"Are you sure."

"...what are you worried is going to happen to him? You know he's already being eternally tortured, right?"

"He has bad days. He could have worse days."

...he's scared of him, too, probably.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your—"

"Thanks."

Emmelia curls up under the blankets and closes her eyes and prays for the devil -- not for his conversion; not that he should, against all logic and tradition and teaching, be saved; not even for the mercy of God on him.

She prays for the devil to come home safely, and at the end of the prayer, she doesn't add but Thy Will be done, because in this particular case that seems like it would sort of undermine it.

When she wakes up the next morning, Cato is still there, curled up asleep in his chair, leaned against the wall.

Demons sleep?

She puts a blanket over him.

He snuggles into it, without quite waking up.

Demons sleep ... adorably?

What would happen, Emmelia wonders, if you baptized a demon, and then rejects the notion. He's an adult, it wouldn't work without consent anyway.

A broken-off hunk of cheese from an economy-sized brick in the fridge is like breakfast. This, Emmelia firmly believes.

Eventually, he gasps and sits upright, eyes darting around the room until he finds her.

"...is that just...cheese?"

"It might not be."

"...put it...on bread?"

Emmelia considers arguing this, decides it's not worth it, grabs a slice of sandwich bread from the pantry and wraps it around the awkwardly-shaped hunk of hard cheese.

He nods, apparently satisfied, and dozes off a little again.

"Just lie down in the bed."

His head jerks up again as he's startled awake.

"...no, I'm keeping an eye on you."

He sheds the blanket, folds it carefully to lay it on the chair.

"I'm going to class. I will come straight back when I'm done. Lie down in the bed."

"...fine," he says, suspiciously.

He lies down in the bed.

He is defeated very promptly.

Emmelia goes to class and tries not to notice the way people look at her, even halfway through the semester, when she walks into the room. Like they're trying not to stare at the way she walks, trying not to be impatient with the way she talks. She wishes they would just go ahead and stare. Point, maybe. Laugh. It would be more honest.

She walks home, after. Biking doesn't feel safe, not as shaky as she is these days.

By the time she returns home, Cato has gotten out of bed (and made it). He's curled up in the same chair as before, reading a book he pulled off her shelf.

"Hi."

"Hi."

Backpack, floor.

"Why exactly are you supposed to be keeping such close tabs on me, anyway? Is he worried I'm going to die in a state of grace or something?"

"He's better at keeping track of people than I am."