Where is it you've come from?

[Owen Page] It isn't until they put some degree of distance between themselves and the other Magi that the man beside Emily really seems to relax. It's gradual, but at some point between waving farewell to Ashley and walking across the still-snowy grounds to exit Lincoln Park, Owen Page's capacity for rational thought and speech resurfaces and he's even casting the young Orphan beside him occasional glances to assess her mood, or thoughts, as they cross out onto the street.

It's almost dusk by this point, and the temperature has not gotten any warmer; all trace of earned body heat from physical exertion have long since left the Chorister's bones and he nods his head, indicating the way he's intending to stroll if she wants to come with with a returning smile at once reserved and encouraging. "My new place is this way, you want to come warm up? I'm fairly sure I have coffee."

It might be one of those times when a woman has to consult her own judgment and decide if she fully trusts the person she's with not to suddenly turn into a lecherous creep once secured away behind closed doors. At first glance, Owen Page certainly doesn't appear as if he has dark designs in store for Emily should she accept; he simply looks cold, shoulders hunched like herself against the rapidly cooling day.

[Emily] ((Leave unasked unanswered, dif 6))
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 5, 5, 6, 8, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Emily] Perhaps it is a testament to how far she has come that such things do not (seem to) enter Emily's mind. Owen is, and has so far been, a comforting presence. Solid, calm, if a little prone to appearing in the most unexpected places. And though Emily has more reasons than most to be skeptical (fearful) it does not appear to be the case today.

The further they are from the gathering in the park, the calmer the Orphan seems to be. She is tall, for her gender, but does not stand shoulder to shoulder with the Choristor. She can match him in purposeful quiet, though, and such is the case just now. Emily does not quail away from silent spaces, she does not need to clutter them up with words, or imply words and questions into them with obvious emotions -- not now. She is thoughtful, yes, this much shows in her expression but there are few times (fewer times yet, in the collection of moments Owen has seen of her) that she is not actively thinking, considering, reacting to something.

"I would like that," she says, all careful consonants and foreign vowels. There is a warmth in Emily's expression (guarded still [growing]). Perhaps Owen must consider, as well, whether he trusts her enough to welcome Emily into his home. If he knows her enough to invite her across that threshold, share the communion of space and time.

She draws her arms a bit tighter across her middle. "Pity," she says, to no one in particular as she looks after the receding daylight. "I was so enjoying Spring."

[Owen Page] She was so enjoying Spring.

"It'll return," he attests for her, to the apparent return of Winter in the air around them, and casts her a side-long smile; as brief and contained as ever most of the young man's expressions seem to be. The street where Owen Page has taken up residence is, as promised, not far at all from the Park itself. Over another block is the church that he spends his days doing the sort of modest work most would feel slightly ashamed to admit to but which he seems openly pleased by.

The apartment block itself was housed between a second hand book store and a small green grocery; the street-side door made of glass and steel and graffiti-strewn heavily across the buzzers. As of yet, there was no button to depress that read Page but rather a blank spot beside apartment 3B. The Chorister shifts his basketball and bag around in his grasp once they reach the door, and finds a set of keys; unlocking the main entrance and waiting for Emily to enter ahead of him.

"There's no elevator, I'm afraid." He confesses, and nods at the staircase. It's only three flights before he stops and marks their progress down a serviceable, yet clean hallway to the second of five doors painted a dark green with gold lettering screwed into each. Owen unlocks the door and feels around for the light switch, stepping inside and setting his belongings down on a desk just inside the door. He hadn't been joking, the Chorister, when he told Ashley at the Church that the place he'd rented was small. In truth, it was mostly comprised of a single, floor-boarded room that had a kitchenette tucked away in one corner with a bathroom adjoining it and masked behind a cut away wall was what passed, one assumed, for Owen's bedroom.

It had a Queen sized bed in the corner, a bed-side table and little else in terms of furnishing. There were a few moving boxes stacked in corners, and a TV set had been propped atop one such box; surrounded by a mish-mash of clashing sofa chairs. It was, in short, the sort of place you expected a college student, or someone on a limited budget to abide in. Owen stops, just inside the door and begins shrugging off his layers; allowing Emily to look around.

"So, this is home."

[Emily] There are things that they don't know about each other and those stories would fill volumes upon volumes. There are subtle hints, cues toward the themes of those stories, in the way they view and interact with one another. There are shadows and shapes of far away lives, memories, in the way that she stops just inside the doorway, to take off her shoes, however bare or cold his floors may be.

There's a careful scrutiny approaching appreciation in the way Emily moves into the small space with its efficient groupings of furniture and open space. She reaches up to tug a thin band out of her hair, to loose her curls and let them fall down around her shoulders. She does not pry, or wander into areas that are set aside and separate, but it must be curious to him to watch the curiousity in her.

"I like it," she says, without any pretense or falsehood. She tucked her hands back into the front pocket of her sweatshirt and offered him a small smile. (Approval.) Observant as he was, Owen might notice that Emily walks on the balls of her feet (more obvious, here, in stocking feet), that she gravitated towards the kitchenette in the corner when finding an out of the way place to stand as he went through the motions of coming home.

"It's a good home."

[Owen Page] Owen's apartment had no obvious signs of heating, but he had gone far enough to toss some old and tired [pre-loved] rugs across the expanses of bare floor. Especially beneath his bed, and around the TV and couches. There were two desks in the place, one by the door with a phone-set and another perched where one supposes it suffices as a dinner table of sorts for Owen; cluttered at present by piles of newspapers and an opened book; the corner marked on the open page.

Closer inspection shows it to be some great tomb of a biography about the Dali Llama -- interesting.

He smiles, pleased perhaps, when Emily confirms that its a good home and turns; stripped now to his hoodie and draw-string pants; his feet bare against the floor. "It's my first, so," he shrugs and moves across to join her where the kitchen tiles began and opens cupboard doors, pulling out the requirements for the promised coffee. Two cups; teaspoons, sugar, instant coffee.

Owen fills the kettle with water; continuing on with the motions Emily is observing.

"Remember I said Ashley came to see me?" He waits for a nod, settling his body in the adjunct of benches as they wait for the water to boil. "She seems concerned with you finding a Tradition that fits."

[Emily] There is a kettle; this is deemed a good thing. Instant coffee; not so much. If their friendship is to be a long one, Owen will eventually be fostered in the quiet, contemplative tradition of taking tea. Emily cannot help it, the snobbishness can be attributed to time abroad in Asia, to heritage and roots in England, to any of a handful of influences that have made her particular about seemingly inconsequential ritual. In time, they would teach other many things. Today is not that time; today is a day for instant coffee (and for feeling [showing] gratitude for that hospitality).

He addresses her and Emily does nod (yes, she remembers). She listens. There is a moment, careful, observed and taken meaningfully before she replies. "She and I have spoken to this many times," Emily admits, perhaps shyly. Feeling, not for the first time, a little shame in her spiritual homelessness. "She seemed pleased when I told her we'd met," Emily recalled.

Her hands come out of her pockets now, fold politely in front of her. Emily stands at the margin of his kitchen not unlike a student in recitations. A little hesitant (curious [wary]). "I didn't realize she'd meant to speak to you on my behalf."

[Owen Page] Owen straightens when the kettle whistles, and flicks it off. It's an older sort, no doubt purchased second-hand as so many of the things in his apartment seemed to be -- maybe that's some sort of reflection on him, too. This strange, slightly insular guy who can't be that much older than Emily herself, surely.

Maybe he's a little battered and out of date.

He holds her choices up in either hand with raised brows; tea, or coffee, and then as he sorts the beverages out, replies: "She didn't want to make choices for you, she and I were just in agreement, I guess, that finding where you fit in seems," Owen hands her a cup, and palms his own, his eyes dark and unfathomable in the soft apartment light. "Well, important to you. What I told her," he leans back again, resettling. "I'll tell you. If I can help, I will, but in the end, that choice is yours and yours alone."

The corner of his lip quirks, as if he were reading her thoughts [it was irritating, that ambiguous smile of his]. "Have you considered any others?"

[Emily] If Owen's home (possessions) said that much about him, one would have to wonder what he would glean about Emily from hers (lack thereof). After a handful of homes (dwellings [residences] but never home), Emily stopped assuming that the space where one laid their head reflected overmuch on the contents therein. There was a reason, though, that she has been welcome into (taken into) so many people's homes and taken so few of them back to see where it was she rested in the quiet hours of the night.

"Tea, please," she says, with little hesitation. There is a thank you, when he hands it to her. In time, Emily goes through the small, practiced motions of steeping her tea as if they are rote, thoughtless (but not mindless) details.

Have you considered any others? he asks. Emily dips her head in thought for a moment, then answers, unobfuscated: "I studied briefly under a Verbena, but he has left. I do not think he will return."

It is almost an answer; a side step. Graceful enough that Owen might not notice how carefully it answers without answering.

"There is another Orphan; I have considered remaining as I am."

These are offered without meeting his eyes. It is coincidental, surely, that she studies the other spaces in his home and not the lineaments of his features.

[Owen Page] [Perception + Alertness: >_0 ]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 4, 8, 8, 8, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Emily] The answer, in short, is no. Emily says the right things, answers him literally, but Owen is perceptive beyond the bounds of reason at times. Perhaps it is why they were drawn together, cast into the same place at the same time by a higher, all-knowing will.

She is at a crossroads on her path back out of the darkness. Between the place of Faith remembered and Grace regained. There is a struggle, still, and Owen cannot see or know why, but she has been Called back to God. There is trepidation to overcome, shadows and trials she has not yet put behind her.

He asks if she has considered any others. How could she? She is stumbling down the path that will bring her home again. This is no small thing, returning. As he found her in the sanctuary, Owen can see the beginning of it in her now (borrowed faith [the will to believe] rekindling).

[Owen Page] He watches her when she answers and avoids looking at him. He knows enough about the body language of people to glimpse the reluctance to come to terms with what she already knows, or what is beginning to seed as understanding within her. She's caught; like an insect in a spider's web; struggling because it seems the only way to get free but in the process capturing herself only further.

[resistance]

Owen Page had not known Dylan, the Orphan who also lost his way, fell beneath the onslaught of too much, too fast, too painful but he can empathise with the conflicting emotions of those left in his wake -- left in what shell took control of his limbs when the core of him had been chipped away at until there was nothing left within the form to struggle its way free again.

He is not Euthanatos, to try and find the unity of life in death.

He was a Singer among those of the Celestial Chorus; he was a member of a subsection that argued vehemently against many factions of his own Tradition, that knew that to truly unite those like him, they needed one unified belief of how everything, how the One connected them -- not the squabbling of long-spoiled children of men who mistook greed for wisdom, and segregation for progress.

How many had been burned for the glory of men who could not see past their own noses -- hundreds, thousands. Churches that stood against the people; against God, against creation itself in the past. Owen observes Emily Littleton and sees a spark that is beginning to regain its own source of power.

[belief]

He hears what she says, and his eyes don't read judgment when she finally meets them, if she does, but a strange degree of compassion; he sets his coffee down beside him on the bench and frames his body with one palm flat either side of him. "That's an option, too," he agrees softly, and studies her a beat.

There are worlds unspoken between them, but he doesn't seem to want to stretch those boundaries yet; he houses all that comprehension within him and reclaims his cup, nodding her to follow him to the comfort [relatively speaking] of the sofas.

"I have some books you might like, they offer some interesting opinions on faith, and belief and its role in our day to day lives. Once upon a time, I found them pretty helpful."

[Emily] Once upon a time, she too had been a diligent student of world views, religions, philosophies. Her background was far from traditional, and there would be many within the Chorus that might look at her askance, question her theological footing from which to (re)start a life of Works and Faith in Him.

She wrapped long fingers around the mug of tea, carried it carefully before her as she followed him into the living area. (It is difficult to consider the spaces separate rooms, conjoined as they were.) It was a lifeline, stringing together moments like these, from her past, through her present, stretching on into the future. So many moments, in which her views on God, grace, reverence had been molded and set, tried, fired in the crucible of conflict, owned.

Compassion is often harder to bear than judgment. When Emily settles, she draws inward somewhat. Makes herself smaller. (Denies the light within from shining brightly, proudly).

"It has been a long time since I had someone to talk to about these things," she observes, almost by way of an apology. "I hope you don't find me poor company or conversation." Shyly. She sips at her tea and yes, her gaze strays to find a bookshelf or stack that might be the collection he alluded to.

[Owen Page] Owen clears a spot for her to sit down on, there seem to be an unearthly amount of old newspapers, misplaced books and clothes scattered around the place. It's comforting to an extent though, signifies that he considers this his own space to do what, and be what he wants, without feeling a need to disguise himself, or his beliefs -- or lack there of.

He takes the easy-chair and when she tells him she hasn't had anyone to talk to about these things, a faint flush of color crawls up his neck and he's looking down at his coffee cup, laughing silently, suddenly as shy and uncertain as she. "Sorry, sometimes I forget. I get carried away," a corner of his mouth quirks as the blush flees his face, replaced with that quiet, controlled sense of self-deprecating humor he tended to utilize in public.

"It's been a while since I really spoke to anyone this much."

[Emily] Emily chuckled a little. It was an easy thing, fairly unfettered with other intent. Warm. She shook her head a little and offered him a wry smile.

"Your world seems much quieter than mine." There is a warmth, then, that touches her eyes. Dark and blue like his, they aim to catch his, hold them, just long enough to be reassuring. (How quickly roles reverse [comforted becomes comforting]).

"Tell me," she says, and it's seeking, gentle. Asking for permission to ask further after things they've left unsaid. "Where is it you've come from?" Not where home is, not where he's headed. Just the last stop on his journey before here. Emily suspects, but does not know, that Owen may have a similarly fluid (inexplicable [unspeakable]) past.

But he is shy, and her awareness of that catches up with Emily. She pulls her eyes away, casts them at the mug in her hands instead. "That is, if you don't mind. I just feel we ought know more of each other than you're Owen and I'm Emily."

There is a smaller smile, quiet and hidden, eclipsed quickly by the edge of her cup as she sips at her tea again.

[Owen Page] Where is it you've come from

There's a hesitation there. It's physical as well as anything else. It does not take any deep amount of perception to catch the flicker of pain that passes through the Chorister's eyes at the questions regarding his past. His fingers tighten around his mug; the knuckles pull bone white.

He can't look at her and say any of these things, he can barely stand to hear himself repeat the words, any of the words, that sketched back the picture of his past twenty-three years of life. "South Dakota." He's retreating back behind the walls contracted to protect himself from feeling the memories the name dregs up.

"My parents still live there, in our family home." A beat, and his eyes travel beyond Emily to find the wall across the room, his brows furrowed deep in whatever thoughts he's currently reliving. "I moved out though, when I was eighteen."

There are other things, deeper, hidden things about this period he's deliberately shying from; that if the careful modulation of his tone is any indication, just like Emily and her reawakening faith, he's not ready to deal with, yet. "I studied for a few years with my Mentor and then, uh," he shapes the cup between his hands, looks across at her, smiling benignly.

"I came here." He returns after a minute to an earlier comment of hers, nudging the conversation away from his demons. "I kind of enjoy the quiet, I like being able to think without," he gestures at the room, the door, the world without. "all that getting in the way."

[Emily] This is familiar. This is achingly familiar. She can feel the echoed tightness in her own bones, her tendons pulled tight, skin taut : remembered; it is not now. Now, for Emily, is the careful play of compassion across the canvas of her features. It is the way she leans forward to rest her elbows on her knees, bows her head a bit. Listens, without trying to look into him (through him). Looks over at moments to catch the set of his features, but not to let her gaze rake over him (scouring [searching]).

She knows too well what it is to speak without saying, to disclose without giving much of anything away. In Emily, Owen will find no judgment; instead a softness (I know [there are things left unsaid, unknown] and that's okay]).

She shifts enough to reach out, to lay a warm and gentle hand on his knee for a moment (his shoulder is too far away [but would be more appropriate]). It is a simple thing : touch : communion. Two spirits in witness of the pain and struggle in one another, in the joy of beginning a new. The shyness of sharing with new people.

"Thank you," she says, pulling her hand away, bringing it back to wrap around her mug. Now she'll look to him, catch his eyes briefly. Smile, softly. "It is a hard city to find quiet in, this one. I'm glad you've found some place to call home."

It is an important word to her, home. Owen can almost feel the longing in it, the way it tries to catch in her throat. Resonant. Weighty. But they were moving away from such somber things. She sips at her tea, again, and lets it pass.

[Owen Page] In some ways her understanding only makes it worse. He had not sought a moment's peace, or forgiveness [for there was none, for some actions] since arriving in the city. He had sought the most menial, the humblest of jobs that did not involve anything more or less than his own two hands and his sweat and sometimes his blood.

It felt fitting.
It felt right.

But then they had come, invading his private penance; his self-imposed denial of everything that had come after the fact. After -- [rending metal, shattering glass, the acrid stench of burning rubber] -- everything. He had attempted to push the knowledge [Him] aside but he knew that wouldn't last. That he'd never be complacent with Owen denying himself what was meant to be.

So He pushed.
And pushed.

And Owen gave in, and here he sat, being comforted by a hand on his knee by a near stranger. Except that she wasn't. Hadn't felt much like one since the moment they met, and he can't help the instinct that sets his own warm palm atop Emily's there on his knee; can't help looking over at her with those [intense, way too intense] eyes of his and just absorbing the tactical sensation of another [warm, inviting] human being being so near to him.

Because how long has it been since anyone reached out for him?

There's a pulse in the air, an indefinable crackle that seems to almost devour the oxygen when Owen regards Emily like that, feeling what he does before he seems to shake himself clear of it; whatever it was he was experiencing and remove his hand from hers -- her skin feels hot; so does his. He curls his fingers inward, and clears his throat.

"Thanks," he offered.

[Emily] Bear witness. It is one of the sacred duties that holy people perform for one another. It is one of the duties that lesser, fallible, [broken and mending] mortals provide for one another. It is the sacrament of touch, communion, nothing more magical than asking and taking the time to truly listen. These two, for all of their differences, stand together in something greater now : fellowship. If only for a moment, her hand on his knee (his hand on hers), it is enough.

Thanks, a warmer smile (growing [warmer yet] broader). She weathers the scrutiny, intense as it is, without flagging. Odd, perhaps, this immoveable moment in the Orphan he has often seen verklempt, like a ship tossed on story seas.

"Would you like a housewarming?" she asks, which may seem an odd question. Out of place (yet it isn't). "Your own place; it is something to celebrate," still soft, gently coaxing. There's nothing to Emily expression that implies a housewarming need be more than tea and conversation, but if he knew her better he might suspect that there would be something baked (so the space smelled like home) in his tiny kitchen, something of a gift offered to brighten the place.

She is an odd one, this Emily, whom he feels as if he might have known far longer than a scant few weeks. Not a stranger, not yet a friend. She watches him, kindly, and sips at her tea some more.

[Owen Page] Her question has his dark eyebrows pinching together; his frame leaning back against the chair. Owen was a young man possessing both height and broad shoulders, though his figure drew in toward the waist and upper thigh, lending him an athletic, but lean figure. His musculature suggested a person who did a great deal of physical labor, or sport, as did the tan to his forearms, and face. The fact that he held it even during winter to spring spoke a lot about his job, his habits, his life before he had known any of the awakened in Chicago.

"A housewarming?" He echoes her words back at her as if they confused him utterly, he sat back and after shaking his head a touch, cast her both a bittersweet and vaguely bemused smile. "I don't have anyone to invite," he says practically, with the air of a sensible diplomat at work. "Except you, and maybe Ashley, if she'd come."

Owen doesn't seem hurt by the idea that the Hermetic might not show, just sensible of the very real possibility. He knows she dislikes crowds almost as much as he does.

[Emily] He doesn't have anyone to invite. He doesn't think anyone will come. One of Emily's eyebrows arches, curiously, as if she is at once amused by this conjecture and bemused. Confused. These are pragmatic responses, but not what Emily was looking (fishing) for.

"I think you mistake me," she says, and the sentence style is just foreign enough to sound odd, but not out of context. Emily's speech is occasionally a curious, muddled thing. Now, especially, in quieter moments and more serious discussions.

"It's not for them," she explains, something bittersweet touching her expression as well (but farther off than his [occulted, occluded]). "It's for you. Something to make this place feel a little less like the place you lie your head, and a little more like yours."

There is a pause. A little shrug. She tucks away a quieter expression, pulls it back from the corners of her eyes and the edge of her lips. It fades, almost before he has a chance to recognize it for what it might have been.

"I've lived a lot of different places. It used to help me settle in." She looked around a little, and shrugged again. "Then again, maybe you're doing just fine at that on your own." A slightly wry quirk to her smile, then Emily looks away and down into the bottom of her mug. It is nearly empty, so she finishes her tea and sets it aside.

[Owen Page] It's not for them, it's for you

Something flickers again in the Chorister's dark eyes, but it's here and then gone so quickly that the frustration becomes what emotion, what reaction it truly was. Even now that he's begun to get to know the Orphan, even though he has overcome a natural shyness to speak to her more than most, he is still holding back; still caging whatever inner monologues, or sensations her words might have inside him. His fist, so to speak, was still firmly clenched.

Or perhaps that is literally, as he houses the one that had touched her against his thigh, the coffee cup resting on the other.

"I don't really need that," he gently declines, and then seeks to explain, somehow. "I understand," why you're offering, why I'm touched that you care enough to, why it might matter to you to offer it, "But wherever I am, is mine as soon as I choose to own that I'm there." There's something learned in his words to her now, something sought and comprehended at some point in his past; a faith.

[Emily] She was careful, when she explained herself, not to use the word home. Emily can use that by extension, she can casually toss it around in colloquialisms (They're not home), but she avoids diluting it with overuse. It has a specific meaning, but that is neither here nor now.

I don't really need that, he says. And it is, in truth, all he need say. She's already nodding, before he finishes explain. Which is not to say that she doesn't listen, no!, only that he didn't owe her any explanation at all.

"I've overstepped," she observes, and it is a politer thing (ever so slightly more guarded [like his fist, clenched]). "My apologies?" she offers, and there is genuine regret in her expression for a moment. For the assumption, for overreaching, for letting some piece of herself into a conversation that was, presently, shaped more around him.

[Owen Page] She says she's overstepped, and he's denying her words and the apology that follows it, his expression growing, for the moment, warmer. "No," he sits forward, caging his big palms around his near-finished coffee cup, twirling the dregs around in it for a minute. "I told you before," there are hesitations in Owen's speech when he's struggling with words, with how to pronounce what it is he wants to say.

"I'm bad," with people, is unspoken but acknowledged. "I'm ... touched," he's careful on that word, with the smile that's clinging to his lips. "That you want to help me. I appreciate it." He rises then, dwarfing her abruptly with his height, with that strangely intense gaze that settles on her face; scours it for meaning, casts about for comprehension, with how close it brings him to her, still seated. He reaches for her empty cup, to collect both for returning to the sink.

"Did you want another?"

[Emily] He struggles, and Emily waits. Not out of cruetly, but out of a long-suffering patience. It matters not to her that Owen is tripping over his mother tongue; it is not that different from the struggle to overcome a language barrier. Perhaps Owen's truly native language is not in words, but rather in works, or some artistic outlet. Emily does not know, and it is not the type of question one asks, bold-faced and insensitively. This is an answer (understanding) that comes only in time, with the slow, drawn-out getting to know one another that she has rarely had the time or luxury for.

She listens, and watches. When Owen stands up to clear their mugs, Emily seems even smaller. She is slight and bean-pole tall anyway, and the sweats do more to fill out her frame than jeans and sweaters, but she is also whip-thin, fragile (broken and mending). In some ways, it fits the transience of her life. She is a ghost, this is a whisper, and someday (perhaps someday very soon) she would not be a shadow on his sofa or a friendly presence by his side. She is often (always) one foot out the door.

"No, thank you," she says. "I'm quite alright," she adds. It is a shy thing, now, too, in the wake of his struggle and stammer. Emily is not sure what to say, whether to steer the conversation one way or another. So she waits, watches and listens. And the space between them grows silent once more.

[Owen Page] He's very aware of her being in his apartment, that much she can glimpse in the manner he attends to her comforts before he himself attends to his own. He asks her if she wants another cup of tea, and then hesitates a minute when she declines it as if not sure what to do with his own two feet if this is the case.

He can't always have been this awkward around others, can he? There are moments where he seems almost another man altogether; like the night outside the pizza parlor, his eyes suggesting playfulness, his tone and manner almost flirtatious against this version; almost child-like in its uncertainty, in the manner it almost requires guidance on social accuracies. Still, after the brief moment where he stands, so still and looks at her, he turns, albeit a touch stiffly, and pads over to the kitchen; standing, back to her as he rises the dishes out and sets them on a drying rack.

He remains there after he's done for a few seconds as if he's forgotten that he had company at all before he seems to regain his comprehension of her and turns back; moving around the apartment with his quiet, sure tread. When he returns its with a handful of the books he offered to give her earlier and something else that possibly draws her eye. This time he doesn't sit across from her, but beside her on the other side of the sofa.

There's a sketchbook in his hands. "I'm not good with people," he explains, opening up the first page, which was a sketched drawing of the Church, Emily might recognized the snow-dappled trees, the arched windows of St James', faithfully etched into a still life memory, housed in the pages of his book. "But I do see them." He adds, and seems to be willing her to understand, holding her gaze as long as he can before he feels the need to look away. The hand that had drawn the sketches in the book was no polished artist, but it did do them justice, and it did have a talent for capturing the tilt of a sparrow's head as it tripped over the grass in Grant Park; or the laughter of a mother and child, rejoicing during a Church service.

It was a journal, drawn in picture; and it sung as if it had a voice of its own.

[Emily] They are, each, the composites of all the events and ideas, trials and triumphs, sorrows and joys that have led them to this moment. They are, each, in their own way whole; each in their own way seeking something greater. It is the way with people, like Owen, like Emily; like people, everywhere, with something greater to attend to, aspire to, long for, reach after. It is possible that this fundamental underlying truth existed before their Awakenings, and it is some piece of a mortal life (unchanged [unchanging]) that calls to the other in echoes of self (acceptance).

His footsteps carry him away, and Emily is left for a moment on the sofa with her own thoughts. She does get up and follow him to the kitchen, natter on about one thing or another -- as she might do (often does) in other places, with other people. Instead she fishes the silver locket out from under her sweater, wraps long fingers around it and bows her head thoughtfully. The hand encircling that small bauble (Home, it cries out [Home, like a heartbeat]) lifts up so that the back of her knuckles just touch her lips. It is a moment, stolen, taken apart from her fellowship with him. (An ache.) It is something she hopes that he might miss from across the room.

So that thin thrum of belonging is there, threaded around her and into the space he now occupies, book in hand, as she shifts to be just a little nearer, to look into the book of sketches he's offering.

"They're... lovely," she says, struggling for the right word. Lifting it up (elevating) with the same gentle awe that underscores her resonance. There is a quiet smile now, characterize by subtle shaping and the warmth in her eyes.

Again, her hand strays into his space. Finds his arm, rests there gently. "You're quiet," she says, and it is not chiding in any sense. "But that doesn't make you bad with people, Owen." A little pause, her eyes try to catch his, to hold them, to will some understanding to him in return. "I hope, in time, you won't feel that way with me."

[Owen Page] It's the second time she's touched him and this time she can feel the constrained tension that comes as a result of the physical sensation. His muscles tighten; and a tiny spark ignites from where her hand rests all the way through his body. He doesn't quiver, or make any other outward remark about it; but he does seem to tense up for a moment as if this, as if touch, were something foreign [or forgotten] to him.

That doesn't make it wrong, though.
She says his sketches are lovely, and he smiles; laughs, actually, a brief, brittle breath worked from his chest. "They're alright," he qualifies the compliment and sets them aside. She hopes, trying to catch his eye, that he won't feel that way with her and he frowns, contemplative.

"I'd like that." A moment; another hesitation; they're closer now, physically and other and it prompts him, like the hand on his arm. "That guy you were with, at the pizza parlor, who is he," a moment, a gathering of meaning. "To you, that is."

[Emily] ((You had to ask..., dif 6))
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 4, 5, 5, 6, 6, 6 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Owen Page] [I really did, I'm pushy.]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 7, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Owen Page] [Erm. I'm spechul. Re-rolling with Acute Senses Diff Mod.]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 5, 6, 6, 8, 8 (Success x 5 at target 4)

[Emily] "Ah, that's Chuck," she says, because Owen cannot be asking about Nathan. Would not be asking about Nathan. Her hand comes away, meets her other, folded into her lap a little. Primly or shyly, it's a bit difficult to tell. And it is Emily's turn to struggle, with words (with the feelings that underlay them), to take overlong to answer.

He has touched on something delicate, something kept close to vest and played so very carefully. Owen, being who and what he is, can see the play of it across her features -- subtle, so carefully restrained. She recoils, again subtly, draws her hand back, rounds her shoulders a little. There is an edge (uncertainty) to her words when she replies.

"He's a good friend," she says, but it does not stop there. That, alone, does not warrant the caution, the unease. "We are... seeing each other? Is that the right term?" She struggles with the idiom, trips over it as if it's foreign (though for all Owen knows, this is her mother tongue too). She doesn't say they're dating, or their sleeping together, or use any possessive in any sense. It is as if Emily does not know the answer to his question any more than he does.

Emily shrugs a little. There is a flicker of something gentler, and the shadow of worry in her features as well.

"I am... not good with people, in some ways, too," she admits.

[Owen Page] Whatever he expected when he asked; it seems to be answered in the [non]reply that Emily gives him. They are both of them careful to explain as little as possible while delivering what can be, on the surface anyway, a perfectly diplomatic answer. It's there and it isn't; like the mirror, the thoughts might be in the reflector's eye, but they cannot be read through it.

She calls him Chuck, and the Chorister files the name away for later use, as he does the term she puts to their arrangement; that they are friends that see one another, but that she's bad with people too. Perhaps the intimacy of naming whatever she had with Chuck frightens the Orphan; to say he is my boyfriend is to give the situation wings, and to perhaps curtain anything further from happening in other venues.

"Oh." He says, and draws back a little to arrange his books; to sort through the ones he meant to give her; there's nothing to read on his impassive face that shrieks jealousy, or disappointment, or anything other than what he'd cast back at her answer, as if it had been perfectly acceptable. Just oh, as if it all made sense somehow and he'd only been needing the confirmation. "These might interest you," he turns back, meeting her gaze if offered steadily. "If you want some variety."

A shadow of a smile.

[Emily] It is not just the naming, but the intimacy itself that frightens (worries) Emily. It is a shared Hope, faith invested in another person, and these things are uncertain. She is just as uncertain of her ability to carry it, foster it, let it grow into something new as she is of the situation itself. Emily's mouth purses a little, and she is very still. Overly conscious of what moving away from Owen might mean, just now; equally conscious of what moving toward him might mean. Caught. (Kept.) It is a deeply unsettling thing.

This would be a good juncture for I must away or Oh, look at the time! or any of the other small, contrived, forgiveable exits (stage left [with grace and decorum]), but she doesn't offer them. It does not seem fair, somehow, to politely whisk herself away, away from scrutiny and observation, when he had struggled so to share with her.

He offers her something, but Emily is momentarily unhearing. She recognizes the weight of his attention on her, though, and looks over, meets his eyes as much by accident as intention.

"I'm sorry..." she says. No attempt to explain is made, not just yet. He hasn't asked, and she hasn't offered. But the apology (whatever it is for) is genuine.

[Owen Page] They are talking around corners, cutting out the dialogue of what should be said and leaving only these morsels of not-quite-revelation. It's the sort of awkward word play that casts the mind back to adolescents in the fishbowl of High School. All the does he and will she and how do I ask ifs that circle and flow around without ever actually ironing out their proper meanings and casting light on an already strained situation.

It's probably why she feels the impulse to apologize to him.
It might be why he looks at her with that slow, steady scrutiny that suggests he's absorbing what's being said to him and taking in half a dozen things that aren't.

"Don't be," he says eventually, and reaches over to set the books on her lap. Owen wasn't the sort of man to push, were he so devious, or cruel, he could cut into her mind itself and pry loose every last morsel that he wanted of her before she could, potentially, raise the mental guards to prevent it. He has yet to raise a single magical hand to her, or against her, aside from the barest fluctuation of his resonance earlier, in response to some emotional surge.

He does try, though, to comfort her, in his own way, by circumnavigating his own issues with touch and reaching out to tender a strand of hair from her eyes before his hand falls away. "It's fine." His eyes stray to the inky twilight beyond his window. "It's late, though." Noted as if to bring them both back from whatever precipice they'd stepped too near to.

[Emily] It's late, he says.

"I should go," she responds. It's a familiar thing, the sort of call and response as ingrained as any part of the Sunday sermons. Emily doesn't hesitate, doesn't stumble over the agreement.

Her hands find the books he's put in her lap, take them up, even before she looks down to see what their titles are. She regards him carefully as he pushes the wayward curl away from her face. It is a truce, of some sorts, and Emily knows it.

And it is better, in so many ways, that Owen does not go pushing into her mind or across her boundaries too much (subtly yes [seekingly yes] irrespective of them, conquering, no). Emily has little left that has not been overturned, upended, violated or upset. It would not go well for them, if such a thing happened. She would not be look at him, finding the courage to say:

"I would like it if we might try, in time, to be friends." Shyly. Uncertain. There is something about the young man beside her that calls to Emily, in ways she has not yet unwound and understood. It is a something that makes the word friends more resonant, as if it were trying to encompass something (greater) else, something she did not yet have words for. "I know we've just met, and I... am tripping over myself, here," a wry smile, self-jesting and self-conscious, "But I think that I would like that. If you might."

Yes, awkward and ungainly. Much like Emily imagined high school would have been like. Or younger forms, even, if she'd attended anything resembling normal schools. Emily curled the books in toward her, and looked away before Owen could answer (as much to give him privacy, as to keep him from looking in so keenly).

[Owen Page] He's rising with her when she does and walking with her to the door to see her out; his hands folded now into the pockets of his slacks; his forehead creased in thought, or consideration, or concern about whatever she's saying to him. It's not until they reach the door; she with her lend bundle of books [there are three of them, one on finding faith, one on finding harmony within yourself and one about connecting with your inner self; all marked at certain pages with a younger Owen's notes, or his thoughts as he read them] and he with all his newly accumulated knowledge of Emily Littleton, and what made up her life; her wants, her fears.

Her unrealized desires.

He opens the door for her, and leans against it; watching her with the remembered open kindness she'd seen in him fleetingly before; it's a gentler smile, almost wry. Almost boyish. "I think we are friends," he responds, comforts with. "Or getting there." A beat, he reaches out to press her arm at the elbow, brief [wanted] contact.

"Be safe." There's no doubting he means more than just tonight, walking home.