Zerxus couldn't tell you, with certainty, exactly how long he's been in Hell. Once, he judged the passage of time by glimpses of his son's face, but that stopped being an option before the Calamity even ended. Then, once the Divine Gate rose, he couldn't cross it to see his world change in the wake of war. Remnants of mortal lives trickle in with reckless quests and ill-fated bargains, but it only gives him fragments.
Asmodeus's realm doesn't change, not really. Power shifts around from one devil to another but they're all the same in every way that matters, and what limited free will he wields has never been enough to make a difference. Not for the devil he chose over everything else, not for the goddess who made the same doomed and desperate overture, not for the souls damned to an eternity of helpless torment.
What he can say is that he's never felt the fabric of Hell shudder and rupture quite like this. He stares up at the dull gray sky of Dis and sees stars for the first time in, he assumes, centuries. Beneath layers of steel and leather and silk, he feels Evandrin's namestone pulse cool and gentle against his chest. It isn't the violent tremble of the steel beneath his feet that puts him on his knees.
It would be nice if he could stay there, suspended in that moment of anguished reprieve. Instead he pushes himself up and leaps into the air, wings of flame unfurling from his back. Whatever happened, it's best if he gets there first.
He'd thrown himself out of an elevator filled with (unconscious) agents, stopped halfway up a high rise. Somewhere in the midst of that fall, something (everything) changed. The color of the sky, the air, and sure as shit the ground beneath him.
He hit hard, but he hit shield first. For anyone else? They'd absolutely be dead. Him? Not so much. He grimaced and gritted his teeth though.
On one hand, nobody was chasing him.
On the other? He appeared to have fallen out of his own reality.
And there is a guy with flaming wings and horns.
Which seems urgent enough for him to make getting to his feet more a matter of springing up than climbing. Definitely holding the shield in front of him, prepared for an attack but confusion written clearly across his face.
There were a few possibilities whipping through his mind as he soared through Dis - an alarmingly powerful circle of mages, an invasion force from the Abyss, a god who woke up and chose violence - and he was looking forward to exactly none of them but he had plans for his approach.
Instead he finds a battered mortal with a shield who looks just as bewildered as he feels. There's a flicker of wistful yearning in his eyes as he lands; he hasn't used a shield in such a long time. His mace hangs from his hip, of course, but he doesn't draw it yet; he doesn't even bother with a defensive position. His wings do fade, for now, but that doesn't do much to ease the heat.
He isn't likely to stay battered for long, anyway.
The wings faded is noted. So is the mace. So are the horns. So is the fact that it's hot as fuck.
Also noted though? There's something wistful in this man's expression, he is armed but not presenting a threat, and there's something in the nature of his voice that is actually the opposite of alarming.
Steve's still wary, because there are limits to his stupidity - and a lot of things are stacked here that being suspicious makes at least as much sense as not. That's more true after having members of his team trying to kill about, oh, ninety seconds ago.
Also: This is hell and that is a demon, he's pretty sure, though 'aliens' is still a possibility.
But he's not attacking.
In fact he drops the shield, still attached to his arm, and looks around then back to This Guy, and kind of looks incredulous. "Does anyone intend to come here?"
Oh, that earns him a soft snort of laughter. "You'd be surprised."
He nods towards the vast reaches behind him where the Iron City looms in the distance, a jagged sprawl of smooth black stone and twisted steel. "There are always mortals here, looking for power or secrets or some other thing that isn't worth as much as they think it is."
There's a lot of disdain in his voice, but not contempt.
"But they do this the proper way: do a ritual, open a portal, close the door behind them. I don't know what the fuck you did."
On a scale of 1 to 10, how weird is it that Steve finds this guy saying fuck reassuring? Steve's thinking he'd give it about a 7, mostly just because it doesn't make any sense as a reassuring thing.
Except maybe the part where the tone and cursing expresses a sentiment that comes close to his own right about now.
He looks the direction he's directed with a nod, processes what he's heard but.
"Yeah... Me either. Jumped, and halfway down what I was falling toward... changed. This is going to be a problem." Visibly healing at a rate that makes it look like it's happening in time lapse though.
He's healing like a celestial, but he definitely isn't; when Zerxus cocks his head and fire dances in his eyes, he can't sense anything divine or magical in front of him.
Not divine, or magical, or frightened.
That isn't something he knows how to behold properly so he's just - he's just going to forge ahead, they don't have time.
Oh, you like this one.
Scrap that. They do not have time.
Zerxus steps forward and offers his hand, clawed gauntlet and all. "I assume you're a pawn in someone else's game. Let's discuss it elsewhere."
Zerxus closes his eyes and lets his mind soar, but not into true sleep; not quite yet.
In his mind's eye, he sees Asmodeus lounging across his throne - an overwrought monstrosity of onyx and ruby, today - with a knowing grin on his face.
Sometimes, Zerxus appears standing tall despite knowing it changes nothing about how the devil sees him. This time he's kneeling from the start, naked still save for a cape he’s never worn in the waking world. It defies physics, arching around his neck as dancing flames and pooling around his thighs like drying blood.
"Oh, you’re in a persuasive mood tonight." It’s that playful, rumbling purr that actually makes him smile sometimes, when the stakes aren’t like this. Instead he lifts his head with an expression that’s downright pleading.
He doesn’t even have to beg out loud for Asmodeus to appear right in front of him, a hand outstretched to cup his cheek.
"You want me to tell you how to save him."
"Yes." He intends to elaborate, to appease, to beg, but the lightest touch keeps his mouth closed.
"I haven’t seen you like this in...oh, a century, at least." At his champion’s open confusion, Asmodeus simply shakes his head. "You’ll understand later. For the moment…" His hand drifts down, and suddenly Zerxus can feel the makeshift stitches in his chest. Then they burn, traced with painstaking delicacy.
"This will scar." He’d assumed that was part of the initial bargain, and he was right; this is something more. His wounds arch towards the devil’s claw like iron to a magnet, and he seems to be drawing a pattern. "You’ll be losing some endurance, so you’ll need to compensate for that."
It feels like a small price to pay, on balance, so there’s almost certainly a catch.
"I understand, and I accept."
The way Asmodeus grins should chill him, but all he feels is relief. Yes, all right, this is serving some larger plan he never had a hope of stopping anyway; just let him protect one person.
"Let’s discuss our strategy, then."
There are a few things that Steve will notice immediately, upon waking.
One is that he’s alone in the bed; another is how how well-rested he feels, as if he's had the calmest and deepest sleep of his life; another is that the room doesn’t smell of blood and ash. After a moment, he may recognize it as petrichor and lavender.
"You’re awake." Zerxus has stepped through one of the usual archways, at least, and now comes the last obvious difference: he gazes at Steve with amber eyes, the eyes of a human man. Nothing else has changed, save for his clothes - he’s in what passes for casual wear in the devil’s palace, loose and flowing but still pristinely elegant - and that makes for a stark contrast.
Steve is an odd mix of suspicious and naive when he wakes up.
The change in the way the air smells (to him) is suspicious, sure, but it's also what he credits for waking well rested from deep and unusually peaceful sleep.
He sits up pretty immediately all the same, with a stretch and yawn, born of nothing more than waking up. "Wide." It's pretty meaningless as remarks go, but he's trying to find a way to get relevant information - of any variety, about anything - without it being a question.
"I hadn't noticed." It's the same wry, tired humour but as he moves closer, another difference makes itself known; he's a little more relaxed, now. It could just be that the wounds have mostly healed, that he isn't wearing restrictive armour.
"Tell me what you usually do, in the morning."
Maintaining this particular bargain did come up, in their discussion. Asmodeus was of the opinion that it was a good challenge for the Captain to cut his teeth on.
Steve swings his legs around to sit on the edge of the bed, and tilts his head just slightly. Studying all the changes and decides that the overall impression is, at least, both more human and less... aggressive? Less aggressively avoidant of Steve, too.
"I don't believe you." That you haven't noticed. Not that Steve is actually working all that hard to figure out specifics, but it feels like he should point out that there are limits on his credulity.
That actually gets a slight, crooked smile. Both of them slept real fucking good last night, apparently.
"Breakfast it is, then." There's still a moment of hesitation, before he offers his hand, but he does do it. Something has given him confidence, or at least eased his fear.
He takes the hand and pulls himself to his feet, and he does it without hesitation or so much as a(nother) questioning look. Having decided not to think too hard about it, he's going to do that.
Doesn't mean he's playing stupid, but answers will be, or will not be. "Sounds good. I'd make a crack about being hungry enough to eat... anything specific and it'd show up." And then he'd eat it, but he's going to have a moment or twelve if breakfast is a dead elephant.
Priorities are also in play. Until or unless something changes food has to be a major priority for him.
It isn't just that it's darker than it should, by rights be. Filled with shadows, yes, but also appearing to be drawn in grayscale, as though color cannot survive here.
It isn't the desperation that permeates the city so strongly it feels as though it has a scent and a taste to even mortal senses, if one could just focus hard enough on it.
It isn't even the horrifying crime rate.
It's that everything feels ominous and menacing - something actively hostile baked into every element of it. It is dangerous to be here, and there's no attempt to hide that behind any pretty facade. It's been that way for years.
It's been that way since two wealthy citizens died, and their son didn't.
Any outsider - anyone who doesn't belong in, or to, Gotham stands out like a scream shattering silence. At least to that now adult child, pulled out of a gutter running with his parents blood and raised in hell.
Bruce doesn't approach - or make himself known - immediately. He's just in the shadows, observing and torn between being impressed at the sheer stupid bravery and frustrated and near insulted by the unbelievable audacity.
When he finally moves there's no warning. There's no sound at all. Shadows simply pull back as he steps forward. Black on black on black, save red, nearly animal, eye-shine that... the light isn't right to account for. "You don't belong here."
Edited (Oh just me being me (I removed extra words.)) 2024-11-19 14:48 (UTC)
He's heard all of the warnings, all of the rumours, and it's not that he didn't heed them (though he didn't accept them without question, either, because he never does). It's just different, actually experiencing it for yourself.
It's not the bleakness, because the entire world is like that now. If anything, Gotham is holding up better than a lot of cities, structurally speaking; so many are just worn down, despite fierce defenders or a god's favour. But he's never crossed a boundary into such palpable, relentless misery.
It's never met people he seem defensive of it, either, even viciously proud. We're survivors, in Gotham; we're strong enough to thrive here and make it our own; we don't need anyone else, especially someone like you.
He's considering how exactly to deal with that when his situation changes very suddenly, and very drastically.
Well. He owes a few people some gold pieces, but as to the immediate problem, "I could argue that, I think."
Then he offers his hand. It's not as ridiculously stupid as it could be; his gauntlet is dented and battered, but still protective enough.
"You are clearly intelligent enough to know who I am and to not give me your name, and yet you're still here. Arguing with me."
He just looks confused by the hand. Who the hell trots up to the Prince of Hell, in his element and does that. He tilts his head at the offered hand, very slightly, like a confused dog. but sure. Okay. He shakes it. Just to see what, if anything, the crazy mortal does.
He doesn't even squeeze overly hard. In fact it's very, very polite.
What the crazy mortal does is - shake his hand like a normal person, before pulling back without any trace of contempt or urgency.
There are tricks he could pull, and they might even do some damage; someone who chooses to actively fight in this war needs to be powerful, after all. But it sure wouldn't kill an archdevil, and more importantly that isn't why he's here.
"There aren't many healers left in Gotham, are there?"
"You could phrase it like that, yes." There's a slight arch to his eyebrows that implies that he's played this game before.
"For the record, I'm willing to sign a contract if that's the only way to get anything done, but let's be clear on the terms. My soul wouldn't even be worth the trouble."
Somehow, this might be the strangest thing he's said yet; a paladin's soul, a warrior of another god? Those are coveted for a reason. (Zerxus has a theory that most of that reason is just Sheer Fucking Pettiness but in fairness, he isn't a scholar of the Hells or anything.)
He could have avoided it, and not even had it been a choice. He could have just... failed to specifically make sure that he got to have it. It would have been easier - leave, do what he was going to do, then come back and deal with the consequences then.
He's Steve.
That's not perfect - nowhere near - but even after his time here and all the bullshit of why and how, he's got too much sense of fair play and justice to not. Heck, maybe (definitely) all the bullshit and reasons he's here have made him more determined to be more fair and honest to Zerxus than that.
He isn't second guessing the decision he's made, or the reasons for it.
He still doesn't want to.
He knocks lightly on the wall as he walks back in, just as a courtesy - manners. "Hey. We need to talk."
Zerxus looks as relaxed as he ever does - so, not at all for a normal person, but markedly less tense than his usual. He's reclined in the bed, one leg curled up to lean a fiendish-looking tome against his knee. You really shouldn't be able to idly flip through pages that were probably skin once.
The knock gets his attention, but his head doesn't jerk upwards like it may have in those first few weeks, or months; despite himself, he's become used to Steve being here, to knowing he could be interrupted by someone he trusts. His expression is concerned, obviously, but not suspicious.
"Of course." The book vanishes back to his bookshelf with a snap of his fingers before he starts to sit up properly.
Steve hasn't hesitated in getting close to Zerxus in 'private'... ever, actually, but especially not with all the engineered, encouraged and occasionally forced closeness and intimacy. Getting and being close has probably been a lot of why he's still at least mostly sane.
There's some hesitation this time, and while he joins Zerxus on the bed, it's facing him and with his back against the foot board. This conversation needs looking at each other, and Steve needs some space to force himself to have it.
There's still a moment or two of pause, but only that. "I'm... going home. for a while."
Zerxus goes very still. His eyes have never changed back, all too human and all too open; he can suppress the flinch but not the flicker of anguish.
It's one of those rare times he agrees with Asmodeus about what weakness is. This is what he wanted, what he's been working for whenever he gets a chance. His only worry should be about how, since he definitely didn't have a hand in it, and -
That half-snap is at odds with the slight grimace, and even more at odds with the way he wants to soften this and knows that there is no softening it, it would be insulting to try, and make it sound like he has some kind of doubt about what he's doing.
And he doesn't.
The snap settles into grim determination in his eyes, and his voice. "I'm needed there. It's one soul against a world and don't you dare tell me that my math's wrong." You gave him the idea on day... two. it was a solid one.
The snap washes right over him, right through him; it takes quite a lot for a harsh word to ring in his ears, at this point.
It's the quiet, steady confirmation that does it. His gasp is as pained as it is surprised.
The worst part is, he can't even argue. For a long moment he just stares, stricken and stubborn, as if he could find some way to pick it apart - but he just can't. What does he say, that Steve matters more than all of those people just because Zerxus loves him? That they're worthless in the face of his own feelings?
That kind of shit is how you get Asmodeus in the first place.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
For Steve
Zerxus couldn't tell you, with certainty, exactly how long he's been in Hell. Once, he judged the passage of time by glimpses of his son's face, but that stopped being an option before the Calamity even ended. Then, once the Divine Gate rose, he couldn't cross it to see his world change in the wake of war. Remnants of mortal lives trickle in with reckless quests and ill-fated bargains, but it only gives him fragments.
Asmodeus's realm doesn't change, not really. Power shifts around from one devil to another but they're all the same in every way that matters, and what limited free will he wields has never been enough to make a difference. Not for the devil he chose over everything else, not for the goddess who made the same doomed and desperate overture, not for the souls damned to an eternity of helpless torment.
What he can say is that he's never felt the fabric of Hell shudder and rupture quite like this. He stares up at the dull gray sky of Dis and sees stars for the first time in, he assumes, centuries. Beneath layers of steel and leather and silk, he feels Evandrin's namestone pulse cool and gentle against his chest. It isn't the violent tremble of the steel beneath his feet that puts him on his knees.
It would be nice if he could stay there, suspended in that moment of anguished reprieve. Instead he pushes himself up and leaps into the air, wings of flame unfurling from his back. Whatever happened, it's best if he gets there first.
Re: For Steve
He hit hard, but he hit shield first. For anyone else? They'd absolutely be dead. Him? Not so much. He grimaced and gritted his teeth though.
On one hand, nobody was chasing him.
On the other? He appeared to have fallen out of his own reality.
And there is a guy with flaming wings and horns.
Which seems urgent enough for him to make getting to his feet more a matter of springing up than climbing. Definitely holding the shield in front of him, prepared for an attack but confusion written clearly across his face.
Re: For Steve
Instead he finds a battered mortal with a shield who looks just as bewildered as he feels. There's a flicker of wistful yearning in his eyes as he lands; he hasn't used a shield in such a long time. His mace hangs from his hip, of course, but he doesn't draw it yet; he doesn't even bother with a defensive position. His wings do fade, for now, but that doesn't do much to ease the heat.
"I assume this isn't where you meant to end up."
Re: For Steve
The wings faded is noted. So is the mace. So are the horns. So is the fact that it's hot as fuck.
Also noted though? There's something wistful in this man's expression, he is armed but not presenting a threat, and there's something in the nature of his voice that is actually the opposite of alarming.
Steve's still wary, because there are limits to his stupidity - and a lot of things are stacked here that being suspicious makes at least as much sense as not. That's more true after having members of his team trying to kill about, oh, ninety seconds ago.
Also: This is hell and that is a demon, he's pretty sure, though 'aliens' is still a possibility.
But he's not attacking.
In fact he drops the shield, still attached to his arm, and looks around then back to This Guy, and kind of looks incredulous. "Does anyone intend to come here?"
Re: For Steve
He nods towards the vast reaches behind him where the Iron City looms in the distance, a jagged sprawl of smooth black stone and twisted steel. "There are always mortals here, looking for power or secrets or some other thing that isn't worth as much as they think it is."
There's a lot of disdain in his voice, but not contempt.
"But they do this the proper way: do a ritual, open a portal, close the door behind them. I don't know what the fuck you did."
Re: For Steve
Except maybe the part where the tone and cursing expresses a sentiment that comes close to his own right about now.
He looks the direction he's directed with a nod, processes what he's heard but.
"Yeah... Me either. Jumped, and halfway down what I was falling toward... changed. This is going to be a problem." Visibly healing at a rate that makes it look like it's happening in time lapse though.
Re: For Steve
Not divine, or magical, or frightened.
That isn't something he knows how to behold properly so he's just - he's just going to forge ahead, they don't have time.
Oh, you like this one.
Scrap that. They do not have time.
Zerxus steps forward and offers his hand, clawed gauntlet and all. "I assume you're a pawn in someone else's game. Let's discuss it elsewhere."
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For Steve
Zerxus closes his eyes and lets his mind soar, but not into true sleep; not quite yet.
In his mind's eye, he sees Asmodeus lounging across his throne - an overwrought monstrosity of onyx and ruby, today - with a knowing grin on his face.
Sometimes, Zerxus appears standing tall despite knowing it changes nothing about how the devil sees him. This time he's kneeling from the start, naked still save for a cape he’s never worn in the waking world. It defies physics, arching around his neck as dancing flames and pooling around his thighs like drying blood.
"Oh, you’re in a persuasive mood tonight." It’s that playful, rumbling purr that actually makes him smile sometimes, when the stakes aren’t like this. Instead he lifts his head with an expression that’s downright pleading.
He doesn’t even have to beg out loud for Asmodeus to appear right in front of him, a hand outstretched to cup his cheek.
"You want me to tell you how to save him."
"Yes." He intends to elaborate, to appease, to beg, but the lightest touch keeps his mouth closed.
"I haven’t seen you like this in...oh, a century, at least." At his champion’s open confusion, Asmodeus simply shakes his head. "You’ll understand later. For the moment…" His hand drifts down, and suddenly Zerxus can feel the makeshift stitches in his chest. Then they burn, traced with painstaking delicacy.
"This will scar." He’d assumed that was part of the initial bargain, and he was right; this is something more. His wounds arch towards the devil’s claw like iron to a magnet, and he seems to be drawing a pattern. "You’ll be losing some endurance, so you’ll need to compensate for that."
It feels like a small price to pay, on balance, so there’s almost certainly a catch.
"I understand, and I accept."
The way Asmodeus grins should chill him, but all he feels is relief. Yes, all right, this is serving some larger plan he never had a hope of stopping anyway; just let him protect one person.
"Let’s discuss our strategy, then."
There are a few things that Steve will notice immediately, upon waking.
One is that he’s alone in the bed; another is how how well-rested he feels, as if he's had the calmest and deepest sleep of his life; another is that the room doesn’t smell of blood and ash. After a moment, he may recognize it as petrichor and lavender.
"You’re awake." Zerxus has stepped through one of the usual archways, at least, and now comes the last obvious difference: he gazes at Steve with amber eyes, the eyes of a human man. Nothing else has changed, save for his clothes - he’s in what passes for casual wear in the devil’s palace, loose and flowing but still pristinely elegant - and that makes for a stark contrast.
Re: For Steve
The change in the way the air smells (to him) is suspicious, sure, but it's also what he credits for waking well rested from deep and unusually peaceful sleep.
He sits up pretty immediately all the same, with a stretch and yawn, born of nothing more than waking up. "Wide." It's pretty meaningless as remarks go, but he's trying to find a way to get relevant information - of any variety, about anything - without it being a question.
"You look different."
Goddammit.
Well. It's hell. Most gods probably did.
Re: For Steve
"Tell me what you usually do, in the morning."
Maintaining this particular bargain did come up, in their discussion. Asmodeus was of the opinion that it was a good challenge for the Captain to cut his teeth on.
Re: For Steve
"I don't believe you." That you haven't noticed. Not that Steve is actually working all that hard to figure out specifics, but it feels like he should point out that there are limits on his credulity.
"Eat. Exercise. Shower. In that order."
Re: For Steve
"Breakfast it is, then." There's still a moment of hesitation, before he offers his hand, but he does do it. Something has given him confidence, or at least eased his fear.
Re: For Steve
Doesn't mean he's playing stupid, but answers will be, or will not be. "Sounds good. I'd make a crack about being hungry enough to eat... anything specific and it'd show up." And then he'd eat it, but he's going to have a moment or twelve if breakfast is a dead elephant.
Priorities are also in play. Until or unless something changes food has to be a major priority for him.
Re: For Steve
Re: For Steve
Re: For Steve
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Oh, you know.
It isn't just that it's darker than it should, by rights be. Filled with shadows, yes, but also appearing to be drawn in grayscale, as though color cannot survive here.
It isn't the desperation that permeates the city so strongly it feels as though it has a scent and a taste to even mortal senses, if one could just focus hard enough on it.
It isn't even the horrifying crime rate.
It's that everything feels ominous and menacing - something actively hostile baked into every element of it. It is dangerous to be here, and there's no attempt to hide that behind any pretty facade. It's been that way for years.
It's been that way since two wealthy citizens died, and their son didn't.
Any outsider - anyone who doesn't belong in, or to, Gotham stands out like a scream shattering silence. At least to that now adult child, pulled out of a gutter running with his parents blood and raised in hell.
Bruce doesn't approach - or make himself known - immediately. He's just in the shadows, observing and torn between being impressed at the sheer stupid bravery and frustrated and near insulted by the unbelievable audacity.
When he finally moves there's no warning. There's no sound at all. Shadows simply pull back as he steps forward. Black on black on black, save red, nearly animal, eye-shine that... the light isn't right to account for. "You don't belong here."
Re: Oh, you know.
It's not the bleakness, because the entire world is like that now. If anything, Gotham is holding up better than a lot of cities, structurally speaking; so many are just worn down, despite fierce defenders or a god's favour. But he's never crossed a boundary into such palpable, relentless misery.
It's never met people he seem defensive of it, either, even viciously proud. We're survivors, in Gotham; we're strong enough to thrive here and make it our own; we don't need anyone else, especially someone like you.
He's considering how exactly to deal with that when his situation changes very suddenly, and very drastically.
Well. He owes a few people some gold pieces, but as to the immediate problem, "I could argue that, I think."
Then he offers his hand. It's not as ridiculously stupid as it could be; his gauntlet is dented and battered, but still protective enough.
"You must be Bruce."
Re: Oh, you know.
He just looks confused by the hand. Who the hell trots up to the Prince of Hell, in his element and does that. He tilts his head at the offered hand, very slightly, like a confused dog. but sure. Okay. He shakes it. Just to see what, if anything, the crazy mortal does.
He doesn't even squeeze overly hard. In fact it's very, very polite.
Re: Oh, you know.
What the crazy mortal does is - shake his hand like a normal person, before pulling back without any trace of contempt or urgency.
There are tricks he could pull, and they might even do some damage; someone who chooses to actively fight in this war needs to be powerful, after all. But it sure wouldn't kill an archdevil, and more importantly that isn't why he's here.
"There aren't many healers left in Gotham, are there?"
Re: Oh, you know.
Well, it might be the happiest place on this earth, for some definition of happy.
"Are you trying to offer me your services?"
Re: Oh, you know.
"For the record, I'm willing to sign a contract if that's the only way to get anything done, but let's be clear on the terms. My soul wouldn't even be worth the trouble."
Somehow, this might be the strangest thing he's said yet; a paladin's soul, a warrior of another god? Those are coveted for a reason. (Zerxus has a theory that most of that reason is just Sheer Fucking Pettiness but in fairness, he isn't a scholar of the Hells or anything.)
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He could have avoided it, and not even had it been a choice. He could have just... failed to specifically make sure that he got to have it. It would have been easier - leave, do what he was going to do, then come back and deal with the consequences then.
He's Steve.
That's not perfect - nowhere near - but even after his time here and all the bullshit of why and how, he's got too much sense of fair play and justice to not. Heck, maybe (definitely) all the bullshit and reasons he's here have made him more determined to be more fair and honest to Zerxus than that.
He isn't second guessing the decision he's made, or the reasons for it.
He still doesn't want to.
He knocks lightly on the wall as he walks back in, just as a courtesy - manners. "Hey. We need to talk."
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The knock gets his attention, but his head doesn't jerk upwards like it may have in those first few weeks, or months; despite himself, he's become used to Steve being here, to knowing he could be interrupted by someone he trusts. His expression is concerned, obviously, but not suspicious.
"Of course." The book vanishes back to his bookshelf with a snap of his fingers before he starts to sit up properly.
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There's some hesitation this time, and while he joins Zerxus on the bed, it's facing him and with his back against the foot board. This conversation needs looking at each other, and Steve needs some space to force himself to have it.
There's still a moment or two of pause, but only that. "I'm... going home. for a while."
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It's one of those rare times he agrees with Asmodeus about what weakness is. This is what he wanted, what he's been working for whenever he gets a chance. His only worry should be about how, since he definitely didn't have a hand in it, and -
Wait.
"What do you mean, 'a while'?"
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That half-snap is at odds with the slight grimace, and even more at odds with the way he wants to soften this and knows that there is no softening it, it would be insulting to try, and make it sound like he has some kind of doubt about what he's doing.
And he doesn't.
The snap settles into grim determination in his eyes, and his voice. "I'm needed there. It's one soul against a world and don't you dare tell me that my math's wrong." You gave him the idea on day... two. it was a solid one.
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It's the quiet, steady confirmation that does it. His gasp is as pained as it is surprised.
The worst part is, he can't even argue. For a long moment he just stares, stricken and stubborn, as if he could find some way to pick it apart - but he just can't. What does he say, that Steve matters more than all of those people just because Zerxus loves him? That they're worthless in the face of his own feelings?
That kind of shit is how you get Asmodeus in the first place.
Finally, low and hoarse, "What did you agree to?"
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