they argued my right to ascension

Icky?

For a moment the golden-haired young man merely stares at the woman before him, a look of genuine surprise lingering upon his features, entirely unsure of how to respond to a being whom had taken to describing olives as icky. In fact, he isn't even sure that is a real word. Had he been anyone else he may well have described such a thing as almost cute. Such a word however, he is sure, does not exist within his vocabulary, the man content to dismiss it along with her assurance that she had hardly known about her ability to form and melt ice as she proceeded to at least rectify the situation with the pot. It was fortunate, he supposed, that she was at least capable of undoing what she had done in the first place. He hardly owns another pot and a ruined one would have required him to actually visit a store and shop- neither holding any joy for the man whom had taken to spending the better part of his life alone with his own strange brand of sadism and sarcastic wit for company. Her sudden assurance that the warmth required to repair the pot had somehow been his doing it met with little more than a momentary scowl, the blonde simply moving to turn away, focusing his attention abruptly elsewhere, hardly desiring to linger upon the statement- innocently as it had been given. It had been a long time, a very long time, since anyway had felt any pleasure in his presence- even that softly uttered sentence seeming to result in some inner conflict the man hardly desired to feel. She shouldn't feel anything for him outside of fear and yet within that same moment another part of himself almost.......liked such a thing. Some reluctant part of himself, in the least, was content in the knowledge he was still capable of causing some feeling in another- outside of fear, fury or disgust.

It is this lingering realisation that, perhaps, seeks to distract him while the witch goes about making dinner, the gold of his gaze lingering upon her as she does, directing it smoothly away should she ever see fit to turn around, the man aware- to an extent, that he surely looked as if the entire situation bored him. In truth- it did, to a certain level. Cooking had never been a skill in which he proclaimed any true level of mastery and the process of it seemed a dull and repetitive action. The woman herself however, had managed to glean most of his focus, the thoughts that turned rapidly within his mind content to argue with each other on a level and frequency he had failed to experience in any number of years. It would have been far easier he thinks, in every regard, if the woman before him had been given to foresight to be human- something not so as entirely prohibited as the creature she was. Something that made far more sense to him. He is almost relieved for the distraction of the meal itself, if only to silence the thoughts of his mind that race around and do little more than insight his irritation through his own senseless indecision. He has already decided that he enjoys kissing the witch, the taste of her, the smell of her even- things he is hardly willing to admit if only because he knows that are so assuredly......wrong. So why did he find it so difficult to stop?

He finds himself asking after her availability the following Thursday, an offer another part of himself berates him for entirely, resulting in the somewhat lacklustre attempt to ask her at all, incapable, it would seem, of keeping his words entirely pleasant. In truth he very near snaps them at her. His temperament, after all, has always been decidedly disagreeable. Especially when he found himself...conflicted over every decision he made. The sarcasm in her words is hardly missed, a huff of sorts parting his lips though he offers little more, finding himself almost anxious for her reply. Did it matter, truly, if she had other plans? Wouldn't it be better if she did? Why did he actually care? This, he thinks, is entirely why he hadn't been given to bother with women in near thirty or so years, Serafina seeming to pause to contemplate the offer over another bite of chicken. It was almost as if the woman desired to keep him waiting. What he had not anticipated however, was having the question turned back upon him in a far more direct manner then he had expected, golden gaze lifting from his plate with sudden surprise, meeting hr own momentarily. He so disliked direct questions, the smallest of frowns creasing his features all the same and yet he is incapable of not answering it. A single weakness he never has been able to master. Though he finds the answer rising to his lips all the same.

"Yes."

He is momentarily surprised, perhaps, but the sureness of his own answer and yet he dismisses it readily, returning his attention to the few remnants upon his plate, tousled blonde locks falling haphazardly into his gaze. He allows the silence that follows for another few moments, finishing what remained on his plate, one hand lifting to run through his hair absentmindedly with a sigh.

"I'll pick you up, probably not until about six, after its dark."

Wandering around in daylight with the witch was hardly something the man was willing to commit too, for her safety as well as his own. There was always someone watching and Azrael hardly desired to explain what he was doing in the company of Serafina, after all, even he is not entirely sure how to answer the question.

"Oh- don't wear anything nice either."

That he may well be perhaps the only man to have ever asked the women to deliberately not dress nicely had never truly occurred to him, the hunter nothing if not almost overtly practical, his mind having already considered the nature of where he wanted to go, assured that her best attire was hardly suitable for it. He offers no more on the topic, waiting politely for the woman to finish her meal before rising to collect her plate and his own, some manners after all, die hard. The plates were returned to the kitchen the man moving to face the raven haired witch once more.

"I have to go to work soon, did you want me to drive you home? It's late."

It was later then he had actually thought and he still had the night ahead of him to track down whatever vampire or Were he had been sent after this time, if he was lucky, maybe, he'd find time to sleep tonight.

"Thank you though....for dinner that is....it....it's been a long time since anyone made anything for me, it was nice."

It is perhaps closer to a compliment then the man has ever truly come, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, clearly still lingering in unfamiliar territory with their newfound....friendship, gaze lifting to her own once more.

Azrael Evero

only fools walk where angels fear to tread