[Emily Littleton] It's a clear night, warm and not yet hazy. The moon is almost half full, rides overhead like a boat on a dark sea. The park is calmer, having wound down from the fever-pitch of summer activity to a low, quiet hum. Some people still run on the dark paths, taking advantage of the marginally cooler weather. Others enjoy the sounds of the city as it filters through. Chicago is not a safe city, not a secure place, but it's easy to forget that on quiet nights.
Emily is wandering one of the many walking paths that wind through this section of the park. There are lamps, every so often, spilling puddles of false-light onto the concrete. She wanders here, in the summer heat, just the same as she did in winter's snow. One foot before the other. Contemplative. Alone, and unafraid of that.
There's a bench under the canopy of a broad tree, whose limbs stretch out an unbearable distance, begin to droop under the weight of summer's greenery. She stops here, perches on the seat back, plants her sneakers on the bench itself, leans forward with her arms on her knees, and listened. There's the pale glint of silver at her throat, like always, just visible at the opening of her polo shirt. No messenger bag, tonight, just whatever fits in her pockets.
The Orphan watches, listens. If she were better trained, one could call this meditative.
[Li Daiyu] [Awareness]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 4, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Li Daiyu] It was a meditative kind of evening. Emily wasn't the only one of them who'd come to the park alone, in that quiet, thoughtful state. The Akashic was sitting in the grass beneath a tree, off the path. Her legs were folded neatly in a lotus position, with her hands resting slack on her knees, palms up. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing slow and deep. One might half wonder if she'd fallen asleep like that, but sleep was a far state away from where she was right now.
Her mind was still. But she felt everything around her with a keen sort of perception. The life force of the trees. The flicker of emotions in people passing by. The changeable force of the wind. The gathering moisture in the clouds above.
Her own heart beat (rhythmic and steady). It flowed into the pulse of the All.
And then.... Reverence. Unrelenting. She'd felt that once before. For awhile she didn't move, remaining as she was (meditative - meditating) while Emily sat down on the back of that bench. Daiyu wasn't in a hurry. Eventually, though, her thoughts began to stir, and she opened her eyes. A deep breath (the air here wasn't clean, but it was better than being indoors), and then the elegant Akashic unfolded and hopped nimbly up to her feet. They were bare, but she didn't seem to mind when her steps took her across the occasional stray pebble or twig.
She made her way over to where Emily sat, and smiled. "Good evening."
[Quentin Doyle] It's the second Friday night that his pub is open, one of the busiest nights of the week but Quentin has escaped its clutches. He's walking along one of the many paths in the area, wearing a pair of jeans, some comfortable loafers and a buttoned shirt with short sleeves. It's just that side of casual, a little more class to it, but still appropriate enough to wear anywhere. Outside is still warm, the air is clean, but he's smoking a cigarette anyway.
His tall and broad bulk moves quietly, unhurried. His eyes are drifting around, follows the path, takes in others that pass him with small nods, but he's not really concentrating on the here and now. Distracted. He pauses at a trashcan to squash out the cigarette to make sure it's no longer smoldering before he tosses the filter in with the rest of the city's garbage. His phone rings, heard in the distance from where the women are sitting.
Sliding his hand into his pocket, he pulls it out and puts it to his ear. The low tones of his voice, the lilt of the accent cuts across the quieter park area. Head down, he scratches his hand through the back of his dark curls as he listens to the voice in the earpiece.
[Emily Littleton] It's stronger tonight, the pull of something Other around the young Chorister-to-be. It's threaded right through the very pattern of her, from her dark (hueless in the halflight) eyes to the soft curls to the brilliance upwelling within her: grace. The first flavor her magic took to was Reverence, unsurprising, given the Tradition she feels called toward. It's there, tonight, a whisper and a gracefulness. It's twined through and paired with the Unrelenting drive Seeking has left in its wake. Emily is new, but she is already growing. She is constantly growing.
It is harder to keep still than to keep quiet.
As Daiyu approaches, she can pick up a thin thread of something else. A surety, calm and centered. Borrowed if anything ever was, and wrapped around her own. Paired. It emanates not form her core, but from a thing on her person. (The Singer borrows as much as she brings.)
"Evening," Emily says, and she smiles. Given their past interaction (a time of crisis [a time of action]), Daiyu may not be expecting a smile from the younger girl. In the distance (or not so very far away at all) a phone rings. Emily glances in that direction, reflexively, and then back to Daiyu.
Emily is polite, if nothing more. These days she is better than just urbane. She is pleasant, with her British syllables and her slightly reserved temperment. Not so standoffish and separate. It's a nice change; it will not last.
"How are you doing tonight?" she asks, and then, with a small start, as if she has only just remembered it. "You know, that night, at the park," which is not this park, and that night at the park is anything but descriptive in the local mages' parlance, "With the children?" Ah, yes, something more to go on. "I don't think I got your name. I'm Emily," she says, and sits up enough to offer a small wave.
[Li Daiyu] The particular encounter in question had indeed been a time of crisis, though for Daiyu, the amount of action was comparably slight. It hadn't been a good time for introductions, and none had been made at the time. The Akashic certainly remembered Emily though, for all that she had no name to add to her face. As it turned out, Emily remembered her as well.
Today, Daiyu was wearing a pair of black capris that ended just below the knee (they showed off the athletic curve of calf muscles), and a simple, fitted white t-shirt. Her shoes were nowhere to be seen, and her hair was pleated into two braids that hung down across each shoulder. She stepped forward and sat down on the bench beside Emily (though she remained on the seat). In truth, she hadn't been expecting any particular reaction, though something other than pleasantries wouldn't have surprised her.
That wasn't what she got, though, and that was all for the better. Daiyu was more than content to let the past stay in the past.
"No, it was a bit... chaotic. I'm glad we have a chance to introduce ourselves properly. My name is Li Daiyu, of the Akashic Brotherhood. A pleasure to officially meet you." She nodded her head briefly, a warm smile hovering on her features still. In the background, another vaguely familiar resonance hovered, ad Quentin spoke on the phone. Daiyu didn't turn to look, as Emily did, but she kept his presence in the back of her mind.
[Quentin Doyle] "I really can't come in right now, I was in earlier'n the day," he's telling the person on the other side. There's a pause in which he sighs in. "I told you all I know, an' no, it doesn't work like tha'. Believe me, if I could give you more information I would, but I'm stu--"
An inhale is the sort that tries to quell the temper, his tongue licks across his top molars as he begins to walk away from the garbage and continue along the path. "Look! I'm tellin' you," heat threading through the words, barely restrained, "tha' I've done all I can. It's been a bad day, an' I know I can't tell you wha' you want to 'ear, but it's all I've got." Reigning that temper in, he adds, more reasonably, "But I'll come in first thin' tomorra mornin' an' see wha' else you got. It's the best offer yer getting."
"Yeah," calming, his thumb hooks into his hip pocket, "yeah, alright. I'll be there at about nine, na, nine-thirty. Yeah, I'll be there at nine-thirty. Sorry I can't give you anymore."
Shortly after his phone hangs up. He's sliding it into his pocket when he glances up, takes notice of where he's drifted while his mind was preoccupied with much more important and, by the sounds of it, more aggravating things. It's then that he notices not only Li but Emily, too. It makes him pause in step, draw his shoulders a bit back with another slow inhale through his nose, exhaled in a softly weary sigh.
Clearly it's been a long day, lucky for him he's got strong shoulders, by the looks of it he needs it to carry whatever weight it is that pinches the corner of his eyes and darkens his mood.
[Owen Page] [Let's do some Awareness, shall we? (-2 Acute Senses)]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 4, 6, 8, 9 (Success x 4 at target 4)
[Emily Littleton] [Yellin' people don't bother me. Nope.]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 3, 4, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] She was not yet gifted enough to track other Awakened with a corner of her consciousness. Emily had not achieved that level of paranoia in her mundane life (but she had [had reasons to] come close to it). The presence is noted, and it's almost familiar, but her focus is on Daiyu.
The Akashic was more formal about things and Emily, having grown into this world as an Orphan and only just settled on a place she might like to call home, offers less up at first. Just her given name, no Traditional ties. "I don't know much about the Brotherhood," Emily says, plainly. There is an undertone here that implies she would like to learn more. "I am hoping to join the Chorus," she adds, implying her affiliation is tentative at best.
The phone call, not too far away, turns to a heated conversation. Emily sits up straighter. Her shoulders square and her chin tips upward. It's a posture of readiness (tension) even though the ire is not directed at her. She looks at the man on the periphery for a longer moment, and recognition flicks across her expression.
"Have you met Quentin?" Emily asks Daiyu, connecting the name to the sharper resonance and heated tone at the margin of their conversation. Her question gives little, if anything away, but there's a gently lofted eyebrow backing it that implies Emily is more than professionally curious.
[Li Daiyu] Quentin's angry words rang as a sour counterpoint to the otherwise relaxed, quiet atmosphere. Daiyu certainly picked up on it (how could you not?), as well as the possible meaning behind the particular conversation, but she didn't react. Like so many things, it slid off of her back like water.
When Emily said she was hoping to join the Chorus, Daiyu accepted the information with a nod. No opinion was offered here, neither pleasure or displeasure. The Celestial Chorus and the Brotherhood weren't known to be overtly fond of each other, but then, if Daiyu spent all of her time judging the people she met based solely on their Tradition, she'd be on bad terms with most of the Awakened in Chicago. There was an implication in the Apprentice's (soon, perhaps, to be Initiate) words. A kind of subdued curiosity. But Daiyu didn't offer straightaway to fill in the gaps of her knowledge. Perhaps later, if they got to know each other better, she might.
Instead, Emily asked if she'd met Quentin, and now Daiyu did turn her torso so that she regarded the heavily built man. "Actually, yes. I was in his bar not too long ago. They have good scotch." A wry smile accompanied that statement.
[Owen Page] Most people in Grant Park had reason for being there. Some were the evening joggers, steadily weaving around the interlocking walkways cut throughout the grounds, some were those like Emily Littleton, there only for the relative stillness and tranquility to be found amongst trees and grass and warm summer nights.
Some of them were like the young man who had been seated some distance off from where a certain Apprentice was to be found, his back against an old oak, a sketch-pad resting open against one raised knee. Owen Page was no established artist, let's be clear but his skill lay less in capturing the exact detail of a study and more so in capturing the vibrancy of the soul, in capturing the idea of movement. The notion and essence of time, noted in broad, dashing black charcoal lines.
Here the slash of a nose.
There the circular suggestion of a mouth.
His most recent models, and the reason for his late departure from the park itself had been a pair of lovers, lazing on the ground reading novels together. As evening had set, they'd shucked their books in favor of one another and lain, the female with her face pressed to the male's chest, fingers interlocked; quietly talking. Owen had sketched from a discreet distance, and when the pair finally left had remained where he was, rubbing at the edges of his creation with his thumb before noting the date in the corner, his initials a tiny O.P in the very limits of the page.
Now the figure that moves along one pathway, all but blending with the night itself in his black t-shirt and jeans is scenting with altered, awakened senses [or one in particular] and deviating from his intended passage through to the gates and streets without. Instead, for once, Owen is tracking down a particular flavor to the Universe at present he knows very well, that his own hand had helped sharpen, and focus.
In the evening, he could be anyone. But as he nears the females, his features begin to take shape from the dark: the sharp jaw, the strong brow, the slant of the nose and the dark, insightful eyes. His body also gave him away, Owen Page walked with an authority he did not always display in conversation, but the power was present, perhaps unawares to the owner of those arms, those legs and chest.
[Quentin Doyle] He ran both his hands over his hair, smoothed back the partially tamed curls and took another calming breath, preparing himself to be socially acceptable. The phone call left him rattled but he smooths that over like had had his hair and shook it off. Tension still rides in his spine, carries in the weight of his shoulders, but he approaches, moving further along the path to where the two young women are sitting.
"Evenin' ladies," he greets them both in a general way, his smile coming to his mouth not as easy as it had on previous occasions, but everyone has bad moments. Its still genuine so that's something. He's glad to see them - Emily, really. He's still trying to remember the other womans name. He meets plenty working in the bar, as it is, and their conversation hadn't been very big. Something ominous and mysterious she had said - he'd dismissed her somewhat, as a fruitcake.
[Quentin Doyle] [jinx!]
[Emily Littleton] It happens, like this, more often than Emily can reasonably explain. What begins as a warm night, a contemplative walk, an attempt at righting the chaos and tumult of her world into neat and ordered columns, boxes, well-honed thoughts, all of that desire and drive for design, function, efficiency, perfection, it all comes down to moments like this. The coalescing of small parties, convocations, impromptu helloes at nothing more formal than park benches. The mages did not keep anything as civilized as coffee hour, no, they gathered in loose knots with no agenda. In parks. And where they gathered, Trouble often followed.
This is twice, in one day, that she finds herself in a loose collection of comrades. The earlier party was all familiar faces, at a table in Chinatown. There was food (of which Emily did not partake) and news to disperse. Parties to plan. A busy brunch meeting, no doubt. This one promised to be far more... fluid.
"Good evening," she says, and doesn't have to look up too much to meet his eye, perched as she is on the back of the park bench. There's warmth to her smile, but it's a little more shaded than the night before. Perhaps Quentin is not the only one to have a trying day. Hers does not weigh her down, but it also does not lift her up.
"Stealing away from the pub for a bit?" she asks. There's a curious corner to that, it curls her smile wryly; it's a Friday night. Fridays are busy. He's left the establishment in (what he's assured her are) capable hands.
When Owen approaches, at first, he is another shadow moving along the periphery of her attention. Even in a cluster like this she is watchful; not as watchful as some, but careful. (It is too soon, she told Molly just earlier today. [In time everyone will relax.]) Then his features become clearer, and the Orphan (for now [Singer soon-to-be]) again shows recognition in her expression. And a warmth that is different, less shaded (softer) that plays at the corner of her eyes and then is pulled back, kept close, kept quiet.
[Li Daiyu] Daiyu was good at being mysterious. She had a lot of practice. Ominous, though... that hadn't quite been her intention. More like a kind of playful curiosity. But since Quentin had either been in the dark regarding her meaning, or had deliberately chosen to play dumb, the matter had been dropped, and she didn't seem inclined to pick it up again now. He was... something. Something other than Awakened, but more than Asleep. A broad guess would have to do, for now.
(And if she'd known he thought she was a fruitcake, she'd have laughed.)
Daiyu nodded pleasantly to Quentin, before the prickle of something unfamiliar brought her attention around to Owen's silent, approaching figure. She fixed him with soft, dark eyes, watching as he approached their little gathering.
[Quentin Doyle] He glances to Owen as he approaches the women, not knowing if they already know each other, only that its another male coming towards two that he's met briefly. Its instinctual for him to be more alert to the other man, as a threat of some sort, but he doesn't show any hostility, only awareness of potential. Its ingrained in the fabric of who he is, how he lives his life - protect those he perceives as weaker.
But Emily knows him, and Li is watching him at least. Nothing for him to worry about here, just yet. So, instead, he turns his attention back to Emily and her questions, answering them even if a little belatedly. "Yeah, I'm givin' myself a night off. Seein' how they handle it without me lingerin' around like some bad smell," he jokes easily, quietly. The smile he offers has a thread of humour in it, but his gaze is sharper tonight - recent arguments still fresh in the blood, in the adrenalin that had no where to go then into harder tones and clipped words.
Relaxing now - at least he's trying to, and hooks his thumb back into the pocket of his jeans. He had been standing off to the side, but moves closer to the bench now, closer to where Emily is. He doesn't linger or hover over her, but he's standing just out of arms reach, and doesn't invite himself to sit. Another glance is given to Li and Owen, brief but steady. Then back to Emily: "How's your day been, love? We still on for tomorrow night?" Calmer, his words have a little more sound to it, less accent, less street and more refined.
Quentin made his way up in the world, he wasn't born at the top.
[Owen Page] Anyone looking for it, for the source [song] of the man approaching would feel a strange duality at hand; first the intensity of his aura and then coupled with it the gentle [yet unsettling] sense of ruin and decay, of a corrosion eating away and eating away at its own foundations. A strange resonance, for one such as he was, yet somehow, upon closer association with Owen Page, it began to fit him so entirely well.
Owen doesn't smile at the gathered when he nears, an old black portfolio held loosely in one hand, bound closed with the aid of an old piece of leather wrapped again and again around it until taunt. He doesn't smile, but then again there's no scowl, either or suspicious looks cast at any; rather, there's at first only attention for Emily, for the young woman sitting on the back of the bench. The manner that he looks at her might cause the romantics to sigh wistfully, but it would be a mistake to consider it lustful, or longing. It was, rather more, a look of utmost familiarity, a communication that often took place between the pair that required few to no words at all.
So, Emily smiles at him, and Owen looks at Emily for a moment, then at the two he does not know, yet senses all the same. "Evening," the Initiate says, in a quiet voice, full of consideration the scene. Of course, then the known male speaks, and Owen's spine straightens just a notch. The grip on the portfolio is flexed and his eyes [too dark to see they are a certain shade of midnight blue] flick from Apprentice to Unknown.
Back again.
[Owen Page] [Hello, typos my old friend. Ugh. 'full OF consideration' and 'unknown']
[Li Daiyu] [Just because I'm a bitch - Per+Awareness (empathy) on Owen and Em - what is this I see?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 3, 6, 6, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] There's no need, in Emily's mind, for Quentin's protectiveness. There's nothing in her carriage or her expression that even hints at discomfort. Not at the corrosive undertone, or the intensity the young man brings to the gathering. Not at the way he studies her first, or presumes a sort of familiarity than runs deeper than words. Believe it or not, they were of a common cloth. (Though the similarities might be difficult to spot, at first.)
"My day?" she echoes, eying Quentin curiously. It's plain from the play of the smile on her mouth that he's going to get half an answer and another artful sideslip step. "It has been informative, I think I can safely say that without getting in much trouble." There's laughter to the lilt in her voice, and it's warm but still a little wearied. "And of course," she says, about the evening next. "I wouldn't miss it."
There's a comfortable pattern to their conversation, even though they've only met the night before. It's different, in many ways, than the conversations she keeps with the Singer here. It's an odd thing to balance, and Emily struggles slightly. That's the problem with sticking around in one place for too long; everything begins to converge.
She glances at said Singer. That bond they share will tell him that the shape of her mouth and the way she finds and holds his eye for a moment means there is something for them to discuss. It's not voiced here or now. It's not even lingered upon or hinted at. Just when you have a moment and moving on.
What she does say, is this: "Owen, have you met Li Daiyu and Quentin Doyle?" No, she assume he hasn't. There's just an edge of formality to the way she asks, though, as if it's a polite way of reminding herself that introductions ought be made. It's a struggle, to balance the mannerisms she's learned with the way things work on this continent. (Old World mannerims [New World friendships] culture clash).
[Emily Littleton] [Subterfuge: Nothing to see here, Daiyu.]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 4, 4, 6, 7, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Li Daiyu] Quentin's natural inclination was to protect those he perceived as weaker. Which meant that he perceived the two women as physically weaker than himself. This wasn't something you could necessarily fault him for (after all, he was a big guy, and neither Daiyu or Emily looked physically intimidating, though Daiyu's athleticism might have suggested otherwise), but nonetheless, it was somewhat laughably misguided.
Truth be told, there weren't many mages in Chicago with more potential for raw lethality than the elegant Asian woman sitting quietly on the park bench. (Possibly, there weren't any at all, but she'd hardly met them all yet.)
Not that it mattered, tonight. She seemed to be in a pleasant mood, and none of the people around her were considered to be threats (at least, not at the moment.) Emily seemed to know the stranger, which made him a welcomed member of their little enclave. Owen greeted them (Emily more than the rest), and Daiyu smiled and offered him a nod, as Emily introduced them all. "We haven't met, no. A pleasure."
And here she held out her hand, friendly and formal. She hadn't missed the look that Owen had given Quentin just now. It was subtle, but his tension read to her as protective. (Interesting.) Daiyu wasn't Lara Wrathburn, though. She didn't meddle, so whatever it was she'd picked up, she didn't share it.
[Quentin Doyle] "Informative eh?" His brows raise at the choice of word and the meaning behind it, he muses over it too, and how it relates to his day. It's closer then she knows, the irony of it amuses him, makes a quiet little huff escape up his throat, puffed through the tight but brief constrict of his stomach muscle and lungs. Green-blue eyes, a paler shade, has that warm humour leaking back into them. His troubles are taking the back seat. "Studies?" he inquires, pushing that side step a little, "or something else?" Quentin has an interest, a curiousity of her, as much as she seemed to have of him. Enough, it seems, for them to have made plans for the next night.
To which she has agreed and tells him she wouldn't miss. It makes him smile, even easier this time, with a brief flash of teeth. "Wonderful. I left a message on yer phone earlier," he tells her, sure that she already got it. "It's a Latin place," which he hadn't mentioned on the phone, only the place address and that he looked forward to meeting her there at seven-thirty, hoping, also, that she had good day. "Don't worry, you'll be in good hands." A wink is given here, quick and fleeting.
Introduced to Owen, Quentin uncurls his thumb from his pocket and takes a half step over, leaning to offer the other man his hand in a casual gesture. There's no threat in it, not even some warning in his eyes. Whatever worry he had was already passed; this was a friend of Emily. The look, subtle that had passed over Owen was either missed or ignored (expected). "Nice to meet you, Owen," he tells the other man, shaking hands once Li was done with her own introductions. It's honest, too.
[Owen Page] "What's tomorrow night?" He asks, though it's pretty evident from the exchange what it is -- he's asking anyway. Not a man to avoid the blunt questions when push came to shove, Owen. He might have been a man of few words most of the time, but when he was made to use what words he had, he frequently hit the sore spots, or simply what others were too constrained by social pleasantries to mention.
The closer he was to the person in question, the worse that blunt candor tended to become. It wasn't that he missed that look Emily cast him, rather more, his mood incited him to push at it. To his own suffering, he was full aware. It didn't prevent him. It never did.
Emily introduces them, then, and Owen shifts his portfolio in his hands, exchanges it in favor of clasping Question's wrist, his fingers locking around it in a brief, but firm handshake. He holds the other man's eyes for a beat, nods, and lets go. Li Daiyu gets a less aggressive version; Owen's grasp here is firm, but gentled. He studies the petite Asian woman with some degree of unspoken curiosity.
"Hey," he says, ah the taciturn Singer always, "Pleasure."
[Emily Littleton] What's tomorrow night? Owen asks, bluntly. This is perhaps not so unexpected, but Emily doesn't rise to the push (Intensity) behind it. She's quieter, today. The Unrelenting note in her resonance doesn't answer his, just now. Not yet. Perhaps she is tempered by the borrowed note (Steadfast [surety]), or simply unalarmed.
"Quentin and I are going dancing," she answers, and there's a pleased note to her voice, though she is careful not to assume a we into that sentence. There's no challenge to it (is that a problem?), though on another night there might have been. Though her voice gentles, and is a bit less firm, as she goes on to mention. "Israel gave me quite a lesson on Jewish Mysticism the other night and on remembering to take time away from one's studies to rejoice, and recharge."
A smile here, for the two she knows are Awakened. And one for Quentin that is slightly different. All of them are easy-going, warm and unfettered by the problems of recent months.
"For once I'm listening to my elders."
And about that informative day? Look, how that's fallen away in the wake of other topics.
[Li Daiyu] Daiyu's accent marked her as foreign, but it was fairly light, all things considered, and she spoke English as fluently as any native. When Owen took her hand, he might notice a bit of unexpected roughness (she seemed like such a pretty, feminine creature) on her palm, a sign of rough labor (or martial training.) Greetings over with, she let her hand fall back into her lap and turned to watch the flow of the conversation. A couple of times, her eyes flicked back to Owen, as if to gauge his reaction.
When Emily made the comment about listening to her elders, Daiyu smiled with amusement. "It's good to balance work and play. We need them both. And dancing sounds like a lovely idea."
[Quentin Doyle] Quentin does not meet that firmness and aggression that Owen offers. Part of him wants to, its dim and in the background, but it would be all too easy - he thinks, to give into that and the earlier heat he had in words over a phone. For now, he's going to let it slide, enjoy the presence of those with less testosterone. Besides, Quentin understands how it is. He is a guy, after all.
Emily answers. He doesn't feel the need to say anything more on it. He lets her field the question with the guy she's more familiar with, perhaps even to smooth over the waters. Its better he doesn't interfere. He will if it does become a problem, asked or not. But they don't seem to be traveling down that path.
Brows perk, so does his interest, as there's talk on some Jewish Mysticism. He considers this, the people that he's currently standing with, and how ill educated he suddenly feels. This passes. Mints are pulled from his pocket, the same one with his phone. One is popped into his mouth as the others talk.
Quentin lets himself fade into the background as much as someone his stature can. But Li's compliment, as he takes it, makes him smile with a nod - glad someone agrees with him. Dancing is harmless. Dancing is also not the back seat in the movies or the drive in. It's not out for drinks either.
[Owen Page] "Oh," they're going dancing. The Initiate's expression shuts down, cools off, if that's even possible at this point to do so further than it already so frequently was. Something does flicker in those dark eyes before they lower to the ground, he kicks the heel of one boot against the other to dislodge dirt caked to the toe.
"Well, have fun with that." It's not the petulant mutter of a child, but the quiet comprehension of an adult about a subject he can do little about, nor has any true knowledge of to change. After all, Owen didn't dance, or rather, had no idea of how to do it, so what really would be the point in stepping between two people who clearly could, and had the desire to do it together. Just like that, he lets the subject drop, files it away.
On to Israel and Mysticism. There's a brief suggestion of a smile, its shy and unsure it belongs on the Chorister's face, but it tries to develop courage. "Israel is a good teacher," his words suggested personal experience with the woman in question, or at the very least, her teachings. "I can't disagree with that."
[Emily Littleton] [Awareness as Empathy: ... you alright over there?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 4, 8, 9, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)
to Owen Page
[Owen Page] What's on your mind, Mister Page that 2 Suxx can reveal: He's jealous, there's that. It's a hint though, and its buried beneath layers of regret for what might have been and acceptance that he can't be what she needs and understanding that she's maturing and growing as a Mage and he respects that. There's pride, muddled in there. A myriad of things, really. But mostly jealousy, and regret and the hint of some desire to keep her to himself.
to Emily Littleton
[Emily Littleton] Owen's response is clearly not what Emily expected (wanted [hoped for]). His eyes fall away and his posture shifts. What is usually a comfortable awareness of one another sharpens, for Emily. It softens the wryness in her smile, gentles the playfulness. Emily quiets, glances down as well.
"Thanks," she says, but there's less warmth to it. Whatever she's caught in Owen's eyes before he looks aways has her off-guard for a moment. Surprised enough that the Orphan doesn't bother to hide that momentary imbalance. Instead, her hand comes up to toy with the thin silver chain around her neck. It's a nervous gesture; a comforting thing. She brings forward the locket at the end of that chain, but does not wrap her fingers around it and call its resonance forth just yet.
She doesn't let the quiet sit, though. Emily is far more practiced at these social moments than she usually lets on. She recovers, shifts on the park bench a little (these things get uncomfortable, the longer you sit on them) and moves along.
"There's a lot of those around," Emily says. Adds on, "Good teachers. It's nice. Molly was just saying, earlier, how lucky we are for that." And then a pause, because Molly brings her back around to Quentin. "And that she met you," she says, eying the tallest member of their group once more. "Looking at auto shops? Man of mystery, much, hmm?"
It's lighter again. This moment. But there's something behind Emily's eyes that has shifted. It's thoughtful again, where she had been a little freer the day before.
"She says she'll try to drop by the pub," Emily adds, showing she's made good on her promise to spread the word about his new establishment.
[Li Daiyu] Naturally the Akashic thought that dancing was a good idea. Dancing was more than just a hobby, for her. It was in her blood. If any of these three ever happened to attend a ballet at the Joffrey theatre, chances were high that they'd see Daiyu amongst those on stage. It didn't seem as if many of Chicago's Awakened population attended the ballet, though. At least, she'd yet to see one there. It made her dancing like something of a secret life, as much as her Awakened life was secret to the Sleepers she knew and interacted with.
Daiyu continued to watch the exchange, and for a moment, after Owen said Well, have fun with that, her eyes seemed to soften as she looked at him. A subtle note of empathy, if he cared to notice. This wasn't her business, and she intended to stay out of it, but that didn't mean she couldn't comprehend how the Chorister might be feeling right now.
After awhile, Daiyu got to her feet and stepped away from the bench. Turning, she smiled at Emily, waiting for a lull in the conversation before offering her goodbyes. "It was nice to see you again." Then, to Quentin. "You as well." And finally, to Owen. "And it was good to meet you. I must be up in the morning, so I'll leave you to your conversation. Good night."
And then she turned and walked off in the direction of the place she'd stashed her things.
[Quentin Doyle] Only a blind person, without any empathy, would miss what's happening between Owen and Emily. Quentin sees it but doesn't bring attention to either of them or the issue that rides the air between them. He does glance off though, down the path, as he considers his polite retreat from the group. But that thought doesn't get too far since Emily is drawing their attention to something else instead.
The mention of Molly has his brows raise, but only after she mentions the auto shop, before that he looked only curious, as if he didn't quite catch on who she was talking about. Its the shop that triggers it for him and he lets out a quiet, surprised laugh. It's a short lived one, that sound, but greatly humoured. "You know Molly?" Looking her over now, she (and the others) can see how he's trying to place how these two very different women know each other. Shaking his head with a smile, he adds on: "We were just sayin' about small worlds."
"Can't say I know the lass, but we met. Did she rent out the place then?" That had him more curious then he was about the girl herself. He's putting a puzzle together, or trying to. The mention of his pub hadn't got much of reaction, maybe a small nod of acknowledgment that she kept her word. But the conversation already goes on.
Li is taking her leave by then and he smiles over to her with a small nod. "Take care Miss," he calls after her. Li, that was her name. He'd remember it next time now, but for the moment he watches her walk off. When he does look back it's with a glance to Owen first then back to Emily. Its about now he should take his cue to leave, but he waits, lingers just for a few more.
[Owen Page] It would be too easy to consider Owen Page a victim, though he himself would never attach such a label to himself, only darker notations, fitted by his own distorted view of himself. A victim of his own actions; of his past; of the crimes he saw fit to pin on his own shoulders and none others. The man did not give away trust easily, Emily had seen this first hand. Witnessed the snap-temper that erupted at a Cultist for bringing her home to him with an awakened gun in hand.
Trust did not come as second nature to him, because his life had taught him to know better.
Even as an Awakened being, it was not something that he faced without struggle. The last occasion he'd let his guard down, another Cultist had tried to pry into his mind without warning -- the Disciple had been sharply and roughly pushed out and warned off. The issue tended to be with a man like Owen that the more you saw the way he shackled himself to his own failures, the more you wished to comprehend him; to nurture the potential masked behind the weight of the world he saw fit to carry.
But it was hard, so hard, to contend with that degree of self-hatred.
The Akashic sees enough to warrant her expression softening toward the Chorister, he doesn't catch it, but he does turn in her direction as she leaves, and smile faintly in farewell. Then, readjusting his grip on his portfolio, he glances at Quentin, then Emily. "Well, I have to go." He glances at his collection of drawings. "I need to get these back, I'll let you both --" He's not sure how to finish that sentence, so he doesn't.
"Nice to meet you, Quentin. Emily."
With that, Owen turns to go. There's never hesitation when he's running away.
[Emily Littleton] Emily had more than kept her word. She'd sent the Deacon of the local Chantry in Quentin's direction, to suss out his Bostonian credentials and look into this resonance that isn't that she feels about him. For all the young woman is smiling and friendly, she has her terribly shrewd moments. And while Quentin is lovely, and charming, and warm enough, Emily would not go so far as to say she trusted him just yet. Or even knew him all that well.
"Ah, you'd be surprised at who knows who---" Her sentence is cut short as something in Emily's pocket (which she thought was set to silent) proves it was all too capable of announcing incoming calls. "... in this city."
She slides off the back park bench and pulls her phone out of her pocket. Glances at it quickly and then puts it away (after actually turning it to silent this time).
They are all readying their polite excuses. Owen needs to get his sketches home. Li's got an early morning. Quentin is looking down the path. Emily is no different.
"I didn't realize it'd gotten so late," is Emily's.
I need to get these back, the Chorister says, and Emily adds in, before he can get to far away: "Hey... I'll catch the El with you?" It's a question. They live in the same direction. There's also the possible that he's not headed home.
"And I'll see you tomorrow?" she says. There's less uncertainty in how she greets Quentin. It's steady. Still pleased and pleasant.
[Quentin Doyle] "You too, Owen," Quentin calls out to him.
How he feels about this entire situation, especially when Emily is getting ready to go, with the jealous other, has him very carefully conceal any reactions. It won't do any of the others any good. This day was set to end on some sort of sour note, and he supposes that is fitting for the start of it.
But Emily still asks about tomorrow which earns her a smile, quieter version this time and a small nod. "Seven-thirty," he confirms, watching her, watching past her to Owen, then back again. "Take care, Emily." This time he doesn't offer her a kiss on the cheek, even if he wanted to. He's a little more sympathetic then most might credit him for.
[Owen Page] She wants to catch the El with him. He shouldn't stop, not really. Not in the mood he was in, not with the conflicting feelings racing around in his head and drawing him up on speaking in more than clipped, terse sentences. But he was raised by a proper family, by a mother and father with morals about young women out alone at night and he cannot, in all honesty, refuse the obligation he feels toward escorting her to the train.
He can't leave her here alone, if Quentin were also leaving.
So he stops, and half turns so she can read the shadow of his face, his mouth as he says: "Sure," and waits for her to say her farewells to the other man with his back toward them so he offers some notion of privacy, and exclusion for himself.
[Emily Littleton] "Seven-thirty," she echoes. They're all three hiding something, and it's fairly easy to guess at what the other two might be thinking. In anyone's case. It's an awkward end to a Friday night and, for Emily and Owen, it is not over yet.
Quentin doesn't kiss her cheek, and Emily doesn't encroach on his space with any familiarity either. This is not, after all, the quiet setting of his Mag Mile pub.
But she's smiling still, and perhaps that's to her credit. It reads as genuine warmth. Emily waves a bit, almost shyly, and it makes her seem younger and far less certain. Then she's catching up with Owen, falling in stride beside him, and leaving that relationship undefined for Quentin.
She looks back over her shoulder, once, then heads toward the light rail platform with the man who views it as an obligation to escort her. It's when they've gotten a bit further away that her expression shifts to something less brilliant, and the unrelenting undertone in her pattern pushes out again the intensity in his. It's an echo, an answer, and a query; for the first time, in a long time, it carries a note of friction rather than acceptance.
[Quentin Doyle] He doesn't stick around and watch them walk off into the night, he slides his hand into his pocket and resumes his own walk with his thoughts, new ones too. Tomorrow he'd make the most of it either way, as long as the start of his day doesn't ruin that potential. For now though, he's far from tired and needs to be preoccupied. He plans on leaving the park for other pursuits.
[thanks for the play!]
[Owen Page] There is a lot of friction present tonight. It's in the almost angry manner Owen walks, in the taunt line of his jaw, the way his eye does not look sidelong at Emily but rather remains fixed on the rail platform they are headed toward. The silence draws, thickens around them until it is stifling, suffocating and yet neither of them; the unrelenting, the intensity seem quite ready or capable of weakening against it.
At least, not for some minutes.
Not until they reach the platform and Owen runs out of space to stride along, has to make do with swinging his long legs over a bench and straddling it, setting his portfolio down in front of him and making some decisive study of the blank cover as if it were the guidebook for how to navigate through his own feelings tonight.
"It's not my place to tell you not to see him," he says eventually; voice brittle. "But it is my place to tell you to be careful."
[Emily Littleton] It doesn't take long for Owen's anger to bleed across to Emily. That's part of the downside of being so closely connected. Her arms cross over her middle, hug tight to her torso. Her jaw sets, her shoulders curl slightly. They are close enough in height that she doesn't have to struggle to keep up with him. If anything the purposefulness of this friction makes them fall into lockstep after a minute or two.
Owen hasn't seen her angry on very many occasions. She plays her cards so much more carefully than he does. Not tonight. He straddles the bench and her hands find her hips. Her fingers dig into the cloth of her shirt there. There's rigidity to the way she stands, defensiveness. (Fear.) The quiet has made her fearful, cornered by this unspoken thing between them.
But his voice is brittle, and it softens her resolve for a moment. Emily exhales, long and slow and heavily. She reaches up to place one hand at the back of her neck. Paces, in a slow, small arc. They're alone on the platform. The late night schedule has trains further spaced apart. It would be quite a wait for the next one.
"It is your place," she says, stressing that word. "If you really think that I shouldn't."
She pushes. Emily cannot help it. Her tone is testing; it's sharper. He's not heard anything quite like this before.
"If you have a good reason, Owen," she says, but this is not quite as sharp. It's uncertain. Unsteady. "I'm all ears."
[Owen Page] [WP: Yeah Owen, what's your reason, you big dumb jerk?]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 6, 6, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 5 at target 6)
[Owen Page] If he were a different man, a more confident man, he might explain his reasons with action rather than anything verbal. He might spring to his feet and show her exactly what this good reason is that he seems to believe he has for her not to go dancing with some near stranger [to him, anyway] on a Saturday night.
He can't look at her right now, and form his words, but he draws resolve from somewhere, because after a long, expelled breath he raises his face and looks right at her; Emily with all her sharp, testing words and his face is stony, remote. There's no hint of softness to be read there, whatever she had seen earlier, flitting across his face, through his eyes in the Park is long gone -- pushed back beneath that insurmountable wall he had constructed between himself and the rest of the world.
"I don't." A beat, he looks away, cheeks faintly flushed with agitation. His fingers are smeared with charcoal residue, he's no doubt wiped it all over his jeans tonight. "Do what you like with your romantic life," he breathes out, chest expanding, his shirt straining against the shape of his musculature. He gets up, and walks a few steps. His back seemed so broad, and unforgiving in the dim station light.
"It's not my concern."
[Emily Littleton] [WP: ..................... +1 dif]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 5, 5, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 3 at target 7)
[Emily Littleton] [Words. I can has them? +WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 5 (Failure at target 6) [WP]
[Emily Littleton] He might as well have closed the distance between them, because the wind is knocked out of Emily's chest for a moment. The apples of her cheeks are bright with anger, but that flushes further toward another emotion when he lashes out at her.
Her fingers dig in harder at her hip. The hand at her neck balls into a fist, comes down to her side. She's frozen there, for a moment, locked out of whatever he's feeling by that immoveable wall he's built between them. She's angry, but she doesn't yell at him. Emily barely even finds the words to speak to her sometimes-Mentor and sometimes-Friend.
He's turned his back on her, so Owen can't read her expression. Whether it is walled off or self-protective, whether it's concerned and compassionate. He has to rely on the texture of her voice, which is tight and aching. It's honest. And she offers him precious few words, there, on that train platform, with its harsh overhead lights.
"Yeah," she says, and the hurt is clear. She can't or won't pull it back just now. "Which is great, just wonderful, Owen, because the person I'd far rather spend my evening out with..."
"... is you."
No speech, nothing flowery, no entreating. It's just there, without anything to pretty it up or pull the sting away from how candid (blunt) she's being. Emily waits, maybe half a heartbeat, before she lets her gaze fall away from watching the shape of his back. If this goes as well as every other similar conversation between them has gone, to date, then the next thing he'll hear from her is her footfalls on the pavement as she turns to walk away.
[Owen Page] [WP: Keep it together, man. +1 for Angst]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 4, 7, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 7)
[Owen Page] He has his back to her, so he can't see the expression on her face. Which is probably a good thing, because Owen, while angry at the world at large right now is not a man without compassion, without feeling and were he to know how deeply he is wounding his friend, his good [only] good friend he would likely loose control of his resolve to push her away, to keep her from seeing the scared, ashamed little boy he is right now.
He doesn't want to injure her, but he has nothing to offer her, either.
He could teach her magic, but not about the world.
But not anything else, hadn't it been himself that assured that? What right did he now have to punish her for pursuing happiness outside his door when he'd made it so abundantly clear that lines existed that banned anything like dancing from their evolving relationship? There was no logic to this anger; no clear reasoning to it.
It defied logic, as many affairs of the heart tended to.
Owen's face, concealed from her is pained; conflicted. It wars with itself, and he hunches his shoulders against the hurt in her voice. "Well you shouldn't." He bites off, then turns; spins rather to face her. His eyes burning and dark and bottomless. His face twisted into a scowl that seemed ready to fight the world. "I have nothing to offer you. Don't you get that? Don't you see?" His voice rises, pitches into a snarl and he turns and kicks the trashcan attached to the wall.
It rattles, and swings before resettling with the new imprint of Owen's boot dented into the side.
The Singer is breathing heavily, staring at the ground. His fingers have formed fists, and his eyes remain closed. Despite his capacity to remain clear-headed, to avoid saying the things he ought, his iron-clad control has slipped a notch.
[Emily Littleton] [WP: ............. goddamned stubborn mages.]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 4, 5, 10 (Success x 1 at target 7)
[Owen Page] [I'm such a dick. Empathy.]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 6, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] Owen leaves an impression on the trashcan. For better or worse, he's making an impression on Emily as well. Emily, who has seen far more of him than most mages in Chicago. Who has heard him talk about his sister; who was there when he buried a small girl child. She has seen his small smile grow from shy to something warm and familiar over the course of many months. And now she's seeing him rage.
And it frightens her. There's a readiness to her frame that can only be wariness. But it's not enough to push her away. She sure as hell isn't coming closer, not unbidden, she's not entirely stupid.
"Too bad, Owen," she tells him. The words are not mocking, they're plain spoken and blunt. Candor is the watchword of the night. "You don't get to decide who or what I find merit in. You don't get to determine whether or not I think you're worthy. You don't get to judge yourself and then tell me what to think, or feel or want -- that's not your place."
It's not just fear he'll find in her, not tonight. Not even tonight, with his angry rage, and then dented trashcan, and how fervently he pushes her away. What he saw in her a few weeks ago, when they talked about Maggie, when she told him she was scared she couldn't join the Chorus any longer -- it's still there. Rather than softening the corners of her eyes or mouth, it stays her from walking away.
Owen is Intense.
Emily is Unrelenting.
Neither of them are lacking in compassion or concern for the other.
A stronger person might call it love.
"So you tell me that I'm not worth it, or that I have nothing to offer. But you don't get to tell me what I should feel about or for you."
She pushes. She pushes knowing that he might just turn around again, or tell her that she's right. She's not worth it. She has nothing to offer. But Emily won't let him get away with whatever this rage is, not tonight.
[Owen Page] [WP: Because now I know I'm hurting you, and how much, and I'm still trying to keep myself in check. +2]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 3, 5, 6, 6, 8 (Success x 1 at target 8)
[Owen Page] It's not so much what she says [though the words do cut, too, shallow slices that sting him] but the way she says it. It's the way she reacts to his anger that cuts the most. That makes him stop. Just stop and look over at her with a look of utter revulsion on his face.
"Oh, my God." He mutters, and closes his eyes, turns away so she can only witness the beginnings of the disgust settling into the planes of his face. He walks with slow, stunted footsteps to the bench and sits heavily on it, framing his fists between his knees and keeping them clenched. Tonight, without heavier layers she can see the way the veins in his arms constrict, can see the tension in his frame.
He hangs his head. "You're afraid of me." He lifts one hand, uncurls it and scraps it back through his hair, grips his fingers in the nape. "I'm -- I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm sorry." It's a plea to the Universe [Guardian Angel, are you watching?] as much as an apology.
[Emily Littleton] [WP: ....... +1 still]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 4, 7, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 4 at target 7)
[Emily Littleton] It breaks. Whatever is fueling the rage in Owen breaks, and he pulls back from it. Emily can feel the relief wash over her, strong enough to leave her feeling light-headed. A little seasick. Her fingers relax, just a bit, at her side. They uncurl from the tense ball she'd wedged them into. She exhales and the electric-sharp tension sluices from her shoulders.
Whoever Owen's guardian Angel may be, they apparently have clout here on the El platform tonight. Maybe the thing that's twined around his Will has pushed him, to this moment, with this person (friend) for a reason. Because she hasn't left, yet. And she doesn't seem ready to now.
He's not watching her, just now, so Owen might assume that the footfalls he hears are Emily's answer. Her withdrawal. The moment that she says enough! and exits, stage right, as she has every right to do after such an outburst. But she's stronger than that, and so the foot falls grow louder, until she's standing behind him at the bench.
Then there's a hand on his shoulder, that lingers for a moment. It is steady (even though she may not feel steady) and gentle (even though she has not be gentle with him just now) and it slips over his shoulder until Emily is sliding an arm around him, to hug him. There's no pressure to it, and if he wants to break away or push her away he can. If he doesn't, then, she'll rest her cheek against the top of his head and just linger, like this, for a moment.
Because there's nothing to say now. (I'm not afraid of you. [Not so afraid that I won't be near you now.) And there's nothing to push, now.
[Owen Page] It breaks.
He breaks.
She relents, a little. Enough that she can approach and be near him without hesitation [more or less], without wariness [he hopes] and with enough of an understanding of how Owen's mind worked, how his damaged psyche operated that when he realized what he was doing to her, how he was acting -- he backed off, overtaken by self-loathing and horror. Because above all things he believed in, he believed in the overall goodness inherit in mankind.
Which was not what he'd been demonstrating, damaging public property and shouting at his Apprentice because he had no coping mechanism for the way she made him feel. For the things that were beyond his control and slipping a little further from it day by day. Month by month, year by year. When she comes close, and sets her palm on his shoulder, she can feel how tense the muscle beneath his black shirt is; she can sense the lingering agitation in his system, the disquiet of his mind churning over and over. When her arm slips over his shoulder he is reaching up with both hands and sliding his palms over her skin, simply holding on to her.
His breathing was still erratic, still possessing the ragged edge of an asthmatic, of the runner after the marathon sprint. She presses her cheek to the crown of his head and she can feel the way he breathes out slowly, carefully, trying to modulate his breathing. "Emily," he whispers, sounding less angered, less resolute and agitated and far more the desperate, drowning man who has just found a life-raft and is clinging to life.
Even though he knows either way he is going to drown.
He reaches around, his hands sliding along the length of her arms. Twists, and turns so that he is sitting, looking up at her in the dark. She can see the dilation of his pupils, the blood that has rushed to his cheeks while they argued. She can see the open agony that exists in his eyes even as he rises to his feet, and slides a hand around the back of her neck. Leaning in, he presses his mouth to her brow.
"Emily."
Breathes out against her skin, then leans in and kisses her. And it isn't angry, it isn't full of writhing hatred, or some attempt at punishment. It's gentle, heart-breathtakingly so. He barely brushes his lips against her own at first and then, cupping her face in his palms; deepens it.
She can feel it, now. His despair, his longing. It's all translated in the pressure of his mouth to hers; the spark of his life-force; the hum of the Song deep inside him, conflicted and tormented soul that he is. She can sense Owen Page at the core of himself for just this moment.
She can hear his song.
[Emily Littleton] She can feel the edge of his breathing, the way her name rattles in his head, whispered and uncertain. He can feel her heartbeat in her chest, still too strong, still too fast. It's a warm night, but his hands are warmer.
It's brighter on the platform with it's overhead fluorescents, and the night falls away in deep contrast around it. It is brighter, than the now-moonless night. It is not brilliant. The tracks are quiet, dormant for now, and the train is coming. It's somewhere. Lost in the system. Queued at some waystation. It leaves them with each other, with her name alone to bridge the gulf between them.
At least at first. And he could have left it there, with her cheek against his crown and his hands on her arm. He could have said her name, in that voice, and let it be enough, this moment. It would have been enough to bring them back to some sort of center, to find some semblance of peace.
Her eyes are closed so she feels rather than sees him start moving. There's no warning beyond the slide of his skin against hers. When her eyes find his, there is no room left for boundaries. He can look in as surely as she is looking out.
What they find in each other, in moments like this, is not perhaps what they might expect. There is despair to Owen, an agony and an ache. There is loneliness in Emily's, a separateness and solitude that runs deeper than homesickness. But there is also Hope, and from this hope there is compassion, and acceptance, and even love. It is a gentleness she rarely shows, one she cannot hide from him just now.
When his lips brush hers, Emily's hands find purchase at his sides, somewhere to hold onto, some way to ease him that much closer to her. Her breath is shaky now, unsettled and not so easily controlled. And while her lips are tentative against his at first, that hesitation fades. He is open with her, in a way she does not know how to be. So she kisses him, and her fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, and she hopes that it is enough, this moment, that it will somehow be enough for both of them, tonight.
[Owen Page] It's been years since he's let anybody this close to him physically. Yes, it has been a gradual process between the two of them; the wearing down of barriers, the gentle loosening of long tight nooses around necks that had no business being there to begin with. They were both of them wounded souls, people who had endured much in their respectively young lives without even stopping to wonder if they would survive to see the other side.
They had simply gone on, grown older, grown accustomed to the emotional scarring they bore.
Owen is as tentative as she is at first, the first kiss is barely more than the idea of one, before it deepens, before all that Owen can sense or feel or smell is her and the way she seems to fit so perfectly into his arms as they slide around her waist and pull her closer; pull her into the cradle of his thighs so he can house her to his chest and keep her wrapped, for minutes, for endless, searing moments in a safe haven.
Here they have no boundaries. No names. No titles. There is no Mentor and Apprentice tonight, this minute at a lonely train station waiting for the El. They are not Awakened Mages, mapping dangerous, unknown territory between one another but a man and a woman who are connected; who feel things yet undefined for the other and they are letting go [at least, for one of them it is about letting go, relinquishing control] and simply experiencing.
What had Israel told Emily, after all. There had to be more to life than the hard stuff, than work. There had to be moments when you just
let go.
Owen kisses Emily like he's touching some Holy Land he's long dreamed of but been [and still is] forever denied. He kisses her mouth, then draws back, breathing raggedly, to lower his face to the crook of her neck and hold her close. He has no words for her, not right now. Not so soon after the event.
Captured like this is when there is the sudden rush of air that heralds their train, it thunders into the station in an explosion of activity and light; disrupting the stillness of the moment. The doors open, and passengers spill out. Owen, drawing back and glancing at the open carriage doors; reaches over without letting go of the Orphan's hand and collects his drawings from the bench.
Then, squeezing her hand, he leads her onto the train.
[Owen Page] [Annnd fade, zomg epicness!]
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