[If there's any sadness or pity, it doesn't register, not through the haze of his own loneliness and self-pity. He rolls his hand over so it's cupping his eye instead of pressing against it, and drawls lazily as they go:]

Yes, mother.

[He's good-natured about it, at least. He keeps his hand set gently against his eye, and hooks his other elbow around her arm so that he can properly sway down the street.]

Regardless, it's far too early for sleeping just yet. The night is young! I have to fight at least — at least! — three more burly monstrosities and attract every wayward templar from the depths of space before I've come even remotely close to doing my job right. Who says we have to sleep at all!

[People with better judgment than him, that's who. He's bent enough that his forehead bumps her shoulder]