"What is this, your interrogation room?" Marco is cooly distant as he takes the other seat, and he doesn't bother getting terribly cozy. This isn't going to be a cozy experience.

His expression barely changes from its well-practiced adolescent disdain while York lectures him, except when he bats at her hand as she gives his head a thump. The moment she opened her mouth, he put her in the rapidly growing category of people who, for some crazy reason or another, decided that his well being was part of their business; the more she nags, the greater the gap that grows between them.

"Yeah, okay, York, chalk this up to good old teenage self destructive habits and call it a day." He folds his arms, the creaking of the body armor under his hoodie reminding him of the amount of trouble he has very rapidly gotten himself into, as if he was in danger of forgetting.

"Besides," he continues, his eyes darkening a shade, "you're not beautiful enough to be my mother anyway."

Who does she think she is, anyway? She's being way closer to him than he thinks she gets to be, and he can't forget that she knew some weird time warp version of himself; his gaze is coldly calculating as he stares her down, trying to figure out how much she thinks she knows him.