Lashing out was all Punk knew. His worshipers were more loving, more human than they were given credit for, and sure Punk had mellowed over the years. It was change or die for Punk, the problem being that even now he didn't know which option sounded worse. Despite all that, the idea of laying it all out there, of baring himself to anyone -- even Goth, the closest thing he had to kin -- made him feel a little weak in his aching knees.
"What do you wanna hear, Vic?" he asked churlishly, muddy eyes searching her much brighter ones. The set of his jaw -- stubborn -- said everything. Goth had always asked more of him than Punk dare give. Nice to see that things hadn't changed even with years apart.
He looked away because he had to, hating with every fiber of his being that he was backing down. Tugging a kitchen towel from the waist of his ratty jeans, Punk turned under the pretense of removing cheese-slathered toast from the oven. It was that or playing the make-Goth-feel-better game, and he didn't think he was ready for a game of Truth Or Dare just yet.