He has a profound and inherent almost childish love of beautiful things, miraculous things, little things and simple pleasures and peaceful moments. Good burgers and good beer, a favorite coat and a sunny afternoon with a wide road. He was born, bred, and raised to kill evil things and monsters, and he is not just incredibly good at his brutal, bloody, messy, dangerous job, he thrills and revels in it and enjoys every gory triumph, even as he knows it should be tragedy of a sort. He has killed or feels responsible for the death of too many; his siblings, his mentors, his friends, his comrades in arms, and of nearly all those he has ever loved. The only ones he hasn't killed are those he has lied to, hurt, and betrayed despite his abject willingness to do anything, anything at all to protect them. He has been to hell and back, literally, and fought the monsters of Purgatory both alone and with allies for over a year. He has tortured in the name of virtue, lied in the name of truth, allied with those who turn his bowels and shunned those he loves with all his heart. He has seen his own father move heaven, earth, and hell for him even as he doesn't answer calls begged on desperate knees and turns a cold, quiet shoulder of disapproval that cuts deeper than the knives he's felt so often that they don't even matter any more. He is, on the outside, ten thousand enviable things and so many times a hero, but he hates himself to the bottom of rivers of alcohol and to the back of infinite mirrors and the black nothing behind the eyes that other people think are so beautiful.

He's a monster who gets called a savior, and he doesn't even know what he wants any more, but he's terrified of what delights him and no longer believes in having or loving or deserving as anything but a prelude to losing and betraying and dying.

Which is why there is only one other who can really get it, who does get it, who understands what he is and loves him for it and despite it even as and even as much as he hates himself.

And why he can't bring himself to act on that.

Because everything he touches turns to blood.