The most perplexing, most daunting fact of the whole exchange: Eridan wasn't lying. Not once did Eddie register a lie. And it wasn't due to some chemical compounding variable, it wasn't because his power was numbed; while that could easily be done, his entire set of bodily nerves would have to be anesthetized to disconnect his falsehood detection manifesting.

And he felt that cold finger down his lower neck. He felt flesh against flesh.

"It's a reminder," he said, referring to the scarring. The precisely cut N, a tribute to Norman's ability with a scalpel. There was little reason to deflect, or lie -- no matter how mildly humiliating such a confession might be. Edward didn't want to lend Eridan any reason to advance onto what he suspected would be a torturous evening. If he could stall, if Eridan would listen to his stories...

"A reminder from Norman." Eddie bent down his head as much as he could, given the knotting. Just so Eridan could get a better look. Artful compliance. "The man can get so possessive."

Eddie closed his eyes, thinking back to the moment that must have happened when he wasn't looking, that second he dropped his attention on his protege -- that day when Eridan's fear bubbled back to loathing. The process between, the psychological healing. Where was he? Where had he been? Was this, the way his heart beat with panic in his chest, the burn of his joints around rope, was this all avoidable?

Four of five months had Eridan been clean. As if his obedience to Eddie was a disease, an addiction.