[Declan] In this part of town, scruffy vagabonds with tired eyes were just another part of scenery. It was places like this that Declan so often called home, these days (as if the word even meant anything to him anymore.) Places where the grime of neglect had accumulated to the point where the smell of it seeped out of the pores of the cement. Abused. Forgotten. Crumbling. Not all that unlike Declan himself.
No one would have noticed him, curled up as he was against the side of a dumpster. He was tucked away from the world. Hiding, maybe, though from what was anybody's guess. And he might very well have stayed a nondescript lump in the shadows, were it not for the fact that he seemed to have picked up a fever, and it was making him even less lucid than usual. Something like an hour had passed where the world just seemed to melt away, but now he felt his new clothes (new for him, anyway - naturally they'd been donated from someone else's closet) clinging to his skin uncomfortably amidst the fever-sweat and the humidity, and he stood up to remove his jacket, peeling the old denim from his arms as he rounded the corner away from the dumpster and its nauseating scent.
He was unsteady on his feet, and once his boots hit the sidewalk, he stopped and leaned to one side, feeling the cool brick of a building. The drifter closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall, not particularly caring if it left an indentation on his face.
[Riley] [i totally see you]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 7, 10, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Riley] Friday night. First night of the weekend. It's the night when young people go out into the night, dressed in the smallest amount of clothing possible, or the most form fitting. They dress themselves up and they look for a good time in a glass or a pill or a person.
And yet, Riley isn't headed out. She's headed home, a pair of mismatched reusable bags held in one hand, the other resting against her messenger bag, on the place where the strap meets the sack against her hip. She's dressed the same as she usually is this time on a weekday, in a short-sleeved white button down, unbuttoned to reveal a plain white camisole. A black tie hangs loosely around her neck, but instead of a short black skirt, she's wearing jeans. Old and faded, with holes at the knees and tears forming on the fronts of her thighs.
She's headed home because she needs to start dinner before her dad gets home, and because O needs to eat, too. It's the weekend, and at least part of it will be spent cleaning up her room and her bathroom and the kitchen. She doesn't remember becoming so domesticated. And then she remembers that she'll be twenty-seven soon, and this thought actually excites her.
Her mind is wandering when she notices a figure leaned against a building she hasn't quite reached. Unlike most people in this neighborhood, the tall brunette doesn't avert her eyes or quicken her step. She's not crazy, though. She doesn't turn her head and look right at a figure that could possibly be a danger. Dark eyes flick up ahead, down, and then she does a double-take. Her pace does pick up, to catch up more quickly rather than get away.
"Declan?" she asks, just to be sure. And to alert him that the person hurrying to him is not about to jam a knife between his ribs (though she does have something like that on her) and steal his meager belongings. Her Converse shoes scuff on the pavement, and she stumbles a little, catches herself. Her dark eyes are filled with genuine concern.
[Emily] There's a soup kitchen, not far from here, and it's a place that Emily used to frequent. Now that summer break has found her and the semester is over, she has more free time on her hands. Time enough to see if some bridges have mended. Time enough to visit, ask after other community projects she could help with. The humidity makes the otherwise grey day feel suffocatingly close, and the Orphan needs time to herself after the near encounter with Nick -- who has not forgotten, but mostly forgiven, the argument from last winter.
She's wearing jeans, and a button down lavendar shirt over a black camisole. The sleeves are rolled up to her shoulders, baring pale arms with a few olive-toned bruises (very faint [mostly healed]).
There, up ahead, is a familiar face -- the other dark-haired apprentice, the friendlier of the two -- and an unfamiliar man, near the mouthway of an alley. Emily holds her messenger bag to her side with one hand and hurries over toward them. It's instinct that has her heart pounding a little harder in her chest (memory [fear]) than strictly necessary. But Cabrini is not clean, is not safe, is not bereft of threats and untoward forces, so she might have a point.
She has to cross the street to get to them; a halting progress, complete with an angry gesture made at a passing car that didn't bother to look for pedestrians as they came barreling around a corner. When she gets closer, Emily's footfalls are clear enough for them both to hear approaching.
"Hey, Riley," she said, warmly enough (but also concerned). "Everything alright?" She looked from the Apprentice to the unknown, then back again, with growing concern.
[Emily] ((edit: The sleeves are rolled up to her *elbows....))
[Declan] New towns meant new germs. New viruses he hadn't built up immunities to. It was a fact of life, given the way he lived, that he got sick more often than regular people. And this wasn't some deathly illness. Probably just the beginnings of a cold or some minor infection. But Declan had enough of an air of a lost puppy already that seeing him like this couldn't do anything other than strengthen the image. And Riley was a kind-hearted sort of girl. At least, one would assume so, given that on their last encounter she'd offered half of her scone to a complete stranger.
He'd said: take care, that evening, as if he had no expectations or intentions of seeing her again. And yet... here she was. Like fate just couldn't help but keep these misfits of reality running in the same circles. There was a delayed response to Riley's approach, which said something about how Declan was probably feeling, because his instincts were usually rather hyper-vigilant, in the way of people who live on the streets and become used to looking out for themselves against things most people scarcely need bother consider. There was movement, and Declan turned slowly, rolling so that his back came to rest against the bricks and he could look Riley in the eyes.
His own were a muddy olive green tonight, and bloodshot from lack of sleep. For a few seconds, they looked empty. (They looked like he'd checked out. Declan isn't home tonight.) Then they sharpened a little, and fuzzy recognition seemed to dawn on his face. "Ah... you again. Hi."
Someone else came to join their little party, and the drifter glanced over at Emily absently, in a way that might have been curious if he'd had the presence of mind to wonder about these things. Since the last time Riley had seen him, he'd managed to shave and get his hair cut at the shelter, making him a bit more presentable, though he still had a thin shadow of stubble along his jaw from today. The clothes he wore were about as nondescript as his last set, but lacking the myriad of rips and stains: a pair of jeans, a black t-shirt, and that same denim jacket with the little heart scribbled in red ink on one cuff, which he currently had hanging from one hand.
[Riley] [wits + alert: do i know what this looks like to Emily?]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 4, 6, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1
to Riley
[Riley] He recognizes her, that's a good sign, one that earns a smile from Riley. She's a kindhearted person, but she's not reckless. She stops a few steps away from the drifter, far enough (she hopes) that if it turns out her instincts are wrong and he lunges for her, she'll have time to react. She's searching his face when she hears footsteps approaching, their pace quick enough that she knows this isn't some pedestrian about to pass the two of them by.
Riley turns to find Emily, of all people in the world, is the one coming toward them. And she knows, instantly, what this might look like to the Orphan. She knows what about this is causing that look of concern, what will make that worried note creep into her voice.
It's always going to be there now, what she now knows about Emily. It will always be there, and there will always be moments like this when that knowledge colors their interactions. Like when the older apprentice is standing near a vagabond who could be sick or on drugs or could be a threat. Riley tries to smile in a way that's meant to be reassuring, but the truth is, she doesn't know if Declan is really not a threat. And that doubt shows in her smile, because she can't lie to save her life.
"Emily, hey." And her attention is back to the man leaning back against the brick wall. Measuring him up. They're roughly the same height. Both are thin, though Riley's is from a healthy diet and an active lifestyle, and his is likely from malnutrition. "Are you feeling alright? Mind if I check your temperature?" she asks, even as she steps forward, arm outstretched to rest the back of her hand to his forehead. Not too fast. Trusting yet still wary.
[Emily] ((Whatchu up to?, target new guy, Alert + Perc))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Emily] There is concern, which is the dominant expression on the young Orphan's features. It is not limited to concern for herself or for Riley, no, it extends to the man beside them who is leaning against the brick facade with beads of fever-sweat on his brow. Whose eyes are a little unfocused. Who breathes out warm air into an already warm night.
And that concern deepens, furrows lines into her forehead, shapes the corners of her eyes and mouth as she watches him. Her eyes are dark, a deep blue marbled with flecks of grey. The scrutiny is bearable, but only because its softened by an evident compassion. It does not feel, tonight, as if she is raking him over, leaving him bare, cutting down to the quick -- not tonight.
Her mouth purses, then presses to a thin line. The girl reaches over with one hand to rub at her upper arm, thoughtfully. She doesn't intercede when Riley tries to get closer to the man; there is no flash of fear (wait, wait-- no!) or tightening to her chest and shoulders.
"You got a place you can go?" she asks Declan, her words muddied by touches of far away places. She addresses him as if he's lucid, as if she expects an answer. Like she's asked this question before, so many times its become comfortable. There's no judgment (surprise) underlying it either. Just a matter-of-fact pragmatism. "It's supposed to rain tonight, and that's only gonna get worse by you."
Her arms cross her middle, low on her torso, closed but not withdrawn. She glances up and the ceiling of clouds above them, wall to wall grey lit by a bevy of streetlamps. Chance of thunderstorms, the weather report said, and the air was already sodden, primed, ready to split.
[Declan] This isn't the kind of safe, homogenized environment that they last encountered each other in. And indeed, for all the Virtual Adept knew, Declan may have been high on something. He certainly acted like it sometimes, and drug abuse was a common cause of homelessness. The light wasn't great here, but once she got close, Riley would be able to see that his face looked flushed, and that he was sweating.
When she offered to check his temperature, Declan couldn't help but smile with a kind of dreamy amusement. "You sound like someone's Mom." Not his mom, certainly, because making that correlation would require that he remember he had one. But he made no move to stop her, and that smile lingered a little on his face. When the back of Riley's hand touched his forehead, Declan let his eyes slide shut, long blond lashes splaying against his cheekbones. His skin was hot. Not I-need-to-go-to-the-hospital hot, but certainly feverish.
Dimly, in the distance, a voice asked if he had a place to go, and he didn't open his eyes when he said, softly, "There's a shelter... I got a cot there, for now." His accent resonated of someplace further east. New England, maybe.
[Riley] Declan says she sounds like someone's mom, and that elicits a strange sort of smile from the Virtual Adept. There's genuine amusement, sure, but it's mingled with something else, some memory, maybe even a flood of them. It's quickly swallowed up with concern, because there, that smile from him, that's not the smile she saw the other day. It's dreamy, foggy, and causes her more worry than the flushed skin or the fever sweat.
He's got a cot at the shelter. Riley lets her hand fall back to her side, chews on her lower lip. Her mind is running over a series of facts and probabilities. Making calculations. She glances at Emily briefly, then back to Declan.
"Yeah, no. Chances are, staying there now in your condition's only gonna make you worse before you get better. Uh." And there is that telltale hesitancy. That sense that going into the park when her phone just rang with a foreign ring tone was a bad idea. The one that tells her following strangers down the train tracks at one in the morning is fucking stupid.
And yet, on all of those occasions recently when Riley has wanted to flee and keep herself safe, she has forged ahead. She went into the woods, and she followed that woman.
She breathes a resigned sigh, as if she's run through all the pros and cons, all the possible scenarios, and has landed with the only logical one, despite her better judgment.
"You can stay at my place tonight, at least. Can you walk okay?"
[Emily] Riley and Emily go about this in entirely different ways. He's got a cot at the shelter, he says, and Emily's thinking that's a good start. That's a safe(r) place, where the rain is held back by a roof overhead. And it's likely that someone at the shelter knows the people she worked with at the kitchen; it's likely that they could get him a bit more help, maybe some simple OTC meds -- but Riley goes and invites him home.
There's a twitch, just under Emily's left eye, that takes a moment to settle. She wants to say Riley, love, is your Da' home this weekend?. She wants to suggest something less invasive. She wants, but Emily's good at setting want aside, and so she bites back those words and offers Riley's houseguest a careful smile.
"I can walk to the CVS," she says. It's an offer. "Pick up a few things that might help with your bug." The smile broadens, but not enough to show teeth. The girls hands come to rest on the strap of her messenger bag.
She casts a look over to Riley, and it's a darker sort of concern that troubles her now. But she trusts the older girl to know what she's doing (mostly) and Chuck is only a few doors away. It's safe(r) at Riley's than almost anywhere else.
Emily does not like the course of action, but now that it's committed to she appears at least to be supportive.
[Riley] [oh gee, do you think this is a bad idea, Em?: percept + aware]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 4, 4, 7, 7, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Emily] ((Duh. -- Wait, wait, I mean "Of course not....", manip + subt))
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 4, 4, 5, 5, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Declan] She was worried about him. They both were. That was a surreal feeling. Declan was fairly used to pity by now. He got pity from people who passed him on the street. Pity from people who grudgingly handed over a few bits of change. Pity from the shelter workers, and the volunteers who passed out food in the soup kitchen. They all looked at him the same way people looked at a stray dog: Isn't that just a shame. But pity and genuine concern were two different things, and it had been a long, long time since anyone had attempted the latter.
And he was feeling more than a little vulnerable tonight. Combined with the woozy, dreamy feeling that fever tended to bring on... it meant that there just wasn't much of a filter between his emotions and his actions. He opened his eyes and looked at Riley. Then he smiled again (dreamy, grateful) and leaned forward. Maybe she'd take a step back. He was a strange homeless man with a fever, after all. And despite the fact that she felt reasonably sure that he was harmless, one never really knew. If she didn't, he'd end up whispering in her ear... "Are you an angel? I see them sometimes, you know."
(And if she did back away, he'd whisper it into the air.)
Then he collected himself a little and reached up to rub his tired eyes. "I'll be okay. Really, I just... need to rest." If he had the presence of mind to ask for it, he'd have realized he also probably needed fluids and a hefty dose of vitamin C. But a dry bed (or couch) would be a welcome enough respite. On a good day, he'd have turned down the offer without a second thought.
Today he just resigned himself to going along with whatever these two women had in mind for him, because it seemed easier than trying to deny the obvious.
[Riley] If someone were to ask her, Riley Poole, what the hell do you think you're doing? She would be able to tell them:
I trust this person. And even if I'm wrong, I have a dagger and I know how to use it. And even if I can't, my dad's a personal trainer. If someone asked, she could tell them that she (more or less) knows what she's doing, because she's not five, and she's not bringing home a stray puppy or a new friend she met on the playground and Daddy can he please stay for dinner?
But no one's asking her these questions.
Emily casts her a look of concern, and Riley just shrugs. She smiles a smile that easily reads What can I do? Besides, Riley believes in karma, that what goes around comes around.
She doesn't step back when Declan leans in to whisper in her ear. What she does, in fact, is hold perfectly still, the way one stills when they come across a strange wonder and are afraid movement will shatter it into a million fragmented pieces. He asks if she's an angel, and Riley's face lights up in a smile.
"I'm something, alright." Which leaves both Magi to imagine what they will. "C'mon." Lightly, she touches the back of his elbow, encouraging him to move. Ready to catch him if he should stumble. "By the way, Emily, this is Declan."
Her home isn't far, just a block from the grocery store she'd stopped at for dinner. She'll have to go out again later if there are one, maybe two more mouths to feed. Or maybe she'll order something in, instead. Before they get to the condo she shares with her father and a Balinese, she fishes out her cell phone and fires off a text to her father.
[Emily] "Let me help with the bags," she says, offering to take one or two things off Riley's plate so that she can focus on helping guide Declan homeward. Riley is unconcerned and Emily seems resolved to let it go -- to a point. They shift around who is carrying what, and the Orphan falls a bit quieter beside the two.
Whatever it is that Declan whispers, in dulcet tones of delerium and wonder, Emily cannot hear. She's shifting her messenger bag slightly, following along behind them like a buffer against any upcoming foot-traffic. They will find Emily first, be deflected, be re-routed. They will not trouble the two, who are better acquainted.
"Pleased to meet you, Declan," she says, when they are introduced. The wordshapes are pleasant, and the smile is warm enough. "I'm sorry to see that you're ill," she adds. It, too, is warm enough.
If she's wary, perhaps he will understand. Perhaps he already knows the sidelong glances she steals, which are riddled and twisted with concern (genuine) and caution (learned). It's possible he'll notice that she doesn't come too close, just yet, not quite close enough to be touched. But it's not out of any aversion for his illness, or the state he's found himself in. It's deeper, innate, a distrustfulness of people in general. It's a thing that the warmer-eyed Adept has shattered in her, mostly.
[Declan] It was impossible to quantify into words just how much a gesture like the one Riley had just made to him was worth, in Declan's eyes. She may as well have offered him the sun. Of course, from her perspective, it was probably a small inconvenience. A minor sacrifice in the name of helping out a fellow awakened soul who was clearly down on his luck.
He didn't say how grateful he was, but he looked at her with wide eyes that seemed to carry a lot of meaning.
And then she touched his elbow, and the three of them began to walk. Declan's steps were a little unsteady, but he managed, and he had enough pride left to keep him from leaning on either of the two woman beside him. When Emily addressed him, he looked at her for a long moment. Studying her, perhaps. Until now he'd only barely even realized her presence, but now there was time for him to collect himself and pay a little more attention to his surroundings.
"Pleased to meet you," he responded in his East coast accent. "It's alright. It happens. Side effect of living the life of a gypsy vagrant."
[Riley] Their surroundings change, albeit slightly, on the way to the building Riley and Chuck live in. The trio starts off on the fringe of a small shopping district. There are things like a bank, the small grocery store Riley has been to recently, a shop whose sign simply reads NAILS. Things like that.
Soon enough they're into the housing district. There aren't many between the place Declan appeared and Riley's home. They go from run down to less-run down to almost tolerable. It's there that Riley's condo is found.
Riley matches her pace to Declan's. Though she offers strength and comfort when she touches his elbow, she doesn't grab him, or force his arm over her shoulders. She doesn't coddle or condescend or treat him like an invalid. Because he's not. He's just a guy down on his luck who happened to catch a fever, is all.
She reminds herself of this as they move on down the street, Declan and Emily exchanging pleasantries and light chit chat while Riley fiddles with her phone, something made all the easier for her to do by the kindness of her friend, who has taken her shopping bags. By the time they reach the door into her building, she's grimacing at it.
"Gypsy, huh?" she asks, lifting her head again and smiling as she holds the door open for everyone. "That fits in perfectly with the pirate story."
[Emily] She's wandered around here enough times to not feel too out of sorts. The turns are familiar, and the Orphan can let her mind wander somewhat. It gives her a chance to focus on the newcomer, who has Riley's interest and compassion wound around him like a shroud. Oh, it's not that Emily disapproves ... just that she's unable to trust quite as openly (there would always be something between them now [an understanding]).
She was beginning to understand the long suffering quiet wrapped around a particular Chorister. Emily shifted the bags, reallocating them between her hands, wiggling her fingers a bit as she did so. The rustle of fabrics against one another hid the small sigh.
"A gypsy and a pirate?" she inquires, letting the words trip a bit more lightly across her tongue, as if she couldn't quite believe that coincidence of professions. "You must live a storied life."
It's gentle, how she's worded it. She does attach a pejorative or superlative to it. Storied. There are good stories and bad, ones with happy endings and those with sad, those that drag on endlessly and ones that are over too quickly. But there's a gently lifted eyebrow, and a little quirk to her smile.
That fades as they all fall away to focus on shuffling through the door, navigating the stairs and hallways to Riley's flat. Emily is quiet, again, and casts a look down the hallway toward Chuck's flat as they pass the juncture in the second floor corridor.
[Owen Page] Unlike Owen's apartment building, there's nothing that prevents him from walking in off the street into the main cavity of the building. Access to floors was open to the public, which concerned him more than a little even if perhaps it didn't Chuck or Riley who actually lived in its interior. Owen paused at the base of the stair-well, listening to the distant slamming of doors reverberating down to where he stood.
He could have saved himself the effort and taken the lift, but he was too accustomed to his own complex and besides -- it was two floors, let's be sensible, shall we.
Dressed in a black hoodie, worn, sagging jeans and heavy duty boots Owen Page could have been easily mistaken for a thief [oh, the irony] or even some random gang member, stopping by for a meeting or weekly intimidation of the buildings inhabitants. Certainly situated as he was, leaning against the wall outside Riley's door [how did he always manage to just be in a place like that? it was uncanny] with shadowplay leaving his features largely unidentifiable he was an unsettling welcome to anyone returning home.
[Declan] So, what's your story?
A gypsy and a pirate.
Maybe he was. Maybe he was a lot of things. Or maybe he was nothing: a ghost drifting around on the breeze. Maybe this was all just a dream. He wondered that, sometimes. A bad dream one never woke up from.
(Well, it wasn't all bad.)
Declan smiled, and hugged his jacket against his chest. To Emily, he gave a little shake of his head. And that was all. (History repeating.)
And then they were moving up stairs, and for a moment Declan tried to remember when the last time was that he'd actually been inside a real home. He couldn't. (Not right now, anyway.) The fever clouded his mind. His reaction time was slow. Still, when he spotted Owen's silent, shadowy figure, he stopped rather suddenly and seemed to take in a breath, as if he half expected a bogeyman to pop out.
[Riley] [HOLY SHIT IT'S A GANG MEMBER!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Riley] [Oh. No. It's just Owen.]
[Owen Page] [Per + Awareness on the newcomer, thurr. (-2 Acute Senses)]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 4, 8, 9 (Success x 3 at target 4)
[Riley] [doot de doo]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 4, 6, 8, 8, 9, 9 (Success x 4 at target 7)
[Riley] You must live a storied life.
Riley lets out another light laugh while Declan just shakes his head. There's a story there, they all know it, but he's not giving it up. And that's fine. Riley, despite what some might think, has the ability to be infinitely patient, just so long as it doesn't trigger her temper.
For instance, though Riley has kept herself busy for the better part of this week, somewhere in the back of her mind she's been waiting. It's why she wasn't so surprised when Emily appeared down the street from her building.
Speaking of which, this is the Green. Of course it shouldn't be easy to gain entrance into Chuck and Riley's building, but one of the doors has a broken lock. Riley's been after the super to fix it for weeks, but apparently, given the appearance of the hooded stranger lounging outside her door. There's a moment of worry, mingled with a brief moment of anger, when she looks at him. It's a male, a stranger, waiting outside her door and damn it, how many phone calls has she put in to Sharon to get that fucking door--
The angry internal tirade dissipates like water dissolved into steam, when dark eyes search the shadows beneath the hood and find a familiar face there. Riley's surprise is obvious in widened eyes, dark brows lifted to her forehead. She looks at Emily, questioning. Declan has stopped.
"Owen. Hey. What're...why are you here?" she asks, finding the keys to her condo and fitting one to the door. To her knowledge, the Chorister has never been to her home, has never had a reason to be here.
[Emily] From their rear position of their mostly-merry trio, Emily does not notice the shadowed figure as readily as Riley does. His shape is occluded by the over-tall Adept; even Declan is of a height with the Orphan behind them.
There's a shift, though, in her friend. The momentary tightness of anger, then the absolution as it runs free from her. It coordinates neatly with Declan's sudden halt. Another night, Emily might have let it go as just a side-effect of Riley's temper. Tonight, it has the younger woman stepping aside a bit, to where she can see more readily between them. Somber eyes searching even as --
Owen.
-- not searching, now. Falling away. She offers Riley a little shrug, a shake of her head that says I didn't. The girls exchange glances, inquisitive, curious, and then turn back toward the Choristor.
Riley fetches her keys and starts to unlock the door. Emily sets the bags she's been carrying down in the momentary pause. Uses this moment to roll down the sleeves of her shirt; to cover the pale olive (healing) marks on her arms.
"Hey, Owen," she says, threading the greeting around and through Riley's question. She casts him a curious look as well, but it's momentary (skeptic [suspicious] warm enough), it lasts only as long as it takes her to gather up what she'd been carrying before.
[Owen Page] [Per + Alert, same deal as before, noticing nuances in reaction, we are]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 4, 5, 8 (Success x 3 at target 4)
[Owen Page] The Initiate has never been to her home, never had a reason to be here. Does that set alarm bells ringing, deep down inside where the power resides? It should. It should make every Mage with an ounce of sense unsettled, wary. When another Awakened being knows where you lay your head at night -- it never stops being a thing of unease, because deep, deep, blood deep down, they are all of them afraid -- it was something to worry about.
No matter that Owen was trusted. [Wasn't he?]
No matter that he'd never hurt anyone. [But hadn't he?]
Paranoia could set in so easily in these times, until he lowers that hood, even knowing it was the Chorister, could any of them truly be at their ease? "You should fix that lock," he greets her with, voice quiet, courteous and constrained. The hood is pushed down from the brow and the familiar dark features are unearthed; solemn, series midnight blue eyes meet hers, then flick for a moment to Declan.
He is studied for a long moment, then to Emily. His gazes dips, flashes to her arms as she rolls down the sleeves; his lips tighten. Then its back to Riley, hands in pockets, shoulders flexing in a light shrug. "I had a bad feeling, thought I'd stop by and see how things were."
[Owen Page] [Series? Really, me, really? ahem. Serious.]
[Declan] The drifter was the odd-man-out in this equation, which was hardly unusual for him. He lived on the margins, and it was an easy enough thing to fade into the background. He wasn't a big guy, and he wasn't remarkable looking in any way. Riley and Emily knew the stranger, so a little of his anxiety melted away as he tucked back against the wall, to lean there as he closed his eyes and let his head hang down for a moment. The thing about fevers was that flashes of heat turned to bone-numbing chills, after awhile, and Declan was beginning to hit that particular phase. He felt cold, and a deep shiver ran through his muscles.
Whoever Owen was, he didn't much seem to care, though if directly addressed he'd probably offer some generic but polite form of response. If he realized that he was surrounded by the awakened, he didn't show it. (Hell, he wouldn't have even known to look for it.) So Owen gazed at him, and Declan... just looked at the floor.
[Riley] Owen tells her she should get that lock fixed, and Riley's only response is, "Tcha." A lot could be intuited as being said from that sound. Owen is left to figure it out for himself, however, as Riley is twisting the lock in her door and pushing the door open.
If ever there was a word to describe Riley's home, it's comfortable. There are bright colors on the walls, a nice comfy couch set against a sunny yellow accent wall, a glass topped coffee table before it. From the door, her guests can see into the kitchen, at the modern appliances and the modern, clean feel of the decorations. Those who know Riley feel her touch on this place. Eclectic, just like the woman herself, with more masculine touches here and there in the style of chairs or the color of a throw pillow. One thing they might notice is that as technologically inclined as Riley is, there is no television in the living room. Not even a radio. Technology is kept out of that space.
There's a door just off to their left that leads to Riley's small room, and another farther down, at the other end of the condo. The door to that one is locked and will remain so. To the right off the entrance is the door to Riley's bathroom, the guest bathroom.
"Make yourselves at home," she says, slipping out of her Converses and setting them into a shoe rack just in the entryway. "Declan, if you think you're good to take a shower, I can get you some of my dad's things to wear." There's a soft thump and a bundle of white and grey fluff darts past them and into Riley's open bedroom door. "That was Dr. O, leave him alone and I won't have to kill you. Does anyone want anything to drink?"
Her messenger bag is set in one of the dining chairs, and the tall woman heads to her kitchen as if this whole affair was completely normal. As if Owen's sudden appearance didn't put her on edge, Emily's sudden silence didn't worry her, and the presence of the drifter didn't just add to the whole mess.
[Owen Page] Maybe he's picking up on the vibes twanging around the air, unspoken, but Owen doesn't actually enter Riley's apartment. At least, not at first. Rather he watches the others step inside, eyes lingering on the stranger a beat before he braces his hands around the door-frame and notes, quietly: "I don't have to stay, you have company."
A beat, his face gives away little, it's as closed off and unreadable as ever.
[Emily] Paranoia, an apt thought. A strange man on the street, welcomed into the home of her friend. Another beside the door of the same, shrouded in shadow, cloaked in worrisome innuendo. Even once the hood fell away and she could see that it was Owen -- had she really wanted confirmation, she could have reached out with another sense and known it was him -- the muscles near her jaw stayed tight. Clenched a bit too much.
And she knows, as she goes through the motions of rolling down her sleeves, as she looks up to greet him, of all of them Emily is most aware of the scrutiny behind that dark gaze. She is the most discomfitted by it tonight.
That he'd had a bad feeling wasn't making anything better. That sort of statement from the man who coolly stood in the Chantry kitchen and recanted their recent ordeal, from the Owen who took Zombies with nary an eyebrow lofted in disbelief? It chilled Emily's bones to think about.
They're all going in, then, and there's a moment where it's all lost to the shuffle. The worry and wariness is secondary to the release of movement. (Emily cannot stand still for too long [she might spontaneously combust]). She toes off her shoes in the entryway, tucks them neatly alongside Riley's in the rack.
"Where would you like your bags," Em asks the Adept, stopping just short of letting a friendly term of endearment slip past her teeth. For as nervous (watched [trapped]) as she felt, the Orphan was good at hiding it. She slid the messenger bag's strap over her head, found a place to rest it out of the way.
But after the comings in are sorted, she's left with that restless quiet. Trying to find a place to stand, in the odd quartet that made, that didn't imply too much about her alliances. Rubbing at her upper arm absently as she looked between the three others. Owen trended toward silence, Riley was far more social, and that left Emily (and Declan) to bridge the gap. The man was sick. That left Emily.
"Nothing for me, cheers," she says. And thinks on something other than the Cubs or the weather to ask after. "So... how's things?"
Very nice, Emily. Very smooth. Did they teach you that in Embassy school?
[Declan] "A glass of water would be great, I think." He had the presence of mind to realize that he probably needed it. There was a time once when he'd been as educated as any other person about how to properly take care of himself, and it wasn't so much that he'd forgotten it now as that he simply didn't think to apply the knowledge as well as he ought to.
Anyone would have felt awkward in this situation, and certainly Declan would have if he hadn't been sick and exhausted. As it was, his energy for social interaction was quickly waning, and as soon as Riley showed him an appropriate place to lie down (whether that be a couch or a guest bed), he'd do so, politely turning down her offer of a shower for the time being. At some point, the group of magi were left behind, and the drifter settled into a fitful sleep, hugging whatever blankets he was offered around his small body like a cocoon.
[Riley] Owen says he doesn't have to come in, and Riley looks over her shoulder at him, waving her hand as if she's waving away something patently ridiculous.
"Don't be silly, you are company now. And, oh!" She stops just outside the kitchen and turns back to Emily, walks back. "I can take those."
Declan asks for water, and for a moment while everyone is getting settled, that's where Riley's attention is. Helping him get settled, letting this stranger into the sanctum that is her own bedroom. She's busy with the drifter, and so she misses signs on her friend at first. Signs that she's uncomfortable, that one thing after the other after the other is starting to affect her in ways it's not affecting the older woman.
It's not until she's quietly closing her bedroom door, her cat held firmly with one hand to her chest, that she finally can breathe and notice that her guests are still there, of course. That they may have been waiting in tense silence, or talking, or anything and she didn't notice. One last matter to be taken care of, she strides across the condo and tosses Dr. O into her dad's room. Which is precisely when she realizes she's forgotten to grab spare clothes from her room and is, for the moment, stuck wearing her uniform shirt over a camisole, her tie, and her jeans. Oh well. The tie gets removed and tossed atop her messenger bag, and is soon joined by the uniform shirt. Now they can see just how slim Riley is. There's tone to the muscles of her arms and the shape of her torso, hugged by the sleeveless shirt she wears. If Emily looks, she can see the hints of scars, tiny and varied, along her right side.
"So," she says abruptly into whatever is between Owen and Emily that either is or is not unspoken, slapping her hands against her denim-clad thighs. "I was going to make something for me and my dad, but now he's apparently not coming home for a while and I'm thinking Chinese. Any objections?"
[Owen Page] Riley waves him in, and the Chorister remains where he is for a moment, apparently weighing the cost of staying by the level of unease radiating outward from Emily. Eventually, he must decide he can brace up against whatever it is that Emily isn't wanting to tell him, or be around him because of. He simply weathers it, much the way he does everything.
With practiced calm.
With arms crossed over his chest as he takes up a leaning perch against a wall.
Unlike the Orphan, the Singer has no desire to fill the void of silence, tense or no, with polite chit-chat. He just looks at her with that patently patient gaze of his that reads he can comfortably wait as long as needs be before she relents or he's informed of precisely what was taking place, here. Declan is taken care of in the interval, and put to bed. When Riley re-emerges, Owen is still watching his near-Apprentice with that fixed gaze of his, before it shifts to Riley.
At first, he seems to ignore her question.
His tone might almost have been interrogatory.
"He's Awakened, his resonance is there, but it's weak. Does he know? Where did you meet him?"
A beat.
"Chinese works."
[Emily] Their gathering drops down to just three. Emily and two others; others who are (should be [should seem like]) friends. People she should feel safe with, in a place that's been nothing but comfortable a warm. There's Riley, who brings out a friendlier, nicer side to the foreign Orphan. There's Owen...
Who crosses his arms over his middle and watches her like that. Emily sighs and reaches up to run her fingertips through her hair. She exhales, and some of the tension bleeds out with her breath. He's given no explanation for the quiet crook of a smile beneath the obvious agitation; how it is fond, foreign and oh so very faint. (You remind me of someone...) It's an echo of a wordless conversation, much like this one, but it wasn't Owen's. Not originally. Not until this moment, here, when that slip of an expression is offered unknowingly.
He's Awakened. Emily's attention turns to Riley's closed door. Her brow knits momentarily, then smooths. She'd missed that. She'd been too distracted to even look for it.
"Chinese is fine. Do you want me to go out, or call for take-away?" This is not entirely evasion. There is another option here, one Riley knows well -- Emily could cook for them. It was something of comfort food for the Chorister-to-be.
[Riley] [i notice theengs!]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Riley] Riley stands up straighter, sucks in a breath, and she rattles off a list of answers. "Yeah, I know. I don't know. At Starbucks."
Then she relaxes again and heads for her cell phone. "And I'm calling for delivery. Nobody's going anywhere and no one's doing any work. Chuck, Ashley and I ran into him the day before yesterday. He seems really nice. Ah hah!" Her phone and wallet are retrieved, and Riley straightens. She looks at Owen as if for the first time. And at Emily, as if she's finally noticing her. At the way she's holding herself in Riley's home, a place where she's always been comfortable before. Relaxed. Friendly.
And she looks back at Owen, dark eyes traveling over the length of the figure leaning against the wall. Her head cants to the side.
"Wow, what are you, waiting out a siege or something?" Here she wanders into her kitchen, plucks a delivery menu from the fridge door, and comes back into the living room again. "Relax! You're in the Riley house, and we don't stand for tension here."
[Owen Page] There's a crook of a smile that gets no real explanation, and it sets about increasing the furrow in the young man's brow. He's watching her with intense scrutiny until the other Apprentice returns, and then it lightens in wake of his list of questions regarding the stranger in the bedroom. Suffice to say, it doesn't seem likely Owen Page would ever open his apartment up to a strange young man wandering in the city limits -- even if he were Awakened.
Way to be a charitable Christian there, Page.
Chuck, herself and -- ah, Ashley. That has Owen's hackles lowering a little, he's like an awoken guard dog; agitated and bristling, not sure whether to begin attacking or to settle down. The mention of the Hermetic Disciple seems to do the trick, however and his arms fall from their previously rigid positioning over the span of his chest to his sides; he tucks one into a pocket, lets the other remain, freed at his side.
"Okay." He's silently gnawing over details, looking between both females. "So what else is going on?"
[Emily] Oh, Emily has nothing to do with the bringing home of stray Awakeneds from street corners, no, so if that's what Owen is searching her for, if that's the explanation he hopes to find in her dark eyes or the set of her smile -- well then he can stare all night long and the answer would never be forthcoming. They're both a particular brand of stubborn, save that she yeilds to his more often than not. Not on this, tonight.
Not until his hackles lower, and Owen's business face falls away to something a bit less intimidating. (Intense). Around the same time, Emily's hands drop to her sides. Her thumbs tuck into her jean pockets and she rolls her shoulders forward a bit (slumps [breaks the tension in her upper back).
"Well, I don't know about you," she starts, it's a bit shakey but recovering. Emily finds her footing, and once the words have started she's able to get through them. Even with Owen standing there, watchful and ready. This is for Riley, and it's long over due.
"But I came by to apologize." Beat. She looks to the Adept, who is holding the take away menu and declaring her home safe haven. "For the other night." Emily's smile twitches, slightly. Self-deprecating and embarrassed. "I shouldn't have walked out like that. I made an ass of myself. I'm good at that, but I'll try not to let it happen again."
Emily shrugged a bit, uncomfortable. Her gaze flicked over to Owen, then back to Riley.
Hmm. Her hands slid a bit further into her pockets and she waited on Riley's reply, if anything came. She made no mention of whatever had happened in the intervening days (week). With any luck, these two would let it drop. It was, after all, Chez Riley, place of calm and safety.
[Riley] Riley's looking at the menu when Emily says Well, I don't know about you. That gains her attention. And it's held through Emily's apology. All the while, the corner of her mouth twitches with the first signs of a new smile.
She's tempted to brush it off, wave it away, Don't worry about it, man. But, that would demean it, cheapen it, and potentially insult her friend. The truth of the matter is, Riley wasn't waiting for or expecting an apology from Emily. She's spent this week patiently waiting for her to calm down and come back, so they could continue on as they had before. Things will be different now. There's now a point between them that will cause tension, that will make Riley even more protective of Emily. But there were never any hard feelings, at least not on the part of the Virtual Adept.
"Thank you for that," she says, reaching up a hand to tuck loose wavy hair behind her ear. "And don't even worry about it. If you ever wanna talk about it, you know where to find me." This said with a smile.
[Owen Page] Owen's eyebrows rise to take shelter somewhere in the near vicinity to his hairline as Emily says her piece and denotes that she'd made an ass of herself. It wasn't something he found easy to believe, that quiet, composed Emily Littleton could ever make such a scene as would need saying sorry for.
Himself, on the other hand, well.
It was a weekly occurrence.
"This must be what walking in on charades feels like," Owen remarks in [apparent] good humor, his lips verging on a smile that had, in years gone by, send more than one girls heart fluttering. It was something about the guy's intensity, coupled with that smile and all of it focused on you. Made one titter, it did. Well, some people, anyway.
"Can I have my own cue, or should I continue pretending nothing is wrong."
[Emily] The quiet, composed Emily Littleton could do quite enough, thank you very much, Mr. Page. She'd gotten herself thrown out (told to leave) his own apartment, so it shouldn't come as too much of a surprise that these two had come to some sort of disagreement. That had gone poorly. And was only now resolved.
His almost Apprentice did not titter, when Owen cast that small but genuine smile out into the space between them, wrapped around some confusing Americanism about charades. Her mouth quirked, wryly, with some unspoken retort. Her tongue traced the shape of an incisor, thoughtfully, but whatever it was she might have said was lost to the moment of dark bemusement.
"It's been a rough week," she explained. Owen could take from it what he would, knowing that previous rough weeks had involved that incident in the park, or that other incident in the park, or that incident at the Chantry (disclaimer: Not a meeting, nor that thing with the Hermetic and the Orphan). Emily's complaints, when couched in polite terms and on collected evenings, tended toward the understated.
There were faint bruises on her arms, hidden by the sleeves of her shirt. There was a weariness neither of them was seeing, just now, hidden behind the foil of finals just ended and an extra cup of coffee. And the restlessness. This inability to stay still, to hold still, to keep quiet -- it settled in around the time that she and Owen had brought a heavy boychild home to his flat. It had never left her.
She made her way to the sofa to settle in for a bit. Her hand found Riley's shoulder, for a moment, as she passed. It was a glancing touch, but grounding nonetheless. What Emily wasn't telling them was how much she needed them, both (in different ways) to deal with whatever it was that had come up between her and the Adept.
[Riley] It's been a rough week. It's been a rough few weeks for all of them, all for different reasons. Riley, for one, is content to leave it at that.
And make a quick subject change, before anyone gets the bright idea to ask the V-dept for her side of the story of the apology. These two may be adept at hiding the truth, but Riley isn't. She's honest to a fault. Most days, that's a blessing. It's a boon, a charm, a good thing. It lets her bring home stray vagrants without overly concerning herself with her personal safety.
Other times, it's a curse. Like when her friend wants to keep something secret, at least for a little longer. Riley certainly doesn't want to be the one to drop this bombshell on Owen.
"So, I'm thinking chicken. Do either of you have a preference?" She closes the distance to Owen rather than Emily, holds out the folded paper menu. Going to him, if he insists on hovering against the wall.
[Owen Page] It's been a rough week.
He doesn't push any further, though the smile fades and is replaced by some measure of a sympathetic frown. It's sad, to some extent that the expression Owen is most known for is his expressions of stoic unhappiness, or watchfulness. Very few times will anyone recall the Chorister's face and say oh yes, the cheerful lad, I remember him.
Quiet, most often. Insular, again, often.
Withdrawn and studious.
But never cruel.
Not deliberately.
Riley closes the distance to Owen and offers out the menu, he takes it with a returning crooked quirk and makes the briefest study imaginable. "Sounds good." He confirms, and passes the menu back to the Virtual Adept, then forces himself to recant his serious posture and move to a chair; turning it backward and straddling it, arms crossed over the back.
"I've missed you." He says quietly to Emily, and reaches out to briefly brush fingers over her knee.
[Emily] There are little frustrations in Emily's life that she will never quite be able to share with her friends. She struggles with one now, while Owen & Riley discuss the menu. There is a dish, a chicken dish no less, that she would love to have for dinner. She doesn't know its name in English. She knows the approximate wordshapes and intonations in Chinese. One dialect of Chinese. Which she cannot read or write. The pinyin for which she did not learn.
This must be what illiterates feel, whenever they want to communicate but cannot speak to the person in question. The worst part is that she can't even sound it out, look for letters that are familiar -- no, it's a language of ideograms. How patently disuseful!
"Chicken with black bean is usually safe," she suggests, while Owen is turning his chair around. She doesn't bother to add sauce in after black bean, because clearly it's implied. She doesn't ask if a delivery take-away place has mapo dofu, either, because that might turn out frighteningly.
When his fingers brush her knee, Emily's reach out to find his. Just for a moment, they hold to his. It is grounding. There's a palpable shift in the tension she carries and though she doesn't speak it aloud, it's clearly she's missed him too. (Keenly.)
[Riley] Owen glances at the menu just long enough that Riley's sure he sees that there are letters there. Numbers. Maybe he catches the little icons that mean something is supposedly spicy. And then he's passing it back to her, which makes her laugh.
"You're supposed to pick one."
But Owen is grabbing one of the dining chairs and pulling it over near the couch, closer to Emily. Riley sighs and shakes her head.
"Alright, so chicken with black bean, annnnd," she scans the list in one hand while she dials with the other, "I'm gonna go with teriyaki chicken and about eight orders of crab cheese wontons." A glance to the others to see if this is acceptable, and when the call connects, she places the order. Throwing in an order of broccoli chicken when she remembers that there's fourth person sleeping away a fever in her bedroom.
Then, spotting the moment on the couch, she drifts away into the kitchen. It's hardly an enclosed space, in fact is completely open to the rest of the condo. But, being in there gives Emily and Owen the illusion of privacy for at least a minute or two. They can hear Riley fussing with something. Glasses, probably. Eventually she brings out two glasses of water and sets them on the coffee table, on top of a magazine before setting out the coasters. She smiles at the two of them, warm and inviting, and then she's settling herself next to Emily on the couch.
"So, what do you guys want to do? We've got about a million board games." Board games. In the home of a technophile.
[Owen Page] Owen doesn't seem abashed when Riley laughingly tells him he was supposed to pick one, not testify that it was, indeed, a menu. The Chorister merely lifts his palms upward in an oops? gesture before he takes himself over to where Emily is reclining and tells her, quietly, nonplus, that he'd missed her.
That was one of the better qualities about the Initiate. He didn't bother a majority of the time with bullshit and when he told you soft-spoke things, you tended to take him at his word because, well, why would someone who made it so abundantly clear that he had no time for liars and manipulators do so himself? So, it's there -- the words, the brief connection of fingers, of midnight eyes pinning another's and then it's gone -- though he doesn't relinquish her fingers or draw his own away with Riley's return -- he just seems calmer, somehow, for the exchange.
Relaxed.
Board games, Riley says, and Owen smiles, the fingers of his free hand sliding along the side of his chair. "My sister and I used to play Monopoly growing up, though I have it under good authority she cheated the bank." Smiling, that is, until it registers that he'd said something he didn't intend to. He ducks his head, clearing his throat.
Not quite fast enough to conceal the flicker of embarrassment that passes in his eye. "I mean, whatever you like."
[Owen Page] [I wanna know if Owen loses out to the girls.]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 9
[Riley] [DO NOT PASS GO]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 5
[Emily] ((Damn, now I'm curious. And am really stuck on my post....))
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 5
[Emily] Riley had a remarkable effect on people. Her ineffable ease. Owen even mentions his family, his past. This garners a momentary look from Emily, but nothing overtly shocked or surprised. There was history, there, that he hadn't shared. It softened the smile she offered him, but the Orphan didn't ask after it.
"Gregory and I are terribly boring," she said, since they were self-disclosing (carefully) this evening. "We play chess."
Owen's comment had settled it, though. Riley found the monopoly board and Emily set about reading over the rules, quickly, as it had been "forever and a day" since she'd played. She tried, too, to not be too pedantic over them throughout the game. Striking a balance between camaraderie and her perfectionistic streak wasn't easy, though, and Emily at moments, said rather impolite things under her breath in a collection of foreign tongues.
She was still quieter than Riley, less boisterous, less prone to haggling over this and that -- and she could haggle, it was just that she didn't want to tonight. More often than usual, she accompanied a comment or a congratulation with something tactile: fives for a nice play, a playful nudge or shove when things did not go her way. She couldn't say aloud how much she needed their closeness, but she could close the gaps she usually policed so carefully. She tried to, tonight.
She even managed a graceful congratulations when Owen bested them both.
[Riley] [how mad are we at losing?]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 6, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)
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