Making people happy is good

[Emily] Birthdays are curious things. Emily doesn't celebrate her own. Sure, Gregory calls her. Some years she answers. That's not really all that different from most days, though. Gregory calls her, sometimes, and sometimes she even answers. Gregory called her today, in fact, and so her laptop is sitting open on the kitchen counter while she works. There's an oft-laggy display of a particular brother-cum-friend in a window beside whatever recipe Emily is being half-faithful to this evening. In the fridge, safely kept away from the summer heat, someone's birthday cake waits.

"I have a couch now," she says, pausing to eye the laptop with a patient expression. Patient by comparison. No, not at all patient. Suffering, perhaps, but not patient. "But you'd probably be more comfortable if you just let me find you a hotel and hire car."

"I'm visiting you, Emily, not Chicago. What do I care after hotels and hire cars?

The Orphan girl wrinkled her nose and kept chopping herbs. "Mmm, just think about it, eh love?"

There's a comfortable cadence to this. If she doesn't look over, it's almost as if Greg is there, standing in the room beside her, helping her put together something special but not too ornate for a particular person's birthday dinner. Downstairs, the building door is still broken. It yields under the slightest pressure. Most of the city's magi (who happen to know where Emily lives) don't view it as any hindrance at all. They push, it yields; it keeps out nothing but the wind.

There's a new bit of structure to her living room -- this aforementioned couch. It's glaringly at odds with Owen's rocking chair, which is still the more lived in (loved) accoutrement. The boxes he'd asked her about out at the Court? They're unpacked, now; stowed, now. It's almost as if she intends to stay.

"I'll think about it."

"Good." A pause. "I have to go. Company should be here in a few." She makes an exaggerated show of blowing a kiss to the screen, announces Buss! in a playful voice, and waits for a response (Love you too, Em.) before tapping a key on the computer with a damp finger, and then closing it.

There are no outward signs of birthday celebration to upset or annoy Owen. Just the dinner, as promised, and the cake, as suggested. Squirreled away, in the closet of Emily's room, there is a shallow box wrapped and tied with a bright white ribbon. He could search the flat upon entry and not immediately notice it.

The door to her apartment stands slightly ajar. It welcomes, invites.

[Owen Page] It's not so much the act of celebrating the day he was born, twenty-four years ago that unsettles Owen Page. It's simply the lack of experience he has with the custom. Birthdays had not been celebrated as important events in his household growing up and after his sister's death they made a point every time one came around not to notice the empty kitchen chair at the dinner table, the empty space where another member ought to have been, impatiently declaring they needed to do something for the day.

In more than one way, Emily Littleton has replaced the void in Owen's life that his sister used to inhabit.

She is a different fit for it, she serves a different purpose in the Initiate's heart but the unexpected fullness that has grown since they became acquainted is important, none the less and is perhaps the key reason why when the time dictated for his arrival rolls around Owen is precise, he's not a minute earlier than instructed. The door is slightly ajar in anticipation, but he raps on it regardless a few times with the back of his hand, pushing it open.

The smells of baking, of food cooking drifts from within.

"Emily?" He calls, standing just slightly over the threshold with a bottle of soft-drink in his arms. He'd tried, for the occasion, to dress somewhat neater than usual. His jeans were clean, the shirt he wore over them was collared and a very dark navy that matched the hue of his eyes almost exactly. The dark hair had been styled into something nearing submission and he carried with him the faint traces of cologne.

My, somebody could clean up well, when they attempted.

"I, uh, I brought soda." He calls, feeling strangely foolish with his replacement for wine.

[Emily] It's not a big space, Emily's apartment. She'd declared it to be overmuch for one person, that night that Nathan & Israel shared a meal at her table. They'd said it was just about right. It feels less empty, now, with a couch to break up the expanse of her living room floor. It is still incomplete: there is no coffee table, no television, nothing more than a gathering of bookshelves, walls, and places to sit.

The couch, like every other piece of substantial furniture, was not of Emily's choosing. It was a gift, from a well-meaning someone. Of all of them, only Owen had found something to gift that Emily enjoyed for its own merits as well as its function. It spoke to something, perhaps this kinship they were building, reinforcing in the dark and trying times as well as the simpler ones.

Simpler, like today. Emily is wearing a plain dress; it's charcoal grey, jersey material, and comes to her knees. It calls out the slate undertones in her eyes, but not overtly. This is not fussy attire; it's comfortable, touchable, accessibly feminine. She is barefoot, now, but she could throw on some sandals and they could walk to the park (if he wanted to take her up on the offer of basketball). This is important: it's flexible, this dress, like she is about the whole event. It's Owen's birthday, not Emily's; he didn't want a housewarming; they are not the same, she knows.

She turns one of the burners to low, another off, before she steps out of the kitchen to answer the door. She's smiling, when she catches sight of him, but that softens for a moment -- it always softens, at least inwardly, for Owen.

"Come in," she says, waving him in as she crosses the room to meet him. There is a little hesistence, as she comes up to him. A little uncertainty as to their new roles. The smile widens, then hitches as she glances away for a moment. Sees to the door. Something that doesn't quite cover the faint blush she wears. Emily recovers, quickly, finds her footing. "You look quite handsome," she tells him. The note underscoring these words is not wry, tonight. It's pleasant, warmer, however light her tone is.

"And, good," she says, to this offering of soda. "I got back from Market and realized I had nothing to offer you but tea, coffee or water. I'm glad you brought something you like."

She has not told him that she doesn't drink soda. Emily has not told him that she doesn't drink tea-from-tea-bags. She is less rigid, less stubborn when he is near. Or simply more tolerant. Her hand finds his arm, a light touch to welcome him in; it doesn't push boundaries, uncertain as those are just now: it invites, like the open door did.

[Owen Page] He doesn't kiss her.

Some people might accuse him of cruelty for that, for unchivalrous behavior that had no place in Emily's home. But it's far less some act intended to embarrass her then it is an uncertainty on both their sides about where exactly the boundaries were, now -- if there were any left at all. He shifts his weight a little, and ducks his head with a briefly crooked smile when she tells him he looks quite handsome.

There's color staining his cheeks, too.

"I figured I should iron my shirt for a change," he confesses with some degree of replying wry tone, though he does lift his face and take her in; her bare feet, the blush to her cheeks, the way her dress brings out the highlights in her eyes. He studies her for a minute and adds quietly: "You look beautiful." Well, it's hard to argue with that, isn't it? The way he says it is equal parts wondering and reserved, as if he weren't quite sure how to pronounce such a compliment.

She touches his arm, and he takes her hand in his briefly, and squeezes it before letting it go to do what he always seems to do when he's in Emily's place. He wanders around it, takes it in. This time he turns back to look at her with nothing sort of approval: "You've unpacked," it's clear, he's amused at the effect his gently chiding words had on her. But that's all he says about it.

Well, that and: "I'm glad."

[Emily] Owen takes her hand. He doesn't kiss her, doesn't touch her familiarly. There's no arm slung around her shoulder (ownership), no overt advances into her space. It's sweet, this. For all her flirting and her flings of the past, this shy and sweet beginning is not something Emily has known. It leaves her at a loss for what to say, how to react. There's no certainty here, but there's warmth (and affection) enough to bridge the gap.

He names her beautiful, in that quiet, studied way that Owen has, and Emily can't raise up a wry word to counter that, can't argue. Instead of speaking, her eyes find his. Hold them for a moment. This is wordless, but there is a thank you buried there, alongside something pleased and something deeper. It lingers, and then her eyelashes kiss, she looks away. He looses her hand and she takes his soda to the kitchen with her.

You've unpacked, he says, and now that smile turns up more playfully. Now there's a lilt to her words as she replies: "Or simply hidden them..." Ah yes, the mischief. It's not gone missing amidst this warmer, gentler thing between them.

As he explores, she begins to fill the space between them with words. Idle things, easy things. There are still quite a few pictures on her wall that he has not studied, but now she does not try to call him away from them. Does not seek to draw him away from what he might learn, or ask, or seek to know.

"I didn't know what you like," she's saying, about dinner, no doubt. "So I guessed. I hope it's not awful," unlikely, but possible given their differences in upbringing and palettes. She's nervous, all of a sudden, as if this dinner suddenly means more than she had realized. And Emily, who is so comfortable in the kitchen, who finds a bit of Home in them even when her moments there are borrowed at another's flat, Emily busies herself with getting him something to drink. She worries about standing idle. There is little to fuss over, but she finds something seemingly innocuous to do.

[Owen Page] They are different, here. Where she fusses while nervous, or feeling idle her Mentor is quite the opposite. He is a study of still life, of a human being at their ease with hands in his pockets and his eyes tracing over the pictures on her walls. He lets her busy herself because he understands her enough to know why it matters that she be allowed to keep herself occupied, to appear far more confident than she might feel, inwardly.

"I like everything," he attests kindly to her fears, and approaches after making his perusal of her flat. He doesn't sneak a look in the bedroom, or try and discover the location of the boxes she'd teasingly said perhaps she's merely tucked out of his line of sight. Perhaps then, he simply takes her at her word. He adopts a wall somewhere out of her way as she dances about and leans his shoulder into it, crossing his arms neatly over his chest; expression somewhere south of warm, but far from the typically brooding frown it so often seemed to be possessed by.

"I spoke to James, by the way." He shifts, his dark eyes focused on her movements, tone calm, apparently he was not angry with the other Initiate. "I let him know if anything like the other night happens again, he should try and contact me, or reach me through you."

A beat, he adds with a touch of remembered agitation. "Alex was there, tried to get in the middle of things. Does he always do that?"

[Emily] There is rice, on the stove, in a pot over low heat that sends out a steady stream of steam through the offset lid. There's something in the oven, but its heat doesn't fill the small flat. The door to the patio is propped open, slightly, and it helps draw away the cooking heat. Her flat is efficient by design, Emily has made it more-so by how she fills it, uses it. The something is fish, he can tell, after further study. There's a vegetable (possibly unfamiliar) in a pan on the stove, already sauteed and just needing plating. It will all come together in minutes, when the oven is through. Like magic, that, but really just a thing borne of practice and planning. It will all meet the table together, at the proper temperature, when they're ready to sit down.

Emily does not bring his soda to him. She sets it on the table, at one of the two places that are already set with silverware and napkins. The table is closer than the wall he has found to lean upon. Perhaps it's her way of coaxing him nearer.

"Oh?" is all she says, at first, about James. There is not spike of remembered anger; no pinch to her features. Just Oh, and a glance up at him and away from her small things-to-do. Then she nods, at having been made a point of contact in Owen's stead. And then they're on to Alex.

Which brings a twist to Emily's mouth, open amusement to her eyes. She whets her lower lip, catches it with her teeth, clearly thinks the better of the first thing that comes to mind and says.

"He's adorable." It's not really a compliment, the way she says it. It's part explanation, and part carefully phrased condescension. "He's Riley's beau," she says, nudging one eyebrow up to question him, wondering Owen had known that. "I think he means well, but he's all movement and very little strategy." A pause. "He makes her happy, Riley; I've never seen her that happy before."

There's warmth for that, even if she's not sure what to make of Alex just yet. What to make of his association with their cabalmate. Riley being happy is important, as is Riley being safe, which is not something Alex contributes to in a positive fashion.

"Ashton is teaching him," she says, as she turns to pull two plates from the cupboard. There's some finality to this, as if it settled things in her mind. "Wharil, too."

[Owen Page] Had he known that, he likely hadn't but then it can, often times be very hard to gauge if what you're telling Owen is news to him or not. She sets his drink down on the table and he crosses toward it, and toward her. The pot with the rice in it is bubbling quietly, the oven humming with quiet efficiency.

There's a breeze rolling through the patio door, and bringing with it the scents of the evening air outside. He's beside her suddenly as she turns with the plates in hand, he takes them from her and carefully sets them down, his actions putting him right alongside her so she can see the traces of water still clinging to the nape of his neck where he'd pushed a comb through his hair after showering.

His sleeve brushes against her; his eyes are very intent when he turns to look at her without saying a word, just looking, tracing her features. He leans in, hesitates only to lower his eyes to her mouth before kissing her very softly; there's a tenderness to the action. He holds her chin between his fingertips while their lips touch, leaves it there for a beat when he pulls back to study her, smiling faintly.

"Making people happy is good," he murmurs, and lets her go so she can finish preparing dinner. "But Alex was reckless that night, and Riley should have known better." It's not condemning, his tone, but practical. "James shouldn't have even been there to start with. Things happen, but when you put a couple in a situation like that, they're gonna do stupid things."

A corner of his lip curls.

"I have."

The park. The man. The demand that he choose.
They both remember.

[Emily] This tenderness, the softness, it answers some internal question that Emily has held, wordless, at the back of her mind since before he arrived. Since the flutter of nervousness told her that it was somehow not the same, this visit, and yet not different enough to be known and named. When he is closer, and the intensity he brings to her flat (her life) is paired with that affection, something in her stills.

Owen brings her home. He has, since that night he's referencing with a small smile. Possibly since the evening they met in the Sanctuary of St. James'. He lets her go, so that she can finish with dinner, and Emily instead slides her arms around him and hugs him closer for a moment. There is no warning, this time, no Owen, I am going to hug you. In her mind, they have moved passed this.

He brings her home, and he makes her happy. There's no half-held wall between them, here, in the quiet of her flat. She is unsure of this openness, fragile as it is, tentatively offered, but Emily trusts Owen. She trusts him to push a curl back behind her ear, without her flinching. She trusts him to kiss her, without having to turn it into a game or some little levity. This is not easy, but it is good.

Her voice is soft, a little lower. "But you won't," she says, pulling back enough to put one finger on his breastbone, warningly. "Not again, right?" There's no teeth to this; she's not even looking for an answer. It's just chiding, somewhat; affectionate, mostly.

They don't speak about the man, or that night. It passes, as it should, having no place between them tonight.

"Do you want your present before, or after dinner?" she asks him, stepping away to see to the oven while he considers. This is lighter, again. Easier. It does tread the line of their newly pushed boundaries just so, like being near enough to touch does. Apparently, the oven is through, as she turns it off and finds a mitt to handle the baking tray. Once that's out and resting on the countertop, though, Emily finds her way back to where he stands. Near enough to fall back in beside him. It's clear that's where she'd like to be, now that he's broached the distance between them, set the tone between them, allowed her this affection and happiness without being self-conscious or worried.

[Owen Page] It has taken them some time to reach this place. To get to a point where they can balance all the various balls that have been juggled between them for months on end. His private demons, her desire to find Home again, his conflicts about being more than a potential teacher to her.

The near misses and the close calls.
The break downs and the break throughs.

Now that they have somehow delved past all these things they are faced with a new and equally as uncertain obstacle -- intimacy. Owen hasn't been closer to the word than just to say it for years, he has never allowed himself that happiness; that level of ease with the Universe around him. For Emily, it has not so much been a question of time as finding the right person, at the right time.

She had been close to Jarod, close to Chuck.
Owen had maintained that such a physical kinship between them could never happen.
He'd had good reasons, then.
He still holds that most of them are probably true now, as well.

But standing in Emily Littleton's apartment as she puts her arms around him and hugs him close without any warning but the action itself -- he cannot think why they matter. He cannot think of much at all, to be honest. Nothing but her warmth, and the way her light seems to envelop him and make him whole.

Make him better.

Present before, or after dinner? It makes him smile, and the smile says so much for him. "After," he confirms as he helps her bring food to the table. "I don't want to be distracted from the food."

--

It's delicious. Owen tells her so when they eat and again when she goes to clear the dishes. He insists on helping, and they stand side by side and stack the dishwasher, or rinse them in the sink. There is something oddly soothing about the picture of this, of the teamwork in such a base, domestic little act. It is not until later that Owen takes his drink and is steered to the couch, where he sinks down obediently and awaits the present that she'd bought him despite his protestations that she shouldn't have done that.

Everyone says that, but really they're pleased that someone cared to do it.

Owen seems relaxed enough, sitting with his arm perched on the couch, his elbow propping him up, palm braced at the back of his neck as she returns with the little flat box. He eyes it with some degree of suspicion when she hands it to him, and flicks her a vaguely chiding eyebrow. "You didn't spend money on me, did you?"

[Emily] They have different trials with the word intimacy and the challenges it presents. Emily had been close to Jarod, she'd even started to trust him, believe that they might one day become friends -- but that's not how it had begun. That's not what the night at the soup kitchen had been, all fuss and fury, and what had motivated her to follow a beautiful stranger home. Intimacy hadn't been the driving force behind falling into Chuck, either. Physicality was an effective shield, a distraction, a way to cover that the other rifts weren't closing, might never meet.

Jarod had left, before they could find center. Emily broke things off with Chuck when she realized she wasn't even trying. But Owen was different. This thing between them had not started because of a clever turn of phrase, or an idle winter evening, or a boundary pushed too far when neither of them were thinking of the right reasons to say no, to step back. They were friends, before anything; there is a kinship between them; they cannot yet count the number of times they have kissed on the fingers of a single hand.

There is an ache in Emily when she thinks of that day that will surely come, when she will have to walk away from this and out of Chicago. It's keener than she quite understands; it's the sort of hurt that one fights against, protects against. It catches in her throat, the thought of telling him goodbye.

These thoughts find her in the oddest moments. In the way his smile seems so much warmer, now, even while they're sorting dishes out and she's shooing him toward the couch. Or when she's pulling the wrapped gift out of her closet (he didn't even try to seek it out).

"Noooo," she says, when he asks if she spent money on him. "I bartered clever stories and witty riddles, instead." She smirks. Of course she did, but perhaps not as much as he was worrying about.

She brings this present back to him, and it seems a simple thing. It is a moderate weight in his hands, not heavy. Wrapped in a soft green-hued paper and tied with a crisp white ribbon, it similar in size to the box a sweater or shirt might be wrapped in. There is a card, square, in bright white envelope with perfectly maintained corners. She is fastidious, Emily. The envelope sas Owen.

The card is a picture that may be familiar to him if he's studied the places that line her walls. It's scenery, somewhere in Greece, white plastered buildings, cobblestone streets, brightly painted doorways and terracotta pots over-spilling with flowers. Inside, she has written: Many happy returns of the day,
~Emily

Nothing as banal as Happy Birthday, no.

When he eases open that box, if he opens it here, there is nothing too terribly extravagant inside. Another sketchpad, like the one he has now that fits into his portfolio. Some charcoal, for that same hobby of his. There is a calligraphy brush and a small well of ink, too. A smaller book, with cork covers and handpressed pages, that is more the size of a journal. (Herein is a surprise, should he flip through the pages one days. A single Chinese character, painted on the page in a careful hand. And these words, "A birthday wish for you: peace, in whatever measure you may find it. For however long it may deign to stay. Be that a moment, or a month, or even a lifetime. ~E.L.")

Around this journal is wound a thin cord, at first it seems to be a fastener of some sort, but if Owen follows it, he will find it fastened a pi-disc of green-grey jade. The cord is long enough, that it would hang below the cut of the shirts he often wears, near the cross she knows he keeps close-to-breast.

[Owen Page] He's silent as he reads her card, and then carefully sets it aside and pulls open the white ribbon; sliding out the contents of her gift with his sure, nimble fingers. These were hands that were accustomed to working at tasks with swift accuracy and he does not disappoint in his handling of the wrapping paper and other fastenings.

He grows still as he sees the sketchpad and the charcoal; swallows. Takes up the brush and the inkwell for a moment as if testing the validity of their true existance in his palm. The sets them down in favor of the bound journal and the jade necklace; the latter of which is taken up in both hands and a thumb run across; feeling the expanse of the smooth stone.

Owen's utter focus to this experience; this unwrapping and receiving of gifts is as much a journey for him as it is an adventure to observe from another's viewpoint. Emily can watch the emotions flickering across his eyes. The surprise, the pleasure at what she's given to him. She can also see he isn't sure how to frame what he wants to say in reply to these things in his lap she has given to him.

He takes the pendant up and slides it over his head, fitting it beneath the collar of his button-up shirt so that it rests, nestled beside the cross against his skin. "Thank you," he says softly, and looks at her beside him, she can see the faint glow of heat in his cheeks, framing his sharp, angular features.

She can hear the vague suggestion of emotion straining his voice.

"I had.. no idea what I'd even want as a present but these are ... they're perfect." He reaches up, and touches her cheek with one of his palms, stroking hair out of her eyes. "I know it's not how birthdays work," he murmurs, contemplative as he looks at her with his steady, sure touch against her face, his thumb tracing the curve of her jaw.

"But I wish I something to give back."

[Emily] Someday, surely, she will tell him why the calligraphy, why the jade. She'll mention that her earliest memories are from China; that she lived there longer than in any other country. She'll tell him the stone is renown for everything -- from luck, to longevity, to prosperity, to mediating the very conversations between a soul and God -- and was given from one party to another as a sign of utmost respect.

She might even, someday, explain that she thought it might make a good focus, were he to want to learn from her what another had taught her. This stone that reputedly grows ever more intertwined with its wearer over time might make an excellent Life focus. She might tell him, if the time were right.

There is so much she doesn't say, because from where Emily is, close to him and watching the flicker-play of emotions across his face, there is not room for such ramblings on. The things themselves are enough, and it pleases her.

There is something of her life, now, that rides along against his skin. It will stay with him while she is away, perhaps even after she is gone. It is an echo of things he does not yet know; it is an echo of things they have not yet seen. So there is a quiet brightness to her eyes, a sentimentality and a wordless contenment when he reaches out to touch her.

Emily gently tips her cheek into that touch; smiles softly (this is Owen's smile; it is only for him) when his thumb traces her jawline. Her voice is soft, barely above a murmur as she answers, "I'm glad you like them..." It falls away into a silent query when he says he wishes to give something back.

Her eyes find his, study and hold them. There is nothing, for her, in this moment but the two of them on this hand-me-down couch. Her mouth forms the question that her eyes ask Oh?, but she doesn't voice it. This is the counterpoint to the moments when their grief or their intensity (relentlessness) have rushed out to greet one another. They are no less intense, now, but it is not borne of a bone-deep ache, a marrow-deep keening.

She finds her voice again, stumbles over the words slightly. "It's your birthday, Owen. It works however you like."

[Owen Page] "Does it?" He asks, and he seems, keenly for a beat, so uncertain.

As if he had no idea how much of this; the moment, the presents, her company were really in his care. Were really left up to him to decide how they should proceed. In another lifetime, he might have been trying to seduce Emily about now, kissing her and persuading her until they fell into bed together. But, it isn't what he wants from this -- whatever that is.

The time must be right, and it must be seamless, a natural, flowing conclusion.

In part this is his beliefs coming through in him, and in part it is his own fear, his own uncertainty about how all of this must work. In the now, he carefully puts his gifts to one side and draws her toward him. He touches her face, strokes his hands through her hair and pulls her against him so that they are all but laying entwined on the hand me down couch in her apartment.

He speaks to her, with her, asks her about Riley, and Alex and Chuck. He touches on the meeting that took place but does not linger when he feels how she stiffens, how her voice alters at the mere mention of it. His hands rub over her shoulders in an absent, comforting manner. There is a form of magic to be felt here, too. The way they fold into one another, the way the energies surround and hum from their very cores.

He is content.
This, tonight, it is enough.