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
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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.
He glances at him. It's not hard at all to figure out what kind of angel he must be. There are rarities. There are angels that are not angels of vengeance who act differently, because of what they've been through since becoming an angel. It's really a sense that Robin has, and it makes his chest feel cold.
One more example of what he could become if he doesn't keep the distractions up, if no cure is ever found. He locks his jaw, forcing all the bitterness back before it can come out, before he can revisit the thoughts that they had earlier.
"I was... curious," he says. His tone is much quieter this time, and he runs a hand over his face, wondering if he should bother trying, bother reaching out. He hardly has the energy at the moment, but it's almost something that he can't help. "You're like me, aren't you? I mean... the type of angel that you are."
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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 over."
He 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 lucky bastards fucking get to...decide if they don't fuck--don't want to fucking be a goddamned angel. They don't have to--fuck. Fuck. They don't have to--"
The words aren't coming anymore. It happens, sometimes, they drop off and he can't quite get them back for a few seconds. He clutches at his head, hitting one hand against it hard enough there's an audible noise as his wrist hits his skull, and he makes a frustrated noise. Then his body makes the decision for him. Attack, move forward, rush up to the other guy, get into his personal space -- though he stops himself from actually physically lashing out.
"Don't have to--it's not a fucking choice. Fuck you and your assumptions, it's not a fucking choice," he finally spits out. There's momentary fire across his back that dulls into a deep ache; great, wingstubs involuntarily out. Whatever, he would have fucking let them out anyway to prove the point. "It's not--when you can't feel anything, it's--" he clamps his teeth together, almost panting with the effort of holding himself back. He balls his hands into fists, still glaring, but saying nothing more.
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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 haven't, it doesn't make it any less true. You are an angel, because when I look at you... I don't see human. I see angel," he says, and there's an intensity to his words. The anger is clear behind each, but he knows very well that it isn't this person that he's angry with. "If you continue to say that you aren't one, I'm going to continue to assume that you're denying it. No, you haven't a choice. I haven't any choice either. I'm not someone that gets to choose. There's no one that can. Some people have an easier time denying it than others. There is no choice involved, but it's not all that difficult to deny it in word, even if you can't where it counts. In your head and your heart."
Robin doesn't see the wing stubs. He's focused on the angel's face and hasn't looked towards his back yet. If he did, he'd understand a little better. It's rare to have an angel lose their wings in that way, but it's happened before. He's read about it, heard about it. However, he doesn't see them.
He reminds Robin of Jo. The way that he can't get all the words out, the way that he cuts himself off before it can all come out. The reminder is enough to hit him hard, and the intensity with which he'd been staring at the angel fades slightly. Robin turns his gaze away, keeping his jaw locked and falling quiet. He doesn't know what he's bothering for.
Hope. Someone had hope in you and that made you believe. There's still hope for your kind.
It's so hard for him to believe that after this week. It's so hard to hold on to the light when it feels like he's losing everything.
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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 thinking you know what's in my head. Fuck you for thinking I chose to be a--"
He breaks off, backing away for a moment and turning away slightly. It seems he's not angry at Robin anymore. He is, but he's also angry at everything else. Everyone else. The Nazis who did this to him. The people who didn't fucking care what they were doing. The Healing Angel who refused to touch him. All the people between then and now that spit on him, kicked him, robbed him. God, who sentenced him to this. Himself, for doing whatever it was he did to deserve it.
"Fuck you for thinking I chose to be a fucking abomination," he growls, his voice not much quieter but suddenly steadier, the anger condensing into those words.
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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 tone, even if his words are calm and ration. There's always anger, and he doesn't care if the angel attacks him. He doesn't care if he pushes another person to that point. "As much as you falling is a choice, it's not that fucking simple either. Nothing is simple. According to most of the angels in this world, every vengeance angel is an abomination. According to a lot of people, any one that's different is an abomination. I no longer think that I'm one. I don't think you're one either, because as long as we keep viewing ourselves that way... that's the only way other people will see us."
The wisdom would probably be more effective if he wasn't practically trembling with the effort to keep all that rage and annoyance and frustration under control. It can't be stopped. It's always there. It's like poison.
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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--fucking get it over with, keep you from--from fucking telling me what you think I fucking am. There's no fucking us. Not unless--"
He cuts off with another gasp, curling his arms around his head for a second and leaning over. The rage boils over with a small, strangled, frustrated scream, and he turns on Robin again, flailing out, hitting him as hard as he can, over and over.
"Not unless you can give me my fucking wings back!" he yells at the other man, punctuating every other word with another hit.
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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.
And then the angel attacks him. Robin doesn't bother fighting back. This is what he wanted. It feels more right than anything has since Rachel found out he wasn't honest with her. If the angel still had his wings, this would hurt much more than it does. As it is, Robin's able to remain standing for a long time through the hits. One after the other. The pain feels right. It's the punishment that he's needed for so long, for so many things that he's done wrong. It's distraction from the rage and the internal debate.
Robin groans and sinks to his knees when it finally becomes too much for him. He's leaning over his knees as he turns his head to look back up at him. Robin wipes the back of his hand across his chin, breathing heavily and wincing at the sharp pain.
"Feel better now?" Bitter, angry words.
If the angel tries attacking him again, Robin will hit back this time.
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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."
He stops, after awhile, the rage suddenly exhausted. It never sticks around for long, and afterwards he always wants to curl into a ball, to hide away from the rest of the world. Instead, he just cringes away, as if expecting Robin to hit back, finally, to retaliate somehow. They always do. "No," he says, slumping against the wall, curled in against himself. He's trying not to double over or run out the door. "Don't you fuc--don't talk to me until--until you fucking know. You--you don't." The words are angry, but the delivery is just weak, the complete opposite of the confrontational he was just seconds ago.
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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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Not that it helps all that much.
He's talked about the abuse that he's endured at the hands of his mother. Robin's even talked about it in detail, and the rage is still there.
It's opening himself up to relationships, to love that helped in the end. Despite the risk, opening up is the answer. It's the only one that makes sense.
He's been an ass to this random person, and he doesn't quite want to stay around him any longer.
"I'm sorry," he mutters, tiredly, and then just... walks away. Awkward exits were once common with him, and it seems like it's that way again.
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And then the other man's gone, without even waiting for his answer. He still doesn't move for awhile, staring at the door in case anyone else comes into the room -- drawn by the yelling or just passing by. But then, suddenly, he sinks to the floor again, curling into a little ball and starting to cry. Fuck. Fuck. This was just not what he needed today.
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