His movements were more than deliberate. They were calculated; insouciant. Confident of gaining exactly the result he wanted, which included just enough Chaos at its inception to ward away random mistakes now.
"You're overdoing the liner," Giles admonished from the dining room table, where he was using the silverware to supply unecessary bouts of percussion to the music.
A nostalgic tear will threaten my eye at any moment, Ethan thought, as he touch the kohl with steady fingers to the the line just under their prisoner's lower lashes.
"What are you guys gonna do to me?" their victim asked, trembling to relieve his tension since he had been instructed in the strongest terms not to squirm.
"Don't worry, love," said Giles, watching. "You'll live to prance the halls of Sunnydale High another day."
Ethan smirked, and let himself catch Ripper's eye over the reflective pate of skin where his hand rested. He was sorceror enough that his curses, when commissioned, rarely rebounded upon himself...but then, they rarely had such felicitous consequences, either. It was proof enough, if he still needed it, that Chaos had little preference whether it rewarded or punished.
"And if you keep talking, you'll ruin my concentration," Ethan added with a faint trace of warning, reaching for a pot of rouge. "Trust me---that would be a bad thing."
He worked in silence another minute, stroking and pinching to the unconscious pulse of Ripper's fork-and-knife rhythm.
"There," he said, stepping back and dusting metaphorical dirt from his hands. "What do you think?"
Giles stood and came round to stand at Ethan's shoulder. He perused the artwork with a critical eye, and Ethan was surprised to find himself actually holding his breath.
At last, Giles spoke. "He needs a wig."
Ethan snapped his fingers. "Of course. One in my bedroom. Right back."
He could hear Snyder's long, miserable groan all the way down the hall and back.