You did, didn't you. [Greed reiterates, the flat of his tongue tense. Dante, Stocke - how far the cure goes, the side-effects. He couldn't even begin to make a guess. But when the other smooths out the proverbial bumps, the intention meets its mark. The stiffness in the Sin's spine slacks, if only slightly; the comfortable slouch relaxed, yet hesitant. No, Stocke's more talented than that. If something were really off, he'd bury it as deep as he could. That training of his a poker face of sorts, swindling and trickling even the most veteran scrutiny.]
[Still - ]
[The Sin's brows scoop together, causing a ripple of wrinkles to crease along his forehead. His keeps his hands hanging at his sides; those claws of his ripe with sunlight and touched as delicately as a gathering of well-tended kitchen knives. The former homunculus chases a glance at the bag before, finally, he arches his shoulders. He gives off a nonchalant shrug; a gesture to shake off and bury the notion without a single shred of doubt.] Ehh -
[He crosses one foot over the other, the dust lodged in his heels freeing itself in a pilfer of smooth, skating sand.] You think it has something to do with the cure? [Greed tongues, his voice caressing and wet. Any sort of cure is bound to have its negatives. The science of such a thing, though - the art of it: it's beyond him. Of course, that doesn't mean he couldn't put together at least some of the pieces. Where some claim to have a miracle, there's always certainly a catch. A bit of fine print written in last minute mostly ignored by anyone desperate enough. Because, by definition, hope? It's just another want.]
[And want? Want is something he knows best.]
[The curb of his boot smothers a stray stone and as he closes in, the pressure of his heel forces it to a skitter. The small slab bounces atop the street - its movement similar to flat-rock skipped for good luck. Greed traces one his belt-loops with the shell of his thumb.] And you? Still all there? [Again, he watches Stocke. However, the suspicion in his eyes is gone now. Replaced by something like an inspection; as if he's trying to see, trying to evaluate, just how much the other's changed.]
no subject
[Still - ]
[The Sin's brows scoop together, causing a ripple of wrinkles to crease along his forehead. His keeps his hands hanging at his sides; those claws of his ripe with sunlight and touched as delicately as a gathering of well-tended kitchen knives. The former homunculus chases a glance at the bag before, finally, he arches his shoulders. He gives off a nonchalant shrug; a gesture to shake off and bury the notion without a single shred of doubt.] Ehh -
[He crosses one foot over the other, the dust lodged in his heels freeing itself in a pilfer of smooth, skating sand.] You think it has something to do with the cure? [Greed tongues, his voice caressing and wet. Any sort of cure is bound to have its negatives. The science of such a thing, though - the art of it: it's beyond him. Of course, that doesn't mean he couldn't put together at least some of the pieces. Where some claim to have a miracle, there's always certainly a catch. A bit of fine print written in last minute mostly ignored by anyone desperate enough. Because, by definition, hope? It's just another want.]
[And want? Want is something he knows best.]
[The curb of his boot smothers a stray stone and as he closes in, the pressure of his heel forces it to a skitter. The small slab bounces atop the street - its movement similar to flat-rock skipped for good luck. Greed traces one his belt-loops with the shell of his thumb.] And you? Still all there? [Again, he watches Stocke. However, the suspicion in his eyes is gone now. Replaced by something like an inspection; as if he's trying to see, trying to evaluate, just how much the other's changed.]
[Because, even if Stocke is human, to him?]
[It truly, truly, doesn't matter.]