' the GOD of mischief, a changed man? you'll forgive me i don't fall for that — won't you? '
she finds herself asking, unable to stop the suspicion from seeping into her naturally gentle tone. intelligent eyes track him as he speaks, brows furrowing as the celestial pokes holes in her little white lies and settles himself down on her antique leather couch as if he'd footed the bill for it. for a split second, she wonders if he's older than the two century aged piece of furniture . . . though her train of thought is 𝓺𝓾𝓲𝓬𝓴𝓵𝔂 𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓲𝓵𝓮𝓭 as a flash of green magic catches her eye ; a closed sign appearing on her glass partition. in an ideal world, molly wouldn't have given him the satisfaction of a reaction, however, she's betrayed by a blink && a subtle flinch.
stuck, she realises. trapped. damned? perhaps not. maybe. fuck.
she grants him a seconds pause, surprise marring the soft slope of her nose as it scrunches gently.
' i don't believe it's in your best interests to be professionally psychoanalysed. '
she admits, though this time she's telling the truth. if she dug, there was probably tens of things she could cherry pick a very human diagnosis from ; an endless expanse of trauma and ego and self inflicted emotional wounds.
molly offers him a half shrug, sitting back down behind her desk and resting her elbows on the pristine workspace.
' i don't even know the biology of your brain, but given . . . '
she motions to the little CLOSED sign that now hangs from her door.
' all of that — i'm sure there's a different genetic code that i can't begin to fathom. it'd be unjust and against oath to even attempt to understand you. '
the brunette blinks, though there's the ghost of a smirk in the corner of her mouth ; playful, almost. though she supposes she's just making the best of a strange, anxiety inducing situation.