Some days are magic, and I can do anything.

[bumbles]

Date & Time: Monday 13th, morning.
Location: Palace of CRUSHING EMOTION aka. Morgana and Arya's place
Characters: Donny & imposter-sister Morgana
Summary: oh god personal space and tattoos
Warnings: Donny being agonisingly awkward and Morgana being unapologetically fascinated


( Even before the crash, he'd been evading the Initiative housing. Went in to shower, grab bedding scavenge things from the room that was meant to be his. Not taking a thing from anyone else, but claiming bits and pieces that where he could.

At least he had already known Morgana: when he decided to remove himself from the official housing completely, he'd been able to work up the nerve to ask if he could use her shower, sometimes. After a night of wandering rooftops and trapping petty criminals in stone cages, trading bruises and all the rest, being able to immerse himself in a hot shower was all he wanted. He never appeared as Atlas, though, always as Donny.

It's a day like the other thirteen that have crossed his path, here, letting the water blaze over his skin, and missing the days when water could burn him, just a little bit.

Anyway. He steps out of the shower, and his skin is dry almost immediately, pulling on boxers and jeans, letting his fingers run over the Sphinx on his ribs. It was a ritual, now, more than it had ever been before. Thank God he had that, because it was a way to remind himself that there was a world back home that was real, that Max was real.

He's still staring at the tattoo as he palms the counter for his toothbrush, but-- oh, crap, he left it in his bag. Okay, fine. That's fine. Maybe he can just lean out of the bathroom far enough to grab his backpack, and no one will see.

It's a nice thought, when you forget you are currently invading the personal space of one very intense young sorceress, and that there are tattoos decorating the arm in question: a celtic band across his bicep, the tree of life on the inside of his forearm. )

Comments

[scinlae]

[ A puzzle, she had decided when he first asked (she had smirked despite herself, watching as his reaction when she said yes), he is a puzzle that is missing some of the vital pieces. A mystery that dares not to be solved, it would not be as interesting if she knew all the secrets but she wants to know them. She pokes and watches and hopes they fall into her lap.

They never did.

And she often thinks they never will as she watches him come and go, sometimes moving like a man injured. She does not ask where he got them, she thinks the questions but they never leave her mouth, she only ever asks if there is anything she can do to help.

This night, much like the rest, she sits awake. Listening to the sounds of the shower- the running water makes her think of the forests of Camelot. When it stops her eyes snap open, attention focuses on the bathroom door half hoping to exchange a few broken words before he disappears again.

But he leans out of the bathroom and she stands, eyes widening as her brow furrows. The ink upon his skin-- ]

Wait.

[ A command, one she expects him to listen too. Once close enough she invades his space without missing a beat, taking a hold of his arm to gain a better look. ]

How- [ The tree. ] How did you come to get this?

[bumbles]

Um.

( Another moment of oratorical brilliance from Adonis Casey.
He doesn't flinch, at least, when she takes his arm. It's not quite so alarming as the first time, although he frowns, gaze dropping to the tattoos as he tries to work out what she wants to know. It's obvious they're from very different worlds, or times at least, and it takes him a second to figure out how to respond. )

It's, um, a t-tattoo. There's a shop, in N-New York, where I um, where I g-go. They, um, they p-put the ink under your skin, or um, under the uh, the-- ( Okay, he can't quite make himself go into a technical explanation, talking is horrible at the best of times. ) I asked her t-to, um, design me a tree, so.

( "A tree" is rather vague, but he doesn't imagine she'd care all that much about the details, being from Ireland originally, and all that. Though, he peaks out a little more from the door, debating trying to grab the toothbrush anyway, and more tattoos might come into view - just glimpses of different patterns on his skin, before he draws back again. No, he... really would rather be wrapped up in several layers, when Morgana is around, for various reasons. )

[scinlae]

[ She gives him a long suffering look, annoyed clearly because he did not answer her question in the slightest. He dodged it and told her things she already knew. ]

I know what the marking is. [ She remembers Mordred, so young and sick, and the triple spiral sitting upon his chest. ] And this is more than just a tree.

[ His attempts to flee back into the bathroom will have to wait, she casts her gaze down to the tree again thumb brushing over the ink. More than a tree, so much more. He would not imprint it upon his skin if it was a simple tree.

(a red tree upon a black banner, a symbol of so much, of their magic and her kingdom) ]

I have seen the tree before, in the middle of the Isle of the Blessed. I sat before it with my sister.

[bumbles]

( Okay, this is-- okay, all right, he can, uh. He can do this. Nodding, slowly, he just eases himself out of the bathroom, shoulders haunches and awkward, but allowing her a few of all his tattoos, though his free arm crosses protectively over his stomach. The tree was obviously important to her, and it was important to him, so hiding behind a door didn't really seem fair. As much as he really, really wants to. )

My, um. Family is from Ireland. That's where I was b-born, and um, the-- the ancient religion there, that was-- d-druids, and um. The tree, was really-- the t-tree of life, it was important.

( He's staring at it himself, now, a bit embarrassed. His tattoos had always been for himself: never for scrutiny. ) I g-got it when I uh, w-worked out my magic. P-protection and um, and magic, and--

( His voice drops quieter, not that he ever really speaks very loudly. ) I thought I c-could connect, with the ancient magic.

( I'm stupid, his voice suggests, dismissive. )

[scinlae]

I know. [ Briefly she looks over the rest of him, most of them mean little to her. The creature gets a longer look than the rest, but that is all it is. ]

It is also known as the Rowan tree. [ She is little too much out, being too honest and she knows it. ] I have seen it's magic.

[ Brushing her thumb over the ink again she tilts her head, gaze trying to find his own. ]

You were wise to ink it into your skin.

[bumbles]

R-Rowan. ( That he can remember, repeats it over to himself, under his breath. Her next comment, though, leaves him stumped, and he's shaking his head. Insistent. )

I'm n-not-- ( Not wise. Not much of anything. His gaze stays down, but he can feel her looking at him, and he glances up, holds her gaze for a few moments, before he lets his hair fall in front of his eyes, just kind of hiding, and his hand nervously presses over the sphinx. )

My, um. They're-- c-comforting.

( And explanation. Half of one. Or less, a part of one. )

[scinlae]

[ A smile tugs at her lips and she thinks it odd, as odd as her affection for the girl of many names. There is something about him, something that reminds her that her heart still beats. Something that drags forward things she would much rather deny. ]

You are wise, though you do not see it. Wise and foolish in the same breath.

[ Finally she lets go of his arm, her own hands falling to her sides as she looks at the beast again. ]

What is it? That beast. It almost looks like a Griffin.

[bumbles]

( Because there's nothing to see, he almost wants to reply, but he knows better than to say it. He wonders if Max would like Morgana, because sometimes they say such similar things, even though they are so different. His smile is rueful, though he does nothing particular to undermine her observation.

Letting his hand slide away from the sphinx, he takes a moment to consider it. ) It's-- the sphinx p-protected Thebes. She um, she asked r-riddles. ( A brief, moment, looking up at her, because Thebes would mean nothing. ) Um. Ancient G-- Greece, it was a civilisation, um. They-- it uh, is meant to b-be this-- like a foundation? For the modern... modern world.

( That was a lot of words, and he hangs his head, feeling a little exhausted by it, because he can just imagine his father's face, Phoebe's expression as well, at that explanation and how they could go on and on for hours. And in the end, it doesn't even matter. Phoebe or his father could recite the stories of the sphinx at length analyse them, could give Morgana quotes and references, and it wouldn't be the truth of it at all.

His fingertips traces the outline of it, expression wavering. ) It's Max.

[scinlae]

[ Something to look into later, she thinks, it would be easier to read up on it herself than make him explain when he clearly cannot. Even so she finds herself smiling fondly at him.

But that smile does not last long, she bids it vanish once she realizes it is there. ]

Max?

[bumbles]

She's--

( How do you explain Max? His boss? A mentor? The supervillain that was making more of a difference to the world - a good one - than any of the superheroes could ever dream of doing? Max lives in the shadows, she changes her face and calls herself a monster, when the treasure she hoards is being used to save lives. Max was manipulative and dangerous. Max was the only person who gave him time to speak.

When he finally brings himself to look at Morgana, he's not able to meet her gaze for long, just scant moments before he settles for lookign at her jaw or her cheek, anywhere that isn't her eyes, and even that falters again. )

I l-love Max.

( So very quiet. So very pathetic, Adonis. Which he's never said out loud, but the way things are, he might never see Max again and he wants someone else to know. He can pretend that he's confiding something to his sister. )

[scinlae]

[ To say she did not expect that confession is an understatement, her eyes widen and she searches his face and is shocked to see how genuine he seems.

Unbidden her thoughts wander to Arthur (If anything happens to Arthur, I will find you, no matter how long it takes.), she remembers loud silences and hidden looks. She tries to push them aside but they return, they always return sometimes with thoughts of Sharpe as company. ]

She is lucky to be so loved.

[ Morgana can takes jealousy on her tongue and it is all she can do not to tear away from him. She does not want to look jealous, but she feels it. To him Max is important, to him Max will be first if he loves her as much as he says.

No one puts her first, not anymore. They all left her for her brother, for Arthur. ]

[bumbles]

( His mouth twists, a mockery of something that should have been a smile, and he shakes his head. She's not lucky, not at all, because of who it is, because of who she is. )

No.

( Very softly. The embarrassment is sinking in, now he has a moment to think about what he said, now that Morgana's acknowledged it. She's not Selene: Selene might have brushed him off, given him a look or said really, Adonis?, because they both knew how stupid that was. And it'd be even worse, because Selene had actually met Max. )

She-- that's n-not lucky.

( Max could be kind to him, the way she's kind to all the people under her care, but she'd never want this, him. His expression cracks. While he'd normally ask if it was okay, if she'd kind him grabbing his shirt, he just goes to grab it because he's left himself too exposed already. )

'm s-sorry, that was-- ( stupid, he had been so very stupid. )

[scinlae]

[ She can see the weights to his words, feels an itch to press further but restrains herself. She swallows the words, eyes following him as he grabs his shirt. Almost frantically she scrambles to rebuild some semblance of a wall around herself, vulnerability sneaking underneath her skin and leaving a sour taste in her mouth.

If he looks- if he truly looks there is much he can see and she does not want that, she cannot have that. ]

No.

[ Morgana shakes her head, taking a step backwards almost as if repelled by some sort of invisible force. ]

Do not apologize. [ Subconsciously she hugs her arms to herself, vulnerability and jealously mixing unpleasantly. Suddenly she wants him to close the door, as if she had been the one caught in his position and not him, in fear of him seeing something she would rather hide. ]

[bumbles]

( Of course she pulled away. She thought he was pathetic, didn't she?

His expression slips a little, too raw and too painful, because she pulled away, but he's trying not to acknowledge it, let it show. As if he can hide it and change it all in the few moments where he is pulling on his long sleeve shirt and then his t-shirt. Everything will be different, because he can hide his face for a few moments! Suddenly, everything is so much better!

Adonis is childish, he is useless. He wants the things he can never have, because of who he is. He longs for people that will never want him, because nobody likes broken things. Everything is meant to have a purpose, but a broken thing simply takes up space. )

Th-thanks for uh, the-- ( Gesturing towards the bathroom, as his skin burns uncomfortably. )

[scinlae]

[ He is in good company, though she tries very hard not to let it show but it does in short bursts- part of her is thankful he does not spend long here, that he is never around to hear her wake up screaming. He would know then, he would know of her weakness, of how broken and tired and sore she is.

She inhales, gaze focused on something other than him as her fingers dig into her arms. ]

Of course. [ There is no need to look, she knows what he means- she is becoming quite good at that, at understanding his half broken sentences. ]

You are always welcome.

[bumbles]

Yep.

( Fumbling, making sure he has his sketchbook, tucking it under his arm and double checking his bag to make sure all his uniform is there. His chest feels as if it might be caving in. And then, he looks at Morgana, brief, before his gaze flickers back to her again. He wants to lay a hand over hers and stop the way her fingers grip into her arm; but that would be presumptuous. It would be the assumption that he wasn't the one that made her that uncomfortable, by virtue of his own hopelessness.

He shoulders the bag, one hand gripping the sketchbook. )

Um--

( Speak, idiot. Words. ) L-later.

( And he has to go then, before he makes this worse, before he upsets her more or makes even more of a fool out of himself. )