[ The other boot comes off, because apparently JL isn't turning him down yet - things can change fast in their line of business, sure, and between them, too. Just how it goes. Gotta take your fucking chances. And instead of kicking him in the nuts, JL pulls off his other sock, talking to him about his damaged reputation (like the rest of the world wouldn't fucking tremble in front of his Pa in a foul mood), as if this were any other day of beating the crap out of someone, getting your ass kicked in turn. Like Marcel hasn't moved in for real now. Like Marcel won't have to build it all up from scratch, going forward.

Hey, it might be what they need, right? A reset of work affiliations and a complete upheaval of the gang, here and now... Anyway, he was never one to worry, like, shit. He shrugs and gets to his feet while JL turns around and works off his trousers. Marcel watches him through one narrowed eye, nosebleed finally completely dried up. ]

He ain't gonna be able to hold on to no fucking rolling pin for a while.

[ His jeans land around his naked feet and he steps out of them without showing any of the throbbing pain that's really eating away at his fucking right foot now that the blood flow's up and running. Instead he kicks them in the general direction of the laundry basket, in shadow somewhere in the farthest corner. His aim's good, yeah. It lands halfway on top of the thing. Slides down, pooling on the floor. A snort, disinterested and tasting like copper, as he turns his back to it, prying his boxers off. Pulling them down in one careless motion, he leaves them on the floor, mostly to see what JL's gonna do about it.

Speaking of which, he turns his head again and takes a look at the other man, how he's progressing. ]