Nothing about the situation that he found himself in was welcomed. There wasn't much in this life that the dark hunter found much pleasure in these days, not that he could ever really remember many things from a time when perhaps he might have been happier to begin with, but what he definitely knew was that having to more or less pay for the witch's freedom from the one that seemed to instill in her a fear unlike anything he would have ever thought the white-haired woman capable of feeling was not one of them â€" let alone even begin to feel the beginnings of a protective concern. She was entirely capable of defending herself against men twice her size if not more. He remembered perfectly well how she'd gutted that guy in the alleyway like he'd been nothing more than a rabbit and she the wildcat that had an unavoidable need to hunt and kill. Granted, it was so very far from such a state of necessity, though in the same moment he was beginning to see the bigger picture to what was going on behind the scenes. More than he wanted to know, because it seemed that in beginning to understand exactly what it was that was going on in her life, he was actually starting to feel the absolute last thing that he would have ever wanted to feel towards her; concern. She'd done nothing but piss him off, not to mention that of course their first run-in with each other had been the single most infuriating thing to have happened to the man in a long time. He was used to being the one that beat the shit out of people because they ticked him off, or because they were ballsy enough to look at his little sister for more than three seconds in some sort of casual greeting. How many times had it been that Lazarus had actually lost a fight? Perhaps once or twice, when he was a little kid, but not since then. Not even when he'd been in a particularly bad mood one day at high school only to walk around the corner of the commons building to see none other than Donovan, the former star of the football team, getting his ass handed to him by one of the linebackers or whatever the hell it was that the fat kid did on the team.

That was another fine example of Lazarus doing very "un-Lazarus" things. And that had even been years ago since he'd last dared to act out of his norm and actually do something even remotely kind for another being. Not that he would ever admit that it had been out of some sense of protectiveness or an act made with righteous intent. To this day though, Lazarus only ever passed off that day when he'd jumped in and beat the hell out of his only long-lasting friend's attacker as a day where he'd been itching for a fight for whatever reason and taken advantage of Donova's unfortunate situation, seizing an opportunity to release that anger that had steadily begun to rise in the young man back then, before it shifted and became the monster within him that paced those brittle bars more often than it should, waiting for another chance to break free and lash out at whatever or whomever was near enough or the source of its freedom. Even to this day, the two... unusual friends refused to talk about that day, Donovan having never thanked Lazarus for that afternoon when he'd interfered and Lazarus never bothering to mention it. There was nothing really to say about it, that was the explanation that both of them would give anyone that might ever feel inclined to ask them how it was that they'd met and become friends when neither of them were hardly the type to form such bonds with others. The man had never intended to befriend the outcast in all honesty, but when things unraveled even moreso for the were, something had compelled Lazarus to offer his couch and residence to him, and from that day forward, the men grew tolerant of the other until a silently agreed upon friendship formed from that series of unfavorable events. It all just sort of happened in the end, and somehow after all this time that peculiar tie existed as strong as it had ever been. There were little words ever exchanged between the two men, but there was a loyalty that neither of them spoke to, even when it was clear that there was a brother-in-arms type of comradery between Lazarus and Donovan.

But this... this was something altogether different, and all that Lazarus knew in that very moment as he held the trembling woman there against him was that he did not enjoy this in the least. He hadn't the slightest idea what to do with those hands of his that rested almost gingerly on her arms, not really feeling up for another fist to the face though it seemed like she hardly had it in herself to even get herself and that fear that filled his senses under control. It was as though someone had placed a scared creature in his care, for him to look after until it felt safe and strong again. Elain was always the best of the siblings whenever it came to comforting and helping, healing or caring. Lazarus was the last individual that should ever be considered qualified to care for another being the way that he did his little sister, and yet here he was, lingering with the white-haired woman as she leaned into his chest, seeming to fight a losing battle to find that fire he hated so very much about her, or so he was repeatedly telling himself he hated. When the almost alien softness of the witch's murmur reaches the dark hunter, he gives a slight shrug."That's Ellie for ya", he stated nonchalantly, looking for any reason to help the woman get her back to that normal, aggravating self so that he might just be able to disappear and pretend none of this happened, yet something in the man doubted that he would be seeing his own bed tonight. She speaks after that momentary pause, and for once it seems that they were actually able to agree on something. When she moves away, he allows for her to do so without any quarrel, if anything satisfied with the fact that he could now finally breathe. He needed that space from her, and as he turns to head to the liquor store, he is conflicted between being thankful for every step that brought him farther and farther from her and being uncertain on if the vampire would come back for her while he was gone, concern managing to continue snaring that anger that wanted to hate her for the situation she got him into. What the hell is wrong with me?

The man refused to admit to himself that his return to the warehouse had been with more urgency that he would have given a few days ago, but he quickly pushing away that forced acknowledgement as he shoves through the door and heads back up those stairs and into the apartment where he almost hesitates as he walks through the door. Almost. He hadn't really expected for her to move much, but as he turns to see her appearing from the doorway to her bedroom, dark forest eyes can't help but take notice of those black boxer shorts and white tank. And for a second, as his gaze trails her to the chair that she lowers into, crossing one pale leg over the other before folding her arms across her chest, he could almost swear... Is she braless!? He distracts himself as he reaches for his favorite whiskey, taking a deep drink. Get a grip, Lazarus. He can't help watching those pretty blue eyes as they look back at him, void of that fire that he was so used to meeting with a fierce glare of his own and he realizes now just how... tolerable she was when she wasn't being a bitch, finds himself almost wondering in that ever so brief moment what else there might be to her. That is, before he forces those thoughts away, watching as she reaches for a bottle of whiskey and leans back in her chair to take a hit herself. He is more than willing to look away from her as he lifts that bottle back and takes another large mouthful, that smooth burning sensation slowly beginning to swallow him in that familiar haze that was sure to hit him in the next few minutes. When dark forest eyes fall back to those brilliant blue hues at the sound of her voice still unusually soft, she kicks out the chair next to her, sweeping a hand in that inviting gesture that he can feel the familiar stubbornness wanting to refuse, but he shrugs and moves to flop down into the chair."I could say the same thing", he remarks nonchalantly as he props his elbows on the table.

He's about to lift that bottle to his lips again when her words make him hesitate, a single brow arching in rare intrigue and just like that, the fire flares back to life and unbidden, that wolfish grin etches into his features once more as she decides to try and see who could hold that liquor better."Challenge accepted", he drawls back and as she lifts that bottle to those plush lips he is happy to oblige and follows suit, inhaling one deep swallow after the other, that delicious haze settling further over him as that fire rages in his blood. Only when she speaks does he hesitate in those almost parched swigs and a dark chuckle rumbles through the dark hunter."Well, I'm not most", he answers back with a devilish and daring look in his gaze. He lifts that bottle yet again, his perhaps only a touch lower than her own and at this point he can feel any sort of resentment he held for her slipping away a little more with each drop. When that glass bottle clicks against the table, those strong fingers still wrapped around the bottle, her question might have caused him to falter moments earlier, and he likely wouldn't have even considered answering her, but as that buzz begins to grow almost with every heartbeat, there is no hesitation to give him pause."Alright. I still have nightmares about the night that my parents were murdered", he practically blurts out as if it was as casual as giving the witch the time of day. Not even Ellie knew that... No one knew that... Why it was the first thing out of his mouth, he didn't know nor was he in the mindset for giving a shit."Now I get to ask a question right? What color panties are you wearing? Because I can already tell you're not wearing a bra", he challenges with that wolfish grin hardly fading. He'd almost guess that she wasn't wearing any, but it was more a test question than anything else as he tries to get a feel for the woman that sat there, not caring how she reacted to his point blank question. They were both adults here, right? She's suddenly reaching for his own bottle, shoving her own into Lazarus' free hand though he hardly tries to stop her from snatching his away."Demanding today, aren't we?", he teases the witch as he lifts her bottle to his mouth and is again drinking like he'd wandered the Sahara for weeks without a single taste of water, that snarl gone from his tenor tones as the liquor begins to drag him further into that place where nothing mattered. It was the only time, the one place where the monster was quiet and he could just pretend that he had nothing in this world to lose.