Brownies

[Littleton] It's mid-morning. The time they both should be somewhere else. Work, school, anywhere but home and feeling sorry for themselves (which Chuck likely isn't [but Emily likely is]). The Orphan (feeling the weight of that word more keenly today) carries a brown bag from the grocer's, wears a Northwestern sweater and some comfy jeans, wears her hair in pigtails (low, curls threaded through one another [hopeless]). And knocks. Once. Then twice. On his apartment door.

If Chuck's home, and glances through the peephole, he'll find Emily standing just beyond the threshhold. Looking down at the lower jamb, waiting to see if he opens the door. If/when he opens the door, she'll look up and smile (luke warm [warm enough]), and that smile will begin to twist. Wrily.

If he's not home. Then she'll wait. Longer than she ought to. Long enough to think the better of coming, and only then will she start to slip away down the hall.

[Carmichael] He's actually not home when she gets there. but she isn't waiting as long as all that - when he appears, it's in black slacks, black Chucks and an untucked, short sleeved white button down with a loosely tied black tie (and the irritating name badge as the perfect accessory) and his dark curls in shorter disarray than Emily's longer ones. Keys jingle in his hand and he's got a laptop case slung over his shoulder . . . so he's just coming from work, obviously. An early call, a meeting, something.

"Hey, Little, what's up?" He's surprised to see her but not displeased - the smile is genuine, and of course she gets a little kiss to the top of her head and a fond arm around her shoulders before Chuck opens the door to let them in.

"If you're gonna stop by when I'm not home, I might have to get you a key or something. It's not cool, hanging out in the hallway."

[Littleton] That gets an odd look. Unexpected. Emily slides her free arm around him and hugs him, a bit tighter than she means to, and seems a little taken aback that the security expert was offering (even theoretically) her a key.

"I... ah..." Stammer. Smooth, Emily. "Would like to commandeer your kitchen for the greater purpose of dark chocolate brownies." A grin, hefted carrier bag. The promise of brownies. How could Chuck resist? "Of course, if that's okay with you..." So it wouldn't be a hostile take-over of the kitchen. One rarely asks for permission during that.

And yes, she seemed a little off, but that was fast becoming the norm with Emily. Newness to the Awakened world had its side effects, after all.

[Carmichael] "Brownies? Of course it's okay. Are we cracking beers to go with them this early?" He's opening the door, letting her in ahead of him [ladies first], and setting down his laptop before undoing his tie (not a clip on as is uniform-mandated, but a real one). "They're in the fridge if you want one. And you don't mind if I change, do you?"

He's going to, whether she minds or not - he's not a big fan of the itchy-scratchy starched shirts and pants, honestly, and is unbuttoning said shirt and heading for his room before he's done asking. Emily may or may not catch a glimpse of a chest that's a bit more developed than one might guess based on Chuck's geek cred, but he's probably mentioned college crew a time or two by now. Rowing does that to a person.

[Littleton] "I brought some stouts, for later," she answers, not quite sure on the timing of that that front just yet. "Might need to open them sooner if I botch the batch."

She's stepping out of her shoes while he removes his tie. It's an easy thing, settling into Chuck's place. Emily settles in well most places; she's had to. He's setting his laptop down, and she's carrying the brown paper bag to the kitchen to put things away, turn on the oven. It's a calming thing, and out of the corner of his eye Chuck can see Emily unfurl just a little (come home [Home]) in that familiar space. It's not the first time he's noticed, surely, that she moves without burdens here.

Emily glances over when he says he's going to change, and she does catch an (appreciated) glimpse of his more-than-geek-chic physique. "Don't mind at all," she calls after him, then goes about seeking out a mixing bowl.

These brownies are from scratch, and she'll wear her arm out stirring them if he doesn't own a mixer. But that's okay, and it will be a good thing. Focused.

[Carmichael] When he emerges from his room again, it's in a gray t-shirt with a picture of Brainy Smurf on it that proudly proclaims 'Nerd' in yellow underneath and worn (in the natural way, no artful designer here) jeans - he has on white, athletic socks and his shoes, too, had been left by the door.

"You need any other lunch, or are you good? I mean, I still can't cook. But I might have some stuff I can throw in the microwave . . ."

It's musing, as he peruses the fridge . . . which Emily will have noticed is generally full of bachelor staples. Beer, small containers of milk that may or may not be past its sell-by date, sandwich fixings, that sort of thing. Not a lot with which to feed unanticipated company, certainly.

[Littleton] She must have known (or remembered) that Chuck's place wasn't the well-stocked kitchen of her dreams. Emily had brought everything she needed for the brownies, except a recipe. That was stored somewhere in the back of her mind, brought forward as necessary.

"Nah," she said, and the American slang seemed odd on her tongue. Less foreign. "I'm not really hungry." For anything but brownies. Ah yes, this is girlspeak for something. Good luck, Chuck, figuring out what.

"If you did give me a key, you might find yourself with vegetables in the fridge from time to time," she teased, lightly. Easily. But it wasn't quite as warm as usual. "Whatever would you do?"

[Carmichael] "Eat them. I'm a growing boy, after all - but it would have to be stuff I can eat raw. I seriously don't want to set this place on fire - Riley lives just on the other side of the courtyard." It's amused, that, and he pulls out sandwich fixings for himself anyway. He is hungry, after all. And really? He half assumes this means she's PMSing, which is fine. It happens, and everyone involved deals with it. "I don't . . . my kitchen kind of sucks for someone who really wants to cook, doesn't it? I don't have any of that . . ."

He waves his sandwich vaguely, not even sure how to complete the thought.

"I don't know. That plug in thing that spins and . . . mixes things. I don't even have one of those. I should make a list."

[Littleton] "It's called a mixer -- or a blender. Your description is vague, Carmichael."

"I've made dinner for twenty on a hearth over an open fire in a kitchen with no running water," she said, looking over her shoulder to toss him a smile while she stirred the batter. "Really, your place isn't bad at all."

She left out the futile attempt to make fudge in the microwave of a hotel room. Some things should go unspoken.

"But if you'd like, I can help you make a list and pick things out. Nothing too fancy, just the basics." Emily goes back to her mystical fussing over the mixing bowl. Soon the batter would be rich and velvety, slid into a baking dish and sent into the oven for some sort of culinary magical incubation. And then she'd get to washing up.

Emily always left his place at least as neat as she'd found it.

"Maybe we can bring Riley some brownies. If you don't want to keep the extras," she suggests. When Emily finishes washing up, she leans against the counter, folding her arms lightly against her midsection. But then it's quiet, and that's... unbearable.

[Carmichael] "Oh, I have a blender. I use that to make some killer milkshakes. And also the occasional margarita." That's spoken with a grin, amused, and he leans too - a bite's taken of his sandwich, and then it's offered her way. It is rude to eat in front of company, after all, but he's hungry and only had coffee for breakfast. "Even I can't mess up deli turkey, cheese and some mayo."

But then, yes, quiet - and not the comfy kind that they usually have, but the kind that has to be suffered through, endured. Chuck's brow furrows, and it's only a moment before he asks, ".....what's wrong?"

[Littleton] "My mentor," Emily says the word and then stops. There's a twitch, something deeper than just a student-teacher relationship, but she lets it go. The little pause here drags out a bit, and is followed with: "Left."

Now she's moving again. Shrugging out of her sweater, tying it around her hips. Leaving the thin-strapped camisole (and the equally thin straps of something underneath [modesty, Emily]) the only thing covering her shoulders. There's also the thin chain of her locket, which she toys with. Captures the ovoid in her hand for a moment. (Home home home)

It helps. Somewhat. It's calming.

"I'm usually the one leaving, so it's particularly poignant to be on this side of it," she says, with a wry smirk. And then Em is trying to find the oven light, trying to keep her mind off of it. "So I'm back to square one, on this whole mentor-cabal-Tradition joining thing Ashley keeps pushing."

And I'm alone. (Details.)

[Carmichael] "Oh, honey. I'm sorry." He's about to give her a hug when she takes off her sweater, but then . . . no, not so much. He knows himself; if he did, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from touching that lovely bit of back, and then a whole messy can of worms would be opened. And now? Is simply not the time. Now is the time for comfort and friendship.

And brownies and beer.

"Well, I did offer my hand for teaching, though I don't know that you'd want me for a Mentor-mentor. There'd come a point when you'd have to accept the Tradition if we did that, or when I'd have to stop teaching you anything but sphere work, and the same's going to be true for almost anyone else."

[Carmichael] ((PUPPY PAWS))