[There's little more that he loves more than the bright, incandescent anger that lights up in Vergilius' eyes, but Lobelia has come to realize that being the source of that anger isn't quite as rewarding as it used to be. Perhaps finding happiness in his own death is what changed him. Perhaps he doesn't need to poke at Vergilius like a rabid bear to get his kicks when he has the sounds of his own demise to reflect upon and indulge in.

He had thought, surely, that death would be just as rewarding for Vergilius, but Lobelia thought wrong. He gets that now. As stubborn as he is, insisting upon always being right, he's acknowledged that too. The idea of withholding that apology only to further hurt Vergilius has lost its savor, and why that is, Lobelia has yet to determine.

So much for being a genius, he thinks, but he doesn't bother Vergilius with his internal monologue. For what little he can make sense of his own ever-complicating feelings, it would be a waste of breath to speak them aloud and hope Vergilius can make sense of any of it.

Still... What's this about we? It's brief, but Lobelia looks back over his shoulder at Vergilius, surprised. Yes, that could have very well been a slip of the tongue, so Lobelia treats it as such. Of course, somewhere in the depths of his heart, he wants to believe it was intentional.]

Understood. You'll do as you please, hm?

[I've always liked that about you. In his newfound efforts not to hurt Vergilius when nothing can be gained from it, Lobelia keeps that thought to himself.]

But I don't intend to lay about uselessly while you toil. If you would do me a faveur, I can be of much greater use to you. I think you'll find it agreeable.