Raylan could recognize Deanna in the pitch of darkness. A fast assessment of what he saw in the edge of his peripheral vision once she came into it told him plenty; therefore, he didn’t feel a need to answer, deciding to impassively watch the holy water sputter from Kyle’s mouth. That couldn’t have been comfortable.
Finally, he spoke. “Is that somethin’ you really wanna know — ?”
"What kind of fuckin’," a groan punctured his verbal momentum, "marshal are you — ? Ain’t condonin’ murder the opposite of what’cha guys do — ?"
Raylan’s shoulders jerked forward then trembled in the clutch of humorless amusement. There wasn’t a prelude. Time wasn’t given for preparations. Kyle’s pain-addled brain had a hard time keeping up with the sequence of actions that followed: flipped onto his stomach, handcuffs slapped on tight somewhere between his narrow chin whacking on the floor and getting yanked onto his feet, and then abruptly, vision momentarily unfocused, being made to meet the older man’s eyes. “I ask the questions,” something in that voice, the grim twist of Raylan’s mouth, braided chains of through his rib cage. “Understood — ?”
His fingers loosened out of their stapled-grip. “Now, I’mma let ya save face — impossible as that is at this juncture — n’ let’cha walk yourself to the corner… — on the condition you tell us what breed a’ ghost story your fourth buddy is.”
”How do — fuck it. Man, know what, fuck you both. The hell is tellin’ you gonna do for me in the long run — ? We somehow get outta this alive, I’m the one —”
A brutal collision of Raylan’s knuckles and Kyle’s temple torqued his head to the side, dropping him unconscious.
"… — it’ll be a waste a’ time tryin’ to reason with him," and when he looked at Deanna for the first time, it was with a softness jarringly out of place, considering present circumstance. "How’s your hand… — ? You good with gettin’ the trap started — ? I’m gonna move Eminem outta the way."
Deanna's ill-timed amusement was cut short with a wince at the impact of Raylan's knuckles to Kyle's head. Not on behalf of Kyle; she didn't give a shit about what happened to him as long as by the end of all of this he was cuffed and in Raylan's Lincoln. Eminem, Raylan had called him. The arch of her brow gave way to the creep of a small smirk along the line of her mouth.
"I'unno how his bunk buddies didn't eat him by now... -- m'good," her hand flexed out, the biting sting from Cat's nails rearing its head only to be shoved from Deanna's mind again. She'd dealt with worse. This was all the easy part. There was still a demon, a vampire, and a mystery guest to bring down. "M'not the one that just decked a Rap God 'n all."
The warmth in her voice was inevitable, matching up with the softness in his gaze. It was like night and day, she mused, the shift in him. A snap second and she saw the side of Raylan Kyle never would. What most people never would.
Green eyes, shadow-cast but focused, shifted from Raylan up to study the ceiling above them and further to the right. Ideally, and with the simplicity of a rug not available, the living room would be the biggest space to work with. Cornering the demon prevented vampires from breaking the seal in angles her and Raylan couldn't cover. At the left inside pocket of her jacket this time, the flask was dropped in exchange for chalk. Normal everyday kids-draw-on-the-sidewalk chalk. White, which incidentally almost matched with the color of Cat's ceiling. Almost.
Shrugging out of said jacket, Deanna side-stepped Kyle's unconscious form to drape the material across the back of a wooden chair before grabbing it to move it into the living room. Raylan would be able to stand on it and reach the ceiling, but to start off, Deanna had to pull off a cushion from the lounge chair, set the wooden chair up in it, and then climb the both of them. Balance and time were on her side for the moment.
"If we got time," she began to draw an arc of the trap, "I wanna put one up in the laundry room. And I wanna look at your knuckles."
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