to make a long story short, (and it's a damn long story,) anything approximating a hunt was over the minute he walked in. rather: burst in, uninvited, throwin' the rhythm of her fight so off-kilter that she looked nothin' less than a fool in the face of an enemy. she'd tried to make do with it. tried to break even, despite the unbalanced scales. yetβ when his eyes flickered, glintin' like glow-sticks in the dark, she couldn't help but stumble. fumble. trippin' over herself like some fresh-legged fish on a deck, all sea-legs and shaky understanding as if it was her first time on the job.
fuckin' idiot. she didn't have the slightest clue what possessed him to go after one of his kind, hadn't had a lick of understanding to clue her into the cues of his fight, and within minutes β maybe even seconds β all her trackin' and trailin' and tracin' back to a den was snuffed out. stamped over like a cigarette, dying in the dark of the night. again: idiot.
it only takes five, ten, fifteen seconds of her breathing and processing and breathing again to understand a few things. one: she's pissed. two: he is, too. andβ three: if someone's gettin' blamed, it sure as hell ain't her.
[deck] lucy decking dean in the face. β @perditionable, as dean winchester.
"you're a damn fool." lucy spits, all heat and flame and impulse reaction. her knuckles ache from the hit, tinted red at the bone, but she's half-tempted to go in for another. instead, she shoves at his shoulders and steps forward to wrap a fist into his shirt. presses him into the wood of the wall. "my hunt, my kill, and you're β what, β playin' superhero?" another shove. "i should kill you where you stand."
