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It seemed that Askaree and Spencer had entirely different upbringings. Actually, that's like suggesting the sky is blue and the night is dark. Spencer and Askaree had entirely different upbringings. Askaree had, at some point, obviously learned to be proud of her grand achievements. She could charm, fuck, and fight her way to any victory she wanted it seemed. She knew what she wanted, she went after what she wanted, and presumably she (usually) got what she wanted. Then there was Spencer, who next to this Egyptian warrior, must seem quite the mediocre fool. He didn't boast of any great achievements, he didn't flash any badges, he couldn't seem to put together a functional sentence to handle Askaree. So, really, what did a meek little man have that could compare? Maybe something, maybe nothing. He certainly didn't seem like he was willing to play a hand, if he had one.

"Bullshit." Spencer shrugged in reply to her accusation, not attempting any witty comments. They both knew she had been dying to get in the ring, to amuse herself if nothing else. She was a predator; it was what predators do. They prey on the weak. She had simply wanted an excuse or prompting by her companion, just another way for her to claim power and the upper hand in their relationship. Spencer had simply dutifully followed along, like she wanted. However, Spencer wasn't going to explain himself or his beliefs to her. It wasn't like she had asked. Truthfully, she hadn't really asked much about him and, unlike her, he wasn't really offering any moments to see much of him.

As they sat at the bar, partaking in the liquor that seemed to rain plentiful in their direction (especially the Egyptian), Spencer began sliding more of the drinks toward his companion as he didn't seem to have her particular talents in managing the tumblers. While typically someone that drinks as little as Spencer might usually struggle to keep up, he had a bit of an unnatural advantage. He wasn't any part animal cheat, but some of the perks to having a natural immunity is it also tended to keep the effects of liquor at bay. He could still feel the effects, however usually for him to drink enough to become the equivalent of "wasted" was close to the whole alcohol poisoning and that just meant he was vomiting drinks, blood, yesterday's breakfast as his body desperately sought to get rid of it all. Then there were the seizures and... ugh, just wasn't worth it. Maybe immunity wasn't accurate, maybe it was an extreme tolerance. He wasn't sure exactly what it was except another aspect of himself that he kept hidden in his back pocket.

Still, by the time Askaree demanded (again) they go dance, he was feeling the warmth of the drink in a light "buzz" of sorts. He gave his glass a pained expression, dreading that demand more than anything else he had the entire evening. Spencer let his eyes linger on the glass before reluctantly following his companion to the floor with too many lights. His hand rubbed the back of his neck, fingernails digging into the skin as an attempt to break the millions of thoughts running through his head. This whole social experiment, he was hating that he had agreed to accompany her. These things, these places, he didn't belong. He didn't fit in. Yet, here he was, standing uncomfortably on the edge of the dance floor, hesitating to follow her any further. Would she notice if he simply detached himself and left? Bid her adieu and went home?

Oh come, Spencer, you know yourself too well for that. Tonight, he was nothing more than an obedient puppy. Where she went, he followed, even if it meant on the dance floor where there were too many bodies, too much sweat, and music that was too loud. If this was going to become a common thing with her, he was going to have to expand his wardrobe to more "casual" wear. He stood out like a sore thumb here. Spencer caught her waist with his hands and pulled Askaree toward him as she got further away. "There, I'm here. Can I leave now?" Spencer prompted, leaning his face toward hers so he could be heard over the music. He knew her answer would be some sort of mockery just like it had been most of the night, yet his discomfort demanded he make some attempt to return his stress levels to normal. Her mockery, he could handle that. It was becoming the one constant of his night. Maybe she picked up on it, maybe she didn't care, maybe she didn't notice. Whatever the case, he was prompting for that one sense of normalcy, one inkling that he had some control here. She may deliver the commands but it seemed as good as she was demanding, he could trigger those demands just as well.

single | warlock | notes: