awashlogs | Event Six.

[ “the same as when i died.”

dextera’s eyes widen at that, and then his gaze turns downward, at his own hands. these hands, that have killed. these hands, that countless lives before him have used, too. death is a familiar figure to him, but it’s never easy to hear the way other people react to it.

but then damian is saying something else, and dextera’s attention is up again—and the tension in his chest eases, somewhat. it’s not like death, then. it’s like coming back, which he hopes is better. ]

Purification. [ he spells this out. ] Rebirth.

[For a moment, Damian touches his chest. The powers given to him by the Chaos Shard have long since disappeared, but he still remembers the fullness there after he had woken.

Hm. Purification and rebirth. Dextera named a chicken after something angelic. The powers worked on this kind of--curse? The whole town is based on folklore. His fingers hover, the question there, the assumption. Again, he swallows, and his eyes lift.]

Are you an angel? [Even asking with hand signs sounds ridiculous. He spells the next word out, not knowing any sign for it:] Nephilim?

[ dextera doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. he’s a false angel, but a false angel is no angel at all. desperately, he wants to call himself just a man, but the more he remembers of the blaze, the less sure of himself he becomes. ]

…

[ he squeezes his hands into fists, since he’s sure that if he says anything but the truth it will be clear he’s holding things back. even his coat has a cross on it, marking him as associated with an abrahamic religion, whether he wants to be or not. ]

No such thing.

[Damian can tell Dextera is dodging for a reason. But he's perceptive enough to read the body language of a person who relies a lot on body language already. It's not something Dextera want to discuss.]

Angel or-- [There's no sign. He spells it out: M-E-T-A-H-U-M-A-N. He makes the sign for power, adds an S.] Powers. Doesn't matter.

You stopped it. You can stop it in the others. [He spells the word lycanthropy. He signs the word for "were," even if it's a state of being, and then he signs the word for wolf. Then he signs L and then wolf. Lycanthropy. Werewolf.] Disease. [He makes the sign for veins, but he means in the blood. Logically, it's a disease. Illogically, running on this town's "magic," it's a curse.] Don't get bitten.

[Reaching back, he pulls the tattered linen shirt off one shoulder to show the bruised and red bite cutting into skin where his shoulder meets his neck.]

Need an antidote.

[ dextera follows damian’s signing, and he understands what’s being suggested—that’s what his powers are for, after all. he cures, he heals, he repairs.

it sounds so nice, and he would think the world of it from anyone else, but in his hands, it feels too much like a weapon to properly appreciate. god herself gave him this purification, but he’s no god. all he can seem to do with it is hurt people. ]

…it isn’t gone.

[ damian will turn back tonight, unfortunately, and dextera can’t make everyone listen to him the way damian did. he’s not that useful. he’s not. he wishes he were.

he moves closer, though, to see the mark on damian’s shoulder. it’s not that it looks infected, but it feels wrong. it’s a corruption. that’s why his purification works. ]

I can—make it sleep. [ an improvised way of describing his effect on the curse. ] Nothing else.

Doesn't matter. [It's only a little funny--his signing is as tonal and as frustrated he feels. His movements are sharp, jabbing.] You pushed it back.

That's all we need. So we don't bite others. You don't have to stop it alone. We work together. Like with the quests.

We'll find a cure. [Now that Dextera is closer, he gives the boy a Look, and then he pulls the shirt back up to hide the bite.] You can make others feel better or sleep. Like me. [Pointedly, he lifts one arm and showcases the nibbled flesh in the dip of the elbow.

He was going to try to chew his own arm off to get out of the chains.] You made it go away for a while.

[ dextera can hear his voice, when damian signs like that—sharp and confident, much more sure of himself and the things he’s saying than dextera could ever be. he doesn’t want to imagine what kinds of things damian must have been through, to become like this at his age. ]

…

[ he looks for a long time at the marks in damian’s elbow, frowning now. how many others are putting themselves through the same things, denying their inflicted nature in an attempt to keep everyone else safe? dextera almost feels guilty, for not being bitten. for being a burden, to the werewolves.

he nods, without taking his eyes off that bitten flesh. ]

I couldn’t leave you there.

[Slowly, Damian frowns. He watches Dextera’s face, and then he drops his chin toward his chest, turning his head down. For a moment or two, he stares at the floor between his feet. This is ridiculous, he thinks. What was happening. Werewolves? They should have expected it.

He sighs, eyes closing.]

I... was stu...pid. [His voice is still rough. He swallows gently.] I... miscal...culate...d. I sh...ouldn’t have... been bi...tten.

You should... have left... me.

[ dextera should bring him some water, or some of that hot chocolate he gained from the quest. it’s warm outside, but a hot liquid down a sore throat can only help, can’t it? he’ll ask later, whatever he decides, and he takes the moment to listen to damian scold himself. ]

I couldn’t have.

[ that’s all there is to it. dextera scoots just a little closer, again, and offers out his hand—he doesn’t know if damian will take it, but he always feels better when he touches someone.

damian wasn’t stupid. no one can be perfect all the time. ]

[The hand gets him to lift his head some. He peers at its offering, unsure. Damian isn’t use to touching, even after three years. He’s gotten better. His mother never touched him really unless it was to punish him.

But his father, Grayson—they do this sometimes. He thinks, before himself, maybe Dextera needs the touch. Hesitantly, he puts his hand into Dextera’s almost like he thinks the scorching white light will consume him again, like he thinks he might suddenly transform and rip the hand off.

His eyes lift to look at Dextera’s face. For once, he doesn’t seem all that certain of himself.]

I gu...ess... I owe... you m...y th...anks.

[ dextera covers damian’s hand in his, holding it there gently—it silences him, in the process, but that’s fine. there’s nothing urgent he needs to say, nothing that would convey his feelings better than this moment of connection.

he wants his hands to be like this—a place of comfort, of communication. he doesn’t want to think about the feeling of a neck under his thumbs, of murder and mercy, when he can try to hold someone’s hand and make them feel better in such a small, simple way. ]

…

[ so he shakes his head. there’s no need for thanks. ]

[Again, Damian swallows, but this time it isn't because his throat has been half destroyed. His hand encapsulated feels like he's being smothered, though not necessarily unpleasantly.

It feels like Dextera can somehow sense all of his secrets. He's reminded of Cassandra in all her silent knowing. Her hands had been made for killing, too. She had been taught not to talk, but to listen for the movements of battle. Instead, she listens to the thinks people don't say. The things they really want to say.

Slowly, he pulls his hand from between Dextera's own. He pauses with his hand between them for some time, then signs:]

I'll tell you what I was, if you tell me what you are.

I'll go first.

[He actually doesn't make Dextera promise. He doesn't give any kind of conditions. Dextera could very well lie. So could he.]

…

[ the question, then, becomes what he is. a man? a god? a sinner, above all, if the archangel is to be believed—he doesn’t know, though. he doesn’t know anything about his past, except the things he remembers for himself, and the instinct that he follows carefully in his heart. he doesn’t know.

here damian is, though, making him an offer. it feels like something he should accept—something he should be honest about, though he’s not the type to lie anyway. he can deny himself until he dies, but the fact is, if he speaks, he’s going to tell the truth.

so he nods, and holds his hands in his lap. he’ll listen. if damian wants to lie, that’s fine. but he’ll listen, and he’ll respond. ]

[It's not a quick process, but Damian is learning that to receive, you need to give. It's something Bruce (and others) have been trying to teach him for a while. He always thought he could take what he wanted. It was owed to him. He's learning to compromise.

Damian makes a sign that Dextera may or may not know: a stabbing finger under the cover of one hand. It means murder or kill, but then he spells out A-S-S-A-S-S-I-N. He points at himself.]

I was a tool. For my mother and grandfather.

[ an assassin… at such a tender age. it’s not even that he is one now, which dextera quickly puts together. this is his past. he was younger than this, when he was treated as a tool, and it’s not fair that someone should ever have to go through that. dextera is an adult, and even he can’t cope with the fact that he’s being used.

he knows he is. he’s the archangel’s puppet, promised salvation, but he has no other solutions but to follow those orders. ]

…does it hurt?

[ even now, dextera wonders. is damian still suffering from that? ]

[The question makes Damian's brows pinch together. It'd be pretty easy to lie like he usually does. Nothing bothers him. He's disciplined.

But that's not true. Even here, it has hurt him several times.] Some...times. [His eyes fall to his arm, and he subconsciously covers the dip in the elbow with his other hand, hiding the self-inflicted bites.] I destroyed... a lot of... things. I killed people.

[He doesn't look up. He use to be proud of it. He's not proud anymore. It feels... wrong. He's wrong. He's failed before he even started. The slate was dirty when he began.]

Grandfather... believed the world... was sick. To make it... better... we were going... to start over... by killing... almost everyone.

[ that gets dextera to fall well and truly silent. his hands don’t move, and even his breath seems to stop in his lungs. why is this the way of things? why are people like this? dextera never wanted to create a new world. he killed people on the archangel’s orders—he did destroy the world, twice, and rebuilt it once to no avail.

all this kills him. and on the shoulders of damian? he thinks it must be unbearable. ]

…

[ dextera closes his eyes. he’s cried so much lately, in catharsis and despair, but he’s too exhausted for the tears to come out now. he still feels the familiar pinch of it starting, but he’s all dried up from spilling his soul too many times. ]

The same. [ it hurts. ] We are the same.

[For a long moment, Damian doesn't do anything because he's not sure exactly what to do. He does look up, though. He does frown.

Reluctantly, uncertainly, one of his hands finally slides back into one of Dextera's. It's awkward, but there. Before, Dextera had held his hand, and he thinks maybe Dextera needs the hand again.] My father thinks... you can do the right thing... even if you've done... the wrong thing. [He clears his throat softly.]

I believe him.

When I'm with him... it doesn't hurt. I feel like... I can do better.

[ dextera has never had anyone like that—no parents, no friends. only his brother, and he killed him. the archangel’s stance is that dextera doesn’t deserve to do anything else but repent, and only in following orders will he be able to find absolution.

he exhales, and he squeezes damian’s hand. ]

You can.

[ dextera can’t speak for himself. he doesn’t feel like he’s earned the right to forgiveness or salvation when he’s here, hiding from his problems. but damian? he’s got so much time, and his heart is in the right place. ]

You too. [If anything, Damian understands enough of what's it's like to know this much about Dextera. To believe it. No one deserves a lack of forgiveness more than Damian Wayne, is what he thinks. But people have told him differently. People have forgiven him, and people have told him it's alright to be forgiven.

The squeeze is a little strong on Dextera's hand, but not rudely so. He's just... strong in general.] Together. [He only draws his hand away so he can sign and give his throat a break.]

I forgive you.

[He's not a fool. He can't give the title of angel to Dextera and pretend it's a good thing. Angels are pure, but not good, and he's too smart not to understand this. They destroy. They're terrifying. They're blind, and they follow the words of someone else.

Demons, too. He was going to be the vessel for his grandfather, the Demon's Head who leads the Demon's Fang. The two of them can meet in the middle perhaps. That's where humanity lies.]

[ together, he says.

dextera has said this to plenty of other people—assuring them, constantly, that he’ll be there and that there’s nothing they could do to make him go away. all the friends he’s made here, he would die for, and he’s never expected to get anything in return when he knows he hasn’t earned it.

and yet. ]

…thank you.

[ he still doesn’t know how to describe “what” he is, but he wants to be fair. he wants damian to understand what it means, to offer forgiveness to someone like him. ]

I was [ and he spells these words out, because there’s no way he would know the sign. ] a protector of God. Now, an executioner.

[Surprisingly, Damian's face softens. For some reason, he was expecting much worse of a title based on how Dextera acted, not that he thinks whatever Dextera has been through is somehow less horrible.

It doesn't seem like Damian is judging Dextera for anything, at least.]

Funny. [He's not laughing? But it's ironic.] A warrior of God, and the heir to the Demon's Head. [It's not protector necessarily, but he shows Dextera the sign for protect and for God--crossed fists, a tilted hand turned upward as it passes in front of the face. Demon is expected: something like motioning for horns.] We should be fighting?

We're holding hands. Ridi...culous.

[ they are most certainly holding hands, and dextera breathes out a laugh through his nose when damian comments on it like that. there are so many people here who have been through things dextera can’t even imagine—and yet, they manage to hold themselves upright and keep going. they maintain humor.

dextera wants to be able to do that, too. ]

Ridiculous.

[ he agrees, but he seems… relieved, anyway. ]

I prefer it.

Me too.

[He's still not completely over the Change, not to mention it was almost back-to-back in a way with being terrorized by Heretic because of the Bogeyman. He's not sure what he'll do when not placated by daytime.

Worry a lot, he guesses.] I think you should help others, too. But be careful. It's dangerous. Maybe you won't change, but keep being careful. We'll find a way to stop it.

I'm going to go so you can sleep. Okay?

[ dextera doesn’t know if he would change or not. if it’s an infection, it’s possible he could purify himself—or maybe he couldn’t. there’s no sense in risking himself to find that out, when he might be able to do more good in his right mind.

slowly, dextera nods. ]

OK. [ a pause. ] If you need something—come to me. Try to remember.

[ dextera is putting himself at risk just by telling damian to target him, but he wouldn’t feel right if he let damian go back to chaining himself up at night all over again. ]

Event Six.

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