a certain give and take. [nathan, emily]

[Nathan Spriggs]

Nathan followed her silently, a look of concern etched on his face most of the trip, thinking of what was going to happen from there. Opposite to her carrying the gun in a bag, he clumsily placed the Glock in the Five-SeveN's holster, too big for it to fit properly. The tattered coat attracted strange looks along the way as well, but he ignored them. When Emily addressed his main concern, he cringed slightly, it wasn't the thought of coming for him that worried him. Amazingly enough, he was more concerned for Kaya and what the being would want from her. It wasn't often that he thought of others before himself, and yet it was becoming more frequent these days. By the time he started to pay attention to their surroundings again, he came to the realization that they'd gone a fairly long way. "Did you warn him we're coming?" Afraid of the consequences and what the future would hold for them as he was, his voice was steadier now than it'd ever been in the aftermath. He could more or less pretend he was fine now, unlike before.

[Emily Littleton]

"I don't have his number," Emily said, and it vexxed her horribly in this moment. Short of going up to his building and ringing the bell or -- worse yet -- walking into Church with a firearm (and Bare Shoulders!) to ask after him, Emily had no direct way to get ahold of Owen. So she was bringing trouble literally to his doorstep. It vexxed her horribly. They came up to the apartment building where the Choristor lived, and it might make Nathan wonder how Emily knew his address, knew his building on sight, but did not know the man's phone number. At the gate box, the number 3B still did not have a slip of paper reading Page beside it. Either Owen had removed it, or he'd not lived her long at all. Mumbling a quiet prayer under her breath, Emily rang the bell. Waited. So she stood there, harried looking (terrified [haunted]) in a summery dress with a faint sunburn and her hand menacingly taut around something in her bag, and with the even more disheveled Cultist beside her. (Why yes, Mr. Page, Trouble now makes house calls.)

[Nathan Spriggs]

Nathan simply waited silently, words had left him for now, all he could do was try to keep positive and hope he'd done enough damage. If they did have to deal with this thing on its own grounds, they'd need all the advantages they could get. Not to mention the thought of setting foot in the Deadlands scared the living daylights out of him and was enough to make him shake.

[Owen Page]

For a few tense moments there's nothing on the other end of that buzzing request. Emily must begin to fret that Owen wasn't there, wasn't home yet from his day job at the Church, tending to its lawns and cleaning the interior or whatever little handyman jobs he was assigned to do. Certainly the silence stretches on, and there's simply the pleasant sounds of a late afternoon Spring [it was getting there, weather wise, Chicago was just slow to keep up] afternoon, just shy of dusk. A gentle breeze tickled along their skin, scattered leaves in the gutters; rustled the treetops across the street -- they almost seemed to whisper, as if they knew where the two Mages came from, and what had taken place. Then; when hearts are thumping and despair settling in -- bzzt -- "Yes?" A familiar, to Emily, voice crackles across the intercom from three stories above them.

[Emily Littleton]

It was a beautiful day, Spring-like and resplendant. Emily had been so enjoying it before the incident in the park. It had been loosing some of the tightly-knotted coils she'd been meaning to sort through before she next saw Owen and... here they were, his voice crackling through the intercom and her finger lingering on the buzzer. Creased brow. Tremulous voice steadied by nothing more than willpower. "Owen?" It's Emily, but her voice sounds farther away than it ought to. "It's Emily." A pause. "And Nathan." Another pause, longer. Her finger comes off the buzzer long enough to cut out the white noise from the intercom and the sounds of the street below. Long enough for him to answer. There should be more, but she can't think on how to phrase it. Her palm feels clammy against the firearm in her hand. The whole scenario was so turned on its head, through the looking glass, inside-out and backwards that she didn't know where to start.

[Nathan Spriggs]

Nathan continued his silence, a 'hey' which was just barely enough to hear over the intercom when Emily named him. Asides from that, he had nothing to add, still in his own little world. If Owen opened, he'd follow Emily in, if they were turned away... Well, he'd figure it out.

[Owen Page]

Emily already knows the degree to which her not quite Mentor can perceive things from a tone of voice, a simple glance, or the beginnings of a frown. The Chorister's senses were incredibly attuned to the world around him; perhaps it was a result of years spent mostly in his own company, or, perhaps it was something Owen Page had dedicated himself to developing. Either way, when the Orphan speaks, there's a clear hesitation and then: "Come up", followed by the dull click of the lock disengaging on the heavy glass doors. The three levels up to his floor aren't terribly exciting; the interior of the apartment building was dull, in browns and cream, the walls peeling here and there. At the end of the second floor a window had been left open, the curtains fluttered in the breeze; the entire floor felt colder than it ought to. By the time they reach the third floor, Owen's door, 3B has been opened a touch; but there's no sign of the Initiate at the door waiting for them; arms crossed as perhaps Emily fears. Apparently, they're to let themselves in.

[Owen Page]

[Perception + Awareness, Acute Senses (-2 Diff)]

[Emily Littleton]

Yes, she knows. It's part of what fuels a nervous side-long glance to Nathan before Emily places the flat of her free hand on the glass door and pushes it open. There is no elevator, so it's up the two flights of stairs to the third story they go. She keeps her head down (bowed [pensive) and her eyes on the shallow steps as they ascend. When they reach Owen's door, Emily knocks once (then twice [even though it is a ajar]) and pushes it open a bit more with her left hand. Her right is still buried in her messenger bag, wrapped around that imbued weapon Nathan entrusted to her keeping at the Park. Owen's not quite Apprentice comes just inside his doorway. Enough inside that Nathan can darken the threshold behind her. She slips her shoes (sandals) off in the entryway to the small space. She's wearing a light sundress, in warm and cheerful tones of reds and creams, and her hair is down (and tangled on itself in places where the wind has touched it too many times). There is an unusual gravity to her expression, a seriousness that darkens the stormy blue eyes and pulls the edge of her smile taut until it is thin-lipped and barely present. No words, not just yet. Not from Emily. Just that look (haunted [seeking] hollow) and the general disparity between her attire and her sense of well-being.

[Nathan Spriggs]

As they went up the stairs, Nathan took to looking around at each floor, noting the subtle differences and way they were built, reminding himself of any escape routes or places he could use. Even now, he kept thinking of safety before anything else, he'd met this Owen but that didn't mean he believed in him like Emily did. Unlike Emily who looked like she'd been at death's door, Nathan seemed progressively better as they went. As the turmoil in his heart and head slowly ended, he regained control over himself and hid any feelings of fear he might have as far as he could take them. Showing his emotions was a weakness, he had to seem confident, seem okay, Emily probably had enough on her mind without him freaking out over Kaya right now. He followed her closely, but waited outside the apartment for someone to invite him in, unlike Emily who might feel confident just going in, he waited for an actual invitation from the owner. [Manip + Subt]

[Nathan Spriggs]

[10s]

[Owen Page]

[Perception + Awareness on Nathan, same deal as before!]

[Emily Littleton]

Threads of magic's after effects cling to her, threaded through and around her pattern. Its tinge is palpable, clear (recent [strong]). The feeling of Reverence around her has eroded, dampened only minimally on the walk over but there is something else caught up in it. Something not of Emily, or at least not of the Emily Owen has known thus far. It was darker, malificent and hateful, and though only its shadow had touched her, and briefly at that, the Orphan was marked for it. These two things, grace and unspeakable evil, marked her as plainly as the drawn expression she wore. Emily is not trying to keep from him how shaken and shell-shocked she is. It doesn't spill out of her in a stream of uncontrolled (uncontrollable) explanations, but he can see it, plainly, weathering at the margins of her well-being. He can see how she trembles, faintly, as she waits on his reply or welcome or dismissal. There is also something in her bag that does not speak to her resonance or the darker one.

[Owen Page]

When they step into the apartment; though in all honesty it's more an open studio space that's been since fitted out to house a single occupant than a true apartment, with a dividing wall set up in the corner directly opposing the entry door to conceal a bedroom. There's a tiny kitchenette nestled into the fair right corner and directly before them some old threadbare sofas set around a TV set. There are tables here and there, covered in sketches and newspapers and books, some open, some merely stacked in preparation to be added to the bookshelves pressed against wall space, here and there. The afternoon sunlight is flowing in through the windows, and there's a faint scent of steam in the air, some of the windows are still foggy with condensation. The bathroom door opens, and the Chorister steps out. His dark hair was still wet, spiked out of his face with fingers, he'd shrugged on black draw-string pants and wore only the white singlet he'd put on after Emily pressed his buzzer. There was a green towel slung around Owen's neck, and the silver medallion around his neck gleamed dully as he stopped at the door; fingers briefly tightening against the edge of it, looking the pair of them over. Silence stretched. Owen's jaw tightened. His midnight blue eyes narrow on Nathan, nostrils flaring at the utter wrongness creeping in through the door with them. It makes the hairs on his arm stand on end, it makes him want to run, or worse still, send the pair of them running back through the door. Whatever had happened, whatever it was they'd wrought -- it was wrong and it was powerful, and it clung to their patterns like cobwebs, like a soul deep soot. That isn't the only thing that has him staring, dark brows drawn low over his eyes, lips tightened into a thin line. It's the energies pulsating around the pair of them, around the weapons stowed on their persons. He knew that sensation, knew it well, knew it enough to know it wasn't one he wanted Emily anywhere near, yet. "What the hell happened," he begins in a dangerously soft voice, lethal in its gentleness. "That has the pair of you at my door, reeking of magic."

[Emily Littleton]

The silence stretched further. Midway through it, Emily's eyes fell away from Owen's and her gaze did not lift from the floorboards again for a long while. Further yet into the quiet, she shifted her weight from one foot to another as if she were nervous, somehow. When it became apparent that Nathan was not going to answer for the two of them, when it passed apparent and became painfully obvious, only then did Emily look back up at the Choristor with a deeply apologetic look. "I shouldn't have come here?" It was as much a question as a statement. She shouldn't have brought this to his home, that much she knew (that much she knew soul-deep [and shamed]) and yet she had. But it was a question, too, because she had hoped to find help and instead found the angriest expression she'd seen Owen wear. Though, to be fair, he seemed reasonable concerned for any people-with-normal-expressive-tendencies type. She drew a little breath, pulled her shoulders back and straighter. Owen knew this posture. This was Emily, trying to explain or expound upon something she did not quite understand. This was politeness and propriety stepping into cover (fear) inexperience and confusion. It explained the cold distance in her eyes, too, and the mostly damped quaver to her voice. "At the park," she started. Carefully. Swallowed. "I was at the park, just walking, when people started screaming and running away from something. It felt," a pause here, carefully considered, "Dark. Wrong. Like that night at the House, when we were all Called." Which explained the darker resonance, and how she'd recognized it. "There was... some sort of threshold... and some thing just beyond it." Here her brow furows, and she looks away. Down. Then back to Owen. Assuming Nathan has not stepped in to help, she continues. "It wanted Kaya, Nathan's friend. I could feel it in my head when it talked." That's about as far as she could get, just now. Emily slowly crouched down where she'd been standing in the entryway, just as slowly pulled the imbued firearm out of her bag and laid it gingerly on the floor. The saftey was still off. She's carried it all the way to Owen's home in her school bag. Just as slowly, carefully, Emily moved at least an arm's reach away from it. She seemed lighter, somehow, for having finally set it aside.

[Nathan Spriggs]

Nathan's eyes darted from Emily to Owen as he seemed to angrily receive the two, still the silence persisted, he couldn't wrap his head around explaining it. Not right now. Then after a while, Emily started doing it for him, there were naturally parts she missed due to not knowing the full story but she got it all more or less. Yet for not having wanted to speak, the man wanted to give the full account, including details Emily didn't know enough to talk about. It took a deep breath to center himself and a sigh. "The thing was a spirit, I think a ghost of some kind... If I had to guess, what used to be a rather powerful Nephandus," he stopped there, letting him take it, "After some... stuff, Kaya retreated to the Deadlands for a while. It was then that all kinds of spirits flocked to her, most good, some bad... This one... well, very bad... It has continued haunting her as she escaped its influence with my help, trying to get her back under his control... I'm fairly certain it wants to use her to somehow break free and enter our world again." Another halt there, another break to give him time to take in the facts. "It must have found a Shallow and ripped it open, forcing itself through... though I don't know enough about Spirit or any of this stuff to know how he brought those imps or gremlins or whatever along." At those words, he realized he needed to backtrack, Emily had forgotten those. "Emily forgot to mention... the thing didn't come along, it brought some little monsters with it, started attacking the people of the park and killing them, saying it'd have them kill everything if Kaya didn't show." Another deep breath to return to the rest of the story, he was still trying to wrap his head around all this ghost and spirit stuff. "I imbued two guns I was carrying, gave one to Emily, we... fought them off, I still don't know for how long. But I think I hurt it badly, bad enough that it retreated to heal but promised to return." "That... that thing, monster, whatever, it's too dangerous to be left alone. Not just because of the danger it poses to Kaya, though I admit it's one of my major concerns... But Emily saw as well as I did, if that gets out, the city would become a living hell." He was done for now, and for all his calm and cool behavior before, now he looked only slightly better than Emily. The memories were still too fresh in his mind to shrug off, the danger too real.

[Owen Page]

Owen takes a deep, calming breath after Emily speaks and pulls the towel from around his neck, tossing it aside. Then he walks across the span of distance between them and holds his hand out to her; dark eyes still full of anger, though it does not appear to be directed at her. The gun he knocks aside with a foot, and opts instead for tugging the Apprentice into a brief embrace, or, at the very least, drawing her away from the Prime-infused firearm and the Cultist. "It's good that you came," is all he says, briefly, to her and leads her across to a sofa to sit down. Briefly, his palm rests on her arm, then he turns, listening with increasing irritation evident in his posture, the stance he adopts before Emily [protection] as Nathan speaks about the Dreamspeaker Kaya, and Fallen Singers-turned-dark spirits. "You gave an imbued gun to her?" He's incredulous, it shows, fingers reach upward to pinch the bridge of his nose. The Chorister's bare shoulders are tensed. "Do you have any idea how fucking irresponsible that was?" He demands quietly, his voice a thread of fury, a glowing ember threatening to blaze as he takes several steps closer to Nathan. "She could have been hurt," He reaches down, grabs the pistol by the nozzle and flicks the safety on, then shoves it against the Cultist's chest; hard. "She could have been killed." He says, enunciating every word, his dark eyes narrowed. There's a beat, before Owen retreats a step, rubbing at his neck. "This thing is after Kaya, she's connected to it, then she must know of a way to stop it."

[Emily Littleton]

There has always been an odd kinship between them, since they met that night in the great Sanctuary, but it feels pulled thin here in the late afternoon warmth. When Owen strides across the room to her, Emily flinches slightly. But he draws up short of taking her hand, and the subtle distinction makes all the difference. Emily offers it, and is willingly pulled into that brief embrace. She's led, quieter now (sobered [smaller]), to the couch and stays where Owen seats her. Curling forward slightly, she rests her wrists on her knees -- only just bared by the hem of her summer dress. There's relief, now, that Owen isn't angry with her. That she's not been thrown out (she was worried [definitely worried]) about that for a long moment. She could have been hurt. Emily's chin tips up enough for her to glance between Owen and Nathan, watching this interaction with a growing wariness. She could have been killed.. She swallowed, closed her eyes briefly and went back to staring at the floor boards. Slowly, Emily sat back against the couch, curled her arms in around her middle and tucked her legs close to the couch. She was trying to become as small and as still as possible, while the other magi argued.

[Nathan Spriggs]

Nathan stared at Owen in a moment of disbelief. He must have heard something wrong, right? Right? Apparently not, as the gun was shoved into his chest, though he remained calm. On the surface at least, his eyes seemed to gleam with anger that wasn't all that well suppressed, he was steadying himself. So when he spoke, it was calm but cold, not angrily. "Yes, I gave her an imbued gun. Of course she could have died, because obviously the monsters killing everyone would simply overlook her if she's unarmed and incapable of defending herself." He stopped there, again taking a deep, calming breath. His fists were shaking, not with fear but with anger at the man's words, his nails biting into his palms. "She had a better chance of surviving armed and ready. You know what? She proved that much, she was bloody marvelous out there. She is not some child you need to babysit, she is a fully grown member of the Awakened community and though we might have had our issues before... She proved herself to be every bit as capable and reliable as any other mage in this damn city." Now came the really hard part for him, blood was starting to drip in small stream from his palms. The day's events and the man's unbelievable words had made Nathan lose control of his emotions, something that rarely happened. "You call yourself a Chorister, and yet you'd say something like Kaya can handle it, we'll all be fine? And that Emily should have simply turned away and left that thing to kill the people at the park? Do you honestly think that just because she's connected to it that gives her the ability to kill that thing? She's been dealing with it as best she can, but she's human, she has limits. Dreamspeakers are by no means omnipotent beings capable of dealing with any spirit just by trying."

[Owen Page]

[WP]

[Owen Page]

Owen bites right into the Cultist's words. "Don't you lecture me about what I am and what I'm not after you just brought an Apprentice to my doorstep." He cuts a glance at the blood, dripping onto his floor-boards, and a muscle leaps in his jaw, his fingers curl into fists. It's tangible, that anger. Emily's startled by it, Nathan's full of disbelief at it. "Especially one dripping with resonance from the gun you gave her." A beat, he's in Nathan's personal space, and there's threat implied in the towering 6'1 frame, have no doubt. One is reminded of a predator, sizing up an intruder to its den, threatening the life of its young. There's a feralness inherit to the Monist that does not at all gel with what is commonly thought of his ilk. Where was the gentle, open spirit, the desire for mutual understanding and kinship among his fellow Awakened? ...probably back at Lincoln Park, all being said. "I don't require you to inform me about what Emily is or isn't, I know what she's capable of." He doesn't spare a glance over his shoulder, but Emily can hear the sincerity fervent there. "And as for what I said, it wasn't that we'd all be fine, that Emily should have walked away. And yes, frankly, I think that if Kaya's presence is what brought this thing here, attracted it here, than responsibility has it that she should face it down, she should deal with it, better than she has been, by all accounts if this is what's been going on. I don't know you, I don't assume a thing about your talents, or what you can do. What I do know is you don't give an Apprentice a gun imbued with a force she can't control. That's not babysitting, that's common sense. Now, you wanna talk about how to deal with whatever is going on, let's do that. Otherwise, there's the door." He jerks his chin at it, and then turns, walking back toward the Orphan.

[Emily Littleton]

There's a beautiful abstraction in being talking about or around but not to. For a moment Emily is disconnected from the conversation, buffetted about by the currents of strong emotion and even tauter personal tensions worming their way through the tiny studio aparment. It left her somewhat numb, or perhaps that was the increasing shock while her mind tried (and failed) to rationalize the incident in the Park in any reasonable way. Some things in the Awakened world simply were not reasonable. She knew this, and yet it still felt like falling off an unexpected cliff when a new and wonderous (terrible) thing found her. She was less afraid of hitting bottom, now. At least that was something. Nathan praised her, which drew a distracted (confused) glance from the otherwise numb Orphan. And Owen... Emily's mouth pursed and she dipped her head. Dark curls obscured her expression, now, as her hands reached up to cup the back of her neck. She curled inward more, forming a small, tight, sitting ball on Owen's couch. This too shall pass. Not for the first time, and surely not for the last, one of Emily's hands slips down to find the chain around her neck. Teases that small silver oval out from under her neckline. Long fingers wrap around it, and the Orphan mutters something soft and almost soundless to herself. Tense as the other two are, so caught up in their altercation, it would be easy to miss. There is the faint taste of resonance, but not her own. It reaches out in a steady heartbeat to envelop her, but is not strong enough to reach much beyond her person. It speaks of belongs, of comfort : it calls to Home.

[Emily Littleton]

((grr. Edit: It speaks of *belonging, of comfort...))

[Nathan Spriggs]

[WP]

[Nathan Spriggs]

[WP! for something else]

[Nathan Spriggs]

Everything happened so fast that it would probably feel like a blur when he looked at another day. One moment the two were 'talking', anger and tension surrounding them and the next, the Chorister had closed in and attempted to threaten him. The Cultist didn't back down, however, nor did he move, he took deep breaths to calm himself down. The muscles in his hand slowly relieving some of the pressure, enough so the sensation of pain was less noticeable, but the pain had kept him thinking clear when he wanted to punch Owen's lights out. His comment on Kaya's responsibilities went ignored, it was the most he could do to prevent another flare of anger that he wouldn't be able to control. Then more accusations, Nathan could feel his heartbeating loudly in his chest, adrenaline still pumping from before. Every overactive nerve in his body telling him to punch the man in the face. But he tamed that instinct, for now at least. "I gave her an imbued gun, with a force she didn't need to control. Everything was prepared, all Emily needed to do was aim and shoot." A glance in the direction of the door, then after what seemed like an eternity to him but was only a few seconds, he nodded. "I think I will go. Tensions are high and we're both dealing with what happened today. There's time before that thing heals, we hurt it pretty badly. We'll talk later," this time Owen went mostly ignored, he addressed Emily and then turned to leave. A moment more in the place would undoubtedly result in something he'd regret.

[Owen Page]

He can feel Emily, the dark-haired Orphan curling physically and emotionally inward, recoiling away from the altercation taking place around [because] of her. He can sense the implicit threat coming from the Cultist, but for once in his life, or at the very least, for once in recent days, he could care less about what the other man might or might not have done. In the end, after all of the tension and threat and lingering magics in the air in the small apartment space -- it is the Cultist who breaks the tension. Who glances away at the door, and suggests that he will go. "Good," is all the response he gets about that from the Chorister, who has by this point moved back to face him, blocking the parting words from being delivered to the Orphan's face. Owen follows Nathan to the door, and shuts it after him, turning the lock. Then, and only then, does he brace his palms flat against it; and rest his forehead against the smooth wood. His shoulders are trembling from restraint; from the aftereffects of his anger; of his fear, of memories reawakened by the smell of gunpower and Nephandi. He remains there, just breathing.

[Emily Littleton]

Nathan leaves. Has left. Is gone. Even with Owen by the door (guarding [protective]) and that door shut tight against the outside world, the small space thrums with the echoes and reverberation of so many resonances, so much tension. It is there, in the set of his shoulders, the imprint of restraint on his lineaments of his face and body. It is evident in the tight, inward curl Emily maintains on his couch. In the short, measured breaths she doesn't realized she's meting out like precious resources. One, so small, only every so often. It's hidden in the way they can occupy the whole space, simple with being and breathing. Nothing larger. And it's Emily who unfurls first. Who, on quiet footsteps, pads to the small kitchenette on the balls of her feet. Who find a paper towel and gingerly tugs it free, trying not to disturb him with the sound of paper tearing. It is Emily who coaxes the tap open just enough to dampen one corner of the towel. Will not open it to a whisper-rush of water, will not let a sound that loud disturb the quiet -- for it is not peace, just yet, but it may grow into that. It is an act of contrition, gently squeezing the extra dampness from the towel and brings it to where the drops and smudges of blood have redden Owen's doorstep. If he is that lost in remembering, perhaps it is just now that he feels her closer to him, as Emily crouches and carefully starts cleaning away the mess. It is a small thing, but it is a small thing that she can do. That needs doing. That doesn't require words or explanations.

[Owen Page]

She can hear him breathing. It's only moments ago that they'd been let into the apartment, only mere minutes have slipped past since he emerged from the shower to hear the buzzer and padded, securing a towel around his lean hips to press his finger down; to accept [invite] trouble in. And he'd known, somehow, known the way you did, that the moment he let slip to the Hermetic Ashley where he lived, the moment he brought the Orphan Apprentice into his home he was inviting this, too. The memories. The chaos. The responsibility. This, then, was what his Avatar wanted of him. To protect her, the way he couldn't protect the other, the face that was the source of every nightmare he'd ever had. This was his duty; what he'd been sent to Chicago for. And today, minutes ago, he'd watched Emily walk in that door feeling like everything wrong with the world beside an Initiate who should have known better and something inside him had snapped. He'd lost control. It's returning to him now, gradually. His palms slide from their resting points; heat signatures leaving fingermarks for a second or two before they fade away, his breathing less erratic, his eyes no longer closed. He turns, and sees Emily bent to her task with the devotion of one at prayer and he feels the pulse of something very strong [protection] and something very deep [shame] wash through him. He moves toward her, and lowers himself to squat beside her progress, not interfering, but watching. There's an indefinable emotion flickering behind those dark eyes of his and they hold to her hands; then lift to her face. "Are you alright?" He doesn't pose it like it's a question to be answered simply.

[Emily Littleton]

((Awareness))

[Emily Littleton]

"I shouldn't have come, here," she says softly, as she wipes away one of the spots on his floor. Emily cleaned a drop then inspected the papertowel and folded over the soiled section. Then cleaned another spot, and repeated the fastidiously tidy movement with painstaking patience. "I ... didn't know how else to find you," she said, her brow creasing. Another spot cleaned. Another tiny fold in the paper, ever more creased, ever smaller. "I didn't mean for Nathan to come with me." Another spot. Another fold. Another frown. Repeat. Her voice is small, calm and somewhat detached. "I couldn't bring him to the Church," she explained, as if that much needed no further explanation. She could not have brought Nathan to Church with her, after that, any more than she could have walked into the sanctuary with a weapon in her satchel. She couldn't look for him at a more neutral place, because it was God's house, and whatever this was, Emily could not bring it into that place of fellowship and communion. But she shouldn't have brought it here, to his doorstep, like this. "I'm sorry," she said. And this is the last drop, the last smudge, the last fold. The paper she holds is a tight billet of damp sheaves, now. The outmost edges are white, but the ruddy tinge of the inner pages shows through like an angry bruise beneath pale skin. Emily rocks back slightly; the hemline of her dress puddles on the floor behind her and in the front its fabric is drawn neatly across at her knees. The locket, which Owen rarely sees exposed, sits above her sternum. It is still warm, still calling out in ever fainter echoes: home, home, home Still trying to calm her, somehow. Her eyes meet his, now, look in as deeply and unyielding as Owen saw into her. There is concern in her features, and lingering fear. Echoes and hauntings of what had happened moments before, what had happened before that yet, what might come. "No," she answered, plainly. "But I will be." And that's what matters, isn't it?

[Owen Page]

Her eyes meet his and see -- Shame, that he had lost his temper, that she had seen it, that his desire -- no, it's deeper than even that she can sense, it's a need as strong as anything else in him to keep her from harm, now. Something has shifted in him, something buried deep down that threatened to erupt just now. Yearning, to be understood by her, to be close to her, to keep her beside him at all costs because she understood him on a level that nobody else did right now in his life. There's a tenderness beneath the brutish display that belies a wounded soul, punctured by deep and long-lasting trauma. Anger, mixed with fear, about what Nathan had brought with him, about what he'd done, about what the Dreamspeaker, Kaya's, lingering presence might bring down on them all. -- she can feel all this as much as she can read it straight out of Owen's steady gaze, he clearly realizes how openly worried his expression is after a minute or two, and looks away, down; clearing his throat and rising to his feet. "Good, that's - " He turns his back on her, and moves across to the kitchen, absently twisting the facet on and rising his hands as if they too had blood on them, when he knows they're clean, when rationally he knows its an act simply to conceal his face from her perceptive gaze. "It's my fault." He then adds, abruptly. "I shouldn't have lost control like that. I just, I felt the energy coming off Nathan, and the gun and I," he hisses a breath through clenched teeth, turning and leaning back; the gesture highlighting the lean strength beneath his clothing. In the arms, corded against the sink.

[Emily Littleton]

They are both usually guarded people (private [discreet] call it what you will). They both have stories to (not) tell, trade, borrow and barter, but it is a rare day when either will open up willingly about their past. These rarefied days seem to cluster, uncomfortably: a few nights ago at Good Will (Owen looking in); just now by his doorway (Owen letting in). It is uncomfortable, but not awkward. He looks down, coughs, pulls away. Emily's eyelashes kiss, she exhales softly, her eyes blink open. Owen is already moving across the room, which leaves her to push up to her feet and debate whether to move to where he is. Owen washes his hands, and Emily looks down at her own. There is the damp bruised-red paper in one hand and the imagined soot on gunshot residue on the other. It spreads over her silently, the realization that she could have struck any of the dozens of innocents in that park instead of the monster. There is a little tremor to her shoulders as Owen's angry words to Nathan coming rushing back. Again her eyes close and Emily exhales. He's watching her again (it seems we both have things to hide), and Emily looks over to where he's leaning against the counter. She closes the space with careful, quiet footfalls that toe the line between hesitant and purposeful, as if she is uncertain how to navigate this space. There is a wastebin, somewhere, and that soiled paper finds it, then she, too, leans against the counter. Just out of arm's reach. Neither of them can fall into touching one another without it being a thoughtful thing. Perhaps this is important to her, somehow. "I've never fired a gun before," she says. Thoughtful. Calmly (thought inwardly she is anything but calm). "I've never held one before today." Never wanted to, her tone of voice says. Never wanted to need to, that much was left unsaid but implied. "Maybe three or four times in the last four or five years I've touched someone in anger." There's a pause, here. Her voice catches in her throat and Emily rolls a thoughtful sound across her vocal chords. Musing. Resonant. The corner of her mouth twitches into a rueful half-smile. "There hasn't been this much violence in my life since..." Beat. "Prague, and I don't know what to do with it." She looked up and over to him. "It scares me, too. And I don't know where the boundaries should be, or what will or won't get me hurt." Emily's eyes find his, and there's not judgment in them. Instead he finds gratitude. These things are said plainly, almost as if she hadn't just encountered a demon in the park or been in grave danger. That's partly the shock talking, and partly the unusual tenor of their interactions in the moment.

[Owen Page]

Owen watches her as she comes toward him, his expression has closed off again behind that impassive, stoic demeanor, the one he usually carries around with him before the world at large; the one that accepts scrutiny but does not yield beneath the onslaught. He folds his arms easily over his chest; where she's leaning beside him, Emily can see a great deal of the detail in the tattoo inked to his right bicep. One day she might work up the courage, or the curiosity to ask him about it, about its origins, what the oriental flower meant to him, why he'd gotten it put there. Why the talk of guns and Nephandi made him so crazy mad that he snapped and almost punched out a Cultist in his apartment. Right now though, Emily is talking about her first experience holding a [primed, ticking timebomb] loaded gun, about the number of times she's touched someone in anger. She can count them on one hand. He can't. "I know." He says, about it all, about the gratitude in her words, eyes. Owen's chest rises and falls as he stares fixedly at a spot on the floor. "I've been witness to a lot," he admits grudgingly, grimacing a little. "I've done it, before. In the past." He turns to look at her, studying her for a long time, searching for something that he clearly discovers, because he goes on to add, a touch sorrowfully: "Nothing is worse than being the cause of harm."

[Emily Littleton]

She listens, nods silently, and somewhere mid-way through his admissions comes to a decision (epiphany). It is a certainty, like Emily' stubbornness or Owen's stoicism, or the horrible things that go bump in the night and occasionally draw themselves out into the early Spring daylight. "Owen?" She pauses for a moment, just long enough to draw his eyes up to meet hers. Then she adds, in all seriousness and solemnity: "I'm going to hug you." Statement of fact. Statement of intent. It is not a query for permission, or his thoughts on the matter. So long as he does not move away, the slighter, smaller Orphan moves to where he is and wraps her arms around his middle. There is tension there: fear of being rejected, pushed aside; fear, unqualified, from the earlier events; concern and compassion. There is a deep need for companionship and reassurance as well. Emily is hugging him as much because Owen needs a hug (acceptance [reassurance]) as she is because she does.

[Owen Page]

He's still looking at her when she tells him [begs permission] that she's going to hug him. His dark brows shoot upward, and he straightens, turning instinctively to face her head on as if she'd just announced to him that he was her sworn enemy and there would be pistols at dawn so he best ready himself. His hands fall away from his chest to hover at his sides and he looks down on her; a conflicting number of emotions running behind his eyes. "Alright." He says, uncertain, as if what she were about to do was a risk. Then she's wrapping her arms around his middle and he's breathing in once -- sharp -- before settling into the embrace. Emily can feel the tension that runs through him; feel the inherit strength to his body through the thin layer of cotton that he's wearing on his upper torso, she feel the rapid beat of his heart; hear it settle, feel his muscles relax after a few seconds and then hear the rustle as he returns the embrace. One arm wrapping around her shoulders; the other beginning a soothing circuit over her lower back. He smells like cologne and body wash, he feels like comfort. He feels, perhaps, a little like home. "It's alright," he murmurs, for himself or for her is unknown, he keeps rubbing her back gently, his voice a rumble through his chest. "It's alright."

[Emily Littleton]

There is a lot to learn about one another in something as simple as an embrace. Owen is strong, broad shouldered and muscular. Emily is not. She is lithe and lean, but there is no strength to her. He's known, for awhile now, that she is slight but the realization washes over him that she could not break away from him if she'd wanted to. It explains, perhaps, why she ducked and hid that night at the Chantry House. Or why she has been, whenever possible, so keen to keep her distance from unpleasant things, unpleasant people. Emily will not be kept, so she cannot be caught. Yet she has willing lent herself to Owen's embrace : This is a thought that comes slowly, seeps out of the marrow and whispers its way into the mind. It is clear, too, in this shared moment, that there is a deep well within Emily. It is kept hidden, tucked away out of sight for so many of the people in her life. This compassion and willingness to extend herself on another's behalf (beaten out of her [closeted] cloistered). Owen brings it forward, closer to the surface than perhaps any other here has. So there is her head, rested against his shoulder for a moment. And the scent of vanilla and cedar threaded faint through the other cues that cling to her. And that steady (heady) feeling of belonging that is just starting to fall away. She starts to slide her arms away, to pull back from the embrace before it lingers over long, but Emily does not have designs on going too far from him. Far enough to let them each reclaim their sovereign boundaries and, yes, far enough to let the warmth that slides from her sunburnt skin to dissipate without entangling with his. Sometimes there are moments in which words will not do. This is why he is warned, hugged, and released again. (I warned you [I did]). And now there is quiet, again, beginning to stretch out and fill the apartment once more.

[Owen Page]

The last time he'd been this close to a woman there hadn't been a great deal of sharing going on. Or there had been, but it had been entirely sexual, absolutely physical. Owen hadn't wanted to be close to her, and she had just wanted to be with the high school football star. It was all he had wanted for a long time, even before --- even after -- he didn't want to be with a woman and have to wonder at the feel of her body against his, to revel in the reality of her lying beside him, limbs entwined. He did not want to suffer guilt when he crept out afterward, while she slept. Sex was never linked for him to emotion; the two had been separate entities, different beasts. It was different now, of course, and he hadn't been this close to anyone since -- she starts to slide her arms away from him and he drops his hands from around her like they burned him. Slides away a little, enough to give her the space she asks for by pulling away and slides one of his now empty palms into a pocket. Silence stretches out, and he is torn between warring desires -- to protect -- and to possess -- the former is known, the latter is a foreign sensation, and it has his brow furrowing, and his throat clearing to break the moment. "If you want, I mean I don't have much space but you could take the bed, if you don't feel like going home tonight." He glances at the sofa. "I can sleep on the couch."

[Emily Littleton]

Emily did not know how to let someone this close without letting them in as well. She dabbled in unattached physical intimacy, but it always led down the same path. Whether it was a summer fling, or a few weeks on a distant shore, or the recent liaison with the her now-defunct mentor, it didn't seem to matter. That sort of relationship ended in hurt feelings, and someone walking away. Someone always walked away. (Counting the days until I tell you goodbye, too.) She is not thinking about sex, just now. Perhaps because she is happily seeing Chuck, or perhaps because she is just this side of another near-death moment. Most likely, though, because she feels something within Owen that requires the utmost delicacy and patience. Whatever it is that prompted him to stand between her and Nathan, or his temper to flare so significantly -- that was not of Emily. Not protectiveness for a girl (a friend) he's known just barely a month. It runs deeper, close to the quick and intertwined in everything about him. She knows what it is to have a memory twined so tightly about your chest that it feels, at times, like you can hardly breath; like your heart might stop beating at a whim. She cannot be the one to walk away from him next, not Owen whom she feels this kinship for. Emily could not up and leave him if (when) something came up. It wouldn't be fair. "I don't mind the couch," she says, both easily and in a tone that brooked no argument. (I won't put you out of your bed.) "If you don't think it's safe for me to go to my flat, I can stay here. If you want your space..." Her voice trails off, Emily shrugs quietly. There was a futon on the floor in an apartment not far from here that was hers, provided the nightmares stayed on the other side of the Veil where they belonged.

[Owen Page]

He hasn't asked Emily about her former mentor. Does not know anything about the man but that he'd left somewhat abruptly, and that Ashley thought that perhaps Owen was the person to replace him as a point of guidance for the Orphan. He can have no idea of the level of connection -- or intimacy -- between them and has thus far made no comment or decision about her newly founded relationship with the Virtual Adept, Chuck. He has clearly made an early and possibly deadly enemy of the Cultist, Nathan, and by association, perhaps the Dreamspeaker Kaya, too. Something about Owen's demeanor, and his apparent lack of concern about the other man's rage suggests this is not the first Awakened enemy he has made, nor is it likely to prove the last. The fact remained however, that Owen had not seen fit to judge Nathan's traditional ties, or his capacity as far as magic went -- he had only weighed what he had seen thus far -- and it had been enough. "You are shorter than I am," he cants his head, a tiny smile pulling at a corner of his lip; one of the rare Owen smiles, then, making its appearance for the evening. "Your feet might not hang over the end." He then frowns a little, and draws back a step or two, still facing her, still with one hand [safer there] in a pocket. "It's probably safe enough," he confesses, looking at her briefly, then away, out the window where the sky was turning pink and orange against the horizon. "I just thought you might want the company." His eyes tick back. "Unless you wanted to go to Chuck's, or someplace else."

[Emily Littleton]

"Well then, it seems only logical that I should take the couch," she said, offering a slightly warmer, wry-er smile in return. It was a better moment, less colored by fear and anger. Comfortable. When Owen spoke Chuck's name, Emily's gaze flicked away from his face. The smile remained, suspended, but it was detached from whatever was going on in her eyes. It was, perhaps, not the expected response to mentioning her (boy?)friend. "If you're trying to get rid of me, Owen, you should just say so," Emily teased, letting the smirk play on her mouth a bit more readily. It didn't quite touch her eyes though. And though the Orphan's tone and words said she would be fine on her own, one of Emily's arms wrapped across her middle again and the other hand strayed up to touch the locket. (Comfort [belonging] home).

[Owen Page]

Of course he notices. It's the standard reaction of anyone when their [significant or not?] other is mentioned and there's trouble brewing in paradise. The last time Owen had seen them together had ended with Emily in tears at his hands and it wasn't exactly an incident that he cared to repeat -- still, still -- he can feel the pressing curiosity behind his teeth, in his throat, urging him to push forward, to ask about what it is he glimpses in her eyes at the Adept's name entering their conversation. He hesitates, rests on it when she dives on to tease him about getting rid of her. "I'm not," he comments gently, sincerely, a warmth entering his eyes. "I want you to stay." He starts to move around the kitchenette, then, pulling out foodstuff, opening the refrigerator and extracting two bottles of soft drink. There's no alcohol in Owen Page's fridge, and if she casts her mind back, or notes it at some future point -- she'll realize she's never seen him with a drink, ever. He offers her one of the bottles, and clinks it against hers briefly. "Stay, and I'll make you dinner." He winces, a little self-consciously, and rubs at the back of his neck. "Though it'll be simple fare, I'm afraid. Spaghetti Bolognese is about the level of my culinary skill."

[Emily Littleton]

Every time Owen had seen them together there had been something brewing. The impromptu gathering at Grant Park (angry Emily), the night at the pizza place (upset Emily), at Good Will (crying Emily). Either Emily was overly excitable, or Owen had a knack of finding their bad days out to home in on. Kitchens feel like home to Emily, more than any other borrowed space. She will find her way to them when upset, subconsciously, without realizing it. They're the places she slips most comfortably into -- baking with Enid, washing dishes at Chuck's, making tea at Jarod's -- but now Emily keeps herself out of the space so Owen can go about his cooking. Sometimes the best way to help is to stay out of the way (this applies to more than magic and combat). "Sometimes simple fare is the best." "Though you should let me return the favor sometime," Emily suggests, taking up the soda bottle without complaint. She does give it an oddly amused look for a moment (Owen can't know that she doesn't drink soda [pop]), but it's nothing that's commented on and nothing of note. And he said bolognese not with tomato sauce, so Owen was already head and shoulders over most of the Americans she knew. (He also did not say hot dogs [are you still mad about that?] HOT DOGS!!). "If you'd like help, let me know. Otherwise I'm staying out here," she pointed down to the space in which she was standing, outside of the kitchen space, where she would not be in his way.

[Owen Page]

Kitchens feel like home to Emily, and Owen, while as he said, nothing more than a modest cook, clearly knows his way around one. He takes out what he needs and when Emily asks if he wants help, sets up a secondary chopping board and puts garlic, carrot and an assortment of other vegetables on it with instructions for her to chop them as finely as she can. The Chorister then sets about with slicing up the onion before him with adept concentration. The trick, he says to Emily like he's sharing magical tips [foreshadowing] was to leave the end of the vegetable on until the very last moment to avoid watering eyes. He'd learned that, he says with quiet pride, in cooking classes at High School. He never speaks of his education past then, and has certainly not asked yet, what the Orphan herself is studying, or if she is at all and what she thinks of it. He does now, after another minute of two of cutting, and taking minced meat out of his fridge and setting a pot of pasta to simmer on the stove top. He leans back, wiping his fingers off on a dishcloth and asks; "I realized I never asked, what is it your studying? You... are a student, yes?" He was sure enough he'd heard her mention that she had students, and one of them had been hurt not long ago, but the details escaped him. There's a level of openness escaping him again, now that the tension has abated, and it's just the two of them in his own personal space. There's no need to hide behind layers of himself, right now, and the dark haired Initiate is learning to allow himself the reprieve.

[Emily Littleton]

((Sneaky!))

[Emily Littleton]

He sets out a workstation for her and Emily is happy to help. She washes her hand, and finds a kitchen towel to place over her shoulder -- it's a practiced thing, thoughtless and habitual. She takes the measure of the offered knife, chokes up if she needs to or adjusts her technique if necessary. Emily is making easy progress through the stack of vegetables when Owen begins to share his hard-earned secrets with her. There's a subtle shift in the young Orphan, easy enough to miss with how focused he'd been on his own culinary task. Her hand position on the knife shifts, and she holds it less efficiently. It's the hand position of a novie (Apprentice). Emily makes a study of following the directions he's given her, very clearly, on the next thing she attacks. Emily doesn't say a thing. Owen is bright enough to suspect anyway. "I'm a third year at Northwestern," she says, reminding herself not to hurry through dicing up the carrot. Or to dice it in her usual perfectionistic cubes. Roughly even would be good enough (it's a bolognese Emily [even cooking times! Augh!]), however her perfectionistic nature deplored it. "I'm studying electrical engineering and computer science," she added, which was a mouthful of technical fields that didn't mean much outside of her field. "I'm trying to get into the graduate program, so I can start concurrent with next year," she offered, which is something she hadn't told many people. Emily offered him a smile. "It's the first real school I've been to, not just tutors and Embassy class rooms." There's sharing, here, too. Emily had not gone to school the way most people do.

[Owen Page]

"Oh," he says as she tells him what she's studying, and there's a subtle shift in his stance, a sort of straightening that suggests he's a little intimidated academically by her, now. If he'd noted her attempt to dumb down her skills in the kitchen, he is gentlemanly enough not to draw light to it; but rather falls silent for the length of time it takes to get the onion and garlic frying with the chili peppers, to stir in the mince and carrot and top it with a sauce, with fresh tomatoes. Owen's hands were surprisingly deft in the kitchen, their size did not get in the way of finely slicing anything, and as Emily already knew, they could be gentle when the moment called for it against a chin, or at her back. But they also, as she'd almost borne witness to as well, could wreck havoc in a show of violence, when he was pressed. At some point, the thought clears in his head that that must be why she gets along with Chuck so well, the computer science, the Virtual Adept. He slides a side-long glance at her while she's diverted, considering, wondering why she had not followed in her paramours footsteps into that tradition -- no matter how distant it seemed from his own, from here and now in this small kitchen that smelled like spices, like frying onion and the faint tang of tomato paste. "I never did get past High School," he confesses, it's said easier than he expected the truth to be, and realizes belatedly that another of his walls has crumbled around her that had once held so well against any and all attempts to surmount it. It rings alarm bells, deep within, but he's too full of a [borrowed, dangerous] sense of contentment at present to attend to it. "I meant to go to college, my parents wanted it but then --," he stops, and reaches for his drink, abruptly frowning. "It didn't work out."

[Emily Littleton]

Oh, Owen. The things that passed between them unasked and unaswered could fill volumes. There was a reason, clear and present, that Emily did not feel drawn to the Virtual Adepts -- however shiny their toys, however elegant their code. There was a reason, too, that unmentored and untrained her resonance trended toward Reverence. Those reasons were inexorably tied to the appreciation of simple tasks, of onion frying and garlic warming and the tang of tomato paste. They were tied, too, to the companionable way they found solace in one another. To the stories she drew out of him, without ever asking, and the listening (Witness) she offered without him needing to name it. She knew that he could be gentle, could wreak violence, and she took these both in stride. He had seen her, now, as lost, as fragile, as warm and now heard from Nathan that she could hold her own as well. The girl who wore Home as a bauble around her neck wiped her hands clean on the kitchen towel, folded it neatly in quarters and set it beside the sink. She watched him with those blue-grey eyes and did nothing to disturb the borrowed peace (contentment). "You could always go back later," she offered, lightly. There was no implied should or shouldn't to it. "If you want to, that is." Again, no judgment. Emily did not imply that her chosen course (or the course chosen for her) was inherently better or worse than his. "Or Trade School," she added, then paused. Emily's expression darkened for a moment, thoughtful (confused). "Actually... I don't remember if they have that in the States." Embarrassment flitted across her features, briefly.

[Owen Page]

She's made him laugh before, but it was a brief thing, there and gone like so many of his expressions, his reactions to the things that happen in his [new] life. She does it again now, he smiles, a crooked thing and drops his eyes from her face to study the blue and white tiles beneath their feet before chuckling, more the idea of what a laugh ought to be than the actuality of it. "No," he admits, and he doesn't sound upset, but perhaps a touch regretful of all that he might have had, or been, now being lost forever for him. "It's not a possibility, the person that wanted those things isn't around anymore," he shrugs, lightly and rests his bottle of soft drink against his abdomen, leaning against the counter, his attention leaving her only so often as it took for him to check on the simmering sauce. "When I was younger, I don't know," he begins, then stalls, lost for a minute beneath the weight of too many thoughts, too many things he wished he could [or possessed the courage] to say to her. "I was a pretty confused kid, I did a lot of stupid stuff because I thought it made me different, made me an individual," his mouth twists, expression darkening in self disgust. "I was an idiot for a long time." And now, seems unspoken, I'm not -- but he doesn't say why, or what changed him.

[Emily Littleton]

"People change," she observes. It's an agreement, and also a challenge. Owen says something is not a possibility and she pushes back, because it's a non-zero probability. But she leaves that much there. For now. It may yet be revisiting, ideologically (of course [theoretically, of course]) at a later time. When they know each other better. For now, it's let go. I was an idiot for a long time, he says. "So you're not, now?" she asks, raising an eyebrow and grinning broadly. It's a jest, clearly, another attempt to make him smile. Or perhaps to eek another reaction out of him altogether. It is been a tense (and terrible) afternoon, and the laughter is helping them both. It's bringing the warmth back to her eyes and slowly eroding the tension she carries in her frame. The playfulness fades, though, and Emily is serious for a moment. She looks down at her hands, then up at him. "I'm hearing you say you have a history," she offers, mirroring what he's offered up so far. "I can understand that," she says. (I can appreciate it). "I want you to know that this is what's important to me, though. Who you choose to be now, with me. I wasn't there for whatever it was you did, or whatever it was that made you stop, but I'm here now." She catches a little breath and there's a lighter expression to her features now. "God knows I've made my share of mistakes--though they'll be different, I'm sure. I'm trying to make a new start of things, now. I can understand it if you're doing the same." Serious moments were difficult, at times, when they cut to close to the quick. Emily picked up her drink, momentarily forgetting that it was carbonated sugar water. She took a sip and then tried to cover the face it provoked when her teeth ached from the sugar and fizz. That got set back on the counter immediately.

[Owen Page]

There's a certain give and take to their discussions, an equality of listening terms. Neither Owen nor Emily interrupt the other as they formulate what it is they're trying [and oftentimes failing and oftentimes not speaking aloud at all] to tell the other; they both interpret body language, facial expressions [or in Owen's case, the lack there of] very well. They are, in many respects, well matched. For now, there's no real hierarchy at play here. Owen is not trying to cow Emily into knowing her place as the Apprentice to his Initiate. He isn't trying to seduce her, or frighten her, but merely to understand her, much the same as she was attempting to delve beneath Owen's thick skin and probe gently, and cautiously at what lay beneath his many, many wounds. His sometimes tortured, and suffering gaze. So you're not, now, she jests back at him and the frown leaves his lips, is replaced with that gentler, kinder half-smile and he replies, dead-pan: "I still have my moments," with a side-long glance at the space where he'd reamed out the Cultist earlier. Her next words have him watching her, half-captivated, half-tentative, when she's done he's taken a step closer to her without even really considering the ramifications of invading her personal space. He's just looking down at her with that same thoughtful, intent gaze as he's given her on many occasions thus far, but while he gazes at her, he never once physically sets a finger on her person, thereby keeping the words carefully anesthetized; safe. "I am making a new start, but there are parts of my past, who I was that I'll never be able to let go of," a beat, he's very close to her now. "No matter what happens in the here," he lowers his eyes. "Or now." Silence builds, there's tension there somewhere entwined with it too, but a different sort than earlier; not so much dangerous, or threatening, as intimate. Scary in its own way. The timer on the stove begins to sound; and Owen gratefully swings away to tend to their food. [Emily Littleton] He's near, again. Close enough to touch, close enough to feel that nearly magnetic pull between two bodies : it's an attraction, an undeniable pull, an uneasy and unstable thing. Owen is, in his own way, intimidating. Not only becuase of his broad shoulders and heavy mantel of restraint, but also because of the things that lie deeper, unspoken and unwitnessed, and the ways in which they seep into the space between them. Emily is holding her breath again, stock still and silent. It is not the first time she has been this close to someone this intense, and yet it is a very different feeling. She's frightened (intrigued [moth to the flame]) but does not pull away. It takes more effort than she expects to lift her hand, about to touch him -- when the timer goes off, and he turns away. Her fingers curl inward and Emily's hand drops back to her side as she closes her eyes for a moment. Resettles. That same hand smooths an imagined line in her skirt. The moment passes. Emily wandered over to the window, looked out and down to the street level thoughtfully. In the living area, where she'd left her messenger bag, her mobile rings. Once. Twice. Only then does the Orphan look over her shoulder to frown slightly at the intrusion. She makes no move to answer it until it's stopped sounding off. (Clearly whoever called can leave a message.) [Owen Page] He doesn't exactly have a dining table. Or a kitchen table, to be honest. But there's a sturdy wooden one sitting in the midst of the open plan living space, the one previously stacked so high with newspapers and the like. Owen will be sitting at it tomorrow at some point, reading the Chicago Tribune; he'll scan the headlines, see the article about the antics in Grant Park and throw the paper aside, grimacing -- disgusted. But that's neither here or now, right now he's serving two generous helpings of spaghetti out and topping each with spoonfuls of sauce; right now he's turning after the faint electronic chirping of Emily's phone has sounded and been ignored [for now] and pretending as if there hadn't been any kind of tense moment between them a moment ago. "Bon appetit," he says, approaching with two plates and cutlery in hand. He sets the plates down on his cluttered desk and sets about clearing space for the both of them; stacking newspapers in a corner and pulling out a chair for her with a tiny smile. [Emily Littleton] There's something about Owen's cluttered table that reminds Emily of simpler times. Newspapers in foreign languages cluttering the coffee table in an hotel room they treated like an apartment for a month and a half; years before she'd learned to glean everything she needed from the ubiquitous world-wide-web; folded gazettes tucked under the arms of businessmen as they hurried through the Fussgaengerzone on their way to work. Perhaps Owen's life is less cluttered than hers, simply because his table is moreso. Also, he has a table. She doesn't. (Point of order? You have no furniture, Emily...). With his hands full, it follows that Emily ought find their drinks and some napkins. She helps to finish setting the table and smiles, softly, at the way he holds the chair out for her. "Grazi," she replies, in an imperfect accent. The phone is, for now, forgotten. It is likely better this way. Except, of course, that it rings again and this time draws an almost baleful look from the Orphan from across the room. Blissfully, it rings through to voicemail faster this time (still ignored [disrupting dinner]). "I'm sorry," she says, apologizing for the interruption. Emily is about to continue, explaining, but then she recalls what brought her here. Her gaze falls to the table for a moment. Perhaps it is forgiveable that she did not think to silence her cell phone, whilst trying to find sanctuary and fleeing a Nephandic Umbral whatsit with her (least) favorite trouble-making mage in tow. This shifts, then, and becomes: "For just showing up like this. For bringing Nathan with me." This much is genuine; she is sorry. She is also still confused and frightened, but that is dampened now. It's less apparent in her posture and less etched into her features. The laughter, the company, the simple things like newspapers and the smell of bolognese in his small kitchenette -- they've helped immensely. (Sanctuary. [Safe haven.]) "I know it's an intrusion. Maybe ... tell me what you'd prefer, and next time I'll handle things better?" [Owen Page] He's taken a seat across from her and is working his fork through the food before him; twirling the pasta around it and frowning down at the task at hand; but more-so at her words. It's the second or third time she's apologized for coming to him, for turning up on her doorstep, and the Initiate with her sets his fork down and leans over, "Hey," he begins, stilling her motions with the tips of his fingers on her wrist; dark eyes scanning her face. "You don't have to be sorry for coming to me, Emily." He says her name quietly, with the reverence applicable to any named thing. He doesn't say names simply, or idly. There's always cause for it with Owen. "That was the smart move, you're in a situation you don't know how to handle, you go to safe ground, find the nearest experienced Mage, get council." He taps her wrist absently, and smiles, a touch grimmer, leaning back toward his own plate. That's about the point her phone rings again -- insistent on being addressed -- the Chorister's eyes flit toward it, he nods. "You can answer it, if you want. Two calls, maybe it's important. I can wait." He notes, and reaches for his soft drink, taking a mouthful and swallowing; the muscles working in his throat. [Emily Littleton] Something about the measured way in which Owen uses physical contact is highly effective with Emily. His hand resting lightly on her arm, before he interposed himself between her and Nathan earlier; this careful play of his fingertips at her wrist. It seems purposeful and therefore important in the same way that his measured words each carry more weight than those of someone who prattles on incessantly. Her lips purse, gently, and Emily stills. When he gives her leave to answer her phone her jaw tightens somewhat, but she nods and rises from her seat. "You're probably right," she offers, but in a tone that implies she's not quite so sure about that. Emily's phone rings for a multitude of reasons, most of which are not worthy of disrupting dinner with a friend. There's another I'm sorry on the tip of her tongue, but it's swallowed down before she even starts it. She sets her napkin down, neatly folded into precise quarters, and goes to fish her cellphone out of her messenger bag. Usually this device is in a very particular place. Given the earlier events, it has shifted and requires slightly more effort to find. This compounds the frustration she has with the intrusion on dinner time (Emily Littleton, have you no table manners?), and shapes the vaguely impatient expression she wears as she thumbs through the voicemail menu. You have two new messages. Message One, from an unknown caller... Emily's shoulders tense. Her fingertips tap against the back of the cellphone pressed to her ear. Her back is to Owen, but the shift in her posture is as telling as any expression might be. Tense. Rigid. Emily drags the fingers of her free hand through her hair, shakes them free when they catch on wayward tangles. Message Two, from an unknown caller... Not long after she thumbs a key to advance to the second message, Emily's free hand finds itself planted loosely on her hip. She taps her foot. Begins to pace. Now he can glimpse her expression in passing. It is a tight and unsettled thing. (A bruise [wound] poked at too soon, unhealed). Emily pulls the phone away from her ear, stares at it intently for a moment and then presses a couple keys. She's listening to the messages again, and her reaction is not any better the second time around. There is a little sound, something between a huh and a hmph before she thumbs another couple keys... Message One will be saved in the archive for seven days. Message Two will be saved in the archive for -- beep. ... and hangs up. Her feet stop moving, bringing the Orphan to a halt in her tightly circuitous pacing. For a moment she cannot decide whether to throw her phone at something, or politely put it back into her bag. Ultimately the latter wins out, but not before she has turned it to silent. [Owen Page] She can feel his eyes on her. It's not pressure [though it is of a sort] that makes you feel utterly uncomfortable, but it does give the suggestion that scrutiny is underway on the manner that Emily stands, on her fingers pushing through her hair; the hand on her hip, the tapping foot; the rigid spine. Owen is observing her without any sort of attempt to disguise that he is. Leaning back against his seat, bottle of Coke idle in one hand; midnight blue gaze steady on her until she presses some buttons; stares down at the tiny device in her palm as if weighing up the options for what to do with it. He knows better than that, though. She's absorbing whatever it was that she'd heard -- as he'd suggested -- could be important -- was, as it appeared. "Alright?" He asks of her after a few seconds, and sits forward, picking up his fork where he'd left it and renewing his attempts to make headway through the pasta and sauce. She knows he sees pretty much everything -- or makes it seem like he does, anyway -- so she must be expecting the question to emerge, and she doesn't have to wait long. The Singer's expression is carefully modulated as he asks: "You seem a little rattled." [Emily Littleton] Owen sees (nearly) everything, including the way Emily stumbles (tips her hands) and then fights to recapture herself. As he returns to dinner, she is already composing (herself) a reply that is more appropriate (pleasing [political]), creating distance (safety). There's a small smile, but no substance behind it. "It can wait," she says, unequivocally but not entirely calmly. "At least until after dinner," she small smile softens, but fails to touch her eyes. Emily slides back into her seat at the table, is careful about the way she sets her napkin back into her lap, is mindful of the way she picks up her utensils (though not mindful enough [her fork is in her left hand]). Emily delicately twines her first bite of pasta onto the tines, leaving the question to linger between them a little longer. [Owen Page] It can wait, she says and Owen listens to the not quite calm quaver resonant in her voice before he answers with a briefly contained crooked smile and an, "Okay," before they resume their meal. It's a silent affair, for the most part. Owen Page was not a talkative man to begin with and he was used to eating meals by himself. Which is not to say he ignores his guest but that rather he does not force upon Emily any requirements in terms of polite dinner chit chat. There are no idle remarks on the weather, politics, the state of the Chantry, any of that. It's peaceable, he lets her eat and settle her already frazzled nerves from the earlier incident and stew over whatever it is she's holding back from telling him but thinking about. Because he's aware there's something, but for all the knowledge he possesses about what that something is, it could simply be a voice mail from Chuck that's upset her, or made her briefly irritated. When they're done, Owen clears the plates [it's an insistence if she tries to help him] and rinses them in the sink before coming back to lower his lean frame into a chair; he engulfs it, utterly, and simply looks at Emily. Alright, his stoic regard tells her, hit me with it. [Emily Littleton] From there on out, it is a quiet dinner. Neither of them feel the need to fill every moment with words and while Owen is better at silence, of late, Emily is fairly proficient in its ways as well. In that peaceable quiet, her mood does not deteriorate under the weight of further contemplation. Deep thought, for Emily, sometimes manifests with a blank and somewhat distant look; this is the case tonight. When he settles across from her and continues the prolonged silence, Emily folds her hands neatly on the table before and waits. He doesn't ask and so, for an extended moment, it seems she will not answer. This is no new dance for either of them. She breaks the purposeful quiet by taking a sip of her soda, and setting it back down on the table. Adjusts it, slightly, so it occupies precisely the space it had before. So that the label is turned just the way it had been. (This is stalling [it is effective] It will not work with him.) There is a flicker of hesitation, now, in her features (moving out of resistance [toward acquiescence]). A little later her lips part, and then finally Emily speaks. "What are the Deadlands?" she asks. It is a leading question. It is also a true curiousity. [Owen Page] What are the Deadlands. She can see the flicker of surprise, and is that unease [?] pass through the Chorister's eyes at the question; he leans forward, the chair creaking softly with the movement and frames his hands between his knees, elbows resting loosely on his thighs. He clasps them together in a motion reminiscent of a man at prayer before he answers her, breathing out slowly. "There are many realities beyond this one that we're aware of," Owen intones softly, honestly. "One which the Euthanatos are particularly attuned with is that of the Deadlands. It's a place beyond Death, in what some call the Underworld." The solemnity with which he says this suggests he has his own views on all of these places; this subject. Flashes of Hell and damnation, of preached sermons from the pulpit by a Bible waving Priest among them. "The Dreamspeakers, with the degree to which they're attuned to the spiritual side of things, are also pretty familiar with it." A beat, Owen's brow furrows. "It's not a place you want to set foot in lightly." He draws back, sitting back. "I never have." [Emily Littleton] Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate. It is fitting, perhaps, that this conversation occurs so close to Good Friday; then day upon which Dante began his descent into the infamous Inferno. That they are discussing the Underworld (the Afterworld [the land beyond the river Styx]) in this time of contemplation on the meaning of being Risen, reborn. Emily has her own views on what this place might be, and they are shaped and colored by countless influences within and beyond the Church. She draws a small breath, and all levity (wit [wryness]) has drained from her voice. Rather than the biting comment about the Cultist that might have come before, she offers: "Nathan and Kaya are planning to go there," this is said plainly, without bile but undercut now with concern. "To kill the Nephandus from the park." Here she pauses, swallows a bit, and looks to Owen for his reaction. "He asked me to go with them." [Owen Page] It's hard to deduce exactly what Emily was expecting from the typically taciturn, brooding Chorister with this revelation. An eruption of anger, as earlier? A string of curses and pacing around his small apartment? The physical determent of her accepting of such a mission via the means of an iron-clad grip closing around her delicate wrists? There's no such display forthcoming from Owen -- -- who does in fact look as if he's utterly frozen by the words themselves, as if he's having a sincere amount of trouble processing what she's just said to him -- A muscle leaps in his jaw, and he drops his head forward, scrubs his palms over his cheeks with a huff of breath hissing beneath the motion. "Then he's an even bigger fool than I first thought," he says simply, his voice low, and haggard with some unvoiced irritation; some spark of anger is harboring itself in the inflections of his voice. "Whatever this thing wants, it's because of something Kaya has done, or enacted. If she wants to drag Nathan out there to fix it, then that's their prerogative." Owen rises; looking down at Emily with that unfathomable expression of his. "The choice remains with you, Emily. I can't force you not to go, if that's what you want. I'm not gonna talk you out of it." [Emily Littleton] It is enough. Whatever she was expecting (nothing) or looking for, Owen's reaction is enough. Emily watches him, with her head canted slightly to one side and that same somewhat distantly perturbed look to her features. She waits, for his reaction to play itself out, and waits further yet before responding. "Owen..." Softly. Emily has spoken his name before, but this time it comes like a gentle hand on his shoulder. She is not entirely calm, but her voice is staid and sure. It requests, politely, his attention but does not command or cajole. "I am going home, to see the precious few souls I consider family." There is an ache, as always, when she speaks the word home, but this time it is twined with something lighter (hope). "No fool's errand will dissuade me from that." There's a break, and a sadness in her features that doesn't quite lift. "Though I do wish I could do something to turn back the nightmares or stop these things from happening. It's not just you, or me, or Kaya and Nathan. There were countless families in the park today, parents with their children, people with even less of an idea about the Awakened world than I have -- what happens to them if no one steps forward, or if those who go cannot do enough?" [Owen Page] Owen. He'd been half turning when she speaks his name, his piece spoken; his shielded warning meted out to her. He turns back, his profile framed by the soft light; the proud slope of his nose, his regal [oft furrowed] brow, his lips that could frown as readily as laugh, when the moment struck him; the shape of his chest beneath the white wifebeater he wears. The lean hips, the strong legs. Those capable [deadly] hands of his. She's going home, she says, and he smiles, briefly, it lingers in his gaze, and softens over her face; her mouth. A hand reaches out, and slides beneath the weight of her hair to cup her chin, the side of her jaw. It's a simple thing, just a display of his satisfaction with her answer; his hope for her; his gratitude for being who and what she was. It was for all of that and also to reassure in conjunction with his words to her. what happens to them? what if they fail? "Then we'd deal with it." He says, simply. Succinct in his belief. [Emily Littleton] "Okay." Midnight blue to deep and storm-flecked, Emily eyes do not break away from his when he cups her chin or speaks with such clarity. She borrows on it, lets it bolster them both. Okay, she says, but it is the beginning of something more. (I believe you [I trust you]). Her hand rises to cover his, her fingerprints sliding over the back of his knuckles with great care and tenderness. Before either look away, she says to him with the same clarity and concinnity: "I have no need to rush headlong into martyrdom." These are words (that she believes) he needs to hear, to believe as surely as she knows any other truth. "I have seen death's doorstep and have no desire to darken it again until He calls me home." Which is why she hid, that night at the Chantry house. It's why she kept her distance from the Marauder on the mile, and ran as soon as she could. It's why she came to Owen, now, for sanctuary and sage counsel. Don't worry about me, her eyes and her voice imply. (At least not in this way.) [Emily Littleton] ((Edit: ... to believe as surely as *he knows any other truth. ...)) [Owen Page] I have no need to rush headlong into martyrdom, she tells him, with his fingers lightly resting on her jaw; she can feel the strength of him as surely through this as she could when she'd hugged him, earlier. It's a deep, rooted strength that has been calling to her for some time since they first met. "Good," he says with a hint of wry humor buried in his words, letting go of her jaw after a beat, her fingers sliding over the back of his knuckles. She can feel how his skin reacts to her touch. "It's overrated." He gently pulls out of her reach then, and shuffles over to where his bed; and for lack of a better word for it, bedroom is. There's a small closet in one corner, concealed from easy view by the privacy screen he's drawn across it to give it the semblance of an actual room. He returns with a pile of blankets, topped with a pillow drawn off his bed. He sets them on the sofa, gesturing. "They're clean," he notes, with amusing pride. "The pillow is one of mine, but I only sleep with the one, so." [Emily Littleton] Owen moves away and Emily stands. She carefully picks up the chair she's been sitting in and scoots it soundless under the table. The last few things from her place are cleared; the remainder of the soda is poured out and the bottle rinsed clean for recycling. These are small, simple things, things she can do whilst parsing the afternoon and evening. When Owen re-enters the larger space, Emily is quiet and pensive and set to whatever small acts of tidying up she can do without intruding overmuch. (Idle hands... [idle mind] earn your keep). "Cheers." Emily crosses to the sofa, to make up her borrowed bed for the evening if it seems that Owen's ready to retire, or maybe to read quietly for awhile. (To think, under the quiet guise of reading.) Though he's offered a warmer smile, she is still inwardly pensive. It will take time to sort through what happened in the park, and more time yet to sort through what has transpired between them in his home. Longer yet to find the balance between his deeply rooted strength and her tetherless existance (world wandered [no home town]). Several thoughts cross Emily's mind, threatening to erupt into sentences, but she turns them each away. It is quiet now, once more. Perhaps finally quiet, without expectation or anticipation of more questions, any new disturbances. The sort of quiet that can grow into peace if left unperturbed for long enough.