[Ronan rolls his eyes. He's shirtless but thankfully wearing sleep pants, even if his legs are still a bit tangled in the sheets. It's a mess, sure, but it's not his fault that he takes things sometimes, even nonsensical things like the bottles filled with a substance that looks suspiciously like pure mercury, or the shimmering glove so small that you could barely fit two fingers into it. It's a compulsion as much as it is a need, and Sharon knows about his abilities at least so she can't be freaked out by it.

What she doesn't know about though, are the scars on his arms- the ones he usually keeps covered by the half dozen leather bands he usually wears around each wrist. They're long and jagged, clearly life threatening at one point, and Ronan remembers them a few moments too late, turning his hands inward while she works on the cords around his wrists.]

Thanks.

[He sits up once free, lowering his arms by his side for the first time in what feels like hours, wincing a little as the blood starts to flow properly again. His intricate black tattoo, more ink than skin, stretches across his shoulders when he reaches for a shirt to throw on, sulking a little as Sharon takes stock of the rest of the room.]

At least I threw out the human skulls before Parrish went full Misery on my ass. [Though he'd have loved seeing her reaction to them.] Where else am I supposed to keep all this shit, anyway?