Following his ascent to power, the Roux household had become Leroy's haven. At the conclusion of every flooded itinerary, every action-packed work day, the general made way for home. The residence existed as an escape - and a comfy one at that - from the responsibilities of leadership and the everyday trials and tribulations that the tribe faced. While inside, no longer was he enwreathed by a sea of Tanglers that were full of vim and vigour. No longer did he have to tackle a daily hustle that wore him to his brittle core, which, at times, was just too much for him to handle. That's why the appeal of an enclosed environment shared by only three people was so strong for him. In such a space, he could find solace. In such a space, he could replenish and ready himself for the next tiresome day.

Crow and Selby Roux. Bedmate, and the bedmate's son.

Upon returning home, Leroy's attention mostly fixated on Crow. Scarcely did he interact with the Sawbones in a familial sense, only doing so when the ex-general did. Outside of that, he'd intermittently shoot the beginnings of small talk in the feline's direction, along with a "hey" or "hi" for good measure. Which was odd. Normally, the canine came off as rather talkative and colloquial, yet in the presence of Selby, his words were short and hollow. The juxtaposition between his interactions with Selby and the rest of the tribe was not purposeful. When he thought about it, he sort of made sense of their awkward encounters. The healer was Crow's son, and how the hell are you supposed to look someone like that in the eye after a night of lovemaking with their father?

It was the end of another day. The door is stormily pushed ajar, and the brawny bod of Leroy moseys through the frame. His head hangs low, indicating that it'd been a particularly rough day. The wolfhound's gaze scans the room, attempting to locate his lover, however to no avail. Either the dude was asleep, or simply out and about (though the latter option seemed incredibly unlikely). A frown grows across his face. He is in no mood to wake the male up, or go out and look for his scrawny ass. Sighing, he instead ambles towards a cushion and collapses on it. Comfy.

Selby must have escaped his line of vision whilst he initially entered, for when the feline languidly converged on Leroy's position, the general was met with momentary surprise. "Uhh- hullo, Selby," he responds in a lethargic tone of voice. The canine ponders on the sawbones' blunt query for a brief allotment of time. How had his day gone, again? He was too damn tired to remember.  "I guess," he resumes, his maw expanding into a heavy yawn, "I guess ya could say it was a bit rough, yeah." There wasn't a specific task that had caused him a lot of grief today - though, today's workload felt more demanding than usual. Thus, his bones did not ache, nor did his muscles feel pain, but his body was enveloped in a cloak of incredible fatigue.

"Maybe a drink of sum'n," he suggests quickly, in response to the healer's generous offer. That throat of his felt rather parched, so some water, lemonade, or whatever beverages the household possessed would do the trick. "Err, thanks in advance."

The general's visage attains a subdued smile as the glass of aqua is set before him. He does not utter a thanking message, nor does he nod in grace. A smile, in his eyes, was enough for a glass of water. In truth, he hadn't cared for what Selby would've filled the cup with, for there were matters more cardinal to be bothered about than a drink. But water may have been the best option out of all of them - its utter simplicity and coherence, in lieu of a strenuous day, calmed him.

Leroy's noggin dips low so that his mouth may reach the drink, and blithely laps away at it as Selby reflects on recent happenings. When the younger Roux draws a remark about 'coming back from the dead', the canine's consumption of H2O abruptly ceases. A knot then develops in his throat, birthed out of a strong dislike pertaining to that specific subject. Grim thoughts began formulating within the shaky confines of his mind. The smile upon his face subsided, and his eyes, which - mere seconds ago - glanced towards the liquid in pleasure, latched onto Selby's in an exceptional stare.

It wasn't the sawbones' fault that he saw his words as fact. About ninety-one percent of Tanglewood's population probably thought the same way - with the remaining nine percent consisting of Crow, Leroy, and Aurum. Hence, it was only natural for his train of thought to mirror theirs. "Ya know," he interjects, breaking the awkward silence that'd formed on his part, "I really ain't alive. Nor will I ever be. Ain't no deathless hound. And I probably won't ever feel whole again neither." His wording isn't harsh, thought it's spoken in a tone that's about as direct as an arrow. "Ya know the story, dont'cha?" he then asks, softening his timbre a tad, "thought'cha woulda been told by me or Crow by now."