The problem is: he can't get a read on her. If she was human he'd be over and done with her already, but she's an Unknown and that alone makes his skin crawl. Human-shaped, won't crack open like one. Won't sing to Lucifer's tune, won't even rise up to it in humor.

She's an Unknown that he can't even place what she is, just that she's not. Other. Far more than that shape allows and nowhere near the same sense as his family.

He'll rebuff her until the end of time until that skin-crawling feeling fades.

But really, he's never been on the same side of--not himself, at his worst--but whatever irritating form she's putting out front.

He doesn't like it.

"To see where your card fall. How your mask stretches. Where your tolerance ends. Or, I suppose, what your stubbornness level is."

He hums an upbeat, off-key tune, moving over to a new patch for him to reach. "How long you're willing to 'put up' with me or if you'll throw in the towel and find a new spot. I'm not going anywhere anytime soon, I'm working." Why ask? Because he wanted to see how she'd respond; isn't that how conversations work? "We're both dancing, but in two different realities." Neither willing to parlay.