Themes used: Ring, Gloves, Angel
1.2 Girding
Dropping the body of the woman who had been his first meal, Butler looked around the laboratory.
The nervous man in the strange multi-lensed spectacles held something in his hands that called to Butler with a siren song of death and destruction. He crossed the scant space between himself and the man and held his hand out expectantly. He registered the man's flinch away from his sudden advance and sneered without altering his expression an iota.
It was coming clear to Butler that he was something rare. The man who had woken him had the power to give commands to those in the uniforms Butler recognized with a venomous loathing, but he feared Butler himself. If the man could give orders but feared him… what was Butler?
Angel.
He snapped his head around, looking for the hauntingly familiar voice. There were no angels here, only devils.
He was peripherally aware of the nervous man's shift in posture from someone who appeared ready to collapse under the weight of his own fear to an intent individual with an icy sharp stare.
"Butler." The peremptory tone was entirely unlike what he'd heard from the man before and Butler found himself incapable of doing anything except giving the no-longer-nervous man his full attention. "You take orders given in this language only. Do you understand?"
Return.
Butler kept his eyes fixed on the order-giver's face and nodded curtly. Still those two words tumbled in his head, spinning around each other as though they were somehow related. One spoken in a deep male voice – Angel; the other a woman's voice that carried the ring of command – Return.
He pushed the riddle aside and distracted himself with the original objects of his attention; he still held his bare hand out, and after a moment's careful scrutiny, the man put a pair of fingerless gloves and a handful of rings into his palm.
Butler felt a leap of excitement he couldn't trace. The gloves felt new. He tucked the rings in his pocket and pulled the leather sheaths on, spreading his fingers and stretching his hands to get them comfortably tightened. His bare fingertips seemed heightened in their sensitivity in contrast to the skin covered by the form-fitting black leather.
He fished a ring out of his pocket and examined it. It was a familiar, comforting weight in his fingers. He slipped it on, and with a habit seemingly trained into those bare digits, turned the ring until a tiny hole in the dully-gleaming grey metal faced his palm. He repeated the process nine more times, and then, on impulse, waved his hand.
Ingrained habit took over once again and Butler watched virtually invisible filaments thread out from the rings. A quick flip of his wrist, and he pulled the pen out of the watching scientist's fingers. Out of curiosity, he gave his wrist a slight twist and jerk and watched the pieces of pen fly in three different directions.
He regarded the results with satisfaction and looked speculatively at his observer, wondering how much effort it would take to do the same with him.