[ Eat properly. Right, sure. Copia wanted to know what that meant to his mother, at any age. Did she even eat, herself? They so rarely had family dinners (thank Lucifer) and, even then, it always seemed like she preferred to watch everyone else clear their plates. Maybe that was just the leftover pervasive feeling from his childhood, that she got all the sustenance she needed from bathing in the blood of her enemies.
(Maybe not the healthiest course of action either, he could argue, if she should choose to press further and find out about the box of cold pizza sitting on his bed or the literal beer cave the Ghouls created in the more-often-than-not empty crypt where his brothers' bodies barely rested.)
Would she take back all the tenderness, the hug, the gentility in her voice and touch, if she knew that he was more or less a bit of a mess, sometimes? ]
Oh, yeah, you know me. [ Or. Well, she would. He gave an awkward thumbs up. ] Stretching, cycling. Getting my steps in.
no subject
(Maybe not the healthiest course of action either, he could argue, if she should choose to press further and find out about the box of cold pizza sitting on his bed or the literal beer cave the Ghouls created in the more-often-than-not empty crypt where his brothers' bodies barely rested.)
Would she take back all the tenderness, the hug, the gentility in her voice and touch, if she knew that he was more or less a bit of a mess, sometimes? ]
Oh, yeah, you know me. [ Or. Well, she would. He gave an awkward thumbs up. ] Stretching, cycling. Getting my steps in.