Re: Rehab: Misha B & Damian W
[If the nosebleed was the blood of all of his victims, which he was beginning to believe it was, in spite of the impossibility—if it was, then it was never going to cease. This trickle would flow and flow and flow and flow and flow...—Damian knew Misha was frightened. He could tell. He could feel the prickle of tensity. Tension. Whichever. Still, he did mourn the fading of that glow. It had shaded against the red, it had offered counterpoint.] 'Holy fire,' [Damian repeated, wondering what that was as his gaze stuck, mired and stalled out.
The coolness of the ice was nice. The man thought this. Inside his head, this thought came. Electrical activity in the brain. Neurons, neuron clusters, circuits, glucose, adenosine triphosphate... Hmm, okay. The ice was nice. Damian stared up at his fiancé, listening intently. But the answer that came to his question was not very complicated at all.] Oh. [He lifted his brows at the mention of his name and began wondering if his head would get so heavy, it would pin him back against the desk. He could calculate the kilograms necessary.] You are helping. [He said this soothingly, reaching out to pet Misha's hand, the one that held the kerchief of ice.] She incites in me visions of rage and bloodbath...ory. It is like they say the sword yearns for battle once it has tasted blood. And I am iron and I am... I am steel. [He licked the blood from his lips.] You quell them.