Oh, curses. Cain's apple slice eyebrows arch upward in an approximation of distress. Oh, but if there's anything worse than making a girl cry, he doesn't want to know about it.

It is a special kind of Hell, that. The guilt rolls around his topmost bucket in the shape of a shiny red apple.

"Hey-- Metody, sweetheart, at least you still look like a doll. It's not too far from-- you know, before."

He pushes more fully upright, fairly certain he won't topple over so long as his torso of sorts is on solid enough ground. He'd scoot closer if he wasn't half sunken into the pancake.

"...you still have a pretty dress, and a very nice hairpin. You even sort of resemble yourself. That's not too bad, is it?"