Autumn stillness

[Emily Littleton] It was well into late Autumn, and only a few stubborn leaves still cling to wind-whipped branches. The rest littered the forest floor in varying stages of dead, dry, and decaying. The air was brisk, cold enough to pink her cheeks and nose but warm enough to leave outdoor activities tenable for awhile longer. The year had not year fallen completely into shadow.

Emily needed to get out of the city. She needed to get away from everything routine and jog her brain out of its infinite loop of questioning, rationalizing, rebuttals, and rehashing. She ditched her afternoon class, left no note in the lab, and drove out to the woods. Emily picked a trail at random and just started walking.

The pathways were dark auburn, worn down by walkers and mostly bereft of fallen leaves. Here a fallen tree hemmed in one edge and there the dense carpet of leaves simply gave way to a clear cut path. In some places she had to step over an encumbrance, or aroung a outcropped rock. Mostly, though, she just walked. The woods were relatively empty, and the sound of her footfalls rang loudly in her ears. The wind tousled and teased her hair.

The path wound further into the woods, finding a natural break at a plateau that overlooked the water. Emily pulled up a place on a fallen tree trunk, rested her elbows on her knees, and waited. Not for anyone, perse, or any particular revelation. She waited for the quiet life to catch up with her, find her here, and chase away the nonsense of the past week, the holiday weekend, and a million lesser things that were slowly driving her mad.

[K. R. Jakes] Every path has two directions. Forward and backward, beginning and end. They may as well be interchangeable. The trail that Emily Littleton decided to take today leads her over bank and over brier, past cold black leaf-rot and the last russet of Autumn's spilling blood. The trail that Kage R. Jakes decided to take today leads her over black water, under cold ash and regal elm, until at last and not long after Emily has settled herself on a fallen (king) tree, Kage's footsteps echo too. Let it begin with symmetry, then: each path has two directions. Those directions are back-to-back and mouth-to-mouth. They kiss, and they turn away from one another, at the very same time.

This little point with a view of the water is a good number of miles down the trail. The two women are probably parked near each other in the lot, next to the closed Nature Center, and they may very well be the only people in the woods tonight. And maybe there is no such thing as wolves. Solitude, always precious to Kage, is what she drove out to Tekakwitha hoping for. Solitude, and a place to Work her craft without her guest to worry about, without the crush of people. A place where the cold would seep into her bones, where the water was thick on the surface like a mirror.

Where she wasn't surrounded by heat. No work to be done. Less stress, no worry, less trouble, no toil. Well, maybe toil. He would appear if he wanted to appear. He always did, and she couldn't ask him not to; she'd tried that before. But she -- oh, she wanted to collect herself.

A similarity, then. When Kage notices Emily, she pauses. Then approaches slowly, choosing whether or not she'd speak.

[Emily Littleton] Kage need not decide whether to speak or not. The choice has been made. Her voice, tonight, is the sound of footfalls on a forest path. The crunch of dessicated leaves, the sound of gravel giving way, the little tells of human movement in a place overwrought with silence.

Emily stirs, pushes up (slightly) from her pensive position to stretch a little, and then looks over her shoulder toward the other. The girl's features are pleasant, relaxed from thought and slow to warm into a welcoming smile. Slow because it is colder here than in the city, and languid thoughts move like molasses. Slow because the tangled cobwebbed thoughts she mused took time to brush aside, roll up for further contemplation.

In the late afternoon or early evening light, Emily's eyes are merely dark. Their hue is lost to the lack of contrast. Her hair is likewise dark, deeply brown and loosely tied at the nape of her neck. She has mastered the art of layering, and those layers come in suitably appropriate autumnal hues--creams, browns, russets, and a pair of blue jeans to boot.

"Hey..." Emily said. The word curled oddly across the space, nestled in Kage's ear with an unfamiliar shape. The girl's eyes were warm with welcome. Her hands were still clasped near her lap.

"Plenty of room, if you'd like to sit..." she gestured, belatedly, at the remained of the fallen log. Words piled oddly ontop of other words, but Emily's accent remained strange, muddled, and difficult to place.

[K. R. Jakes] "Thank you," Kage says, and her voice is even in pitch but low.

Emily looks innocuous enough and Kage's mouth twitches upward in an (echo) answer. When Kage smiles, it touches her eyes. They're likewise dark in the uncertain fugue of rainwashed sky, and the red of her hair is darkened too, but still bright; still vivid enough to hurt the teeth. "Hi." In the moment's pause between when she says hi and when she claims her own side of the tree, near Emily, but not too near - they are, after all, perfect strangers, Kage sweeps the lonely (sacred) windswept space with a cool and assessing glance. The echo of her smile is still in the righthand corner of her mouth, much like Mrs. Darling's kiss.

"I didn't think anybody else would be up here," she says, after she's settled. "It's not the time for it." The tree is solid, and does not bow, and Kage scoots up so that she can rest her left foot against a branch that thrusts from the trunk and into the earth. Blackened, that. Maybe. Maybe lightning-struck, this tree, not just blighted. Maybe. "I'm Kage," she says, and her bag bumps against the calf of her other foot. And Emily may, or may not, feel the slightest tickle -- something she may, or may not, be beginning to associate with how she sees [mad? No. Think of Jarod] the world.

[Emily Littleton] It is a restful place, overlooking the glassy calm of the water which reflected the deepening colors of the late afternoon sky. Sunlight streamed between the barren trees, casting a network of long slender shadows across everything that was not gilded with amber light. It is calm here, and the cold of near-winter seeps up through the ground, slowly permeating everything. The fallen king. The two visitors, whose breath tickles the still air, stirs old sounds, disturbs sleeping thoughts.

There is a preternatural calm around the younger woman, at odds with her age and her place in life. It resonates deeply with belonging, with acceptance. It speaks to Home. This resonance clings to her, rides along her skin and envelopes her without being of her. She wears it like a talisman, like a trinket strung from the delicate silver chain that Kage can just now notice encircling her neck.

"Emily," she offers, in that same wrong-but-right accent. To Kage, and those like her with opened eyes and carefully honed senses, there is a brightness to the other girl. Twined with the very sense of her, the tangible and ethereal threads of what made her real, this quintessential something burned brightly against the autumn background. It was pure, unattuned to any particular flavor or persuasion.

In response to that faintest tickle, Emily shifted a bit. Rolled her shoulders lazily. Resettled her feet. She did not yet possess words to name the sense of sameness she felt with Kage. For what it was worth, she wasn't quite assured of the sameness itself.

"Mmmm, me either," she responded to Kage's observation. "Though sometimes it's nice to have a little... room to breathe." Emily's smile twisted slight, still warm but slightly wry. It then gave way to a brighter expression. There was kinship in the coincidence that brought them both out this far (that was a sameness she could accept). "What brings you out this far?"

[K. R. Jakes] There are unscrupulous people out there.

These people, would they perceive what Emily had on a silver chain around her throat, would likely try to buy that trinket from her; say it was a bauble, nothing. Undervalue it. Or would she not sell -- they might try and take it. There are unscrupulous people out there, but fortunately for Emily, Kage is not really unscrupulous. Not unless the chips are down. And here, out in Tekakwitha, by the dark water: Kage refuses to accept that they might even be at a betting table. She demands some tranquility, some mystery without restlessness. Kage hears a dark chuckle in her ear, familiar and as tangible as a stone -- to her. Emily will hear nothing, and when Kage turns her head, just as the wind kicks up into a quick waltz, not even Kage will see (want/terror) Him lurking in the trees. The rattle of branches sweeps away the possibility, patter of oracles that Kage cannot quite hear.

This is the thing about Kage. Kage is very assured woman. She has poise, and it does not come with effort. She is even demure, and that does not come with effort, either. She is not dressed entirely appropriately for a hike, in a long-skirted dress and boots, stockings underneath, a collared sweater, over that a larger still sweater: nappy moss greens, grays, mellow colors, smoke colors.

And Kage is also, more often than not, cautious and solitary. Witness now: no, SO, wellp, looks like you're magic too, huh? Or are you new and shining? No, none of that. Just, feelingly: "I know exactly what you mean. That's why I walked the trail," and Kage pats the wood of the trunk, strokes her palm along its rougher surface. "To meet here with the king and his court. It's been an interesting week, in the sense of the Chinese saying." There, a wry smile. "From what you just said, I'm going to assume your answer would be the same. Unless you want to correct me."

[Emily Littleton] Emily's eyes widened slightly in curiosity (Interesting you say...) and confirmation (Interesting indeed...). She chuckled, and it was a low, resonant, almost regretful sound that rolled against the back of her teeth and spilled out into the deepening dusk.

"Indeed," she replied, and the word was heavy with unnamed intimations. They are cut of similar cloth, Emily and Kage. The younger is collected, moreso than she ought to be at the age of college crushes and midterm meltdowns. There is (usually) a sense of confidence to her that often develops later in life. She has lived (too) many places, lost (too) many friends, given up too much to circumstance to be overly bothered by fitting in or measuring up to anyone else's standards. What Kage sees is what she gets, and perhaps that is refreshing in this oh so interesting times.

"You want to talk about it?" she offers. A stranger holding out the olive branch. A tete-a-tete by the waterside, intrinsically bound to secrecy by the quiet of the woods. The wind picks up, and somewhere a gathering of birds rustles, takes to wing, settles again. Emily breathes deeply, draws the quiet into her very center, expells the worries and misgivings of other days. She is renewed.

"Or is it all too interesting to recount?" A possibility, offered plainly. An out. Emily looks over to Kage, quirks and eyebrow, offers a smile.

[K. R. Jakes] Does she want to talk about it.

The question is given due consideration, as is the young(er) woman on the trunk next to her. The woman who wears Home around her neck on a silver chain. The woman who is resonant, but without distinction; without flavor. Yet. Her glance grows cool and distant, occluded with thoughts. Dreaming Kage. She is thinking about Thanksgiving, about the cemetery after she dropped Julian off. About ...

"Actually, yes. Very likely to both questions." Kage's mouth quirks again, and it's still wry, this smile. "But you're only supposed to get in trouble when you step off the path and talk to strangers, right? The king and his court," she thumps the tree, lightly. Sound, echo. "They're on the path. Technically." A brief pause, beeswing fine. Then: "I learned that an old boss of mine died, and I don't think," brief hesitation, "he's at rest. We weren't great friends, but it wears on me. And there's this liar (lawyer? Mrrwhatdidshesay?). An unexpected houseguest."

Kage makes an unnecessary gesture in the air. "They're all ... Well, a step back. What about you?"

And she's not just asking to redirect the flow of conversation away from her interesting week. Not just asking, mind.

[Emily Littleton] Emily listened without reacting overmuch. She was tired, but that weariness was easily converted to stillness. She was through, for now, with being overly excitable. It would take time before she could work herself up into that sort of tizzy again. So Kage got her at a lull, a low point, where the tide could wash over her without pulling her out to sea.

"I met a lawyer recently..." she chimed in gently, taking a light tanget to Kage's tale. Responding without replying directly. No judgement. No need to pry deeper.

And then Kage turned things around, volleyed the conversation back to Emily, and it was Emily's turn to tell without telling, to share without giving up too much at all, and to make it seem effortless and without evasion.

"I think the trouble started with the rockstar at the soup kitchen," she proffered, shaking her head a bit, saying (almost) plainly what she meant. "That was never meant to end well," she added.

[K. R. Jakes] This is a rare day for Kage. The kind of day that is beginning to seem rare. A well-rested day, a day that doesn't begin in a cold sweat. A day that doesn't start with blood in her mouth, and eyes so wide they hurt. Kage likes these days, and for all she is seeking tranquility here, is even managing tranquility [a note of darkness, when she mentioned Wellington; a lacery of ash], she is feeling whole and well.

The redhead's mouth curves up, a generous sort've smile that does, again, touch her dark eyes. Both of her eyebrows rise. "I didn't think anything ever started with a rockstar at a soupkitchen. All, lo! I am here. Bask. Might I hold this spoon? Ca-click, photo-op done. A couple of hands shaken, and away it goes."

[Emily Littleton] She smirked, and the dark humor touched her eyes and made them dance in the dying light. "More 'I am here!' followed by a lesser mobbing, some running in and out of doorways, an argument, and then late evening tea. But yes, you quite have it."

Emily knew she'd unfairly characterized the memory, but Kage had set the pattern for story-telling and Emily had only replied in kind. Keeping a layer of levity to it made it less disruptive, less real. Tea, as Emily had so simply summed it up, had been the far more ... active... portion of the evening.

[K. R. Jakes] "Were you involved in the arguement?" Quiet, that, but also clear. It is a probing question, and Kage knows it. "Because that sounds like it ended very well indeed. All evenings should end with tea."

[Emily Littleton] "Merely an innocent bystander," Emily retorted, holding her hands up to illustrate her innocence. "But yes it was, and yes they should."

For a moment, something about the younger mage's expression suggested it had been a very good cup of tea. Perhaps, even, surprisingly good. And quite, ahem, hot.

[K. R. Jakes] For a moment, Emily's expression was suggestive of, ah, well, benefits to the evening that do not usually come with a cup of tea. Kage's left eyebrow crawls up, rather elegant. Kage is not a gorgeous woman by any means, and is usually relegated to the realm of plain -- loveliness is fleeting. Stronger, today, perhaps by dint of a good night's rest. Kage looks like a real person, with all the flaws, all the perfections that entails. This does not mean there isn't a certain -- style -- to the willworker. "Oh ho, I see," she says, and smiles. "That is one of my complaints about the woods," she adds, not lingering over a topic that might cause Emily embarrassment. "That there are no outlets to plug in a kettle. Yes, I know: fire. But I'm just no good at fire."

[Emily Littleton] "I've found some of the newer thermoses work quite well. They keep warm enough for long walks, if not all day hikes." Emily segued to something safer in lockstep with Kage, offering an observation without lingering overmuch on the question of the proper pluralization of thermos.

It was most definitely not thermii, but that would have rolled off her tongue far more cleanly. Precisely.

"Did your weekend at least resolve nicely?" she asked, winding the conversation back to Kage's tale. "Have you divested yourself of your houseguest? Or, better yet, was it a welcome intrusion?"

[K. R. Jakes] Emily turns the conversation back on Kage, and Kage holds her breath for a moment. And then, soft release. She shakes her head, and her (fine) jaw tightens for a moment. The ghost of lines appears on her forehead, shadows, shadows, everywhere and not a drop to - wait. "Resolution continues to be elusive," she says. "But I have hope. Speaking of resolution, I'm supposed to meet with the lawyer in . . . oh," and she glances at her wristwatch. Yes, Kage still, occasionally, wears a wristwatch. She likes the gears, the fabled complexity of a watch that is not digital. "An hour, two. I should leave," and there is no hiding the wistfulness in her voice, there. "But," and this is said as she hops back to earth. "It was very nice talking to you, Emily. I'd like it if -- and I hope this doesn't come across as weird -- we could meet up and chat again. A sympathetic female ear is nothing to sneer at. Maybe we could meet back here in a week?"

[Emily Littleton] Emily occasionally wore a wrist watch. Or she had, in the not too distant past, and would likely again had not the oddest things happened (perhaps not the oddest): it stopped dead at eleven forty-three one evening. And she hadn't worn one since.

"I think that I would like that," Emily replied, her smile softening into something... honest. "Very much so."

There was something old world to her tone, the implied but rarely actualized grace hidden away in the subtle avoidance of contractions.

"Besides," she added, with a little more levity. "You're the first person who hasn't tried to sell me on something all week."

Do you know what you are? II

[ ... fade in ... ]

[Emily Littleton] Unless of course...

As Jarod drew nearer, perhaps to whisper some other such secrets into her ear, Emily's gaze shifted downward. Her eyes closed, rows of dark lashes barely grazing one another as his warm (hot), humid breath caressed her ear, and his mouth sought secret (sacred), delicate places. She drew a shaky breath, unable or unwilling to meter and control this most basic (delight) response. Emily's head tipped away from him, granting him greater access, welcoming him further.

One hand came to rest lightly on his chest. Trailed slowly down toward his side. Timidly. Her eyes remained closed, and her breathing shallowed and uneven. Emily could not fathom pushing him away, not now. She couldn't begin to string the thoughts together that, in a rational place, with rational rules, would tell her this was a very (good) dangerous (intriguing) dance.

[Jarod Nightingale] Dangerous. Good things could be dangerous. The best things often were. Emily had come here tonight because she wanted to understand something that she'd been on the precipice of realizing about herself. It said something about her that she was here. That she hadn't turned and bolted at any number of possible opportunities, to escape this strange man who could heal wounds and feel the thrum of her heartbeat without needing to touch her.

I love how alive you are, he breathed against her neck, kissing again along her jaw, and then... his lips were so close to hers that it was almost maddening not to complete the distance. Emily's hand was on his chest. His skin felt warm and soft, and her fingers found the firm lines of abdominal muscles. They tightened almost imperceptibly beneath the tentative contact.

Two bodies stood very close, and the breath from slightly parted lips intermingled. Jasmine. I love how alive you are. I love how alive you make me feel. Maddening, that tiny distance. Her lips were so close. The warmth and softness of them. The shape that he could picture so clearly in his mind's eye, inviting him in. Seconds ticked by, and he held there... teasing them both, perhaps. (The thing about cats is that they're patient.)

And then the spell of tension broke, and the fraction of space between them disappeared as he let his lips graze along her own, and finally kissed her fully. The act was both gentle and intense, pulling her lower lip into his mouth and letting the edge of his tongue just barely play along it. One of his hands came up and settled at the side of Emily's neck, thumb tracing slowly up and down the curve of her throat.

[Emily Littleton] Emily had always believed there was something more. That they were something more. That the world she interacted with was bounded more by her ability to perceive and conceive it than by any other factors. She'd broken down those experiences through a scientific lens because it gave her structure, gave her purpose, but not because it was the only way to achieve those goals. Emily had always believed, but believing required a measure of faith in things unknowable.

Jarod simply was. He didn't believe in the infinite possibilities, the intricacies of Fate. He knew them, the way Emily knew that it was his mouth seeking hers, his skin beneath her fingernails and she gently dragged them down his side, his voice that curled into her ear in such pleasing sussurations. Tonight, curled against him in the immaculate sanctuary of his making, Emily was alive in ways she'd never known before and it thrummed in her pattern like wind rushing toward a wildfire.

Quiet but I'm sure there is something here...

In the seconds that passed, Emily could think of nothing but the nearness of his mouth, of the heat that passed between them heavy with tension and her timidity. She yielded as much to his gentleness as his intensity, which called to something deeper (caged) within her. Awakened had stirred more than Emily's latent abilities. Her fingers reached up, seeking the edges of his features, the feathery soft hairs that led into his perfect tresses, the curve of his ear, the lower edge of his jaw. Each touch was whisper-light. Seeking. (Imploring.)

Tell me everything 'cause I want to hear...

A shudder rippled through her as his fingers settled near her throat. He was too close to judge whether it was pleasure or some primordial fear (prey). Only then did her eyes flicker open and her gaze come to rest on him again, heady and clouded with their shared desires. In all of this, Emily offered up no small sounds other than the sound of her breath.

[Jarod Nightingale] For a predator, he had a surprisingly delicate touch. He handled Emily the same way he'd handled her locket, earlier. As if she were impossibly fragile, and he was afraid she might shatter. She wasn't fragile, of course, but the situation lent itself to that. He'd given her a hell of a lot to process in the last couple of minutes. Anyone would be feeling a little shaken.

If he were less selfish, he probably would have stopped here. Or, even better... not kissed Emily at all. He'd have simply sent her home with her mind full of new possibilities and let himself remain nothing more than the guy who told her she wasn't alone. (Because it was good to believe that, even if it was, ultimately, no more true for the Awakened than it was for ordinary people.) But Jarod was selfish. He was selfish because he was alone, and because he'd learned a very long time ago that the only person who would ever take care of him was himself. And right now... he wanted to do exactly what he was doing.

But for all that he could be capable of coldness (he was a wintery creature, and always had been), he was not... numb. Not even close. The pulse of creation flowed through him, and every single nerve ending was impossibly, deliciously sensitive. He sucked in a breath when Emily's nails dragged down his side, pulling the air out of her lungs and into his own. Then he made just the faintest sound in the back of his throat and bit down on her lower lip gently. She touched his hair, his face... she explored, and for a moment he let her do so, but then he broke the kiss and pulled back, and he smiled just a little.

He didn't say anything. Instead he began to walk slowly backwards down the hallway with one arm stretched out toward Emily, finger curling back in an unmistakable gesture of: follow me. This way. Come here.

[Emily Littleton] Perhaps it was selfish of Jarod to draw her in like this. Perhaps a gentler soul would have left her quietly to sort things out for herself. Or perhaps the gentler, kinder route was to envelope her in his own seeking, his quest for solace, satiety, someone to hold on to (if only for tonight). Maybe the crueler thing was really to leave her to her own devices, to the struggle of reconciling who she had been with who she was becoming.

When Jarod stepped away, her senses reeled. She felt the space between them draw out, enlongate, stretch like taffy until it was almost unbearable. And when she could no longer feel the millions of tiny attractions between two (too) close bodies (beings), then the apartment was chill, bereft of the nearness of him, and she felt the flush of her cheeks and lips burn in his absence.

Emily reached up and gathered her hair in her hands, twisting it deftly into a loose spiral and tucking that spiral in on itself so that it stayed, mostly, out of her face. She breathed in, drawing the lingering scent of Jasmine and him deep into center, and wordlessly followed him. One foot after another. Just as readily as she had followed him away from the soup kitchen, up into this tower of glass and chrome, up to the edge of disbelief, and then over into this place of wonder and earthbound gods.

Do you think it means I was fated to sweep you off your feet and welcome you into a world of mystery and intrigue?

His earlier words rang in her ears (One foot before the other.) and Emily could no more break away from following than she could turn her eyes away from that deftly crooked finger, that (inevitably) slightly upturned mouth. A few steps more and she could reach out, tangle her fingers with his, find (home) grounding in the warmth of his (wintery) touch. If only for a moment.

Follow me. (Anywhere.)
This way.
Come here.

If only for a moment, all of this might just seem to make sense.

[Jarod Nightingale] The bedroom door had been cracked open, and he had only to push against it to open the way. Inside the spacious room, a mixture of moonlight and the glow of the city shone in from three large windows. It was plenty of light to see by, so he left the main switch off and continued on to where the bed lay, stopping to stand next to it as Emily re-entered his space.

And then she was there again. She'd followed, as he'd known she would. As they always did, because this was a dance he'd practiced over and over and over again, and he knew all the steps by heart. But somehow each time it was different and new. And for a few hours, everything in the world fell away. (And he was alive. And he wasn't alone.)

His mouth parted slightly, and he bit down on his lower lip, rolling it back a little. The expression looked almost too perfect on him. Like a carefully crafted work of art designed to inspire libidinous sentiments in the viewer. One of his hands caught up with her own, fingers knotting together, and his other found its way to her waist, settling there for a moment before sliding down to the curve of her hip, and then back up and underneath the edge of the borrowed sweater, to find the warm skin that he knew lay beneath. He kissed her again (a distraction, or maybe just because he wanted to) before the thrum of her pulse tempted him back to her neck, and his lips dragged their way down to the place at the hollow of her throat where the flesh beat faintly.

And he kissed there, and his tongue touched and tasted the skin (newly clean and just a little salty). And beneath her sweater his fingers caressed her side, and then her stomach.

[Emily Littleton] He was a vision, perfect in practically every way. He was practiced, and patient, and passionate without pressuring her (too much) too hard (too fast). He was artful in the way that he tempted her, touched her, led her.... and in his shadow she was artless, clumsy, naive. (Numb.)

Her pulse pounded in her temples, echoing in her head, eclipsing the small sounds that their mouths, hands, and bodies made as he explored so the soft skin of her torso. Emily swallowed down small reactive sounds her body longed to make, selfishly pulling them away before they could slide across her vocal chords, slip past her teeth, tease his ears. These she kept from him, had kept from every one before him as well. She withheld them, jealously, and without apology or explanation.

She slid her palm up the plane of his chest, let her thumb graze the edge of his nipple in passing. Her body answered to his deft touch, and with his senses intertwined in her pattern he could feel the stifled sounds, the way his touch left ripples of awareness and arousal across her skin. He could feel also the hesitation in the way she touched him, as if her inability to reciprocate as eloquently might offend, might upset.

[Jarod Nightingale] Emily was nervous. But of course, why wouldn't she be? Jarod knew enough about himself to understand that he was... intense. He was an ocean, and people drowned in oceans. His hands and lips seemed to know Emily's body much better than a stranger had any right to. It spoke of experience, and of skill. But for all that Emily thought herself artless and clumsy, her own hesitant touches did cause him to react... and not at all unpleasantly. She might not have been able to feel the blood pulsing through his veins in the way he could her own, but her hand on his chest could feel the heart beating underneath. Not the frantic, thundering pace of her own, but it was strong and... a little faster than was normal.

When her thumb grazed over his nipple, it hardened, and he breathed out against the place he'd been kissing at the base of her throat, moving up and to the side so he could graze her skin with his teeth and bite down, gently. It was a subconscious habit, using his teeth when he was turned on. Instinct.

Emily made barely a sound but for her breathing. This was a little unusual for him, the relative silence. The lack of aural cues. He didn't need them, of course, but nonetheless it prompted him to murmur a gentle encouragement. "Don't be nervous... you've already done everything right."

And now both of his hands were at the hem of her sweater (his sweater, technically), and he pulled it up and over her head before letting it fall to the floor. The curls of her hair spilled back down over her shoulders, and he couldn't resist the temptation to thread one of his hands within it, feeling the soft strands pull through his fingers. He bent to kiss her shoulder, and both hands slid toward the clasp that held her bra in place, unhooking it easily and tracing his fingertips up to slide the straps slowly off her shoulders.

Here... he hesitated. Just slightly. Not of his own accord (he seemed quite comfortable), but because he wanted to be sure he wasn't pushing. That she was okay. The expression on his eyes seemed to say as much as he pulled back a little and looked at her, watching even though her own body already told him everything that was happening inside of it. One could only tell so much, after all. A quickened heart beat did not necessarily mean that her conscious mind was thinking along the same lines that her body was.

"Tell me... if you want me to stop."

[Emily Littleton] Emily's conscious mind was far, far away, caught up in the struggle of assimilating the past few hours (minutes [weeks] days). It had been squirreled away, sequestered with all of those carefully guarded sounds, the pieces of herself that she had not laid bare for him (even unwittingly). It was tangled up with all of the stories (legacies), whispers (echoes) that explained the small marred sections of her pattern that he had known so intimately and yet without any context.

Quiet but I'm sure there is something here...

When his teeth found her skin, took hold, bit down gently, Emily's breath hissed in quickly between her teeth and her muscles became taut beneath his fingertips for a moment. He could all but feel the low moan curl in the base of her throat though she denied him this sound as well. Instead she pulled him closer for a moment, so close that he could feel the flutter of her eyelashes against his skin, the brush of fabric between them for a languid moment until he eased the sweater over her head and laid aside one more layer (pretense) of separation.

Emily's skin was pale, and the moonlight lent it an ethereal luster. Her hair hung in loose curls, a dark shadows against the cityscape beyond his window. There was light enough to see by here, in his inner sanctum, but there was shadow enough to smooth and obscure the finer details. Here her eyes were merely dark once more and the nuance of their color, shading (their occasional, unabashed honesty) was lost.

Tell me... He implored her, and so it was that those dark eyes fixed him with a look of longing deeper than desire, yet less immediate than his own. Tell me... Her lips, full and reddened by arousal, parted slightly... then closed as she thought the better of whatever it was she might have shared. Emily let the bra straps slide further down her arms, and carefully set it aside. Each movement seemed deliberate and yet tentative (timid). Instead of speaking, she shook her head a little. (No... [don't stop] No... [don't leave me] No... [not here, not now]).

Then Emily closed the space between them. Her fingers found the places on his hips where they could trace the band of his jeans just so. Carefully, she lifted her heels off the floor, raising up just enough that she could lean in and .... ever so gently, ever so achingly softly, kiss his mouth, the corner of his lips, the edge of his jawline, without waiting for Jarod to initiate.

[Jarod Nightingale] There was a moment in there somewhere... when some very small piece of him twisted uncomfortably. Sensing, perhaps, that Emily wasn't quite as safe as some of his other companions. But it was only a very small, slightly discordant note. A warning that he ignored in favor of the much stronger and more immediate desire to be with her. To touch her. Taste her.

And when she closed the distance between them, and her bare chest pressed against his own, any thought beyond these things was almost instantly silenced (and forgotten.) For the first time, she initiated a kiss, and he bent to return it, but soon enough her lips traveled away again, and he made a sound in his throat that resonated quietly. For one achingly perfect moment, he moved against her, the muscles in his torso flexing as he felt her breasts drag across his skin. Then, a little impulsively, he put his hands on her hips and turned, stepping forward so that she'd have to move back, and if she didn't put up any particular signs of resistance, he'd keep going... until she had nowhere to go but back onto the bed.

And he went right along with her, climbing onto the (impossibly comfortable) mattress and pulling back the covers to push them aside and out of the way. (The sheets were white Egyptian Cotton, and from the impossibly soft feel to them, a high thread count.) One of Jarod's knees pushed in between Emily's own, and the other rested outside of her leg. At first, he bent down as if to kiss her again, but instead he ducked a little lower and let his tongue trace a route all the way down her throat and between the swell of her breasts. His breath came warm against her chest as he exhaled, and he moved one of his hands in a slow exploration up her stomach and to the side of her ribcage, tracing fingertips along the outward curve of a breast as he found it.

And then his lips moved in the same direction as his hand, and his tongue found a nipple and slid slowly across it.

[Emily Littleton] Withholding any part of herself from him had become almost painful. Rather than small moans, or purrs of delight, Jarod was rewarded with the subtle (shh... listen) shifts in her breathing. After he had attuned to these lesser tells, they were just as intimate, just as informative. Especially when paired with how freely her body responded to his touch, the flock of goosebumps that rose along her shoulder when his tongue flicked just so.... the way her lips parted, or her eyes closed, or her head tipped back as her back arched just so.

Jarod would not need the resonant sounds to map the many places along her skin that seemed so perfectly placed for his mouth, or his hands to seek out. He wouldn't need them, because whenever his eyes caught hers he could see his own magnificence reflected in the softness, the genuine regard there (affection [compassion] passion). Perhaps, in time -- and he would take his time, Emily had no doubt -- he wouldn't miss the aural cues as much as he might have thought.

Emily thought, for a moment, of how disparate their homes were. No, she couldn't even rightfully think of the place that she lived (slept) as home. For a moment, she was still beneath him... pensive. (Beneath him [in so many ways]). No, Emily was not entirely safe... here. But the small moment passed, and she slid her arms around him, to pull him down to her, to bury herself in his skin, his scent, his warmth.

She couldn't see the lights of the city from here, saved for where they were reflected around his room. Emily could scarcely perceive the world beyond his bedroom at all. Beyond the small space that they cooccupied, drawing ever closer. As her world narrowed down to nothing more than Jarod and the feelings he evoked in her, all this talk of Magic, of Awakening and expectations fell away. She unfurled in his arms. And while he wasn't safe, he was safe enough for now.

Later, when they had drawn so closely together than Emily could no longer tell where his warmth ended and her own began, when they drew in the same breaths and shared but one heartbeat... right before her capacity for conscious thought was eroded entirely and she shuddered for him, tangled up entirely in him... then the sound of her voice brushed against him, as she cried out against his skin.

Do you know what you are?

[ ... fade in... ]

[Jarod Nightingale] "Perhaps. Why, do you think it means I was fated to sweep you off your feet and welcome you into a world of mystery and intrigue?" His tone was teasing in an understated sort of way. Dry, with a subtle note of humor. One got the sense that very little would have surprised him. Admittedly, he looked a few years younger than his 29 years, but he didn't behave like the men that Emily was likely to meet at school. He wasn't a college student. He'd seen and done quite a bit, and was comfortable in his own skin. Maybe he could teach her something. Or at the least, show her something fascinating. And if that was part of the appeal, so much the better for him to ensnare her interest for an evening.

Emily was a bit of a mess compared to himself, perhaps, but it was not intolerable. Damp clothes and a bit of dirt were a price he was willing to pay, at the moment. He looked over at her briefly, and the gaze was a little softer than it had been earlier. More of a casual curiosity than a piercing stare. In any case, his eyes flickered back to the road and he turned the key in the ignition. The engine purred to life, and in the cabin... that was nearly exactly what it sounded like. A purr. It was quickly overshadowed by the music that resumed playing in the speakers. Portishead's first album. At the moment it was "Mysterons". The cool, trippy beats permeated the air, and he reached over to turn it down, but not off, so that it set a quiet backdrop to whatever conversation they may have along the drive.

Then he pulled away from the curve and took them back in the direction of the center of the city. Toward the towers of stone and glass and steel. Where people could forget that places like Cabrini Green even existed.

"Which school do you go to?" he asked idly as he drove.

[Emily Littleton] Beneath everything was the quiet hiss of tires on asphalt, a sound consumed by the shielding of layers of fiberglass and metal, carpeting and leather, regulated to a nearly imperceptible thrum. Layered over this was the purr of the engine, the flicker and beat of Mysterons, the steady splat of raindrops against the windscreen. Streetlights passed in an on-again-off-again strobe, intermittently casting them in shadows and bright relief. In moments like this, Emily could melt into her surroundings and almost cease being just a college kid, just a twenty-something, just... anything at all.

His gaze flicked over toward her while she was staring out the window, and for a moment he caught a softness in her features akin to wonder. It was mild, and fleeting, but for a split second she stood on the threshold of something ecstatic, caught in the confluence of tactile, visual, aural stimuli, in the obsurdity of the recent days, perhaps even in the alienation of being alone and free from familial encumbrances for a long weekend usually devoted to big kinship gatherings and largess.

Then that moment broke and she chuckled lightly, drawing her mouth into a smile that had more purpose, a more definite expression. "Sweep me off my feet?" she queried, looking over to him with a little less (peace) wonder in those eyes. (You're getting ahead of this story...)

"Northwestern," she replied, as the cityscape segued to something more structured, poised, proper. Something more Jarod and a little less slapdash. "I'm a third year in the engineering department," she offered, expecting the conversation to trend in that direction. The further they got from the soup kitchen, the more she seemed to relax and begin to take things as they came. After all, the decision had been made. She'd stepped into the car, and now she was committed to the ride.

[Jarod Nightingale] He took in her response thoughtfully, watching the road as he made a turn at a busy intersection. He seemed comfortable driving the car, so perhaps it wasn't as new as it looked. The ride was deceptively smooth and placid, considering the traffic.

"Engineering, hmm? Have to be smart to be an engineer. That's a good thing." And from the way he smiled, one would imagine that he meant it was good for himself, as well her. Intelligent people made for more interesting company. "What part of England did you live in?"

He hadn't offered any information about himself yet. Point in fact, she knew even less about him than she did about Adam Compton, who she'd met for all of a few minutes. Emily didn't know what Jarod had gotten his own degree in (if he'd even gotten one) or what he did to pay for this expensive car or his designer clothes. She didn't know he had a last name that was ironic for two reasons. What she did know was that he was beautiful, that he evidently went on dates with other men, and that he didn't like to be touched by homeless people. A somewhat sketchy definition, and not one that necessarily made him look good.

[Emily Littleton] "I try..." she said, side-stepping the remark about her intelligence with practiced ease. It was almost as if the (compliment) remark didn't register. Slid off her back like water.

Now and then the tail lights of the car in front of the lit up the speckles of rain on the windscreen. It was a fascinating play of color and shadow. Lovely, but completely unpredictable. Like the beautiful man beside her.

"Oh, just, here and there," she replied, shrugging her shoulders a bit. "No place terribly interesting." This probe did get to her, unsettled her a bit more than the others. She tried to side-step, but got caught up on emotions she wasn't quite ready to show. (Conflicted [and then, composed]). "How about you? Any particular place you call home?" she asked, shifting the query.

Her voice was tinged with far away places, again. Asking after home had brought out the accent more clearly, focused it, made it undeniable that she was skirting something. As much as Emily didn't know about Jarod, as much as she could even begin to guess about him, he didn't know terribly much about the girl riding shotgun in his car either.

[Jarod Nightingale] No, he didn't know very much. And that was part of the fun for him, judging by the way he oh-so-casually probed for information. Emily skirted past his question, countering it with one of her own, and Jarod's mouth curled into a smirk. Evidently, amused.

"Chicago, at the moment, but no... I wasn't born here." There was a beat of silence as the song changed, and Jarod pulled the car off the road and down into the underground parking lot of what had looked to be a tall, fancy apartment building. They were right on the outskirts of the magnificent mile, now, and the building rose up to the sky in a towering monument of smooth beige stone and large windows, not all that unlike any number of other buildings that dotted Lakeshore Drive in this part of town. Jarod had to let the car idle for a moment as he slid the window down and leaned out to type in the code on the box that would open the way to the lot, and then they were moving forward again, and he pulled into one of the empty parking spaces and cut the engine.

Down here, there wasn't anything particularly special to look at. It was a parking garage, like any other... though the cars were mostly on the more expensive end of the spectrum. At this point, Jarod ought to have gotten out, but he didn't. Instead, he simply looked over at Emily and smiled. "And you haven't answered my question yet."

[Emily Littleton] If she had been younger, Emily might have squirmed under the weight of his direct attention. Men like Jarod were rare, so far from the norm in a single attribute (maybe more) that they became ethereal, untouchable, and in some ways it was not unlike having the full weight of God's attention bearing down on your miserable, mortal soul.

She took a shallow breath, held it a little longer than was entirely necessarily, and let it go. Emily's shoulders shrank almost imperceptibly. Her eyes closed, marrying her dark rows of eyelashes to each other for a moment, then flickered open again. Outside, Emily could see nothing but impenetrable walls of concrete and impossibly expensive automobiles slumbering satedly in their stalls. Inside, there was the nearly-opressive presence of His Loveliness. Out of all of this, she was the one piece that didn't quite fit.

"Brighton," she said, and her tone was one of submission. Yielding. Tipping her hand, but not entirely willingly. He could feel it, a mostly-obscured, bone-deep sadness clung to the names of these places when they weren't tossed out off-the-cuff and wryly. "Bristol. Coventry. Plymouth. London." The names tumbled off her tongue without much distinction.

Jarod, 1. Emily, 0.

Emily smiled, protectively, and shrugged a bit. "We stayed in those places the longest, but there were others. I have a map somewhere at home with all of them, but I don't remember right now." She wasn't lying. Jarod was, for the moment, getting the unvarnished truth out of this lost soul. But the walls were going back up, quickly and effortlessly, and she was shrugging off that sense of homelessness once again. "Like I said, here and there..." Lighter, almost jovial.

[Jarod Nightingale] Someone with a somewhat more gentle touch may have let the poor girl alone once they'd realized that the issue made her a little uncomfortable. But Jarod was both intensely curious and rather stubborn, as a person. He didn't like to be given the run-around, and one could imagine that he had an entire arsenal of tools to get people to open up to him. (Some more pleasant than others.) He looked at Emily as she wilted and provided him with the information he desired, and there was a soft curiosity in the gaze, as if he found her a rather interesting little science project.

But, contrary to popular opinion, Jarod Nightingale was not a complete asshole, so he nodded, finally, and added... "I apologize, if I... upset you. Seems like you don't really care to discuss it. I lived in London and Oxford for a few years, when I was in school, so I was curious."

And with that, he opened the door and stepped out of the car, swinging it shut behind him with a muffled thump. He'd wait until Emily had done likewise before hitting the button on the keychain that locked the doors and activated the alarm, then he fell into a relaxed stride toward the elevator that lay at the end of the garage. As they moved, they passed by a security guard who was sitting in a little glass booth and reading the Sun Times. He glanced up at the pair, recognized Jarod, and went back to what he was doing.

[Emily Littleton] A month or more ago, Emily would have been able to laugh it off. Even from someone like Jarod. But he couldn't have known that. A year ago, she would have been so deeply entrenched in her evasiveness that he would have gotten a haughty earful about minding his own business. Perhaps a slammed car door, and an Orphan stomping out before he could have welcomed her in. But Jarod couldn't have know that either. Unless he'd probed with more than words, he wouldn't necessarily realize that Emily sat at a tipping point of magnificent proportions and it was making her edgy in ways that were odd even to herself.

"Most people don't move around as much as I have," she offered, as a weak apology. "It sounds a lot more fascinating than it really is," she offered, expecting that he might know a bit of what that was like. Surely, under all of the gorgeousness, Jarod was a human being with his own struggles, strengths and saviors. What the world saw was only skin deep, and too easy to draw conclusions from. Emily was guilty of that, and she should have known better.

"I didn't mean to be snappish." A proper apology. "It's been a very... odd... night," she added, with a twist of her tone and a look in her eyes that said that odd wasn't necessarily a bad thing. She looked over at the security guard as they passed, and offered a little smile to the Nobody there. He was help, but he was working the night before Thanksgiving rather than home with his family in anticipation of a big meal and a few games. Even Enid had family to go home to.

[Jarod Nightingale] "You weren't being snappish. Trust me, I'd know." As they reached the elevator, he gave Emily a knowing little quirk of his eyebrow, smoothing over the moment of possible discomfort as if it were nothing of any concern. He put a key into the lock on the elevator panel and hit the button that opened the doors before making a gesture to indicate that she should go in before him. Once inside the elevator, he had to use his key again in order to gain access to the top floor, then the doors slid shut with a pleasant little ding and they were on their way up.

Jarod looked up and watched the number above the doors as it slowly ascended, giving a single twirl of his keys, absently, before clutching them in his hand once again. "Odd nights are rather commonplace, for us, I'm afraid. But they aren't always bad. You'll get used to it." Or maybe she won't. Not everyone did. Then again, at the moment Emily was probably wondering what he'd even meant by referring to the two of them as us. "Anyway, I know what it's like. I've moved around a lot too."

The elevator stopped as the doors opened, welcoming them to the sight of an entryway, and the door to one of the building's two penthouse apartments. After waiting for Emily to step out onto the marble floor, he did likewise and unlocked the door for them, swinging it open and reaching in to flick on a light switch so that his guest could see where she was going in the unfamiliar terrain.

[Emily Littleton] The elevator key wasn't novel enough for Emily to pay it much mind, which might strike him as odd because she didn't carry herself like someone who'd lived in that sort of restricted-access seclusion. Maybe she'd lived in a rather bad neighborhood somewhere where security required more stringent measures.

The girl rested her hands on the elevator bar, leaning back into the wall a little and looking up at the numbers that were sequentially illuminated, marking their ascent. For a moment they were focused on the same thought, if only outwardly, and that gave them something in common for a brief some-time. Whether it elevated her to his near deific state, or brought him down to her humble level, Emily wasn't sure. She just knew that for a moment, their was a fleeting kinship. Then his keys flipped, tinked against each other, and were enveloped by his lovely fingers, and their relational sameness was gone.

(Tonight is a string of moments...) The doors parted, opening not onto a hallway but into a single residence. His front door was an elevator. That was halfway between fascinating and odd. (Like beads on a string...). For a moment, again, it was lost on her that he'd spoken of himself in the plural -- because it never occurred to her that "us" might include her -- as the lights came up and she begun to get her bearings.

Surreal. Jarod wavered in and out of accessibility in her mind. At one moment, she could almost touch him, and in the next he receded to some place above the clouds. Emily considered pinching herself to make sure this wasn't some elaborate machination of her own subconscious, but thought that might be considered rude, even by a God of her own mind's making.

Even as they crossed the threshhold, Emily was preparing to push her shoes off her feet with her toes. It was habit, and one he likely would recognize as quickly as her breathy Cantonese in the coffee shop the night before. "Should I take off my shoes?" she asked. That was quickly followed by an appropriately appreciative, "Your flat is almost as lovely as you are."

Pause.

(Aiya... I said that outloud.) Emily looked over to him and smiled, almost cheekily, to cover up that misstep.

[Jarod Nightingale] Emily had the right idea in taking her shoes off. Already she'd been given a handful of clues that might lead one to believe that, yes, this man was a bit of a neat freak. It wasn't that he couldn't handle dirt when it was of the right sort (was there a "right sort" or dirt?) and in its proper place: outside, in a natural setting. Clean dirt. Earth. Plants and mud and rain and all of those things that seemed so clearly not to belong in the middle of a city like Chicago, or to someone as urban and chic as Jarod outwardly appeared to be.

In any case, he liked things in here to be perfect. Footprints on his pristine hardwood floors did not fit that category. After closing and locking the door, he slid the coat off of his shoulders and hung it up inside of the closet that lay to the right. There was a mat just to the side of the closet door, in the corner, and here was where he slid his own shoes off, glancing over gratefully to note that Emily had begun to do this of her own accord, rather than needing to be asked. He nodded his approval, then walked past the kitchen and tossed his keys on the black granite island before heading into the living room. It was a large space. Open and well-lit and sparsely decorated with furniture of black leather and glass table-tops. A huge, rather expensive-looking oriental rug covered a portion of the floor, and the white walls contained a small scattering of asian silk paintings, some of which contained calligraphy, others of which depicted simple but beautiful landscapes.

Emily complimented him, and he turned to regard her with a small, gentle laugh. Perhaps not quite the reaction one hopes for in these circumstances, but it held no malice in it. "Thank you. It's larger than the one I had in New York, but... well, that's New York." There was a pause as he contemplated her somewhat bedraggled appearance, as well as his own nagging desire to wash off the (perhaps nonexistent) grime of the evening, and he glanced toward where the master bathroom presumably lay. "Do you want to get cleaned up at all? You look like you've had kind of a long day. To be honest, I was going to take a quick shower myself."

[Emily Littleton] She had expected Jarod's home (dwelling [sanctuary]) to seem as alien and remote as he did, and so Emily was surprised to find details scattered around the flat that felt like home. Leaving her sneakers and socks by the front door, Emily dropped her keys, cellphone and that bit of cardboard with Enid's phone number into the left shoe for safe keeping. As she moved into the space, she absent mindedly smoothed her hands down her thighs just a bit.

He had a kitchen. An honest to god kitchen with a full size fridge, ample cupboards, and counterspace that went on for miles. Emily could talk about kitchens the way that some guys her age talked about girls. If there was anything she begrudged her parents about her childhood for, it was the lack of a real kitchen in most of their near-homes and halfway-unpacked houses.

He may have noticed her appraisal of his culinary space, but Jarod almost undoubtedly noticed the way she moved. Emily walked on the balls of her feet, leaving only half footfalls behind when she was barefoot. Her heels only touched the ground when she was static, grounded for a moment and not moving between one place of another.

"New York..." she replied, knowingly. "Almost as bad as Tokyo!" When he looked at her like that, and mentioned cleaning up, Emily looked down at her bare toes, up to her dirty jeans, and then up to him again. "Yes, please. I'd like that," she replied. Out at the soup kitchen it was wholly acceptable to be grimy from working. Here, in his shrine to concinnity and cleanliness, Emily wanted nothing more than to straighten up her visage, tame the wayward curls, and be less of an eyesore in her beautiful surroundings. "And I'll take you up on that tea, if you're still offerring," she added with a smaller smile.

[Jarod Nightingale] "Oh, don't get me started on Tokyo," he answered with a gentle laugh that implied familiarity. "And I daresay I would be remiss as a host if I made an offer and then snatched it away, wouldn't I?" Something in his tone suggested a kind of playful formality. As if he was simultaneously trying to be charming and also mocking himself for it. For Jarod Nightingale, life was a performance, and sometimes it was a performance of a performance.

"Why don't you take the guest bathroom? There's clean towels and things in there, and I've got some women's clothes you could borrow in the closet, if you like." He led her down the hallway and into what appeared to be a large study. This would have been the second bedroom, had he required one, but since he didn't, there was a sofa in there instead, and a couple of desks, and numerous bookshelves. The floor in here was stained a beautiful, deep cherry red color, which went rather well with the black furniture. Two doors lay along one wall, and Jarod moved to open both of them, gesturing from one to the other. "Clothes are in there. Bathroom's there." And chances were, anything she might want or need could be found there. Jarod seemed like the type of person who probably had a lot of guests, and even though this was the smaller of the two bathrooms, it was still quite large and inviting.

The closet was a walk-in, and it contained a scattering of clothing items, some men's and some women's, in various different styles and sizes (all impeccably organized, of course.) Fancy dresses that looked like they cost as much as a cheap car hung in sealed plastic bags, and a shelf at the back contained an assortment of fancy shoes. Of course, for Emily's purposes, there was also a few pairs of jeans, t-shirts, sweaters and the like. More casual, though none of these looked like they were exactly...inexpensive.

"Anyway, take your time. I'll have the tea made for you when you come out. What kind would you like?" One might notice that he did not specify what types he had available, which probably meant that he had a fairly large collection.

[Emily Littleton] Emily had fallen through the looking glass and ended up in Jarod's apartment. She was sure of it. So sure that she would have been entirely unsurprised to find a full length mirror along some wall with her own terrified reflection pounding on the silvered side, desperately trying to call her back. Before her very eyes, he had melted from the pinnacle of icy anger into a charming -- one might even say warm -- host. They were trading the names of far away cities the way young boys traded sports cards, or marbles, in those hazy movies of yesteryear that made the fifties seem like an iconic, perfect decade. It was odd... but in a way that was almost comfortable.

She thanked him when he showed her to the bath, and offered her a change of clothes from his guest closet. Surely someone like Jarod, who had lived almost as many places as Emily herself, had friends from around the globe that dropped by and might need to freshen up. That seemed plausible enough for why he'd have an assortment of styles hidden away in guest closet. She selected a pair of jeans and a sweater, a classier cousin to the ensemble she'd been wearing earlier, and took a few minutes to freshen up. She didn't dawdle. Having a gaggle of roommates made one efficient with their toiletries.

When he'd asked her what sort of tea she would like, Emily had to think about it for a moment. Jarod had wrinkled his nose at the coffee shop selection, so she was fairly confident that he could brew up something that wasn't a travesty. Or summon a butler to do it. Maybe he had help here, squirreled away in large closets or hidden passageways, just waiting to pop out and brew the perfect pot.

"Jasmine," she finally decided. The aroma of a good jasmine green was positively heady, and had a magical way of loosening all the knots in her neck and shoulders. It was a good contemplative tea. An end of long, tiring day tea. A tentatively starting new frienships tea. Not as formal as Genmaicha. A little sweeter than Chrysanthemum. Not as smoky as Oolong, or as bold as anything darker. "It's one of my favorites," she added, offering something without being asked. Opening up for a moment, and not shutting down again immediately after.

Tea was a wonderful thing. Ritual. Shared experience. It had even made her smile, openly, in this strange place.

Emily took the time to get cleaned up, folded her soiled and damp clothes into a neat bundle, and then found her way out to the kitchen again. If Jarod was not already there, she would quietly seek out the kettle, fill it, and put it on the back burner. If he was already there... well then, chances are that much had been done already.

[Jarod Nightingale] "Woman after my own heart." Wait, he had one of those? There was an enigmatic sort of smile on his face as he left Emily to her own devices and headed back out into the kitchen. While she cleaned up, he heated some water and set about steeping two cups of Jasmine tea for the both of them. As the minutes ticked by on the timer, he leaned back against the counter and watched as the tightly rolled pearls began to unfurl in the water, releasing their delicate fragrance. When it was ready, he filled two large ceramic cups and disappeared into the master bathroom to take a shower.

He'd be gone by the time Emily reappeared, but she would find both cups of tea ready and waiting, with lids on the cups to keep the heat from escaping while they sat. The faint sound of running water permeated through the wall, but it shut off only a few minutes after he'd gone in. After all, one couldn't just leave a guest alone to twiddle their thumbs half the evening.

Eventually Jarod reappeared, wearing a pair of jeans. His hair was newly damp, and his pale skin had a slight flush from the hot water. There was no hint of self-consciousness at the familiarity of the situation, despite the fact that the two of them really didn't know each other at all, he behaved as if this was something he did all the time. Maybe it was. Maybe he was just comfortable with her. Regardless, Emily now had to contend with a shirtless version of this living work of art, who went into the kitchen and took the lid off of his cup of tea so that the steam curled up to his nose. He closed his eyes and breathed in, then picked up the cup carefully and took a sip, eying his guest as he did so.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I feel much better." And despite possible appearances, this really hadn't been some kind of ploy to walk around half-naked and damp. The shower had relaxed him noticeably. Then again, it was hard to pay that much attention to small details like how relaxed he was when there was this absolutely perfect carved-in-stone body being nicely highlighted by the kitchen lights. Jarod wasn't a body builder by any stretch of the imagination, but he was toned in that way that actors and models often were, with every muscle visible and not a trace of body fat.

And he had a rather fascinating tattoo on his right forearm, as well. The curling, twisting design ran down the length of it and ended on the back of his hand.

[Emily Littleton] Jarod, with all his catlike grace, is doubtless light enough on his feet that Emily doesn't, at first, hear him coming. She's leaning against the counter, with its edge in the small of her back, with her arms crossed lightly over her middle and her eyes shut. In the bright light of the kitchen, he can see the shadows her thick lashes cast on her pale cheeks, which are lightly pinked from the combination of cool night air and a warm shower. Her hair is only slightly damp, and it spreads out in loose curls over her shoulders and down her back. Her head is bowed, almost meditatively, as she listens to the hum of his refridgerator from across the room.

Some people felt that the kitchen was the heart of a home. Emily had opened no cupboard doors, pried into none of his secrets, but instead chosen to drink that (sacred) space in.

When he entered, her eyes flickered open and her gaze rested on him. She can't help that her eyes make a quick sweep of his immaculate form, but to her credit her eyes seek his soon thereafter. In the ambient half light of the coffee shop, and again in the dark outside of the soup kitchen, Emily's eyes had only looked "dark." Here, in the pristine near day-light of his kitchen, they are a deep and rich blue nuanced with the smallest granite-grey flecks.

His form is perfect, while hers is light and lithe enough. Her curves are subtle, and well obscured by the beautiful sweater and well cut blue jeans. She cleans up nicely, but more toward the girl next door end of the spectrum.

She had waited for him. Not until Jarod picked up his tea cup did Emily take fast her own. She went through the same motions, as precise as Jarod's own, of lifting the cup's lid, letting the heady aroma waft up to her nostrils, drinking in deeply the scents, and then taking a careful, delicate sip to taste. Emily smiled appreciatively. The tea had met her (uncompromising?) standards, and exceeded expectations. So few people could brew a proper cup these days.

"Yes," she agreed, noticeably relaxed herself. "Much better." Emily had no extreme loveliness to obscure how her edges had warmed and softened after a shower and the promise of a good cup of tea.

"You're... not what I expected," she ventured, still watching him (his features now). She seemed pleasantly surprise by this. Maybe she was getting comfortable around him, too.

[Jarod Nightingale] "Really? What were you expecting?" Despite the carefully guarded way in which he tried not to reveal his motivations and inner thoughts, sometimes little hints would slip out, like the way that the corner of his mouth twitched just now, as if he'd suppressed a smile. Perhaps he liked the idea of surprising her.

Of course he did.

In this light, Emily had blue eyes. Dark blue. Not the pale, crystalline blue that was more common. Jarod had dark blue eyes as well, which meant that they had a point of commonality here. His were a slightly different shade, however. They weren't stormy, like Emily's... they were more lustrous, with undertones that were almost purple when caught with the right light. Right now they looked like sapphires. They weren't near-black, as they should have been. As one might have expected, given his ethnic heritage. He was an oddity, genetically speaking.

Emily was content to stand in the kitchen, but Jarod eventually moved away from it, padding like a lazy cat into the living room, where he sat down on the sofa, being careful as he did this not to spill any of his tea. He took another drink from the hot cup, then placed it down carefully on the glass coffee table and leaned back into the crook of the arm rest, raising one foot up and placing it on the edge of the cushion so that he could wrap one hand around the bent knee. It was a casual pose. The cat, resting in its domain.

[Emily Littleton] Emily followed him to the living room, padding along behind him on the balls of her feet. She carried her tea cup with two hands, wrapped around the warm porcelain, with her fingers intertwined on the far side. Her nails were neatly trimmed and varnished with a slightly pink clear coat. She wore no rings or adornments other than the thin silver chain around her neck and the locket which was currently kept close to her skin, beneath the sweater and protected from view.

"Ambivalence," she replied, after a careful consideration of the applicable adjectives. Emily set her tea down long enough to fold herself into one of the armchairs, with her back against one arm rest, and facing him. She tucked her feet up under her, reclaimed her tea cup, and watched him intently as she spoke. "You seemed so... cold... at the kitchen," she went on, explaining the odd choice in words. Perhaps it was a mistake, but she spoke candidly and slowly, watching him over the rim of her tea cup all along. "Almost untouchable." Another brief pause, in which she looked away, and then back to him. "Transcendant."

The last word was spoken with no sense of awe of envy. It meant only that he was remote, aloof and removed from his surroundings. She didn't speak of transcendence as if it were enviable or elevated.

"But last night," her head tipped a bit to the side, shifting the waves of dark curls that puddled around her shoulders and spilled over the armrest of the chair. "You were vivid, immanent, even warm." Immanent was the enviable adjective here. Immersed in the present and aware of the world around him.

Emily's gaze fell back to her tea cup. She inhaled deeply, drawing the scent of flowers into the back of her throat, pulling it across her senses, trying to capture it for memory's sake or perhaps willing it to bring back echoes of another time. "I was surprised to find you have a resting point." Something less exalted, less exaggerated.

She shrugged a bit and looked back to him. "It's peaceful here." That was the surprise. To find sanctuary (in) around someone like Jarod. That was the surprise she'd been talking about all along.

[Jarod Nightingale] Emily spoke, and Jarod listened. For someone who by all rights should probably be rather self-absorbed, he was very observant of others. As if he found people genuinely fascinating. Puzzles to be slowly pieced together. She told him with a surprising amount of honesty what she had expected him to be like, and none of her descriptions were incorrect. He was all of these things. Had been all of these things. For all that they were seemingly oppositional.

He reached down to pick up his tea and mulled thoughtfully over what had been said as he breathed in the familiar and relaxing scent of jasmine. Another point of commonality. Jasmine tea felt like home to him. It echoed.

"Well," he finally responded, "perhaps the truth is somewhere in between?" And this was all the clarification Emily was going to get out of him, likely, unless she decided to probe for further details. A little enigmatic, but at least it was an honest answer, which was more than he gave to some. "I'm glad you think so." (This in regard to her observation of feeling peaceful.) "I prefer it that way."

(Need it that way.)

Jarod's eyes shifted down, moving from Emily's own eyes to the resonant piece of jewelry hanging about her neck. "Tell me about that." He indicated that he meant the family heirloom with a little nod of his head toward it.

[Emily Littleton] Her fingertips found the light chain, and teased the antique oval out from under the borrowed sweater. Her mouth tightened for a moment, pulling into a pensive moue, and then she shifted. Emily set her tea cup down on the table once more, and used both hands to carefully undo the clasp at the back of her neck.

She never took the necklace off with anyone else around. Emily never let anyone else touch it. (She'd broken a boy's finger for just that in Belfast many moons ago...) But for some reason, she felt compelled to let Jarod hold it. If only for a moment.

Deft fingers close the clasp again so the locket would not slide from of its chain and dribbled the necklace into the palm of one of her hands. She looked at it a little while before unfolding from the armchair and walking over to where she could hand it to him. She offered it to him, finger uncurled, palm upturned.

"It was my grandmother's," she said softly. They were, after all, talking about people who had passed on to the realm of Shades by now. The small ovoid was still in her palm, but pulsed faintly, nearly in time with her heartbeat. The air around it seemed hushed, calmer and restful. Much like the scent of Jasmine tea, this small heirloom felt like Home.

"It may have been her mother's before that. I don't know. When she died, I was quite young. We were in Seville, then, and my mother did not go home for the funeral." Perhaps by now, he had taken the small bit of silver into his own hands, found that the resonance was undeniably from the trinket and not the girl standing before him with strands of her hair falling gently across her face as she watched him. "When she did go home, she brought this back for me. She said my grandmother had left it to me, so that I wouldn't be homesick anymore."

Emily shrugged a little, and her now empty arms wrapped around her middle lightly, as if to comfort herself in the talisman's absence. "It's never opened," she added, in case he tried to force the closure. "It broke a long time ago. I haven't tried to have it mended."

[Jarod Nightingale] Jarod asked a question that he suspected was very personal, and so... the response that Emily gave him was surprising, to say the least. In this new environment, cleaned up and comfortable and... peaceful, as she'd said, there was more safety, perhaps. Or at least, the illusion of safety. She confided in him, taking off the necklace and placing it into his palm. Jarod set his tea back on the coffee table and examined the locket delicately. He was very careful about the way he handled it, as if he understood how precious it was. As if he was used to handling fragile things. The tip of one long, dexterous finger traced the shape of the small oval, noting the broken hinges. Emily herself had a great deal of untapped power lying within her, but her lack of experience meant that she left no particular mark. She had no resonance, as most mages did. As Jarod himself did.

But the locket resonated strongly of home. Or, rather, what one would imagine home to feel like. It didn't feel at all like his home had, once. It felt... warm. Stable. Comforting. Good things that didn't seem to really exist beyond stories. After a few moments, he handed the locket back to Emily.

"Hold onto this," he offered by way of advice. "People are going to try to trick you into letting them see it. Don't." A somewhat ironic observation, perhaps, seeing as how he could very well have been doing that himself. Still, he understood what it meant that she'd let him touch it, and maybe her observation of his being cold and aloof had gotten into his head, because he smiled then. It was a soft smile, and genuine. "Thank you, though. It must mean a lot to you."

[Emily Littleton] For Emily, Home was a thing more imagined than real. Home was the scent of Jasmine wafting up from a paper tea cup in the middle of a ten hour flight. Home was the sound of her father's voice as he talked on his cell phone in a foreign language, walking down the hallway to their hotel room. Home was also the angry red glare of the word "Canceled" stamped across monitors in airports all over the world, or words in impossibly foreign tongues whizzing by on street signs.

She carefully unfastened the clasp, slipped the chain around her neck and fumbled for a few moments trying to close it once again. Finally her hands dropped away from her neckline, this time without tucking it under the neckline of her sweater.

"So are you going to tell me now?" she asked, just as softly as he'd smiled. And if his brow furrowed or he started to question, she would add: "What it is you think I am." Besides Lost. Besides Alone.

[Jarod Nightingale] "You're like me," he said, though anyone looking in at them would likely think otherwise. "You see more. You understand more. You're capable of more. The world is a tapestry. It isn't concrete. The picture can be changed. Threads can be re-woven. And I'm sure... if no one has ever told you this before, then you're about to look at me as if I've gone completely mad." He chuckled softly, renewing his attentions to his tea as if they were chatting about something no more controversial than the recent bad weather.

"But at least I'm pretty, so perhaps madness is a forgivable fault." Beat. "Have you ever seen or done anything that you thought shouldn't be possible?"

[Emily Littleton] Emily did, in fact, look at him as if he was slightly off his elegantly appointed rocker. Her expression screwed up in a not entirely-unpleasant expression. One eyebrow up, mouth pursed in a bit, head tipped to one side. She reached up and dragged the fingers of one hand lightly through her hair, inadvertantly pulling some of those dark curls over her shoulder. The fingers of her other hand found purchase on her hip, tapped lightly against the fabric of her borrowed clothes.

Instead of returning to the armchair, or pulling up a corner of the couch, Emily started to pace thoughtfully. She still walked quietly (but not silently) on the balls of her feet, and without seeming to arrange it as so, she traveled precisely down one plank of his beautiful wood floor. Down a few steps, and then back. Like a pendulum, without wavering in the track she traced.

"Is this the Free Will vs. Predetermination question?" she asked, clearly having paid some attention in her collegiate courses. It also diverted the question from whether or not she had, personally, experienced any such thing. Emily dodged that academically, deftly, because the object of Jarod's question at once enraptured her and terrified her.

She stopped at the far end of her pacing pattern, with her back to him for a moment. Emily took stock of her own reactions. Her heart, for no perceptible reason, was pounding in her chest. (It's nothing.) In the same moment, she turned back to him, her expression calmer and more settled. "I'm an engineer," she said lightly. "Most of what I do every day seems impossible, but I gather you're not asking about that...." Her voice drifted off a little. "Are you?"

(He knows. [He does not know.] You're a freak! [It's nothing.] They'll turn you into a science experiment somewhere. [Everything... can... be... perfectly... rationalized.] He knows. [He can't.]) She watched him, waiting to hear which members of her inner council were right, and which were the paranoid crazies.

[Jarod Nightingale] All things considered, Emily's response to this outrageous suggestion was fairly reasonable. She considered it like a student: academically. Because it made the impossible easier to deal with if you broke it down pragmatically. Logically. Almost, Jarod laughed and said: you sound like a Hermetic. Almost, but he didn't. Instead he watched her pace and shook his head no when she asked for clarification. No, he wasn't talking about things that seemed impossible. He was talking about...

Magic.

"You still haven't answered my question." Well now, wasn't that a familiar accusation? He'd said the same thing, in exactly the same tone of voice, back in the car. "Answer honestly, and I can prove to you that I mean what I say." And ah, wasn't that a tempting thought? An impossibly beautiful man offering to show her something impossible. Or maybe it was more frightening than tempting, but Jarod was hoping that Emily was the sort of person whose innate curiosity exceeded her fear of the unknown.

[Emily Littleton] Mind like a diamond
Scatters light on long-dark thoughts
Awakened Child. Lost.

Her jaw set. Not angrily, but resolutely. Emily's hands found purchase on her hips, and those deeply blue eyes focused on him with alarming intent. Stormy as their coloring was, they were piercingly clear when she wanted them to be. (Deep rivers with no sea to run to.) He had accused her of dishonesty, which cut the young woman to the quick. Slowly, she lowered her heels to the ground, instinctively widened her stance. Emily was digging her heels in.

Still, her heartbeat would be nearly palpable to the life mage. The flight or fight instinct flushed her cheeks and washed her bloodstream with adrenaline. If she'd really had no idea what he was talking about, she'd have no reason to shift like this, transform before his eyes. She'd have no reason to act like she was cornered by his larger, more skilled felinesque presence.

"Are you asking about what is possible?" she asked. "Or what is probable?" Emily got a little pedantic with the life mage, feeling pressed into oddly open-ended corner here. There were a lot of non-zero probabilities that were possible, just highly unlikely. Perhaps, in her mind, Magic was one of them. "I can ..."

Here she faultered, having said too much without thinking through her sentences carefully enough. He'd trapped her, because she'd let the adrenaline overtake her common sense.

(Damnit. [Hundred and what IQ and you still can't keep your damned mouth shut?])

[Jarod Nightingale] Considering what he did for a living, Jarod was surprisingly intelligent and well-educated. Still, it was possible that Emily was even more intelligent than he was. Her mind was working now, attempting to justify the impossible. Attempting to render it into something safer and more easily explained. In a way, it wasn't an inappropriate way to look at things. Scientists knew well that impossibility existed only in the realm of the unexplained. Therefor nothing was truly impossible - there were only things that hadn't yet been figured out.

Jarod wasn't a scientist, though. He was primal. Primordial. He was life at its most basic. Instinct. Desire. If he reached out his senses now, he'd be able to feel Emily's pulse easily. He'd be able to feel much more than that. He hadn't attempted to do so, yet.

...until now.

And then it was like she was right there next to him, instead of standing across the room, and her blood and her breath were the same as his own. Slowly, he stood up and paced towards her, reaching up with one hand to tap out a rhythm on his chest that was exactly in tune with her heart beat. Then he stopped just in front of her and bent forward to whisper against her ear. "I can feel your pulse from across the room. I can tell if you're hurt or healthy or sick. I know if you're scared or angry or aroused. What can you do?"

It was almost like he was daring her.

[Emily Littleton] Emily was, categorically, brilliant. As such, she already perceived the world in a very different way than most of the people she encountered. Her mind was innately open to possibilities that seemed too wondrous to fathom. She could rationalize things that seemed incongruous with existence itself. This is why Awakening had seemed so gentle, at first. It was an extension of what she had always (hoped [known]) believed to be true.

Ba-dump, ba-dump. Jarod was intimately aware of her heartbeat, its delicate throb at her temple, the side of her neck. He could feel it as surely as his own. Slowly, he became aware of the soreness in her arms and lower back, muscles strained too hard at the soup kitchen. (She gives too freely of herself.) As his mind assimilated all these tiny details, Jarod suddenly knew with certainty that she walked on the balls of her feet due to a minor imperfection in her tendons (too short), that she'd severely sprained her right ankle a few years ago and it hadn't healed quite right, that she was starting to get the sniffles from two consecutive nights out in the cold. He could read her down to the bones, feel the scars from childhood illnesses (traveling too young to have an immunity to the world's ills). It all washed over him with a sense of certainty, as if he had lived it himself.

She was laid bare and built back up in his mind, cell by cell, hurt by hurt, strength and weakness laid out plainly without deception.

He could feel, too, how the her pattern reacted when perception of intervening space fell away. When it seemed that their breath intermingled and the warmth from their bodies combined. He felt the way her breath caught in her chest, the way her spine elongated as she drew herself taller. These basic responses, visercal truths, she could not hide from Jarod's senses. Nor could she disguise the innate and equally visceral curiosity his words held, the deep longing for something deeper (more honest [more true]) that the simple, five-sensed world around them.

Emily was made for something more. Her mind, her body, her will. She was destined to be something far beyond the trappings of her mortal shroud. The reason Jarod terrified her was the same reason he excited her.

But how did you talk about these things, when you only had the mundane world as a reference point.

"I'm never lost... anymore." The words were soft, almost imperceptible, but as attuned as he was to her pattern in the moment, he could scarcely miss them. (I'm lost all the time.) "And I..." She swallowed, but her throat had gone dry. He was too close. So close that he made it hard to think clearly. "If I focus. I can ... see things like friction, or electricity. Or... feel... light."

Emily looked up at him, confused by how to share what she was trying to say. (Lost. [Found.]) "I know, somehow, where the weak points are. Without math... or instruments. I just... know somehow."

She shrugged a little. He could feel the tension in her shoulders from having carried boxes all day. He could feel the tightness in her chest from wanting him, from not wanting him to step away from her. It was a heady moment, for both of them. Intimate in more ways than one.

[Jarod Nightingale] There was nothing distinctly inhuman about Jarod. Nothing that someone could point to and say with certainty was an inhuman trait. But there were things about him that resonated very strongly of something... else. His avatar was always there, pacing and prowling. It lived in his muscles. It saw through his eyes. Maybe it was merely a piece of himself. Maybe they were mixed up with each other. It was hard to know the difference. He moved like an animal. He gazed like a predator. And when he smiled wide enough, you could see that his canines were sharper than was typical. Not in an obvious way, of course. You had to look closely. Little things like this added up, though, to someone who knew what they were looking at.

Emily spoke, challenged into admitting a truth she didn't even like to admit to herself. Dimly, Jarod remembered a similar confession, but he didn't like to think of that time because it made him remember things that he'd just as soon forget, so he pushed the thought out of his mind. Instead he listened to her describe the things she could sense , and though none of them matched his own gifts, he understood. Correspondence. Forces. Entropy.

And then there was... her. The physicality of her. The life. Her old wounds and imperfections. Her sore muscles and stressed immune system. It was hard to see all of this in his mind's eye and not feel just a little twinge of empathy. And, even... mild frustration. He wasn't strong enough to fix her tendons. Not yet. Soon, perhaps. He could heal a fresh wound but not a defect.

And anyway, there was also...

She didn't want him to move away. He had to be used to that. He was. But that didn't change his response. His nostrils flared slightly as he breathed, and when he leaned his head back, his eyes had a darker cast due to the dilation of pupils.

"Watch closely," he said, and lifted up his hand. He put his thumb between his teeth, underneath one of those sharper-than-average canines, and bit down. Hard. Hard enough that a drop of blood welled up at the place where he'd broken the skin. He held out so that she could clearly see he'd injured himself. Then he focused his energy, brought the thumb back up to his mouth and... licked it.

And when he held his hand out again, the tiny wound had completely disappeared.

[Emily Littleton] Emily was through with words, for a moment. Through with putting extra sounds into the space between them and hoping it conveyed some intelligible meaning. Instead she watched as he bit down on his thumb. Her features contracted in sympathy when he drew his own blood. (Empathetic [Sympathetic]). He could feel her flinch at the imagined pinch, as if he'd bitten down on her thumb instead. (The problem with a beautiful mind is that you're never quite in control of where it might wander.)

When Jarod licked closed his wound and brought his hand down to where she could see it, Emily's gaze ran gently over the flesh made new. Slowly, with achingly gentle care, she reached out to run her fingertips over the newly closed wound. So gently that they were both painfully aware of the whorls and ridges of one another's fingerprints sliding past. She cradled his hand for a moment and then, still holding it, looked up toward him.

Her eyes sought his, and while there was wonder in those stormy orbs there was also acceptance. She didn't question what he had done, argue its plausibility, stand on imaginary principles. Most of all, Emily did not push him away or built walls of words between them. He'd shown her magic -- visceral, timeless, vulgar acts of creation -- and she was fascinated.

She also had the overwhelming desire to kiss him.

Instead, Emily gently curled her fingers around his. The corners of her mouth turned ever so slightly upward. She spoke one word into the scant space between them.

"Wonderful."

Oh yes. Emily Littleton believed in magic. She didn't quite know why, or how it worked just yet. She wasn't sure she cared. But it was (he was) genuinely made of stardust and full of wonders. She didn't even try to clear her head, to focus and make sense of it all. It was enough to simply be present, be awed, and believe.

[Jarod Nightingale] The thing about cats, is that they were patient. They could sit perfectly still in the shadows and wait all day for exactly the right moment to leap out and pounce on their intended prey. Since the moment Emily had gotten into his car, Jarod had not exhibited any particular outward signs of wanting to do anything more than simply talk with her. He could have done nothing more than that all night, if the conversation had been suitably intriguing (which this one certainly had been.)

But ultimately instinct took over, as it always did, for him. It was his nature. Emily's body invited him in, and he wanted to respond... so he did. Leaning in again, it seemed perhaps as if he might whisper something to her again, but instead his breath tickled at the ridges of her ear as he bent a little lower, lips finding the delicate skin just beneath the corner of her jaw and touching there with such a delicate softness that it almost couldn't be felt. Almost. (Unless, of course, she pulled away.)

[ ...Pause... ]

Soup kitchen

[Emily Littleton] It was still raining, and the moisture turned grit to grime, dust to mud, and strands of Emily's dark hair to clinging tendrils. Her jeans were smudged with the packing dirt from cardboard boxes. She wore a long-sleeved lavender tee under a darker purple tee shirt and her jacket was stashed elsewhere (probably a car someplace). Some place she didn't have to worry about it. A thin silver chain just peeked out above her shirts' neckline, but the locket she wore was tucked under and hidden from view.

Emily moved the lighter boxes, taking them out from the loading space and into the kitchens. She couldn't carry much, but the girl had heart. She also kept tally of what had been received on a worn clipboard. The young woman had a clear voice, and gave simple direct instructions, so she'd been tasked with coordinating these efforts and sending on to other sites what they didn't need.

It was a busy place, thrumming with strange voices and punctuated with the steady fall of rain. When Emily finally caught a break, she could be found sitting on a pallet under a metal overhang, listening to the falling rain and sipping off a half-full water bottle. The clipboard was held loosely, resting against her knee, and for a moment there was nothing going hither or thither.

[Enid Geraint] Enid, who is quietly efficient and not - at the moment, at least - prone to stopping for too much in the way of conversation, was assigned to serving food. There are a lot of people, as is to be expected in difficult economic times, and it was a relief of sorts for the girl who seemed to be getting an awful lot of looks askance. Her jeans are old and naturally worn rather than artfully tonight, and her shirt a long sleeved green one that proclaimed her the captain of a private school track and cross country team in yellow.

Eventually, though, she too needed a break, and stepped outside - out from under the awning briefly, to let some of the rain fall down on her (wetting straight red hair and slender shoulders) before eying the pallet Emily was sitting on.

"Okay if I join you?"

It's a pleasant enough voice, but lacks the strength and clarity that training (or a few more years) would bring. Her eyes, when met, are a warm and rich brown, melting chocolate, and her healthy-pale skin is considerably freckled.

[Emily Littleton] "Be my guest," she said warmly. Emily's about four years older than Emid, works just as hard, seems just as efficient. And Enid reminds Emily a lot of herself, four years younger. As much as a stranger could, after all. A stranger with a life that let her cultivate titles like captiain of a private school track and cross country team.

"Tomorrow's going to be crazy," she said, as much to herself as to the other girl. Emily rolled her shoulders a bit and set the clipboard beside her. There was more than enough room for Enid still. She tipped her head from side to side, making the damp mess of curls that had once been an ordered ponytail sway lazily behind her. This close, Enid could tell that Emily's eyes were actually a profoundly dark shade of blue. From far away they were just "dark."

[Enid Geraint] "Tomorrow, my dad and I are both working," the younger girl says as she sits, her legs automatically pulling up to Indian style (or criss-cross applesauce, as the kids are calling it these days) in front of her. There's a smile, friendly and of the endearingly crooked variety - one that finds perfect in its imperfections. She's had braces, this girl, and they've come off relatively recently - it's made clear in the way she holds her mouth, the way her lips move as she talks.

"Then there's dinner at home. A bunch of his friends come over and they pretend they know what they're talking about when they yell at the game, but really it's just on in the background while they talk about other stuff." She's not complaining in the slightest - in fact, it's spoken with the fond exasperation that goes along with the kind of father-daughter relationship that most people think only exists in fiction. "What're you doing that makes it crazy?"

[Emily Littleton] Emily's old enough to be of the Indian-style generation. The trailing end of it, though, and not yet so old as to remember card catalogues at the library and the smell that accompanied them. Neither of them would remember life before cell phones or email, or all the way back to when pay phones cost a quarter.

"I meant around here. Thanksgiving's pretty crazy at the kitchens. Doesn't seem to matter what city you're in," she added the last with an aire of confidence. She'd seen more than one soup kitchen in more than one neighborhood, possibly on more the one continent ... her voice had that unplaceable lilt to it of someone who was foreign, but not necessarily from any one place.

"It's great that you get so much time with your dad," she said. "Is he around today, too?"

[Enid Geraint] "No, he had a last minute meeting with a student," she says with a roll of her eyes and a tone that says she wishes it hadn't happened that way. "He would have been, otherwise. He'd be the geeky one going on about mythology and Arthur and all that." Again, it's fond exasperation, and it pegs her dad as a teacher somewhere.

"And yeah, it does get crazy; we've worked this one every year since I was old enough. Mom used to help too, but then there were promotions and stuff. She travels a lot." This gets a wrinkled nose and a shrug; Enid's not nearly as close with her mother as her father, tone and expression say, though she's probably still young enough that she wants her mommy more than the average adult would. "She also hates it, being down here. So it's better in the end, I guess."

Enid's accent is all Great Lakes, and more specifically, all Chicago - uptown Chicago, but Chicago none the less. If she's traveled, she's never stayed in one place long enough for its timbre to color her voice.

"What about you? Got any goofy family traditions?" Absently, her hand goes to a little lump under her shirt; her fingers rub at it like a younger child's might at the silky on a favorite blanket, and a gold chain leads down to it.

[Emily Littleton] "My dad travels a lot for work, too," Emily said, casually enough. She shrugged a bit, too. "My mom's with him. I think they're in..." she stopped, and had to think about it for quite awhile, "Taipei?" At least that's where she thought they were, this year.

"We don't really celebrate together, and Thanksgiving's the type of holiday that doesn't happen much overseas. I guess this is my tradition. Coming here and helping out. At least I feel like I get a bit of the holiday spirit in, and it's better than referree-ing squabbles between my flatmates over who gets to watch which game when."

[Enid Geraint] "Ah, yeah. I guess it would be." Then, she seizes on, "They're in Taipei? I'm supposed to spend part of next semester there." It's not quite trailing off, but there's something else that was almost but not quite added there. "But most of it on the mainland. Getting more fluent and all that," she says with a wave of her hand that isn't quite as dismissive as it might seem; she understands the value of such an experience, certainly.

"And we don't celebrate, exactly. I like to cook, so I make whatever I feel like. Dad and the guys eat it, and we all yell at the TV until I get bored and leave them to that and the inevitable poker game," she says with a smirk. "I swear, it's like living with a bunch of college kids. Which I suppose they come by honestly, since that's who they spend a lot of their time with."

[Emily Littleton] "It's nice over there," she said, and there was a wistfulness to her tone for a moment that sounded an awful lot like homesickness. Emily drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them, stretching out her back.

"I like to cook, too, but have no place to do it. When we had houses, or real flats at the least, I cooked for my parents. Sometimes we had only a microwave, fridge and the bathroom sink and then it was a lot of take-out and reheating. Living with roommates makes it hard to cook up anything more complicated than a quesadilla." Emily chuckled a little.

"Your dad teaches, I'm guessing? Where about?"

[Enid Geraint] "University of Chicago," she says with a grin. "That's where I'm going when I get back from China; their pre-law is best in the state." In theory, anyway, but she doesn't feel any need to go into detail about that. She's in a good mood today, and has been leaning towards thinking maybe it'll all work out for a while now.

She'd noticed the bit of wistfulness, and now asks, "Are you from there, then? We had an exchange student, when I was little. But so far, I've only been for a couple summer vacations."

[Emily Littleton] "I lived there for awhile," she said, not really dodging the question but not entirely sure how to answer it either. "We moved around a lot. I've lived in Chicago longer than anywhere else at this point, but that's mostly because of Uni."

Emily stretched, and looked back over her shoulder, through the open door and into the warehouse that served as the soup kitchen's dining room. Things were pretty calm inside, as all the heavy lifting was over and nightfall was pushing everyone indoors to settle down.

"And Taipei's in Taiwan," she chided Enid lightly. "The Chinese won't mind if you mix it up, but the Taiwanese will get rather prickly about it."

[Enid Geraint] There's a wrinkled nose grin and a briefly stuck out tongue; Enid has all the hallmarks of a popular girl, but not one of the nasty ones most often portrayed in movies and on TV. She's pretty without being too much so, goofy without being ridiculous, and apparently smart without being eggheaded; it's a good combination, and works well even in this setting, where it's just two girls who barely know each other and haven't yet exchanged names. "I know it is, it's just cumbersome to always do all the separating. I'm going to spend a week or two in the various islands, but most of the time in Beijing and Changzhou. I get to tour quite a bit, but I have an internship that'll suck up some of the time."

Girl has to have connections to get that - but then, she'd said her mom travels a lot for work.

"Suggestions of must see places will be greatly appreciated, if you have any."

[Emily Littleton] Emily might have been a popular girl, if she'd stayed in one place long enough to make those sort of social connections. She's effortlessly nice looking, without being pretty enough to inspire competition. She carries herself well, and seems rather collected. She's easy to talk to, and there's a subtle sense of calm around her that's pervasive. The two of them could make friends easily enough wherever life took them, they were that type of girl. And Emily, for her part, seemed to be genuinely nice once you got past the foreign accent and likelihood that she'd up-and-move-away before anyone noticed.

"Hunan has some wonderful landscapes, and Sichuan has amazing food--if you like spicy foods. If you don't like the heat, stay out of Sichuan," Emily said with a little laugh. "I don't know much about sight-seeing, besides that there's a southern Island with amazing beaches that's worth a few days. We were there right before dad's trip ended. It reminds me of Hawaii a little..."

Emily didn't give any outward indication that she thought Enid was overly-privileged or connected. Perhaps in Emily's world, internships in China were normal fare. Or maybe travel didn't seem as spectacularly shiny after you'd lived on the road for a few months (years).

"Will you be there all summer? It's awfully muggy in the summers. Takes awhile to get used to, even after Midwestern summers."

[Enid Geraint] "January through the end of June," she says with a shake of her head. "I'm graduating in December and spending Christmas with my dad - Mom may be in town then too - and New Year's with some family friends at Steamboat. Then off to China and points east."

She's obviously making mental note of Emily's suggestions, and the bit about spicy foods gets a grin. "I love spicy. Especially with that bean sauce with the bit of sweet, you know? But we've had hot pepper eating contests, and not with the weak stuff that tends to grow around here." It seems fitting, that kind of story - it's not difficult to imagine this girl getting up to all sorts of shenanigans in the right company.

"Are you going back? To Taipei, I mean. You sound like you miss it."

[Emily Littleton] Emily shook her head. "Not for awhile. I've got to finish Uni, and then we'll see. There's a lot of places I miss, and Taipei's a bit furhter away than most of the others."

She looked out across the parking lot. What began as inconvenient puddles mid-morning had become a sea of inches-deep water with hardly any dry islands. The rain just wouldn't let up, but rain was better than snow.

"You sound really excited. I think you'll do great out there." Emily had no idea what it was Enid was going to intern in, or why the younger girl was headed overseas or graduating in December. From what she'd gathered from her college classmates, most people graduated in June in the States.

Emily reached up with one hand and fingered the chain around her neck. All this talk of far away places had left her feeling out of place and a little lonely. Her fingers closed around a small, oval bit of silver, and she exhaled. Her shoulders released a little bit of tension that neither girl had noticed building up, and for a moment the sounds of chairs, clinking forks, layered voices, all streaming out from inside seemed further away. Distant and less immanent.

[Enid Geraint] Enid hardly notices the rain, though the puddles turned small lake get a wrinkled nose. "It's going to be a pain getting out of here," is her understatement, and then Emily's locket catches her eye. "That's pretty. Does it have pictures of your parents in it, or something?"

She doesn't mean to pry or anything; she's just curious, is all. Her own hand still rests over the little bump in her shirt, just below the hollow of her throat; occasionally, when she turns this way or that, the light from inside glints on a thin gold chain.

[Emily Littleton] "It was my grandmother's," Emily says, letting the locket rest on the backdrop of her dark purple tee so Enid could see it better. "It might have opened years ago, but never since I got it. When I was little, I used to pretend that something really important was hidden inside, and that's why it wouldn't open. It was protecting something."

She laughed a little, and it was a pretty sound. The locket was old, silver, and faintly inscribed with some sort of scroll work. The dark patina was heavy along the claspside. Emily's fingertips grazed it again, and she said fondly, "It's a little bit of home--wherever that is-- to take with me. That's what my mom said when she gave it to me. Sort of silly and sentimental, but I like it."

[Enid Geraint] "It's nice to have stuff from family - well, stuff that has meaning, not just . . . you know. And maybe it is protecting something - you," she says with a quirk of her lips. "This was my great-grandma's," comes added as she tugs the chain until a gold ring, also well aged, and with some rather nice scroll work around it, pops out of her shirt. "She had Alzheimer's. Wouldn't let my grandma have it, but Grandma didn't mind. Wouldn't let my mom have it, and she was pissed. Then she gave it to me."

While there's nothing particularly special about Enid unless one is looking closely, the ring nearly glows; its warmth can be felt, and there's the impression - not quite scent, but almost - of green and growing things.

[Emily Littleton] "It's beautiful..." Emily says, knowing full well that it's not the right word for something that emmanates a nearly palpable energy. While she knew beautiful was the wrong word, Emily had no clue where to start finding the right descriptors.

The older girl's features were soft, perhaps from the shared sentimentality of the moment, or perhaps becuase of confluence of warm and comforting overtones. In a rainy backlot surrounded by vagrants with no place to call home, the two girls had stumbled on one of those moments that left one certain that everything was going to work out of the best and there was some rightness to the world as they knew it. (Ain't nothing wrong but the rain...).

The moment lingers... and starts to fade. "Think we should go inside?"

[Enid Geraint] "Probably," the younger girl says with a smirk, amused. "The food line'll start backing up soon if it hasn't already - dinner time and all that. "I'm Enid, by the way," she says, offering a hand which, when taken, is one part warm and green-growy and two the sort of cold that feels like it'll eat away everything. Despite the latter being the primary feeling, the former seems more natural with her; it's an interesting juxtaposition, certainly. "It's nice meeting you."

[Emily Littleton] "Emily," she replied, shaking Enid's glowy-green-icy-hot hand. Despite the calmness Emily seemed to spread around her, there was nothing special to her handshake. "It's nice to meet you, too."

She pushes herself up from the palette, making a cursory effort to brush off as much dried dirt as possible, knowing it's a losing battle in a place like this. Then she reclaims her clipboard and offers a hand to help Enid up. "That's a neat name," she said, a little belatedly, as if she'd needed time to catch just how unusual it was.

[Enid Geraint] "Dad's a mythology professor," she says with a shrug, "and his thesis was in Arthurian legend. My last name is Geraint - Enid was Geraint's wife." She's wry but grinning, amused. "I told you, he's a geek. Adorable, though." For a dad, says her tone and the look in her eyes.

Of course the hand up was taken, and Enid doesn't bother with trying to wipe off her pants; she's working with food, though, so her hands will be a different story when she gets in.

"You staying in the back still? It'd be cool to have someone to talk to up front," she says as they're going back through the door.

[Emily Littleton] Most of the girls she met didn't talk about their dads that way. Unless they were trying to set them up. Emily very much doubted that Enid had any intention of setting her dad up with a girl she met at soup kitchen, much less one that was the right age to be one of his students. She took it as a quirk and left it there. Or maybe it was a Chicagoan thing that Emily just hadn't picked up on yet.

"Most of the backroom stuff is done for now. I can give you guys a hand up front if you like," she offered. She glanced down at her arms and thought better of it for a moment. "I've got a sweater in the car and I can change into. Something a bit less dusty." No one wanted packing dirt in their dinner, regardless of how hungry or poor they may be.

"I'll meet you up front when I've cleaned up?" she asked.

[Enid Geraint] "Sounds good." And with that, Enid's heading in to wash up and get back to work. She's met by a few friendly looks but mostly by quiet not-quite-distrust; some of the people know her, but not all of them, and some are more familiar with last month's happenings than others.

It's a pretty efficient assembly line style of service out front - someone in charge of rolls, someone of veggies, a couple people of the meat (a nondescript meatloaf tonight, though tomorrow will be turkey) and so on down the line. Enid is, for the moment, alone at the meat, though there's space for another person - it's busy and requires quick work to handle it alone, but she doesn't mind, and it doesn't get backed up too much because of it.

[Emily Littleton] When Emily comes back, she's traded the layered tee-shirt look for a pretty wool sweater. Her hair has been neatly rebound, swirled into a bun at the nape of her neck where it won't get loose during food service. While her jeans are still smudged, she's washed her hands and mostly cleaned up.

Inside the building, it's harder to tell her eyes are blue not brown. Her cheeks are lightly pinked after all the time they spent outside. That calm undertone has been subdued, nearly hidden by the throng of voices and the clutter of people around them. She blends in to the surroundings more than Enid, with her icy-green-warm overtone.

"Looks like I'm helping you," she said, sliding in beside Enid and setting to work helping with the meatloaf. "Not that you need it," she jibbed lightly.

[Enid Geraint] "Of course I do, are you kidding me? Look at that," she says, pointing at the line that's growing, despite her best efforts; she hadn't been letting get too backed up, but one person is one person, and when it gets dark - full dark - and cold and everyone comes in at once, the task gets more daunting by the minute. "Besides, like I said, it'll be nice to have someone to talk to."

True enough, the conversation does go around her, sometimes sticking until it can dislodge itself - she's a rock in the middle of a river, and a stumbling point, which is odd given the easy flow of conversation outside, and the general impression she gives.

"So what're you studying?"

[Emily Littleton] She'd been giving Enid a hard time, and it seemed like it had worked. Emily grinned broadly, the sort of smile that was infectious, and got to work helping whittle down the line. The temperature dropped steadily indoors, and the people they were serving progressively seemed worse off in their lot in life, but Emily treated them all the same and wished each of them a Happy Thanksgiving.

"Engineering," she answered Enid in a lull. "My dad was real big on the pick a major with a career path thing, but I think I'll stick around for a Master's if I can." She threw it out there the way some people would say they were a Soc' or Pyschology major. Like it was no big thing and everyone could be an Engineer if they wanted. It was just a lot of math and physics after all.

"You're going to pre-law, right? Poli Sci?" she hazarded a guess.

[Enid Geraint] "Yeah, with an eventual eye for foreign policy, I think." Which explains, at least partly, the internship in China. And serving falls into a neat rhythm, where one person goes to Emily and the next to Enid and so forth down the line. Engineering doesn't get an odd look from the younger girl - she talks about law, and rather complicated fields thereof, in a similar manner. "I think mom wanted me to go into business, but I worked a summer at her company. Couldn't stand the place - all . . . I dunno. Cold and structured. And I know law is too, but there's give, you know? New precedents are set every day."

[Emily Littleton] "Law can be very human," she observes, inbetween the steady flow of people. "You know, it's a strange coincidence, and not all the field you want, but I met one of the A.D.A.'s last night at a coffee shop of all places. I don't know if I'll see him again or anything, but I've got his card..."

Emily mentioned it off-hand. If that friendship went anywhere, maybe she could offere Enid some insights to her chosen field via an expert. The elder girl's smile curled oddly when she mentioned the lawyer, as if there was some fond recollection playing out in her mind. Or a teensy crush.

Maybe.

[Enid Geraint] "Ooooh," Enid teases. "You liiiiiiiike him." That's with a light elbow nudge and the easy camaraderie that only people who've spent years on teams manage so quickly and easily. "But seriously, that'd be really awesome. If China falls through or whatever, it'd be cool to have someone in the field here. It's a hard club to break into, you know - just as much as any other, I guess."

Then, "That's funny, I know someone else who knows an A.D.A too. She was going to talk to him about a case for me - I wonder if she did. I should call her."

[Emily Littleton] "I don't know if I like him," Emily said, blushing a bit, "But he's certainly easy on the eyes, and a terrible flirt." She shrugged it off, trying to stop the pink in her cheeks that would flush her whole face if Enid teased further.

"But now I have a reason to call him. He and I should be friends, at least, so that if my good soup kitchen friend Enid needs a foot in the door when she gets back from her internship in China... well, we'll have connections." She spoke playfully and grandly. It was the stuff of younger girls building castles in the clouds, except that they were old enough to know they had to root their daydreams in something. "Sound like a plan?"

[Enid Geraint] "You look like you like him." It's the last of the teasing, at least in that vein, and there's more meatloaf served up before, she adds, "Yeah, call him. You can never know too many people, right? Especially in your potential field, even if it's a different branch."

There's quiet again, and thoughtful, and, "But you might not want to tell him my name right away." It's a strange, curious thing, that; given what they're talking about, one would think it'd behoove her to have an A.D.A know her name. Still, she hesitates.

[Emily Littleton] "No mind," she says. Enid's got to have her reasons, and Emily doesn't need to pry. It's an easy acquiesence, paired with a friendly smile.

The elder girl rolled her shoulders again, and tipped her head from side to side. She blinked a few times, as if she was getting tired, and then went right back to work. Chatting with Enid as they went. "I had a crazy night last night," she said, letting the conversation wander into the realm of chit-chat and girl talk. "Usually people leave me alone when I studying -- I guess guys aren't in to girls who study calculus like a religion," she quipped lightly. "But not last night. By the end of the evening, there were three guys sitting with me, and I swear at least two were chatting me up. What are the odds? That never happens. You know?" She glanced over at Enid.

"My roommates wouldn't believe me," she added, hoping Enid would get a good laugh out of it. Or maybe confirm her secret worry that it had been a mean-spirited prank of some sort. Emily wasn't the sort of girl that stopped traffic or drew crowds. Not usually.

[Emily Littleton] The time had passed more quickly than Emily noticed. Soon the tension in her neck and shoulders told her it was time to take a breather.

"C'mon, break time," she told the younger girl, motioning with her head to the outdoors and the palette again. "Someone else will spell us."

The two wandered back out to the loading dock, where it was colder and damper than before. The rain continued to fall on the metal overhang, accented with the muffled sounds of the soup kitchen indoors. Their breath made small clouds against the night, illuminated by a bare bulb in a cage near the doorway.

Emily arched her back and heard it pop in about three places.

[Wharil Choc] These girls share more in common than they might ever know. They're both new to this world, or at least new to seeing it from this special new vantage point. And perhaps they both notice things.

For instance, loading dock in the back isn't as empty as one would expect. Its wet and its cold, and its a far sight less comfortable than it is inside. But still, for at least one person its preferable to being inside. He's sitting against the exterior wall, but well under the overhang, kept warm by the layers of filthy, ragged clothes that obscured most of his form. A gnarled hand attached a painfully bony arm reaches out to stab at a morsel of meatloaf, and the same trembling hand carries the food carefully up to a hollow, toothless mouth.

He chews. Or she does. Its heard to tell really. And while it seems like a struggle, the pitiful creature does eat, all the while being encouraged by a nearby voice.

"That's it. That's it, Jackie. You're doing great."

For a reason neither of them were probably ready to understand, he's hardly noticeable until he speaks. Until he moves. Until he lifts his head and turns to the two girls that have just joined them outside. Before he was a shadow on the periphery. Now he's just a guy in a long, dark wool coat. A guy with beautiful but bright eyes, and a smile that grows slowly, but glimmers brightly.

"Hi guys. What are you two doing here?"

[Emily Littleton] Emily hadn't noticed him at all, until he spoke. She hadn't really seen that the pile of rags and shapes was a person, either. For her part, she didn't recognize W-- that guy-- at first when he spoke either. Recognition dawned slowly, and incompletely enough that the mild confusion never left her features.

Emily rubbed her arm absently. "We're working inside," she said, casually, with a little shrug. She looked over her shoulder a bit when she said it, too, which shifted her weight a bit and hid that fact that she was so surprised to find anyone out here. Much less W... what's his name again? Emily's fingers fluttered up to her neckline, but didn't pull out her locket just yet.

[Enid Geraint] Enid had noticed the guy sitting out there eating; she'd been about to move towards him, to offer help to go inside where it has to be more pleasant than out here, even with the plethora of unwashed amongst the more recently destitute. There's no reason to sit outside in the cold damp, after all; there are tables enough inside.

And then there's . . . someone, who practically appears out of nowhere, and for all that Enid's younger and quite likely an inch or two shorter, she places herself between the newcomer and Emily. It's an automatic thing, one that would puzzle her if she realized she'd done it. She'd never been the sort to be all protective or defensive, but then? Things change. At any rate, there they are - two young girls on the wrong side of town.

"Soup kitchen night," she says, almost in unison with Emily's 'we're working inside', an eyebrow raised warily - this guy is pinging on her nerves (or is it that he's nervous?) and it's bugging her that she knows she knows him, but can't think of why. Or how. Or a name.

"What're you doing here?"

[Wharil Choc] "Both of you? Both of...you?" His smile turns slightly incredulous and he shifts his head to look at them from an angle.

"Hm. That's...uncanny, really. Maybe theres--"

The bundle of rags starts coughing, hacking and lurching so hard that he drops his fork into the plate with a clatter. Wharil reaches out with no hesitation, despite the smell, patting firmly at what might have been a back, or maybe a shoulder. The coughing subsides, and the struggle feeding ones self continues.

"I'm just...waiting on my friend here." He says, smiling wryly at who knows what.

[Emily Littleton] She's distracted by the incredulousness in his tone. Emily's gaze shifts to Enid, and almost as quickly as the younger girl defensively stepped in before her. The taller, older girl has an misplaced sense of calm about her that doesn't match to her expression. Dark eyes, of a nameless color in the halflight here, shift back to the young man and his friend.

"Can I get you something?" she asks, her voice softened with compassion and confusion. "Water, maybe?" Emily doesn't know what to do for Wharil's friend, who is clearly too close to the edge of their life. Her question trails off and she stands behind Enid, watching the pair with a worried expression.

[Enid Geraint] Enid's brow furrows, eyebrows drawing in together; it has the potential to be quite the Look, as she gets older, but for now she looks like what she is - a petulant teenager. Arms cross in front of her, and furrow deepens into a scowl. It feels patronizing.

She's seventeen.
Patronizing is for little kids.

"Sure, both of us. Why not? I mean, it's not like we're long lost sisters or anything. Are we?" It's a bit of levity, anyway, as she looks back at Emily (who isn't that far behind her, or completely blocked, just . . . protected), and there's that wrinkle of her nose even amongst the scowl. "Anyway, a lot of the colleges do community service hours with the soup kitchens. It's not that weird."

[Jarod Nightingale] Suddenly, it was like someone had shown a blinding spotlight on a part of the city that wasn't made to be lit up. Cabrini Green was gritty. Forgotten. A part of the city that the more upper class residents would just as soon forget about. In theory that group included people like Jarod. And yet... here he was.

And not by his own designs, either. He was here because someone - a man - had dragged him here. Almost literally. The two of them were standing outside of the soup kitchen, and Jarod, in his long coat, buttoned black silk shirt and designer jeans, was staring (no, a better word would be glaring) in stony silence at his present companion. The shorter of the two, an extremely pretty blond who looked like he might have been around 25 and dressed like he was in grad school, smiled with glib satisfaction and crossed his arms across his chest.

For all his good looks, however, he truly did not compare to the black-haired man staring down at him. Not on a normal night, and certainly not on this night. Tonight, Jarod was so beautiful as to be almost difficult to look at. Perfect in a way real people never were. But there he was... alive and breathing and very much real.

And exceedingly irritated, from the looks of him. Finally he gave an annoyed little growl and rolled his eyes, gesturing for the other man to go in before him. "Fine, but we aren't staying."

[Wharil Choc] "Uhm...Wait. Waait a minute. Are you?"

Where Enid had meant to make light of it, the strange man in the dark wool coat actually seemed to be taking it seriously.

"Me? No, I'm fine. Thanks though."

His hands shuffle through his pockets until he manages to find a packet of cigarettes. A fresh one. He taps it four times against his forearm before opening it.

"Jackie, you mind if I smoke?"

The huddle of rags stops eating. It turns slightly and speaks in a strained, raspy voice. "But...angels don't smoke" Jackie says. Wharil freezes. He stares at the bundle of rags. He puts the packet of cigarettes back.

"Oh...shit."

[Emily Littleton] Sometime in the early evening, Emily had covered up her layered tees with a charcoal lambswool sweater. Paired with jeans, it usually made a reasonably nice, reasonably preppy ensemble. This evening, however, the stripes of grime on her jeans from a long day in the warehouse negated and sense of college-brat-chic the ensemble might have had. Her deep brown curls were bound back at the nape of her neck in a bun, but tendrils had begun escaping and formed a loose halo around her head.

"Um... no," Emily replied. No they weren't sisters of any sort. They looked nothing alike at all, and came from opposite ends of the world as far as families went. "And what did you mean by...."

There was a commotion inside, and Emily broke off her query to check it out. She drifted back toward the open door to see the people inside had bunched up in tighter groups and were pointing out the front at something. No, someone. Adjectives like unearthly and gorgeous were bandied around, along with less friendly words.

"I... think something's going on out front," she said, with a worried undertone. The usual things that went down in Cabrini, at lesat according to the news, were more than she was equipped to handle.

[Enid Geraint] Around the corner, in the area to the side of the soup kitchen, three mages (and a bundle of rags playing the role of homeless man number two) talk as two of them are on break from dishing up filling but relatively tasteless meatloaf. Emily peeks in through the door and Enid's not far behind her; the raised eyebrow and cynicism are unbecoming, really, though it's quite likely practiced. Enid's never seemed the overly cynical sort, after all.

"It's either a photo op for someone, or a junkie. Should I call the cops, just in case?" She's got a mobile, fished from the back pocket of worn and ratty jeans topped by a green shirt with her school and position on the track team in yellow, though without the nickname this time. Straight red hair is in a neat ponytail and any tendril-y bits are held back by an elastic band. It's not particularly flattering, but it works.

"No one wants any trouble. And there's gonna be if they keep talking like that."

[Jarod Nightingale] It was very easy to make assumptions about this man. Snob might come to mind. Although he was dressed a little more casually than he had been the previous night (no more suit-and-tie), he was still obviously ill-placed in this setting, and he knew it just as well as everyone else did. As the two men entered, Jarod folded up the expensive black umbrella he'd been using to keep himself dry and looked around. When the blond who'd dragged him here strode off in the direction of the offices, he didn't seem the slightest bit inclined to follow. On the contrary, he hovered at the perimeter, looking on like some alien species observing animals in a zoo.

But here was the thing. It wasn't so much that he thought himself better than the people here (although he probably did)... it was that the sheer smell of the place seemed to make him genuinely uncomfortable. He was very careful not to touch anything, and couldn't manage the mask the little wrinkle of his nose that occurred of its own volition when he stepped inside. Dirt (and not the natural, earthy kind, but the squalid grime of the inner city), unwashed hair and clothes.... meatloaf.

Frankly, he looked like he felt a bit ill. But for all that, and for all the expectation of trouble... he simply kept to himself and stayed quiet. Simply waiting for his companion to finish whatever it was he'd come there to take care of. And then... he spotted the group of slightly familiar faces hovering across the room, and his eyebrows went up in surprise.

[Wharil Choc] Wharil didn't seem too concerned with what was going on inside. "Follow your instincts, Enid." was the only real instruction he gave as he peered down at the homeless man eating on the loading dock.

[Emily Littleton] "I'm going to go take a look. I'll be right back."

Without waiting on anyone's approval or response, Emily stepped through the door and wove her way between tables, chairs and people toward the line that eclipsed most of the front door. With firm but polite Excuse Mes, she wended her way through the throng and stepped out until she could see what caused all the commotion.

Her breath caught in her throat, much like everyone else's had, and she stared at Jarod. Momentarily rapt, Emily just stared at him like a deer caught in headlights. Then she shook her head, but not the shocked expression, turned on her heel and headed right back to Enid and Wharil.

"I..." she stammered as she came out the door. "He..." Again, no complete sentence, just an oddly agape mouth and a few syllables. "Gorgeous," she said, decisively, but none too helpfully. "And here." And, oh God, she looked like hell.

[Ashley McGowen] If it weren't for the fact that the office is closed, Ashley would be one of those people that tries to work over the holidays. Not because the woman is necessarily a workaholic - though one certainly might think so, given her various duties - but because there's simply no one she really wants to see.

But the office -is- closed, classes are called off, even the Order of Hermes chapter in Boston is shut down, and that leaves her without much to do on a Wednesday night. And rather than staying shut up in her apartment she's wandered down toward the riverfront. It could be that she's there for something, it could be that she just so happened to walk this way. Either way, Ashley isn't telling.

She spots the others outside the building while she's ambling down the sidewalk, and squints for a few seconds as she gets closer.

"Wharil, Enid. Hi."

[Enid Geraint] Enid also looks like hell, but as she hasn't seen the gorgeousness that just walked out of a movie about gorgeous stacked on beautiful inside of awesome (in the truest sense) yet, she's in full possession of her wits. After the knee jerk, ".....how do you know my name?" and Look snapped back at Wharil, she's stepping inside to see what can be done. She's not going out as far as Emily had, though she can see someone headed towards the office door, and a whole lot of grimy (and less grimy) homeless and/or destitute folk flocking around some unfortunate soul.

Or, she assumes unfortunate. She can't see who's at the center of the knot, but can feel tension and discontent and awe and wonder and all sorts of things, both bad and good, ratcheting up exponentially by the moment.

This is what happens when normal people are presented with things that are to beautiful to exist; even people who appear as gorgeous as Jarod does tonight on screen seldom look much better than average if one runs into them on the street.

These people are not normal; these are people who are on there last dime and last drop of hope. A hand finds its way to the fabric of Jarod's shirt, and another grabs almost blindly at some bit of him - the former is a young girl, younger than Enid, even, and the latter a myopic old man with glasses that would put Professor Trelawney's to shame. It won't be long before the group around Jarod is a mob in the truest sense, and Enid's confusion is edging up towards the red of the 'WTF' meter.

"Dude, I can't even see who they're surrounding. What the heck?" She still has her phone, but doesn't know that calling the cops would be the best of ideas. Then there's Ashley, and though the younger girl doesn't quite relax, there's a sense of 'ooh, a grown-up' about her - a sort of relief. ".....I've never seen them act this way. There've been bad nights, sure, but not like this."

[Wharil Choc] The man in the dark wool coat, now named Wharil, nods. "Hey Ash. Oh, check it out. this is Emily."

One hand turns to point at the stunned young lady.

"And she 'just happened' to be working here with Enid tonight. Isn't that weird?"

[Ashley McGowen] "I've learned to just let these little instances of weirdness just sort of wash over me," Ashley says with a half smile at Wharil, though, upon settling her eyes on Emily, she can't figure out exactly why this would be particularly weird. Unless the woman is one of them, of course, which is entirely a possibility. "Nice to meet you, Emily. I'm Ashley."

Enid calls her attention to the crowd near the door, and Ashley frowns, a bemused expression flitting across her face. "I don't know. I'll have it under control if they come this way, though, don't worry."

[Emily Littleton] Outside, Emily could find her head and start to think clearly again. As the surprise of seeing Jarod again, and here, faded away, she began to realize why Enid was immediately so concerned. Jarod was beautiful in a way that inspired envy (and anxiety) in people who were well-enough off. But these people were not well-enough off. They were destitute, craven, deprived in a way that made Jarod's visage like a mirage. He was so removed from their existance that they wouldn't even dream of men like him, and clearly someone so lofty would have something to give. Something that could be taken to elevate their own position in life.

It made her a little queasy to think about.

Emily looked up when Wharil introduced her, offering Ashley a pleasant but somewhat distracted smile. "Pleased to meet you," she said, and her word were a jumble of several faint accents at once. Too many to place. Emily's hand reached up to her neckline, and her fingers closed around a small silver locket. After a moment, a breath or two, the girl starts to relax and there's a palpable sense of calmness around her. It is faint, but undeniable to Awakened senses.

[Jarod Nightingale] The staring he could handle. The murmuring, the shocked expressions... these were not unusual. They were expected. He ignored them.

What he could not handle... was the touching. And for more reasons than anyone here was ever likely to know about him. That oh-so-carefully crafted aura of aloof detachment would eventually slip. No... it didn't simply slide away, it shattered. Like a thousand little pieces of neurosis raining down. His eyes (dark blue, for all that the shade seemed so impossible when paired with his ethnic features) took on a frightening intensity - like a cornered predator who was about three seconds away from lashing out - and his nostrils flared, and those hands that dared to reach out and actually touch him... he ripped away as if they stung.

He could have done a lot of things just now. Likely, he almost did. But better judgment prevailed in the end, and instead he simply pushed his way back through the crowds and out the front door, leaning against the brick wall outside and taking in deep breaths. He didn't say anything. Didn't acknowledge the others. Simply closed his eyes and breathed and let the light rain fall down on him.

[Enid Geraint] The old man bursts into tears, once Jarod is away, and the young girl murmurs about angels and gods and devils and goodness knows what else and Enid frowns as the room slowly returns to something more akin to normal (now with twenty percent more murmuring about aliens and government entities poking at people's brains); food sloppers go back to food slopping and Enid, who saw what happened (or rather, saw the crowd break for the hasty, obviously upset exit, says, "I'll be right back," and cuts through the crowd to (against her better judgement, given Emily's reaction) check on him.

"Hey," comes the voice, quiet, non-intrusive and young, and with no attempt to touch. "You alright?"

[Ashley McGowen] The calm aura that surrounds Emily is rather offset by Ashley's; despite her small, trim, almost scholarly appearance, Ash has an uncomfortable presence. Something about her feels vaguely predatory - perhaps it's in the way she seems to size up the flocks of people inside the kitchen. Either way, it's a lurking, oppressive presence, one that tugs at the untouched corners of the mind.

She looks at Emily again, briefly, and then watches Enid, eyes following the girl as she approaches the man that seems to have caused the scene.

Once she's noticed Jarod, her eyebrows raise. "I know that guy," she says, with a hint of surprise that indicates that she hasn't really learned to take these odd occurrences as much in stride as she claimed.

[Wharil Choc] "What guy?" Wharil asks. He hasn't moved from the man in rags who weakly shovels food into his mouth and chews, fatigued but with relish. He was, like he'd said, here for him.

[Emily Littleton] Ashley's aura made it very unlikely that Emily was letting go of that pendant any time soon. She toyed with it a little, but didn't consciously recognize that she clung to it like a life raft in stressful situations.

"Yeah..." Emily's tone mimicked Ashley's surprise. "Jarod, is it?" She looked between Wharil and Ashley, hoping someone would confirm the name. "I met him last night, in a coffee shop."

Then she paused, and looked over at Wharil a bit more intently. But the name she was trying to remember (his) would not leap to her mind, nor would the circumstances under which they'd met. "And... you were there...?" she asked him, nowhere near as certain about this fact as she'd been about Jarod.

[Wharil Choc] He turns to her, nodding and smiling amiably.

"Yeah. Huh. That guy. And he's attracted a crowd, has he?"

Wharil shrugs, leaning back against the wall and glancing to Ashley.

"The nail that sticks out. Man, I'm telling you. If we don't get some organization around here..."

He just shakes his head, letting that complete the statement.

[Ashley McGowen] At Wharil's question, Ash simply points toward the attractive model. "Yeah, Jarod," she says, with a sidelong look out of her right eye at Emily. "He and I investigated a house in Bronzeville a couple of months ago. Never turned up anything." She takes a seat near Wharil and the man in rags, though she edges a little away from the man as soon as she sits down. "Wonder what he's doing here. Doesn't really seem to be his type of place."

"We need organization, you're right, but it sounds like every other attempt has failed miserably."

[Jarod Nightingale] By all accounts, one should not be concerned for the man in the long black coat. Never feel sorry for someone whom fate had so clearly smiled upon. Especially not when there were so many people whose own luck had been disastrous. And here he was, clearly upset by the interaction, for all that he desired not to show it. Disgusted. Unsettled.

Suddenly, he wanted a shower more than anything in the world. But his self-control was coming back now, and he opened his eyes when the red-haired teenager addressed him, blinking back a bit of rain that had caught in his eyelashes.

"Yeah, I'm fine." This was stated a little coldly, his voice flat and emotionless. "My date obviously has a sense of humor." And from the looks of things... it wasn't one that he appreciated. And speak of the devil... the blond poked his head outside, then grinned when he saw Jarod standing there.

"I leave you alone for five minutes and you damn near cause a riot."

Jarod leveled an absolutely frozen look at the other man. "You know, I've got an idea... how about you take the train home?"

The blond's smile faltered, and he frowned. "Oh come on, don't be like that."

"I've got other things I need to take care of, anyway. I'll call you." And he said it in that dismissive way that could just as easily have meant he never planned on speaking to him again. The blond seemed a little taken aback, but he accepted the response with a sigh, turning to walk down the street towards the nearest El station. Somewhere down the way he muttered: asshole, and whether Jarod heard it or not, he didn't react.

Instead, the Verbena looked at Enid as if he either expected her to leave or do something interesting.

[Emily Littleton] Ashley got a slightly quizzical look from Emily when she mentioned the house, but that faded into a general cluelessness that the brunette didn't try to too hard to obscure.

"I'm going to go check on them," she said as Ashley and Wharil settled into talking shop. "Do you want anything, Ashley? There are some water bottles in the back. I can bring you one," she offerred politely. Her dark eyes (to deep to tell the color in this halflight) flicked between Wharil and Ashley for a moment, and something about her posture seemed to say she was excusing herself giving them privacy to discuss their business.

After an answer, or a long enough pause, Emily slipped through the doorway again and headed for the other exit. She slipped her hands into her jean pockets and slumped her shoulders a bit as she walked. Oddly, she felt less on edge around the throng of homeless people that the small grouping on the loading dock. She was trying not to ruminate too much on that as she stepped out the front door and looked around for Enid.

She got to the doorway just in time to see the lovers' quarrel. Taking in the frozen tone, the retreating blonde, and the way Jarod was looking at Enid, Emily suddenly felt just as edgy here as she had out back.

"Everything... okay?" she asked, her voice forced into a level tone.

[Enid Geraint] He looked at her

(Oh holy shit he looked at me he's gorgeous will he give me his autograph can I have his babies what the hell am I thinking I don't care oh god)

and she very nearly stopped breathing; her hand rose from her side, where it was hooked into the pocket of her jeans (worn and dirty, with food bits here and there - but with a long sleeved t-shirt proclaiming her captain of a ritzy private school's cross country team) and stopped, hovered between them for a moment with her staring at it, mortified; the battle with herself was visible, but eventually her hand just smoothed hair that was already in place neatly (if not very attractively) and settled back at her side.

"Um. Okay then. I . . ."

And then, thankfully, there was Emily - and Enid nearly as incoherent as she'd been upon returning from seeing Jarod there.

"I'll just . . . um. Get back to work? Or go talk to Ashley. Or. Um. Something."

Though she doesn't leave yet; one gets the impression of a star struck fan, and if Enid realized it, she'd close herself in a room and swear she was never coming out from the embarrassment.

[Wharil Choc] "Did Marla send you? To the house, I mean."

Wharil didn't say much to Emily's offer. He just smiles pleasantly and waits for Ashley to either accept or not.

[Ashley McGowen] "I'd like a bottle of water, please," she says. Then she watches Emily go, mildly confused. Maybe she was mistaken in her evaluation of the woman.

Looking back at Wharil, she shakes her head. "There was a trail that started in Chinatown and I followed it out to the house. Jarod did the same, I think. We checked out the house but we never really found anything conclusive."

[Emily Littleton] Enid's embarrassment was palpable, and not only because she was blushing so hard that her face gave off heat. Emily placed a hand on her shoulder and said gently, "I think Ashley wanted a bottle of water." It was an out, offered in the easiest tone of voice possible as soon as the younger girl stopped stammering.

[Jarod Nightingale] A nicer person would have been more gentle. Jarod could be nice, when he wanted to be. Evidently, now wasn't one of those times. Or at least... it hadn't been. He watched Enid's reaction, taking in her embarrassment and her dazed expression, but he neither commented on this nor felt the need to alleviate her discomfort. If she wanted to go, she'd go. If she wanted to stay, she'd stay. At the least, perhaps she ought to be grateful that he'd quickly placed her into the category of: too young, which, although it tended to mean he'd be dismissive, was at least more appropriate than a few other reactions he could have had.

"You do that then," he added, and at the least... his voice did sound less icy. More neutral. And he glanced in Emily's direction as she repeated the sentiment that Enid had already expressed. Was everything okay? Why yes, everything was just ducky. He cocked his head a little when he looked at her, and then... miraculously, he smiled. It lacked emotion, but it was better than glaring.

"I must have caused quite a fuss to get so much attention."

[Wharil Choc] "Hm." He says thoughtfully. "Well, I guess they can't all madcap adventures, eh?"

Just then, the man in rags sets his platter aside. He breathes. Its a noticeable thing as it seems to take some sort of effort. The struggle seems to get Wharil's attention. He kneels, one hand against the homeless man's back, another reaching out to hold his hand.

"Jackie?" Wharil says softly, glancing nervously at Ashley. "You with me Jackie? I think its time. Don't worry though. I'm here."

[Ashley McGowen] Ashley watches the exchange between Wharil and the homeless man, and is quiet for a long moment. Really, Wharil's nervous glance coupled with what she knows about his Tradition tells her everything she needs to know - or enough to jump to conclusions, depending on what's going on.

"Need to leave, Wharil?"

[Enid Geraint] Blink. Blink.

Enid's red turns nearly purple and she almost trips over her own feet as she turns to not-quite-flee the overwhelming mortification of the situation (she's in high school, and pretty, popular girl or not, she knows what it's like to have people laughing and talking and pointing and staring, and this feels about like that). There's pausing in the back room to gather not one water bottle but four, and she's still red to the tips of her ears when she looks back at Ashley (and Wharil, whose name she'd heard but forgotten about the time of her second step away), but can't quite meet eyes. "'m not going back out there," she mutters, clearly missing the subtlety and nuance to what she's encroaching upon as she offers out the three extra bottles of water.

[Emily Littleton] "I didn't expect to see you here," she said warmly, but the undercurrent was plain enough. (Someone like you ...). She was stereotyping him, and Emily knew it, but he was more out of place here than she was. Emily tucked her thumbs into her back pockets, feigning nonchalance. It came off fairly natural, if Jarod could forget that she'd ducked out of the room when she first saw him that evening. This time, however, Emily had Enid to worry about and the undoubtedly underage high school likely needed Emily to be a bit more grown up than scurrying around corners and falling over herself.

Even still, it was difficult to look at Jarod without staring. To look at him as a person, not a deeply attractive and somewhat surreal man.

"If you don't want to cause a fuss, you may want to come around back. There are fewer people." Not enough to form a mob, or close him in. As she's talking to him, Enid evaporates and Emily's left talking to him, fielding the stares of passersby. She is not as used to unwanted attention as Jarod is, or the whispers. She looks dirty and unkempt next to him, dark smudges on her jeans and wayward curls peeking out all over her head. People would whisper, point, snicker. Even the people that wandered by here might stare.

She shifted her weight a bit. "Are you okay?" she asked again, wondering if the answer might change now that Enid was elsewhere.

[Wharil Choc] "No, I don't think he can actually...go...anywhere."

Wharil sits this time, not kneeling but matching the emaciated homeless man's position. He tucks himself in close, holding him in a close embrace.

The man heaves. His throat makes a choking sound and his trembling hands reach up to grab at Wharil's coat collar. That only results in both bodies leaning into one another.

"You guys mi--Okay. Okay Jackie. I got you. You guys might not want to be here for this."

[Ashley McGowen] Enid reappears, and all her comment gets from Ashley is a half smile that verges on a smirk. She reaches over and accepts one of the bottles of water. Then the homeless man begins to choke and Wharil embraces him, and Ashley's attention turns back to the Euthanatos.

"I haven't actually seen this done before," is all Ash says. It seems to suggest that she is staying, watching with an air of interest.

[Enid Geraint] "Haven't seen what done before?" That comes first, as she turns to look at Wharil and Jackie, intending to hand them water (which instead gets set on a nearby pallet); there's just a second of study, of hearing that coughing breath, of making a snap judgment which leads too, "He needs help. I'll call an ambulance." This is with more resolve than the bit about the cops was, earlier, but even relatively uneducated in the medical sense, she knows that guy's in trouble.

[Jarod Nightingale] She hadn't expected to see him here, and he actually laughed at that. It was a small laugh, with an edge that was still a little cold. "Can't say I expected to see me here either. The guy I was with... apparently he volunteers here a lot. Much more giving soul than I'll ever be, I'm sure." He sounded neither pleased nor apologetic about this. Simply stating a fact.

The rain was still coming, dampening his hair (though somehow the only affect this had was that he managed to look like he'd just been in a wet photo shoot), and he reached up to run a hand through it before reaching down to re-open the umbrella at his side and step away from the wall. That was when Emily asked him if he was alright, and he sighed softly, though the look on his face was slightly amused.

"Do I not look okay?"

[Wharil Choc] Wharil snaps over his shoulder "What do you want a postcard?"

But the man, Jackie, seems to demand his attention beyond whatever annoyance he might feel at that. Jackie coughs. Its loud and wet. Wet enough for Wharil to suddenly turn his face away, eyes and mouth squeezed shut as he wipes it off in the shoulder of his coat. This is about the point where most people quit. Where their disgust overrides their compassion and they say 'Fuck this shit, I'm going home.'

Instead, as Jackie pants like a tired dog, Wharil hugs him closer.

"Ambulance. Yeah, good idea. No rush though. Right Jackie? No rush."

His face comes closer to Jackie's face. He finds his ears, and he whispers.

[Emily Littleton] Until this point in the evening, Emily had managed to stay relatively dry. Now the failing rain was causing little beads of moisture to sit on the surface of her wool sweater. Soon that would soak through, turning to heavy dampness not unlike Wharil's jacket from the night before. While Jarod managed to look stunning, even when wet, Emily looked even more bedraggled as the dampness besieged her curls.

"You look..." She made the mistake of meeting his eyes mid-sentence, and had to bite her tongue. All of the adjectives that came to mind were either too candid or inappropriate. Her mouth twisted wrily, a faint echo of his amused expression.

"I guess you're okay then," she said, and the words were a little breathy and significantly less resolute. "I'm glad you're okay." Emily kicked herself for the repetition a soon as the words left her mouth. His words registered a bit more fully with her, and she belatedly caught that he'd been here with another guy. That made him a little easier to talk to. Slightly. Not hugely, but every little bit helped.

[Ashley McGowen] Wharil's response prompts a raised eyebrow, and Ashley quickly comes to the realization that this isn't really Tradition business, it's Wharil trying to be there for a dying homeless guy. That makes it a far less interesting occurrence.

Jackie coughs, and in that moment, he's just a dying man and something Ash normally buries deep down finally kicks in. She stands up. "Come on, Enid," she says, taking a hold of the girl's shoulder and guiding her out of the room.

"Wharil will take care of him."

[Jarod Nightingale] Not terribly far away, a much more serious scene was taking place. If anyone ought to have been able to notice this, it was a Verbena. A life mage. But Jarod wasn't trying to sense much of anything right now. Not in the mystical sense, at least. He was just standing out on the sidewalk, listening to the delicate patter of raindrops on his umbrella, and gazing quite fixedly at Emily.

He looked more than okay, so logic dictated that he must, in fact, be okay. A rather flawed logic, unfortunately. Beautiful packages could hold some very unpleasant surprises. But then, he was the one who'd directed her to draw this conclusion in the first place. Perhaps he'd known exactly how she would react. Perhaps he'd been counting on it.

"Hmm," he intoned gently, and the sound was almost like a purr. "Do you really not know what you are?"

[Emily Littleton] Emily's brow furrowed, and she instinctively rocked back on her heels a bit. His tone of voice, and the odd query was enough to catch her off guard. Her head canted a little to the left and she looked at him intently. It may have been the first time she really looked at him, rather than at the assortment of features and perfections that made up his outward mien.

"Come again?" she asked, in that mismatched accent. The words were slow, reaching toward something without really knowing what it was. "What I am?" This, from a vision of a man, was enough to lace her words with incredulousness. No answer that she could imagine would warrant his sussurations or attentions.

[Enid Geraint] "But . . ." there's hesitation, but Enid is young yet; she may have become something new, or whatever, but for the moment it's like a little girl playing dress up with her mother's high heels. Ultimately, she allows herself to be drawn away (leaving the two water bottles for Wharil and Jackie), to a place where she can glare up at Jarod, who'd (inadvertently or not) caused her such discomfort.

Once inside and away from Wh . . . at's-his-name and the homeless man, there's a moment taken to call for the ambulance - she does remember that much, at least, and even if she had called promptly, it's unlikely they'd have showed up sooner. This is Cabrini Green, after all.

".....this has turned into the weirdest night I've had in a while." Which is saying a lot, given her recent weird nights.

[Ashley McGowen] "That happens, when a lot of us get together at the same time," Ashley says. "I doubt the ambulance is going to get here in time, though. Wharil decided to be there for him for a reason."

They're out in the hallway, and she can see Jarod and Emily from where they are standing. Ash diverts her attention from them for a second to glance over at Enid again. "You're handling it well, though, all things considered."

[Jarod Nightingale] "Awakened," he elaborated simply. And if this confused her further, well then... he'd obviously have an answer. She must be, of course. After all, here she was surrounded by fellow mages, and the girl practically glowed with quintessence. If anyone bothered to try and sense Jarod's own prime energy right now, they'd be able to see the residual threads of resonance clinging to his body. It had not been long ago that he'd wrought these changes upon himself. Beautiful though he was by birth, there was always the temptation to smooth out even the tiniest of imperfections. Tonight, he didn't look different so much as... flawless. A subtle change, but present nonetheless.

"Or maybe I'm mistaken." He wasn't. Or he wouldn't have even broached the topic.

[Emily Littleton] Awakened. Twice in so many nights, she'd heard this beautiful man speak the word. Emily looked away from studying his features, away and down to where she could see the raindrops landing on the wet pavement. Where the lamplight of the entry way began to smudge and fade away into the darkness. She considered the word longer than most might, especially those to whom it was unfamiliar.

Though her pattern was bright with quintessence, that metaphysical energy did not cling to her the way it did to Jarod. There was no whisper of recently worked Wills, nor any taste of personal resonance to her. The only clear imprint came from that small locket, now nestled beneath her sweater away from view. Even tucked away, it had a faint tinge of resonance. Especially on nights like this. It was directly at odds with Emily's countenance and comportment. That tiny beat of resonance was calm, collected and reassuring. (Home.)

"Maybe you are," she said softly, after having given it (too) much thought. "I'm not sure what you mean, but I'm just a Student." The way she said the word was vaguely European. In that accent, it meant University student. Scholar. But something in her eyes wanted to be more than just that. She looked away and squared her shoulders quickly, hoping he hadn't picked that much up.

[Enid Geraint] "There's not much else I can do but, right now, is there?" Which means, more or less, that she's a tough it out and break down in private (or with Mommy or Daddy) if she must kind of girl. It's not a bad way to be, in some ways, but it makes it difficult for anyone outside of a fairly small circle to offer help or comfort, if they were so inclined. There's a shrug, then, and she sips her water - chugs about half the bottle, in fact, before fidgeting with her own necklace (hidden under her shirt) as nervously and unconsciously as Emily does. She'd joked about being long lost sisters, earlier, but there are enough similarities to be remarkable, for anyone who goes about reading too much into that sort of thing.

"I have to get through the evening regardless. Then I can go home and have some tea and go to bed." 'And not come out of my room for three days', implies her tone.

[Ashley McGowen] It's a very Tytalion way to deal with ones' problems. Very Hermetic. Will through because the struggle leaves you no options.

"Mm," Ashley says, in a manner that doesn't really betray how familiar she is with that manner of dealing with it. She unscrews the cap on the bottle of water and takes a long draw from it. "Take a compliment, Enid. And then go home and do that."

[Jarod Nightingale] She wasn't sure what he meant, but the question had given her pause. This was... interesting. And interesting things intrigued him. People like Jarod did not need to wait for people to notice him. He could spend time with almost anyone he wanted. As a result, his tastes were rather eclectic. Sure, attractive people were a pleasant enough distraction, but the repetitiveness of it all could become boring. Which might have explained why he'd so easily dismissed an extremely good looking man (who he'd been certain to sleep with later) and had now mysteriously fixed his sights on Emily. (Who was, actually... quite a bit prettier than she gave herself credit for. But that was beside the point.)

She might very well be the awakened equivalent of a virgin. And this was... just a little tempting. So he considered his options briefly, then smiled a slow, feline smile. "Well, perhaps we can discuss it further. I'd rather like to get out of the rain. Feel up to coming to my apartment for a cup of tea?"

(Now there was likely a proposition she hadn't been expecting.)

[Emily Littleton] Emily knew what being manipulated felt like... that slow, slinking smile, his doubtlessly resonant voice. She knew what being led toward a conclusion or an outcome felt like, and for a brief moment she didn't entirely care that Jarod was deftly winding her around his little finger with promises of enlightened conversation, someplace warm and likely spotless and tea. Good tea, given the way his nose had wrinkled at the little "loose leaf tea bag" (oxymoron) at the coffee shop the night before.

"I'd love to." Her brain heard her mouth talking, speaking words that had not been given clearance by the clear-thinking, initiatives and planning portion of her conscious mind. Emily's subconscious (and deeper pieces of her psyche) found this to be a smashing idea, and had leapt forward with a reply before the more cautious, do-as-you're-told, young-lady-alone-in-a-city-not-her-own sides of her mind could block off this avenue.

A moment later, her smile caught up with the ready reply. Sure. She'd have tea with him. Yes. Smashing idea. Emily nodded a little to herself, and seemed to finally be of a single-mind about it.

[Enid Geraint] There's a glance at the watch (a fancy digital affair that likely times her workouts and so forth) on her left wrist, and Enid winces when she sees what time it is.

".....I was supposed to be home an hour ago," she says, almost apologetically. And then, impulsively, "I was going to cook tomorrow, but I don't feel like it - I think I'll just make dad and the guys call for Chinese. You can come over if you want to hang out, or whatever. It's just going to be music and working on homework stuff." Some of which may or may not be that paradigm 'assignment' from the last time they'd talked.

"So not that interesting. But if you don't have any other plans, there might be popcorn and a movie at some point."

[Ashley McGowen] Ash appears surprised for a few seconds, raising her eyebrows. There might even be a smile that ghosts across her features briefly. "It's nice of you to offer, but I'm calling in a favor to get a portal to Boston. I should be back in town on Sunday, though, and after that I can have a look at what you've been working on."

It has the air of a promise about it. She might not say so, but Ash does appear to actually be touched by the offer.

[Enid Geraint] "A . . . portal? Really?" This brightens her eyes, and Ashley's heard her make enough Harry Potter references to guess that her thoughts immediately bounced to 'portkey' (but might not know well enough to guess that it also went to TARDIS and other, similarly geeky references), but then there's a shake of her head - supposed to have been home an hour ago, must go. "I'll call you then. Or you can me, whatever. Have fun in Boston."

There's a pause as Enid claims a piece of cardboard from an open box and a pen from a nearby clipboard to write down her number - which Ashley has, presumably, given prior calls - and heading for the front, where Emily's still talking to Jarod. The latter gets icily ignored (or so she thinks, though Enid wants very much to look at the too-pretty-to-be-real older man and it shows) when she says to Emily quietly, "I'm supposed to have been home a while ago. But it sucks not having friends in a place," she says with a smile that's maybe nicer for the fact that it's a bit off center, or the fact that it once covered braces. "You can call me, if you want. We can hang out."

It had taken longer for Ashley to get the same information, but then she and Enid hadn't had such castle-on-cloud building talk that tends to bond girls (or maybe just people) quickly.

Then, with that done, Enid's heading for her car (an old but well cared for compact of some variety) and off home.

[Jarod Nightingale] If he wanted to, Jarod could be manipulative in much more subtle ways. But in this case, that wasn't necessary. A smile and the offer of tea (and yes, it was very good tea) and company was plenty of bait to line the hook with, in this case... and he felt no shame whatsoever in tempting her. Or even acknowledging that he was doing the tempting. This is how the game is played, his smile seemed to say.

He could just as easily have been a different sort of predator altogether. One never really knew. But then, he might also be exactly what he looked like he was - an extraordinarily attractive man with a very nice apartment who had more than enough experience to entertain someone for an evening... in any number of possible ways. (Emily would find out which fate she'd stepped into shortly.)

"Excellent."

Gone was the frozen anger. The prickliness. The aloof detachment. Now he was the man she'd met in the coffee shop. Charming and pleasant. Alluring. Inviting.

He started to turn, and beckoned with his hand for Emily to follow. "Emily, right? Car's this way." And as soon as she'd fallen in at his side, he'd hold the umbrella so that it shielded the both of them and begin walking down the sidewalk.

[Ashley McGowen] "I'll call you," Ashley says, giving Enid a brief nod as the girl goes to give the piece of cardboard to Emily.

There's a final glance back at Emily, who she hasn't really met properly, and Jarod, who she hasn't really seen in some time, but the two appear to be mired deep in conversation. Ash has no desire to get caught up in that. (At least, that's what she's going to tell herself.)

So, all too eager to get out of the kitchen and away from the crowd, Ashley heads out, preparing for the walk home. At least it isn't too cold.

[Emily Littleton] Somewhere in the exchange, Emily tucked a piece of cardboard with Enid's number into her back pocket. She thanked the younger girl with a smile that was felt again like their castles-in-clouds talk and less like the oddness that had overtaken the night.

The loose little group before the soup kitchen dispersed. Only Emily and Jarod were going away together. She stepped in beside him, finallly out of the rain. Emily had all but forgotten the rain in the absurdity of her conversation with Jarod. Now that it wasn't dripping down on her head in a constant stream, she felt the tendrils of curls sticking to the back of her neck, the dampness of her sweater. For a moment she was self-concious, feeling the tips of her ears flush but clamping down on the response before her cheeks pinked brightly.

"So..." she ventured lightly, weaving the cadence of her words into the pace of their footfalls. "What do you mean by Awakened?" It was a perfectly logical, innocent question. (If only she knew...)

[Jarod Nightingale] "Well..." he mused on this like a cat playing with a mouse. Slowly and torturously. "I suppose perhaps I could show you once we're alone." And for once, he wasn't trying to make some kind of sexual reference. "A city street isn't quite the right place for this sort of discussion. Promise it'll be worth the wait, though."

Well now, wasn't that a tempting thought? But he had meant the conversation would be worth the wait, right? In a very innocent, academic-minded sort of way. (As if Jarod could ever do anything without some kind of personal agenda. Innocent was a word that just couldn't touch him.)

And then they were at his car, which was parked on the side of the street, miraculously untouched. One would think that something this stunning and expensive would be picked over within seconds in a neighborhood like this one. The M3 shone metallic black in the street-lights, peppered with drops of rainwater on its otherwise pristine surface. Jarod fished the keys out of his coat pocket, and the alarm chirped pleasantly, doors unlocking and headlights flicking on and off. He opened the passenger side door for Emily, then went back to the trunk to open it and toss the umbrella inside. The car shook gently with a muffled thunk, and then he was back at her side, getting into the driver's seat and shutting the door.

The inside of the BMW smelled like new leather. It looked almost too clean. Like he'd just driven it off the lot earlier that evening.

[Emily Littleton] Emily felt mildly guilty as he held the door open for her. His car was immaculat and she was still marked with the dirt and grime of long day of volunteerism. Beyond that, her sweater was damp enough from the rain that she could feel her long-sleeve tee underneath wicking the rain away from it. But Jarod had two (very lovely) working eyes and could tell all that for himself. She rationalized that whatever it was he wanted to talk about was worth having someone re-detail his car.

Or at least she hoped it was.

She mumbled a quiet thank you as he closed the door for her.

After she buckled her seatbelt, Emily's right hand strayed back to her neckline and teased her locket out from under her layers. Alone in the cabin of the car, its thrum was more palpable.

Emily had gotten quiet for a moment. It was masked by the business of getting in the car, getting situated, heading off to somewhere new, but it took her a bit to acclimate to being alone with him. When she glanced over at him now, her eyes didn't hold the same sort of awe (but it was still there, an undercurrent). The gravity of some deeper motive was settling in.

"Do you think it's odd that we ran into each other two nights in a row?" she asked. Her tone of voice said idle smalltalk, but the fingers toying with her locket and the new complexity in her eyes said something else. (Why me? [Why now?]). For the past few weeks, Emily had been on the precipice of wrapping her head around something fantastic and new. Jarod might, or might not, fit into that. She wasn't sure.

[Jarod Nightingale] [Pause!]