[ He probably would go and find her - drawn to her like he's on a lead, wanting to find the one who knew him as he was, as he is, not the cocoon and the mask he wore through this hazy October days, over and over again. There's something to that - something he desperately wants and craves. It's there, underneath the cruelty and the amusement and the want - a desperate, needy, almost pathetic sort of desire to be seen. ]

Why'd you choose to go back?

[ He asks a question he should ask himself. One he did. ]

You just that much of a martyr?

[ He likes feeling her ruffled and put out, he likes hearing her distress.

But he also likes that moment. That but and the sense of something she could have had all of her own. No one to use her body, no one to ask more of her.

That sounds nice.

And he hates the thought, too. How strange. ]

But since you're at it again, how much darkness can you take? Can I give you some of mine? [ Crude, stupidly suggestive, but it's how he is. ]