Skarr was not a man who took news (good or bad) with any sort of grace. Beneath his stony, cold exterior he was a ticking time bomb. This underlying side of him made itself known in a very loud way. He was prone to explosions, you see. Now was no different.
He slammed the door with enough force to shake the dishes in the cupboard on the adjoining wall.
"Arthur?!" he demanded of the potted fern beside his feet. The fern did not give any indication that it had been aware of any "Arthur" either. The seething man made his way back to his living room, where he began to pace furiously back and forth in front of his couch. Thoughts swam in his head, mostly incomplete, all of them outraged for reasons he couldn't quite fathom. He was just angry, and as it was a comfortable, familiar emotion, he let it take hold. Arthur. Who was this Arthur? And why was the neighbor woman fetching something for his dinner? They obviously share some sort of connection, a familiar one at that. One does not fetch vegetables for strangers. He stopped pacing.
Unless she was doing just that. Fetching potatoes for some… old man. Or a cripple. That was likely, wasn't it? After all, she seemed just the sort to be inclined to do charity work like that. Hardly have to be asked twice, he thought.
Disgusting.
"Hmph," he grunted to no one in particular, rubbing his chin as he stared hard at the coffee table. Possible, but not probable. She hadn't been in the neighborhood a month. Unlikely she would have gotten to know any invalids in such a short period of time. This conclusion infuriated him all over again, and he began to pace once more.
Let us assume that Arthur is not a man in need of charity. Therefore he is able-bodied and certainly capable of getting his own damn tubers, he thought testily, holding his hands behind his back as he walked, shoulders hunched. It wasn't so much that he was upset Juliet had gone to prepare another man's dinner; it was that she had left his company to do so. Suddenly and without warrant, as far as he was concerned. Very rude. The woman hated rudeness. She must have a damn good reason. An able-bodied man sending her out—wait a moment, who's to say it's even a man? Why, it could be… her… cat. Or some such thing. Didn't she seem like a cat person? Or a dog person? His relief at this idea was short-lived. Animals don't prepare their own dinner, and they don't eat potatoes. And if they did, they didn't set deadlines for their owners to meet. An impossible idea. He growled at the back of his throat, muttering lowly to himself as he paced faster.
Back to the man, then. A man in her house sending her out on errands. A brother. But why live with her brother? Financial reasons, he answered himself inwardly. He rubbed his head, brow furrowed. No, he had to go by what he knew, which, he admitted, wasn't much. She hadn't mentioned any family, although it was difficult to, he supposed, since they had talked a total amount of three times (if you could call what they had "talking"). He halted again and stood before the couch, frowning hard at the cushions as if he wanted these answers to his questions from the furniture and not his own angry mind. Forget theories. Use a little training, why don't you. He straightened and held his hands behind his back again, stowing his haphazardly thrown-together theories in the back of his mind for now and took into account what he remembered about her today.
She was in a hurry judging by the way she walked past his gate after her run-in with the neighborhood brats. She wasn't dressed to be going anywhere particularly nice, but neither was she dressed as if she had stayed at home all day in her pajamas. A simple blue outfit: blue calf-length skirt, not any sort of loose fabric, a white button-up. It was comfortable, he imagined, but put-together. He could pull nothing more out of the clothing. Her hair had been done, or, at least, brushed. It was Saturday, did women brush their hair on Saturdays? If not, she had gotten up this morning with the purpose of looking decent. Only reason for that is if you're planning on going somewhere public, or if someone has to look at you all day and you give a rat's ass about what they think. And pearls. She was wearing pearls. You'd have to really want to look good to put on accessories like those, he thought, rapidly taking into account today's weather, the woman's mood, her direction of travel, the smudge on her cheek from where the rubber ball had hit her and left dirt. His eye flicked over her water glass, abandoned on the table. A small lipstick stain adorned the rim. So she had fully intended on looking nice today. What for? Potatoes? Hardly, or she would have fetched them when she had gone through all the effort in the morning.
And no one puts that much time into looking nice for vegetables, anyway. Not even him. The more he remembered, the clearer the picture in his head became, until he could picture her nearly perfectly. But nothing about the image told him anything about Arthur. Just as he was about to start pacing again, he glanced up from the glass on the table to the couch. Crumpled in the corner between the arm and back was a small black bag.
A purse.
For a moment he only stood there, looking at it, before he rounded the table and scooped it up in one hand. It wasn't a large bag, and a little shiny from some sort of fake leather. He tilted his head at it. He could very well go through this bag, perhaps find something to tell him more about this mysterious man in Juliet's house. A small voice in his head, weak with disuse, piped up that to do so would be wrong and a breach of trust. Skarr inwardly noted that he had done far worse with much less reason. Furthermore, he trusted no one.
It's not your trust you would be breaking. Skarr blinked, turning the bag over in his hands, curious at this new development of a conscience. Well, she wouldn't have to know he had gone through her personal belongings. Therefore, no breach of trust.
You would know.
Skarr had heard that one before. It had never bothered him in the past, knowing he had done some bad thing (or in most cases, some true atrocities) and keeping those facts to himself. This one, however… it picked at him. And he hadn't even done anything yet! He scowled at the bag, blaming it for his predicament. If she hadn't left her bag here, he wouldn't have to suffer this annoying struggle. He would have to demand an apology when she came to retrieve it.
He paused, looking up from the bag.
She wouldn't have to retrieve it if he brought it to her.
Yes, and if he brought it to her, it could possibly allow him to see Arthur for himself. Judge based on what he actually knew and experienced rather than theorized. This idea clicked with him, and he fully supported his thinking. Which was a bit biased. At any rate, he made up his mind right then and, with the purse clenched tightly in his fist, he sat down on the couch, crossed his legs, and looked out the window, waiting for Juliet to pass by again on her way home before making his next move.

Juliet was horrified, embarrassed beyond reasoning. And slightly frightened. She had gotten all the way to the market, knowing she was twenty minutes late with the potatoes already, before realizing she did not have her purse. She trekked back home for another twenty minutes, knowing full-well where she had left the bag.
But she had no intention of going to Reginald's house again. Not until tomorrow morning, at any rate. The idea frightened her in a completely different manner than Arthur did. Before she had left… the way her neighbor had looked down at her…
She shivered and turned pink to think of it, trying to pull herself together as she walked up her stone front steps. It wasn't… exactly anger that he had stared her down with. It was something else, perhaps just as bad. It was as if he could read her mind when he looked at her like that, and if that was the case she certainly had every reason to be embarrassed. Her imagination was getting the better of her, and if she didn't reign it in, she may say something truly regrettable.
Or think it too hard and broadcast it to the man in her actions.
She gently opened her front door and stepped inside, her blush fading rapidly as she stepped into the cold hallway. Arthur always kept the home like an ice box.
"Juliet."
No cruel nickname. No hint at another sentence.
She was in very deep trouble.
She said nothing as she wound her way through her house towards the kitchen. At the stove stood her husband, his back facing her and rigid as a statue. He held a large fork in one hand and a pair of tongs in the other. He did not turn to face her when she entered.
"Juliet," he said again, his voice soft and clipped, "You're late."
Juliet instinctively clasped her hands in front of her tightly.
"Yes, Arthur, I know, but—"
"You know?" he inquired quietly, his tongs disappearing in front of him. Juliet heard a soft sizzle, "So you cannot even blame ignorance for this stupidity, this… disregard for my wants and needs. Hm?" Juliet did not respond. He continued after a beat of silence.
"Juliet, this is quite ridiculous… I gave you a simple task. A child—a dog—could have accomplished it faster and with a better attitude. You have no excuse for your shortcomings, you know that, don't you?" Juliet looked down at her feet, and hated herself for it. She should say something. She should not allow him to speak to her like this.
"Put the potatoes over here," her husband said, his voice just as indifferent as before. He pointed to a spot on the counter beside him with his fork. Juliet hesitated, and wrung her hands slightly.
"…I don't… have the potatoes, Arthur," she said uncertainly, softly. Arthur turned his steak over again, his posture as rigid as ever. Still, he did not look at her.
"Don't have them," he repeated. He shook his head and tisked, setting the tongs down, "That's actually almost impressive, Juliet. Every time I think you cannot disappoint me or anger me more than you already have, you come up with a new way to fail fantastically at every little thing I ask you to do. It's almost a talent, your incompetence." Juliet swallowed her anger and resentment, squeezing her small hands together tightly.
"Coming back late without the potatoes, that's… did you have to think about that one? Sit in the mud with the other barnyard flock and wrack that curly little head of yours to come with any possible way to fail this errand?" Juliet spoke up quietly.
"I was—"
"Oh, shut up," Arthur interrupted, raking his free hand through his swept-back blonde hair, "Just shut up… The smartest thing to ever come out of your mouth was a penis." Juliet blanched and blushed bright, furious red, her anger sparking.
"Don't you—!" Arthur stabbed the serving fork into the cutting board beside him, the prongs embedded into the wood, splitting it in ugly cracks across the worn surface. He whirled on the short woman and sent her cowering backwards into the living room. He followed her hotly, his indifferent face regarding her with a frown of disdain.
"Don't order me," he hissed vehemently, his fists clenched at his sides, "And don't talk back to me. How dare you think you can drag your fat, sloppy hide back into this house with nothing to show for the last hour and a half you wasted other than a poor attitude and excuses." Juliet backed into the far wall and hunched against it, looking up at her husband with wide, scared eyes. He snorted at the sight.
"There you go again," he snapped softly, leaning closer to her face. She squeaked and ducked her head. She could feel his breath on her face, the rage welling up out of him, rolling off of him in waves. He had never hit her before, but she had always feared he would.
"You slink around this house, keeping to the corners and the shadows like a mutt, a dog that's been kicked too much or perhaps not enough, I cannot decide…" He whipped his hand out and cupped her pale, round face tightly, squeezing the soft flesh of her cheeks in his bony grip, "One day, my dear, you're going to cross me for the final time."
It was another of his famous threats. It always had a deeper meaning than what it seemed. Juliet had to wonder, did he mean the final time when he actually struck her, or did he mean the final time… for good? She trembled slightly, and Arthur pushed her face away in disgust.
"Don't shiver, you'll make yourself hot and bothered and a cow in heat ruins good hardwood floors." Juliet rubbed her cheeks gently, he cool hands slightly easing the stinging.
The doorbell rang as Arthur approached the kitchen. He looked at it, then looked at his cowering wife. With a scowl, he turned back and headed down the front hall, hand outstretched for the door.
"Stay," he ordered over his shoulder, just loud enough for her to hear. Juliet shifted on her feet slightly, eyes pricking with tears. She was frankly in the mood for nothing else than to go to bed and perhaps sleep forever. The more she pondered her sudden weariness, the aches in her bones, the headache pounding against her skull, the more she became aware of a familiar accent.
Dear God, not that.
She didn't think she could take them both at once. Come to think of it, she didn't think she could handle the man at the door at all, not after her confrontation with Arthur. Forgetting Arthur's order, and evidently her better judgment, Juliet ventured closer to the hall, the voices growing slightly louder. She poked her head around the corner just enough to catch a glimpse of Reginald at the door. The look on his face was highly displeased, more than she had seen so far, and in his left hand he clutched a black form she recognized as her purse. Though she was partially hidden behind the wall, he noticed her almost immediately.
"Ah, Juliet. There you are," he said, surprisingly lightly for the expression on his face. Arthur's head snapped around and he fixed her with a cold glare. It took quite a bit of willpower not to flinch away. Reginald held up her purse.
"I was just explaining how you left this at my house," he went on. Arthur looked away from her and glared back at the man before him, shorter by a good two inches.
"I'll take the bag, thank you," he said, reaching for it. The other man snatched it away with surprising reflexes.
"Ah, no. I don't think so. You see, I don't think it matches your outfit," Reginald explained, motioning to the purse, "I'll just hand it to Juliet." Arthur frowned hard.
"Juliet has only just come down with a cold. I'd hate for you to catch it, Mister…" Arthur waved his hand and simultaneously reached for the purse again.
"Skarr," Reginald replied, not at all believing that Arthur cared for his health, even if Juliet was sick, as he claimed. He pulled the bag away from Arthur's reach again, "Reginald Skarr. I live four houses down, you see."
"Skarr…" Arthur droned, dropping his hand to his side, his other still firmly gripping the doorknob, "How… fitting." Juliet blanched at the words, but Reginald did not seem fazed.
"Yes, it's rather ironic. Believe it or not, the scar actually came about after I was born and bore my father's surname. Say now… I wonder if we have the same bit of irony working for us." He motioned to Arthur's entirety, "Judging by your face, were your parents siblings? Because that, too, would be fitting." Arthur clenched his jaw, and in response Skarr bared his teeth, gripping Juliet's purse tightly. Juliet swallowed hard and quickly waddled forward to slide between Arthur and the wall. She ducked between his arm and the door frame, her hand outstretched for her bag.
"Thank you, Reginald…" she said softly. He regarded her curiously as he relinquished the purse.
"Some cold," he remarked, "You've got quite a rash on your face and neck." Juliet ducked back inside quickly to avoid having to answer for the hand print still decorating her face. Arthur's free hand planted on the door frame and blocked her from peeking back outside should she feel so inclined.
"Yes, it's a terrible disease she's afflicted with. Highly contagious." Skarr tilted his head up at Arthur, fixing him in an equally icy stare.
"If that's the case, then I'm afraid it's too late for me," he replied nonchalantly, "Juliet and I were… quite friendly on my couch not so long ago."
Juliet felt her heart stop and a blush rise at the same time. Her mouth dropped slightly behind the suddenly stiff back of her husband. Arthur's slim, arched brow raised ever so slightly.
"Is that a fact…?" he asked of the man before him. Skarr checked the watch on his wrist.
"Oh… only about thirty minutes ago now," he continued, "So if she was… so very ill… by then—which she must have been based on your insistence of her condition—I've quite caught what she currently has." Skarr bent down slightly to peer at Juliet under Arthur's rigid arm, and raised his hand slightly to wave.
"Good evening, Juliet," he said lightly. He straightened, gave a last, withering look to Arthur, and turned swiftly on his heels, marching off the front steps. Arthur slammed the door almost immediately and glared accusingly over his shoulder at the woman behind him. Juliet reeled back from his expression, clutching her purse to her chest tightly.
"I think…" her husband began softly, turning around to face her fully, "That we perhaps need a little reminder about the sanctity of marriage…"

Skarr was livid. Appalled and enraged. That was Arthur? That sickly, pale, straw-haired lamppost of a man was the person Juliet had practically fled his home for? He sat at his desk in his study, hands folded under his chin as he thought. His record player turned in the background, and his second glass of whisky sat near his elbow, condensation beading on it. It didn't make sense. Juliet was the opposite of that spidery fellow in every conceivable way. He was bony. She was curved. He was pale pastels across his features, and she had such dark red hair and lips. He looked like a chunk of ice that had chipped off of a larger chunk of ice, and she seemed so… soft and warm. He frowned harder. So why? What was it?
Maybe money. They appeared to have a very nice house. Larger than his. A more spacious yard, too (though piss-poor in appearance, he noted). He mentally kicked himself for not having noticed the ring on the woman's dainty little finger earlier. Could've saved him a lot of worry over this mystery man. Skarr scoffed to himself. If Juliet had sunk so far as to marry that frail little stick of a human being for something as trivial as money, she herself must have been quite destitute. He took a sip of his drink and leaned on his other hand.
Maybe fear. Yes, he saw the hand print. No, he never thought it was a rash, not even for the barest second. He was infuriated that Arthur Greyson (he had discovered the man's surname by looking him up in the phone book) had even touched Juliet, let alone harmed her.
Damn it all, she so obviously bruised like a peach.
If you have to grab a woman, grab her where it won't show. He scowled and took another drink to douse the blush creeping onto his face at the thought. He certainly wouldn't have hurt her.
He paused.
Well, he would only hurt her in the best way possible… Downing the last of his drink, he tore his mind away from such thoughts. He would discuss her situation when she came by again on Wednesday. Part of him wondered if she still was coming at all. The other part was confident she would, and ordered him to prepare for her arrival. Something other than water to drink. Some snacks, too. By God, he wouldn't help unless asked. Helping anyone at all, ever, made his skin crawl. He only ever had his own well-being in mind. The thought of someone else's seemed like a heavy burden. He sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.
If she did not come Wednesday, he would not pursue her. What went on with that blasted woman was none of his concern. However… if she did arrive to his door Wednesday, he would find out more about her home life, perhaps offer assistance. After all, he was once a military man with… a less crooked agenda than the one he held in his later years. It would take some tweaking, but he was confident he could become a straight-and-narrow do-gooder again.
If only to maintain appearances.
If only on the surface.
He knew he was a dastardly man, a crooked bastard with dark intentions and a twisted mind. He knew it. Oftentimes he was proud of it. He just couldn't show it. But here, in his private study, there was no one to impress, no one watching, and so here, amongst his weapons, war memorabilia, and leftover pieces of the Evil Con Carne armory, he decided he was safe to sink into his own black mind. And that's precisely what he did. He wound up his phonograph again, poured another glass of whiskey, and began to delve into exactly what he wished he could have done earlier in the afternoon when he had seen that odd look in Juliet's eyes. When they had stood together in his living room right before she ran out the door.
That little moment on her face when her blush was isolated to her cheeks. That soft red color.
That flash of something naughty.