First New Story | Video

[hellofist]

[She knows that it's a cruel trick to do this now, in the middle of the night in the middle of a flood where people may or may not have their original memories. Everyone is too busy dealing with their own things, and so that's why she does this now.

It's underhanded, but it's happening. She's broadcasting from inside her room, a cramped, run down little thing with cracked plaster and a beaten up dresser and a bed and nothing else. She sits on the bed, cup of tea balanced in her lap, and tries not to think about what she's saying as she says it.]

Figured, should... do this, officially. My name is Cassandra Cain. I was here, before. As a warden.

[Still hurts to admit that, but she charges on through as best she can.]

I'm not anymore. Don't remember everything, just that... I was here. Some things came back, memories of... some people. Some places. Mostly, it's new.

That's all. [Except maybe she'll inject something in there to make it seem like she's trying.] Good luck, with new bodies. Shouldn't last long, don't worry.

Comments

[nightmaring]

[He waves a hand dismissively: as far as he's concerned, he's unaffected except for the room switch up. Well - maybe he is affected. But he's now about to let the Admiral mess with his own internal logic. Again.

He's a man. He's always been a man. No one will convince him otherwise, no matter how many gowns fill his wardrobe.]

Waiting for the histrionics to end. At least it quiets down at night.

[Pointed look. She waited for the middle of the night for a reason, didn't she.]

[hellofist]

[She won't meet his eyes when he says that, looking down at her tea and lifting it up for a sip instead. She knows this is rotten, that this isn't how you treat people who care for you, but she won't take it back. They'll get over it, move on.]

Makes sense. People sleep then.

[nightmaring]

Most people.

[He waits, and when she doesn't offer anything, he pushes. He's good at pushing.]

It might make more sense to say hello when most people are awake.

[hellofist]

[She just shrugs.]

You're awake.

[nightmaring]

And I'm the only one that matters?

[His tone is full on sarcasm; his body screams say yes say yes say yes.]

[hellofist]

[This is unexpected. There was something there with Morgana, but it wasn't anything like this. A shade of it, but never anything this blatant. It's odd, but... it's not entirely unwelcome.]

You matter more... than you think. You just don't see it, sometimes.

[nightmaring]

[It's not what he expected: he never quite understands how easily she can read the things he does not say, and he's forgotten it to some extent. Morgan pauses, thrown off balance. He wants to ask, really, or can you see it,, but instead he reaches for his pride, surrounds himself with it like armor.]

I see how much I matter.

[It's an empty boast, and it's what he thinks is the truth. He mattered enough to cast out, and no more.]

[hellofist]

[Memories of Uther are vague in the way a lot of things here are. They're like a thing told through a game of telephone, the real meaning watered down and watered down until something not entirely true but still accurate is left. She knows she doesn't like Uther, and that's what she latches onto.]

To some, more than others. Remember that.

[nightmaring]

[He wants to latch onto her word as law. He chooses to take it as she means it, and to run with it: he means something to her. That is what he holds onto.]

Why is your room so shabby?

[He's a little lighter, but still straightforward as ever.] It doesn't suit you.

[This is.....almost a compliment.]

[hellofist]

[Of course he does, and that's something she wouldn't be afraid to say out loud where anyone could hear it. It's not new, it's something that's just so known to her that it seems like a fact everyone should be aware of, even him.]

It's not that bad.

[It's small and falling apart in places, the bed is just big enough for her, and there isn't much at all that's homey about it. She says it's not bad, but as soon as it's out of her mouth another piece of plaster cracks free from the wall.

She ignores it, even though it was perfectly framed and she knows he'll have seen that. Her room is a traitor.]

[nightmaring]

[He doesn't even bother trying to hide his smile.]

Say it again. Maybe your bed will collapse next.

[He doesn't offer her a place to stay in his room; it wouldn't be appropriate. Besides, he only has the one bed.]

[hellofist]

It's fine.

[No collapsing bed, thankfully. No more plaster falling, no lights disconnecting from the ceiling, the dresser doesn't explode. The room is fine, because her surroundings don't matter much to her.]

Would just leave, if it wasn't. Go for walks, sleep other places.

[nightmaring]

Where? [There's an aggressive note in his voice, almost protective. Who would she go to, why, for how long. He hears it and swallows.]

You could just ask someone to fix it. [Hint. Ask him.]

[hellofist]

[Giving actual names, as harmless as they may be, seems like a very bad idea. Cassel and Chris, Barbara, Anya, she knows if she were to ever ask they wouldn't turn her away. Stephanie would of course be the first choice, but Stephanie is Stephen now. Cass gets the feeling that would not go over well at all if she told this version of Morgana she wanted to sleep in Stephen's room.]

The common room. Library. Laundry room, maybe.

[And she doesn't want her room fixed, but he wants to be asked. Can he? With magic, maybe. Without the proper tools he likely can't with his own hands, and she isn't sure if he would ask the Admiral when she has to assume that any male version would hate asking for things from the barge just as much Morgana would have. She hated the barge, so asking for things doesn't seem likely.

And now Cassandra is curious and, for better or worse, wants to see this body language up close.]

Come fix it, then.

spam

[nightmaring]

[His smile is surprised, but pleased. He doesn't bother answering, just kills the feed and heads for her room.

He's not actually certain that he can do this. He's never tried to clean up a room as much as hers needs cleaning, but he's certainly not going to admit that. Instead, he pauses outside her room, reminding himself that this flood did nothing to his magic. Then he knocks.]

spam

[hellofist]

[She leaves her tea on the dresser when she goes to answer the door and for a moment, she stands there and watches the cup to see if it will put the dresser off balance and cause it to topple over and break into a million pieces, but no. Entirely safe surface to put things on.

It really isn't as bad as Morgan seems to think. When she opens the door, she isn't surprised it's him and she takes a moment to look him over, all the parts that are Morgana but hidden under a layer of masculinity and reshaped into what might have been had one tiny thing gone differently. All in all, it's a nice package no matter what the wrapping looks like.]

No tool kit?

spam

[nightmaring]

[He scoffs, mostly jokingly.] I don't need one.

[It's all swagger, but it's confidence, too. He's one of the most powerful warlocks in the world, after all. Morgan bows slightly, just inclining his shoulders rather than sweeping fully.]

May I come in?

spam

[hellofist]

[She nods and reaches out, putting a hand on his arm to draw him in so she can close the door behind him. She's always been tactile, this is nothing new, but is in a way. She's never been this aware of where Morgana is in relation to her own body, but every inch of her is keeping track of where Morgan is.

It's weird.]

You can leave it. It's really fine. Doesn't bother me.

spam

[nightmaring]

[Most of this flood is weird. All the same, Morgan is plenty aware of her hand on his arm. He's aware of her. Shaking his head, he steps around, turning to face her but not removing himself beyond arm's reach. Unlike Morgana, he never was very tactile - but he doesn't mind it, not with people he cares about.]

I lived in a hut. And abandoned castles.

[He looks around her room, and shakes his head again.]

It bothered me.

[It's not just arrogance, not only selfishness: he wants to make something better for her.]

spam

[hellofist]

I've lived in worse.

[Burned out falling down buildings, for one. She's slept on the dirt in the wilderness. There's a bed here, and a place to put her tea. It's not the best place she's lived, thanks to Bruce and his millions of dollars and no hesitation to spend it on his proteges, but it's hard not to feel a little defensive of her room. It's nice, by some standards.

But she doesn't see that it bothered Morgan to live where he did, she sees that it bothers him that she lives here now. It's because he wants to do this that she finally sighs and nods.]

Okay. Do what you want.

[She certainly isn't picky about the end product or worried about what his decorating choices will be.]

spam

[nightmaring]

[He can't create from nothing. He can't give her furs and drapes, candlesticks and decorations. But he thinks he can at least make certain it won't fall down around her.]

You'll like it better. Trust me.

[She already does, he thinks, he hopes. Looking around, his eyes glow gold, bright in his pale face, framed by dark hair. A wind whips briefly around them, kicking up his hair, pulling at his clothes. By and large, it leaves Cassandra alone. But the plaster that fell earlier is caught by it, sealed back into place. Slowly, the cracks fill, the broken things mend, the run down-ness of the room fades. Chips fade from furniture and floorboards, squeaks vanish as everything fits together properly.

When he turns his attention on the dresser, her tea cup rises in the air, floats to him on a gentler wind while the wooden pieces reshape themselves.

When it's done - it's not a new room. He can't do anything. But he can do nearly that, and it is certainly less likely to fall apart on her while she sleeps.

He turns and hands her the cup, pride running through the lines of his body.]

spam

[hellofist]

[She trusts Morgana with her life, so she trusts Morgan with it too, but she isn't think of that as the wind sweeps through her room and goes to work putting things right. She's caught in how familiar this feels, a soul-deep sense of gladness that this magic is being worked with pride and without fear.

She remembers clearly the golden eyes and that it had once meant so much to her, but it's only Morgana here now. There's so much tied up in how it feels for her to see magic and it must have all come from how deeply she cares about Morgana, and Morgan. It's comforting, in its own way. When it's done and the wind settles and Morgan is facing her, cup in hand, her reaction feels as normal, as routine as breathing.

She takes the cup, but reaches one hand up to touch Morgan's cheek and leans up towards him. It feels natural as anything to kiss his cheek to thank him, and she does exactly that.]

It looks good. Thank you.

spam

[nightmaring]

[He freezes when she kisses his cheek. He can feel his skin warming, and struggles as if he can fight the flow of blood back. He's torn. He's pleased, certainly - that she likes it, that she still thinks of magic as something beautiful - but is he a substitute, a stand in for someone she wants more? The question burns through him like anger. He doesn't want to be angry at her.

Instead, he gives her the same half bow again, and makes himself smile.]

Of course it does. Anything would have looked better.

[It's not true, and he doesn't mean it to be believed. He does pause, uncertainty thrumming briefly through him.]

I'm glad you like it.

spam

[hellofist]

[Her thumb rubs at his cheek as she watches him, all of the things going through him. What is he jealous of? Why? Can he not see that she wouldn't have let anyone else fix her room this way? No one else has been invited in, no one else has even seen the state of her room until this broadcast.]

I like it... because you made it.

[She isn't sure what she's arguing for here, she just knows that she wants to to impress on him that what he's done does matter.]

spam

[nightmaring]

[He almost reaches up to pull her hand away - how often as he sabotaged himself, how many times has he refused himself something on a scant suspicion - but she speaks again and the anger slips out of him. He reaches up, but instead of yanking her hand away, he settles his on top of hers.]

Do you really?

[The question is soft, unsure, something he so rarely allows himself to be. She is important. And he doesn't want this if it isn't real.]