Re: Quiet Home: Damian & Misha
There was a fraction of a moment where Misha was close, less than a breath away, and Damian blinked at him, unmoving. He did nothing as that robin's egg gaze shifted, faltered. But, it did not last long, that moment. The prophetic certainty in the angel's voice was gone and his phantom must have spoken. The reaction was immediate. Damian put his hands over Misha's where he was grabbed, having allowed himself to be taken off-guard by the boy enough that this surprised him. (Stupid.) He frowned, parsing, listening to the angel beg him, promise him filthy favors in exchange for keeping him away from the spirit.
"I—" He had intended to swear to return with Father and the papers. He reached out to either touch Misha's shoulder or perhaps his cheek, he hadn't decided, but before he could, the boy had his hands up—covering his ears—then down, grappling at the fly of Damian's black jeans.—Roughly, Damian tried to shove the clamoring, clammy fingers away, confused and startled all at once. He had not been ready and suffered for it. It was reflex that attended to the disturbance, but by then, then nurses and others had gathered around as lion tamers behind bars, warily circling the small, gray boy, before sticking him with something.
The nurse that remained received a glare full of cold, unbridled fury. "Do not touch me." He practically spat, but had forced himself to be too collected to do so. It did not matter than she was meant to assist. He found her presence beyond bothersome, and now Misha had been dragged away. This had to stop. Damian turned on his heel. His heart raced spectacularly in his chest and he ignored it with skill. The pound of blood was familiar, even if the reasons behind it were not. He would go find Father now. There was no time to waste.