Eridan, cigarette still dangling from his lips, did an admittedly admirable job with his sparse materials; gradual heat to thaw, a light dusting of whatever spices he could dig out of the cupboards, and the attentiveness to his preparations that betrayed a muted passion in it. He was so lacking in all these other areas — but cooking, at least, he could do.

Until that last line. Eridan tossed a caustic look backwards, and very casually set his foot a little further back, grinding the heel.

Onto Eddie's fingers.

"Cute." His tone was gravel and glass. "I'll take the bed. You can sleep at the foot, if you're good."

A jab at canine obedience for a man who, Eridan had gotten the impression, had been trained by this mysterious tormentor for complete and utter submission. Apt, suitably cruel. Maybe a little traumatizing. All good in Eridan's book.

Water themes made him so touchy these days.