He nods at her offer, though he isn’t sure he’ll take her up on it. Not that he doubts it’s genuine, but rather, he is unsure he wants Bad unveiled so thoroughly before her, when the child is still almost a mystery to him. Bad is strange in a way Sleaze never was, and perhaps it’s the things he can do, or perhaps it’s the nature of his conception – nature over nurture, and all that.
(Of course, Sleaze’s father was the dark god’s son as well, half-brother to Bad, a tangled mess of a family tree, knotted and unforgiveable.)
“Thank you,” he says, and then he sinks into the feel of her touch, and he does not consider the way his son’s eyes flash unnervingly, he only thinks of how good it is, to feel her again.
But such bliss is brief, as it often is with him, because her next words cause an ache in him. If he were a bolder man – a crueler man – the ache would turn to rage, but Garbage long ago used up all his rage, so now there is only pain for her.
(His well of pain, unlike rage, appeared to be endless.)
“Oh,” he all he says at first, because what else is there? His jaw is tight and though he is still close to her, he is no longer touching her, afraid now that such things might be a reminder, though he does not back away – he is here, should she close the distance again.
“I’m so sorry, Agetta,” he says, and it feels like such a small thing, so unlike the worlds he wants to give her. He would take her pain if he could, transfer it into himself in a heartbeat, for he is a familiar host to unhappiness and he knows too well how he can bear such a burden. For what has he done, in these years? He has loved her, sure, but he did not pursue her, did not hunt her down and…and what? Could he have saved her, from any of it? He is no savior, and he is fool to even entertain the thought.
Still, maybe there could have been something -
But he did not. He wandered and he loved her from afar and when the dark god came to him dressed in galaxies he was willing, he fell pregnant and bore his strange son, and now he is here and she is confessing her unhappiness and he is entirely unable to remedy any of it.
He can stay, though. Such a paltry thing, but all his offerings have been paltry, and she has taken them nonetheless.
“I’ve never thought you a mess,” he says, which is true – she is always perfect, in his eyes, “but I’m sorry these years have been hard. I wish I could…I don’t know. I wish I could fix it for you.”
Wishes are all he has to offer, really. Such paltry things.
@[Agetta]