The muddy brown of her irises swelled with bemused interest, patronizingly rapt with attention for his florid explanation on the subject of heartache. Spoken like any sociopathic lothario or psychward patient! Where did this mischief maker conceive such celestially unusual theories? And how?
"Pretty to think so." Didn't he know that it was scientifically proven; the heart could be cleaved in half, be it by hatchet or dismissive word. There was no gluing the pieces back together, only repeating the offense to others. It was an unending cycle, like that of a serpent swallowing it's own tail.
Still, she stamped the deadland remains of her cigarette against the door sill of lucky number eight-oh-one, and started toward him when he continued his passionate mention of ghost hunting. Falling into the form of a traditional pilgrimage alongside him, barefoot and all, Vaughn gestured toward the stairs. She was uncertain of whether he was the type to tempt the elevator's wrath twice in one night.
"Downstairs.." Surely ghosts were jealous of heavenly altitudes and preferred to stay more earthbound. It only made sense that they would hang below levels, halfway to the river Styx.
"Although I'm not sure I'll be able to save you. You'll just have to concoct some magic to make them believe we're dead as well." Spoken in a manner that said she knew that wasn't beyond his level of expertise.