Local blues

[Quentin Doyle] It's Saturday night and the place is becoming ever popular. With the warm weather the air conditioner is blowing and the fans help circulate it around. By now the kitchen is closed and it's being cleaned down, Quentin, sitting by himself at a table for two, tucked close to the staff door by the kitchen, is eating a late dinner. Being boss had some benefits, but it wasn't that he'd made someone go back and cook for him, he'd simply grabbed an extra pie. It's one of those that are filled with chunks of meat and vegetable with gravy cooked with good wine, and the pastry with just enough crisp to add texture.

He's thoroughly enjoying it.

There's music playing through the speakers. He's organizing some gigs, not a whole band thing, but he wants to get in a duo or some acoustics to fill up the corner on weekends. He's thinking about these things as he watches people move around, drink, be merry, be dark. He eats, he drinks and ignores the few giggling glances from some of the younger girls, and certainly from the older drunk making eyes at him.

[Emily Littleton] It's been awhile since she was last here, yet Emily's still making her evening rounds alone. No friends at her side or scowling Singers playing babysitter or chaperone, tonight. Just Emily, in a pair of dark jeans and a pale blue blouse. It was light enough to call forth the color in her eyes, to make them seem deep and resonant. Even in the low light, tonight, they looked more blue than brown. Yet she's still young enough to get carded, and the accent doesn't lessen the staff's attention to that detail (the legality)

She glances about the room, but moves directly to the bar. She's friendly with the staff, orders a Black Castle -- but if that raises confused looks, she recants and asks for a black and tan.

After a few minutes of chatter, a sip of her drink and a Cheers, Emily turns the conversation toward the establishment's owner.

"Is Quentin here?" she asks, naming him without reservation. If directed his way, she'll leave ample money to cover her pint and the tip, and make her way over toward his table for two.

[Quentin Doyle] She's directed his way with a nod towards where the large man is polishing off the end of his meal, sweeping pastry through gravy on his plate and popping it into his mouth. He spots her as she walks towards him, making him hurry the last mouthful before he grabs a napkin to wipe off his mouth. By the time she's at his table he's risen up to stand.

"Emily," he greets her with a small smile, warmth in it, but his eyes are a little sharper. Curious. "It's good to see you."

He gestures to the chair across from him. The table is small, just big enough for two plates, some glasses and a little room to breathe. "Please, take a seat." There had been no kisses to her cheeks, or attempted hugs, he hadn't moved out from in front of his own chair.

[Emily Littleton] These are Old World manners, the rules that drive Quentin to stand to greet her. It brings a smile to Emily's features that gentles them, pulls away a bit of the polite distance she keeps between herself and so many others. It is not quite warm, but it is warmer than it might otherwise be.

"Quentin." His name is gilt with her odd accent, more strikingly familiar tonight than before. It is clearly British, pulled sharply toward the notes that echo more of home for them both. The lesser notes are thinned, have dropped away for awhile. "Please," she says, "Don't let me keep you from your supper."

She does not step forward into the space between them, or reach out to touch his arm. Emily slips into the chair he offered, sets her glass in some small measure of free space, wherever she can find it. Her movements are clear, directed without being forceful. As always, there is a faint sense of Other to her, and if he is sensitive to resonances he can taste it around her clearly: grace (Reverence), drive (Unrelenting).

"I hope you are well," she says, and this is genuine. They do not rush headlong into whatever business or need had brought her here. This too is an Old World custom. "And that your family is as well."

[Quentin Doyle] Once she's found herself comfortable he eases back onto his own chair, and picks up his fork from where it rested on the side of his plate. The knife has been used but sits to the side, no longer needed with the small amount left on his plate. "I am," he answers, looking up from where he's sticking the prongs of the fork into a piece of meat, "as are they." Another smile is laced with a quiet mirth, fleeting.

"An' how are you lass? Everythin' going alright in yer part of the world?" Whatever that is. They may share the same city now, some similar roots in a way, but he's since learned out a few things about her. Their last conversation hinted at plenty, and that puzzle piece slotted into others, to begin to give him an overall picture. It's that and also her world, her life.

[Emily Littleton] "Well enough," she says, and though the mirth in her eyes answers his, the incomplete answer it not what it seems. Emily sips from her pint glass a bit more soundly than she needs to. Touches her upper lip to make sure it is still dry. She shakes her head slightly. "My family, of a sorts, has been visiting. I've forgotten just how interesting brothers make life."

Thus the warmth, and part of the half answer. But Gregory is not out with her, and Emily has left him to his own devices for a reason. There is always a reason, as Quentin well knows now, even to playing legos in a toy shop, or walking in the park. Emily is rarely at rest, idle, content.

She sets her glass down, toys with its rim with her fingertips. This is a thoughtful thing, he knows now. It is an idle-but-not gesture. She is considering something, and the weight of that consideration falls momentarily to how she looks to him, and then away.

[Quentin Doyle] "Oh? Tha's nice. Family's always good te 'ave around." Food pops into his mouth and he eats pleasantly and politely enough. His gaze is steady, clear coloured as he focuses on her. Earlier tonight, just a few hours ago, he'd showered, indication by the smooth line of shaven jaw and the neat appearance of a goatee that is barely anything but a faint trail of colour.

While she debates with herself, and he can clearly see that there's something on her mind, he continues the conversation so that a silence doesn't linger between them. He keeps it safe, ordinary, allowing her that space to think on whether or not she's going to open up. Despite his resonance, he's not particularly pushy with her. "An' is he yer younger or older brother? From my experience, both 'ave their fair share of troubles for their sisters."

[Emily Littleton] Her mouth curls fondly. Long-sufferingly. Ah yes, this the look of a younger sister who has been well-chastised and oft-taunted over the course of a many day visit. She wears the subtle indignance well; her brother is doing his job.

"Older. Though he's my god-brother. Neither of us have any proper siblings of our own right," she says this easily, as if the arrangement would not seem strange to someone with Quentin's heritage or history. There is no less warmth to what she says than had he been her true brother. No diminished kinship.

"Our father," she starts, then frowns gently and self-corrects, "His father passed a couple years ago. It's the first time we've really had a chance to spend more than a few days together without that being the central theme. It's good to know we can move forward," Emily says, offering these bits of herself into the conversation without hesitance. It's more than she's told without cajoling or entreating in awhile.

"Though I should be happy, in many ways, when he returns home. My flat is small, and not meant for two. And there is no quiet when it is overfull," she says, but there is no true criticism to it. It's warm. Almost happy.

This is easy conversation, but they each take one another's measure as they talk. Weigh the balance between them, judge it. She seems to find it favorable, comfortable enough. She does not push, just yet, but waits until the polite discussion of families and recent days has passed.

"I dread to think what a younger brother might be like. Have you any yourself?"

[Quentin Doyle] He listens without interruption, eating and finishing his meal in the process. The plate is pushed slightly to the side and the fork joins the knife on the side of the plate, placed neat enough. He picks up the napkin, wipes his mouth and leaves that to the side, too. "I'm sorry to hear about tha'," the passing of said father. It's the nice thing to say, the right thing to say. "An' its good to see tha' you're enjoying the time, even if it sounds like yer crawlin' over each other in a small space." Most would get at each others throats in a short period of time.

Picking up his stout he took a slow, small sip of it and eased back in his chair, which creaks faintly under his bulk. "I do," he confirms. "I 'ave three brothers and two sisters. Two of me brothers are younger, as well as one of me sisters. They all come with their varying degrees o' thorns in the side." He jests this, even if it's true. His eyes are warmed as he talks of them, watching her.

[Emily Littleton] This is a curious thing, for Emily. Sitting in a pub, talking about families. It's precisely the conversation she shies from, walls off with polite misdirections. There's warmth to it, and it is just a little too genuine to share with most of the people who wander in and out of her life. He has finished his meal now, and they've moved on to enjoy their pints. Emily sips from hers again, listens to him explain his family.

"You're in the middle, then," she observes. "An unenviable lot, from all I've heard tell. Though you turned out well enough," ah, yes, very much the youngest. Her eyes are brighter now, laughingly so. Some of the tension has eased from around her mouth, slaked from her shoulders. It's light, this joke, and aimed at making me chuckle or perhaps eeking a thin, warning look from him. There is no barb to it, no underlying meaning to tease out and illuminate.

[Quentin Doyle] It earns her a chuckle and he shook his head, reaching a hand up to sweep it through his hair, pulling the curls back. The strands are loose tonight, left out from a neat little tail that he usually tames it into, leaving it to curl down the back of his neck and almost touch his shoulders, some parts wisp about his jaw or curls around an ear. "Tha' depends on who ye ask, but mighty nice of you, Emily." There's still a laughing undercurrent to it.

Dropping his hand back down, it rests on his thigh between him and the table. His other is curled around his glass, left to rest his wrist on the edge of the table. "I do me best to keep out of trouble," he says, continuing their conversation. "Na always works, but fer the most part I'm able to keep these aging bones from bein' broken these days."

[Emily Littleton] Ah, there, it's the opening they've been looking for. The polite point to translate this conversation from purely social to something else, to segue into the secondary purpose she'd brought in the doorway with her. They both know it's lingering, just below the surface, but it hasn't made this bit of helloes and how are yous any less resonant or real. She sips from her drink again, works her way slowly through it. She's in no rush, tonight, to head toward tipsy or hurry into a particular conversation.

"Mmm, speaking of trouble," she says, rolling the little sound against the back of her throat for a moment. "Do you still work with the local blues?" she asks, as if he may have found another source of employment or wandered away from the department in the past couple weeks.

This is a query. It leaves him room to shut down that avenue without consequence. To politely change the subject, or turn away from the implied query.

[Quentin Doyle] Except, he does no such thing. "I do," he answers her easily. The tone is different though, while it's not cautious, it's a confirmation and letting her go ahead and explain what it is she needs that for. He's already thinking of something cult orientated, given that he found out who her friends are and what they're all about. He's hoping that it's not something too deep. He really doesn't want to deal with the likes of Ashley, who, thankfully, he hasn't seen since that one time she came into the pub and started sprouting what she did.

He takes another drink, sets it down again. "Are you in some trouble?" Perhaps there's an emphasis there.

[Emily Littleton] "Not yet."

It is not as comforting as it ought to be, because for all the levity in Emily's tone, there's a calm and unmirthful tenor to her smile. There's a levelness in her eyes that isn't laughing; it's solemn, serious. There is trouble, but it is not yet Emily's.

"Do you remember Molly?" she asks instead, leading in with a decidedly not-Ashley mage instead. "Strange car, a bit chatty, moved into the Auto Shop," of everything Emily could say about the Cultist, just now, her comments are relatively neutral. "She had a run in with a pair of local leos a few days ago, and there seems something amiss about it."

There's a pause here. Emily studies him as she says:

"She thought she was being stalked by one." It seems completely remiss with Emily's opinion of law enforcement, which is relatively positive all things considered.

[Quentin Doyle] Molly. Auto shop.

He nods at this. He had the woman's number and he'd never called it. Not too odd, really, considering where the woman had given it to him. It had been a little bizarre and thrown him off course that day. The girl and her car, her appearance, and the bold way that she had asked him out. His small smile is vanishing though, as he draws back to the reason why Molly is being mentioned in the first place.

"Wha' gives her that impression?" That's not to say it wasn't impossible. Quentin has had run ins with plenty that does not make him believe all things are positive. Corruption is everywhere and he'd been on the end of a few heavy handed sorts in his time.

[Emily Littleton] It's a fair question, but it still gives Emily pause. She replays, in her mind, the screaming match she'd walked in on recently. That draws the fingertips of her free hand up to rub against her temple. Her eyes close, dark lashes kiss the pale pink of her cheeks. Emily sighs, then blinks her eyes open, her hand falls away.

"She was being followed, repeatedly by the same person over a period of time. Reliably enough that she decided to confront them," Emily reports. There's no warmth to this; if anything her tone carries a note of irritation, a slight burr. She shifts in her seat, leans a bit more soundly against one arm of the chair.

"I don't doubt that an officer might have his reasons for tailing Molly," she says, as if it wouldn't surprise her overmuch if the Cultist had tripped someone's interest in the normal ways. "I'm concerned more about this confrontation. It seems that one of the officers involved was divided, somehow, from his own mind. As if a part of it was cordoned off," she gestures with her hand, dividing the air in front of her and pushing half of it away with the blade of her hand.

"There's no physical thing I know of that can do that. It implies his head has been muddled with." She doesn't have to tell Quentin how serious that might be. The gravity of her expression belies precisely how Emily feels about such tampering. "If there's someone touching the minds of the Chicago police, you could be in danger as well."

[Quentin Doyle] It's a grave subject that leaves him with plenty of questions, but he can only ask one at a time. He drinks deeply from his glass before setting it down and dropping his hand away from it. "How can tha' be possible, an' better yet, how do ye know tha's what's happening?" This is where things can get a little more awkward or tricky. The idea that someone has had their mind tampered with is more like some conspiracy theory. It's also very possible, he knows of a telepath in his time, but it's not quite the same as what's being said here.

Although he hasn't leaned forward, there's attention drawn in the way he's sitting now, a little more upright, alert. His spine is already relatively straight and his shoulders square, but she gets the distinct impression of that focus rather then that casual air.

[Emily Littleton] If his focus and directed attention unnerves her, Emily shows very little sign of it tonight. There is a press and challenge to what he asks her, and it should be unsurprising that there is a surety and calm to how she answers back. Emily may be an Apprentice by rank, but she is no longer a wide-eyed and frightened mage child.

"Our gifts fall into groupings, spheres or arts. Some of us study the Art of Mind. How to listen to or influence others on that level. I am only at the very beginning of such studies; at present I am trying to learn how to keep others out." This sounds important to her; as if she has had direct experience with the sort of invasion she wishes to protect against.

"I have had another person, like me, reach into my mind and pull up memories. Twice now, on separate occasions. I have no doubt it's possible to separate someone from a portion of their thoughts, Quentin, however terrifying that may be to contemplate. Or to influence them, subtly, without leaving physical marks -- not through drugs or conditioning, but from suggestion on an almost impulsive level."

Emily frowns. This is not a comfortable thing for her. The ethics involved are shadowy at best. She sips from her pint again, but then sets it down and lets her hands fall into her lap.