i crouch like a crow, contrasting the snow
The small card bends in his hand, its damning text visible against the pale surface. The twin of the one left at the scene; although this one he never discarded-- a mute reminder that he and the men that he kills are not entirely in opposition. Tucking the calling card back into the innermost pocket of his tailored blazer, Erik traces his thumb over the rim of his glass of Scotch, eyes lifting to the stretch of the bar; roving across the faces of the dulled patrons; most of them working men, in suits like his own. But, while tired and lowly, they are of no interest to him-- and his attention snags inevitably on the dark head of that cop; the man he had watched and traced and followed with his unique breed of obsessive paranoia-- anticipation needling at him. It's not fear that drives him, nothing close to it-- he's too intimately acquainted with terror, and has become inured altogether.
This is the closest he has allowed himself; toying with the idea of a chance meeting, like a predator-- circling and circling, and always with the intensity of interest. The remainder of the Hellfire Club would have to wait; this cold evening he has a differing focus-- the tired slump of the detective's shoulders draw his eyes over their slope, flitting to the nape of his neck, then to the drink on the table before him.
It takes a single smooth movement for Erik to unseat himself from his own bar stool, pick up his drink, and relocate to the booth-seat opposite Charles Xavier, his own pale eyes intercepting the starkly saturated blues.
"Evening."
This is the closest he has allowed himself; toying with the idea of a chance meeting, like a predator-- circling and circling, and always with the intensity of interest. The remainder of the Hellfire Club would have to wait; this cold evening he has a differing focus-- the tired slump of the detective's shoulders draw his eyes over their slope, flitting to the nape of his neck, then to the drink on the table before him.
It takes a single smooth movement for Erik to unseat himself from his own bar stool, pick up his drink, and relocate to the booth-seat opposite Charles Xavier, his own pale eyes intercepting the starkly saturated blues.
"Evening."