[Emily Littleton] The air is heavy, still, stale. Humid. It hangs over everything, letting its fat and heavy fingerprints slide over every surface, leaving them damp and disturbed. At odd intervals, whenever the heavens will it, the sky splits open and looses a shower of thick raindrops. They fall, collide, converge, conspire -- but after a time the onslaught breaks and the heaviness returns.
It is not a night for casual walkers. Anyone out in the tempermental weather must have a reason: a place to go, someone to see, a reason to be anywhere but inside where it is warm, and dry, and safe.
The young woman walks with her hands in her pockets, her shoulders rounded slightly, and her gaze trained down on the paved path before her. As if she isn't afraid or aware of the empty spaces (fields) beside her, or the fence line coming that hems in the basketball courts. She's mindless of the press of the city, just beyond the treeline, where the cars go whizzing by, throwing up streams of water in their wake.
Her dark hair is bound back, loosely, but here or there a wily curl escapes to twirl wildly in upon itself. She is tall, but thin. Young, but old enough to not need an escort. Her foot falls are quiet enough, but not silent. Her path takes her from the puddle of light beneath one lamp to the next, unbroken, unyielding, uncaring that the rain will come again without warning.
[Travis Grace] Typically, there are curfews for parks such as this one. The limit the amount of traffic to before 10pm. Normally, the majority of Chicagoan's heed this very simple rule. It is, after all, a night that finds the weather angry with itself - spitting and crying and heaving it's fury onto the city of Chicago Illinois.
The dark haired woman finds herself approaching a basketball court. There are bright lights placed strategically all around the full court. They're harsh and bright and unforgiving and shine down on the painted asphalt leaving the greenish shade all the more unappealing.
Let's rewind, though.
Even before Emily could see the outline of chain link surrounding the basketball court she'd hear the slap of rubber on concrete. It's a ball. It seems to be handled expertly from the rhythmic tempo its keeping.
When she draws closer, she'd catch the outline of a man. In his mid twenties he's built for athletic - for running and jumping and doing other things that demand stamina and require some amount of skill.
His hair is dark - though not as dark as her own - and cropped short. His skin is naturally tan. He's wearing shorts - cargo style, tan. His shirt is dark in color, form fitting and wet. He's been out here for awhile. He's been assaulted by the showers and heavier rains. It hasn't deterred him.
[Emily Littleton] She's wearing jeans -- the bottom hems are soaked with rainwater -- and a zippered hoodie. Her hands are tucked into the front pockets as she approaches, moving toward the sound of the ball thumping rhythmically against the pavement as if she knew what to expect at the courts.
This man is of a height and a build that seemed familiar. Seems like someone she knows, even if the style of dress don't quite match. But the closer she gets, the clearer it becomes that he is not who she thought. So she stays, stills her progress at the chain link fence. One foot kicks up a bit, braced against the bottom of the fence and the long, thin fingers of one hand peek through the wires.
Her face is pale in the illumination of the overhead lights. Her eyes are dark -- it's too dark to discern hue in this low light -- and her hair is a deep brown-black.
Late nights were curious things. The later hours tamped down some worries and amplified others. For a moment, it does not strike her as odd that she's watching a stranger shoot hoops, without invitation or introduction, and then, all at once, her sense of propriety rushes back in and the girl ducks her head, slides her fingers out of the chain links, and starts to turn away.
[Travis Grace] He isn't who she thought he was. Travis is tall and his body is corded through with lean muscle. They become poetry in motion when he pulls short and opts for a jump shot. It bounces off the rim and he jogs over to snag it with one hand. That's when his eyes come to rest on Emily.
This is just before she becomes aware of herself and ducks her head, turns to move away.
"I'll make the next one." He says, his voice rich in tone. The ball bounces once, twice, four times before it stops. It rests between his forearm and hip while his other hand hooks into the chain link fence. Travis watches Emily with gray eyes that are - by most accounts - far too intense.
"You want to play?"
[Emily Littleton] You want to play?
Her mouth quirks into a smile, a little higher on one side than the other. The lopsided expression leads to a curiously canted head and... wait for it, a little loft to one eyebrow. Then her expression rights itself, seems to say Why not? even before she's answered.
Instead of pulling her fingers out of the links, she leans back a bit, tugs the mutable plane of the fence to her side of the divide, just a little bit. "I should warn you, I'm a terrible shot..."
She confesses, in a warm alto that's riddled through with tinges of far away places. The accent, while difficult to place, is predominantly British. He watches her intently, and it should have made her nervous. Would have made almost anyone else look away, but there's an echoing intensity (unrelenting [reckless]) to her tonight that takes to the challenge and weathers it gracefully. Pushes back, with her own, native curiosity.
Now she pulls her fingers out of the links, lets her fingertips bounce along the wires as she makes her way to the break in the fence that allows ingress to the courts. It's the sort of thing a child might do. The wall wiggles, sounds quietly, until she pulls her now-numb fingers away and rubs them with her other hand for a moment.
Now there's nothing between them. No safety net of wire and uprights. Just several feet of space and the illusion of sportsmanship, the anonymity of strangers meeting by chance on a rainy night.
[Travis Grace] The first thing Travis noticed was her accent. It was a mixture of ones he's heard before. While he tries to place it his eyes roam her face, take in the shape of her eyes and mouth and jaw as she drags her fingers along the spaces in the fence. As Emily steps foot into the actual basketball court he cross bounces the ball from one hand to the other before bouncing it to her.
In the meantime, he digs a pack of Blacks from his pocket. When it's lit, the sweet smell of incense and tobacco fills the air.
"You've got an accent." He says, the Black hanging from his lips, his words leaving his mouth around it. "Where are you from?" His body is turned toward the net itself, waiting for her shot.
[Emily Littleton] He passes the ball to her, and she stops it in her hands. Bounces it a couple times. Dribbles it from hand to hand to get the feeling of the texture, the size again. Basketball is not Emily's game, but she's not entirely inept. She's aware of her body, aware enough to add in a bouncing ball without it becoming awkward.
The ball stills, held between her hands, as she looks over at him. You've got an accent, he comments. "So do you, love," she replies. There's a richly amused tone to the words, and a wry tug to the corner of her smile now. Which broadens. Warms.
The girl wanders out to the free throw line. Bounces the ball again. Turns it in her hands as she watches the basket, and then shoots. It bounces off the backboard, off the rim, and finally finds its way into the net.
She jogs over to gather the ball, bounces it back to him in an easy arc. "Do you mean originally? Or most recently? I've lived all over the place," she answers, without offering specifics. As if he couldn't guess that the mangle of tones and vowel shapes was well earned. "I've been here a couple years, now. You?"
[Travis Grace] Emily states that Travis has an accent as well. That draws a smile to break across his lips around the clove he's smoking. The ball teases before slipping in through the net, the dark haired stranger jogs over to gather it up and returns it to him in one smooth bounce.
"Originally. Most recently. I've got a couple of hours to kill." Ball in hand Travis dribbles it backward to what would technically be considered a right wing position. His technique is solid, as if he's played before in a more than passing capacity. The ball is up, shot, and it sails through the net easily, not touching the rim.
Repeating her movements, the tall good looking man jogs over easily to collect the ball from where it's bounced too just to the left of beneath the net. "I'm Travis by the way." He says, the ball bouncing back to her.
[Emily Littleton] The ball meets her hands again, and its skin is damp against her fingers. She dribbles it back to the free throw line, again, still wearing that warmer, broader smile.
Originally.
"My passport says England," she replies. Bounces the ball. Shoots, and this time the ball only bounces off the backboard before going in. It doesn't dance along the rim. "My earliest memories are from China. But really? Pick a country in the Northern hemisphere, and we're probably good."
He's got hours, and he might need them if he wanted a litany of everywhere the girl had lived. She jogs over to retrieve the ball and pass it back, then wipes the damp from her hands on the legs of her jeans.
"I'm Emily," she offers, a little belated, as she moves out from under the basket. She watches him with some appreciation, however carefully guarded it is. He is a good looking man, well suited to this sport: that is a thing of grace in and of itself.
[Travis Grace] A white slash of light breaks behind the blanket of clouds in the sky. It's followed by a crash of thunder that vibrates beneath their feet. Not bothered by Mother Nature's light and sound show, Travis smiles widely at Emily as he listens intently to what she's saying.
The ball is in his hands, his hands are moist. He doesn't wipe them off to get a better grip, he doesn't pay it much attention at all really.
"Ahhhh..." He says nodding slowly. The Black clove is taken from his mouth with one last puff and flicked away to the edge of the court near the tall fence. "My parents pretty much dragged me all over the globe with them too." Another shot is taken, this time it's wide and arcs high over the rim itself and begins to bounce away. Travis curses beneath his breath. The air around him becomes charged with what feels like static electricity. Jogging over to catch up with the rubber ball, he snatches it up and grips it in one palm.
"Your parents were globetrotters too?"
[Emily Littleton] There's a bright flash of light, and the Orphan looks up and then cringes hard when the crash breaks over them. It's not that she's frightened of the weather, so much as she's reasonably respectful. They're standing in a metal cage, in a relatively flat section of the park. The air around them (him) feels like discharge.
She rubs at her arm and glances around. If her gaze lingers momentarily longer on a section of shrubbery at the far side of the courts, beyond the chain link boundary, perhaps it will go unnoticed.
"Foreign service." Her voice follows him as he heads for the fenceline, but the girl doesn't. She turns toward him, sure, but her feet are rooted for the moment. "I grew up in and out of Embassies," she says, with a shrug. "I'm clearly an excellent ambassador, representing a member of the average American family, didn't you know?"
There's laughter in her eyes, as if she finds this idea just as preposterous as he might -- given her accent, given her birthplace. There was little about Emily that spoke to an Average American Anything.
Overhead, another flash breaks the sky. It's followed, quickly, by an echoing crash.
[Travis Grace] That they stood in what could be considered a perfect conductor for a lightning strike doesn't seem to matter at all to Travis. Where Emily is respectful of the weather and it's might, Travis intends to dare it. To push it and see just how far he can go - how close he can get to the edge - before he's swatted back.
There's laughter touching her eyes and if she were to look at him she'd find it has reached his own gray eyes as well. "I don't think anything about you is average, Emily." It's said with a crooked grin. Turning, the short haired man bounces the ball back her way. Obviously he didn't intend to play one on one with her. "Let's play horse. You know how to play horse?" This is sad with both of his brows arched. "For every basket you get ...I'll answer a question...for every one I sink, I get a question answered from you. Deal?"
[Emily Littleton] There's a difference, between his reckless energy and the relentlessness of her own. However canted toward his end of the spectrum hers seems tonight, it's because of something darker driving her to potentially dangerous ends. Like stopping to talk with strangers in the middle of the night, a night booming with thunder, far from the safe places and familiar faces she could turn to if anything went awry. She knows better, has first hand experience with the probable outcomes, but she's still here.
"Play horse?" Still smiling, albeit it crookedly and with some confusion. "I don't think I'll ever master American slang," she says, regretfully.
It doesn't seem like a fair match, whatever this game of horse might be. He's clearly better suited for this game, with more experience. He'll win more answers of her (but that doesn't seem to bother her at the moment [and she rarely gives anything away that easily]).
"If you teach me," she says, "I'll play."
[Travis Grace] He's grinning. Not a Cheshire cat grin one might expect from someone who expects to win. This is more the expression of a man pleased with the moment: she's here, he's not alone anymore and she's willing to play a very simple, very (intimate) casual game of horse.
"I'll teach you." He says, gray stormy (as stormy as the sky above them) eyes train on her own before he moves forward, toward her, and stops to the left and just behind her. At 6'1, he's a handful of inches tall than her and from where he stands those inches might feel like feet.
"You move around the court...and pick a spot. If you make the shot, I have to make the same shot from the same exact place and vice versa. Whoever misses the shot gets a letter. The first one to spell out horse loses."
"Make sense?" He asks, his words have all been spoken quietly. He is, after all, standing very near her. The rich tone of his voice drifted easily to her ears.
Above them, the sky lit up and boomed angrily again.
[Emily Littleton] The girl knows that it's not about the game apparent, it's about the game behind the game and that's what fuels the pleased expression he wears. She also knows that there's a tertiary game, a give and take, an I'll show you mine if you show me yours trial that happens all too often between people like these two. People with a wanderlust bred into them, reinforced by years without a place to truly call home. There's a fascination and a yearning to finding another lost-and-found soul, whomever they might be, and a hope (a hunger) to find something in common.
It's nothing like the search to find another Awakened in a new and strange town. It's everything like that, too. But she hasn't tripped over his resonance yet, and he hasn't found her out for hers. They're just people, whose lives are spread across a far wider segment of the world than most, playing basket ball in the park.
She turns a bit, never letting him completely out of her line of sight. Even as he stands behind her, the four extra inches to his height making him seem looming and almost imposing. But like we said earlier, there's something about that intensity that pulls at an echo within her, and even while it frightens her on some instinctual level, Emily does not pull away. Will not follow that fleeting fear.
Instead she smiles, as his voice (warm, mellifluous) folds into the curl of her ear. She looks up and over her shoulder at him, nods her understanding -- but her eyes catch and hold his for a moment, an intimacy that is not of the game apparent, is of the game behind it.
"Makes sense," she echoes, her voice lower, too, in their closeness. Then the sky cried out again, in its indomitable voice, and she cringes. She almost turns into him, as if for shelter against the storm, but stops herself just short of such foolishness. "Do you go first then?"
[Travis Grace] He is conscious of his body placement. He's (hyper) aware of the almost non-existent space between their bodies. The sky roars in protest over something, refusing to part with the clouds this moment, and Emily flinches and threatens to turn into the strength of his body. Who knows what he might of done. She can imagine (and would probably be correct) he'd of allowed that. He might have even wrapped his long arms around her slight frame.
But she didn't. They stand there, front to back, discussing the rules and turn order for a child's game called horse.
Their eyes catch for a moment and the reckless, wild nature of his soul brightens the stormy (dark) gray of his eyes. His mood has lifted, elevated from monotone to something more personable, now that he's no longer by himself.
"Nope..." He says, and she can feel the chill left by the absence of his body behind her. Gone with him is the smell of him : of the clove he smoked, his expensive cologne and of rain soaked into his clothes.
"You can go first."
[Emily Littleton] They are both conscious of the closeness, each in their own way. And the absence that rushes in once he steps away, when there is no longer a warm, strong body behind her, no longer the scent of his cologne or the promise of strong arms that might -- no longer the threat of strong arms that might hold, that might enfold, that might have her kept, caught, unable to break free. She thinks of these things, even if they're not immediately evident in the curl of her smile (playful [easy-going]), or the set of her eyes.
He might have wrapped his arms around her, and then where would they be?
He steps away from her and there's an absence, now, for Travis as well. Her slim shoulders, the soft curl of her hair, the scent of vanilla and clove hidden away in the dampness of rainwater, the line of her neck as it disappears beneath the drape of her sweatshirt. The thin silver chain, there, that glimmers, only visible because he'd gotten quite that close to her.
She turns, more fully, to face him now. Holds her hands out, ready for the ball. It's different, now, that they've been into each other's space. She can't quite define it, but the game is somehow not the same.
"Alright, Travis," she says, trying his name out, tripping it across her tongue to see how it tastes. Wrapping it in that Otherness that pervades her every word.
When he passes her the ball, she bounces it with her, out to some part of the court where it seems relatively likley she'll make her first shot, taking that faint scent with her, broadening the space between them until that momentary intimacy is a thin tether than binds them together. She waits there, watching him, for some indication to begin.
[Travis Grace] Where would they be if he had? If she had? If they had? He notices the small things about Emily that might have been lost on him had he not gotten so close to her. The shimmer of the silver chain, the sweetness of her scent, the soft curl of her hair that made his fingers twitch to keep from brushing through the dark strands. There are things apparent about Travis that she very probably takes note of as her eyes train on him fully across the ten or so feet separating them now.
His right arm has, at one time, been wounded. The muscle looks different - off in some way - as if it has been sliced through, detached and then reattached but not the same. Not as good as it once might of been. From the sleeve of the opposite arm the faint hint of color from a tattoo can be seen. Travis is wearing a watch. An insanely expensive Louis Moinet Magistralis - a timepiece manufactured from a piece of a moon meteorite. It's a one of a kind watch and he's wearing it to play horse.
"Go." He says and steps back a little further to give her room to shoot.
[Emily Littleton] ((She shoots, she scores? Dex + Ath))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 5, 5, 6, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] He wears his secrets on his sleeve, he's painted them on his skin; they're there in all the trappings and seemingly innocuous details about him. Hers are carried deeper, sequestered away in dark places, in moments of silence. With a little observation, she can pick up on several nuances about him -- money, mannerism, pair that injury with a reckless demeanor and a girl could come to quite a few conclusions.
By contrast, she is plain and unassuming. Beyond that glimmer of silver, she wears no jewelry. Her clothes fit well, but are not expensive. With her arms and legs hidden away, he can't tell if she has inkwork--though if she did it might be surprsing. She's a plain Jane, unremarkable, anything but average.
Emily takes her eyes away from him, studies the basket, and lofts the ball toward it. It bounces easily off the backplane and drops down through the hoop. Once he'd wandered over to take up her spot, she went to get the ball and bounced it back to him.
And for her question? An easy one to start: "What's been your favorite city, or place, so far?"
So far, because she doesn't believe the journey is over. Not for her, at least. Not just yet.
[Travis Grace] Travis is a man of many layers, some hidden and others all too obvious. Whether anyone cared to put the pieces of Travis Grace together or not didn't seem to matter to him. Money could buy anything, even friends or lovers.
So Emily shoots and Tyler is watching. Not with baited breath or with his bottom lip clenched between his perfectly straight and white teeth. It's more an anxious sort of gaze that follows the ball as it leaves her hands, brushes over her finger tips. The ball bounces off the back board and then into the net.
She wastes no time giving him her question and waiting on his answer.
Emily doesn't have to rebound her own shot. Travis walks forward and collects the ball. The distance between them is closed slowly, the ball dribbled in front of him. With the faintest push of his hip against her, he moves her out of the spot she occupied so that he could shoot as well.
"My favorite place to just ...be is An Linne Latharnac." He speaks Scottish Gaelic easily, one might even say fluently for a dialect that isn't used as often as it once was. "The Firth of Lorn..." He says again in English and attempts the same shot as Emily. "Now if I don't make this ...you get to pick again ...if I make it...I pick the shot this time."
(Does he make it? Dex+Ath)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Travis Grace] The ball leaves his hand and swishes directly through the net - no rim or no backboard involved. Travis moves to where he had been before - the right wing position. The ball is held between both of his hands, waist high as his eyes level on her face.
"Why are you out here alone, in the rain?" He asks, then turns to take the shot.
(Again ....dex+ath)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 6, 6, 7, 8 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] ((Why indeed? That's a good question.))
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 3, 5, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Travis Grace] (ORLY? awareness + perception)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 4, 5, 6, 7 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] ((To match Travis' shot Dex + Ath))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 5, 6, 6, 7, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] ((To make her own Dex + Ath))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 2, 7, 7, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] He names a place that is nonexistant in most Americans' psyches. In this girl, it gets a little knowing nod. A softer smile.
"I haven't spent much time on the Western shores," she says, indicating she can place the geography, if not the specific location he's referring to. Strangely, if he'd asked her the same question, she'd have returned a place in the same Nation.
He nudges her out of place with his hip, once again wandering into her sovereign space. While they have not drawn out boundaries, per se, it is noticed. This familiarity, this seeming comfort -- give, take; push, pull -- with invading and then evading her comfort zone. She moves off a couple steps, but not as far as before. She's close enough to be seen in the corner of his eye as he frames his shot. Almost close enough to reach out and touch. Close enough to distract.
His question is not so safe; it goes straight to the heart of things. "Maybe I like the rain," she says, moving to rebound the ball herself this time. It's a test, a tease, and the wry shape of her mouth says that it's not the whole of her answer. "I've a lot on my mind, these days, and everything seems simpler in the small hours."
Which doesn't answer, entirely, his question. He can infer and imply more than she's saying. She's got the ball trapped between her side and her arm, almost like he'd held it when she'd first arrived. It pushes her sweater in a bit more and he can better discern the lines and curves of her frame. It leaves a wetter patch on her clothes, darker, when she pulls the ball away.
Now it's Emily in his space, bringing with her the thrum of something else. Something he'd not noticed or tasted until just now. There's a brightness to her, threaded through the very soul of her, a brilliance in this darkness: Grace; and the quiet that surrounds it (Reverence). It pushes at something in his, seeks, finds, knows. Where he is reckless, she is Unrelenting.
And in the moment, when he's taking all of this in, she's framing the same shot he just sunk with such elegance. Hers follows the same arc, drops into the basket with equal ease -- a surprised and pleased smile breaks across her face, elated (elevated) for a moment with unveiled joy. It's stolen back, quickly, though. Kept quietly beneath her skin, behind her eyes. She rebounds the ball, moves to another point on the court (will make him follow her there, in time). Shoots.
Backplane. Net. Question.
"What brings you to Chicago?" is what she asks. What keeps you here? is what she doesn't. He's direct; she's roundabout. Different approaches, different games, and nobody's earned their H just yet.
[Travis Grace] (To match Em's shot dex+ath)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 4, 5, 5, 5, 7 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Travis Grace] (To sink his own - dex+ath)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 6, 6 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Travis Grace] The States held bad memories for Travis. It isn't something that he'll tell easily, it isn't something discerned with just a glance - not like the tattoo on his arm or the ugly scar marking the other. This is buried in one of his deeper layers.
She makes one shot, then sinks the other and he laughs - extremely pleased with Emily's performance and apparently not worried (just yet) that she's digging into who he is. Was. Might be.
Emily is close to him. Close enough to feel and smell and see. Not only does this distract him but there's something else - something more- rooted deep inside of him that stirs. He's aware that she's skirting the question and covering it with that wry shape of her mouth that might be a grin or smirk in any other situation. But that isn't his concern at that moment. It's that thing ...in her that stirs the thing inside of him to wakefulness that distracts him more than anything else.
More than the few drops of rain and the thunder that crashes above them and the lightening that illuminates them and everything around them.
He's in her space again, taking up the spot where her feet were once just planted and shoots. The ball rolls around the rim, teeters and teases on the edge before edging a bit inward and falls into the hoop and through the net.
Gray eyes cut toward Emily. He doesn't say anything, just moves back to the free throw position again. Bounces the ball twice and then shoots.
Again, the ball slams into the backboard and rushes through the net. He is, obviously, distracted.
"What's the one thing you've always wanted to do, but haven't ever done because you're afraid of what might happen if you do?"
He is direct. To the point. Unafraid. Travis rebounds the ball and bounces it to Em.
[Travis Grace] The States held bad memories for Travis. It isn't something that he'll tell easily, it isn't something discerned with just a glance - not like the tattoo on his arm or the ugly scar marking the other. This is buried in one of his deeper layers.
She makes one shot, then sinks the other and he laughs - extremely pleased with Emily's performance and apparently not worried (just yet) that she's digging into who he is. Was. Might be.
Emily is close to him. Close enough to feel and smell and see. Not only does this distract him but there's something else - something more- rooted deep inside of him that stirs. He's aware that she's skirting the question and covering it with that wry shape of her mouth that might be a grin or smirk in any other situation. But that isn't his concern at that moment. It's that thing ...in her that stirs the thing inside of him to wakefulness that distracts him more than anything else.
More than the few drops of rain and the thunder that crashes above them and the lightening that illuminates them and everything around them.
He's in her space again, taking up the spot where her feet were once just planted and shoots. The ball rolls around the rim, teeters and teases on the edge before edging a bit inward and falls into the hoop and through the net.
Gray eyes cut toward Emily. He doesn't say anything, just moves back to the free throw position again. Bounces the ball twice and then shoots.
She asks her question and the ball slams into the backboard and rushes through the net. He is, obviously, distracted.
"Hmmm..." The sound leaves his throat in more of a purr. Soft and velvet. "Death." He says simply, lowers his eyes and then lifts then again to look at Emily more fully. "Someone died and I didn't want to be where I was anymore."
One hand drags across the top of his hair, causing his short hair to stand on end.
"What's the one thing you've always wanted to do, but haven't ever done because you're afraid of what might happen if you do?"
He is direct. To the point. Unafraid. Travis rebounds the ball and bounces it to Em.
[Emily Littleton] ((To match his) ... Dex + Ath))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 8, 8, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] ((To make her own ... Dex + Ath))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 4, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Travis Grace] (per+awareness)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 6, 9, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] He laughs, and the sound hangs for a moment in the heavy-wet air, it battered about by the little gusts of wind that are building into breezes, that will soon presage the breaking storm. She's looking up, at the firmament that threatens to fall away, taunts them with a few fat raindrops (kisses [tears]).
Death, he says, in that smooth and resonant purr. It's an intimate tone for so final a word, and that draws down her eyes, paints her features with a deeper curiosity. A solemnity. He looks away; she doesn't. His eyes find hers again, and before she can offer any condolences or trite words (who said she would) of concern or compassion, he's pushing again.
Prodding.
Her mouth worries to a thin line, thoughtful, then releases a sigh that shakes free the edginess in expression. "I'd go back to Prague," she says, flatly, in an almost ominously calm tone.
The weather, though, is having none of that. It breaks the sky, paints it purple-white and brilliant, sends a roll of thunder crashing down on the Orphan's head. Where she flinched before, she did not faulter now. It's as if that one place, that one city, held enough something to solidify her against the roiling storm, to strengthen her (or harden her) albeit uncomfortably.
And she, in turn, is having none of that. In defiance of the storm above them, of his closeness, of the memories that are closing in in the wake of her answer for him, in the way this answer and the one before it intertwine -- Emily sinks the free throw beautifully. Nothing but net, and the ball drops straight down. Bounces below the basket, not traveling left or right.
She walks more slowly over to retrieve the ball this time, but is grateful to be out of that shared space. The momentary tension in her starts to break, sluice from her shoulders, fall away. There's a few more raindrops, scattered but growing in frequency. She picks a place, almost at random, shoots -- it's sloppier, less defiant and focused. The ball goes in, but not until it's lazily pushed into place by the back board and the rim.
She's calmer, now, now that he's not within arm's reach. Now that she's moved away from the name of that city, hung out there in the thick night air and unwilling to dissipate quickly enough. Her wry smile returns, pushing away the darker expression.
"Are you always this ..." she considers a few adjectives, but settles on "Direct?"
Oh, and that was her question, it seems, for the round. She realizes it afterward, and the wry smile breaks to something warmer. Almost laughing. As if he'd caught her out at something, and it pleased her to be so readily (unsuspectingly) undone.
[Travis Grace] (To match Em's shot, dex+ath)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 4, 6, 6, 6 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Travis Grace] To make his own, dex+ath)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 5, 7 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Travis Grace] His hands are on the slender line of his hips. The way that he is built, it wouldn't be too far of a reach to imagine that Travis' body is defined by muscle and bone without an ounce of fat to take away from his physical attractiveness. Only his eyes move, following the ball if its bounced, tracing the sailing arc as she sinks one. Following the momentum as it utilizes the backboard to sink into the net on the second. They'd be at this for hours if they both kept hitting their shots this way. But Travis didn't mind. He didn't mind at all.
Prague. That place hangs out in the space between them like a whole other person. Intimidating and dangerous, it seems to glower at Emily....paining her. He notices this, commits it to his memory and then is pleased to see her recover.
Her next question makes him smile and a brow arches upward as if to say - is that really your question? But it is, it must be, because nothing else leaves Emily's lips. Then, he really considers what she said and he looks down as if embarrassed.
"Actually ....yeah." It's said with a half sort of chuckle before his eyes resurface on her face. "Though only when I find someone interesting and worth getting to know."
It's his turn now. He takes up a spot very near where Emily had been standing and shoots. The ball sails forward, hits the backboard and slips into the net. He moves down to a lower post, close enough to the backboard that he could touch it if he jumped.
The ball sinks in easily without touching the rim or backboard.
"Can I take your picture sometime?" He asks. She may or may not be able to tell that wasn't his first choice for a question. Truthfully, he wanted to ask about Prague.
But didn't.
[Emily Littleton] ((To match Dex + Ath))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 5, 8, 9, 9, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] ((Her own...))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 4, 5 (Botch x 3 at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] ((Ouch.))
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 3, 4, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] ((To soak))
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 4, 6 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] It's not his first choice, and she knows it. Emily is quietly grateful for the redirection, though this new avenue surprises her. She casts him a quizzical look, faintly disbelieving, but it broadens out into a smile that humors him.
"Yes," she says, a clear and usually decisive word that is turned artfully on her tongue to become so much more. She doesn't play around with Yeahs or an I guess. It's not even as mutable as Sure. Just a single, affirmative syllable, as she's wandering back into his space again.
Truth be told, though, her answer would not have been anything of the sort if he'd been asking just a year before. Even seven or eight months before. It's this new life, this thing inside her breast that leaves the otherwise common-looking girl unabashed about her appearance, curious but not afraid of his intent. It's her turn to nudge him out of the way, playfully, with her hip. To invite that comfortable flirtation in return.
The first shot goes right in, nothing but net. She rebounds it and is making her way to another point when she slips, slides in an overwet portion of the court and sends herself sprawling. The basketball goes one way, and the Orphan hits the pavement hard, barely catching herself with an outstretched arm well enough to avoid cracking her head.
There's a word, loosed in surprise and anger (embarrassment) aimed at the concrete beneath her hand. He recognizes it, harsh and foreign, but she does not curse in English (not in an English speaking nation, at least). It takes a moment, but then Emily's pushing herself up to sitting, testing carefully to make sure she's not bruised or broken anywhere.
The basketball thuds forlornly in a decaying oscillation as it makes its way toward the far fence. Soon it is only rolling. Then it is stopped against the chain, making the open linked wall shudder.
No basket, no question.
[Travis Grace] She's going to let him take her picture. His smile slices a beautiful cut across his face, exposing the perfection of his teeth. "Good." He says softly as she's brushing him with her hip. Travis doesn't move initially, he stands still allowing the playful and flirtatious touch last for just a few seconds longer than it would have, should have.
Travis remains close to Emily as she sinks yet another shot. He's moving with her as she sniffs out a spot to make her next one. What happens next happens so fast that Travis is left with no time to think. Emily slips, crashes against the painted pavement that makes up the basketball court. The ball is sent one way (which way he doesn't care) and Emily goes another - hard.
"Jesus!" He exclaims, breathless, and is startled from his reprieve of normality to try and catch the brunette. He fails, miserably, and ends up next to her within milliseconds of her hitting the ground.
Lightning brightens her face, rain makes it glistens and the thunder claps mockingly above them.
"Are you okay Emily? Watch your wrist..." he says with a wince, paying little attention to the echoing sound of the ball bouncing. His hand rests between her shoulders as she starts to sit up.
Emily has earned the letter H.
[Emily Littleton] The storm has a lovely sense of humor. Now that she's sitting in a puddle, now that her cheeks are flushed with embarrassment, and he's at her side suddenly worried and the ball is all the way over there -- Now it begins to rain again in earnest. It starts as a quiet tapping, the intermittent plunge of raindrops into well established puddles (like the one she happens to be sitting in, just now). It's the press of cold fingertips against his bared skin, tapping at the crown of her head.
"Ouch...? she says, a little shakily, as if she's not quite sure how she ended up flat on her ass. It had happened quickly, but she tests that wrist he's cautioning her about, she remembers the slick, slide, smack of the pavement beneath her. She offers a shaky, uneven little laugh. "I'm fine," she tells him. She assures him. Casts him a small smile that already seems less shattered.
She's already trying to stand up, again, unless he insists that she takes a moment to wait it out. Wait for the adrenaline flurry to settle, and her head to clear.
"So that's H, then?" she asks, her voice softened now. Distracted. There's a little oof as she makes it to standing, tests out her joints for any unexpected soreness or tension. The playfulness has given way, momentarily, to the need to right herself. To the rain.
[Travis Grace] He is worried. Concern has overcome his expression, it fills the gray mercury like pools of his eyes. Travis' lashes are long and the drops hang on them causing him to blink more often than he normally would. Emily says ouch and he winces, a hand at the small of her back slides down to hook around her waist, the other rests on the curve of her waist. He is closer then than he has been the entire time they've brushes against each others space. The curve of her body is just beneath his palm, separated only by the material of her shirt.
When she tries to stand up he helps her regain her balance, his hands not straying far from her person. "Let's take a break..." He says, and walks her toward a nearby bench. It is odd, this moment. They are walking beneath pelting fat rivulets of water toward a bench to sit. A bench that is very wet and offers no shelter.
"Hey ... I can take you home...I have a car. You sure you're ok?" He asks again.
[Emily Littleton] He is worried and in that concern he has insinuated himself completely into her space, without asking, without realizing that this closeness is a rare thing reserved for a close few. And she is too busy finding her footing to push him away, to step back, to reimpose the distance they should be keeping between them. His arm around her waist, her side pressed against his for balance as he helps her up.
He's so self-assured and comfortable with this interaction; she borrows on that and it steadies her all the way to the bench. Once she's settled, Emily holds one hand out, palm up, to let the raindrops puddle in her palm and slip past her fingers.
She offers him a quiet thank you for his trouble, for his open an unveiled concern. His warmth.
"I'm fine," she says again, this time more collected and calmer. "Really," she tacks on, for emphasis. It's raining harder, now, and the thunder rolls lazily overhead. It seems less booming and ominous now that the storm is broken. The girl beside him wiggles her fingers and rotates her wrists, all without wincing this time: "See? No harm done."
It's an odd moment, not quite as electric and intimate. There's been a break in that, due to the sudden spill and near-injury, but as the closeness lingers, things fall back toward the near-magnetic pull between two people, the push of trying to figure one another out.
She catches his quicksilver eyes with her own, dark gaze. For a moment, it's like she's just now seeing him. Really seeing him as more than a stranger, or some guy in the park shooting hoops. Her breathing stills, catches, and then Emily looks away. She smiles, and it's just occult enough that he would have to guess at her motivation or meaning.
"I don't want to muss up your interior," she says, having guessed from the watch that he's wearing that his auto might be of a comparable quality. "I'm not far from here," she adds, in case he might protest. "If we're calling the game on account of weather..." because it couldn't be that she'd just taken a tumble, knocked the wind out of herself momentarily "I can walk myself home."
((Paused))
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