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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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.
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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.