Welcome! Here we are, back to regularly scheduled updates. Enjoy!

Warnings for: Aftermath/reference to rape, and a panic attack.

As it turns out, Damian is utterly terrible at healing. Or, at anything related to his angel powers at all. Not that he really should have expected anything else, but that only occurs to him after the first time demonic power sizzles into his skin and makes him yelp, mostly out of surprise. The burn over his bruised side is minor, but entirely unexpected.

He also ends up jerking several feet away before he can reign in the impulse, and he has to fight to make himself come close to the half-blood again.

He's trying very hard not to clue Damian in on exactly how bad the rape affected him, but it's not entirely working. The half-blood clearly knows something is wrong, even if he doesn't seem entirely aware of what it is and seems even less aware of what he definitely shouldn't be doing. Every time Damian reaches for him he wants to snap at him to stay away, to not touch him, but he fights that down too. He can't help the tension, or the little flares of panic that lodge in his throat and make it even harder for him to speak — his power seems to be working on healing the damage that not speaking has done — but he can at least manage to not become violent. He has enough control for that.

Still, it's a torture all its own to have Damian's fingers resting on his skin, his wings, his face. His instinct is to draw away, but he can't and still teach this lesson. However difficult it's proving, Damian needs someone to practice on, and he's the only person available. He's not blind enough to think that Damian showing up in front of his mother with burns would be just fine; but it can be explained as sadism or punishment if he's the one with burns instead. She muzzled him for a reason; she'll probably just assume that the burns were Damian's way of hurting him for fighting, either verbally or physically.

Not that the truth is much better.

Damian is clearly getting frustrated with the lack of success, and he's starting to wear thin too. He doesn't like being touched, and the pain is minor but he has to just sit and wait for it to come, and that takes more control than anything else. Just sitting there waiting while Damian touches him, with the almost definite chance that this attempt at healing is going to turn to pain too, is straining his control. Every time he gets burnt there's a little more irritation in him, a little more panic, and it takes longer to block it out again.

"Easy," he murmurs, watching Damian's closed eyes and trying not to think about the fingers resting on his right thigh, over the bruises and the already singed skin. "Slowly now, just focus on the picture we talked about. Think about watching the bruises fade, watching the skin mend. Just—"

"Shut up , angel," Damian snaps, and he can feel the power surge a second before it hits him.

He hisses, flinching back at the fresh burn to his thigh, at the feeling of the dark power on his skin. Damian's fingers jerk away, and he looks up in time to watch Damian's eyes open, and see the sharp anger in the curl of that mouth into a sneer. He braces himself automatically, struggling not to pull away, or snap back, or react more violently.

"I know what you have told me," Damian spits at him. "Stop repeating yourself, Jason, it is clearly not working and I am growing sick of your voice! Be silent before I retrieve that muzzle and make sure you never speak again."

His hands curl into fists, pain and fear quickly bringing anger that he has to swallow away, has to beat down. "It's not going to be instant," he placates. "Most angels learn from birth how to use their powers; teaching someone older is a different kind of challenge. It could take awhile to work."

"You have said that too. Give me that."

He automatically starts to draw back as Damian grabs his leg, fingers brushing the edge of the burn. "It's not going to work if you try to— Ah! " He jerks back, pulls his leg in instinctively to protect the more serious burn as he gets out of immediate grabbing range of the half-blood. "What do you think you're doing?!" he demands.

"What you told me to," Damian says back, shifting forward to match his retreat, wings raised in anger and tension. "Come back so I can try again, angel."

"I don't think so." He bats Damian's hand away with his bound ones, baring his teeth to try and dissuade any further touches. "Clearly you're not doing what I'm telling you or it would be working instead of burning me!"

"Then you are either explaining it wrong or you are incorrect but either way you are a terrible teacher! Perhaps I should forget our entire deal and keep your wings bound until you improve!"

He's striking before he can even think to stop it, twisting his leg out and slamming his foot into the center of Damian's chest, flinging the half-blood a few feet back with a rush of expelled air. "I'm doing the best I can!" he shouts, shifting to a crouch so he has at least a little bit of maneuverability.

Damian rolls back up, wings flaring wide and intimidating and the rush of hatred and envy is sickening even as it keeps him from drawing away and remembering the spread of those wings over him, the feeling of fingers on his hips, the heat.

" So am I!" Damian shouts back, oblivious to his internal issues.

He expects to be attacked, but that doesn't mean that he's ready for it. He's drained, weak, his skin stings in a dozen places, and he feels far too slow to respond when Damian crashes into him and slams him onto his back. He fights, grappling as best he can, but the half-blood is just plain stronger and his hands end up behind his head again and pinned down by that shackle, Damian between his legs and in a sharp burst he just—

"Get off of me!" he roars, adrenaline and fear working together to make him furious as he writhes and hits whatever he can reach with his legs, snapping his teeth and trying to get his hands to bend far enough that he can claw at the fingers holding them down. "Don't touch me!"

He twists himself farther than he thought possible, gets a leg up between them and jams his knee into the undoubtedly sore spot on Damian's chest to push him up a few inches. Gets his other leg up the next moment and kicks , hitting Damian's hip and making the half-blood exhale a sharp sound of pain as one leg goes out from under him. He kicks again, gets a solid hit into Damian's gut, before Damian's free hand grabs his thigh and shoves it down, holding him open and pinned and that just makes it all worse .

Damian is drawn far enough back that he can lash out with his other leg, and this time he puts every ounce of strength into it, letting his heel hit the half-blood's ribs with enough force that there's the kind of muted crack that comes with broken bone. Damian's grip loosens with a gasp, and he twists and struggles and manages to shove Damian far enough back that he can get out from under him. He scrambles backwards until his wings and back jam up against wood, and he snarls and curls in on himself, teeth bared in frenzied desperation.

"Don't touch me," he repeats, "don't you fucking touch me."

Damian is staring at him with wide, shocked eyes, a hand resting over his side and the other braced against the ground. "Jason?"

"Don't—" He curls in tighter, fingers digging into his own skin as he tries to calm the frantic, sharp pace of his breathing, to just feel his own hands and nothing else. Tries to feel anything but the awful, open feeling of vulnerability and violation, and still he hates and hates and hates and he can't seem to stop it.

He shudders, pressing back harder against the wood digging in between his shoulders, itching to spread his wings or lash out but he can't. It's not going to help the sickening, black hatred seeping into him, or the aching pain spreading up into his wings because he can't calm down, can't get the memory of forced pleasure out of his head or the feeling of phantom hands on his skin to go away. There's just heat and the pressing stone and it's too much, too close, he can't—

Hands are dragging him to his feet, and he cries out in surprise and fear and tries to jerk away, but the grip is like steel and he's being pulled across the room by it, staggering along beside Damian. He fights, but he's not strong enough to escape before he's being pressed down and one hand is tugging his head up as Damian presses against his back.

"Look," Damian presses, fingers unyielding but not painful in his hair. "Look, see that?"

He's shaking, but his eyes find the window, right in front of him, the sky outside. He jerks a bit, and then feathers are brushing over his shoulders and he jerks harder as Damian's black and golden wings wrap around him, the hand in his hair letting go to rub firmly between his shoulder blades, up between his wings. His breath catches in his throat, but his gaze stays fixed on the sky, his focus on the brush of air against his face.

"Breathe," Damian murmurs against his neck, still rubbing at his back as the other hand wraps around his chest, finding one of his hands and interlacing their fingers. "The sky is right there, Jason. Just look at it and breathe."

Slowly, with the pressure of that hand at his back, and the brush of feathers against his skin, he feels himself calming down. The shaking eases down to faint trembles, and he manages to lean himself forward against the stone, lowering his head to rest against it as his breathing finally slows to normal. The sick feeling of black corruption lingers deep in his chest, as does the aching of his wings, but the hatred he strangles out and shoves away, helped by the murmur of quiet words at the back of his neck.

Damian pauses after a long while, hand stilling on his back. "Are you alright?" For a fraction of a second it sounds like a child's prayer, hopeful and a little frightened as it wavers in the middle of the sentence.

He breathes out, long and slow, and then shifts his head in a small nod. "Better," he manages. "How did you…?"

Damian's still pressed to his back, warm and solid, and the hand between his shoulders hesitates before rubbing once up and down. "I have dealt with feeling… confined, myself. I do not understand the rest of what is happening in your mind, but being wrapped in my own wings has always made me feel safer, and I guessed that it would help you as well." Another hesitation, and the wings around him shiver a little. "I can stop, if you wish. You did— You did demand I not touch you."

He winces, presses his head to the stone, and then squeezes the fingers interlaced with his. "No, I— This is alright. I was just worn a little thin by the burns and I— I freaked out." He turns a little bit, enough to look over his shoulder and meet Damian's gaze, finding it hesitant and uncertain. "I shouldn't have hit you; sorry."

"I should not have insulted or threatened you," Damian murmurs back. "It is not your fault I lack the power I should have." Damian's hand pulls loose from his, then traces gently up his arm to one of the burns, where it lingers. "I— I did not mean to harm you. But this power…" He can feel the heat sliding up Damian's arm as the half-blood's hand turns palm up, power gathering at his fingers. "It does not have any use but to cause pain and I—"

"Damian," he interrupts, tilting his head down a bit to where Damian's fingers are glowing with soft, white light. "Look."

Damian sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening. "That— Is that—?"

Before he can answer, Damian's turned the hand over, and there's a cautious grip over the burn on his arm. He tilts his head back as warmth spreads into his skin, easing the sting and pain of the minor burn as he closes his eyes. He can recognize the feeling of being healed, and he ends up sighing out a soft breath of relief at it and doing his very best not to just collapse into a painfully relieved heap.

It's true. Damian can use his angelic powers, he has good in him, he's not completely lost. What he's been through might not all have been for nothing, now that there's a theoretical chance that he can make this work and save the half-blood. The pain, humiliation, and violations were just prices he had to pay to get to this point, and there is so much good in Damian that how could he possibly forfeit all of that now, just for the sake of his own pain? He has to try. He has to make this work if he can; everyone capable of it deserves the chance to choose the good in them.

If he can just show Damian there's a different way than what he's been raised believing, maybe this can go the way it's supposed to.

He shifts into Damian's touch, swallowing away his unease and pushing it to the farthest corners of his mind. Damian didn't know better; doesn't know better. As far as he can tell the half-blood has no real concept that what he's done is wrong, only that he didn't enjoy it and so doesn't want to do it again. Maybe — hopefully — some of that is influenced by the fact that he didn't enjoy or want what was done. There has to be at least a little bit of instinct in there, doesn't there? Or is it just that Damian won't do what he has no desire to do?

It's been proven that Damian doesn't want to hurt him, but is perfectly willing to if required, or if he's angry or feels threatened. It's also true that Damian doesn't seem to want to rape him again, but he's pretty sure that's because it didn't give the rewards or enjoyment that Damian wanted from it. Damian's said that he wants to possess him; rape didn't satisfy that but he's pretty sure those desires haven't gone away. He's pretty sure that if Damian thought it would get him what he wanted, he'd be willing to do just about anything. It's not exactly a good sign.

No, he can't think like that.

"Feel that?" he murmurs, partially to distract himself. "That's what it's like. That's the angelic half of you."

Damian's hand is sliding to the next burn, leaving behind smooth skin, and the half-blood's wings flutter a bit around him. He almost smirks at the clear excitement. "It is so soft," Damian marvels. "Does it always feel like this, even when wielded to cause damage?" He nods instead of answering verbally, and gets another flutter of those black and golden wings as Damian presses even closer against his bound wings, chin pressing to his shoulder to look down his chest and presumably at the path of the healing hand.

He lets himself relax a bit, closing his eyes again and leaning back into Damian's touch. It's easy to feel one of his brother's touches instead; the gentle hand healing wounds taken in one battle or another, with the wrap of their wings around him to hold him steady until it was done. He doesn't quite let himself slip into that fantasy, but he does let himself think of past memories of that feeling. Or, of having one of his brothers in front of him, holding them wrapped up in the spread of his wings just to feel them against him.

With a pang of homesickness, he realizes how very much he misses touch, and the safety of his brothers' presence. No need to watch his back, no need to guard, no need to fear their touch or how close they were. He misses knowing that the fingers on him are safe, and would never hurt him. He misses Bruce's unyielding, sturdy support, and the touch of those big, sure hands. He misses smiles and laughter and the brush of the sky's wind as it lifted and ruffled his brothers' hair.

The ache of his wings brings him sharply back down, and he struggles not to show the wash of pain in his chest at the feeling of some of his feathers coming loose.

Even if, somehow, he can manage to turn Damian to the right path, even if he can get them both out of Hell, it might be too late. Damian is a half-blood, and too rare and powerful to be denied entry, but the corruption in him… Right now, if he gets time and space to himself to meditate, to search his own soul and try to recover, he might be able to reverse the effects. But if he doesn't, or if he continues to feel these swells of envy and hatred…

The corrupted aren't allowed in Heaven. Not the ones too badly fallen to recover.

God, he prays, drawing in a deep breath, let this happen quickly. Please.

Eventually Damian stops, and he can almost feel the studying gaze sweep down his body. "Is that all of it?" is the question; surprisingly quiet, considering. Maybe Damian is feeling the importance of the moment even more than he is.

He shifts, opening his eyes and pulling a bit away from Damian so he can check in with his own body, and scan his visible skin for any lingering bruises or other marks. "That's it," he confirms.

He almost shivers when Damian's wings pull away, exposing him to the rest of the room again, but manages to stop the response from getting any further than some slight tension. Damian's hands are the next thing to leave — that one he's pretty relieved about — and then he turns as the half-blood moves away from his back, looking over his shoulder first to track Damian's movements. Which is why he catches the tightening of Damian's mouth and the unhappy edge to his gaze, and tracks it to his own wings and the feathers that have shaken loose. Right.

"It's fine," he mutters. Damian starts to move forward, one hand rising, and he snaps, "No!" sharply enough that Damian immediately stops. He gentles his voice to add, "That's not something you can heal, Damian. It's not that easy."

Damian still looks vaguely upset, but at least he doesn't press it. "But, you said you can heal this, didn't you? So only you can?"

He dips his head a bit in confirmation. "With time, and work. There's no cheat to this; I have to work through it on my own."

Damian gives a short nod, raising his chin to declare, "If there is any assistance I can give; ask. I can acquire anything you need." Damian seems utterly confident in that idea, and utterly convinced that whatever he might need, it will be just items and things. If only it were that easy.

He manages a tiny, crooked smirk that probably looks more pained than real. Damian doesn't react, if it does. "I need time to myself, and silence."

At that, Damian frowns a tiny bit, drawing back another few inches before looking over at the door. "I cannot leave for now; likely I will not be able to until the night has passed if I wish to give the appropriate appearance. I can… study some of my texts, if that is quiet enough. How much time will you need?"

He can only shrug and offer, "I don't know. That… That should work."

He looks around the room, taking in the stone floors and the minimalistic furniture. The room isn't quite utilitarian, but it certainly doesn't prioritize comfort. A few less books and it probably wouldn't even look lived in. Clearly however Damian's been raised, it didn't leave him with an appreciation for things. Or, maybe he isn't allowed to have anything more than what's necessary. Honestly, he can see either being completely true, maybe even both.

Which only leaves him with the bed to sit on if he wants to be comfortable, which is a necessity for inner work like this. That same little thrill of unease makes itself known, but he pushes it aside again. It's not ideal, but it might be a good first step. If he can put aside the relation of the bed to his violation, maybe then he can get to work on forgiving the whole thing. Or at least forgiving Damian's part in it to start with, and easing away his ability to feel hatred for the half-blood. That's the most important part.

If he can just accept that Damian has done what he's had to, and that because of his life so far Damian doesn't fully understand what he's done, then he can set himself to trying to redeem the half-blood and show him a better way. He has to; that's why God's put him down here, isn't it? It has to be.

"Just, leave me alone as long as you can," he tells Damian, as he gets to his feet.

Damian follows him up and answers, "I will. Is there anything else you need?"

He bites down on the urge to say, 'just some luck', and shakes his head. Damian nods, and he starts to move, circling around the half-blood so he can get to the bed. He forces himself to climb up onto it, smoothing the top blanket out to feel at least a little bit better when he sits down crossed-legged in the center, facing out into the room. Damian is moving, and he wants to track the half-blood until he settles, but he makes himself close his eyes instead and take a slow, deep breath.

He still can't manage to really settle himself until the sounds of Damian's movements have stopped, but it at least paves the way beforehand. Once there's relative silence, and he's breathing in a steady, carefully regulated pattern, he lets himself sink further down into his own head. Past the surface layers of control to where he's just existing, and then he turns attention to his soul, and to all of the things shoved down and away that he's yet to really deal with. That's what he has to face. Starting with anything to do with Damian, and then, if he somehow manages to get all of that fixed, he can move onto the rest.

He braces himself, and settles in to face his own corruption.

What has to be hours later he stirs, bringing himself back up to the surface and real consciousness. He blinks his eyes open, not moving quite yet but just existing, letting himself float inside the last bits of calm left over from his work.

He didn't get as much done as he wanted to, but he's better than when he went in and he's going to consider that a win; he has few enough of those as it is without denying himself one that's a little questionably earned. If he could just get the opportunity to do this on a fairly regular basis, he might be able to at least neutralize anything else done to him. Hopefully. What he really needs is a solid week or two to himself, focused on just coming to terms with what he's let himself do and his feelings, but that's just not going to happen down here. This is probably the best he can manage.

He lets his gaze focus, sweeping the room for Damian and finding him at the table across the room. Not leaned down over it, or reading any of the thick books on it, but pushed back and away from it in the chair he's sitting on, watching his own hands. The half-blood is summoning power to his fingertips, first inky blackness and then the soft white glow he's just been taught, alternating between them in a seemingly random pattern. There's intense concentration in the half-blood's expression, and as he watches, Damian lets that white power wash over the rest of him, flaring from his fingertips and brightening his eyes. The golden feathers he has shine for a moment, before Damian lets the power ease away again.

"That's not bad," he comments, keeping his voice soft so it doesn't startle Damian too badly.

Damian's head snaps towards him, eyes widening for a moment as those black and gold wings jump, fluffing out just a touch. Then it eases away to calmer confidence, as Damian slips from the chair and stands up. Power flares, and he watches the white glow shine brighter until Damian lashes out, sharp and violent and thankfully not in his direction, and a slice of that power snaps out, dissipating harmlessly into the stone on impact. He's sure that if it had hit an actual person the result would have been much nastier.

"The feeling is different," Damian says, chin lifting as that confidence slips closer to arrogance, "but the procedure is the same. Once I knew what it was supposed to feel like, it did not take much work to replicate that, and apply my other lessons to the new style. I do not know how I missed it to begin with."

"You have to want it." Damian's head lifts, and he explains as the half-blood moves closer. "You couldn't reach it until you wanted the power to heal me, which makes sense. You've been taught all your life that angels are inferior; why would you want the power of one?"

Damian looks vaguely uncomfortable, arms crossing but gaze meeting his squarely. "Power is power, no matter its source. I should have—"

"You didn't." He shifts, sliding out of cross-legged so he can stretch out a little bit, and crack his neck. "It's fine, Damian; you've got it now, so the rest doesn't matter." He reaches up, wiping the evidence of tear tracks from his cheeks and then the lingering dampness from the corner of his eyes.

"You seemed in pain," Damian comments, voice soft and almost uncertain. "I nearly intervened."

"Good you didn't. Pain's necessary." It sucks, but you just can't heal corruption without having to face the issues that caused it, and that's… that's painful.

"But you did accomplish what you were attempting?" Damian doesn't sound real pleased at the idea that he's been in pain, but honestly he doesn't have the energy to try and decipher the half-blood's peculiarities right now.

"It's not that simple," he decides to answer, "but yeah. Some of it, anyway." He lets his gaze slip past Damian, to the table. "Weren't you going to be studying?"

Damian frowns for a moment. "I did. You were still for a… long time. A very long time." Damian glances back towards the table, arms crossing. "So are you fixed, or do you require more of this type of healing?"

He shakes his head. "I don't have the energy for any more right now. Need a break; some sleep." He looks down at the bed underneath him. That thrill of unease is gone, but it's still not that welcome of an idea to have to share the bed with the half-blood that actually owns it. "I assume we're not sharing this. Is there a like, fold out or something? Anywhere else besides the floor?"

"I… do not usually have company," Damian admits, in a very quiet voice. "I will have something retrieved; it has been long enough that I may leave without suspicion." A small pause, and then Damian holds his gaze to say, "You will have to be restrained, while you sleep. Do you understand?"

That's like a sudden blow to the middle of his chest, but he brushes it aside and exhales to keep himself relatively calm. Because he does . "I think so, but how about you tell me why just so I'm clear about it?"

Damian gives a single sharp nod. "Well, it is partially because I do not fully trust you not to slit my throat as I sleep, and I believe you are capable of moving quietly enough to surprise me, if you wished to. Secondly, if someone were to enter and see you sleeping without restraints, there would be questions I could not answer. The only two capable of breaching my wards would be my mother and grandfather, but it is not all that rare for them to visit unannounced. With you here, that will be more likely."

After a moment of silence, in case Damian has more to say, he concedes, "That's fair. Alright, just, try to do it in some way that isn't going to hurt after a couple hours?"

"I will do my best," Damian agrees. "You will need to be restrained while I am gone as well, for similar reasons. I… do not yet have anything secure to tie you to but the loop at the head of the bed. Will that be a problem?"

He swallows, but manages to shake his head. "I'll manage. Just, no legs this time?"

"Of course; it is not necessary."

He shifts backwards on the bed, lowering himself to lie down on it and raise his hands to Damian. He has to fight with himself the whole time, but he manages to push down everything but a small shudder when Damian hooks the shackles to that loop and then steps away. He tests the chain even though he knows it won't break, and then exhales long and slow as Damian pulls away and steps back.

"I will return as soon as possible," Damian promises, then hesitates for a moment before turning and striding towards the door.

He waits until Damian is gone, and the door falls shut behind him, to move at all. It's then that he curls himself up, twisting until he manages to get beneath at least the top couple blankets. It makes him feel a bit better not to be totally exposed to the world, even if it's just him and the empty room.

Then he shuts his eyes, turns his head into his arm, and lets himself rest.