Despite Hobgoblin’s obvious discomfort and the mass death occurring around her, this is a simple, lazily pleasing day that coats her face with a smile and lets the occasional giggle flutter from her velvetine lips. She has to stop on multiple occasions to let them free. Laughter isn’t something has for long, and it tends to leave her for extended periods of time when it has left, so she cherishes very noise that comes from her that fits in the emotional category of happiness.
Hobgoblin, on the other hand,  cannot feel the same as her. One would think that with his body being ghostly and the display of bone that it gives for his entire skull enough to prove that he does not feel anything physically in his current state, and then be surprised to learn that he feels everything just as much as he would at any other time. This situation for his comfort is enough to have him edging into one of his notorious tantrums, but then there is the promise of her ending his healing session prematurely and leaving him to suffer.
So, like a mature man that she can be proud of, he stands with mouth agape, and proceeds to whine.
Because that’s what mature men do.
“Mouth huuuuurt.”
I know. It’s your fault. I told you that they sti-
“Hungry.”
She has to stop to sigh, thin wefts of the white flame that had previously been pouring from her mouth now sparking out into nothingness. The heat in his mouth brought on by it is fading, and in its place is the quick return of pain. They both know that she can feel it, not as strongly as him, but he has worked diligently in the past to ensure that when he is in pain that she must feel it as well. He will not fight his battles alone, even if they are his fault.
“Hurry up.”
But she isn’t. She’s caught up in something else, staring off at something that doesn’t matter because right now his face is on fucking fire and Sikeax, if you do not help-
“Bitch.”
Her head jerks around like he’s never seen it before, dark, unruly mane thrashing over and exposing the scar she typically worked so hard to cover up, blue eyes cold, and oh boy, he’s fucked now.
“What did you call me?” The voice rolling off her tongue is stern, and while at any other time this would be the perfect chance to piss her off to a new level of ‘You Fucked Up with Sikeax’, there is something else to keep the two of them busy.
Excitement perks into her, directly from him, and currently caught up in the mess of Hobgoblin’s typical bullshit, she doesn’t care to notice the sound of her name being said from a deep, husky, masculine voice that could make her head jerk around harder than Hobgoblin could ever imagine achieving. He is excited about the idea of Volterra’s dragons being around, minus the golden one who might be more deserving of the title that he had recently given Sikeax.
His head dances atop his body as he checks every which direction for them, excitement dampening as he notices that they aren’t around. But nonetheless, Sikeax can get him answers that he wants.
“Ask where Dragons.”
She, unlike him, is stuck in listening on Volterra’s speech about the jellyfish. She is fully aware of their mystical(as Hobgoblin would explain it) powers in inflicting pain, as anyone who lived on an island would know. Volterra does not smell of sea salt and aloe vera, and never once has she ever caught him smelling of such. She’ll spare him for the sake of his pride.
Hobgoblin’s eyes don’t leave the beast though, unlike Sikeax, who apparently has better things to do, like repositioning her name to hide a scar for the sake of vanity. There are tears in his eyes, and finally, after all this time, he finds a way to bond with Zhu’s Apa.
“Skullface eat too.”
The idea of Volterra devouring jellyfish in the same stupid fashion that Hobgoblin had done is enough to make her regret ever mating with him. Sure enough, there is a sign across his nose. A welp, and with the tears in his eyes, you’d think she would think he’d have lost a limb. Children have come to her crying less over cut legs in coral.
Maybe we should let big, tough badass himself suffer. I mean, that’s what ‘mature men’ like you two do.
She stifles her giggle at that, instead letting a smile creep across her features. She could milk this, but she has put him through enough in the past. His pride, she has decided, can take a hit.
“I know. I live on an island, you know, the Dragon’s Throat. I told you that long ago.” There is a faint touch of seriousness in her voice, but for the most part, she is oddly playful, her mood possibly perked by the fact that she gets to see the man she held some sort of hatred for cry over childish things and Hobgoblin’s pain due to him not listening to her warnings. “Give me your nose.” She waits for his head to dip, Hobgoblin now strolling away in search of the only thing he really cares about other than himself and food.
An unworthy kiss is given to him through her gifted fire, quickly working away at his burn. To think it was worth tears…
“Skullface cry one way. Explode if not. Tear back-up.”
The mere idea almost brings her back into laughter, but what was there to rationally explain to the father of her son(s) that the mental image in her head was one of him exploding from too many unshed tears in his body? There will have to be better conversation than that.
“Has Zhu taken the time to tell you that I do all the healing for the Dragon’s Throat though?” She ends it there, whether or not the pain has completely left his body or not. “If it happens again, somewhere not on your face, urinate on it.”
This time, Hobgoblin is the one to laugh, not her.