#elusivehind

“that is the argument of scientists...or lawyers. which B E A S T do you hitch your burden to?”

“The English language doesn’t have a Pushkin,” Hamlet said as he speared his blin and sliced it in half. “We have Shakespeare, but I don’t think the two are the same. One of them invented a language, the other enriched it, although someone could make an argument that it was the other way.”

          “you’re slacking.” a let down even though it did work in his favour. still, she was composed and together, her movements slow and calculated, and whilst he was surprised that she did not know, could not tell who held the gun threatening her, he didn’t let it transpire.

“no. sit down.”

it didn’t matter whether she meant to be true to her word, alejandro never took any risks - not when they could be prevented. “it’s a wide and cruel world out there but ours is small.” a close knit community, so to speak. “conoces mi nombre, sabes quien soy.”

A brief touch had been all she was allowed before being rudely interrupted in her inspection of him the other night.  This was so much more satisfactory.

Her lips split over her teeth in a wild grin at the sensation of sinew and muscle clamped in the pinch of her fingers. Nails to fresh flesh, half moon markings. She wondered if he would cover…or display them after.

Her own chuckle was close on the heels of his hampered one, releasing him in a movement that was more the action of a playground game of tag, than a merry murderess with a penchant for pouncing upon those who were unprepared for it.

She stepped back a pace, giving him a measure of less than half a meter to gather himself again; sliding smooth hands into the pockets of a designer coat, head cocked incrementally to one side as if perusing a possible purchase in the personage before her.

He could have his uses, she ultimately surmised.

“I thought it was time we were properly introduced.” She offered in explanation for her rather unconventional and unorthodox methods of meeting.

“Good Lord, no. Not like I do him in the least.” She waved off the query airily, though an element of eerie teasing infiltrated her tone and the sharp sheen of her gaze, “But then…I don’t think you would like me to.”

Her nostrils flared a fraction when he boldly stepped into her. Scenting him, framing the memory of it. The habit of a Hunter. Oh but he was brave, brash…was that where the attraction lay?

She did not shy away, though she stood at least a seven inches shorter without the proper shoes. The Nanny nurtured the uncomfortable, it was a lovely friction she could not help but be appreciative of.

“Once.” She confirmed. “You were presented in a color I happen to be quite partial to. Bereft of that hue, however, you are substantially less impressive,” her glance flickered up his form, pricking like needles, “though adequately more animated. One can approve and disapprove in the span of one breath, I find.” Her smile sharpened, cat with a canary,  tiny bones for tooth picks.

The overly bright bite to her gaze tempered, producing a pretty tenderness that was the mark of menace for one of her make as she took him in once more. A warning seemed fair…

"It would be best not to beguile me.” She informed him softly, expression decidedly earnest, kindly… “I really don’t know what would happen were you to attempt to try. In fact, I would strongly advise against it. Your Handler would not be happy…”

Not like I do him in the least... The words crawl under his skin like sharp daggers, a hint of emotion on her part that the Irishman has long been suspicious of, but the wave of jealousy that surges through his chest leaves unease in its wake so Killian chooses to ignore it, and its implication, entirely. Instead, forget-me-not blues study the shadows that outline her expression, glint of white teeth an uneasy contrast in a world that has no place for things which don’t blend with the night... and the beast inside growls, struggling against the tether that holds it.

Handler.

The huff of breath meant as a laugh that passes through ash flavored lips is almost believable, one brow rising as the rumble within fades to a cautious watchfulness. It would be easy to deny such a claim, the words have already crawled their way along the back of his throat to sit against a jaw clenched tightly against them... but his time in the detective’s presence has taught the gang leader that sometimes words hurt more than a knuckled fist so Killian simply shrugs his shoulders, swallowing them down.

Ringed fingers once more trace the blemishes she’s no doubt left behind, crescent shaped marks that fuel the flames of frustrated irritation that lick underneath, that sting of pride being pricked... and the Irishman arches a brow in feigned interest.

Careful, Killian. Gaze flicks over his visitor’s form, traveling the length of her before returning to meet that steady stare of her own, weighing the options before him. The words when they come are dismissive, hands jamming themselves into black denim pockets as if fighting the urge to wrap themselves around the pale slenderness of her neck. The survival instinct of that monster within whispers such a venture wouldn’t end well for either one of them.. and there’s the fear that wiping that fucking look from her eyes might chase his... handler... further in her direction... so instead he fishes out a cigarette, lighting it with a match as words slip out around it. 

“Glad we could talk. Don’t get many friends in me line of work and doesn’t seem fair that you know about me when I don’t know shit about you, you know?” One stride carries him closer, closing that space between and dropping his voice, words hushed as if sharing a secret. “ He’s never said anything about you... besides the other morning when I asked him what had crawled under his skin and he said nothing important. Must have been the morning after your visit, yeah?” 

Tongue clicks against his teeth in a sound of feigned dismay, sympathy swirling like clouds in blue eyes that catch the glimmer of moonlight. “I’d ask if he’s mentioned me, but .. I think havin’ me face shoved against a brick wall answers that one. Ar a laghad tá a fhios agam go bhfuilim tábhachtach. ”

At least we know I’m important. He doesn’t bother translating, the certainty that the statement will be taken for what it is sits securely in the heart that gives a resounding triumphant beat in his chest. If life was fair and Killian was allowed to have his way, she’d already be nothing but a memory.. but the Irishman knows that possessiveness often means caring .. and he’ll be damned before he openly admits to a fucked up thing such as that.. so instead he waits in silence, standing in the faint stirring of hope that she’ll try to kill him and he’ll have the excuse to make such flights of fantasy come true. Until she does ..