Re: In-person, DC: Babs G & Damian W
Damian would have argued he had never been 'an angry little boy,' as that diminished what he, naturally, considered rightful frustration and rage. He would, however, accept the title of terror. It had too chaotic a taste for his tongue, and his mother and grandfather had raised him to be more methodical than entropic, but it was an allowable difference, he thought. Or would have. Had he been able to read minds. Luckily, he couldn't.—Which, I suppose, takes us back to the body language and importance thereof in communication. Montoya eased, pushing her nose to Damian's outstretched fingers, and took a whiff.
The man smiled, a flashback to the boy Barbara remembered curled up next to Titus, and he mindfully released tension from his own muscles, thinning the air of it. Slowly, he moved his palm up Montoya's piebald muzzle to her forehead in a soothing series of strokes. He wanted to draw closer, nose-to-nose, but the horse huffed and he gave her more time.
"It's not so bad." Gentle, gentle—gentler than anyone else had seen in years. More earnest too, and had he realized, he wouldn't have come. It was too late now, however, and Damian was too engrossed to realize.