When you came to yours and Copia’s room after your chores for the day, a bruise on your side from a cart having been rammed into you, Copia had nearly gone berserk.

It was nothing, really—you had experienced worse, and some tiny bruise that had briefly swollen before going back down within hours didn’t mean all that much, but really, for him, any noticeable mark on your body instantly became his biggest problem. After demanding to know who had done that to you, and your immediate refusal and insistence that you were fine, he had literally threatened to go full-on CIA operation and track down every Sibling of Sin in the church who was responsible for moving any kind of heavy object and have the ghouls go after and interrogate then one by one, and only then did you finally admit that it was a Sibling you had mentioned before, who had been a particular asshole to you for some time.

So it was intentional, and that wouldn’t fly. Copia had gone downstairs, hurriedly assuring you that jerk wouldn’t bother you again before coming back up. He seemed a little frazzled, but otherwise alright as he sat down next to you.

“You didn’t hurt them, did you?” You had genuinely become worried over the time he left you alone.

“No,” he said. “I just let him have it. Yelled so much I probably won’t be able to speak this Sunday, but it was certainly worth it.”

You insisted that he didn’t have to do that, that stuff like that happened all the time, and it really wasn’t a big deal. Even when he asked, somewhat surprised if, “hitting someone with a cart was normal?” and you had only shrugged saying that, Satanas, you were used to it,, he could only frown. He slid his arms around your waist and sort of pushed you down on the bed, lying on top of you and rubbing your bruised side. “It’s not,” he said, pressing a kiss to your ribcage. “No matter what anyone else has told you, dolce, it’s not.”