Lazarus was never one to air on the side of caution, nor did he have much concern over whether what he did or said would be found offensive to those around him. He was, in the words of his darling little sister, a grade a jerk about ninety-five percent of the time with his normally insensitive and nonchalant disposition. He was perfectly content with this overall evaluation and summary of who he was. It was hard for others to try and get close to him if they steered clear of that chiseled face that almost always wore a solemn â€" if not agitated â€" expression when it wasn't baring that signature grin of his that he saved for those "special" occasions, one of which this very situation was considered in his books. Lazarus didn't need anyone in his life other than his little sister, and he was plenty satisfied that the rest of the world seemed to notice that, but then again it wasn't like he tried to hide his less than socially inclined nature. Perhaps before that night, he would be seen at wild parties that his very few high school accomplices in mischief and trouble-making would throw for any and every reason that they could find. He would be downing those shots like there was no tomorrow, dancing with any pretty girl that would fall for that Casanova persona he could play effortlessly when he so desired until the sun came up. He would be starting brawls and kicking the asses of any unfortunate guy that bumped into him and caused him to spill that beer on his leather jacket, laughing at the stupid and drunken actions of those around him. Everything about him then had been that typical short-tempered and rebellious young man free from any commitments or responsibilities, living life however he wanted without the smallest sliver of regret or remorse for those he hurt.

But what the world did not know was that there was more to the hardened dark hunter with messy caramel colored locks. Beneath the shadows cast by that hood draped over his head, there was a man that would do anything and everything for those he loved. When he and Ellie had become orphans, he had taken it upon himself to be her protector. Not just because their father had made him promise long before that night that he would always be there to keep the young girl safe and out of harm's way (which the men in their family more often than not had a tendency to do given the nature of the family business), but because she was his family. Ever since she'd been an infant, she had always cried out for his attention and as soon as she could walk she was trailing after him. At first, he had been less than thrilled about the new tail he'd gained, but one day, when she had come home crying because a bigger kid on the playground had bullied and pushed her into the dirt, a fierce protectiveness overcame him. Ever since that day, whenever he felt that his little sister needed him, he had been there. As she grew older, she insisted that she could handle herself, that she did not need him as her shadow, but he refused to listen to her (as was normal behavior for him). And when she'd come home crying after she'd found her first "boyfriend" taking another girl out on a date, he'd tracked that punk down and made him regret ever hurting Elain. Deep down â€" way, way deep down - there was a man that cared fiercely for those close to him, willing to travel the fiery depths and back for them and readily challenge heaven and hell to ensure their safety. What no one really knew about this anti-social asshole was that beneath those thorny, heavy, mile-thick walls of anger and stubborn pride, there was a heart that could love; it was just damn near impossible to break down those walls he'd erected all those years ago.

There was absolutely no trace of that viciously loyal guy now however as he stands there at the bar, forest green eyes narrowed with that wolfish grin playing upon those roguish and undeniably handsome features as he watched with wicked interest to see just what sort of reaction he might be able to coax out of this woman. He was almost itching for a fight as much as she seemed to, but he wanted to see if she might start it. That way, he would have a better chance of being able to return to this place than if he decided to give into it with her. Some strategy, right? Besides, most people tended to react in a strangely defensive way when a man struck a woman. A lovely little perk about the modern world, though in all the history books he's ever read (that he ever cared to remember), he can't say society has ever been keen on such brash and forceful actions from a man to the lesser sex. He knew that any man who dared to raise a hand at Elain would be a dead man without question, so perhaps it was out of some twisted sense of right and wrong that he wouldn't be making the first move. He watches as she gives him that sassy little eye roll and he almost mirrors her reaction. He quirks a brow when she beckons the bartender over and commandeered the entire bottle which had to admit (silently) was rather ballsy, something he could almost respect her for if it weren't for that crappy attitude of hers. She probably just can't handle her liquor very well. She sneers and again his wolfish grin grows."I have. Plenty of times. But whatever you need to tell yourself to feel better", he replies nonchalantly. As far as he was concerned, she was just another one of those women that thought they were the cream of the crop, but he supposed there wasn't anything wrong with a little extra self-confidence â€" especially since he wasn't really known for being the modest type.

He had begun to turn his back to her now, having no interest in this pointless conversation, but then the sudden movement on part of the witch causes him to pause and before he even knows what has happened, there is the crash of glass colliding with thin carpet and had he not bene more concerned with her taking a piece of that shattered bottle to stab him with, he might have seen what came next. Almost quicker than his mind or dark green gaze could follow, there is impact powerful enough that causes him to stumble back a few steps as his neck snaps to the side with the velocity of that flying first from the white-haired witch. It almost felt like he'd been hit by a car in the face, knocking the hood from his head. He stands there for a moment, almost uncertain if that had really happened, lifting his hand to touch the left side of his jaw, the action resulting in a jolt of pain. Removing his palm, he glances down to see blood, knowing that she'd broken the skin, perhaps even fractured his cheekbone. Lucky for him this was not his first blow like that and if she had hoped to wipe that wolfish grin off that face, she would be sorely disappointed as it only grows."Not half bad â€" for a woman, but I've had worse", he says in response to the blow she'd dealt him. Now he had all the reason in the world to strike back and he instinctively feels his fists tighten into a fist of their own, the rage in his blood rising to near detrimental degree and he takes a threatening step forward. She dares him to say it again and he almost does, but as he glances only briefly over to the bartender whose face was a ghostly pale, Lazarus knew that a phone call to the police was likely not far behind. The witch speaks again and he chuckles darkly."You wish", he answers while daring to take yet another step towards her with strong fingers still curled into those fists. That would be the one and only free blow she would be getting on him."It'll take a lot more than a cheap blow to ruin this face. Got another one in ya, sweetcheeks?", he challenges, hardly even caring about the looks that they were receiving from the spectators around them. He was indescribably close to obliging her unspoken invitation to a brawl just to show her that he could match her in power easily, but he knew that neither he nor his little sister needing to be dealing with bail right now and it is this fact and this fact alone that keeps him from throwing his own fist at her, but how long this nearly diminished and already weakened sense of self-control would last, no one knows....