Not everyone can be right

[Emily Littleton] [Let's see if my last scene bleeds over into this one...]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 5, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] It's a warm night, which almost goes without saying at this point in the year. The moon is fat-faced, full and smiling down on the city. She casts long shadows, pale echoes of their sun-thrown siblings. It'd be a nice night in another city, in a place with fewer rough streets and ruthless faces. As it is, it's passably nice here.

Emily is walking, not because she has anywhere to be, but because she needs to keep moving until the restlessness in her bones gives, yields, relents. She needs to work off this frustration, wear it down, burn it out, before she says something she oughtn't at an inopportune moment. It simmers, low and silent, beneath her collected countenance. She's well enough, and that's more than she can say for most.

There's less push to the fall of her footsteps now. They've slowed to ambling rather than striding. The tension in her features has slaked. One foot before the other, now, is just a familiar pattern. One that could take her across this park, across this city, on toward whatever haven would keep her safe, keep her sound. Tonight, though, she needs go no further than the terminus of this path and back again. (I've miles to go before I sleep.)

She pauses, here, beside a lamppost that casts a broad circle of pale illumination. Shifts the way the messenger bag's strap cuts across her torso. Pulls the thin elastic from her hair and resettles it. Dusk has finally given way to evening. It's cooler. Her temper is cooler. There's no ruddiness to the apples of her cheeks. She glances around, takes stock of where her feet have taken her. (It's often quite a surprise how far she'll wander without thinking twice about it.)

[Quentin Doyle] "I thought it was you," comes a semi-familiar voice, and as she turns to take a look around, she finds that Quentin is not far behind her. He hadn't been stalking her, in fact he had come from across the grass to get a better angle, still not sure that those features were familiar as he thought. But the cast glow from the lamplight affords him the lighting he needs, and the way she turns to look, gives him a full face view that changes a might be to a definitely.

The large man is wearing a pair of slacks tonight, black pants that fit him well and a shirt that had short sleeved, opened at the top to show some of the definition of muscle across his shoulders and the strong lines of his collar bones. It's too hot to be wearing any sort of undershirt and so there isn't any. His hair is tied back, taming some of the curls in the way she tends to with her ponytails, except the length if his hair is far shorter and his hair a little darker. The stubble on his face has been clean shaven sometime earlier that evening, giving a very faint shadow across his mouth rather then a long weeks growth - not that she's seen him sport such a facial style yet, but he's worn it like that plenty of times before.

"How are ya, Emily?" He approaches her but not directly. This time he doesn't come in to give her a kiss or a hug or anything of the sort, but tucks his hand into his pocket of his slacks instead, coming to stand a few feet apart, looking relaxed but feeling like shit.

[Emily Littleton] Thank God above that her resonance isn't up, just now. It's not swirled around her like (cloak of madness) shadow-play. There's just the edge of something off, instead, a discordant note to her otherwise calm collected comportment. It's like the weariness he carries. They're both too practiced, too cultured to wear it openly but it remains a piece of the paired presences.

She turns toward him, leading the turn with the way she looks over her shoulder to him, following with the turn of her shoulders, hips, finally her feet.

The two feet between them could be miles. Emily doesn't reach across it, just now. Her fingers are wrapped around the strap of the messenger bag, and her head is bowed just slightly. It protects her face from the full light of the lamp above, from being cast in too sharp relief, for him to pick up on all the nuances she hasn't schooled away just yet.

"I'm alright," she says, which is a weighted thing. It's the polite answer, not the utterly honest one. It gives him an out, if he was just asking for politeness's sake. "Yourself?" she returns the question with genuine interest. It does not push, this tone, but it leaves an opening.

"It's a nice night," she adds, as if they needed something safe to talk about, some margin of polite distance.

[Quentin Doyle] Perception + Empathy
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 4, 4, 5, 10 (Failure at target 6)

[Quentin Doyle] He watches her from where he's standing, taking in the way she's holding her bag and how her head is bowed just slightly. There's weight to her words but he can't tell anymore then that, blind to her, to what gets under her skin. It's not surprising, really, that he can't read her. She's somewhat of an enigma - like the people she calls friends or acquaintances, like the way she spends time in Lego stores building towers with women just as odd or strange as her, and yet perfectly educated and cultured.

"I've had a rough day," he answers her, but softens it with the way his mouth offers her a smile, however small. "But I'm glad yer alright." It doesn't sound like he believes it but he wasn't going to call her out on it. He can only guess at what might be bothering her and some part of him wonders if its that guy. That guy who he has to admit, he doesn't quite like. The more he sees Emily, the more wonders why she'd see something in a sullen young man that looks like he never reached past the insecure confidence that comes with the beginning of puberty.

But that could just be his mood talking.

Glancing up to the sky, he takes it in, scanning across it and the trees. "Yeah, it is," he agrees. "I was on my way over to the fountain," nodding down the path as he lowers his head to glance towards her, "if you wan' to walk with me."

[Emily Littleton] That sullen young man is not here, and while she needs to speak with him soon, it's not about anything pleasant. So he is not at the forefront of her mind, just now. Neither is dancing with Quentin, to be entirely honest. It's been a day. Not good, not bad. Just a day.

"I'd love to," she says, and shifts her posture to fall in beside his footsteps on the way to the fountain. Emily does not unwrap her hands from around her messenger bag strap, just now. She subtly keeps the space between them observed but not uncomfortable. It's a polite thing, but now a forced thing.

"How about you tell me about your day? I could use a bit of perspective," she says, as if he might just be doing her a favor by talking about his woes. Sometimes it was easy to get lost up in your own head. Emily knew this, and the warm but not seeking smile she cast his way seemed to echo the sentiment.

[Quentin Doyle] They begin down the path and his long stride is shortened to make it comfortable for her, strolling along as though they're some awkward couple to a casual eye, but to the observant they're two people with the weight of the world on their shoulders, with troubles that plague their mind. With the sun down and the day being Saturday, it's a night where most are just starting to get ready for clubs, and others are already at pubs - like the one he should be at, eating and drinking and trying to forget the world. While the park may not be idyllic, it's another place where some unwind, while avoiding being mugged.

He considers her question, looking forward and around, as much lost in thought as he is being habitually aware of their surroundings. He's less vigilant about such things when it's just him alone, but with a woman at his side it makes him alert, even in the way his spine seems to straighten that little bit more. Just subtle differences. "Do ya want the God's honest truth, or would ye like the watered version? Seems te me like you could use with an ear yerself, not fer a man to unload his frustrations fer you to bear."

A side glance takes her in, absorbing the details of her face, her expression.

[Emily Littleton] "If you know God's honest truth, I'd very much like to hear it," she says, and there's a lilt of their usual banter underlying it. Emily is a faithful woman, but that doesn't keep her from playing with the language surrounding her observances.

"And it's not unloading if I invite it," she adds, raising an eyebrow a little. Her own ire has faded further to the background. It's slipping away as she sorts out precisely what to do about it, what to channel it into.

"But if you like? I'll go first," she offers. "Someone put a good friend of mine in direct danger, knowing she'd be in over her head, and doesn't seem to even understand how grave the situation was. Everything's fine; everyone's fine. But it doesn't keep me from wanting to yell for a bit."

She shrugs a bit, as if to say there, now it's your turn. Hers was simple, straightforward and inarguable. It was the sort of thing that brought forward righteous anger which, if Quentin read between the lines, is precisely what Emily was evidencing. That and an edge of experience than might temper it, harden it, make the ire all the more dangerous.

[Quentin Doyle] He tilts his head, inclining it a little as if to say go ahead, and waits for her to tell him what's on her mind. But he hadn't expected that, and his look is sharper, more honed as he watches her. Brows drawn together gives him a more severe appearance, cutting across the tops of his pale coloured eyes, made darker by the night and mood. Natural questions would arise, but they've already been answered and anymore than that would be prying. He's still tempted.

But then it's his turn, making him look away again and down the length of the path. In his pocket, his hand is fiddling with the lid of a mint box, flipping it open and closed with the tip of his thumb. "I've taken up a new job, Doyle's isn't me only reason fer being in town," a little explanation and small detail about him, "and workin' with the authorities is a little more drainin' then I expected." He had hoped he could handle it better, and when it comes to the crunch he does - he's not abusing any substances, he's not taking out his issues on anyone else, and has managed to keep a level head - , but it's still disappointing not being able to deal with it ideally. He's certainly not going to admit to a few shed tears or some puking over a toilet bowl.

Here he hesitates, giving her a quick glance as he decides whether or not he was going to tell her more, because he really was just flaking out on her. She'd been upfront and honest, very direct with what her problem was and he had given her no even half of that. Glancing away again, he pulls out the mint box from his pocket and offers her out one of them. They're peppermints, not too hot.

"I'm a psychic," he tells her, when he's taking a mint for himself after she does or doesn't, "an' I know it sounds all sorts of crazy. But tha's what I do. I help the authorities with gettin' some details on crimes tha' have already been committed." Which was a little more to swallow but he hopes it makes him sound a little bit more credible. Naturally he's looking out for her reaction, a little concerned at what that might be.

[Emily Littleton] Quentin is studying Emily's reaction, looking no doubt for the markers of incredulity, of patent disbelief. These don't come. She's quiet for a long while, as if considering what he tells her with the utmost gravity.

Emily declines the mint with a little shake of her head. One hand comes from her of messenger bag strap and reaches up to tuck a curl behind her ear. This is an idle gesture, a stall. He likely knows it for what it is.

"It doesn't sound as crazy as you might think," Emily says, finally. The words were carefully measured, tempered by some sort of understanding that she wasn't freely giving up. "And I think that, if you have truly a gift like that, using it to help set things right is an honorable thing."

She whets her lower lip and then catches it between her teeth for a moment. Emily's eyes are keenly clear, just. Thoughtful. On the edge of hawkishly intent. She doesn't level that look on him, push or seek just yet. She lets this linger.

"I... don't mean to pry," she says, but she's going to. She's going to ask something needlessly personal, if he were just confiding in her this secret. "But can you explain it to me a bit, how this works for you?"

It's not skepticism he'll hear in her voice, but a cautious note that reads very similarly.

[Quentin Doyle] Ah, good. There's a little relief in him. She can ask all the questions she wants, pry for whatever answers he can give her, but she hasn't looked at him in that way that makes him feel like he should have shut his mouth. He had a feeling that she would be more interested, studious, rather then outraged. She doesn't scoff, instead she's curious, and that suits him just fine.

The mint he pops into his mouth and he talks around it easily enough, even with his accent. "I'm not sure how te explain it to you," he admits. But he leaves some thoughtful silence as to where to begin, what to say. Emily will get the distinct impression that Quentin is not ashamed of this, that he talks about it as naturally as he would anything else. It comes with an acceptance and experience of many long years, and as long as he's willing to listen to him out or wants to talk about it, he is quite inclined.

They're approaching the fountain, they can see it now and pick up the sounds of the water in the distance. "When I was a younger lass, it would work more randomly. Often the belongings with strong impressions would simply leap out," he tells her, "an' I learned quickly not to be sayin' things about it to just anyone. Me ma was quick to tell me tha', to make sure she could give me the most normal life, an' since the rest of me family has something or other, t'is not that unusual."

"But I'm getting off track." He flashes her a quick smile, glad to be thinking about these things then what he's witnessed during the last day he spent with the police with his hands in evidence bags. "Only because I'm na sure how it is to tell you how I do it. I just .. let the mind go clear, an' focus on the impressions I get."

[Emily Littleton] "Mmmm."

The thoughtful sound is all she says at first. It's as if this thing he's giving her, this secret, its implicit trust and fragility, is taken with the utmost seriousness. As if the Reverence wrapped around her knows it, names it, holds it in some sort of kinship. She is several years his junior and they hail from very different parts of the globe and yet Emily seems to understand, which is deeper than simply taking his words at face value.

"I've studied something similar, I think," she says, but it's tentative. It's uncertain. "Objects that have been in contact with someone for a while tend to take on a flavour or feeling of that person. A sympathetic link," she uses a simpler word than Consecration as Quentin doesn't strike her as a particularly devout man.

"I have a feeling it's a bit different, what you can do." She offers him a smile, it just touches her eyes. It stops short of brightening them. "Have you met anyone else, outside of your family with gifts like yours?"

[Quentin Doyle] "Or situation," he adds to that. Not only just a person, he can pick up impressions from a scenario, grab impressions that wasn't just related to the person that had it in their possession, but what happened while that happened. But then, maybe this is what she had meant and he didn't quite understand that whole sympathetic link and what that entailed for her.

The mint is curled on his tongue, sucked against the roof of his mouth before being nudged to his cheek so he can talk again. His mood is more relaxed, she can see it in the way his strong shoulders seem to drop - as much as muscle like that can, and his posture takes on a quiet stroll. While he's still keeping an eye out it's with an easier air, not so sharp and severe as it had been before. "Mostly me family," he confesses, "an' while I don't know others personally, I know there's a few out there, by reputation." It's probably not the answer she was looking for, but it was as close as he had to offer her.

He doesn't tell her that his family has different abilities to him. That would be a little too hard to swallow, he thinks, and it was better that he kept them out of it. She seemed to accept him and that worked in his favour, for now.

[Emily Littleton] "Is that lonely?" she asks him, which might be a strange thing to ask. It might seem strange, because most people would want to know more about how it works, or demand a demonstration, or push on about these others. She doesn't act like he's a mutant with super powers, or even like he's anything more or less than the man she met a little bit ago, someone with whom she's gone dancing.

"I imagine you can't talk to many people about it, outside of your family. And even if you could, they might not understand. Does it get in the way, ever, in friendships? Is this too much -- I'm sorry, I think I left my manners at the coffee shop when I stormed out," she says, lightly referring to her own bad day with a dismissive smile.

There's open curiosity in what she asks him now, and these are human questions. They're thoughtful and Unrelenting in their own way. It may be that Emily has something she's seeking to hear in what he says back to her, how he names and shapes his experiences for her ear.

[Quentin Doyle] Her question has him looking at her, the frown he wears is softer and is more out of confusion rather then disapproval. "Lonely? Can't say I've ever thought it much like tha'. Maybe when I was younger. But as I've got older it gets easier te deal with. I spent plenty o' time to make sure that I worked just as well as anyone else runnin' about and didn't get too wrapped up in wha' I can do."

"As fer friends? I tell those I think can handle it up front, an' they either deal with it or they don't. I don't make it an every day part of my life for them to deal with. I help who I can when they want me help, an' that only takes up a small part of my time. The rest? I'm just like everyone else. I like a drink. I like to take pretty lady's dancing..." He'd thrown her a look then, his mouth curling into a bemused little grin. Eyes spark, shine a little brighter under the dull gloom of the night.

Rather then going directly towards the fountain, Quentin had gestured off to one of the bench seats for them to enjoy instead. Being closer to the water would have them trying to talk over top of it and he'd much rather sit and enjoy the view while discussing what it is they were. "Don' worry about apologizing, Emily." He waits for her to sit before he takes up the bench near her.

[Emily Littleton] Emily slips the strap of her messenger bag over her head as they near the bench. She settles its weight beside her feet, but keeps one hand one the strap that she slips over the knee of her jeans. Her laptop's in that bag, along with the outlines for her research project. It's precious, and this late in the evening it's good practice to hold fast to what's yours. She turns her posture toward him a little, so that they can continue talking. Emily doesn't move in closer, that polite unspoken distance remains between them. It's a subtle cue.

"I guess it's best not to let it define you, entirely," she says. This lines up with something she believes, some inward aim she has, so its more resonant when she speaks the words. There's a little quiet now, a silence that lets the sound of the fountain step forward, paints the little cues of the night that much brighter. There are crickets, passing cars in the distance, the ever-present breeze that rustles trees, the footsteps of another person in the medial distance.

"If there were others like you, say, here in Chicago, would you want to know of them?" she asks. It's a musing thing, a hypothetical and then some.

[Quentin Doyle] Cue's he can read. The air has changed between them, and tonight he's not going to push it, and he may not even after. It's not something on his mind currently. But as she sits, he settles down after her and slides one arm to rest on the bench. The other soon follows, it lets him breathe out, the elbows rest, his hands hang casual, limp. Being as tall as he was had the back of the bench sit at a comfortable height for him to rest as he was. Straight, strong without looking stiff.

"I suppose." Really, he doesn't sound like he would mind either way. But since there's something more under the surface of that question, he finds himself looking over to her, over her, and back up to her face again. "It's nice to know of others, if you need their help, or they need yers. Like a small community of like minded folks," he tells her, "but aside from that, I've always got my family to fall back on."

"I'm quite happy te live my life the way it is." Quentin doesn't need others. As a strong minded, fierce individual, he cuts his own path through the world, not just follows the path of destiny. He is his own pillar of strength. Independent. For all of that, though, he does reach out, he helps others, which is clear enough with what he's chosen to do with his particular gifts.

[Emily Littleton] He doesn't need the others, and Emily can appreciate it. It stays her hand a little longer, leaves her thoughtful. She studies him, as plainly as he studies her. There is something happening in this moment, something more than shared space and a handful of exchanged words. There's no resonance to it; no magic; just two people, two pillars, measuring the weight and merit of the other.

"If you decide you'd like to know them," Emily says, the words are kept light, kept cautious. There's a formality in how they're structured, how they're offered up without any deeper intrinsic merit that their own sounds. "Let me know."

She smiles. It's a knowing thing, but it does not push. Emily doesn't offer anything else up, unless he asks, pushes, seeks. For now there's the quiet between them, and the sound of falling water. A breeze. She reaches up to touch the silver chain at her neck, but lets her hand fall away before she conjures up anything more resonant from it than just that sentimentality it must hold.

[Quentin Doyle] There's a silence now that stretches between them. In it, Quentin looks away. He watches the fountain, the water and the lights of it he has found calming. Often enough he comes out here, sits, if not on this bench, another. He lets it wash over him for a time, debating whether he was going to go for the bait or something else entirely. The mint has dissolved in his mouth, leaving the freshness in its wake. He sucks it from his tongue, rubbing it across the roof of his mouth.

Then: "Has this got to do with tha' woman, Ashley, tha' come to me pub?" His eyes dart back to her, hold her in his gaze, firm. There's more seriousness to him now. That resonance that she's picked up before shows more clearly in the green-blue of his eyes, in the way his strong features are set. Not quite suspicious but not as welcoming as they had been. He's not sure that he likes this. Games he won't play. Cults he won't be impressed by. He could have wrong impressions, but that's what he's trying to find out.

[Emily Littleton] [Awareness as Empathy: What I get will shape how I answer.]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 2, 7, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] Ah, so Quentin had met Ashley. And it had gone predictably well. Emily's study of his expression hasn't relented, she's not less acutely aware of the undercurrents of their interaction. Unlike the Hermetic, though, Emily has more social grace and tact.

Usually.

He's pushing, now. His resonance is all the more clear and it runs up against the firmer note in hers, the Unrelenting drive she carries in her bones and blood. It pushes back, it affirms, reassures. He can't miss it now, not with what he is. Not sitting this close, close enough to touch, and talking about these things.

"It might," she says, but does not outright affirm his half-formed assertion. There's recognition, though, in her eyes for that name. For that name in this context. "What happened with her?"

[Quentin Doyle] What happened with her?

His brow lifts and drops again the moment he realizes he's doing it, notes the way he feels a little more aggressive, even if it wasn't towards Emily. The combination of the day, the memory of Ashley, the actual conversation and what he assumes comes along with it. But the really biting bit is: "She tells me she's friends with you, an' tha' you told her te come and check me out." There it is, what has been concealed. It's not only Owen that has changed things, the way he no longer reaches out towards her, seeks to charm and soften her, is also because of some little things that have gone on in the background.

Now that she's confirmed it - that she knows about these things, that she's in contact with people like Ashley has not worked in her favour. While she might have more social grace and tact, that Ashley had claimed to be sent by Emily does not seem to behave received well by the man sitting on the bench. "Is tha' true?"

[Emily Littleton] "It's true," Emily says. She does not try, at first, to reshape it. She doesn't shirk away from the building violence she can feel in his core, the aggression and the fierce note. It doesn't seem to scare her, just yet. It doesn't make her wilt or shy away from this conversation they've fallen into.

But it does make her watchful.

"You don't feel the same as the others," she says, plainly. Being what he is, he should understand. He should have already begun to understand. Quentin should have known Ashley's presence the moment the other woman walked in the door, all Hunger personified and powerful.

Quentin should have read Emily for what she is by now. If not by now, then just now, sitting here in the park bench and having this conversation. He should be able to feel the thrum of resonance that surrounds her, the quintessential brilliance that all but sings at her core, the second center of it at the bauble around her throat (that calls out Home, home, home [Belonging] Calm).

"And, yes. We are friends, if we don't always see eye to eye."

[Quentin Doyle] It's better that she doesn't deny it. He may not like it, that she felt the need to come and check him out, but he can understand on some level. Unlike them, he doesn't run around with his shields wide open and letting in everything. He creates a barrier, reaching out only when he wants to find something out. Maybe he feels different because he works differently then they do. He doesn't know and it's not something that they're discussing.

"Are you satisfied now?" This is all he has to offer her now, a simple question that asks, without saying it, if she's still going to send her friends to come and check him out. It's obvious he didn't appreciate it. It's outright snooping, sticking noses into others lives in a very personal way. And, that answer she had offered, makes it sound like it was purely for selfish reasons - that he certainly does not like.

[Emily Littleton] Quentin can think what he will of Emily. Right now, in this moment, she is not some pretty girl with echoes of home in her accent. She is an Awakened Mage who has recently heard there was yet another Nephandus in the city. Who has stepped across the veil between worlds and held off the minions of a Fallen celestial agent. Their perspectives are very different; she might envy his if she truly understood it.

"Mostly," she tells him. It's not a firm yes. It's better than a no.

"I understand that it's invasive," she says, because there's no pretending now that Ashley had been tactful or gentle with whatever she said. "Please know that I had my reasons, not the least of which is that I care profoundly for some of the people I have met since I Woke Up, and of all the feelings I couldn't place, yours is the first that has not been outright hostile."

Her mouth purses a little, and there's a darker look to her expression just now. Emily closes her eyes to keep back the flicker of whatever it is she does not want to share with him.

"You are the first someone Other I have met who has not sought to outright harm or end people like me. I sent Ashley to you, because I am too new to have known what you are."

[Quentin Doyle] His first reaction is to ask her why hadn't she just came to him, but he pauses on that to reflect back over her words. It makes him look away from her, to shift that intensity to the lights upon the water. An elbow slides off the back of the bench followed by the other as he leans himself forward to rest his forearms on his knees. Even bent as he is, like that, there is long lines of strength in his back and a bulk in his shoulders. It makes his waist look smaller, giving him that v cut many men strive for.

He's gathering his thoughts, trying to think rather then just react. For the most part he wins on that front. No longer a young boy, not longer in his teens or twenties, he's learned some discipline. It's not that easy with the sort of core he has, but he directs it as best as he is able.

"Fair call, lass." The card Ashley had given him had been stowed away in the pub with the countless other business cards he had, all of which he really doesn't use or even look at again, but he's reminded of it with their conversation. "Ashley told me much the same, tha' there's some folks goin' around tha' aren't quite nice an' I might need some help from them."

"But I gotta say, Emily," shaking his head lightly before looking past his shoulder to where she's sitting, shifting his waist to turn slightly that way, and leaving a hand to one knee, leaning on the other forearm still, "it sounds suspiciously like religion an' the way the folks tha' follow them, will try turn one against the other."

"Not everyone can be right."

[Emily Littleton] She thinks about this for a moment, then responds carefully. It's as if she's willing each word to coalesce as she names it, calls it forward and hopes it carries some more meaning for him than whatever Ashley said.

"For some people it is. It's either tied to their Faith, or it informs them like a religion might." She stops short of saying it's about God. Emily doesn't believe it is, for everyone, not even with the Tradition she aims to join for her own path to Enlightenment.

"I suppose the best way to describe it is that one day, just one random day with no great rhyme or reason, I was able to see more than I could the day before. To do more. Not very long after that, my whole world starts to shift -- I'm not being melodramatic. Suddenly there were people, like Ashley, everywhere. Giving me much the same speeches as she must have given you." There's a small smile here, it's not an entirely pleasant one.

"People like me, who haven't known this all of their lives, we have to make sense of it somehow. To struggle with such a foundational change, after the how and whys of the world seemed so set-in-stone to us the day before. Maybe it feels like religion because some of us try so hard to make it all make sense that it's a little like holding up a book, one book, and presuming it will illuminate every question mankind could ask."

[Quentin Doyle] A small nod of his head has him turning back around to watch the fountain again. Both his hands are just short of touching and clasping, his thumbs press together before falling away so that his hands dangle between his knees again. Some of that seething undercurrent has faded away, been carried off with the wind that rustles through the trees behind them. "Tha's a good way to look at it. I hadn't considered," he says truthfully. Quentin has his family. It was normal for him. Others, it seemed, didn't have that same kind of knowledge and their struggle was entirely different. Their life could be turned upside down. Of course they needed to make sense of it, to reassure themselves and find their way.

"I shouldn't have judged so quickly." Pushing up from where he's leaning, his back rests into the bench again, and he looks over to her. "I apologize, Emily." The expression and tone are both sincere, his voice a little lower with the sincerity, and his eyes no longer hold that sharp, glinting edge.

[Emily Littleton] "No matter," she says, easily, as if the exchange hadn't riled her up much. To be fair, she was expecting some sort of resistance, given his resonance, and she was not entirely surprised by this evening's turn. She also didn't internalize it, so the moment passed without hard feelings.

Ideological differences she could deal with. They were expected. Humanity was varied and diverse, and that led to conflict and collaboration alike.

"We have a safehouse," she says, including herself in this group of Others that he may or may not want to know. "The other reason that I sent Ashley to you is that she is more or less in charge of its security at present. Had your conversation gone better, she could have extended an invitation to you."

Her motivations had been many-fold, and only some of them selfish.

"But I'm not sure that's what you want," she says, and it's a question. There's some searching to her expression. There is no judgment to it. She has not told him so much that Quentin was prohibited from walking away and pretending he'd never heard any of this. He knew Ashley, and Emily; they'd willingly made themselves known. The others retained anonymity; she'd not given away much about the house.

"If you'd rather, I can tell you a few words to key into in conversations. So that you can walk the other way and have little to do with us."

[Quentin Doyle] "I'm not sure tha' I need a safehouse." But with all the talk of it maybe there is a lot that he hasn't considered. Being worried about his safety isn't something that crops up often. He works closely with the police and he's a strong man in his own right. He's not afraid of fights. His personality is as strong as the muscles of his arms. "But it's good to know tha' there is one if I need it."

"Ashley gave me her card if I come intro trouble." Still looking at her, "I'm not sure wha' sort of trouble I'm meant to be lookin' out for."

A small huff comes from him, bemused but a little dry, leaving him shaking his head slightly at her. "It's not tha' I don't want anything to do with you or tha' Emily. I'm content to know and just leave it be, if I get the same in return. I'm also happy to work with you if you have need of me. I don't hold anything against you an' yours."

Reflecting; "At least yer not getting riled up at my refusal." Unlike Ashley who had become quite frustrated with him - for understandable reasons. "And given that, I'm willing to listen or be available."

[Emily Littleton] "When that sort of trouble finds you, you'll know," Emily says gently. There is a surety to this, but it's not patronizing or condescending. She knows he'll be able to tell the difference, given his experiences and training. "And I hope to God it never does."

It's her turn to rest her elbows on her knees and look out toward the fountain, to the way the water danced in the lights. She rolled her shoulders, as if there was some weary weight to them. She's thinking of the brand of trouble her friend was pulled into, and how it's precisely the thing that might make Quentin pick up the phone. She's thinking about too many things, just now, that have happened in the space of less than a year. It drags down her expression, veils her eyes.

Emily exhales slowly, closes her eyes. Then she blinks them open and sits back up.

"If I have something you can help with, I'll let you know," she says, but this is careful. If he's not wanting to step into the Awakened world, then she'll be cautious with what she brings him. Carefully not to draw him further across that line than needs be. "I envy you that contentment, Quentin. I haven't had it since I woke up. I don't know if I ever will again. But I'll try to remember that you're happy with the way things are, and I won't send anyone else to push at your margins or cajole you to join the other side."

Here she smiles. It's softer. Genuine but harried in its own way. They are both frayed, and she is not as politely perfect as she may have seemed on other nights.

[Quentin Doyle] Leaned back against the bench, he watches her now, when she comes to rest down on her knees and watch the fountain. He doesn't stare at her outright, but with small flicks of his gaze to her, back and forth between the water, he takes her in while she seems to gather herself and deal with what it is that she won't tell him. Her friend, he knows, and the trouble that goes on there.

"You will," he promises her and seems confident in that. "While it all seems strange right now, you'll get that back again once you find yer footing. It might take years, but it'll come again, if you work at it. And, if I might say so, Emily? I don't see you as a slacking kind, quite the opposite." Have faith, he tells her, just not in those same words.

[Emily Littleton] She looks over to him with a smile. Emily doesn't argue that it's different, when there is another will pushing alongside your own. She doesn't make allusions to her Avatar, or its constant pressure on her to grow, change, adapt, absorb. She may never be content again, because it may never let her find that sort of rest. Instead she just nods her thanks, and lets that thought sit there for a moment.

"So now that I've muddied up your evening with all this Awakened talk," she says, slipping one of those words-to-watch in, just in case he decided to walk away at some time in the future, or to give himself some slack. "What part of your work with the police was it that had your evening off to such a poor start?"

[Quentin Doyle] "Ah," back to that. He lifts his brows and shoulders almost at the same time, a shrugging gesture that expresses more in his face then it does his whole body. "I work with the evidence, an' wha' I see aint always the best thing. I'd rather not get into the gritty details of it, truthfully. Not only for my own sake, but it's almost an invasion of privacy, an' these poor..." Pausing, his eyes close. He forces himself to take a breath through his nose, to refocus himself out of those flickers of memory and back to where he's sitting at the fountain with a pretty girl.

Shaking his head again, his eyes open and he's looking away from her, directly towards the fountain again. "Most of wha' I see isn't something anyone should really have to, but it's not tha' which gets to me. It's knowing wha' has happened, wha' another has put someone else through." He pauses, just a few heartbeats before he tells her, "There's some true monsters out there, lass." Quentin gives that comment the moment of respect it needs. It's a severe statement and, clearly, he feels for the victims of them, very acutely. Sometimes literally.

[Emily Littleton] "I know," she says, softly, after that moment of respect has passed. "And most of them aren't any more than the wickedness of men." It's not some saying. There's a resonance to it that can only have been earned, can only be that deeply felt if one had suffered, like the people that Quentin struggles to help.

"Do you have anything that anchors you back, after a day like that?" she asks, and her voice is still hushed, still gentled. There's a compassion in Emily now that she doesn't oft show; it's not the deftly dancing social girl he met in the pub. For all her youth there's a very real understanding of what he's implying. "That brings you home and away from what you've seen?"

[Quentin Doyle] Perception + Empathy
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Quentin Doyle] There's more that could be said, but he picks up on tones and the way mood shifts in the air. If Quentin didn't have any empathy in him there was no possible way that he could do what he does. He's not always attuned to it, sometimes he's caught up in himself or the moment more then he is in the shades of moods of those around him, but in times like this when there is only the two of them and the talk is serious, he picks up on plenty. Enough for him not to continue down that path and redirect it somewhere warmer and more reassuring, because that is what she needs - and more, but he can't give her that and she's certainly not offering the part of herself to him.

It makes him really think. He doesn't say that he thinks on those that he has helped and the drive of justice that keeps him going back. That doesn't seem quite appropriate then, maybe later, but right now its comfort he's seeking to offer her without being obvious about it. "Sure, lass. I go back to me pub, bump shoulders with the lads, an' surround myself in the life I do 'ave and am grateful for."

"Sometimes I come out on walks, like this, just to clear my head and give respect to tha' which I've seen." Sympathize, in other words. Pray, maybe. But just quiet with them in his thoughts, with his hope and promise that he'll continue to strive forth with that ferocity that he has, pushing him to do something even at the price of his own self. But these, these thoughts stay quiet from Emily. She doesn't need to know he cries for them too, and he doesn't need for her to know that. It's a man thing, a very fierce prideful thing, but he does do that because he's not heartless and he has geared himself towards being a good man, a protective one.

"Mostly I remind myself I'm doin' wha' I can, which is more then most, while I get stuck into the routine of the rest of my life. It's tha' which helps keep me grounded. The pub, the gym, heading out with friends, an' reaching to make more. People can be as good as those are bad." All the while he had spoke quietly and steadily, using the deep voice with his lilt of accent carry in a particular rhythm that works well to soothe wounds. At least on most.

[Emily Littleton] There is a lot that Quentin doesn't share, so Emily cannot respond to it. He does not say that he prays for them, that he cries for them, but somehow she imagines that he must. Because she doesn't associate immoveable stoicism with masculinity, or an impenetrable calm with strength. She asks what brings him home, because she knows there must be some sort of struggle. Because she has held another through that sort of hardship, and been comforted in return. She hopes to hear that he has something of a support network.

He tells her that he has his pub, his friends, his life. That he comes home to these things he has built up, is grateful for. This is enough of an answer for Emily, and it gentles her smile.

"I'm glad you have these things," she says. She doesn't question how they work for him, or whether they are enough. Emily's time for questioning tonight is through. She's spent her words and is left with precious few, now. "And I'm glad to know that there are people like you, who can be so selfless with their gifts and yet remember to keep themselves grounded. It's heartening to hear."

[Quentin Doyle] "I'm glad too, Emily," he agrees with her quietly. He's also glad that they talked through it and that she was the sort to stay there while his less than gentle nature started to creep towards the surface. She had stood her ground. She had also not been in any danger of violence, even if his body is geared towards it, because Quentin is very much a male and with some of that comes that chauvinist attitude, also that honour that makes sure he never hits a woman. He is inclined to protect her rather than harm her, even if they don't see eye to eye.

But by the end of it, they come to some sort of agreement anyway. Forgiveness a second chance - it's not really defined, but they've shared something here and now it trickles towards the end of it. "Shall I walk you somewhere?" Quentin is ready to get up from the bench, but he looks towards her first, hand braced on his knee. "It's getting late out." And he doesn't want to leave her alone in the park.

[Emily Littleton] "I'm just headed back to the El," she says, as they stand and she slips the strap of her messenger bag back over her head. Emily says this as if Quentin would understand that she is fully capable of finding her way back to the platform on her own. She is independent enough to think nothing of it, even now, this late at night. "I can manage, if you're heading off the other way."

She pauses, then, to see if he'll assent to letting her find her own train. If he doesn't, then she'll walk with him without arguing. She's saving what little room she has for argument left on the off chance they run into a particular young man.

"It was nice to see you again," she says, when they part, and with more warmth than might have otherwise underlain that statement. Her night had not gone swimmingly, and the Emily he ran across at the far end of the path was still sharp-tongued and seething. (If inwardly [where he might not see it]) Quentin had spare some poor Singer quite the tongue-lashing, and he would never know the service he'd provided to that poor, misguided soul.