[ By the time Cheryl summons the image (muddled, semi-anonymous, but he's seen Ash under strain and blood-soaked enough for his mind to conjure up a woman in his hands, a knife, sweat and grit teeth--), he's realized he needs to get away. By that time, though, it's too late. He breathes stop like she'll listen, like she can even hear him over her own voice. No as his fingers wrench at her palm (not Ash, he can't believe that Ash--). No, stop as she twists in and her breath is on his ear and it feels dizzingly like he's dreaming (oh god oh god is he dreaming?)-- ]
ASH! [ Wailing, wobbling, melting into a pained sob as blood bursts and runs into his inner ear, down his neck. Both his arms shove between himself and Cheryl to shove her off. With a killer, it would be a futile effort. Maybe it's still a futile effort here, but Quentin isn't known for all efficiency all the time. His steps stagger for the door. The distinctive, intimate sound of--is that Bubba? Billy? oh god, oh jesus christ--a chainsaw somewhere out there sends him into a white panic. ] Ash, please, Ash, please--!
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ASH! [ Wailing, wobbling, melting into a pained sob as blood bursts and runs into his inner ear, down his neck. Both his arms shove between himself and Cheryl to shove her off. With a killer, it would be a futile effort. Maybe it's still a futile effort here, but Quentin isn't known for all efficiency all the time. His steps stagger for the door. The distinctive, intimate sound of--is that Bubba? Billy? oh god, oh jesus christ--a chainsaw somewhere out there sends him into a white panic. ] Ash, please, Ash, please--!