Talia and Damian
Bad habits, what a way to put it, or so Damian thought. That's what they called his way of doing things, bad habits. That or a poor upbringing. Never in those words of course, not always. They were all too polite, and it made him sick at times. He wanted them to speak their minds, but he was also afraid of what they would have to say. Of course, he tried his best to never look like he was afraid, fear was a weakness, and one that he was not allowed to indulge in. But that did not stop him from feeling it.
Still, the quiet words of his mother, barely heard, sent a strange warmth through him. It was uncomfortable, but not unpleasant. Damian shifted his weight from one foot to the other as the floor suddenly seemed to become fascinating. He rallied his self control by summoning up every last scrap of his cynicism. She must not have said what he thought she did. After all, he had barely heard her, who was to say that he had heard her right.
Turning slightly to face her more fully, Damian brazenly looked into her face. Now his eyes searched her face carefully, rather than sneaking glances. The touch of eagerness in his voice, overshadowed by the disbelief and wariness, could not be helped as he demanded, "What did you say."