I cannot defend you, but I'll try and I'll be there.
All is quiet in the Kashtta lobby. You know, the way things ...probably shouldn't be, considering the Kashtta, but that's beside the point. At least it doesn't stay that way for long
( Read more... )
He has to go over to Wyatt's later. The thought makes him sick.
He steps into the common room, pausing in the doorway and staring at the... mess of cardboard and the angel with a hat on his head. Well then.
"What are you doing?"
Robin doesn't mean to be an asshole, except where he kind of usually does. Or he used to. It's just been awhile.
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He shifts his shoulders, hand going up unconsciously to rub one as he glares at Robin. At least it's a good day, and he wasn't startled enough to let the wingstubs out, he supposes, but this guy's an ass.
"The fuck's it look like I'm doing?" he counters, defensive. It's not a growl; he's more sullen than growly. "Making fucking signs."
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"It looks like you're wearing a hat and playing with cardboard in the common room. It's not as though it's obvious," he says, lifting his chin up as he looks down at the cardboard on the floor. "And you're making signs about..."
He steps away from the doorway and walks further in to the room. It's not that he's really interested, but he needs a distraction at the moment. His mind keeps straying. It's never good when it strays, because that leads to the rage... and the rage will lead to-- Robin takes in a deep breath and shoves the thoughts aside.
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When Robin starts walking toward him, however, he leans away from the man, looking away. "Why's that--even fucking matter?" he mutters. He doesn't really want to explain why he's panhandling when there's a perfectly good Conrad in existence, especially not to this guy. Doesn't seem the type to understand.
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"There's nothing wrong with it. It seemed strange, and you might be taking most of the room up in here, but it's not as though it's being used. At the moment," he says. Yes, because keeping the common room empty and ready to be used by a lot of people is incredibly important ( ... )
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He drops the marker then, his hands and whole body suddenly shaking too hard in...he's not sure if it's rage or pain, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't feel like he can move.
"I'm not a fucking angel," he spits out, the words coming quickly and almost tumbling over each other, and then he can't manage to say anything more through his grimace. He remembers being an angel; it was worse than this purgatory he's in now, it was constant pain and the constant need to kill and he doesn't know if he wants it back or if he likes this better. Because he certainly doesn't like this.
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"Course you're not," he says in response.
There's no annoyance in his tone anymore.
"If you don't want to be one, you do know that you still read as one, right? People are likely to talk to you about it again," he says, sinking into the couch. "And one of them might push the subject. It might be better to try to accept it than to have one more thing to be angry about."
Never mind, it makes him slightly hypocritical to say this. For decades, he wouldn't admit what type he was to anyone else. His wings are rarely out. He lived his life denying that he was anything more than human, despite the fact that he would hate to be human, too.
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He wants to bolt. He wants to just get the hell out of there, but he's still stuck feeling like he can't move. There's so much rage boiling just underneath it all that he feels paralyzed, and yet he knows it's not that rage, not the right rage. Not angelic, just hurt and hating.
"That's not what I fucking meant, I meant I'm not a fucking angel," he snarls again. "You fucking think I'd--I can't fucking deny what I fucking was--it's. Fuck. I know I fucking read, think this hasn't happened before? It's not something I fucking can just--just accept, just fuck--just get overHe realizes that he's gotten up, that he's taken steps back from this guy on the couch -- angel, angel, must be one, demons can't read angels that fast -- and is jittering back and forth, like he can't decide whether he wants to run or attack. "Some ( ... )
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Robin knows that it's useless to speak, but the words rise up in his throat anyway. They're bitter, burning like bile. The rage is always just under the surface of everything, living, beating, pulsating through his thoughts and his actions and his emotions.
When the angel gets in his face, Robin stands up. His own hands curl into fists at his side. It's instinct. The anger inside of him will not let him back down, and he doesn't want to. If he backs down, he's back where he was when he entered this room. He's back to thinking again. He's back to trying to making an impossible decision, and he's back to missing what he's lost.
Robin's jaw locks as he fights to keep his own desire for violence in check.
"You are an angel. As an angel, myself, I can look at someone and tell if they're human or angel or supernatural. I'm sure you've figured that out by now. If you ( ... )
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"Fucking great for you," he snarls. "You can--can fucking tell. I can't--" It's the end of his sentence, but he cuts it off so sharply it seems as though he's interrupting himself. There's a few moments when he twitches, hands moving as though he wants to either gesticulate or attack, make examples of the air. "Not the fucking choice I had--you can choose your Fall, it's either be a fucking angel or don't, right? Am I fucking right? You're a--fuck, you think I don't fucking want to be--
"Fuck you." He punctuates this with a hard shove. It's not the first time he's instigated a fight, but it's certainly been awhile. "Fuck you for--for thinking it's that simple. Fuck you for ( ... )
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"Very few people choose to be what they are," Robin finally says, taking a few steps toward him.
He doesn't want him to back down. He wants the fight. It's not even conscious, the desire to push until something somewhere snaps. He knows logically that this person is in no state to listen to him, but that doesn't stop him. It never stops him. It's how he ended up being strangled by Scout when she first came in.
"If you'll remember, I said that I did not think that you chose to be what you are. I said several times that there's no choice," Robin says. There's anger in his ( ... )
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His hands ball into fists again, the anger fighting with his need to run away, the way it always does. It's the same old dance, fight or flight warring inside him while he stands there frozen, staring at the ground. He's there for a long moment, shaking hard enough that he feels like he could fall over, wingstubs twitching -- if they were wings, they'd be flexing out and then folding again, but all he can do is faintly echo the movements. Not that he ever does it on purpose; everything about them is involuntary at this point.
"I'm not fucking choosing to deny what I am," he says. "I want--I don't fucking know, okay? Whether I should be one of you again or just fucking Fall, just to ( ... )
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Robin doesn't say anything more. He doesn't back down. He remains standing. It's not like he's warring with the same issues. Should he remain as an angel under the control of another person or should he become human again? Human. The very idea makes him feel sick.
"You're not the only one trying to make that choice right now. Yes, your circumstances are more extreme than most, but you're not the only one," he says, still between his teeth with his jaw locked ( ... )
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The swings don't cut off when the words do; really, the words just cut in and out, as though he just forgets, sometimes, that he was saying anything. "I used to be a fucking angel." Hit, connect. "I'm not going--" Hit, connect. "--to fucking Fall, I already fucking lost--" Hit, connect. Hit. Connect. "Cut your fucking wings off--" Hit, connect. "--see how it fucking feels then ( ... )
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What more would he say?
The words that he's saying doesn't matter to Robin.
They really don't.
It's only when the angel stops that he even bothers moving. It's slow. He pushes himself up with effort, wiping his mouth and trying to catch his breath.
"So what then? You'll never talk to anyone? Because I can guarantee you that nobody knows what you're going through. Even someone else that's got their wings cut off, won't know exactly. It doesn't do any good to keep it all locked up. I can tell you that much," Robin says, pressing his hand to his jaw and wincing. "I really hope you feel better now."
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He doesn't feel better. He's just tired, which could be a substitute for feeling better if he could ever get any fucking sleep after these things. But no; he's exhausted, but his body's still in fight or flight mode, and he's the frozen rabbit in the corner, hoping that if he doesn't move, the predator will lose interest.
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