Welcome back! So, angst and pain this time. You know. As we do. But from Damian's PoV, so you get to see a bit more of what goes on in that murdering little head! XD Enjoy!
Warnings this chapter for: discussion/reference to past rape and torture.
Jason won't speak to him.
Ever since he took the angel, ever since he watched its eyes burn bright with power as it cried out in release, watched the glory of that pleasure, he's gotten nothing. Not a word, barely a look, and no trace of the quiet concession that he was starting to expect. Not friendliness, but that willingness to answer his questions and look him in the eye without obvious anger. It's gone, and he finds he misses it.
He's not certain how to soothe the pain the angel is obviously in. He's also not sure why it feels like he's the one who's lost something, when he's the one who took the angel's purity and not the other way around. Why is it that there's a pull in his chest that feels like the times he's disappointed his mother, like a hook buried in his flesh and pulling every time he looks at the bound, still angel?
Jason is sitting by the window, shutters pushed open and curtains pulled apart, leaning against the stone. The angel had rejected every touch, every inclination of help or comfort he found himself wanting to give, but had only moved as far as that window before curling down beside it. Its posture is overtly defensive, body turned away from him and towards the wall, so its wings act almost like a shield. Its head is resting against the stone sill of the window but tilted down towards its legs, eyes closed and hands pressed to the stone, like some kind of attempt at grounding itself.
He feels useless, keeping an eye on the angel as he slips around the room, cleaning up and putting things away. It feels like applying pressure to a wound when what it needs is stitches, like a stop-gap measure that he can't even find the eventual solution for. Making the bed, discarding the used clothes, and hiding away the supplies of its violation is not going to erase what he's done. What he had to do. But what else is there? What can he do to try and remove the wall built between them?
Carefully, he approaches the angel, sinking down in front of it. Jason doesn't even look at him, doesn't move, and he might think that the angel was asleep, if it weren't for the way its fingers curl against the stone a little bit at his presence. He doesn't know how to break the silence so he lets it be, watching the angel and trying to figure out some way of voicing his concern, without actually betraying any of the strange pulling in his chest, or making himself appear weak.
He isn't supposed to feel like he does, and he knows that. He was never supposed to feel the weird reluctance to hurt the angel, or the hesitation to, or be as fascinated as he always was. He always did his very best to hide the fact that he had no real interest in harming the angel, no interest in making it suffer, no interest in breaking it the way that his mother seemed to desire. It was the resilience that he enjoyed, the willingness to fight, the patience and skill lying behind those chains and that muzzle.
There's simply never been an option but to obey what his mother and grandfather desired, or endure whatever punishments they decided upon for his failures. He's always been criticized, from his very birth, for what his mother has called 'weakness.' He knew that if he ever let her see that he didn't have the same apparent bloodlust as them, she would make sure that he gained it, by whatever means necessary.
But here, with the angel, he knows he's let his guard slip some. He's let his fascination show, and through that his weakness . Removing the muzzle is a choice he can defend if questioned, as is being careful with the angel when he took it — excessive pain on its end would have made its corruption much harder — but all of the extra moments he cannot. Cleaning Jason, admitting that he didn't want to hurt the angel, and admitting that he did not have a choice in his actions. Those are things that his mother would condemn and he's painfully aware of that fact. They're things that any of his family would condemn.
He should not feel what he does around Jason.
But seeing the pain in the angel's eyes, seeing the clear rejection of him and his touch, disturbs him. He doesn't like it, wants more .
"Are you praying?" he whispers, hating the helpless edge to his words but unable to think of any other way of at least opening some kind of dialogue between them. This worked once before, so it can work again. Hopefully.
When was he reduced to hoping for the outcome he desires? Shouldn't he be capable of simply making it happen? Forcing what he wants to become true, like he has his whole life? Or is it a truth he does not know yet, that angels cannot be forced the way that demons can? If he pushes, will he get what he wants, or will he break the angel? Will he lose what he most enjoys about being around Jason?
The angel's eyes open, head tilting slightly up to look at him. There's pain in those eyes, and a careful guarded edge, but at least there is not the fear that he was concerned he might have caused. Jason just looks at him, for several long moments that make him want to fidget, to draw himself away from that studying gaze. It almost lasts long enough that he pulls away, before Jason speaks.
"No," the angel says. "Healing."
There's a painful twist in the pit of his stomach. "I did not—"
"No," Jason says, cutting him off before he can finish asking if he hurt the angel. "It's not physical."
Silence again, until he breaks it by asking, "Then what is it? Whatever I have done, I did not mean to—"
"Yes you did."
He doesn't have an answer to that, and Jason sighs, eyes closing for a moment before the angel shifts. The wings on its back move, flaring outwards a few inches even though they can't actually spread thanks to the leather binds. His breath catches in his throat as he watches several feathers drift free of the bound wings, pure white things that fade to a dull grey as they fall.
"Your feathers," he murmurs, staring, "they're…"
"Falling out?" Jason finishes. "I know. They'll grow back in a couple hours or so."
"Why are they coming out?" he asks, staring at the husks on floor. "Mine have never done that."
A small snort, and then Jason tucks those bound wings flat again and leans into the stone. "They wouldn't. The feathers are… It's corruption. I'm trying to heal it."
That twist in his stomach gets a little stronger. "Can it be healed? I thought corruption was permanent. My teachers have said that when an angel falls, its wings turn black and it loses the ability to use its power. I thought it was… more immediate."
Jason shakes his head, and then shifts to turn a bit more away from him, which stings somewhere deep inside until he realizes that the angel is baring its wings. "Look," Jason murmurs. "See the black tips?" He barely has to look before he can nod. He remembers noticing that when he was first introduced to the angel. "The ones I lost will grow in like that. Being cast down is instant; that's probably what your teachers are thinking of. Corruption is… slow."
He stares at the black scattered through Jason's wings until the angel tilts them away again, then asks, "What causes it?"
That gets him a bark of sharp laughter, before Jason shakes his head and gives a tight smile that he's fairly sure is nothing but bitterness. "Not telling you or anyone else down here," Jason says, voice coming out flat even past the roughness of it. "My race keeps secrets for a reason."
"That is understandable," he agrees. Then he slowly reaches forward, and Jason tenses a bit, but then exhales and doesn't stop him. He lets his fingers lightly ghost over Jason's closer wing, tracing the length of the feathers and lingering over those black tips. His hand comes to one of the leather straps holding the wing bound, and he traces the runes etched and burned into the surface, feels the power in them and, dimly, feels the power they're containing.
"Do these hurt?" His voice comes out soft, as he spreads his hand out over the leather, feels the brush of feathers on either side.
Jason doesn't answer for a moment, and then, equally soft, says, "Yes. The bindings burn when I fight them, and my wings ache if I move them at all, or try to. That's stiffness. If they're ever freed, I should be able to heal that so I can use them again."
He thinks about what that might look like, imagines the width of the white wings spread and magnificent, imagines the power he saw in them when he first glimpsed the angel. A fierce desire lights in his chest to see that. To see Jason unbound and brilliant once again, without the binds on his wings or the shackles on his wrists. But logic stops him in his tracks, tamps that desire down because even though he could make it a reality, right at this second, he would probably die for the mistake. Jason is not his friend or his ally, and if he let the angel have all that power back he just might lose the inevitable fight that will follow. He's stronger, but Jason has skill, experience, and desperation on his side. At the least, it would be a very tough battle.
"Did it satisfy?" Jason asks suddenly, and he pulls his hand away instinctively, looks back to those narrowed, blue-green eyes. "Did doing that make you feel like you possess me, Damian?"
His breath catches, and then slowly, as if he himself is possessed, he shakes his head. "No," he murmurs. "I— What I did was necessary but it did not— I did not enjoy it as I thought I would. It does not feel like I have any stronger hold on you than I did before."
There's a strange flicker to Jason's gaze, a sort of surprise, before it shuts away and the angel looks away from him, raising its chin to look out the window. But it doesn't have that edge of anger to its gaze anymore, those narrowed eyes or the tone that demanded an answer, so at least that's a touch better. Still, he feels uncomfortable, unwelcome and rejected, and he's not positive what to do about that.
Maybe he can offer something, some kind of gift to try and lower the new guard between them. He's a prince down here, he has to have something that Jason wants. Something that would make life easier or at least soothe the distrust.
"Why do you like it here?" he asks idly. "Is it the window?"
Jason glances down, then gives a small shrug. The shackles on his wrists rattle. "I can feel the air, and see the sky. Not the real one — wrong color — but I haven't seen outside the cell for… a long time. Not until today."
He looks out the window, to the reddened sky that's all he's ever known. He knows that the ones above their realm, in Heaven and the human world, are generally blue, but he's never seen them in person. He has to guess, to a creature used to not only seeing but flying through those skies regularly, being confined so deep inside of stone must have been its own kind of torture as well.
Even as only half-angel, he fairly regularly gets the urge to just fly . It's something his mother and grandfather have never understood, and he's learned to hide.
He looks again at Jason's wings, and realizes how much pain it must cause, to be bound to the ground and denied use of limbs that are so integral to your life. He can't imagine having his own wings taken from him; the thought both frightens him and makes him determined to rip to shreds anyone who would dare . He has to— He wants to give Jason his wings back, to let the angel fly . But he cannot without unleashing all of that power; he doubts only the shackles would hold it. Perhaps he can replace the leather bindings instead, with some other kind of restraint he can pass off as for his own enjoyment.
He doesn't wish to hobble the angel either, or to muzzle it again, but maybe… maybe a collar would suffice, and it would be easy to convince both his mother and the craftsmen that he wants a mark of proper ownership on the angel. It will be more difficult explaining why he's unbound the angel's wings, but he can come up with answers for that later.
He almost stands to have it made right at that second, before remembering that he is supposed to be enjoying his new toy. If he leaves now, there will be questions. He's going to have to wait until later to have this done.
"It is good you heal fast," he comments instead, gaze lingering near Jason's throat and at the bruises from their earlier fight. "I may enjoy the thought of leaving you marks as proof, but I feel— I feel as though I would enjoy the reality far less. The lack can be explained away."
Jason shifts after a moment, head turning and there's the sharp edge of that intelligence again, like how it showed up in his grandfather's enforced show. "If you healed the rest of my injuries, you could say that you prefer me undamaged; clear-skinned. That's the truth, isn't it? Easier to pass off than a straight out lie, and it would give you the excuse needed for why I'd never show up with anything more obvious, no matter how little time passed."
It's actually a remarkably good excuse, except, "Heal you?" He tilts his head a bit, confusion in his mind. "I don't have that power."
Jason actually looks equally confused, before pushing off the wall and facing him more directly. "What are you talking about? Of course you can; we all can. All angels can heal, Damian. You should be able to as well, shouldn't you?"
"Do you think I know?" he snaps, and then raises a hand to cover his mouth. "I did not—"
" Oh ," Jason breathes, eyes widening a bit. "No one's taught you. I should have— I should have realized. How could you know anything about the angel part of you when there hasn't been anyone down here to teach you about it? Of course. That makes sense."
He drops his hand, glaring a bit as his wings flare a touch behind him. "I have done fine on my own. I did not need anyone to teach me what is part of me and what is not." He gets to his feet, frustrated for reasons he can't fully explain. "I cannot heal. You are mistaken, angel."
He turns away, striding towards the bathroom. He requires a shower to be clean again anyway, it has nothing to do with the angel at his back.
Until Jason calls, "You telegraph," at him, and he freezes in place.
It takes him a moment to turn around again, to take in the sight of Jason standing, watching him with calm surety. " Excuse me?" he spits.
Jason shifts his weight, staring him down without flinching. "You telegraph your emotions through your wings like a kid; I'd bet that no one here has picked up on it because they aren't used to people with wings, but any angel could read how you feel like a book ." He sucks in a sharp breath, stunned for a moment before he can even think to retaliate, and then Jason is already continuing. "You're clumsy with them by any measure we have too. You can balance with them, you know the basics of using them to give you an edge against a non-winged opponent, but any half-trained angel would wipe the floor with you in the air, and any warrior could take you apart on the ground too."
His hands clench. "How dare you?" he demands. "I beat you, angel. I have spent my whole life being trained to kill your kind and you think I am clumsy?! I could tear you to shreds within the minute."
Jason's mouth curls into a small snarl, baring a hint of teeth and completely unfazed by his threat. "I am a weakened, bound, injured, starved angel who has been captive and tortured for over a decade . You can't be delusional enough to think that I'm a real example of my kind. I'm a shadow, but I still outmaneuvered you and got my chain around your throat, didn't I? If these shackles were off, I could win a fight between us."
"Ridiculous," he snaps. "If you thought that I was fighting to my full potential in that show than you are more than just delusional, angel. I was testing you; you never had the advantage."
"Prove it."
He freezes, staring at the way Jason has his hands raised, the chain of the shackles stretched between them. The idea is absurd; fighting the angel just to prove that he is superior, when it is already a given fact. He is better , he is stronger , and he was never in any danger from the angel's little tricks.
Jason's wrists lower after a few beats of silence, and the angel catches his gaze and then says, much quieter, "You've spent your whole life being trained by demons. Demons who have no idea how to teach you to fight with those wings because they've never had them. You use them, yes, but they should be part of you. They are part of you and it should be that natural to know how to fight with them, to fly with them. There is a whole half of you that you're cut off from; the angel, the wings, the power, the good. If you can use the demon in you, you should be able to use the angel too. You can use the power my side of your heritage gives you, and you can heal; I'm sure of it."
He shifts his weight, studying the angel. "I do not need that half; I am powerful enough without the weaker part of me."
"Liar," Jason says. "You're fascinated. You want to know, and you want the rest of the power you're capable of. You really think I believe that you'd pass up the chance to get stronger and better skilled just because you've been told your whole life that angels are 'weaker' than demons? I don't think you believe that."
"Do not insult my training," he snaps. "The entire discussion is pointless anyway, I do not have a teacher capable of teaching me to use angelic power, even if I am capable of it, which I do not believe. I am more demon than angel and I have no desire to allow the weaker parts of myself to gain any dominance. Whatever you believe you know about me, you are mistaken."
Jason's gaze darkens for a second with something gone too fast for him to read. "That goes both ways, half-blood. You're not the exception you think you are. You might be one down here, but up in Heaven? You're so damn proud of all your training, all that 'since birth' stuff about how you're made to kill us but guess what? Every. Single. Angel is raised that way. We are an entire race of warriors raised with discipline and strength and then fit to where our talents are best applied. You have no clue how powerful we are, Damian, and it's gonna be a nasty shock when you really meet one of us for the first time."
He glares, then stalks forward until he's facing the angel directly, close enough to strike if he wants to. "I do not need your warnings nor your insistence that I am something I am not, angel. You do not know how I was trained, you do not know my skill, and you do not know what I am capable of. You do not know me."
"I know you're better than your mother wants you to be."
He jerks back half a step, then reverses it and snarls, "Explain what you mean or be silenced, angel."
Jason is still utterly fearless, eyes narrowed but no hint of wariness in them. "You don't like causing pain, or seeing me suffer. You didn't leap at the chance to take me in front of that audience and show off all your power—"
"Just because I do not wish to share does not—"
"You don't want to hurt me."
He grits his teeth, glares up at the angel in defense of the strange tugging in his chest, the little voice in his head that says that whatever point the angel is trying to make, it isn't entirely groundless. There is something unnervingly accurate about whatever it is that the angel is saying.
Jason shakes his head, shoves out a breath that's too aggressive to be a sigh, and then meets his gaze with an equally unnerving amount of focus. "There's good in you, Damian. You're not just a demon."
He finds himself shaking his head as well, stepping back and away from that gaze. "You are wrong. Whatever concept of 'good' you think I have—"
"I think," Jason interrupts, "that you've spent your whole life with everyone around you trying to grind out every bit of angel that they could find in you. I think your mother wanted a half-blood's power, but she never wanted the angel that came with it. I think she did her very best to make sure you hated that part of yourself, because I also remember a younger boy who was criticized every time he let his wings show, who listened to hundreds of lectures about how weak angels were, how flawed, how pathetic."
A breath, a brief clench of hands, and then Jason continues. "I… What you did to me was wrong, it was evil, but I also know that you did it because you really believed it was the best way for things to go. Maybe you're even right; I don't know. But I know I've seen kindness in you, I've seen concern and sympathy and I'm sure you would be hurt for that, if anyone but me were here to see it."
"Are you threatening me?!" He's floundering. He can't deny what Jason's saying because it's too true, too right, but it shouldn't be. He shouldn't feel any of that, he shouldn't be letting it sway him, he shouldn't—
"No," Jason says, and the angel's voice has softened, is almost gentle. "No, Damian. I'm saying that if that's something you want, if you want to know more about your angel half than the propaganda and the lies they're feeding you, then I can do it. I can teach you how to use that power in you, how to heal, how to really fly."
"Why would you?" is his immediate demand. "I doubt that you have much desire to see me any stronger than I am, especially after what I have done to you. If this is some kind of test or attempt at changing who I am to fit your concept of good, I can tell you now that it will fail and you will be punished for the attempt."
"I don't want to change who you are, Damian. I just want to show you that there are other ways to do things. You don't have to be cruel and vicious and sadistic just to survive; not outside of Hell." The angel gives a small shrug. "And, hey, if you don't want to explore that, it's fine. I'll still teach you."
"Why?"
"Paranoid little half-blood, aren't you?" Jason says with a snort. "Because you should know that there are other kinds of power. It's not all darkness and death; there's more to power than destruction. At least there is when it comes to an angel's power."
He stares up the few inches in height between them, trying to ferret out any source of deceit in the angel's eyes. "You would teach me this and expect… nothing? No payment? No trade?"
"Would it make you more willing to believe me if it was a trade?"
"Yes," is the blunt answer, and Jason gives a rough little laugh and looks towards the floor.
"Wow, alright. Uh…" A flash of pain, bitterness, and then Jason grits his teeth for a moment before shoving out a breath and looking up to meet his gaze again. "My wings. I want my wings back. You take these straps off and I'll teach you anything you want."
Well, that falls neatly in with his own designs anyway. "Deal," he agrees. "Your wings in exchange for training." Jason nods, and he crosses his arms and considers his plans. "It is expected that I will still be… enjoying you. I will need perhaps a day before I can remove the leather while still containing your powers."
"Do I look like I'm in a rush?" Jason counters. "How about a little good faith on my end then? Let's sit down somewhere and see if I can teach you how to heal. Sound good?"
"It sounds adequate, I suppose. At worst you will simply fail and there will be no harm except for waste of my time. I still do not believe that you are entirely right about all of this, angel, but since I have nothing better to do until enough time passes for me to be seen outside…"
Jason is rolling his eyes, and then the angel moves its arms like it wants to cross its arms too, but the shackles draw tight and halt the movement. There's a moment where it feels like the angel doesn't know what to do, then the hands fall back down, the shackles rattling a bit with the aborted gesture. Those blue-green eyes fall to the shackles, before Jason shoves out another breath and all but yanks his gaze away and across the room.
"Before that, I need— I would like to be clean. For obvious reasons. Clothes would be good too but I'm assuming you haven't got any that'll fit me. Right?"
"That… is correct," he admits. "There are the pants I removed from—"
"I'll deal," Jason snaps, and then shakes his head and raises both hands to drag over his face. "Sorry, I— No. I'm fine; it's not like it's that big a deal anymore. Just, whenever you've got a chance, if you care." A sharp breath, as he stares at Jason and tries to decipher the expression on the angel's face. "Bathroom, right?" Jason asks, with a flick of both bound hands towards the door across from the room.
He's barely gotten the, "Yes," out of his throat before Jason is moving, circling wide around him and heading for it. He turns to keep Jason in his sights. "Are you—"
"I'll be back," Jason says without turning. "Just— I'll be back."
The door shuts behind the angel, and it makes him feel strangely helpless. He considers going after the angel, making sure he knows how to work the bath, the shower, but… Maybe it would be better if he did not. Jason clearly does not feel entirely comfortable around him and there is… something wrong. He does not know precisely what it is, and he has no idea how to begin to fix it, but perhaps not encroaching on the angel's space is a viable first step.
Perhaps not doing anything, is the right thing to do.
