He wasn't sure her current disdain was as much to his liking as when she was struggling for air or trying to remain sane through agony. This was a less flavorful, and more contagious, he supposed. If he enjoyed it from the view of an onlooker studying a captured creature, usually far flung, it was still wondrous. The excess wasn't lost on him, having his meal while an angel was made to entertain him. How many men could have said that throughout the millennia?<br/><br/>She proposed a menu of stories while trying to reconcile the meat he'd served. It was a big question, and he was excited about the choices. That she didn't protest was lovely, too. Iris had never had an opposing nature, but she'd fled when she could. Their relationship had struggled because of it. Their new found understanding in the wake of his ultra violence was refreshing. He was still getting used to it. Roan hummed as he lulled over the possible narratives.<br/><br/>And while he did, she decided on a morsel for herself. He stared at her, plucking it up. He wanted it then, a juvenile impulse to steal it from her as she was peeling the outer. Did all angels eat like this? Did angels, yet to fall, even eat? While his heart had always hovered around her before, his focus had strayed, like avoiding bright lights with your eyes, but now he'd found fixation in her. It was lost to him right now that he should perhaps treasure her individual over the places and creatures that had cast her out.<br/><br/>She returned his efforts of cooking by serving up a celestial fact. He laughed darkly at that. Hearing it now, I made perfect sense. He broke off a bone in his mouth, looking at his plate while he crushed it repeatedly, filling his head with the sound of destruction before he swallowed. What a joke, then, all those big houses, waiting for a father that would never come home. Roan huffed and shook his head at the scope of it all. He wiped his lips again and took up his glass.<br/><br/>"Who has power in Heaven then?" he asked, finding that the daylight fractured in the liquid fractured and recasted streaks of white over her chest and on the wall behind her. He dedicated half a smile to that irony before drinking it all up. That imagery was a bit heavy handed for lunch. "And do you care about human worship at all? In my sights, it doesn't seem to matter much what we do, but I never have complete picture. Is man of any consequence?"<br/><br/>For what could have been a hopeful notion, Roan didn't seem to stock much emotion other than curiosity in his waiting. He was cold about these things after so much, though broken, exposure. Perhaps migraines and little searing novellas from a place disenchanted it for the mind it tormented. He liked to learn more, because he could believe her better than his shattered gift, but he wasn't hoping for an epiphany or a beacon to follow. He was content with worshipping by her corpse for now.