[He follows the path he's directed on-- quickly when Damian nudges him lest the other boy become truly aggravated (he's pretty forceful even on matters that are normally mundane, he observes). He makes a beeline for the bathroom, placing the clothes on the lid-covered toilet and gingerly closing the door behind him.
He doesn't intend to get distracted here. It's a simple enough task to peel off the uniform he's been wearing for weeks and put the borrowed clothes on after. But being in the bathroom is the first time he's been faced with a mirror in some time. Occasionally he'll catch his own reflection in a glass window or a puddle of rainwater, but he's always had his mask to hide from the world, and any glimpses he can catch in the Talons' compound aren't much better.
His hair is a mess. It's getting long and it's probably a miracle it hasn't become a detriment to his line of sight. A few faded scars and some lines under his eyes aren't so bad. But his skin is still pale enough to look like death, and the paleness makes it easy to see the visible, discolored, blue-grey veins resting just beneath the surface, running up his neck and both sides of his face. That looks wrong. His skin kind of matches the ivory faces (masks) of the higher-ups of the Court, but the branching grey lines are completely wrong.
No one else in this house looks that way, and he hates himself for how it makes him look.
He glared right back at his reflection for another moment, and then abruptly turned away, focusing his attention once more on the task at hand. In no time he removes the remains of his uniform still on his person, and pulls on everything else; the underclothes, the pants, shirt, slips on the boots. The shirt is a little loose around the collar, but he's pleasantly surprised when everything fits well enough. When he slides the coat on-- well, he turns back and he feels like maybe he's improved a little, with the new colors maybe taking some attention away from his own greys.
But for extra measure, he tugs the hood up over his head (and boy is he happy he ended up choosing something with a hood), adjusts the fabric so it falls to obscure most of his jawline and the ruined skin.
He does actually feel a little better now, with something fresh and loose against his skin. Maybe the uniform was getting more musty than he thought.
Satisfied, he hastily exits the bathroom, carrying the remains of his uniform now occupying his hands in place of the bundle of clothes from before.]
Ready...!
[To Damian's credit, at least now that he's not staring at a mirror, he does seem a bit more ready to go.]
no subject
He doesn't intend to get distracted here. It's a simple enough task to peel off the uniform he's been wearing for weeks and put the borrowed clothes on after. But being in the bathroom is the first time he's been faced with a mirror in some time. Occasionally he'll catch his own reflection in a glass window or a puddle of rainwater, but he's always had his mask to hide from the world, and any glimpses he can catch in the Talons' compound aren't much better.
His hair is a mess. It's getting long and it's probably a miracle it hasn't become a detriment to his line of sight. A few faded scars and some lines under his eyes aren't so bad. But his skin is still pale enough to look like death, and the paleness makes it easy to see the visible, discolored, blue-grey veins resting just beneath the surface, running up his neck and both sides of his face. That looks wrong. His skin kind of matches the ivory faces (masks) of the higher-ups of the Court, but the branching grey lines are completely wrong.
No one else in this house looks that way, and he hates himself for how it makes him look.
He glared right back at his reflection for another moment, and then abruptly turned away, focusing his attention once more on the task at hand. In no time he removes the remains of his uniform still on his person, and pulls on everything else; the underclothes, the pants, shirt, slips on the boots. The shirt is a little loose around the collar, but he's pleasantly surprised when everything fits well enough. When he slides the coat on-- well, he turns back and he feels like maybe he's improved a little, with the new colors maybe taking some attention away from his own greys.
But for extra measure, he tugs the hood up over his head (and boy is he happy he ended up choosing something with a hood), adjusts the fabric so it falls to obscure most of his jawline and the ruined skin.
He does actually feel a little better now, with something fresh and loose against his skin. Maybe the uniform was getting more musty than he thought.
Satisfied, he hastily exits the bathroom, carrying the remains of his uniform now occupying his hands in place of the bundle of clothes from before.]
Ready...!
[To Damian's credit, at least now that he's not staring at a mirror, he does seem a bit more ready to go.]