Re: Capital: Misha/Damian/Jason
His first thought was that he ought to have brought a gun. Anything. Something small. So that he might shoot their interloper where he stood, interloping. His second was that he was experiencing a surreal, foreign mix of something that boiled close to embarrassment (mortification?) and snapping sense of not having to care what others thought, which brought him to an uneven middle ground. There was color to dark cheeks, yes, but that could have been from other actions, rather than Woods. Fucking Woods.—Perhaps Misha found this intrusion sweet. Damian did not. He opened his mouth to say something, just as Woods told him he had tracked him by his phone.
He was so stupid. Whenever he went anywhere, Damian had enough forethought to either discard his phone and employ a burner, or to turn off the location services, so that he might be able to do what he wished in peace, especially if what he wished involved a certain level of illegality. This was not illegal. But, it was annoying all the same, and the only person Damian could truly blame was himself.—His expression was wiped to nothing but a slight ruffle of irritation and derision, and he rolled his eyes at Woods. "Am I meant to thank you, Woods?"—Even through all of this, he was still very much aware of Misha's reaction, however, the way the boy attempted to come between the men (as if Damian could not hold his own; but he knew this was Misha's way. He was a guardian angel, after all). He felt the touch to his hip, the soft, nearly imperceptible sound of feathers on the air, and even the wariness in angelic voice, before everything came together.
Misha smiled over his shoulder and Damian glared back, a concrete wall of coldness between the man and everything and everyone else. Notably, however, he did not step away from the boy. He was there, close as he had been, and he took the pale hand that sought his, almost as if by instinct. He knew he could not undo what Woods had seen. He did not know that he particularly wanted to. In fact, Damian did not know what he wanted at all, in that moment, other than to shoot Woods in the skull. Even the impulse behind that was beyond him just now. With a yearning that felt like nicotine withdrawal, Damian wished for his hoodie. He would have pulled the hood up just now. But, he did not have it and wishing for things one did not, and could not have, was illogical and stupid.
"Why are you smiling like that?" He asked Woods testily, though he knew the answer. To Misha, he huffed. With his free hand, he took out his phone, wiped it, tossed it to the ground, and—with a slight pull on fingers—stomped the device to nothing under one black sneaker and several metric pounds of force. He looked back to Woods, then Misha, his chin up with stubbornness. "Just go in, if we are going in, so that we may be done with this so-called conversation." Damian had his claws out and he did not even know why. He turned toward Misha once more and told him, "I am going to order a drink."