The only truly applicable metaphor for what Dean felt as Donovan engaged the tough would be: a slight strengthening of his cock. Crude, but apt in this case. A trickle of power, so tiny as to be a stream against what had once been a river, flowed back into his emptied form, returning with it a hint of the man’s former stature. Muscles filled – a bit. He grew an inch of two and his brown eyes became shadowy pits, once more reflecting confidence and a vague, hungry, madness. Yet for all that apparent restoration, Dean was still a spent Shadow. It would take time, or significantly more brazen efforts of power from Donovan, to jump start the Darkling Glory within him.<br/><br/>Stepping off the boat and onto the pier, Dean looked as Donovan worked, biting his bottom lip. Some of the old vices, the ambitions, the needs, lurked in him again – but they did not drowned out his agonizing need to protect his friend. His<em>friend</em>? No. Shaking his head, long black hair curling against high, pale cheekbones oddly damp with tears, Dean denied his own thoughts. Clarified them.<br/><br/>His<em>Knight</em>. Not his friend. Donovan was his anchor. A stone to his ankles. The only reason his Knight merited protection was because if Donovan died, Dean would too. This time in truth. No true loyalty or honor bound the two!<br/><br/><em>My friend.</em>The whispered voice, young and innocent, came again. A clarion lancing through the regenerating wickedness in his shadowy heart.<br/><br/>The struggle of his emotions froze Dean in place, even as both Aza’s slipped off the boat. Even as the female warrior struggled with her own doubts. And in the space of that hesitation, more toughs had time to appear from a nearby ally. No sign of the constabulary yet: no doubt whoever was arranging this wanted the group thoroughly trounced beforehand. Then again, Dean wasn’t precisely watching the rooftops either.<br/>