The oddly coiffed and often dangerous man that Bobo is now is a persona forged literally in the fires of Hell. All due to the lessons learned in the mistakes of putting your trust in another. Even if he makes the mistake time and again, a heart born to trust living in a world where everyone is out to betray you by their very nature. By his own nature.

"Count yourself lucky then," he says, giving a nod and taking one of them. "Thanks," he adds, though there is a moment of uncertainty being unused to anyone making that sort of gesture toward him.

There's a lingering ache from the skunk, the spray clinging to his clothes. It shows in the way he shifts closer, gaze shifting along lines of the other man's form. But his mind is caught up in the knowledge there's someone here that is closer to the world he knew as a man without being a demon like he is.

"Where were you at? You know, hiding." There's less heat to the twist of his words, not able to help himself though.