[Fortunately, the marquis's ego is fully intact. He doesn't foresee any future in which he will use his skills anything less than exquisitely. What's the point of a skill if you can't wind it deftly into place in use against your enemies, or, when it becomes necessary, your friends? He certainly doesn't know.]

[His gaze ticks over to Dean. Then he takes another drink, without blinking, without looking away.]

All that jazz.

[He wants to say You're worried out loud, to get it out of the way and out in the open, but he doesn't. It would be discourteous, he thinks. Dean would not thank him. Not that he particularly wants or needs Dean's thanks, but - well. Consider this a pleasant last look. He doesn't want it to be of Dean pouting.]

I will be exquisite. Don't bother considering any other outcomes, they're statistically so unlikely as to be basically impossible.