gone for now. [emily]

[Emily]

It is a Sunday evening, twilight, just after the sun has slunk down below the horizon. Darker yet than recent twilights, for it has been overcast and blustery all day. No Springtime warmth. Just the winds, returned, and the too-pale sunlight seeping through over-stretched clouds. Dappled, diffused. There are no colors to this twilight, just the dying day. Just the promise of another, soon to come, after an evening's rest. A little bit before At her apartment, Emily awoke to find herself flat on the living room floor. There is a tinkle of glass from the frame that found her elbow when she fell, and the puddle of dark hair that rises like a curtain as she lifts herself up. There is the cool breeze (nightfall) that stirs the thin curtains at her open window; the window is shut soon thereafter. There is an ache at her knee, at her elbow, at her side -- but these are ignored as she pushes through the doorway to her room, dares to brave the vertigo, and finds the room untouched but for the two feathers left in remembrance, in offering. And now... Her cheeks are flushed and it takes a moment after she comes to a stop for her breathing to return to normal. So she stands there, before his building, letting it come and go in quiet whuffs until it calms. Emily is wearing only her jeans, that long-sleeve tee she woke up in, and her lightweight jacket. No messenger bag. She has her keys, her phone, those feathers, and the cool stone beads she brought back with her from Manchester. There is a burning in her chest that won't quiet, doesn't still with the calming of her breath. It is white-hot and just beside her heart. It touches her eyes, elevates the brightness. (Rapture) It pushes, ever onward, ever forward. The cold seeps in, finding her where she stands on the street before his building. Her finger rises to push the buzzer on the box, then falls away. Her mouth purses, thoughtful. Again the finger dares, and again its pulled away. Above her head and a little down the way is Owen's apartment. He is there, unsuspecting, doing whatever he does on a Sunday evening. She is interrupting, again, without calling ahead, again. A frown. Emily steps away from the box and buzzer, casts a look up the side of the building, as if she might spy his window from here. But then what, Emily? What brought you here? What will you say? Who will you be? There is a flutter of wings and a tiny rush of wind. She looks back to the buzzer, suddenly unsure of herself.

[Owen]

She looks back to the buzzer, to the door, closed tight against the street as if to reinforce her sense of invasion -- she looks back to it and as she does -- and as if in answer to the questions buzzing around her head angrily -- the door latch abruptly releases and its swung open, the curtain drawn down the length of the glass obscuring exactly who it was that had opened it for the beat of a startled heart before the very figure she'd come to see without a conscious idea of why emerges, his head lowered. There was a basketball tucked under one arm, and as usual, there was a dark hood drawn over Owen Page's head. He was clearly on his way out, headed toward Lincoln Park to shoot hoops under the protective veil of twilight. He stills when he catches sight of Emily, half turned as if uncertain about whether or not to ring the buzzer. "Emily." Just her name, offered as both greeting and query.

[Emily]

Startled, yes, but not overly so. Emily is beginning to move away from the door at the sound of the latch, is already a half-step away when Owen becomes visible, uneclipsed, emerges. She is already half-frowning (See here, Fate, that wasn't quite fair), half-stilled by the coincidental timing. The hand in her pocket closes around the cold stone beads. Releases them. Draws back a little. She takes a step back. Ducks her head (apologetic). There is no shirking what she is tonight, where she has been this evening: it rides her skin, candesces in the gloaming. It is luminous and just beyond the realm of seeing. It has set her heart aflame, rekindled that ember of Faith nestled deep within her. It's brilliant (brilliance), in the brightness of her slightly too-wide eyes. Emily looks back up at him, looks through him for a moment, as if she is not quite grounded in the here and now. There is the flicker of a smile, warm and a little bemused. (Hey, there.) Her other hand dips into her other pocket. No Words. No explanations, just yet.

[Owen]

[Awareness + Perception, wazzat?]

[Emily]

It's there, nestled between her heartbeats, threaded through the pattern of every breath she takes: the sense of Reverence, growing, striving: rekindled. Grace, in the moments when her eyes blink shut, in the peace swimming somewhere deep within those deep blue eyes. And though that Reverence is so often twined with the keening, comforting call of Home, tonight it is riddled through without another flavor. It is strong, stronger than her resonance has ever been near him, fluid and bright and Unrelenting. Pushing, ever onward and upward.

[Owen]

She can see the moment when the mental gears click for him and he grasps what has taken place, at least in part. He does not know the how or the why but he comprehends the what, and it flickers across the dark gaze watching her; it smooths out the furrowed brow and the young Chorister is nodding, briefly and pushing the hood back off his face; he's shifting the basketball around beneath his arm and reaching instead into the pocket of his slacks for the key to the door. "Come inside." It's all he says, but the manner he does say it, the way he doesn't hesitate to swing back around and unlock that door, to brace it open for her to pass by him, she'll see that he knows something, even if she is still too fresh from it, too near to the after-shocks of the Seeking, of the encounter with her Avatar to see it herself. He can read the traces from her being, the new power that is even now settling into the lines and forms of her pattern, reweaving it, strengthening it into something that is almost tangible. That was, for those aware, like these two. He doesn't speak as he leads her back upstairs; past the window on the first floor that always seems to be open no matter the temperature, past the elevator that never seems to be anything but in repair, right up to his door that seems to reach out and envelop her; comfort her, as if everything within in where some extension now of Owen himself, and a place where solace would be discovered. He lets them both in, closes the door and sets the ball down on a sofa; then, turning, crossing his arms over his chest and sitting on the arm of a chair he looks at her and asks, simply, quietly. "Tell me what happened."

[Emily]

There is Owen, emerging from under the dark hood he wears. Familiar. Dark eyes and careful countenance. The latter soothes, smooths at some unspoken understanding. Gentles. It calms the flutter at her breast, the stirring of her two new companions that are not quite settled, not quite known, not quiet. No. It smooths, soothes, the furrow in her own brow, and Emily finds herself nodding. Fingers close around the stone beads again, worrying at the sharp points of the maltese cross burried among them. She breathes in twilight, and breathes out grace. There is comfort in the way that he welcomes her in, holds the door for her and leads her past the familiar landmarks. The window that never closes (all that we let in), the elevator she has never known to work (that which we strive to improve), to the doorway of his apartment (which feels ever more like home [sanctuary]). She stops, there, just beyond the threshold. He wanders inside, sets down the basketball, finds a perch. Emily is still standing by the doorway. Just inside, for he'd wanted to close the door. She is going through the quiet ritual of setting her shoes aside, walking a little further in on stockinged feet. Her footfalls are so light (tentative), that it almost seemes like the wind might blow her away. Carry her off. Perhaps it already has. The Orphan (for now [Singer, soon to be]) looks around his apartment, seeing it again with new eyes. Looks to him, to his eyes, to the cant of his shoulders, his mouth (Tell me what happened), to the ball beside him, and then away. Down. Restless. Flighty. Her mouth works a little, presses into a thin line, the smile disappears. Then resurfaces, gently, before she tries to speak. Her dark hair falls down around her shoulders, having fallen free of the thin tie that bound it sometime in the intervening blocks between her home and his. She had ran here, that much she remembered. "I'm not alone now," she says, when she finally looks back to him. There is confusion in her tone, and longing to that expression (as if it might not be true [God, please, let it be true.]). There is also triumph, quiet and restrained just now. Emily pulls the pair of feathers from her pocket, moves close enough to hand them to Owen like something precious to be examined. Like something sacrosanct. He is watched, two, as he holds them, for these are dear things, guarded things, sacred things, even if she knows not what to make of them just yet.

[Owen]

Times like this when you don't speak but feel, but are with the space around you are the times when you notice so much more. Owen's apartment with its ordered clutter; the books overwhelming the basic shelves he'd put up for them, the dishes neatly stacked beside the sink, drying in a rack because he owned no dishwasher, the faint smell of something he'd cooked earlier, like burnt toast, like soup -- and she can notice him, really take in just how still he can get when he's focused, when he's listening. He barely seems to breathe, but she knows he must be because, there, the slight rise and fall of his arms, braced over his chest, the manner his eyes stay with her, no matter how she shifts, or moves, or looks away. When she comes closer to him he stays just as he is until she pulls the feathers from her pocket and offers them to him. He comes alive then, takes them carefully in his hands and runs the tips of his fingers over the soft downy sides. I'm not alone now, she says and he gives a throaty chuckle, a half-bemused sound. "No, I'd venture never again." There are things he should be saying to her now, words to impart that should calm her, center her after such an encounter has been had. And yet he doesn't seem in any rush to do that, rather he looks at the pair of feathers in his hand curiously, as if he was seeing some never before part of Emily Littleton [and in truth he really was]. "The first encounter I had, it was a man with a sword," he offers, empathizes with. His smile is crooked, but warm. "He comes around, now and then. He told me to seek out the other Awakened." He studies her face now, keenly. "He was right." A beat, he lifts a hand, idly, without intent, and tenders a dark curl behind one of her ears. "How do you feel?"

[Emily]

He is close to her now, close enough to push that tendril back behind her ear. Close enough to feel the ebb and flow of it, the rapture and the breathlessness, the wonder and triumph, the tremor (flutter) of adjusting to something too new, too fast. It is too much, and it is enough, and it flows off her unabated, unrelentingly. Owen sees her, some part of her he has never seen before, and it is unguarded and unchanging. Owen sees her, as so few ever have, sees into her past, touches the echo of someone she once was. Someone she might be(come) again. She was a child who breathed in Winter and breathed out Wonder. She was a child who heard the Song of Everything, long before she could know what it meant. Somewhere along the way she had lost this, had put it aside, had walled it off, had forsaken it. She is quiet, but she is not calm. It is too much, and it is all right at the surface, threatening to overwhelm, to consume (relentless). She swallows it back, closes her eyes, tries to draw it down (to have [to hold]). The feathers in his hand are not from the same bird. One is sleek, long and jet-black. The other is soft, white-brown and downy. She has given them to him to hold, to touch, but not to keep. They are Emily's; she has earned them. "He's found me, before," she says, the words come slowly. It's like trying to remember a dream, to phrase it words that sounded right in a waking realm. It was never the same. Emily lifted a hand to touch the black feather in Owen's hand. Then the lighter one. "But I didn't remember her." She left them, for now, in his keeping. Withdrew her hand again. Hesitant. How do you feel? Owen asked, and Emily looked back to his eyes. Querying. Trying to take the measure of his meaning. "Humbled," is the first thing she says, though it's followed my an unvoiced chuckle and a wry twist of her mouth. "And light-headed, still. Like I can still hear the wind, but just in my head..."

[Owen]

Trying to take the measure of this man's words is never a simple task because it always feels as if each question, not always so often occurring, have a myriad of interpretations. Emily takes her time, trying to work out from searching those midnight blue eyes exactly what he means when he asks after her feelings, she thinks there's more to what he's asking than there at first might appear to the distracted, or the ignorant, and she's not wrong. He means everything about her feelings at present -- the physical and the metaphysical. She replies that she feels humbled, and he nods fractionally as if he expected to hear something of the sort. He takes one of her palms, then, and carefully sets each feather back down in her palm, before closing her fingers over them, he doesn't let go of her small formed fist, though, but holds it in both his hands; probing her face with his eyes, with his own unrelenting intent. There is a reason why he feels so intense when his magic is unfolding around him; there's a reason why his nearness can set the sensation of bugs, crawling beneath the skin if he's not very, very careful. Controlled, always. "There are things that I need to tell you, to explain," a beat, he frowns, his gaze lowering to observe their joined hands, his larger over her smaller, paler. "Now that you've chosen. I think this was the sign you're more than ready to learn." He lets her hand go, and leans back, bracing himself with a hand either side of his body. "But not tonight, you'll need to recover your strength." Owen considers something, his lips quirking in thought, tongue tracing an incisor in his gum. "We'll go to the Church." He looks back at her, offers a brief, encouraging smile, the best he can offer. "Make things 'official'."

[Emily]

There were so many words she could have offered him: grateful, joyful, overwhelmed, the list continued onward, long after Emily's tongue had fallen silent. They were plain enough for the Chorister to see; he saw so much any how, any way. It was difficult to answer Owen, without feeling as if she had neglected half the question in the answering. And tonight was worse than usual, for Emily answered with the first thought that tumbled across her tongue rather than offering up anything more carefully selected, scrutinized. She wore her heart on her sleeve, unintentionally. Perhaps that's why she had sought him out; Owen was safe haven for these unguarded moments. He might press, pry, prod, but she never once thought he would manipulate or cajole her in these simple, honest places. She may be laid bare, but she was not embarrassed or ashamed. His hand covered hers and Emily's eyes closed. She was still, listening, but as unmoving as she could manage. The kinship between them, building, budding, growing; the want (need) to find someone, like family, to find Home in, home without expectations or conditions; it was too close. So she waited to open her eyes until he'd pulled away, a little. Until the moment when she wanted to name him (brother, warder, friend) as someone else, had passed. It was a small thing, and perhaps it passed unnoticed while he was lost in his own thoughts. Emily tucks the feathers back into her pocket. Just now it occurs to her that it was strange to stand in his living room, without her shoes but still wearing her coat. It is odd, and that could be remedied. She shrugs out of her jacket and, in the same series of movements, folds it over her arm to carry. There is a stiffness in her movements, a small tear at the elbow of her shirt and a darker spot there. These are secondary details, easily lost in the larger things afoot. Emily has not noticed them, not back at her apartment and not here in his. "I am ready, now," she echoes, and there is a surety underlying the words that wasn't there before. She had not been ready before, but she knows that she is now. It surprises even Emily, who answers his smile with one of her own. And she cannot help it, now, and so the jubilation wells up to warm that smile. Joyful. Elated. She's kept such a tight reign over it, but it eeks out to find him. She has found her way Home, she is ready to learn and to grow. And Owen has welcomed her in, regardless of the hour, and sometimes against his better judgment.

[Owen]

She is ready, now. "Yeah," the dark-haired boy echoes her with a touch of something wistful in his voice, it touches his eyes. "You are." Perhaps it's wonder, or even something near to happiness [ as much and as deep as Owen knows to experience and name the emotion within himself] that she should come instinctively to him and no other after such an experience, that the pull for safety, for sanctuary had been here, with him. Perhaps that reaffirms in a way that even her display of the feathers, the sense of her new resonance, cannot. She shrugs off her coat, and the Singer's eyes trace the stiffness of motion to her elbow, to the torn patch of shirt. It is not a life-threatening injury, and in the scheme of life-altering events unfolding, it is barely a blip on the radar, or should be, anyway. But Owen is perceptive to detail, and where as he cannot tend to the Orphan's feelings about her Seeking, or quell her sensations other than to bask in her joy, and her pleasure and offer her his warmth, his compassion and comprehension -- he can fix a physical harm. He can lay hands on her carefully, and nod, straightening as he did. "You hurt your arm, I'll get something for it." He could pad across to his bathroom and flick the light on, open the medicine cabinet and emerge with a packet of band-aids, with cotton pads and antiseptic cream. He has them on hand primarily because he's almost always coming home from work with cuts and bruises, with blistered feet and rough, aching hands. He tends to Emily's wound now because it makes him feel competent; it is something he can assist her with. "Roll your shirt sleeve back," he instructs, and carefully sets to cleaning the cut site.

[Emily]

Oh, if Owen stays near to Emily for long enough, he will learn to name and know happiness. At first by seeing it in others and in time, slowly, without his even realizing it's happened, she will have helped it worm its way into his heart. For all that she has lost, Emily still loves with abandon; for all she has left behind, she holds fast to the few friendships she's forged. She will show him, in time, if he wants it; help him find his ways Home to it once more. But that is a wordless journey, and one that takes far more time than the still-short duration of their friendship. It is a thing to hope for but not chase after. You hurt your arm, he says, and Emily frowns a little, pulls her arm around her a bit tigher so that she can try to catch a glimpse of this offending elbow. The fingers of her other hand find the rend, find the altered texture of the darkened fabric around it. "I fell," she says, plainly. "A frame broke, but I didn't think I'd gotten cut." She sets her jacket down on the arm of the sofa while he is crossing to the bathroom, and then gently rolls her shirt-sleeve back like he has asked. Cool fingertips gently prod at the redness there, before she lets him see to her hurt. It is not a bad cut, rather a small thing that will heal over a handful of days. There is a bruising coming, under it, so she likely fell from standing or caught herself unluckily when she landed. Emily finally quiets, pulls back to some sense of calm under his ministrations. Perhaps it's the ritual of the thing, or that her elation has finally run itself out. Or maybe it's in observance of something else, something not between her and her Avatar, but between her and dark-haired Chorister placing a plaster on her elbow. When he releases her arm, Emilys fingertips run over the band-aid. Smooth it. Press a little, to see if it is still sore there -- it's a bad habit, she knows. "Thank you," she says, again it is more resonant and warm than it necessarily needs be. She's gently rolling her sleeve back down, now. Smiling in a less open, small way.

[Owen]

It's the feeling after the rush is gone, when the adrenaline finally abandons you and its all you can do not to collapse from sudden, unfathomable exhaustion. Emily had all but run to Owen's, so it is no wonder that as he administers to her elbow and she realizes for the first time, perhaps, that there was even a cut there that she begins to gather herself again. That she realizes all that has happened and recaptures her calmness. Owen balls up the used cotton pads and the paper from the plaster without a word, when she thanks him warmly, he cants a look at her, seems to study her overabundance of lingering elation and then looks away, smiling to himself, or at the situation, rather than at her. "You're welcome." He sets about mundane tasks then, trashing the garbage, switching bathroom lights off, pushing in a chair that had been left too far out. It's almost as if he was at a loose end with her there, uncertain where he should push next, what he should attempt to discuss with her, but at the same time, reluctant to break the silence, to interrupt the bonds that were being forged between them, even during nothing more than looks, than moments where he did something as small as bandage her elbow. Those moments were important, he knew that, knew without question that if they were to get anywhere as teacher and student, she would have to learn to read his silences, to comprehend what he could not say, or what he felt he should not. These nuances were becoming familiar to her, and the more they did, the more ease Owen found he could speak with, did not wish to censor himself from expressing his thoughts. "Your former teacher, what sort of a Mage was he?" It must seem a strange question, so distant from anything else they've discussed [or not discussed as the case often was], but he always had some reason behind his questions, there was always purpose to them, even if it seemed hard to guess at. He gives it to her, this once, gestures toward her elbow: "Did he teach you about Life, or many of the different spheres?"

[Emily]

His question evokes a noticeable shift in Emily, who draws her arms over her middle and bows her head for a moment. It is, most definitely, to keep some part of her reaction from him. It is also entirely reflexive. She sighs, slow and long-sufferingly, as if he has touched a deep and still-healing hurt. The fingers of one hand stray up to tease her locket from under her tee-shirt. Something he has only seen her do when frightened, unsettled. And now, when sad. Her hand releases the small trinket, before it has lingered long enough to stir its heartbeat, to add the sense of Home to the resonances around her. Her fingers thread through her hair, smooth through it, find the back of her neck for a moment, and then come back, full circle, to rest over the arm about her middle. She does not ask him to leave off, or shirk the question. It is a far fall from elation to heart-hurt, and it takes a moment to marshall her words. To answer what he is asking, without giving air to grievances not of him, not of now. (That was then. This is now.) "He was Verbena," she says, and she's carefully stripped away from her words whatever hurt she feels at the abandonment. She cannot keep it from her features, though, and there is the implication in them that he had been something more to her, or less of a mentor in many ways. "I learned to read Life patterns from him. About two months ago." Her teeth catch the corner of her lower lip, drag it inward for a moment. "Our..." but here she pauses, frowns. (Our what, Emily? What will you name it, now that it's over?) Friendship? Relationship? She is not sure what to say, and the pause stretches out longer than intended. "He was not just a teacher to me." This much she can admit, but only carefully. It is a confused and careful thing, trying to remember and reflect without changing a thing they had left unnamed for so long.

[Owen]

There's a tiny flinch around his eyes when she says the tradition, as if maybe Owen's preconceptions of them just suffered a battering. Of course he knew of them, but the teachings that he'd heard had not always flattered the Life Mages; they sought an enlightenment through means of their bodies, through a far more carnal interpretation of what it meant to achieve completion; to find their own version of the One. It did not make it wrong, simply ... very different from what Owen's beliefs, and backgrounds would dictate. "The Verbena are ... gifted," he hesitates over the word, watching her for her reactions carefully. "In that sphere. I don't know it myself," a beat, he shifts his weight, returns to lean a hip against the edge of the sofa. He listens to her fumbling over a way to describe her former mentor, describe what their relationship had been. "The Singers focus is Prime, that's what I'll teach you about first, then maybe some Mind." A pause, he reaches out and rubs her arm; using the physical touch to reinforce his words. "Emily, I don't -," He lets out a breath, frustrated at losing sight of what he wanted to say. "I'm not, like that. I won't ever try to force you to... I mean, some Mentor-Apprentice relationships, they're... like that. Intimate." Horrifically, Owen's skin en-flames a degree. "It doesn't make it wrong, sex can sometimes help with very particular kinds of magic but it's not something I --" He laughs, amused at his level of embarrassment discussing this with her, or trying to, in stilted sentences. "What I'm trying to say is, when I ask about ... him, it's not to hurt you. It's to help me, help you."

[Emily]

He reaches out to touch her and Emily has to make a conscious effort not to pull away. It is a moment of friction between them, like that night at the Good Will store. She pulls back, just a little, deepens the space between them. It is grounding. "Owen," she says, somewhere in the middle of his faultering sentences. It is a steadying thing, a staying thing. There is still some sadness in her voice, she cannot help it. "He never forced me. It wasn't something I consciously chose, or really thought about -- it wasn't something I would have understood, yet, if I had. But it was too much, too much to put into one person. "Lover, mentor -- they are both intimate friendships, though very different. You can't get that close to another person over matters of the heart or of the soul, without taking a piece of you with them when you part." There's a small smile, now, and it is also an apology. "Even if you wanted that, even if we wanted that; I can't. I can't invest all of that in one person, again, now, so soon. I would be afraid, every day, that you were going to walk out the door--or that I would--and I wouldn't let myself trust you." So many words, delicate and simple, laid out before him. Plainly and without deception now. Perhaps to soothe the embarrassment he feels, or because she feels the need to explain herself. Or possible just because she trusts him, even with this.

[Owen]

"I agree." He says, and leans back, gifting her back her space. He sits down fully on the edge of the sofa, and rubs the palm of one hand against his brow, shielding his eyes from her. "It wouldn't work, anyway. This," he raises his head, his dark eyes full of a self deprecating hatred she's never seen in him before; a fervent belief tattooed into the very fiber of his core. "Only works because we know where we stand with one another. As long as I'm teaching you, that boundary will always exist." He stands, towering over her, looking over her with perhaps some tiny flinch of regret drawn somewhere there in the depths of his midnight blue gaze, in the slash of his lips. Quieter, firmer: "It should exist." The flush of blood has run its course, now, and abandoned his cheeks, leaving the skin stark, and pale. The beginnings of a five o'clock shadow are beginning to darken the edges of his jaw. Time ticks on somewhere on the wall. He turns his back on her, and walks away to the kitchenette. The taps run, a glass is filled with water. The apartment breathes again.

[Emily]

((Per + Aware))

[Owen]

to Emily, feather There's a great deal more pain in this man than she was originally aware of. Whatever his past is, whatever it is that he holds in from her, and the world at large -- it's big, and it's one of the key reasons why he's in the city to begin with. The self-loathing is crippling, it's enough to make you want to flinch away from ever seeing that light in his eyes again, that utter assurance that whatever else he offers her, intimacy, physical, close intimacy will not be one, and he firmly believes that it's for her own good, too. But; mingled in there is also a splash of genuine regret about it, because he's attracted to her, and more than this, feels a genuine connection with her that has been rare in his relatively young life. He mourns, briefly, the what might but can never be's when he looks at her. And he's turning his back, breaking the moment out of self preservation, more than anything else.

[Emily]

There is quiet, for a long while. Emily lets him walk away from her, lets him take the self-loathing and the ache to the other side of the room. She watches as he draws lines of never and can't be in the sand, then fortifies them, reinforces them until they are like walls of concrete in his heart. These things do not take long; the well-practiced can throw them up in seconds. Owen is very well practiced. Emily is, too. There are walls to keep him in, safe, and walls to keep her out, safe too. She knows, very well. So the Orphan waits, until he has filled his glass, until he has had a moment, until the silence between them is stretched thin, thin enough to be a thing not-felt, not-heard, not sliding down their skins. "Do you?" she asks, her voice seeking (pushing) but gentle. Unyielding, but not unkind. "Do you know where you stand with me, Owen?" The words have a ways to go, they have to leave her lips and travel all the way to the kitchenette. They are cautious, but not tremulous. Her arms have fallen away from her middle; she watches him with something far less comfortable to bear than compassion, with understanding. "Do you know who you are to me?" she asks, unrelenting (she'd worn that in on her skin). "Who and what you could be to me, as just a friend, without taking on any heavier mantle?" He couldn't possibly know, her voice says. Couldn't possibly understand, with so much hatred in the way. "Owen," she says his name again, beseechingly, "I don't know yet who we will be to each other, but you remind me of someone very dear to me. This," she gestures between them, indicating their interaction without needing to name or label it, "Calls back to that friendship. And he is the closest thing to family that I really have left." Emily steps forward and picks her jacket up off of the couch. She slips it on, gently over her angry elbow, and looks as if she is getting ready to leave. "If you think, for a moment, that it's any less precious to me than --" Emily stops, closes her eyes for a moment, then changes course. "Friends. Family," the word doesn't sound quite the same when she says it, but it means a deep kinship nonetheless. "Those are things I know how to hold fast to. Lovers, not so much." There were a few paces between her and the door, where she'd have to stop to slip on her shoes. She was not hurrying out, but the incessant ticking of the clock on the wall made it sound like her time to go. She wasn't sure, after all, that she wanted to see or hear his reaction. She wasn't sure that she'd be able to weather it, just now, with any measure of grace.

[Owen]

She can see the muscles in his back tense, see the way the shoulders hunch inward [protection, rejection] at her words, as they beat against the self-imposed distance [and he'd built those walls so solid for so long] he'd worked to put between them just now. He does not want to turn around and look at her, but he can glimpse her reflection in the glass in front of the sink and its this that he looks at, brow deeply furrowed, eyes black and storm-cloudy with his anger, with his own sense of placement in the world, and more especially, in relation to her. Owen. The way she says his name has his lips tightening, has his grip turning skin-over-knuckles white around that glass so much so that a little more pressure was going to shatter it in his hand and then where would they be? He carefully, so, so carefully sets it down beside himself and braces his weight against the cabinets; she can hear the oxygen passing his lips, being expelled through his nose after a minute. His body is rigid, and unforgiving, his face, hidden from her is twisted in torment. He will not turn around, not tonight. "I know who I am," he does finally get out, his voice low and brittle; harsh. "That's enough." A beat. He fights his way to a less hostile tone. "You better get home, Emily."

[Emily]

He will not turn around, tonight, and it is likely for the better that he cannot see her face, now, and she cannot see his. Emily slips on her shoes and there is a quiet sound as she opens his door to let herself out. It closes behind her, without so much as a Good night, Owen, though such a thing undoubtedly crossed her mind, reached all the way to the tip of her tongue before it was bitten back and thought the better of. And she's gone. Not for good, but for now. (And gone for now feels a lot like gone for good.) In a few moments, the door downstairs with its full-length curtain will open, and be carefully shut behind her. Then its just a matter of blocks before Emily finds her way home, or somewhere else, for the rest of the evening.

chinatown. [various]

[K. R. Jakes] Here they are. There is food. The food smells delicious. The food smells like delicious wants to smell when it goes to sleep the night before a Very Big Day. There is good-fortune in the red-luck bridge. There is spring, thawing the edges of the streets. There is a windchill that, for the Windy City, isn't very cold at all. And there's food, because this is Chinatown, and when it isn't being a den of iniquity, it's being a den of deliciousness. [S. Ashton Winters] Marcelle had a babysitter tonight. She really didn't need to be out when Ashton had a hankering for Chinese food. She needed a day off, and in that day off, she wanted an hour and forty-five minutes off to get something to eat that wouldn't miraculously end up in her hair. Parenting is not glamorous, but it does creep into her everyday vocabulary. She's an ER doctor and Ashton's having to bite back telling her colleagues that she needs a potty break. She never used to use the word potty. Not even has a child. So, with that, she had made plans. She had made such plans. She had called Kage, she had made rrangements, she had worked it all out to the most minute detail. Eating out didn't used to be such a hastle, but soon enough, they were there. With food. Ashton even has eyeliner on. And a good enough concealer that she looks like she's had a halfway decent amount of sleep. Truly, Hell hath frozen over. [Riley Poole] Riley's around. It's a long time since she clocked out, since she and Chuck carpooled back to their building. She's changed out of her short-sleeved button down, her clip on tie, and that ridiculous skirt. A light jacket is thrown over the back of a chair, and she's leaned forward over the bowl of noodles she's eating from with a pair of cheap and disposable wooden chopsticks. Her wavy hair is held back from her food by means of a simple clip. Her clothing is simple, geeky, colorful. She doesn't know the women at the other table nearby. She just knows she wanted some damn fine Chinese cuisine, and this place was Good Enough. [K. R. Jakes] Kage will be late. There is a text to that effect. The text, as a matter of fact, is accompanied by a picture. The picture appears to be some sort've mishmosh hodgepodge crowd of bicyclists in Buddhist monk orange-robes -- until you look more closely, and see that, mixed in with the Buddhist monk orange-robes are people clearly cosplaying. The text: =( they're wearing my brakes down. [Ashley McGowen] Ashley is oblivious to the dens of iniquity that are within Chinatown. To her, this is a place where tourists go. It's also a place where graduate students go when they want a lot of food, cheaply, and Ashley is hungry, naturally. Or Ashley is Hunger, to be more precise. The little Hermetic is flipping through the collection of restaurants within a mile radius on her phone, glancing up occasionally to make sure she doesn't bump into anyone on the street. It's a danger, when she can't tell precisely how far away people are. She looks better than she has lately: her eyes are clearer, maybe. Livelier. Or she just doesn't look as tired as she has for the past few months. It's lucky she's feeling a bit better, since at that moment a blond college boy in an orange robe (not an actual monk, it will occur to her later) goes whizzing by on his bicycle. Ashley looks up at the last second when he yells, and rapidly darts aside. A "FUCK YOU!" follows the boy down the street as he continues on his way. Yes, she's feeling better. [S. Ashton Winters] Ashton was puzzled. She looked at the picture on her phone, head cocked to the side and eyes squinting. She wasn't sure what this was. She really wasn't. Ashton was thirty-something. She has come to the realization that there are facets of modern culture that she does not understand. She doesn't like the iPhone. The internet is full of memes that make her roll her eyes. Ashton Winters is not so much an old soul as an apathetic one; she hadn't cared about memes in college either. Then again, she did her undergrad at a time when- Nevermind when she did undergrad. "... what?" She actually said it outloud, then texted back WTF? [Riley Poole] Riley glances up and over when she hears the dark-haired woman at the other table speak aloud to no one. But she doesn't linger, doesn't stare or even so much as point and laugh. That would be rude. It's a quick thing, her head coming up from her bowl of noodles, a tilt of her head in the woman's direction, and then her attention is grabbed by her own phone. Whatever is on there makes her grin before she sets it back down on the table top beside her bowl. Never far from technology, is Riley Poole. [K. R. Jakes] The text: anime convention religious tolerance poetry month rally thing i think. my sisters into it. i see ashley. should i pick her up? she is yelling at someone. there's a cop. who isn't doing anything. honestly, the city is screwed. [S. Ashton Winters] the reply: because of a poetry rally religious tolerance anime convention? Tell Ashley there's free noodles if she comes She stands up and straightnes herself out. Ashton is a tall woman. She is a tall woman with her hair down... and she has quite long hair. She glances at Riley, slipping her cell phone into her back pocket. It rests with her wallet, and the woman heads over. She clears her throat. "Ma'am? Could I ask you a favor?" [Owen Page] There was a Buddhist Temple in Chinatown. As a matter of fact, there was more than one in Chicago, but the one that finds a young man inside it is buried between tea shops and bustling take away restaurants, filled to the brim with the hungry and the impoverished, the wealthy and the strained and all the various in-betweens that existed. It was far quieter here, there was barely anything to register as sound when one stood before the statue of Amida Buddha. It was as if the late evening visitors to the temple understood on some level the purpose of the place in which they stood; the reason for the walls, and the floors and the monks who moved throughout the space without a single spoken word between them. There had been a tourist couple that had quietly stepped up beside the solemn figure observing the statue and whispered about its size, and how it seemed obscene for the Monks to have such a large idol set in their courtyard. The Chorister's brow had contracted, but he had kept his peace. It was not the place to argue the semantics of faith, and to correct the notion that Amida meant anything beyond wisdom and compassion. In truth, Owen only came here to listen. Eventually he stepped away from the statue and into the temple proper, approached the niacin and bowed his head. The Initiate took a pinch of incense between his fingers; eyes black against the flickering candles, they reflected only themselves in his gaze as he set it within a burner and murmured beneath his breath the Nembutsu, the chant to transcend, to become one. "Namu Amida Butsu," he whispered, bowing his head and holding his hands before him, palms clasped together, the Ojuzu beads carefully drawn across them. He often lost track of time when he was within the Temple; once it had been an entire day. When he finally slips out tonight, it's only been an hour or two. The Chorister pulls the hood up on his jacket and hunkers down against the flowing crowd, stepping out into it. [Riley Poole] Riley is in the process of slurping noodles into her mouth when the dark-haired woman who talks to herself (or her cell phone, which wouldn't be too crazy), comes over to her table. For a moment, the brunette just looks up, chopsticks held close to her face, noodles going sluuuuurp! Some sauce splatters onto her face. At least it doesn't get onto her clothes. Quickly, she snatches up her napkin and dabs at her face. Chuckling, she says, "Sorry. What kind of favor?" [K. R. Jakes] There is a black as the devil's marrow -- black as the devil's violin! -- truck. And it's coming for Ashley's soul. At any rate, it's rolling to a halt nearish Ashley, and unfortunately, there's this truth: Kage's truck looks like somebody was climbing on the cab. There are shoe prints on the door. There's mud and induced-by-nature gunk clinging to its undersides. The truck's probably unhappy; it wants so to be a showroom truck, untouched by cares and worries. Anyway, the driver's side window is rolling down, and K. R. Jakes is poking her head out the window, voice pitched to carry, but not by no means a shout: "Hey, 'ley. You want a ride? Ashes says there are free noodles in it for you." [S. Ashton Winters] "Do you mind if I sit with you so I don't look like a complete nutcase talking to her phone? I'm waiting for a friend, and given that she's been held up by a... convention... parade... something in traffic, I'm not sure when she'll get here," she says. There's that conversational tone that ever so rarely surfaces. It used to come about much, much more frequently. "Also, I would like to know if you'd recommend whatever it is you're eating. It smells heavenly." [Ashley McGowen] Ashley was readjusting her messenger bag on her shoulder when she hears a voice - hey, 'ley - and even though voices are hard for her to recognize at times (differentiations in pitch), only one person calls her that. She looks over at Kage. Takes in the fact that she's stuck behind people in orange robes, occasionally cycling into the street. Takes in the footprints on the door. That somebody was climbing on the cab. The Hermetic's mouth quirks into a smirk, and after a long hesitation at the curb (to look both ways, several times - another eye or ear would be useful for such things), she makes her way over to the passenger side door, opens it, and uses the handle over the top of the door to haul herself in. "Ashton, you mean?" she asks, once she is inside. [Owen Page] [Hey look, noodles. I always know exactly where I am, I'm a Ninja. Streetwise + Wits for navigating.] [K. R. Jakes] to Owen Page [Streets: Counter!!!] [K. R. Jakes] to Owen Page [!] [Owen Page] [Doo de doo, is he going to do that thing he does where he just appears?] [Riley Poole] [I SEE YOU (maybe?): percept + alert] [K. R. Jakes] [Percept + Aware? on Ashley? You're different now, what?] [S. Ashton Winters] [I don't see crap!] [Riley Poole] Just to be sure, Riley swipes that napkin over her mouth again. She should really be more girly, maybe carry a hand mirror in her laptop bag. Maybe carry a bag instead of a laptop bag. Or a purse. Girls carry purses, right? "Oh riiiiight, there's a festival tonight. Someone somewhere gave me a flier or something, I think." Her forehead scrunches in thought, then smooths as she shakes her head. "I'm sorry, sure, you're more than welcome to join me. The more the merrier, right?" She indicates the table around her, a small affair meant to seat four people, maybe six tops. Maybe more if people really wanted to get comfy, like that table of college students or that other table with the large family reunion. "I'm Riley," she adds, offering her hand in greeting. If there is a certain Chorister in the crowd, one who is friends with her friend, Riley is perfectly oblivious to him. [Owen Page] He had a pretty good general sense of geographical placement, Owen Page. Chicago hadn't been his home for that long, but the young man had something of an uncanny knack for figuring out where he was in relation to landmarks. He knew the temple's placement in relation to several good noodle bars -- the one he winds up slipping into behind a wave of customers just so happens -- or happens, perhaps nothing is just so any longer or ever was -- to be the one that the Awakened of Chicago are converging upon. Owen is a black-clad figure that is simply present after a moment. One second there is a pair of chattering, bright-eyed girls at the counter and then abruptly, there is a young Chorister brushing down the hood of his zip-up, an old black leather jacket thrown atop it, his hands resting casually in the pockets as he makes a study of the menu. His back is toward Riley Poole and Ashton, if he saw them while entering, he has not made any attempt to capture their attention. But then, attention wasn't something Owen tended to enjoy. [S. Ashton Winters] It was forty-four degrees outside. Ashton put her phone on the table- something that was older and serviceable. She lets it rest where it is; it's taken a beating before. There's a chip in the upper right hand corner of the unfortunate flip phone. She takes Riley's hand; her own is freezing. Decidedly, definitely, unabashedly cold. She shakes her hand, once up, once down, then she sits down herself. "A friend sent me a picture of that and I was really confused. There were men in robes and bicycles and bad hair." A beat. "I'm Ashton, by the way." [K. R. Jakes] to Owen Page [Jess Perc+Emp!] [K. R. Jakes] "I do." That's what she says once Ashley has hauled herself up. Then she makes her engine sing a song of pedestrian brutality, and the truck pulls forward. Now, to find a parking spot. They're half-a-block away from the noodle shop Kage and Ashton agreed to meet at. As Ashley settled, Kage flicked a (studious [inscrutable]) glance at the Hermetic, looked at her for a moment, for two, and kept studying her, kept feeling her out, out've the corner of her eye. "You seem particularly determined today," it's a knack, choosing the right word for the right moment in time. "What wheel have you been putting your shoulder to?" And there's a parking spot, right there, right there, right now. The Orphan's shoulders rise and fall quickly, satisfaction, and she watches one of the bicyclists flick open his lighter, draw flame out've it just like a star, start waving it around. She watches as four others do the same thing, then five others, until there's a trail of them: bicyclists, one-handed, streaking by like they've got stars burning. [Riley Poole] Riley does her best not to wince when those icy cold fingers wrap around her hand. But she can't stop the thought Jesus, how is she alive? from crossing her mind, and once it crosses her mind it's pretty much out there for Ashton to see if she's looking. When her hand is released, it comes to rest on her thigh so that her own body heat will bring it back up to a normal temperature. "I think they're supposed to have fireworks later. It's just some kind of cultural festival...type....thing," she concludes with a laugh. "So sayeth the flier, right? I wonder if I still have that." It just takes a bend to the side, and Riley is lifting her laptop bag to her lap. She doesn't rummage for long. "They seem to be going all out for it, though. Nope, no I don't have that flier anymore." Her mouth quirks with disappointment. No doubt it had been tossed almost as soon as it came into her possession. [Owen Page] "It's not a cultural festival, actually." Says a voice that suddenly seems to have settled behind Riley and Ashton, when they turn, or twist or start, they see a dark-haired young man standing there with a box of noodles in one hand. There's a tiny hint of a smile for Riley, and a glance at Ashton; a spark of remembrance of a night not so long ago at the Chantry; of shot guns and two men and hitting one of them repeatedly until he fell down because he leveled one at the icy pale blonde. Owen's attention returns to Riley, he quietly goes on: "The Monks and several gaming organizations are joining forces, riding to raise funds for a Garden of Tranquility for the Temple." A beat, people bustle past at tables near them, the Chorister seems content with the silence, then: "Also, hello." [Ashley McGowen] Ashley watches the bicyclists go by, gripping the bars of their cycles with one hand while they hold a lighter aloft in the other. Like some sort of vigil, or a horrible road accident just waiting to happen. She can't help but think of such things: she went over the handlebars of a bike, after all. "A lot of things," she tells Kage as they whip into the parking spot. "I went Seeking and busted my ass to save a girl my Avatar wanted dead, more or less." It's without reservation, almost open: unusual, but then again, they are better friends than they used to be. "I can give you the long version sometime if you want it." She reaches for the door's handle as Kage cuts the engine, casting another glance to the cyclists on the road, watching the flames fade down the street. [S. Ashton Winters] "We stand corrected," she says. She grins, and it's half playful. Her voice carries well, but it carries the weight of authority. Something she can not and does not attempt to shake out of her presence. She looks at Owen, and she remembers him. She's not bleeding or holding her intestines in today. "Hey, stranger," she says, "how are you doing?" [K. R. Jakes] The ourouborus -- the Midgard serpent: how could it want a girl dead? That seems so specific, and perhaps it's this -- this specificity -- which has Kage's response little more than quiet for a second. Perhaps it's because Ashley, of all people, is saying: my Avatar wanted me to let someone die; my Avatar wanted me to Not Help. "I want to hear the long version," she says, after that quiet moment. There's no music playing in the car; likely, she cut it just before she called Ashley over to her truck. "I'd like to know what you found. Why you came to that conclusion." Maybe Kage is just thinking about Him. She doesn't ask if Ashley's going to try again. Of course Ashley's going to try again. [Riley Poole] Riley has to turn and look up to find the owner of the informative voice. When she sees who it is, Owen's hint of a smile is met with something bright and just shy of dazzling. Riley isn't the prettiest woman to wander into the restaurant, but she makes up for it with that smile, with her friendliness that belies a sudden and sometimes fiery temper. "Oh, neat!" she says in a way that says she clearly means it. Things like fundraisers, like gaming companies teaming up with the local Buddhist temple so they can have a Garden of Tranquility is very neat to her. Her brows raise and she looks back at Ashton when the woman greets Owen, and she looks back to the tall dark-haired man. Despite his box of noodles, she asks, "Would you like to join us?" [Owen Page] Hey stranger, how are you doing? "Alright." Neither of the two women seated there know this twenty-three year old Initiate too well. But they will, or must, be beginning to see that Owen had a tendency toward responding, depending on the moment and the amount of individuals present in short, often one worded answers. There is nothing clipped about it; simply succinct. He doesn't speak overly much unless there's a real need for it; when he doesn't have to, he tended toward quiet observation, or skulking. Riley smiles brightly at him, and asks if he'll join them, Owen cuts a look toward the door, and the crowd, then at the empty chairs. "Sure," he agrees, and moves around to take up a chair across from both. He doesn't take any of his layers off, and his leather jacket rustles softly with his movements; gives off the faint hint of old leather, comfortable and worn in. There is also, beneath the scents of cooking in the air, a hint of something more intimately the Chorister's, his own scent, that of leather and aftershave. The hands that set his container of food down are worker's hands, there is no doubt. [Ashley McGowen] Ashley cracks the door open and is about to swing out of the car, and then Kage says that she wants to hear the long version. Of course she does. Kage can't not ask. So Ashley sinks back in the seat with a sigh, turning her head so she can see Kage while she talks. There's a pause, another moment of quiet, because while it is easier at the moment to be more open with people, to relax more during the course of conversation, it does not detract from the intensely personal nature of a Seeking. "I was walking in the middle of a frozen lake," she says, "and I started to notice people dead underneath the ice. I followed them to a burning tower, and she was the last person left alive. She asked me to help her, so I gave her the tools and she used them and saved her life. If she hadn't been -willing- to fight I wouldn't have..." Ashley is biting the inside of her cheek, turning her head back again, glancing to the side out the window. The lighters faded a while ago. "I wasn't any different when I woke up. It told me later - well, not told me, it doesn't talk - but it communicated that she was supposed to die. And that seemed wrong to me. I fought it, and she fought it, and it...shouldn't have happened." She can't keep bitterness out of her tone here; it's all too new, and she can't help but find irony in the fact that it came about because she ignored her natural inclinations. "So that's the long version. Israel figured Jhor is kind of warping it and that's the problem." [S. Ashton Winters] "I need to get out of my box more often," she says, "the world's changing. People are putting in tranquility gardens, and I'm here puzzling over text messages." Always, always professional, but always tinged with something else. Something comfortable when she needs to. It's an attempt, a definite attempt, when she tries to make it all make sense and come across comfortably and easily. This isn't business. This is pleasure. And pleasure's always more complicated. "So, Riley," she starts again, "are you from here or are you a Chicago transplant?" [K. R. Jakes] The color orange is a fortuitous one; there is a reason orange chicken is the most delicious of the chicken dishes. Even the word orange carries with it some carnelian opulance, some style. The orange-robed monks, cosplay monks and the colourful cosplayers are loud. They're not very tranquil at all. Kage's right hand stays on the steering wheel and she regards Ashley steadily as she tells her story, speaks of people dead beneath ice, a burning tower, things that have alchemical symbolism. Mentions Israel's name. And that's the problem, Ashley says, and Kage opens her own door, hops out. "Well," she says, "That seems like a good reason to be particularly determined. After you, 'ley." And, like that, Kage -- a wary glance around -- circles her truck, locking it with her car-key instead of a button [pressing buttons (save it: for releasing the sharks)]. "We're going to Chen's." A tilt of her head, just a few buildings down: they can see the awning. "What was Henri wearing last time you saw her?" [Riley Poole] There are two cell phones on the table, one beside Riley's plate and one beside Ashton's. It doesn't take more than a casual glance to see that Riley's is newer, fancier, contains more bells and whistles. At the moment, the bells and whistles are silent, or appear to be. The screen lights up occasionally and noiselessly, but since Ashton sat down, the device has been ignored. Whoever is trying to contact her is just going to have to deal with silence on this end for a while. Riley herself attempts another bite of her noodles, gets interrupted before the bite reaches her mouth by a question, and she sets everything down into the bowl again. "Transplant, actually, but I was moved early so my roots are deep. My dad and I moved here when I was seven. We actually live on the north side, but when you get a craving for Chinese food, there's really nowhere else to go but Chinatown, right?" She rests her forearms on the edge of the table, leaning forward slightly, and does her best to look at both Ashton and Owen, including both in the conversation. [Ashley McGowen] She doesn't get much of an answer. But she didn't really expect one: Kage reflects on these things, accepts them for what they are and stores them away. Unlike Ashley, who usually has an opinion to offer on...just about everything. Though, she suspects, if Kage disapproved she would have said something. The Orphan opens her door and slips out and Ashley does likewise, waiting for her to circle around the truck and tell her where they're going. Once said, she falls easily into step next to Kage, eyes drifting skyward the way searching eyes do when Kage asks her about Henri. "Christ, it was a month ago..." She bites at the inside of her cheek again for a moment, lightly. "Pajama pants and...I can't remember the shirt. She looked like she hadn't changed her clothes in a while." Ashley keeps Kage to her left, trusting her to decide when they should cross the street. Friends are beneficial for such things. [Owen Page] You could mistake his silence for rudeness. Certainly, after he seats himself its a while until he opens his mouth and even then it's only to put stir fried noodles into it with fingers quite dexterous with the chopsticks. Owen ate carefully, but with a certain amount of speed that suggested he wasn't sure if he would linger long. Clearly, at some point, he'd developed the knack for handling Asian cuisine. His midnight blue gaze follows the flow of the conversation; Ashton asks, and Riley replies, then cuts a look across at him in some attempt at friendliness. There's some brief consideration of the young Apprentice's earnest expression before he leans back, discreetly wiping off grease with a napkin. "That's pretty accurate, yeah." Ashton notes that she needs to get out of her box more often, and it draws the reluctant Singer into conversation enough that he asks her: "What do you do?" It could have been a nicer way of asking what are you, but Owen doesn't make that distinction. [S. Ashton Winters] "Only place to find good Chinese food," she confirms. Agreeing with Riley. They are both infinitely better at this than she is. She watches them both, eyes are dark, hair is dark... and she's actually starting to get a little bit of a tan. It looks right on her. Doesn't make her look exotic by any means, it just makes Ashton look less like death and more like death warmed over. Less cold, more human. Everything melts. She is terrified of it. What is she? "ER Doctor, mommy, target practice, fitness fanatic. I try to keep a healthy degree of sleep deprived so people I interact with on a regular basis don't realize I'm boring," says the disciple. "What about you? Tutor? Are you a silent film enthusiast?" [Owen Page] There's a moment when Ashton is asking what he is that something like a quirk twitches at one corner of the young man's mouth. Could be the beginnings of a smile, but it never really progresses that far. It simply stays a suggestion of something like humor, or amusement at what the newly-discovered Doctor says. "Nothing you said," he says practically, as if she'd listed groceries. "Sounds boring." So, what is he? At the age he appears, he might well have been a college student, but silence answers this as he looks not at either female, but studies his hands, folded against his stomach in his lap. "Laborer, " he admits in a quiet tone; that explained the definition of a lean musculature under his shirt, his jacket, explained his rough, calloused hands. "I work maintenance at St James Cathedral." He glances between them, there's no faint sheen of blood warming his cheeks, but there is a certain amount of uncertainty to the confession of his profession. It's humble, and he's aware of it. [K. R. Jakes] Traffic has stalled. There are headlights -- oh, far away; in another story. Down the street. There's no steam rising from the sewers. There are going to be fireworks soon (and they won't wake the dead). A month ago, Ashley says, and Kage flicks the collar of her coat up, sharp against her throat (cut [you]). The red-haired woman doesn't explain why she asked; she may've just asked because she wanted her pajama bottoms back (thanks, Gregor). Or she could've asked, and this is probably what Ashley will think, because she is concerned; because she doesn't want the fuzzy-haired Ether Queen running mad in the streets, wearing nothing but dirt and a few threads. "A month ago's a long time," she says. "Time enough to finish two more chapters of a thesis, say. How's yours going? How do you and Ashton know each other, anyway? Is it as recent as I think?" - and then she is opening the door for Ashley. The Hermetic may enter first. [Ashley McGowen] "The thesis and I are having a prolonged war of contrition, wherein I feel guilty for not working on it and then scrap entire pages at a time once I've written them," Ashley says dryly. "But thanks for asking. As for Ashton, I was just at her house a couple of weeks ago," Ashley says, "and we talked for a while. I tried to talk her into getting out a little more. I like kids and all, but I think I'd go out of my fucking gourd if the most stimulating conversation I had for weeks was a toddler. We met at the house, back when the hunters were there in January." Kage opens the door for her, and she gives the Orphan a polite nod and steps inside. She has a little trouble picking Ashton out in the dim light, but finally her eyes do settle on the woman, who is sitting with...Owen. And is that Riley? Ashley squints. "Looks like Ashton's picked up some company, actually." She lifts a hand to wave as Kage follows her inside. Hopefully it'll catch the attention of one of them. [K. R. Jakes] to Owen Page, Riley Poole, S. Ashton Winters [and now that there are more of you-who-so-what-if-she-recognizes-you-from-that-meeting! percept+awareness, IN GENERAL.] [S. Ashton Winters] "I've been to Saint James," she says, "it's a beautiful place. Solid walls, good foundation." She says these things like they matter. Like she is looking at the house of God for what it is. For its solid walls, for its good foundation. She's a strange creature. -a strange creature whose phone vibrates unexpectedly. Eyes widen and she reaches for the phone. "-excusemeamoment." And she gets up to take the call. "Kaycee?" Oh, that poor babysitter... [Riley Poole] For apparently being the one most open, most capable of carrying a conversation, Riley falls silent as Owen and Ashton tell each other what it is they do. She doesn't offer up her own profession to the group, seems content to simply watch and learn. For the time being. About the time Ashton's phone vibrates, Riley picks up her own. Her mouth quirks into a frown as she reads the screen. And she groans. "I'm sorry, I have to go. If I'm reading this right, my dad's trying to set fire to the kitchen." She throws an apologetic glance at Owen as she pushes her seat back. She picks up her bowl with its not-nearly-finished noodles. "It's good to see you again, Owen." [K. R. Jakes] Kage chuckles (low [husk]). Amused. "Toddlers aren't so bad. I've seen toddlers more monstrous than Marcelle; talked to grown men and women who provide less stimulating conversation, too." And the Orphan pauses at the threshold of Chen's Noodle Shop because there is: someone who is both intense and corrosive; someone who is electric (pulse [faint]); someone who is frozen, wintry: more familiar. They're all at the same table, although Riley is getting up. "I'm going to order," she says, after a second. "Tell me what you want. I'll put it in for you. Why don't you go sit?" - and Ashton's standing, on her cellphone; and Kage, if she catches the deathmage's eye, raises an eyebrow, is that work, that sort've raise of an eyebrow. It's not coincidence that this separates Kage from the proceedings, isolates her [never us, always you and me]. She is pretty hungry. [Ashley McGowen] "So have I," she says, also amused, "but that still doesn't exactly make for a compelling case." Kage says that she is going to put in the order so that Ashley can go sit. The Hermetic looks sidelong at her, frowns a moment, and pauses on her way over to the tables. It's not so much empathy in her case as putting facts together, as connecting dots. Then she reaches over and grabs hold of Kage's elbow. "No," she says. And then, with a brightness that is more than a little facetious, "If I have to deal with this many people, so do you." [Owen Page] Both ladies get up, one for a phone call, the other because her parental figure is attempting to set fire to something integral to the continued structural integrity of their home. Owen doesn't do more than nod, and get up -- "Likewise," -- because that is apparently the polite thing to do. Then -- there's another two Mages entering and Owen nods at them, now, one assumes, on his own, or about to be. Perhaps that makes it a little better for Ashley, and for Kage. [S. Ashton Winters] "Well, it will come out.... I know it's ketchup... yes, it does... look, just don't worry about it. I'll clean it up when I get home, just make sure she doesn't play in it... okay... okay... well, or let her play in it. It makes her happy... I'll give her a bath... no, no she likes the water... Just put her in the si-no, nevermind. Just, I'll bathe her, it's fine.... okay... Kaycee? Kaycee... thank you... thank you? ... thank you bye." She hangs up by the time she's coming back. She sits herself back down. "... sorry." [K. R. Jakes] Ashton's things are at the table Owen's now alone at: dark-haired boy in a pool of solitude, skulking; the Euthanatos is speaking off in a corner, and Kage considers the likelihood of her leaving. Raincheck: it happens. (i>...sorry, Ashton says, sitting herself back down.) Then: Ashley reaches out and grabs hold of her elbow. The red-haired woman raises one eyebrow juuuust the infinitessimal fraction of an inch. Her opaque glance becomes less opaque. There's the logic I expect from a Hermetic. Discarded. Instead, Kage's mouth quirks: "The noodles aren't going to come to us unless they're told we want them. If you need to look at the menu," there, a life-line. And Kage'll cant her head order-windowways, the look shading to something (wry) questioning. [Riley Poole] Riley shrugs into her jacket, a simple black athletic number with a high collar to protect her throat. From the wind on a jog, maybe. Or bugs. She smiles again at Owen, friendly as always. When Ashton returns, Riley says, "I'm sorry, I have to go, but it was really nice meeting you, Ashton." The tall brunette moves away from the table once all goodbyes are finally out of the way and heads for the counter. She needs a box for her leftovers, and to order a whole new set to take home with her. When that is purchased and everything thrown into a plastic bag, the Virtual Adept weaves through the crowd and disappears into the night. [Riley Poole] [and Riley's out! thanks for the play, everyone!] [Ashley McGowen] Her had drops once it's been ascertained that Kage is not trying to make a stealthy exit (I'll tell them what you want, and an hour later you'll wonder where I am). There's a smirk, and a cursory glance at the menu, but she has been to this place several times and already has some idea of what she'd like. She points to one of the entrees. "That one." Riley and Owen are making an exit anyway. Both get a wave from Ashley on their way out, though she makes no effort to stop them, as she goes and slides into a chair across from Ashton. Her messenger bag is propped up alongside the legs of her chair. "Hi, Ashton. Sorry to keep you waiting." [Owen Page] But Owen doesn't sit himself back down, rather, he shuttles a glance at the pair of women apparently deciding whether or not they intend to linger and then indicates that he's on his way out by means of looking toward the exit where Riley is just-vanishing and murmuring a farewell to Ashton. It's polite, but as brief as ever. The Chorister returns Ashley's wave with a little hand raise; then the hood is drawn up, and in the seconds it takes someone to move past, he's vanished.

they'll have you, gladly. [emily, incomplete]

[Owen Page]

Wednesday night at the Page residence was a quiet affair. That being said, most nights at the young Chorister's abode followed such a trend as Owen had few friends in the city to call round for any sort of 'boys night', and little interest furthermore in anything beyond the NBA to watch with such a gathering. In high school, he'd probably have been several cans of beer to the wind, rough-housing with the other guys on the football team. These days, the wildest Owen got was to order pizza and accompany it with copious amounts of soft drink. When Emily called to announce her safe return to the States, it was to the soft background chatter of commentators high-lighting the performance of the Chicago Bulls sounding in the silences between her greeting and whatever [most likely brief and on one side, monosyllabic as ever] conversation they exchanged before she rang off. Now, the dark-haired maintenance worker was reclining on his old, thread-bare sofa with his feet propped up on the coffee table; the remnants of a pizza left in the open box before him; a paperback novel open on his chest. The TV was muted, but Owen's attention was riveted on it none the less. By the time Emily doubtlessly buzzes through downstairs, the Bulls have scored twice and been greeted by enthused clapping of the boy's hands together as if he were on the side-lines, willing them on like a benched team-mate. He gets to his feet, setting his book down [The Bourne Supremacy] and padding to the door to open it when the Orphan eventually knocks. It swings open, and reveals -- Owen. Just as she no doubt recalls him, in his simple gray shirt and dark navy hoodie; in his jeans and worker's boots. He greets her with a small smile, and nod to encourage her to come in, the smell of pizza still fresh in the air.

[Emily Littleton]

It's a warm night, with the temperature lingering in the upper sixties well after the sun had gone down. It made for a nice walk to Owen's, which wasn't that far from Emily's own flat now. She had rang ahead, and perhaps he'd been expecting her to show earlier, but she'd been in no great hurry and took her time memorizing the local streets and looking about her as she traveled. It gave her time to calm her nerves, too. When the door opened, she offered him a smile -- less encumbered by occult things, warmer and a bit more honest -- that broadened somewhat, even as they stood there. There was no malicious resonance clinging to her, now, just the wind-touched curls that framed her face and the lighter weight jacket that had taken the place of her winter coat. It was warm, but still windy in Chicago. There's a small quiet space, and it seems for a moment that she's content just to see him there on the other side of the threshold, before she returns his nod and steps inside. Steps out of her shoes (odd habit [repeated]) and slides the strap of her messenger bag over her head. There's a glance to the table -- pizza, noted -- and the flicker-light of the TV -- game, good choice -- and then back to Owen. "I'm not interrupting...?" she says, her voice more strongly riddled with sounds of home, warmer like her smile, seeking but gentle. She reaches into her bag, withdraws his book and another (a small paperback), and something smaller yet that remains concealed within the palm and curled fingers of her hand.

[Owen Page]

Even over the phone where one cannot fall back into habits such as scrutinizing another's face in silence, or skulking about in the shadows, Owen was not the world's greatest conversationalist, oh sure, he'd asked if she had enjoyed her trip, and if she was jet-lagged, but the hesitation preceding each led one to believe they were pre-programmed things not inherent in him to ask, but prompted either by repeated chiding to do so, or practice. It was a strange thing to consider, practicing how to converse with another human being, but it was most definitely what Emily had been forcing Owen Page to refresh himself with. Even now, standing in the small [comfortable] expanse of his apartment looking at one another there is no rush of physical embrace from the twenty-three year old Singer, there is no perfunctory greeting or use of inane chit-chat that tended to exist, even fleetingly, in most conversations when someone arrived at another's apartment. No how is such and such, no you look wells or it's been a whiles slip from his throat, he just gives her that fleeting, welcoming smile and ushers her inside, closing the door and then looking at her in that manner he has that suggests he's asking and answering all these sort of things with his eyes, anyway and whatever his thoughts on what he finds are not going to be particularly forthcoming. I'm not interrupting…? "Uh, not much," he admits, a hand rising to scruff over his dark head, eyes shifting from her hands to the TV set then back again, that barely-there-but-hinted-at smile working his mouth, he nods at them. "What're those you have there?"

[Emily Littleton]

They had an understanding, these two. Emily allowed him his pregnant silences, while slowly coercing him into small sentences, easing him toward verbal queries. It would be like a game, if she were playing at it. Instead it is a balancing act. They both give, and take, and seek a mutually appropriate center. He does not hurry to hug her, and Emily doesn't initiate such familiarities either. She has the excuse of being (half) mainly British, and Owen has his reasons, she is sure. I'm not interrupting...? Uh, not much. This brings a small smirk, the now-familiar wry twist to one corner of her mouth and an eyebrow lofted (amused) for just a moment. But it's the curious things she carries that pulls his attention away from the television, prompts him toward a complete sentence structure. "Ah, here," she says, offering the two books over to him in a neat stack. Whatever small thing it is that she's concealed remains hidden behind a tucked thumb and in the hand furthest from him. One of the books is Owen's own, loaned to Emily not that long ago. The other is a small novel, The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. One has a younger Owen's writing littered throughout its margins, the other has Emily's tight and precise lettering and underscoring scattered among the pages. "I wanted to bring your book back, and loan you one you might like. I read it on the flight," she offered, without elaborating much about it. There's a pause here, as if exchanging library items is quite normal, and a glance to the television (perhaps she cares about the game). Then the quiet starts to seep back in. "You had a good week, then?" she asks. It is asking more than just that. She's concerned, quietly, that whatever had happened between her, Nathan, and the demon at the park might have come back to haunt Owen while she was away. This isn't said, of course, but the worry will be laid to rest once he replies that things were fine. Or he was bored. Or just a yes and tacit dismissal of her concern.

[Owen Page]

It would surprise many, or perhaps, on the other hand surprise none to learn that Owen Page was a veracious reader. Certainly, in his teenage years his athleticism and the act of being on the football team had lent him a certain stereotype that tended to leave most -- including teachers -- amazed at the grades and the quiet intelligence contained in the boy. It had definitely led to more than one accusation of plagiarism by unwilling, or simply incredulous teachers. These days however, the man that Emily has met and is beginning to know, seems to be from all accounts possessing of a taciturn intellect, quiet and plain, but there all the same. His bookshelves, what two he currently owns, are full to the brim and some stacking a-top with various books, so anyone venturing into the young man's abode can glimpse that clearly, the Chorister spent some fair amount of his time either now or at some point in his past, devouring literature. When she hands him back his own well-traveled book, and another unknown one [though the title is recognized, at least] there's an expression of avid curiosity, and undisguised surprise. A gesture of trust that it was, to lend another a book was not a trifling thing, apparently, in his estimation. He accepts both with murmured appreciation and turns The Alchemist over immediately, scanning the blurb on the back of the novel with darting, keen eyes. "I'll tell you what I think," he promises without looking up from his brief perusal of plot, and then when he does it's to answer her questions about his week -- about whether there had been any more activity of a supernatural bent around him -- "Quiet," he assures her, and moves to restore his own book to its place on one of the bookshelves, depositing the loaned one beside his current on the sofa. If he's noticed that she's still holding something [literally] back, he plays it cool, raising his dark brows, hands tucked into pockets. "Coffee? Oh," there's a smile, then. A crooked apparition. "Tea??"

[Owen Page]

[Er, minus one of those question marks. >_0 ]

[Emily Littleton]

All you have to do is contemplate a simple grain of sand, and you will see in it all the marvels of creation. Listen to your heart. It knows all things, because it came from the Soul of the World, and it will one day return there. The quotes on the cover might lead Owen to believe that she had chosen this book to read or to lend because it was of a vein with their conversations, but that couldn't be farther from the truth. Having found herself at her gate at O'Hare without a book to help weather the transatlantic flights, Emily had selected something from the Fiction shelf that had a pleasing cover by an author she had not yet read. And this is what she happened upon: a book about finding the courage and faith to pursue the life you were meant to live, to create the positive influences that would lead you toward success, and to learn to listen to the cues and signs hidden throughout the world around you (for they are the voice of the Soul of the World). Cues, perhaps, like a randomly selected book turning an Orphan toward unexpected tears. I learned that the world has a soul, and whoever understands that soul can also understand the language of things. It was an odd thing to happen upon, a little like finding Owen in the great Sanctuary one night and thinking, mere weeks later, how it seems as if she'd known him for far, far longer. Her thumb smooths over the something, still concealed in her other hand. "Tea would be lovely," she replies. "Thank you."

[Owen Page]

In truth, he had been expecting her to come calling again, at some point. He hadn't been certain after the way they left things before Easter, the manner she'd reacted at the store, then later the seeming re-connection when he cooked her dinner, right here, there had been understanding there -- but he had deliberately left things open. Left it in her hands to decide what it was she wanted. After all, there was a reason why some Awakened decided to remain Orphans, not every soul was suited to the particular confines of a way of thinking, a form of belief. Some Magi needed the lack of boundaries, the sense of liberty. Owen, however, needed and relied on the merits his Tradition gave him, the foundations it had set beneath him at a time when he'd been so very near to falling into a chasm of his own creation. Emily says yes to tea, though it's still not proper tea, it's the store bought, instant tea-bag and water sort but perhaps its all he can afford on his salary, who knew. The Chorister shrugs off his hoodie on the way to the kitchenette, his gray shirt was short sleeved, and showed off tanned, worker's arms. He sets to making two cups of tea, and when he's finished, or decides that both are strong enough he turns and passes one to her; watchful to see if she sets her hidden bounty down in exchange for the steaming cup. "How do you feel?" He asks, and leans in against the corner of the kitchen benches, where they met at an angle. Trust this man to cut straight to the heart of the matter, but to do it in a vague, general enough manner that his question could literally mean anything. How did she feel after her flight, how did she feel after going home, how did she feel about joining his tradition, any tradition? How did she feel about the Chicago Bulls? The perceptions were endless; and Owen's dark eyes give leave to no clear answer as to what exactly he's referring.

[Emily Littleton]

Ah, so there it is. A question and a challenge. Emily does, indeed, set that guarded thing down on the corner of his counter. It is small enough to sit inside one of the tile squares without touching any of the grout margins. It is nothing more remarkable (or less remarkable) than a pale orange-white rock. Irregular. Worn and crumbed. Indeterminately old. She sets it down so carefully, though. (Reverently) It must be somehow precious, somehow special. It must have a story, or a symbolic purpose. It cannot be a garden variety rock that she's brought to leave on his kitchen counter. Or could it be? How well did he know her? Emily wraps long fingers around the ceramic mug, heedless of how hot it becomes with the near-boiling liquid inside. He leans, she stands with her weight evenly distributed. Still wearing her coat but now in stocking feet. They are an odd pair, these dark-haired, blue-eyed two. "Better," she answers. It is equally vague and open-ended, but it is an honest answer. Her smile widens, warms, it is a genuine and lovely thing, and just as it eclipses the warmth he's seen in her before Emily hides that expression from him with her mug, sips at her tea carefully, casts her eyes down to watch the liquid so that it might not spill, might not scorch. "I'm feeling better, thank you," she says, looking up now to meet his eyes -- if they're there to catch. The Orphan is different, somehow. Better, yes. Less tentative and tormented. She's found her footing (she is found). Owen was perceptive enough to notice, even if he may not quite understand just yet.

[Owen Page]

Better, she answers with a smile that's half-hidden behind her mug, an old purple and white affair that was missing a little chink around near the handle. Owen only appeared to own two mugs total, and he was holding the other one, a plain black version of the one Emily held. He watches her smile, her warmth, radiating outward toward him in a degree that he has not quite felt before, and as if some great creature had been slumbering in his chest and now just deigned to stir, there was a reciprocating warmth beginning deep within him in response. He may not have quite understood yet, but he understood that he was being presented with a change within the woman across from him, sipping tea and that change, however tiny, however infinitesimal in the scope of the Universe is cause enough for him to rejoice, privately, without any outward display of changeable emotion but the softer edges to the smile he gives when he speaks again, quirking a brow at the little rock. "And this? Did you bring a piece of home back?" He doesn't take the little stone in his hands, but he looks at it; some vague inkling driving a furrow into his brow, an expression Emily was growing to know well as their acquaintance progressed. It was the Chorister's ruminating expression, his distraction of insular thought.

[Emily Littleton]

There's a fondness in her expression as she regards the small rock on his counter. Almost as if it were a friend, but certainly as if it housed some precious memory. There is no doubt, now, that it is a momento, a trinket more weighty that its corporeal form. "I brought it for you," she says, simply, as if it is the most reasonable thing in the world. To bring him a rock. From the other side of the world. No, there has to be more to it. Emily looks up from the rock, to Owen -- Owen who has not yet picked it up, or done more than nudge it with his weighty stare. "You shared your drawings with me and it seems only fair that I should return, somehow, the favor." This is said shyly, because she cannot simply hand it to him and expect him to understand. Because Emily gives of herself more completely, gives more away, more readily. It cannot be helped, and now this is begun so she continues. "It's from Holyrood Abbey, in Edinburgh." She paused, her gaze shifted to something farther off (remembering) rather than focusing on an item in the room. There was a faint smile, ghosted now, to that expression. "I'd almost been too ill to go, but my god-father and -brother waited until Yule so I could go with them." She sipped at her tea again, drawing the story out but not filling it with too many unnecessary words. "It's an old, crumbling 12th century Abbey." Now she is not far away, or lost in something distantly remembered. Emily looks to Owen and says plainly, without obfuscation: "It is the first place I heard the Song." And she knows, undoubtedly, what she is implying.

[Owen Page]

I bought it for you, she says and suddenly something changes in Owen's perusal of the stone, the frown lines in his brow fade away and he simply looks at the little segment, the tiny piece of a forgotten time and a forgotten age writ into worn down rock and sand. His untouched tea is carefully placed to one side and he takes the weight of the tiny piece of Holyrood Abbey in his palm and smooths the pad of a thumb over it gently; reverently. When Emily's story completes itself naturally, unraveling at the pace she sets for it, only then does the boy's head lift and his midnight blue eyes settle on her face; probing it, scouring it for the simple revelation that her offering had sought to assure him. Yes, it says, yes I choose this. Yes, I am Home. Yes, I'm sure. So he doesn't ask the natural thing. He doesn't ask her if she's sure about what she's telling him, about the decision she's implying by setting that little piece of her own history, her own life on his counter. He just searches her expression and then, straightening, folds his palms over the rock. "I wish," he says softly, looking down at his folded hand, feeling the stone absorbing his palm's heat. "That I could have been there." He's smiling a little when he looks back at her this time, there's something almost wry about the way he says this next pronouncement, as if he had known all along, as if he'd been waiting for her, all this time. "Welcome back."

[Emily Littleton]

While she was away, Emily weathered many such wordless inquisitions. Owen's gaze pushes, prods, probes at her newfound surety. The warmth endures, unabated, and she waits it out with a quiet sense of grace. No ruffled edges, no irritation brewing around her margins. Her temperment is gentler, somehow, but Emily had never been too perturbed by Owen's seeking-without-asking. He doesn't ask, so she cannot answer; it's likely that they mistake each other's meanings, here, in this careful moment. With his thumbs smoothing over the fine-grained stone and her fingers finally moving, resettling in new places on the ceramic mug. I wish, he says, [/i]That I could have been there.[/i] "You could always go," she says, simply, plainly, as if there were no great magic to crossing the Atlantic, nothing insurmountable about finding his way down the Royal Mile. "It stands, still." (And still, somewhere, she is the child who breathed in Winter and breathed out Wonder.) He has known, all along. He has been waiting for her (perhaps longer than he knows). These two are sentiments she sees echoed in him, mirrored, from someone far away. Someone who speaks to Home more clearly than any other in Emily's life, now. There is an oddly soft (familiar) smile, shifting towards wry, faintly confused and concilliatory. "Thank you," she says, each word carefully ennunciated. Weighty. Almost as if they were talking about more than her return trip to the Windy City.

[Owen Page]

The stone is carefully deposited on the window ledge, it sits there alone, without any other decorative objects to surround or overwhelm it. Owen studies it for a moment as if not quite sure he likes the position or not before he turns back, re-claiming his tea and inviting Emily with a quick jerk of his head toward the moderately more comfortable surroundings of the sofas and the flashing, muted TV set where the game is still playing itself out. She says thank you in a way that gives Owen pause, at least pause enough that he looks at her again, more intently perhaps than even before. "When you say you feel better," he leads in, framing his big palms around the cooling ceramic mug and leaning forward, elbows braced on knees, his shirt pulling against the shape of his lean frame beneath it. "Have you made a decision, about the Chorus?" He doesn't rush this out, but says it hesitantly, a tinge of uncertainty tasted in his throat, in the shape of the words as they escape his lips.

[Emily Littleton]

She follows, quietly, on the balls of her feet, tea carried carefully and not sloshing too much in her mug. Owen sits; Emily stands. She has been standing since she arrived, and not the casual standing about that turns to leaning against a counter or crossing one's feet at the ankles -- no, the taut and somewhat ready standing about of a schoolchild at recitation or an adult who has stilled herself just enough to keep from pacing. There's a calmness to the Orphan, which Owen has picked up on, but it does not full extend to her body language or habits. She is nervous. She has been waiting, on this very question, has practiced the answer a hundred times, and now her tongue feels numb and lazy in her mouth. Now she draws a little breath and looks meaningfully at the floor boards. It's a pause that they can both feel, in the passing of heartbeats, in their pulse thudding at their temples, see in the irregular pulse of light coming from the game on the television. She swallows, squares her shoulders slightly, and looks up to him. Lets her gaze, dark and steady, fall in line with his. "Yes," Emily says, resolutely. Then, more hesitantly, almost worried, "If they will have me." And that is a very real worry. The Orphan (for now [but not necessarily always]), worries her fingers against the ceramic mug. Tucks the toes of one foot in, shyly. Begins to chew on the inside edge of her lower lip. For having said this aloud gives him opportunity to reject her, and Emily had not considered until this very moment how vulnerable and horrible it might feel... to find Home again, and to be turned away.

[Owen Page]

[WP: Don't look all moved and stuff, man. That's not manly.]

[Owen Page]

Emily is nervous. She doesn't sit, which makes Owen lean back after a minute with brows drawn as if bemused by her anxiety, by her desire to say whatever it is she's about to on her feet as if she were concerned that she'd a rapid pathway to the door and safety in the wake of them. The Initiate seated before her leans over to set his teacup down as Emily is taking a little breath, half poised to get to his feet; he freezes when she starts to speak and drops back down, settling for looking solemnly across the coffee table at her as if it were some wide, gaping abyss between them. Yes, if they will have me. The reaction does not happen instantaneously, Owen does not leap into the air and whoop for joy, or scowl menacingly at her or laugh mockingly in her face for ever thinking that his tradition would tolerate an Orphan among them -- though she could not have ever dreamed the latter would be his response, no matter what his thoughts truly were on her decision, one way or another. Rather, there's a tense few minutes when nothing louder than the clock hung on the walls ticks and then the Chorister drops his eyes away from hers, scrubs his hands over his face with a low breath exhaled from his lips and pushes himself to his feet with an enviable degree of ease. She's chewing her lip, uncertain what is to come. Owen steps close to her, and looks down at her face; clear into her eyes. When he speaks, its softly, and genuinely: "They'll have you, alright." He breaks, a smile twitches a corner of his mouth. "Gladly."

[Emily Littleton]

Owen does not answer immediately. Owen is not easy to read. Owen keeps his thoughts to himself. Owen does not react with a whoop or a cry or chastizement or -- it's everything Emily can do to weather the quiet waiting without beginning to fidget. It is possible that he's noticed how close she is to holding her breath when he steps forward, steps closer (her shoulders pull a little tighter, her posture just a little straighter, her expression just a bit more guarded)... ... and answers. There is open relief in Emily's expression, and it radiates from her like a tremulous, thin shockwave. He is not touching her, but he can feel the weight of it from just the look in her eyes. From the way it takes a moment for her to echo his smile, as if she didn't quite yet believe him. There are no words from the Orphan, not yet, and that might worry him.