Five-dollar pitchers

[Emily Littleton] It has been a week. Emily can't even think of the appropriate adjectives that might sum up the past week in any sort of clear and concise manner. She could flail her hands about and pull faces, slam doors, sign meaningfully, but really? Encompassing the events of the past seven days (give or take) in something as direct and tangible as words wasn't worth the bother. She was trying to process it all, and it wasn't working. Which meant? Time to hang out with someone who might understand, but likely wouldn't feel the need to pry.

Nico.

Besides, she owed him at least a pint and an apology for that Lady Gaga quip. At least. So round about quitting time on a Friday afternoon, Emily Littleton called Nico Brady with the very nebulous goal of hanging out and blowing off some steam. There were World Cup highlights and matches and re-caps to watch at any of a dozen places along the mile, if that sounded good to him (She's a football fan [note the accent, language is deceiving]). Or, really, she was up for whatever, why don't they meet at the corner of this street and that one.

It's another hot and humid summer-leaning night in Chicago, with intermittent rain and patchy cloud cover. There's a lunar eclipse slated, but it's unlikely anyone will catch much more than the shadows luna casts whenever her full-face peeks out from behind the clouds.

It's warm enough that the Apprentice is wearing a lightweight dress that falls to her knees and gathers at her waist. It's feminine without being overly flirty. She's got a lightweight jacket, but that's mostly insurance agaisnt the rain. Emily's standing at the appointed spot, with her hands in her pockets and chin tucked up so she can watch the moonlight play against the clouds. She's looking better than when Nico last saw her, but the weariness is slow to seep out of her entirely. From a distance, even among the passersby and other pedestrians, she's calmer. Then someone bumps into her, and Emily looks down, offers an apology and steps out of the walkway, up against the brick facade of a building, and casts a look about for the other Orphan.

[Nico Brady] Emily isn't waiting long. She has never had occasion to meet up with the other Orphan before--really, they've only ever bumped into each other while one was en route to someplace else, whether that someplace else being the relative safety of a location out of the hangover-harsh light of day or a state of drunken tranquility--so she hasn't yet learned that he is rarely late when he agrees to meet up with someone, somewhere. They had come up with a vague plan of going to a bar and catching a pint and watching the last of the game, and yet they couldn't come up with a specific bar on this vast stretch of land housing a few dozen such establishments.

It's a better neighborhood to stand on the street corner with the threat of rain looming overhead than, say, the Near North Side, which was where Nico had run into her last time.

When Nico comes out of the brightly-lit distance, he's not dressed as though he's just gotten off of work. He's dressed for a night out, casually but not sloppily, like a man who both takes pride in his appearance and knows that he could be wearing a burlap sack and still find people who would appreciate what the good Lord has given him. His jeans are distressed by time, not by a machine or dye; his tennis shoes are ratty, but have that lived-in look that suggests a life of activity rather than sedentary appreciation of television and high-fat snack foods; he's wearing a red shirt with a blue screen print of a woman whose name, apparently, is PEACHES.

His hair, as always, is a sloppy cacophony of curls, beset on all sides by the heat and humidity. He's shaved his jaw. His hands are free from cigarettes or other adornments, and he has the loping walk of a young man who doesn't have a fucking care in the world.

It's all an act, really, but as he strolls up to the sundress-wearing young woman on the sidewalk, his smile seems genuine enough.

"Emily!" he calls when he's perhaps ten yards from her. Ringless left hand lifts in a stationary wave, and when he finds himself in the orbit of her presence, he tilts his head in an easy Let's go! motion that indicates the neon lights and clamor of Friday night party-goers in the distance. "I hope you're ready to drink, this week has been awful."

[Emily Littleton] That's all it takes, her name and a little Let's go motion. The younger Orphan is quick to catch up with him once he's moving, to match her strides to his, grinning broadly as she does. There's an easier grace about her tonight, unfettered. It's potentially an act, everything is with Emily, but it's also because she's building back from something truly harrowing and every new plateau, every regained moment of calm is joyful. It's something to celebrate.

"Fuck, yes," she says, with a lightly laughing undertone. It's emphatic, this. Fuck, it's been an awful week. Fuck, yes I'm ready to drink. Fuck, I can't believe you Americans won out our World Cup group on a single goal in injury time. (Well, no, really she didn't care about that. Both her home teams were advancing.)

Nico hasn't a care in the world (so it seems), but Emily's still shouldering heavy things. They're brushed aside, just now, but are never far behind her.

"I'm glad you were free," she says, glancing over at him for a moment as they walk. Then away. She's looking at the establishments down the way, trying to pick a place to suggest. "It's always more fun to watch the games with someone, and drinking away a bad week alone rarely works."

She's not flirting. Emily keeps an easy tone to her voice, and it's companionable but not too seeking. She's not pushing, just now, on any front. Not trying to catch his eye, no wry smirk-smile, no needling him about his week. Maybe it's a relief, or a worrisome trend, or an indicator of that Friend Zone thing Riley goes on about... Who knew.

"This place looks promising," she said, tipping her head toward an upcoming pub. There are broad televisions visible inside, already showing the match. It's on the quieter end of the Friday night scene, though, and might not fit Nico's tastes.

[Nico Brady] Emily says she's glad that he was free, and he smiles, the action giving him a carefree boyishness that is almost incongruous with the work that he does.

"Yeah," he says. "My plans freed up tonight."

Neither of them are flirting tonight. That shouldn't be a considerable shock for Emily: after all, she had been mentally referring to him as Lady Gaga ever since Riley filled her in on the fact that her new upstairs neighbor not only liked to listen to the electropop singer at full blast on Saturday night but that he was very likely gay. Even though his very being seems to beg for attention, seems to wave its arms and clamor Look at me, look at me! he is not a flirtatious human being. Vibrant, sure, just shy of hyperactive and effervescent once one gets to know him, but he does not randomly touch parts of the body that would otherwise mistake their placement and presence for flirting.

He doesn't walk close to the young woman on the sidewalk. Once they get moving, he pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans, which are held in place by a canvas belt and seem to actually fit his lower half unlike the vast majority of jeans worn by the vast majority of urban twenty-something males, and walks about two feet away from her. It's close enough that they don't take up the entire sidewalk as they figure out where it is that they want to go, but it's not close enough that Emily must be thinking that he's hoping to accidentally brush their arms or hips together.

There had been a time when he would shamelessly flirt with whoever would pay the remotest bit of attention to him. It was a brief time, a short time, and he's grown out of it. No one who knew him in high school had witnessed this behavior, and no one who knows him now would think that he was acting within his right mind if they saw him flirting with a woman.

This place looks promising, she says, and Nico takes a few long-limbed steps forward to grab the antiquated-looking wooden door and haul it open. As she passes him by, he practically crows, "Hey, five-dollar pitchers!"

[Emily Littleton] Nico is safe. She's guessed about his preferences, and he seems like a genuinely nice human being, and he's about as interested in Emily as she is in her own (albeit honorary) brother. In a city full of overblown innuendo and uncertain relationships, safe is a precious thing these days.

He's crowing about five dollar pictures and Emily's eyes flick to the daily specials board. "Oh, god. You're going to make me drink American beer, aren't you?" she asks him, as if this were some sort of special torture not covered by the usual international treaties. She's teasing, surely, or at least that's what the wry twist to her smile indicates.

There had been a time, in Emily's younger years, where she'd been something like flirtatious. It had been in the same section of adolescence that most people pegged as High School. She'd never attended the traditional school systems long enough to have strong memories of any given form, though. Beyond primary school at the Embassy when she was very, very young, Emily's school years had a run together in one long series of tutors, exams, and ill-fated langauge lessons.

She catches the eye of whoever is handling seating, and holds up two fingers (her thumb and index). That someone points at a table about halfway down the wall, with a decent view of one of the screens. Emily's slipping off her coat as they wind their way between high-topped tables and skirt the edge of the bar. She lays it in the chair beside her when they grab their seats.

[Nico Brady] Emily may very well be teasing, but Nico doesn't acquire the indignant expression that has been perfected by the average fraternity brother or football player whose preference in beer has been called into question or even mocked. He laughs, filtering into the pub behind Emily. With the young woman wearing modest heels, she's a barely-noticeable inch taller than Nico. When it becomes noticeable is when the male doesn't have to duck down in order to speak directly into her ear rather than shouting above the roar of the crowds on the television, over the din of the crowd scattered throughout the bar.

"What kind of monster do you take me for?" he asks.

Before she has a chance to answer, they're being directed to a table with a fairly decent view of the televisions mounted over the impressively-stocked bar with the impressively-stacked bartenders. Nico follows behind her rather than trying to maintain a side-by-side progression or even walk ahead of her, and he has no coat or jacket to sling off when they get to their table. Considering the fact that it's late June in the Midwest, the temperature is actually quite cool tonight, but the young man doesn't seem bothered by the temperature. The hairs on his arms aren't standing up, and he doesn't have a dusting of goose pimples across his tanned flesh.

"I'm not entirely convinced American beer isn't what gave me diabetes," he continues once they've gotten themselves settled and have started to look at the overhead menus to determine what sort of brew they're going to be poisoning themselves with tonight.

[Emily Littleton] He quips back, and Emily laughs lightly. It's a low and resonant sound. Her speaking voice is a mellifluous alto. It softens and raises, somewhat, whenever she speaks the few foreign words she knows. But laughing, well, this is still a controlled and pleasant little laugh. It's polite, without giving overmuch away, but it's offered, at all, and that's a start. That's an awfully solid beginning.

Nico says something that momentarily steals Emily's attention. It's the sort of something you don't lay out for near-strangers unless you're seeking. Seeking acceptance, or acknowledgement or a confidence, or something. She studies him, for a brief moment, and then returns her attention to the menu thoughtfully.

"I'm partial to browns and reds," she says, while they're perusing the lists. "But since you're not a monster, why don't you choose?" she offers.

She'd heard him, clearly, but wasn't pursuing it just yet. She didn't jump into Type 1 or 2 or You say that like it's a new development. Emily reaches up to pull a thin elastic band out of her hair, freeing her dark curls and running her fingers through them quickly. She makes a quick scan of the game underway, who's playing and who's winning. And eventually, after a reasonable period of time, after giving him a little breathing room, her eyes trend back toward him.

Now, she says, "Is that your bad week news?" It's gentle, this question. It's not burdened with worry, weighed down by the compassion of a near perfect stranger. It's pointed enough to be unambiguous, clear enough to show interest, but it leaves him every out he could need through denial. "That would ruin my week, too," she empathizes.

[Nico Brady] He offers up that bit of information so casually that one could either assume that it is something that he has been living with for a long time, or that he's attempting a bit of levity in order to make it easier to come to grips with himself. Perhaps he thinks that as someone who he's going to have prolonged contact with, as someone who may very well have to deal with him one of these days when his blood sugar goes too far in either direction, Emily ought to know this about him as soon as is humanly possible.

It could just be that he's one of those people who doesn't think before he opens his mouth, but Emily has opened up to Nico before, has had a conversation about a particularly sensitive subject and not found herself on the receiving end of insensitive or callous words. This man does think before he opens his mouth, sometimes too long for other people's comfort, so no one in this city who knows this about him would accuse Emily of being in the wrong if she were starting to think that there had to be some sort of underlying reason for him to open up to her, however cautiously or guardedly, considering that they've only been in each other's acquaintance for a few weeks.

While Em plays with her hair and assesses the scoring situation on the overhead television, a apron-wearing waitress with freckles and a winsome smile approaches them, order pad at the ready. Nico orders a picture of red draft beer and two glasses of water, then orders a basket of French fries after a quick glance at the bar menu stationed on the table. It's easy enough to figure out what he's doing if one has ever been in the presence of a diabetic before: he's concerned about his blood glucose levels. He doesn't want to go into insulin shock while he's out with Emily.

In worrying about other people, he actually has to take strides to take care of himself.

Once the waitress has sasheyed off, Em asks if that's his bad week news. Nico looks vaguely embarrassed, dropping his gaze as he tries not to laugh at himself, though when he looks back up he seems to have recovered.

"Actually," he says, "that was last week's bad news. Although... if you're talking in terms of actual time elapsed, that's the bad news of the last week."

[Emily Littleton] Emily's quite capable of walking the line between casually observant and reasonably attentive. He's careful about his order, about balancing what he's taking into his body with the news he's recently received. If he's expecting all of this to bother her, overmuch, or narrow her attention to some laser-fine point, then he'll have a long wait. It doesn't come.

"Sounds like you've had a run of great luck, then," she says, heavy on the sarcasm. The smile she offers him is commiseratory; it doesn't even rise to her usual wry levity. They've shared some secrets, now, and they've endured something that must never be spoken of again. It's a little like bonding. They share an uncanny ability to be at the wrong place at the right time.

"If it helps, you're not the only one," she offers. It's a little oblique, what she's getting at, and it may take Nico a moment to puzzle it out. He may not even know there's doublespeak at play until she adds: "Do you know Chuck? I bet he'd be happy to talk to you about this, if you need someone to chat with. Or to commiserate with about all the finger-stickings."

[E[Nico Brady] Nico doesn't seem as though he's expecting anything from the young woman with whom he has decided to spend a portion of his evening. He could have gone out on his own, could have decided to try and make up for lost time by losing himself in some hot young thing with a decent body and not much in the way of brains between his ears, but he's here on North Michigan with the World Cup playing on the television and the promise of a pitcher of beer and decent company instead. That he chose to spend his evening with Emily ought to say plenty.

Of course, figuring out what, exactly, it's saying is more of a chore than it ought to be.

The female Orphan makes a play at sarcasm, and a tired smile slides across Nico's lips, hitting the confines of his eyes but failing to completely light them up. In the wan light of the pub, his gray eyes seem to lack color. They absorb the neon and bask in the shadows.

It takes Emily a moment to build on her assertion that he's not the only one, but Nico waits. He waits, and when she explains, he nods. Their waitress returns with two glasses of water, two frosted, empty pint glasses, and a frothy picture threatening to spill over. Nico doesn't speak again until she's left, save for a brief expression of gratitude; he pours the first round of beer as he answers.

"Yeah, that's what Riley said. Aside from a water fight we had on the balcony one morning, I haven't actually met Chuck yet."

[Emily Littleton] "He's good people," says the most recent person to break a particular Initiate's heart. Nico may have heard, may not have, but there doesn't seem to be an enmity between Emily and the Adept. It was an amiable parting, so much as those ever exist.

Lifting the frosty glass, she offers: "To better weeks." It's resonant, a little weightier than it needs to be. There's something pressing down on her shoulders, just now, however carefully hidden back she keeps it. She's practiced at keeping things back, just like Nico is practiced and drawing them out.

"So who have you run into?" she asks, and it seems like just conversation. She's likely getting at something, but it's mellowed by the atmosphere here. The fact that they're Orphans, there's no pecking structure to answer. "I mean, you've been around for a few weeks now, yeah?"

She cuts a glance away from their table, to the match on the television nearby. There's a shot on goal, which is denied, and the ball goes back down the pitch toward the other side once more. It's a momentary distraction, before her attention comes back to the other person at the table. "Or are we not talking about that? Because I'm just fine with tabling it if there's something you'd rather talk about."

But I'm not prying. Because I don't do that. I'm just asking.

[Nico Brady] Considering the fact that he has an almost uncanny ability to inspire confidence and confidentiality in people, Nico hasn't actually had the opportunity to get caught up on the bulk of the city's gossip. Whenever he sits down to talk to a person, he doesn't seem to be interested in gleaning all the goings-on that have befallen the denizens of this particular city over the course of the last year, six months, six weeks. Whatever the person who happens to keep him company for a handful of minutes or hours wants to talk about, it seems, is what they talk about.

To better weeks, Emily toasts, and Nico lifts his glass to clink with the other Orphan's before taking a quick swallow and sitting back in his chair. The table, and its stools by necessity are high off the ground, high enough that the young man can't easily reach down a foot and rest it on the hardwood floor.

"To better weeks," he echoes, though they both have to know damned well that things are going to get worse before they improve.

Emily wants to know who he's met so far, and as he takes a moment to conjure up a list, she goes on to say that they can table it if he doesn't want to talk about it. That makes him frown.

"We're not not talking about it," he says. "I was just thinking. I've met quite a few people. Like Ashley, and Riley. Um... funny story. Your mentor and I went to high school together."

[Emily Littleton] ((Manip + Subter : ... Cuz I like to keep my thoughts to myself))
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 7, 8, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] Nico frowns, and Emily's eyebrow raises slightly. Just enough to give away that she'd noticed. He's says they're not not talking about it and she shrugs. He might not be, but there are definite aspect of it about which she is not talking. It's semantics, surely, but there's a lot more wrapped up around that list of names than Nico might expect.

He mentions Owen, and a small, somewhat amused smile crosses her face. It's quickly obscured by the (coincidental) rise of her glass, hidden as she pulls from her beer and craftily arches an eyebrow. Oh, really? the look says, plain and clear. It hides whatever other reaction she may have been having.

"Have you seen Ashley?" she asks, easily. "I mean, in the last couple days? I've been meaning to look her up..." the thought trails off, as Emily had just lost track of this task. It doesn't carry any extra weight. She carefully doesn't say check in on or anything that might imply more than a social call.

[Nico Brady] [Awareness + Perception: O RLY]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 5, 6, 9, 9, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Nico Brady] [On that note... PAUSE]