with himself, and this morning he is, it's the sort of thing that makes him want to clamber back into bed.
Instead he adjusts the lay of his shirt collar under that of the coat.
"Morning."
Checks his pockets. Lays a hand briefly at his belt buckle. The unconscious rituals of a man who is preparing to walk out the door.
There's evaluation in the flicker of a look over Flint, trying to judge if it's by accident that Marcus should wake to find him close to out the door, or there's some design in it. It's a neutral sort of arithmetic, while he shifts a little to lean against pillows and backboard.
Grunts at this news. There's the fleeting and completely senseless impulse to calculate whether he could get to a similar state of readiness as the other man in time to accompany him, but it dismantles itself under the barest pressure of sense.
Says, "I don't," from his sprawl, voice sleep-rough and creaky.
He moves then, tracking around the bed to the side table. There is a stack of papers there he should pocket to bring with him. Saying as he goes, "Matthias has work outside Kirkwall and won't be in the office, but one of the servants will tidy near ten."
Here are those papers, extracted from under a slim book. He folds them in half with a crinkling rasp.
The corner of Marcus' mouth hooks upwards that small degree, and he stays unmoving as Flint tracks around he bed, up until he has his papers.
At which point, he pulls himself nearer, nothing about the action implying he intends to leave the mattress but nearer all the same. He doesn't fuss with the sheets, still dressed in cotton drawers that he doesn't feel too brazen as he pulls in closer.
"Alright," he says. Noted. Settling there on this side of the mattress, "And when are you next free of your obligations?"
Not too brazen, no, though Flint's attention slides in his direction anyway as he tucks the folded papers into an interior coat pocket. Good question, says some slant of his brow and the faint pulling at the corner of his mouth behind freshly trimmed auburn whiskers.
"I've an hour or two in the afternoon, but I don't mean to return here." Wasted effort, catching the ferry to and from. Beyond that—
"Otherwise, I can't say. Scouts suggest we've Venatori lingering in the Vinmark foothills. I might go take a look and see what can be done about digging them out. But I trust you've plenty to do."
Surely there are duties that Marcus has mentally assigned himself even if he hasn't yet quite made the changes on paper.
Talk of news from scouts and Venatori and foothills patter off of his own barely-awake fog, some twinge of complaint at the brow that is more directed at his attempt to focus than the man speaking to him directly. Almost against his will, Marcus recalls some communications that had crossed his desk with the city guard alongside some sideways comment about a missed shift or two.
Generally opaque, Flint probably has enough context to interpret the emergence of these thoughts in the subtle changes to Marcus' expression as he rests his head back against the board.
"If I manage my desk before you see about them, I wouldn't mind hunting something." You know, if Flint is offering.
A flicking glance sums Marcus up there against the bed's heavy headboard, the sheet across his thighs. It's a measuring look—the sort of consideration given over to a man recently out of a sick bed more than it is anything else.
The coat is twitched closed to lay flat across his shoulder.
"Let me know when you've done that." Is not a yes, is not a no.
Marcus' eyeline stays even where he's tilted it up to watch Flint's face. Catches that, or something like it, which in turn may read on his face, a slightly lifted eyebrow.
But no comment. Instead, he says, "Aye Commander," which has some trace of humour to it. Then, he wanders a hand out to that edge of coat, snaring it between two curled fingers in the express invitation for some parting gesture.
His mouth thins. The impression is one of put upon severity, as the alternative is to find the nipping of those two fingers pleasing and if he were to put on a crooked smile now it would be difficult to strip it from his features before he left the offices.
But he does drift in that required step. Sidles sideways at the behest of curled fingers, knee bumping in at the edge of the mattress. The flick of fingers. The back of his forefinger making contact with Marcus' wrist and scuffing purposefully against it—a smaller, more intimate gesture somewhat than bending down and kissing him would be.
His hand turns under that touch, comes to secure a loose grasp at the sleeve once Flint is bending to meet him. Lifts his chin for it, considering the resonance of the satisfied, happy thrum he feels at something asked for and given. And the touch to his hand, and the line Flint's mouth made of itself a moment ago. And even that skeptical glancing over.
Opens his hand without dropping it away once the kiss is done, sinking an inch or two more back into bed. He will move off well before ten, leaving behind sheets that aren't crumpled too suspiciously, with his personal self in decent enough order, with the intent of clawing his way through paperwork before the sun has turned over.
But he will definitely sleep in enough to enjoy it, says the slack line of his body, a crease at the corner of the eye.
The intention is easily recognizable. (He himself has done similar in the face of being abandoned in a reasonably comfortable bed by someone with a more stringent appointment schedule.) It prompts a sniff and a rough pat to the side of Marcus' thigh as Flint straightens away. The gesture is not entirely dissimilar from the Anderfels, Flint shoving Buggie's great head away to keep the griffon from nibbling at his sleeves, only to reward the bad behavior with scratching behind the ear feathers.
Spoiled bastard.
He moves off without further word, fetching sword belt and blade up from their idle posting on the way out the door. Marcus is bright enough to know how to make use of the room should he require anything from it without direction.
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no subject
Enough to evaluate Flint through the close press of eyelashes. Dressed. Then, assess the quality of light at the window. Early.
Another murmur. This one manages some crisper edges to the words as he says, "Morning," which also has enough tone to it to make it a greeting rather than just an observation.
no subject
Instead he adjusts the lay of his shirt collar under that of the coat.
"Morning."
Checks his pockets. Lays a hand briefly at his belt buckle. The unconscious rituals of a man who is preparing to walk out the door.
"I have an appointment in Kirkwall," he says.
no subject
Grunts at this news. There's the fleeting and completely senseless impulse to calculate whether he could get to a similar state of readiness as the other man in time to accompany him, but it dismantles itself under the barest pressure of sense.
Says, "I don't," from his sprawl, voice sleep-rough and creaky.
no subject
He moves then, tracking around the bed to the side table. There is a stack of papers there he should pocket to bring with him. Saying as he goes, "Matthias has work outside Kirkwall and won't be in the office, but one of the servants will tidy near ten."
Here are those papers, extracted from under a slim book. He folds them in half with a crinkling rasp.
no subject
At which point, he pulls himself nearer, nothing about the action implying he intends to leave the mattress but nearer all the same. He doesn't fuss with the sheets, still dressed in cotton drawers that he doesn't feel too brazen as he pulls in closer.
"Alright," he says. Noted. Settling there on this side of the mattress, "And when are you next free of your obligations?"
no subject
"I've an hour or two in the afternoon, but I don't mean to return here." Wasted effort, catching the ferry to and from. Beyond that—
"Otherwise, I can't say. Scouts suggest we've Venatori lingering in the Vinmark foothills. I might go take a look and see what can be done about digging them out. But I trust you've plenty to do."
Surely there are duties that Marcus has mentally assigned himself even if he hasn't yet quite made the changes on paper.
no subject
Talk of news from scouts and Venatori and foothills patter off of his own barely-awake fog, some twinge of complaint at the brow that is more directed at his attempt to focus than the man speaking to him directly. Almost against his will, Marcus recalls some communications that had crossed his desk with the city guard alongside some sideways comment about a missed shift or two.
Generally opaque, Flint probably has enough context to interpret the emergence of these thoughts in the subtle changes to Marcus' expression as he rests his head back against the board.
"If I manage my desk before you see about them, I wouldn't mind hunting something." You know, if Flint is offering.
no subject
A flicking glance sums Marcus up there against the bed's heavy headboard, the sheet across his thighs. It's a measuring look—the sort of consideration given over to a man recently out of a sick bed more than it is anything else.
The coat is twitched closed to lay flat across his shoulder.
"Let me know when you've done that." Is not a yes, is not a no.
no subject
But no comment. Instead, he says, "Aye Commander," which has some trace of humour to it. Then, he wanders a hand out to that edge of coat, snaring it between two curled fingers in the express invitation for some parting gesture.
no subject
But he does drift in that required step. Sidles sideways at the behest of curled fingers, knee bumping in at the edge of the mattress. The flick of fingers. The back of his forefinger making contact with Marcus' wrist and scuffing purposefully against it—a smaller, more intimate gesture somewhat than bending down and kissing him would be.
But sure that too. Why not.
no subject
Opens his hand without dropping it away once the kiss is done, sinking an inch or two more back into bed. He will move off well before ten, leaving behind sheets that aren't crumpled too suspiciously, with his personal self in decent enough order, with the intent of clawing his way through paperwork before the sun has turned over.
But he will definitely sleep in enough to enjoy it, says the slack line of his body, a crease at the corner of the eye.
no subject
Spoiled bastard.
He moves off without further word, fetching sword belt and blade up from their idle posting on the way out the door. Marcus is bright enough to know how to make use of the room should he require anything from it without direction.