Breaking point

[Jarod Nightingale] Emily had been exhausted to the point of ill-health, and this was cause for some concern, but it was not in Jarod's nature to mother or chastise. His suggestion had been simply this: come back with me and get some rest. And that is what had happened.

It was morning now, and the Verbena had already woken up and gone through the paces of his morning routine. Sofa cushions had been carefully fluffed to erase the indentation his body had made in them the night before, and following a long shower, he'd wandered into the bedroom (where Emily was still sleeping) and disappeared into the large walk-in closet that housed his wardrobe. By the time he reappeared, he was wearing a pair of black dress-pants, and had a burgundy colored shirt slung over one shoulder. His hair was still damp, his skin slightly pinkish from the recent assault of hot water, and he was in the process of threading a black leather belt through the loops around his waistline.

When he glanced up, he noticed signs of wakefulness coming from the guest in his bed and offered her an easy smile.

"Sleep well?"

[Emily Littleton] Emily had not argued when he invited her home with him. Jarod's apprentice had not quarreled when he sent her off to (tucked her into) bed, and left her to rest. Emily was so tired she felt soul-weary, which was a drained state she'd reached too many times already in her years. And she felt better when he was near.

She slept deeply, but not soundly. At least twice, Emily awoke with a gasp (but not a cry) to find herself tangled in his sheets (alone), or with a death grip on his pillow. At least twice, she willed herself back to sleep once she recognized the familiar room (and the unfamiliar absence). Intertwined in these moments, was the growing sense of awe she held for the magical world (in contrast to the coldness [austerity] violence of the mundane world). For as many times as she dreamed of old hurts, she also dreamed of new horizons. Such was a muddled, senseless dreamscape.

This time, though, waking was different. Emily pushed toward wakefulness, with the sounds of Jarod's morning routine filtering in in lieu of remembered hardships (whispers). She has barely blinked the morpheus from her eyes when his voice reaches her, parts her eyelashes, curls the edge of her mouth (but only the edge) into a small, faintly wry smile.

"Mostly," she replied, her voice still slow and heavy with sleep. Emily sat up in his bed, smoothed her hair back with one hand, blinked a few times, and watched him. The other hand pulled the blanket up around her. "I... didn't mean to keep you from your bed," she said, softly.

[Jarod Nightingale] You didn't," he answered simply. "I didn't want to disturb you."

The shirt that had been hanging over one shoulder was laid out neatly at the foot of the bed, then Jarod came up to lean over and brush a few stray curls of sleep-tangled hair out of Emily's eyes. It was an affectionate gesture, and he smiled as he did it (almost in spite of himself.) "You look... kind of cute." There was an awareness, then, of the nearness of her there in his bed. Beneath him as he leaned over, and close enough that it would be such an easy thing for her to reach out and touch the lean muscles in his chest. Maybe that was why he hovered briefly before pulling back.

He straightened, then stood there for a moment in contemplation. "If you want, I can leave you alone while you shower." Anything that she might need would already have been made available, of course, as with the other times that she'd spent the night. Emily already knew that Jarod kept a supply of spare toothbrushes on hand, which she might interpret in any number of ways. "Oh. Are you hungry? I know you probably wonder sometimes if I exist on tea and sex alone, but I do actually have food in the apartment."

[Emily Littleton] And reach out she did. It was a small, almost thoughtless gesture of affection that mirrored the gentleness of his own. She was barely awake, yet, so the things that crossed Emily's mind were telegraphed clearly in her features. Unguarded. This was not always true (only here). There were precious few places where Emily could wake up without stepping immediately behind some sort of mask, some persona (protection). It had been a gradual change, learning to trust him with her early mornings, but she could not put a finger on precisely when it had occurred.

"Actually," she said, cautiously, drawing each carefully enunciated syllable out just a little longer than usual, as if she had to think about (consider [weigh]) each one a little bit. As soon as she began to speak, Emily's expression was clouded by mild anxiety -- even though she had not yet committed to a course of action or conversation that could not be reversed, or stemmed. The tension started in between her shoulder blades, at the corners of her eyes. "There's something I've been (needing? [wanting?] trying?) meaning to talk with you about..." (It's what's been keeping me up at night [besides you]).

Pause. Careful but deeper breath. Held, just an edge too long. "If you're not busy already." She glanced at his shirt, laid out on the bed. Her expression shifted, carefully collected (not quite [close]) now. A little hidden now. (Pulling away from [thinking the better of] something).

"If you've got a meeting or something," her words started to run together as she dragged her fingers through her hair, pressed a (lazy [not fooling anyone]) hand to the back of her neck. "It can wait." Because it could always wait.

Jarod was keenly perceptive, and they'd danced close enough to this conversation a few times that he likely knew what was on her mind. Especially when Emily started to slip out of bed and -- provided he didn't sit her right back down -- go about getting herself a little more collected (organized).

[Jarod Nightingale] Emily was unguarded, a fragile and uncommon state. It was a precarious thing, that open honesty, and already after having admitted to a desire (need) to talk, she was pulling back... pulling away. Such was the hesitancy of these things, like walking out on thin ice and waiting for for the moment when the surface might shatter and send one plunging into the frozen depths.

He knew what that felt like, though Jarod's own unguarded (no, not unguarded... less guarded) moments had been so few and so subtle that one might very well miss them if they blinked. He was not unguarded now, but neither was he aloof. This was an in-between state reserved only for those who had achieved some measure of closeness with him (what little there could be achieved, anyway.) Emily began to get out of bed, and he did not stop her. He did, however, cease going about his own routine. Instead he climbed onto the bed and pushed back to sit in the middle of it, on top of the covers, with legs crossed and elbows resting on his thighs. It was a thoughtful position, and one that implied he was content to remain where he was for the time being.

"I'm not busy."

And that was all he said, this time around. But his eyes caught her own, and there was a gentleness and a curiosity to them. Something that said, without his actually having to speak it: please, tell me what's bothering you. She might decide to remain where she was, or she might continue to move about. Either way, his body was still, and he was listening.

[Emily Littleton] There was a parallel, then, between Jarod and the only other person she trusted with thoughts like this. Gregory, who was cut from a different cloth, lived in a different country, spoke to her with a different accent and from a different sort of calm, had a habit of letting her come to him. But once she'd started a conversation, the weight of his meaningful presence and looks were enough to goad her into continuing. She shouldn't be surprised, then, that Jarod was capable of the same.


Please, tell me what's bothering you.


She stopped moving when his eyes caught hers (blue to blue [captured] held). Emily didn't come closer, but she stopped fussing. Some part of her was still intractable, stubbornly afraid and anxious, but the piece that wanted to talk to him, needed to confide in someone was winning out. At least momentarily. It was always a struggle. Other people simply weren't safe, they didn't stay; he'd have to reason to stay, once he knew.

"I've been bothered," she says, and the words come in small waves, rushing toward something solid (hime [shore] safe harbor). "Lately," she adds, in the next small swell. "By what happened, in the past." A pause between sets.

"All of the violence," pause. "And now Enid," there's pain in her voice, and not just for the other Apprentice's suffering. "It all gets dredged up, over and over again." Again, a pause between sets. This time she shifts her weight a little, reaches up with the fingers of one hand to touch the places along her ribs that had been broken and mended in the past. To mindlessly catalog remembered hurts he had not seen, because they had not left scars on her pattern. (There are many.)

"I don't know how to put it away anymore. It finds me in my sleep. I'm afraid again, and I am so damned tired of being afraid, Jarod. I've already spent half a year of my life jumping at shadows and being startled by people I've known forever." This is a bigger rush of words. And she's standing now, with one arm looped protectively across her middle and the other hanging straight down, almost limp.

"And when I'm not afraid, I'm angry." That is an emotion he hasn't seen as often in her, but it pinches her expression now (lightly) and he can imagine that there is quite a temper there. He'd seen flickers of it, peeking through now and again. "But not at the people who did that," past tense, always past tense. "I'm angry that I didn't wake up then." (I'm angry at God [still?] still... a little). "Enid woke up, all fury and Death, over what? Jealousy?" This was the best Emily had been able to piece together from the younger girl's story. "Why couldn't I have done the same?"

The answer was simple: because Emily, at that age, at that place in her life, would not have been able to live with the consequences. Even out of self-defense, she did not have the will (much less the Will) to take a life. There would have been (would still be) no Reverence in that.

She is afraid, and angry, and vulnerable; none of these are comfortable emotions. None of them are regularly voiced aloud, where someone might overhear. And she's telling Jarod, now, for inexplicable reasons. It leaves her feeling raw, somewhat cold. There's no where to go in that room where he can't see her, nowhere to be that is safer and nowhere to go that he couldn't (wouldn't) find her. The best she could do is to close her eyes, so she couldn't see him watching her. To wrap her arms around her, against the cold. And to hope... though Emily wasn't quite sure what she was hoping for, just now.

[Jarod Nightingale] There was a silence and a stillness to him now that spoke, perhaps, of the incredible delicacy with which he was processing this information. Emily was opening doors to secret places. Places that housed ghosts of memories that wanted to shriek and tear apart everything that got in their way. Places that led directly to the most vulnerable and unguarded parts of the heart and mind. Even if Emily had not given away a single clue, Jarod would have understood this intrinsically. This encounter was not like that afternoon in the woods so many weeks ago, when she'd told him that she'd been... taken, once. When he had taken it in and remained distant. When he had made certain to remind her, in so few words (who said I was worried?), that it was a dangerous idea to think of him as someone warm. Still, even then, he'd understood, which was why he'd held her despite himself.

This time was different because he was no longer in a place where he could claim the safety of distance (where he could claim that he did not care.) And so, he was... careful. So very achingly careful.

He watched her, and as usual, it was difficult to gauge the expression in his eyes, but there was something lingering there on the periphery. Something that made the muscle underneath his right eye twitch the most astonishingly minute amount. It happened right around the time she said: and when I'm not afraid, I'm angry.

Jarod took a long breath, then let it out.

"I don't have an answer to that. Except to say... a person grows when they're ready to do so. Sometimes it happens in beautiful ways, sometimes in violent ones. Either way, it's a revelation, not... not a fail-safe for personal protection. But I think you already understand that." There was a few seconds of silence before he continued. "This is not an easy life. It pushes and pulls at your defenses. It changes you in ways you don't anticipate. It was like this for me too, at first."

That was a concession, and not one he gave easily. More softly now...

"Tell me what happened."

[Emily Littleton] It is a deceptively simple request. Emily has no reason to feel her body still (prey [hunted]) as if she were being marked, watched. No reason to find herself having difficulty with simple things, like breathing. Like looking up to meet his eyes. Some part of her screamed inwardly (It's a trap [it's always a trap]), while another, stronger segment warred for control over the unease. She is torn, and in that moment breathless. But it cannot last; the body wants what it wants : to breathe, to grow, to live, to change.

She will not remember it this way, but another part of her tips the balance towards trusting him now. The piece of her that has Awakened, that sees a bigger tapestry, it pushes her gently toward the breakpoint. Just enough to force her over that line, and from there? Momentum carries them.

Tell me what happened.

"My father was working near Prag," she said, and the word was canted hard towards the German pronunciation. "In Tschecho..." She let the word fall away, then paused, ran the proper noun across her mind a few times, and then let it go. It didn't matter that the country's name had changed, at least once in her lifetime. Getting sidetracked was just digressionary.

"We'd only been in the city a few days," she said, reporting things to him as emotionlessly as she could though it was clear the memories bothered her. "It was so muggy, and there was no air conditioning just loud fans and grouchy Embassy workers."

Emily's arm around her middle tightened. "I was supposed to stay there, but I took the city bus into town to go walking. I usually kept to myself a lot, when I traveled with my father. Aside from studying, there was little to do." Again, not the point, but these were the things we remembered. "I got lost, and couldn't find my way back to the bus stop. Of course I can't read anything, but I was trying to match street names to maps... that sort of thing."

She drew a deeper breath here, let the momentum of the memory keep her going. "There was a man, maybe my father's age, near the street corner who kept asking me something. I didn't understand, but I wanted to help. I thought he was asking after the time..." here the corner of her mouth pinches upward in an echo of the wry smile he would recognize so well, but it was not the same. This one ached.

"I reached out to show him my watch, and he grabbed my wrist." This was why she hated to be grabbed at, why it elicited such a strong reaction from her. "It took me awhile to realize what was happening. I couldn't pull away, he was much, much stronger than I am." Present tense, this unbalance still exists. "When I said I was taken... I meant just that. A lot of it is fuzzy to me," her story gets thin on details here, and her voice is less steady.

"The first day, I fought back a lot--not that it did much good. I got beaten... a lot. I passed out at least twice." Rote, the words came out in measured syllables as if she wasn't thinking about them. "They asked me questions, but I couldn't understand to answer. None of them spoke English, but I don't think they liked my attitude." A soft whuff, as if it was good to have bested these memories in at least one way.

"I don't remember the second day, really. Just fading in and out of consciousness. Breathing hurt, so by then they'd broken my ribs. At some point I stopped saying no... and for awhile, I stopped getting beaten." The hollow expression on her features now said that perhaps the beatings were preferable. Emily did not, however, elaborate on this.

"At some point they went through my things and found my identification documents." Her father worked for the Embassy, of course she called them this. Something quite nondescript. "One of them panicked when they found out I was American." This is the first time she's said anything about US Citizenship to Jarod. At all. It wasn't something she claimed outright. Even now it is qualified, "Or at least partly."

"Everything after that is dark," she said coldly. "I know they found me by the river, and that if it had been another time of year that I would have died there. There are police reports for these sorts of details. I'm sure I could find them, if you need them." This was stated factually, but he might hear the twinge underlying it. That maybe it would have been better if she had died there. Maybe it would be better to read this for himself, rather than listen to it from a biased source. "I remember waking up, briefly, in a hospital. And then the plane flight back to the US, which was excruciating. I spent some time stateside, and then flew back to the UK to stay with my godfather and his son. Neither of my parents could leave their posts to stay home with me." Again, perhaps that was for the best.

"That's not everything," she says, but not in any leading tone. Just an acknowledgement that there were details, here and there, left out to keep an already painful tale from dragging on overlong. "But... it's enough. And it's more than I think I've said about it in six years, cummulatively."

She was cold. Shivvering in fact. Emily ran her hands over her upper arms to try and warm herself. Her expression was cold, too. Distant. Withdrawn and almost as impassive as Jarod could be at times. She did not wear it like a mask, though. On Emily, it felt as if she'd been hollowed out (scooped out with a melon baller [empty, empty]).

So now he knew. Not all of it, but enough. Enough to know that somewhere in there, she had stopped hoping, stopped believing, and started looking forward to dying. No one ever, really, comes back from that completely.

[Jarod Nightingale] [Man+Subterfuge - how well can he keep his own issues out of this?]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 3, 3, 3, 6, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Jarod Nightingale] Jarod asked her to tell him the story, and it was indeed a story that he was given. This was not merely a simple memory, not the ghosts and shadows of every-day fears. Emily stood there, holding herself upright with an arm wrapped around herself as if she felt she might fall apart onto the floor at any moment. She stood there, and she spoke... and fragile, painful truths spilled past her lips and into the air.

And as the story went on, Jarod's expression exhibited small ticks and twinges of fluctuating emotions. These were not clear things. They were subtle as always, and not easy to pin down. Likely, the reaction was too complex to be called any one thing (anger, sadness, worry, empathy, hollow). Finally, when she had concluded, and there was silence around them once more, Jarod shifted to move to the edge of the bed and held out a hand toward her. He did not simple grasp her arm, as he might have desired to do, and pull her into him. Instead he allowed her the chance of refusal. He let her make the choice to come to him on her own, if she wanted to.

And though his emotions had been so carefully guarded during this time, when he looked up at her there was something very deep and surprisingly genuine showing in his eyes. I understand. And I am so, so sorry. "Emily..." he breathed, and there was a slightly hoarse quality to his voice just then. But he didn't say anything else. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe he just felt like words weren't suitable for this particular occasion.

[Jarod Nightingale] [simple=simply]

[Emily Littleton] Eyes overbrimming (bright [sad]) regard that outstretched hand with warring need and sketpicism. It aches, being unwilling to step easily into that offered comfort; it stings, feeling herself doubt and tense when she knew she had no reason. She does not want to turn away, but she does not know that she knows how to accept this after so many years. Carrying this alone (you did not have to).

It is a long moment, and perhaps his hand falls away before it is over. Perhaps he starts to stand before she can close the few steps to where he sits. It is too long and the quiet between them tremulous.

And so she falls: away from pride: the first steps the hardest, chin to chest, eyes closed and tearing. She does not reach for him but Emily comes close enough to touch, close enough to draw into the circle of his arms and hold tight. It is a choice, for them both, and not one she feels she can make for him now.

[Jarod Nightingale] It was a long time, but he was a patient creature, and he did not move or drop his outstretched hand. Had she given him an indication of refusal - a step back, a slight shake of head - he may very well have relented, but since that did not happen, he waited out the silent war that went on inside her mind and body.

And then, when she finally, hesitantly moved forward, he pulled her inexorably into him, gently wrapping arms around her midsection and easing her down onto the bed with him. He held her close. Did not let go, no matter if she held onto the tension or let it break her apart on its way out. This was a protective embrace, something more than comfort and affection. It was strong and resolute. His arms stood guard against the shadows. His heart beat a steady rhythm of safety.

He was not what she deserved. Not what she needed. He was not a good person, or even a whole person. But in this moment he could be something strong and stable for her to lean against, and it was a role he played willingly. (Not least of which because at one time in his life, he may have wished to have been given the same.)

Under his breath, he murmured something in Mandarin. Something that had the rhythmic lilt of poetry.

Gu guo meng chong gui
Jue lai shuang lei chui
Gao lou shui yu shang
Chang ji qiu qing wang
Wang shi yi cheng kong
Huan ru yi meng zhong

[Emily Littleton] There were the walls she'd built to keep the others out, crumbled and rubbled, surrounding the periphery of her mind like fallen sentries. Side-stepped, obviated in her decision to tell him. Once they had been tall and proud, strong, so sure and sturdy that they hardly seemed imprisoning at all. Protective. She had failed them, or they had failed her, but now his arms took the place of those walls and they would have to keep her safe, keep her near, hold her for awhile in this raw and anxious place.

And there were walls that kept the walls out, and the hurt in. Smaller these, and stouter. Eroded over the years of ache and remembrance, reinforced in times of strength and merriment. These were patchworked and pocked, unable to hold against the rush of words. Squeezed tight by the circle of his arms, they were bound to give.

And his voice threaded through her hair, in a lilting tongue she did not speak but recognized with the sweetness of home. As much as Emily knew a home, outside of the old house in Manchester. It was his (it was enough). He was not what she deserved; in some ways he was more. Jarod understood. He held her not because he flailing wished to do something, anything, but because he understood. It was more than she had ever asked for, it was more than she would ever ask for.

It cannot hold, the strength (call it stubbornness) that she has clung to over so many years. The walls are breached and the tide rushes in and she is curled tight against him, beside him. With his voice curled into her ear and his warmth besid her and the circle of his arms enfolding her, Emily sundered, broke.

It is not entirely unlike the nights they have spent, entwined with one another, but this is less about pleasure and all about pain. She shivers (trembles) beside him, and her eyes are bright (too bright [and damp]) and she is wordless, soundless, mute but for the shapeless sounds that mark her breathing, uneasy, unsettled.

[Jarod Nightingale] There were words that he could have said. Comforting, kind words. Words that most other people would have given freely. But each thought was turned away as soon as it rose in his mind; each comfort was judged false. Sometimes the kindest thing one can do is to lie. Other times, it is the cruelest thing. More often than not, lies served both functions, one in the immediate, and the other after time has faded. Regardless, Jarod could not bring himself to speak anything that he did not truly believe. Not in this moment, and not to her. He didn't have the stomach for it. So instead, he said nothing, other than to murmur that quiet poetry.

Finally... after what seemed like hours, he came upon something that was true.

"You're stronger than you think."

[Emily Littleton] She laughed a little, and it was a choked and aching sound. Not at all resonant. Perhaps still a little wry. Emily lifted her head, looked up at him with red-ringed eyes.

"No," she said, almost gently. Apologetically. "No, love, I'm not. I wanted to die. I prayed for it at times. I gave up," she admitted. It slipped past her teeth as easily as the endearment that she would not remember, not recognize later. It is not the first time she has called him that, but perhaps it's forgiveable now. Perhaps things have changed enough between them that it would not rankle him too much.

She exhaled heavily and started to pull away, convinced that this (if not her earlier) admissions would be untenable. That he would not hold her if he realized how faulty and failed she was. (She was not what he deserved. [She was not enough.]) If he held her still, she would not fight to separate from him.

[Jarod Nightingale] She tried to move. To pull away.

He didn't let her.

And maybe that was the wrong thing to do, but Jarod was the person that he was today because people had not held on. Not through the violence and the dark, aching rage. No one ever held on through that. (And really, they could not be blamed. He was so terribly cruel in his anger, and it only ever got worse before it got better.) He no longer asked them to. Not for... a decade now. No longer even contemplated it.

Emily's shattering was a gentler thing, though no less poignant, and no less heart-breaking. And he held her because he didn't want to let her go (to slip into the welcome safety of numbness and distance.)

"But you're not dead," he said simply, as if this answered every rebuttal she might come up with. "If you'd truly given up, you would be."

[Emily Littleton] But you're not dead, he said, and he held tight to her when she started to pull away. She couldn't argue with that, didn't have the will or desire to drag things down into a petty argument. She didn't agree, but she didn't argue. Emily could almost see his perspective... almost.

She shifted beside him, not struggling to get free but unfurling a bit from the tight and self-protective ball she'd been at first. She rested her head on his shoulder, listened to the steady pulse of his heartbeat, the ingress and egress of his breath. Her own was stilling, by no means calm but steadier than before.

Emily slipped an arm around him, laid the palm of her hand flat against his skin. Her touch was not light enough to tickle, but was gentle enough to be tentative and cautious. Her hair was soft against him shoulder, textured by the tiny tangles sleep brings.

[Jarod Nightingale] She didn't have the energy to argue, though that didn't mean she agreed with him. Jarod wasn't the sort to try and make insistences about these things, though. People would listen to what they wanted to hear, and believe what they wanted to believe. He was content merely in this small giving of ground that she allowed herself.

She held him in return; laid her head against him and her hand flat on his skin. He had very sensitive skin. She may have figured that out by now. Heightened touch-receptors. And more often than not, his reaction to these moments of contact were predictably sensual. Right now, that was not on his mind, because there was... this. This settling mist of memory and emotion, and the surprising amount of strength and vitality it took to hold up beneath it.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there," he said, a little sadly. After another long moment, he lifted a hand to brush some of the hair away from Emily's face and tuck it delicately behind her ear.

"You know I don't judge you for this. You don't need to... be concerned with what I'm thinking. I just want you to be okay."

[Emily Littleton] She knew how sensitive he was, yes, and it was part of why, even now, she was careful to not let her fingers slide against his skin overmuch or with so light a pressure that her fingerprints merely kissed at him. She was not trying to evoke or elicit any particular response, just to be there with him, to encircle him in an echo of how he'd held her. These things could be sensual without being sexual. They could convey as much meaning in warmth and gentleness.

I'm sorry I wasn't there, he said, and her arm tightened somewhat around him. Not to cling, not to restrain, just (I hear you) to acknowledge. Emily found herself wondering what things would have been like if he had been part of her life then... and quickly realizing that it was, likely, far better that he hadn't been.

"You should, though," she said, softly but firmly. Her voice was steadier now, but still raw in places. "The rules are there for a reason." A little pause, not enough for him to get a thought in edgewise. "At that time, Eastern European postings were still hardship postings. Most staff members don't bring their families. I knew it was dangerous..." she said. Shrugged a little against his shoulder. "I did something stupid, and I got hurt. And we're all lucky that's all it was."

Because her father worked at the Embassy. Because that corner of the world is almost always headed for some sort of international conflict. Because she couldn't speak their language, and couldn't give away any secrets, and she'd heard this time and time again in as many accents -- of everything, this was what had gotten through to Emily. She'd made a mistake, and paid for it. It sounded hollow when she repeated it aloud, and it likely wouldn't go very far with Jarod. It sounded like a retreat from the intimacy they'd built, but it was just a very tired admission. (Heartache [regret]).

[Jarod Nightingale] At another time, in another situation, he might very well have snapped at her for that. It said something about his restraint that he didn't do so now. Victims blame themselves. Victims are weak. Don't you dare be weak when I know that you aren't.

Instead, his eyebrows knitted together, and for a moment he said nothing. (Then again, maybe he didn't have to. Emily probably knew that look by now.) "Everyone makes mistakes. Especially kids. And no one deserves that - ever. Would you apply the same logic to me?"

Because she easily could have. It was doubtful that Emily, even in her wilder, less inhibited youth, had ever been as reckless or stupid or as downright self-destructive as Jarod had been. The version of him that she knew now was downright tranquil by comparison.

[Emily Littleton] Her expression pinched when he turned that logic around, and for a moment the tension flooded back into her frame. It was defensive, quick to rise and just as quick to fall away once a few heartbeats had passed. She knew the look on his features probably just as well as he could recognize the expression on hers.

At least it was a familiar moment. If strained.

"No," she said, plainly. Again, she didn't expound upon or amplify that thought with argument. No, Emily would not have applied that logic to anyone else but herself. Which made Jarod's argument valid, and resonant, and achingly on point.

She was quiet again, warm and heavy against him, calmer. Emily's mind started to wander, but she pulled it back before it got too far away from her. Which lead to the following non sequitur: "I don't think I'm going to campus today."

She mused it, as if it were actually up for discussion. After this sort of breaking, that she might just pick up and pretend her way through her sections and coursework. It was a fantastically bad idea, trying to be around that many people at this fragile a point, but she'd considered it (apparently) and only just barely dismissed it.

[Jarod Nightingale] It was a kind of logic that really couldn't be argued against, and unsurprisingly, Emily relented under it, though there was a twinge of displeasure and defense. This, too, was expected.

"I heartily agree with this idea," he said, after she said aloud that she didn't think she would be going to campus today. It would have been worrisome, if she had. Better to give oneself the chance to heal, after ripping open a wound like that, rather than attempting to slap a bandage on it and move on with the day. "And would like to add to it the suggestion of a long, hot shower, tea and breakfast. And taking it easy for the rest of the day. You need it."

And still there was that ache that tremored and pushed at the inside of his rib-cage. It flared up whenever he let his mind wander into thoughts and images of the story Emily had told him. Protective. Angry. Shrieking. Broken-hearted. But somehow he'd known from the beginning that there was a story like being held away, and so that ache had little (nothing) to do with shock. Only sadness. But he let it stay inside, where it belonged. Did not (would not) push her to talk about this more than she was ready to, or force his own regret onto her, piled on top of her own which was already so very heavy.

Instead he slowly unwound himself from their embrace, though if she seemed displeased by this, he would stop moving.

[Emily Littleton] Emily had told him, at the beginning of this morning, that she was angry. But after letting this bleed out, thick and black and ugly as it was, she couldn't find the energy to be shriekingly anything. Hurt, yes, and hollowed, yes, but not fearful or angry. Mending took a tremendous amount of concentration and focus, and it left very little room for other emotions. When Jarod didn't push her to go back to school, to pretend that everything was normal, Emily was a little surprised. (It wasn't six months later you were back at an Embassy dinner [Family's an important part of the American culture] you should have been home [I was, for some definitions of home]).

Not enough to say anything about it.

They slowly separated from one another. It was disorienting, for a moment, to not have his warmth and steady heartbeat to lean against. She ran her hands over her upper arms again (echo [like earlier]), absently. Whatever he was keeping inside, hidden from her, Emily was oblivious to it for now. If she knew... (angry [shrieking] broken-hearted), it was a good thing Emily could not read people as well as he could.

"Do you want me to go?" she asked, very gently. It was not, perhaps, the retreat it might sound like. They did not have a history of this sort of intimacy. Usually one of them had to go, had to be busy, for quite some time. She knew it wasn't easy; the night before at the greenhouse, this overwhelming confession.

[Jarod Nightingale] "What I want," Jarod replied simply, "is for you to start taking care of yourself."

And with that, he stood up and reached out to pick up the shirt he'd left at the foot of the bed. He watched Emily closely as he slid his arms into the sleeves and began to button it closed, starting from the bottom and working his way up.

"Because no one else will, if you don't. And that would just be... a waste."

He paused to watch her again, as if contemplating something.

"If you're up for it, we could go to the Art Institute. Or somewhere else, if you prefer." A distraction. But not of the unhealthy variety. This was not avoidant, but merely a respite. (Healing.) "Why don't you get ready, and I'll put some tea on for you."

[Emily Littleton] Curiouser, yet, he was not shuffling her off. Emily regarded him carefully for a moment, but without open suspicion or skepticism. She was just trying to read him, to see a bit of what might be going on behind that very collected (stable [strong]) exterior. The look didn't push, and it didn't pry, but it was weighty. He would expect no less by now.

"Maybe for a little while," she said, by way of an agreement. (I will try...). "I don't feel like being in a crowd for long for too long, though." Honest, this. She was up to an outing, but not to too much outside scrutiny. Then she looked away, a bit, shyly, and the corner of her mouth twitched (fondly) at some unvoiced thought or idea. Fleeting, the expression was happier than most he'd seen all morning.

Emily picked herself up off the bed and started moving. If he didn't ask about the little smile (sequestered thought), she didn't offer.

[Jarod Nightingale] "It won't be crowded on a winter weekday. And even so, they tend to accumulate around the special exhibits. We can avoid them." There was a confidence in his voice that suggested he was a regular there. That the maze of interlocking rooms and hallways, with their cornucopia of art history, was familiar enough to him that he could navigate it easily, and knew all the best short-cuts.

And Emily's fleeting glimpse of a fond expression was returned with one of his own.

"Anyway, I'll leave you be so you can shower."

And then he was moving out of the room. Down the hallway and into the kitchen so that he could put some water on to boil and grab a bit of breakfast. Whenever Emily reappeared, she'd find him sitting on one of the tall stools by the granite island, gazing absently at a newspaper while nibbling at orange segments that had been neatly cleaned of their rind and set out in a pretty spiral on a plate. Music was playing gently in the background (Rachmaninoff - Vocalise) and two cups of Chinese black (Golden Monkey, more precisely) were set out on the counter.

Inquiries about food would be made once more, and if Emily proved hungry, various organic and exceedingly healthy options could be made available. Either way, there was no more prying into dark secrets. Now there was just this... easy comfort. (Safety.) And whenever they were ready to go, the rest of the day would be spent in a similar manner. Maybe that was what they both really needed right now.