Re: Rehab: Misha B & Damian W
[Misha's hand was there, helping, and Damian smiled, just a little, in spite of it all. Bare shoulders rounded forward and a t-shirt wadded under his nose, the man smiled in a curve of lips left with a smear of telltale trauma, but nothing more.] Thank you, [he said sweetly, and he meant it, even if amusement was obvious in that suspended moment.—Of course, it passed. The bubble of it popped.
The angel leaned forward and Damian mirrored this. They were sitting side-by-side, but he turned toward Misha, inward. There was one more droplet of blood rimming nostril. He sniffled, but quietly, as the boy had by then started to speak. The words uttered at him, he realized soon enough, were bloodborn in madness—he realized they were Alyssa's. Misha sagged and Damian lifted an arm, to put it around the boy's shoulders and pull him close.] She is wrong. [The angel corrected himself, pulling away, but Damian did not let him go. He just lowered his arm from shoulders, since they were now uncomfortably high. He leaned into Misha.—He frowned at he mention of the dead, of the murdered.] I am sorry. I am sorry I was not there to help you. The police station is a good idea. [Damian looked over, finding the t-shirt with his free hand to daub once more at his nose.] Do you know how they died? Was it in Repose?
[He had a thought then. Perhaps this all ought have felt more pressing, but the calmness instilled was serenity and coolness after blister, ruination, bloodbath. It was likely a little deserved, yes? He nudged at Misha, pulled with fingers with the hand about the boy, to urge him to lie back.] Come. [Another flash of brilliance.] I am tired. [It was not a lie, even if it was a truth with motive.]