Are we good?

[Owen Page] [on a scale of 1 to Ow, how sore are those ribs still, Page?]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 7

[Owen Page] It's been a while since they last spoke.

Things have changed. The weather, for one thing. It's a comfortable twenty-six degrees out this afternoon and there's sun breaking through the cloud cover, the occasional gust of wind scuttling the leaves laying in piles around the edges of the court Owen Page has taken possession of, dribbling a ball around at a lazy pace. For a few days, he'd been reluctant to set foot back in this place, for a few days he'd been spooked enough that he cast glances over his shoulder every time there was a new sound; looked up sharply every time there was a voice nearby as if it might be her again.

Even though there wasn't any possible way it was her the first time.
Even though he couldn't explain the scent, or the eyes or every other detail that informed his brain it was.

Father Benedict would call it a miracle, no doubt. Some sign from on-high.
Owen wasn't that gullible.

After the last meeting at the Chantry, his parting from the Orphan had been as stilted and full of long silences as conversations ever seemed to be between them, only this one had been thankfully briefer due to the infant girl child in Emily's arms she had to tend to. He knew there were things he needed to say to her, though. Questions he had to ask, things he had to do.

By God, his dreams were sure he needed to, at any rate.

So he'd called her, likely left a short, awkward message on her voice-mail if he didn't catch her -- "It's Owen. We need to talk. I'll be at Lincoln Park all afternoon. Find me." -- and set off for the distraction of the sport. For the feel of the ball in his grip, the sweat dripping from his brow; beneath his arms, for the focus and the way the world dropped away until it was just him and the ring. No pinching ribcage, no bruised eye, no persistent Angels or ghostly visitors.

Nothing but the clarity of the bounce. The grip. The toss. The satisfaction when it sailed and landed true, plunking through the metal ring and rolling away so that he was forced to jog after it.

This will be how she finds him, stripped to a black wife-beater and sweats, methodically reclaiming the ball and gingerly jogging against his injured side.

[Emily Littleton] ((Before I start typing, I need to know this...))
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 5, 7, 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] It had been a while since they last spoke. Not for want of trying; not for any lack of searching him out in the dead of night, in the place she still inwardly feared to tread (feared she might be turned away from). She had waited for him in the basement room of the Church on a Sunday morning, and Owen had never come. She'd left. The silence stretched. It became painful.

And then it broke.

He'd have to leave her a message and then, Owen would have to wait until she found time to listen to it. Until Emily had played it through a dozen times, measured its awkward pauses, weighed them against the bruises he still wore olive and pink and purple across his skin.

She'd had to leave the Chantry rather quickly. It had spared them any overlong goodbyes. Emily had been friendly enough, polite enough, well enough to get through them even with Ashton's toddler in her arms. Even juggling the messenger bag and a diaper bag, a toddler and a headful of new bad news. There'd been a Goodbye, then and a smile. That tight-lipped smile. It had been deep into early morning by then; the tightness could be excused as weariness.

It's late in the afternoon, now, and the sun hangs at that awkward angle that casts long shadows and glints off everything with a warmth and a golden gilt. It catches the eyes, makes things harder to see in the distance. It's beautiful in photographs.

This isn't a photograph.

The Orphan shows, hands in her pockets, no messenger bag. She's wearing jeans and sandals that flip-flop-slap against her feet as she walks. She's wearing a bright teal tee-shirt. Emily stops at the edge of the chainlink fence surrounding the courts. She threads her fingers through the links and watches him for awhile.

She doesn't call out to him, but she came. That has to count for something.

[Owen Page] He feels her before he sees her.

It's a subconscious thing, sometimes. It builds slowly, that sense that you're being observed. That there's somebody there watching you as you go about your business. For the Awakened it's even worse, because with their attuned senses they are more sensitive to it, especially to the things that are beyond the scope of everyday reality. This isn't so bad right now, it's not an unpleasant, invasive sensation as it had been the other night here, and it was nothing like the mental agony that had struck him down in his apartment a few nights ago.

It was a stirring of his awareness, the hairs on his arms rising to attention.

He turned, stowing the ball under one arm and looked across the court at her. He stills, and there might be something wary about the expression on his face, now. He's not sure if he's going to be welcomed as he once might have been -- and he knows she has every right in the world to her anger, at him, at his broken promises, at his aloof distance, his frequent disappearances of late.

When he approaches, she can see he's using the ball to try and hide the extent of his soreness from her, using it as some kind of balance. The Singer stops short of the chain-link fence by a few feet and looks through it at the Orphan. "Hey," he says, in that quiet, succinct way of his that encompassed so much in such a small word: I'm glad you came, it's good to see you, are you angry with me, what's going on?

Owen's studying her, the same way he always did.

[Emily Littleton] ((Per + Alert: Iz you okay? Not that I'm worried. ))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 1, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] For some reason, she is forgivingly less attentive than usual. His ploy to cover his hurts with his casual carry of the basketball works. It's enough. Perhaps she's not looking as hard as she otherwise might. There's a distance that's grown between them, and it affords them each some succor from the other's relentless need to know.

And yet, he's looking at her like that. He's loading every bit of intimation possible into a single syllable. He's bruised; he's suffering; he's Owen.

This is where her smile should soften, she should shake her head sufferingly. Today, her mouth pulls into a tight smile, the corners of her eyes stay tight. Her fingers curls a bit more around the chain link wires before she rocks back, a bit and braces one foot against the bottom of the fence.

It takes awhile, but the lines around her eyes soften. And Owen is left to imagine her thoughts in the interim, in the time measured by the breeze blowing by between them. He might imagine that she's angry, or that she's relieved he finally called her, or that maybe, maybe, nothing between them has changed at all. Emily does not pretend to understand what he hopes for in these long, tense periods of intense scrutiny an silence.

"Hey," she mirrors, at last, her voice mellifluous and level. Emily cants her head a bit to one side, then lets her fingers fall out of the fence links. She steps back, a bit, tucks her thumbs in her back pockets.

Those deeply blue eyes, almost as dark as his own but lightened with flecks of slate grey, find his. Hold them. (Unrelenting.)

"Are we good?" she asks, pushing right to the point of all the questions between them. Are they good? Because he'd stopped taking her calls. Because he looked like he'd been to hell back back. Because his dead sister visited, and Owen didn't so much as call. Because... Emily worries; Emily has been worrying (verb, adjective, you choose).

She doesn't soften, but she doesn't break either. There's a fence between them that lets light through, would even let them touch one another if they tried. It separates them, for now.

[Owen Page] [Per + Alert: I dunno, ARE we good? Watcha thinkin'?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 4, 9 (Success x 1 at target 4)

[Owen Page] Instead of outright answering, Owen leans down [not without some significant effort, she can hear the slight catch in his breathing when he does] and sets the ball down by the fence, it'll roll a little, but it is eventually snagged beneath a bench on the other side of the court, never to fully escape. Then he walks around the fence that separates them and comes along to her side-on. She'll have to either turn to face him, or give him the profile of her face, with its stiff little smile.

That tells him things aren't good at all, but not much else.

Perhaps they are both so wrapped and consumed by individual trauma, they have forgotten how to read one another like they used to, not so very long ago. "We were never anything else," he offers honestly, because it was so for him. It had never been anything that she had done that caused him to pull away, it had been his own inner demons. He looks down, leaning his weight gently against the fence so he adopts some remembered stance of detached grace.

Even when he wasn't aiming for it, Owen had a way of appearing at ease with the world around him.

He licks his lips, brow furrowing. "Truth is, Em," he rarely calls her anything but Emily, perhaps the nickname is important, perhaps its said without thought. "I've been struggling. I got -- there's --," his jaw clenches. He lifts his eyes, forces himself to meet her gaze as he gets the words out. "I'm an Alcoholic. Or," he pushes a frustrated hand back through his hair. "I was, I've been sober for five years but lately," he breathes out, winces a little and adjusts his weight.

"I've been relapsing." He looks away, squinting his eyes a little as the sun clears the afternoon cloud over and hits his face. "I'm ashamed of it."

[Emily Littleton] ((Per + Aware: Mmmm, hmmmm. *peers at j00*))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 6, 7, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] There have been times, between these two, when Emily's Avatar has stepped forward and gently nudged her toward disclosure, or some sort of human attachment she was not entirely ready for. There have been times when the echoes and answers they find in each other call out for more than a nod and polite detachment. There's even been a night when they found solace in one another's arms, slept as an intertwined bundle of limbs, found shelter in the growing friendship between them.

What comes now is no act of divine intervention. It is nothing more wondrous or terrible than the bounds of human compassion and Emily, for all that she denies it and keeps separate (keeps safe), cannot mistake the openness and trust he shows in her, cannot pretend there is any answer to it but this: grace, compassion, understanding (love).

The tension falls away. No tight small smile now. No viewing each other in profile. She turns to face him, to bear Witness to what he offers her, to reflect and answer the best way she can. As much as she has wanted to draw lines between them, to push him away -- she can't. What Owen is saying does not allow her to push him away; it offers her no path but this one.

"You can come to me," she says, keeping her voice even. "Not that you have to, or that you even should, but if you want to, you can come to me when it's too much to carry alone." There's a pause here, and her voice and visage hitch with something akin to understanding. "Sometimes it's too much to carry alone."

She shrugs a little, because this is awkward for her. She isn't entirely sure what to say, how to say it that wouldn't sting or hurt or push -- pushing is what she's been best at these days.

"I struggle, too. Have been struggling -- Riley called me an asshole." Beat. Small smile. Which falls away quickly. "But what kept me from doing anything truly epically stupid was that I'd have to look you in the eye, sooner or later. If I had -- if I'd gotten pissed and wandered home with God knows who; or scored off someone in the club the other night -- I wouldn't have been able to."

(I needed you. [I need you.])

"I won't judge you, if you're worried about that. And I can understand; I can forgive you for being gone. Just tell me what I'm allowed to expect from you, what you want me to hold you to."

Her voice falls away... because she doesn't want to say what's left lingering behind those words. He already knows, and she's rambling, so she shuts up. Emily folds her arms over her stomach, not because she wants to shut him out, but because it's uncomfortable to be this open. She hadn't come here expecting to let him back in.

[Owen Page] [Let's try this again. Doo de doo.]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 5, 5, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 4)

[Owen Page] She tells him he can come to her, and that slight, soft little smile appears in the corner of his mouth, quirking it. He's looking down at her and his eyes are very bright for a moment as if he were fighting back tears. Which could be absurd, because Owen Page didn't cry -- the last time he'd broken down had been because he was exhausted, drained of his willpower and overcome with grief about the night's events with her.

No tears come, though, there's just that element of brightness, a sheen there as he gently, oh so gently replies: "I know."

Then she's going on, hitchingly in some places, like when she tells him what Riley called her. He frowns, then and his arms cross over his chest but he doesn't interrupt her until she's finished [until the words run out] and she's asking him another question, perhaps the question with him.

What can she expect from him? What can she hold him to?

"It's not about you judging me, I know you wouldn't. It's about me judging myself." A beat, his arms fall to his sides. "It's about whether I'm worthy of teaching you when I'm so full of doubt." He seems to be internally debating for a moment, then he reaches out and lightly touches her cheek, tenders hair behind her ear. Tactile reaffirmation, she was there, he was there.

They were still okay.

"If you still want --," [if you still want me] " -- if this is still where you want to be, I'm going to try."

[Emily Littleton] He reaches over to tuck a tendril behind her ear and she reaches up to touch his hand, to take it in hers. He is caught. Kept. She doesn't hold him tightly, he could pull away if he wishes, but Owen gets his answer in the gentleness behind that act.

"Oh, Owen," she says, breathing out his name in a sigh of exasperated fondness. It nearly came out as [/i]lovely[/i] or some other small endearment, but she caught herself at the last, wrapped her tongue and teeth around his name instead.

His hand is caught, kept, and then she fears she has held it too long so she lets it go. All fat-fingered with awkwardness and shyness. Lets it fall away, if he chooses for it to.

"It's not about worthiness," she says, and of this she is utterly certain. "If it were about worthiness the Chorus would never take me." And of this, she is also utterly certain. "It's about willingness, and wanting. If you're willing, I will try to be a better student."

And this comes with some open regret. He cannot know how many times he'd been avoided, circumvented, purposefully not sought out, in the course of the last month.

[Owen Page] He cannot know how many times she's avoided telling him things, for he has been too preoccupied with his own secrets, with his own lies. But then, there is also the knowledge that with Owen he would likely not have pushed, or probed further into her life and its goings on than she had offered, not without invitation, or overwhelming concern for her well being. It was simply not his way to invade where he was not welcome; not his style.

Perhaps, in large part, his shame is the root of that reluctance. He too knows what it is to keep secrets from everyone -- most especially those you cared for, those you loved.

His hand is caught, and his fingers easily fold around her smaller, he keeps it when she means to let it go if he chooses that. He keeps it and uses it as the rope by which to tug her near, to enfold her in his arms if she'll have it, if she'll let him do so. He smells like the leather jacket he so often wears, like sweat and cologne and beneath it all some indefinable scent that simply is him, is Owen. He lowers his face and buries it in the slope of her neck, breathing her in as surely as she does him.

"I've missed you." He murmurs simply, and keeps her close.

[Emily Littleton] ((Ahem. Composure? I can has it?))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 5, 8 (Failure at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] ((Re-rolling: No, really now.))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 5, 5, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 7)

[Emily Littleton] He pulls her closer. For anyone but Owen, these nights, this is the place where Emily pulls away. Reins in. Withdraws. But for Owen, and for a dark-haired girl-child, she hesitates long enoguh to let him draw her in. And then she's wrapping her arms around him (gently) and holding to him as he enfolds her.

There's a hitch, here, in her breathing, in her carriage. Perhaps enough a soft, barely heard sniff. (I missed you.) But Emily will not fall to crying on his shoulder, here, now that there is nothing to run from and no demon chasing her. There's just Owen, with his arms encircling her and his voice curled into her ear.

She's not going to fall to crying, not at all, not here over this not now. Emily masters that inclination, tucks it away somewhere deep where it wouldn't well up again so easily. She covers it up with thoughts of some wry retort (Well, next time try looking for me [Or: but your aim is improving]), something that is never voiced.

"I missed you, too," she said, almost too quietly to be heard.

She let the moment linger, let him hold her as long as he needed to (because it's not about your needing him, is it?). When it was time for them to pull away from one another, to reclaim their space and their silences, she offered: "Ashley's going to help me with some of my... past." A shrug, uncertain and uneasy but somehow resolute. "Call it forward, so I can face it. She thinks it will help..."

[Owen Page] "Let's sit down."

He offers when they pull away from one another and she informs him about what Ashley had planned to help her. He knows enough, of course, about her past to be a little disconcerted by this news though he's careful to keep his face detached about the news, to keep it bare of any hesitation, or concern. He merely leads her around the chain-link fence so that they can take a seat on the old wooden benches, so Owen can rest his healing body.

"How do you feel about Ashley going inside your head?" He asks, as politely framed as he can think to word it. Invasion is too harsh a term, but being a Mind Mage himself, the Singer knew full well how it felt to have another Awakened go prying through the delicate tendrils of your subconscious.

Then: "Should I talk to Riley?"

Witness Owen, mending bridges.

[Emily Littleton] Emily sits near him, leans forward to rest her elbows on her knees. She has to shift her body somewhat to look back at him, tilt her head at an odd angle; it makes a shadow-curtain of her hair, long curls falling to something more like waves in the humidity and warmth of early summer.

She is better rested, now, than she has been, but her psyche and body bear the marks of a month's neglect, maybe more. It's been a week, give or take, since Riley and Ashley cornered her. Til she was told to get her shit together. Emily has tried, she's made strides, but it was not enough to erase all of May and early June.

There's a wrinkle of her nose, when Owen mentions Ashley. Alludes to what's coming. It sends a shiver down Emily's spine, makes her shoulders pinch together in ways she can't completely control. She looks away from him, because she isn't ready for him to see the darkness in her eyes just yet.

"Terrified," she says, blandly. Plainly. "But I can't keep doing this every year. And it's so much worse now, being Awakened. Besides, what did she say..." A pause, remembrance. "It's a poor willworker who can't even master herself." Hah, remembered, but perhaps not fondly.

Then he asks after Riley and Emily just shrugs. There's something more mournful than fearful to her body language, her expression. Wistful, aching.

"I don't know, Owen," she says, and again his name is little more than a sigh. Emily reaches up, rakes her fingers through her curls and sits up a bit more. She shrugs, again, but it's futile this. "I know I fucked that up, but I'm not even sure how to get it back. I don't think I can be the person or friend she wants. By now she's probably torqued with me for breaking up with Chuck --" A heavier sigh. The Orphan's hands spread in a what can you do? expression.

"It's all a big mess. I think she's hoping Ashley will just put my head right and things will get better." I'm not sure there's a better; what if this is all I am?

[Owen Page] There are points where it's easy to tell he's absorbing this new information she gives. The portions regarding Ashley cause his eyes to narrow a fraction as he stares forward, clearly not seeing what's before him but picturing, much as Emily does, what is to come with regards to the Disciple delving into her head.

"I don't know," he says about Ashley's comment regarding what made a poor willworker. "We all cope in different ways." A beat, a moment of consideration on his behalf. "But I might be able to help, there are some good centering practices that I know of, ways to keep yourself in harmony, even when you're feeling overwhelmed."

He glances at her, side-on, casts her a little smile. "I'll take you to the Buddhist Temple, introduce you to Nembutsu."

Then: Chuck, and Riley. Owen had been leaning forward, his elbows on his knees but he straightens at this, his eyebrows rising, an expression of clear surprise writ into his features. "Oh, I, uh, I'm," he stutters, falters then starts anew. "I'm sorry, about Chuck. Was it -- I mean," He rakes a hand through his hair, a sure sign of his discomfort delving into the topic.

"Are things alright between you?"

[Emily Littleton] Owen is surprised. He straightens, somewhat. He sputters. Emily just watches, curiously, with a sort of innate patience that doesn't often surface. She remembers how uncomfortable these conversations could get, so she waits it out and answers when he's settled on the question he seems to want to ask.

"It's fine, love," she says, and likely doesn't notice the endearment. It's like the way he'd shortened her name earlier. It could mean something, it could be nothing. She didn't overthink it. "It was mutual, more or less."

Another shrug. So many little things in her life were falling apart, had fallen apart, were changing. It didn't bother her as much as it should have, maybe. This didn't fluster her, or sadden her outwardly.

"I realized that I never really went to him, with anything. With everything going on, I saw less and less of him. I don't want to hurt him but these things from my past? I can't talk to him about it." So matter of fact. Emily has a disturbing way of being direct and to the point about things that should have carried some emotive weight. It bears thinking about, this detachment.

"He's a great friend and a really good guy, but I just... I don't trust him the way I think I need to trust that person in my life." And that, was that, because Emily clearly didn't believe in leading the boy on.

There was more to it, of course. Owen had seen the beginnings of this long before; maybe he knows that whatever had happened then is what precipitated this now. Maybe he doesn't.

"I'd like to go to Temple with you, some time," she says, transitioning away from talk of potential heartbreak. "I haven't been to one since I left China."

[Owen Page] There have been so many life-altering moments for Owen lately he doesn't exactly grasp where one stops and another begins, a lot of the time, rather, they are beginning to overlap, like the aftershocks of an earthquake; spiraling over and over until they finally stop and you can look over the devastation they've caused. He isn't there yet, at the point where he can stop and evaluate. He's in the midst of another shockwave and it feels as if its turning his world on its axis point.

When Emily talks about not going to Chuck about things, there is a moment, just a brief moment where Owen feels some tiny twing of guilt, as if somehow he were responsible for that. As if his coming into her life had somehow disrupted the natural flow of things, of destiny and tossed a grenade amongst its plans, diverting them on a different course. He has to wonder, for a moment, about the person who will be that person in her life that she goes to. Has to wonder what will be so special and captivating about him that they capture a woman like Emily Littleton's heart.

It's worth pondering why he doesn't see how many of those things he already is to her. The trusted friend, the place of comfort, the one sought out when things were at their worst. But, such was the way of human beings, even Awakened ones, that they frequently did not see what was before them.

Take Owen with Nico, for instance.
His best friend had carried a torch for him for six years and more.
Owen had been entirely oblivious to it.

For such a perceptive man, he could be blatantly ignorant of some things, especially where his heart was concerned.

In the end, after all her words, Owen just nods once; he understands. Then, he gets to his feet and holds out his hand to her, jerking his chin in the direction of his basketball. "Come on, re-match."

[Emily Littleton] Emily's heart was rather easy to capture, it was a flighty thing, given too freely at times. Keeping it, on the other hand; that was a special challenge. There were lines between them, Emily and Owen, drawn in his apartment not so long ago. They're fresh in her mind, and they're part of why she would deny, candidly and without hesitation, that Owen was that person in that way to her. Not now, at least. In the future? Well, whoever says she can see the future clearly is either a fool or a liar.

Any guilt Owen feels about Emily and Chuck's relationship is misplaced. They built it together, and they built the things that tore it down, together. She might tell him, one day, but it won't be now -- as she's picking herself up off the bench and leaving her sandals to the side of the court. Barefoot she'd have better balance.

Rematch, he says. It broadens her smile more than it necessarily ought to. She's pleased, yes, but there's something newer underlying it; something a bit more competitive than he's seen before. Pleased.

"You missed the football game," she says, and her tone is just short of teasingly playful. "Atlas and I beat Ashley and Riley." Triumphant! No, no, too contained for that. "They, too, demanded a rematch." And ah, there's the connection.

She's had more practice at this basketball thing, too. While Owen was away, she found someone else to shoot hoops with (quite by accident [at an obscene hour of the morning] in a thunderstorm). She seems more comfortable with this odd American sport this time around, too.

[Owen Page] Owen has never been in love. At least, not that particular brand of love. He's known other kinds, the love of parents, of his sister. The brotherly affection he still held for Nico, the love he'd held for his family's dog when he was younger. Physical love, well, yes, he'd known that type too though to really deem it as a form of love was heresy to the principles of the word itself. Lust, would be a better approximate.

But love, with all its bold associations and deep, heart-ache inducing ways had as of yet alluded him. There was time enough for it, he was still relatively young in the eyes of the universe, after all and right now, had other concerns weighing on his mind -- such as beating Emily in a game of ball while battling his bruised side. He does raise an eyebrow when she mentions the football game he'd missed and the glorious victory over -- the eyebrow raised another notch, was joined by a bemused little smile -- Ashley and Riley.

"Then I'm sorry I missed it."

He begins to dribble then, leaning forward in a playful, competitive manner, faking this way and that and leading her around the court. There is a difference, of course. His technique suffers a little with his injury, he is cautious of overextending himself and allows her to take the ball from him more often than he probably should. Still, there's a comfort in this simple act. In the rhythm that forms there between them as they play.

He cries foul, she denies it.
He streaks past her, she gives chase.
She captures the ball, he dogs her steps, caging her body from reaching the opposing hoop.

It is a dance, sport. The body is forced to bend and shape and reform itself as suits the movement. Soon enough, the sun is banking the horizon, and there does not seem to be a clear winner to this game, but rather two very energized participants. When it's done, when they're both breathing hard and red-faced, Owen declares it a tie, and shakes her hand diplomatically.

If only everything could be so easily decided.