Re: Quiet Home: Damian & Misha
Damian hoped that when he came back with Father, he might be able to sneak a vacutainer in to get a sample of Misha's blood for testing. If not that, then that he might be drugged when they took him back to the manor—just enough that, again, they might discover what he had been given. Sedatives could cause hallucinations, it was true, but it was not difficult to ascertain that something about this particular drug was different. Perhaps the man assumed that had Misha had something like this before, he would have told him, though he, in the other's place, would never have admitted to it. However, Misha was not him. Obviously.—Regardless, though they might only find a common sedative in the angel's blood, it would be good to know.
No part of Damian had anticipated that the bottles in his room had been espied by anyone that night the ninja attacked. He would have to find a better place for them now. Woods may have witnessed what Misha did, and there were few conversations he wanted to have less than that particular one with Woods.—It said far too much about Damian and his trust for the boy in front of him, that he did not expect Misha to be disgusted with him. Though it was disgusting, to sink to such a level. No, if he truly thought he would be considered a disgrace in the angel's pale blue eyes, he would never had said a word.
He did not appreciate the wise nod, however, nor the insistence that Misha saw a lot about him. He frowned at him. And because he did not think it would be noticed anyway, given the other's state, the man allowed himself to put his hands in his pockets, in spite of how obviously defensive the posture was. "You do not," he said of seeing, but it was just words and stalling. Damian's gaze followed the pop of fingers released from the seal of lips. Misha's saliva shined there. He looked up.
Damian did not want to make an admission. "Yes." Though he believed he managed the addiction well, by utilizing the suboxone, so as not to go through withdrawal. Very adamantly and very immediately, anger bubbled up inside of the man, then subsided in a freezing wash of doubt. He did not wish to talk about this, but he especially did not wish to talk about this now. (Though, a part of him reasoned this would be the best time, as Misha was less likely to remember it with perfect clarity.) Still, he refused to ask the boy if it changed anything or if he still liked him, as that was entirely, disgustingly pathetic. So, instead, he just glared.