Blood pops? Hungry already, was she? Draining a couple people a night wasn’t quite enough to sate her, was it? Ishmael could only scowl back. Did she not realise her approach to her appetite was going to ruin things for him as well? Or did she just not care?
If she had even tried to protest about the girl’s image - even a little abrupt recoil, something to feign her innocence - he might’ve believed her. (Well. He might’ve tried to believe her. He was a generous friend. He would've given her the benefit of the doubt, when hell if anyone else would have.) But she didn’t, she didn’t spare it more than a throwaway glance, more interested in sucking on her bloodpops like an overgrown toddler.
He wanted, for a moment, to dash it out of her mouth. Shake her by the shoulders. Force her to at least look at him.
But Azazel did not speak that language, so he would have to speak hers. “Well, don’t mind me,” Ishmael replied, as if he were only bored by the little games they played, and not, today, utterly infuriated. “Take a bath, if you like. Powder your nose. I’ll wait.” He let the newspaper fall to the ground and sauntered past her, snatching up a bloodpop for himself and wandering away again, newly nonchalant.
What was the use of him being worried about her, when she was incapable of worrying about herself? “Other people are going to come knocking later,” he pointed out, certain of it, and stuck the bloodpop in his mouth, finding somewhere to lean and watching her idly from there. “And they’ll be a lot less pleasant than me.”
If she had even tried to protest about the girl’s image - even a little abrupt recoil, something to feign her innocence - he might’ve believed her. (Well. He might’ve tried to believe her. He was a generous friend. He would've given her the benefit of the doubt, when hell if anyone else would have.) But she didn’t, she didn’t spare it more than a throwaway glance, more interested in sucking on her bloodpops like an overgrown toddler.
He wanted, for a moment, to dash it out of her mouth. Shake her by the shoulders. Force her to at least look at him.
But Azazel did not speak that language, so he would have to speak hers. “Well, don’t mind me,” Ishmael replied, as if he were only bored by the little games they played, and not, today, utterly infuriated. “Take a bath, if you like. Powder your nose. I’ll wait.” He let the newspaper fall to the ground and sauntered past her, snatching up a bloodpop for himself and wandering away again, newly nonchalant.
What was the use of him being worried about her, when she was incapable of worrying about herself? “Other people are going to come knocking later,” he pointed out, certain of it, and stuck the bloodpop in his mouth, finding somewhere to lean and watching her idly from there. “And they’ll be a lot less pleasant than me.”
