[Irrational though it is, there's something that twists within Mephisto's gut. It's hot, knife-sharp and entirely unreasonable, but it sticks there even as he studies Stephen. He clutches the mug a touch tighter, a brief moment where his hands seem to strain against the ceramic, but stops just before the fragile cup tries to buckle beneath his grip.
He's silent for a long moment, composing himself. He smooths his brow -- when had it tightened, anyway?]
no subject
He's silent for a long moment, composing himself. He smooths his brow -- when had it tightened, anyway?]
I would not put it past him.
[He speaks plainly, dryly even.]