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After this:

Marlowe's room is pretty much like most of the others, really. A table and chair, bathroom (with the door shut), double-bed. Perhaps a few more books then most, and perhaps those books are a little more worn and filled with notes, but it is pretty much just a basic room.

Marlowe himself is still asleep, tangled up in the sheets with one arm flung over his eyes...

Well.

Eye and eyepatch.

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"It is...I don't know what it is. Interesting enough, but."

"Dangerous."

Puck, Puck.

"Not so much."

"You haven't seen what I've seen, then."

Voice a little sharper than he meant it to be. Worry does that to you.

"Possibly not, but you haven't been to the taverns in the dregs of London, either. Your fight with Geoffrey is the only one I've seen, here."

"A friend was attacked by something."

Carding his hand through his hair.

"Something powerful and mean."

Though Marlowe says nothing, at first, and indeed is still naked and tangled in the sheets, there is a slight...

Shift.

Just mentally, maybe, but his stillness comes back; a poise, almost, made of a thousand restless, edgy, conflicting thoughts distilled into fight-or-flight. A glint to his eye that had vanished some time in the night came back in an instant.

"Oh?"

"So try to be descriminatory about who you piss off."

Darren eases down the headboard, so he can lie against the mattress more comfortably on his side, and look over at Marlowe.

Marlowe, who's in better shape than him if anything goes wrong.

A crooked smile at that, because this is Marlowe.

"I shall try," he promises. Trying doesn't lead to succeeding, let it all be said.

"I can't believe you're only a year younger than me, when anyone can see in fact you're frequently a total brat."

Funny, coming from Darren.

"Why, Darren, what a thing to say."

"And yet you're not denying it."

He wonders where he left his glasses. Without them, he's rather short sighted. There is some blinking envolved in this conversation.

"Well, no. That'd be dishonest."

Darren laughs, and reaches over to feel on the nighttable in case he had the good sense to leave them there.

"To your left a bit."

There we go.

"My thanks. I'm no good without them."

"Mmm," he says, softly. Curiously. Then he laughs. "Your time...it's incredible, you know?"

"You've learned what they do?"

Pulling them off and offering them to Marlowe to try.

"Basic idea..." He accepts and slides them on (with a bit of fumbling, one must admit, but he's gentle), and then blinks.

"Can you see better or worse?"

Darren has a pretty strong perscription.

"Worse, I think. It's all...sharp, but too sharp and slightly warped." He blinks again and slips them off, handing them over.

"Might work better if I had two eyes, of course. It fucks with things."

"It shouldn't, for these. One day perhaps we'll go bother an optometrist. But from the sounds of things, you're fine."

"I should hope so." Losing his other eye would be worse then losing his hands.

Far, far worse.

"Who knows. They might have something useful to say."

Darren shrugs, and places his glasses back on.

"Reading by candlelight doesn't hurt. Stop it?"