askaree

It hardly mattered that he acquiesced so quickly to her demand that he make himself present. It hardly mattered that his swift arrival implied, at least in some small measure, that he was willing to entertain the notion of assisting her. No, the fealty implied by his actions didn't make one goddamn bit of difference because the hesitance evidenced in his stayed progression, the manner in which he froze in the too-bright light of the doorway, betrayed him. It tightened the plump, readied finger upon the proverbial trigger of her ire; it held a trembling candle precariously close to the powder keg that was the Egyptian woman poised before him. He had wanted to know, he had wanted to see this- the secret she had fought so valiantly (and desperately) to keep concealed. Why the hell else would he have pursued her? Why would he have planted himself in the lobby like he fucking belonged there in order to wait for her? It was evident that, for all of his obviously expansive education, no one had ever purred that childish axiom into Spencer's ear. Curiosity killed the cat.... This time, she wondered, would satisfaction bring him back?

Askaree straightens somewhat as he approaches, Spencer succeeding in truly capturing her full attention for perhaps the first time that evening, the tenebrific darkness of her gaze remains unyielding as he comes to stand by her side. And then he speaks... and the conflagration of her ire combusts in a manner so brilliant that it threatens to devour the pair of them whole, her eyes momentarily flicking towards the hand that rests upon her shoulder. Given a vastly different collection of circumstances she might have indulged this innocent touch, or ribbed him for the delicateness of his caress. It is as if he seeks to comfort her as one would comfort a sobbing widow kneeling at the side of her husband's deathbed, the stench of death still clinging to her garments. But she is blind to the humor in this gesture, her mind seizing instead upon the absolutely worthless offer he extends to her. It is to his merit, surely, that he withdraws his hand from her then... for surely this would have otherwise lost him more than just a little shred of pride.

"You," she nearly spits, the generosity of her leather-clad torso camouflaging the fact that the taut collection of muscles that lay beneath practically trembles, so consuming is the festering venom of her fury. He touted himself as a master at crafting the poisons that had served to line his pockets so nicely for as long as she had known him, his client base having grown significantly for the talents he displayed with this Harry Potter home-ec shit. But now? This one moment, admittedly the only occasion upon which she had ever (truly) requested anything of any real significance from him... and he offers to do naught more than "ease his passing"?

Askaree moves with all of the calculated and fatal precision that was to be expected of the predator that she was, inside and out, both of her hands fisting into the starched fabric of his pressed shirt to draw him ever closer to her. When she speaks to her counterpart her words come as little more than a hiss and yet no less weighty are they. "You're sorry?! You're a fucking liar, Spencer. I know you can help him so do it or I swear to god I'll see to it that you beat him to the Styx." The luscious cushions of her lips purse in a nearly painful fashion upon each syllable in turn, every part of her echoing the validity of the threat she has placed upon the veritable table betwixt them. He was ignorant to all of the ways that she could hurt him, blind to how promptly she could bring about his end.

However, these considerations disintegrate, falling away into the ether that existed beyond this room with the breathless whisper of her name as it falls from the lips of the withered man at her back.