Singers in the park

[Emily Littleton] There's a church in Lake View, a pretty little place with quiet grounds and large stained glass windows. It's the sort of place that one might imagine the Singers would gather whenever it was that they came together in Chorus or Congregation. This is not the place that Emily suggests when she writes James to say she'd like to meet him. To get to know him better.

Instead she suggests the park where she sometimes plays sport with Owen. It has a few basketball courts, well lit paths, a handball court for kicking her soccer ball against repeatedly. It's where they first met, Emily and James, in an ad hoc sort of moment. He was looking for the train; she was talking to Declan, mercurial, quicksilver boy.

Tonight it's warm, even in the late hours after the sun has set, and the moon hangs above, a fat fish hook in the sky. Sly. Winking, half-lidded, as she shines down upon them. Emily is at the handball court, kicking her ball against the wall. It's a steady thump, the sort of thud that can be felt in the ground as he approaches. Her messenger bag rests against that wall; her hair is tied up in a ponytail of loose curls.

She looks as she did that first night: shorts, trainers, tee-shirt. There's a glint of silver around her throat. She is unafraid to be alone; does not quail from the night, or the isolation, or the silence. There is a steady stream of street sounds in the night; from somewhere the scent of night blooming jasmine; there is a flickering lamp post along one of the park paths that blinks out a staccato pattern.

It is an unremarkable night for a meeting. Perhaps that's why she wrote to say hi.

[James Blake] He comes here to play pick up basketball sometimes when he gets tired of shooting hoops in the back yard. Most of the people who come here are used to him by now. They don't whinge about having a deaf guy on their team anymore. He's capable even if he can't hear instructions shouted an inch from his ear. They're not here to play basketball tonight. Emily wants to meet him. If he's anxious it doesn't show up in the SMS he sends back. They establish a time and a place and a few minutes before he's there. It's warm...especially for someone whose home state is attached to Canada. James is wearing running shoes and cargo shorts and a t-shirt of a band whose music he has never heard. His hair is a mess and he's finishing a cigarette as he reaches the hand ball court. He kills it. Tosses it in a bin. As he approaches Emily he blows smoke over his head. He waves a broad left to right wave and smiles...sort of. The wave and smile aren't the throw away greeting they are in hearing culture. Together it means Hi!

[Emily Littleton] She's been keeping an eye out for him, which is why she notices the extra sounds of footsteps thrown into the steady rhythm of her kick-bounce-thud!-bounce game of solitaire. Emily traps the ball beneath her foot, then digs a toe under it so that it pops up and she can catch it, trap it between her arm and her waist, just above the curve of her hip.

She returns the broad wave, a bit exaggerated when compared with Hearing culture, and a warmer smile than she shows for many these nights. It's a bright hello, then, not at all the greeting of someone who has a mind to break kneecaps.

"How are you?" she asks him, when he's closer, taking care to shape the words clearly despite her accent. Emily expects that James can lip read, she expects that he will help her learn to communicate with him in whatever manner is easiest for him. There's a beading of sweat along her hairline and a slight flush to her features; otherwise she seems collected and fairly calm. This is not an emergency call.

[James Blake] (( Doing this now so I know if it works!
Mind 2, Prime 1 - Crossing the Language Barrier. Coincidental. Difficulty 5, -1 focus. ))
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 7, 8 (Success x 3 at target 4) [WP]

[James Blake] He remembers only after he's tossed his fag that Emily doesn't sign. It's not pitch black but the court isn't brightly lit either. There are shadows on her face that make it hard to lip read. She's heard him speak before. Once. When they were outside the club and he asked where Riley was. It's not a surprise that he sounds like he does. The young man was born deaf. He's never heard anything that wasn't in his head. He could practice speaking every day for the rest of his life and he will never be able to pass for hearing without magic. James signs and mouths Good, then holds up a finger in a "one moment" gesture. He pulls out a lighter and does something that scares some people. It isn't as scary as when he puts a cigarette out on his palm...which she might notice has a nasty burn scar that will never heal on it's own because he keeps injuring it. James turns the lighter on and holds the flame up to his palm. It hurts...but that's what he's going for. As he casts she can feel his resonance. There is something calming about what he's doing. He twists the silver ring on his thumb. Nothing untoward happens. It works.

James puts the lighter back in his pocket and smiles...almost in apology. When he signs, it's strange. She can understand what he's saying even though he doesn't speak.

I lost my voice earlier and don't want to make you write. Is everything OK?

[Emily Littleton] [... Don't freak out, Little. It's not like that one time... or like that other time... ]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 3, 9, 9, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] Emily doesn't sign, but she is an exceptionally quick study. When he signs Good and mouths the word, she parrots it; repeats it as faithfully as she can in the near-darkness. Adds it to the lexicon of signs she already knows (few [far between]) and her oft-muddled grasp of the fingerspelling alphabet.

She can feel his resonance begin to bleed into the space between them. Calming, almost comforting, with and undertone towards Destruction. There is little in it that calls to her own, but it stirs the Reverence she wears beneath her skin.

There's a tension when his Will reaches out to touch her Mind, to bind her to this ritual of sorts. It's a natural hesitance, resistance. It does not hinder his working, but he will know that this is a transgression (however mild) that he is not the first to make without asking.

Emily watches him sign. Her brow creases as she starts to try and make sense of it, only to note that she reflexively understands. There are a few signs she knows. Very few. He can feel her reach for the memory of What as her hands form the basic gesture. The rest of the thought follows:

"What did you do?"

Then a pause, and her shoulders square. The frown lifts, her expression gentles.

"Oh." Recognition.

"That was a joke." A smile now. "And I'm okay. Things are okay. I just, never really got to meet you. Or say hello for more than a couple minutes."

She stumbles, a bit, with this instant translation connection. It takes a bit for Emily to settle into it. She's used to language barriers, accepts them as natural pieces of communicating as individuals, across cultural divides or simply paradigmatic differences. What he's done here is at once pragmatic and deeply personal. It is strange.

[James Blake] He isn't attempting to read her thoughts. All the rote does is make it possible to understand the idea behind what someone who speaks a language you don't says. Then again James is capable of justifying a lot of things that are at odds with what the rest of the world thinks. That doesn't mean he can justify using magic for the wrong reasons. This is okay...he thinks. Until Emily tenses. Resists. He goes through with it but he has a curious - worried - expression on his face when it's over. It doesn't stop him from saying what he says but it is there as they keep talking.

Yeah. I see more of the other Traditions than I do my own. He smiles, but doesn't laugh. That doesn't surprise me though. I don't think Singers are known for being extroverts.

[Emily Littleton] He smiles, and it goes a good ways toward easing the remaining resistance in the Apprentice across from him. He can imagine that she is still young (she's barely older than he is), or unaccustomed to the odd things that happen in their world. After all, Emily was only introduced as Owen's Catechumen, nothing more in her own right. Her attention flickers between his hands and his face, as if she's trying to align the signs with the words she knows thanks to his rote. To learn them via subtitles, if you will.

"You don't have to be a stranger," she says, with a broadening smile. It's warm enough, welcoming, even if she is a bit more reserved than some of the magi he's met. "Look, we've even met properly now. No chaperone." It's a wry smile, canted more to one side than another; it even touches her eyes.

She holds the ball out between them. There's no words here, just an invitation: You want to play?. Or... her glance shifts toward the sidelines, where there is a bench not far away. The alternative is clear; it requires no intimation.

[James Blake] James is tall and to be quite honest kind of skinny. He's not unhealthy...but to look at him he gets a lot of physical activity. Not a lot of sun. He's pale. But his muscles are toned and he has a spring in his step and restlessness that only the young possess. When Emily offers to play hand ball he lights up. Even though it's dark and late and they came out here to talk. It's a good way to get to know a person, throwing a ball around for a few minutes. So they do. Enough to sweat a little in the heat. After one match James points to the bench with his eyebrows furrowed, then asks, Sit?

Once they're sitting, he pulls a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and lights one. She doesn't look like she smokes. So he doesn't offer her one. Last thing he wants to do is turn someone who doesn't smoke into an addict. James signs with one hand while he has his cigarette and does his best to keep the second hand from hitting her.

How is Owen?

[James Blake] (( Perc + Aware ))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 6, 6, 7, 7, 9 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] Emily is tall and thin, as well. She's just on the underside of a healthy weight. There's no strength in her form, but she's agile and quick. It explains, in many small ways, why the toussel in the Club agitated her so. The Apprentice makes it a point to never be caught, kept; if she were held fast to, she'd have no way to break away. So she's quick-footed, reactive, and they are well matched. They both know that keeping still is harder than keeping quiet.

Sit?, he asks, when the apples of her cheeks are pinked and the small curls at the back of her neck are damp with sweat. They become pincurls, relentless, twined around the thin silver chain there. Emily nods in agreement and takes the ball with her, jogs a littel out of the way to nab her messenger bag, and heads for the bench.

He doesn't offer her a fag and Emily doesn't ask for one, but she seems unconcerned by his smoking. It's an American aversion, this tirade against cigarettes, and the places she has lived (the places that shape the accent he cannot hear) do not share it. Emily is so unaffected by it that she hardly seems to notice. Instead she sits sideways on the bench, rests the ball in the lap created by one bent leg. The other leg trails downward so her toes touch the concrete floor. One arm rests on the back of the bench and she leans her hand into her head. It is an easy pose, graceful only in its utter nonchalance.

Until he asks after Owen. There's a flicker of fondness across her features, an uncanny warmth that fades slowly into some flavour of remorse. It's a sadness. This fades, too, into acceptance. Not that acceptance in happy, or lifts the weight of that fondness away from her eyes.

"He's gone away for awhile," she says, but if James's rote allows him to hear the truth of things, Emily is saying that Owen has left. There's a surety to it that implies she does not expect (but somehow still hopes) he might return. "He's looking for a friend that went missing, all of a sudden."

[James Blake] It sets some people back when he asks after those who aren't there. Like they shouldn't be talking about someone if he isn't present. The thing is...the Awakened community is like the Deaf community. They're tight knit and invested in each other. There is a ripple effect when something happens to one of them. James did not Awaken while the Ascension War was ongoing so he doesn't remember what it was like to live in constant fear. But he knows what it is to be afraid. He knows what it means when people stop showing up after a while. Not that Owen was around a lot before...but James got used to seeing him every week. He can't send an SMS to check in on him because the man doesn't own a cell phone. So he asks after him.

James' eyes are soft when he sees how the question effects her. Like he recognises and maybe understands her feelings. He smokes slowly but takes deep drags. Somehow he hadn't wound up barking up a lung while they played.

Who will teach you while he's gone?

[Emily Littleton] In the time before she contemplated the Chorus, Emily had (well) known a Verbena Disciple. It is not strange to her, then, that James both smokes and holds his own on the court. It is possible that he minds his health in other ways and remedies the small injustices he does to his form with the magics he has been gifted. Or that he is simply remarkably fit, given his predilections. He doesn't offer; she doesn't ask. This is a theme with the Apprentice.

Owen does not own a cell phone. Emily had not pressed any such thing into his hand and implored he take it with him on his journeys. There have been weeks, up to a month, where they missed each other before, all without leaving the city boundaries. So it is that she shrugs, somewhat sadly and also somewhat cautiously when he asks about her studies.

"I do not know. It's not the first time I have been left behind," she says, and there's a small smile for him here. Do not worry, it tells him; I will endure. "I'm getting quite used to being an Orphan, you know. Perhaps it's a sign I ought stay that way." She laughs a little, but it is not mirthful. For all the lightness to her expression, there's hurt there as well.

"Do you think the Singers will still take me?" she asks him. It's easily voiced, but a genuine concern. It might surprise James to know that she is not already among their ranks.

[James Blake] I don't see why they wouldn't. His face is thoughtful though. Like he doesn't know but doesn't know how they wouldn't. Then again he didn't start out as a declared Orphan without a set mentor. His experience was a bit different than the one Emily is having. James is still a second while he thinks. Do you want to be in the Chorus, still?

[Emily Littleton] "It isn't about wanting," she says, simply. There's a shake of her head, too, to emphasize that point. Emily watches him for a moment, studies him without speaking. In this low light her eyes are just dark. She can't remember if she's seen him in a place where he might know that they are deeply blue, not brown or brown-black. With her coloring, either is possible.

"Could you be anything other? If you had the choice, again, would you not end up exactly where you are?" There's a certainty to how she shapes the words, and the questions they begin to dig into. She's asking if he's Faithful, if he knows Grace. She's not naming a God, or the God, or defining the Something Greater to which they strive, but Emily is testing him, in a quiet unassuming way.

Would James not be a Singer, through and through, to his heart of hearts and very soul, if he had not known there was a word for it? If he had been Orphaned, would the Reverence in him be any less?

He can feel it within her, the sense of grace and reverence. It's the resonance that twines with her magic. He's felt it, at the club. Emily woke up with that, long before she knew there was a Congregation or a Chorus to join. It was months before she put a name or face to that longing.

[James Blake] For an Initiate he's young. He's younger than Emily even...though not by much. Yet even though he is at that age when most young men are having to think about what they want to do after university, what girl they want to commit to, things like that, he already knows himself fairly well. It could be called conviction. When he's out in the world he's confident that he can get by even without being able to hear. Others have noted that he doesn't let it slow him down. He has a voice even if it comes through on paper or through his hands. There's a Song and he isn't excluded from it because he's never heard music.

It wasn't a choice though. This is what I'm supposed to be. This is where the path I was on went. There was no other path. You have many paths. Not just one. If you want to take a different one you can. If you want to take this one...you can walk with me. I'll teach you.

[Emily Littleton] [Prime 1: base 4, -1 Unique focus; Extending to share]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 3) [WP]

[Emily Littleton] She thinks for a moment, and continues to study him. The weight of that scrutiny could become uncomfortable, if he was in anyway uncertain about what he was extending to her. The solemnity of that moment, its careful study, the quiet of the park around them -- it is a stillness that goes deeper than silence; there is no one walking past on the path, and the flicker of the lamp light deeper along the path punctuates the passing time. They can measure it also in heartbeats. In the ingress and egress of the breath that stirs their lungs. She is quiet, observant, and then stirs to life once more.

Emily reaches down into her messenger bag and pulls out a strand of small stone beads. It is easily recognizable to anyone in their Tradition: a rosary. Instead of a crucifix, it bears a small, eight-pointed star. (The cross of Malta.)

She glances up to him, now. Meets his eyes, holds them. Even as she does not speak, there's no mistaking the question in hers: May I?

If he nods or acquiesces, then Emily begins to pass the prayer beads through her fingers. It's easy to imagine her as well acquainted with the traditional prayers, but the motion is not a mnemonic for her. There's a thin stir to the air around them that builds; he can feel the weight of awe within her pattern, the call to grace (Reverence). James can also feel how it pushes her on, leaves her breathless, runs her ragged; there is no choice, he had said, and so it is for Emily. Emily who is only an Apprentice, but already carries an Unrelenting press.

It spreads, her sense of the Quintessential world around them. It tickles at the margins of his Awareness until he takes it in, makes it of himself as well of her, joins her as an observer in that moment. There is the thrum of something more to the bauble around her throat (It calls out a steady heartbeat of Home [of belonging]) and the beads that she slips from her hand to his are Steadfast and Inspiring. There is a chorus to her being, all in Emily's presence alone. And he sees it like a light celestial, bright and warm and pure, but also James can hear it as the quiet undulating Song that Emily knows. He can borrow on that Awareness and be it as sound or only the feeling of shifting resonance against his skin, he can know it.

This is what she is, the things borrowed and bestowed and the Singer-to-be that she Awakened into being. He says that she has many paths, and that she might take another if she wants, but it is all too clear why she cannot now.

"These were my father's," she says, as she places the beads in his hand. Emily actually says god-father, but the word does mean to hear what it means to others. She uses the word to distract, to let denotation and precision get in the way of what her heart feels and her soul knows. "I don't think I can go any other way; or if I did, I believe I will always come back to this."

[James Blake] The only time he hears anything - not with his ears but with his mind - is when magic happens. His Tradition focuses on Prime. They argue that it is the fundamental sphere. It is the sphere of the universe. It inspires the Song. That's what he hears now as Emily casts...the Song. This is not the first time he's experienced this but every time it stuns him. The tall man tosses his cigarette and takes the beads from her. He is not nearly as reverent as she is but there's respect in how he handles another will worker's focus. James glances down at the rosary. Not long enough to miss what she says. His fingers move over the beads as if reading them for something deeper. He understands what she's saying. Not just the words. The feeling. The soul. There is nothing else for her.

All faith leads to the One. It's agreement in a weird way. James looks down at the beads again. He hands them back. I meant what I said. If your path takes you the same way I will teach you.

[Emily Littleton] It is curious how he says this (all faith leads to the One), and how a subtle shift would make the statement less sure, less solid (all faiths lead to the One). But it is likely than James already knows that Emily's upbringing is not as simple as it seems, and this relic of Catholic heritage may not be all it seems to the girl beside him.

She smiles and it is a gentle thing. It is warm in its own way, saddened somewhat too. There is patience to it beyond her years. All these things are easier to feel, to read into, when they are connected as they are just now. By his workings and hers. It is an intimacy, though many in their Tradition would hedge away from using that word. Emily hesitates, considers, and then she says:

"I am not an easy student. I would not hold you to this offer, if you chose to ask around and then thought the better of it." This is honest; it is one of the few thing she has said, in weeks, that bore no innate misdirection or self-protective doublespeak.

"Perhaps you should ask Father Ward?" she suggests, looking to him with mild uncertainty. It is not doubt in James, but rather a margin of self-doubt that sways her to say this now.

[James Blake] He'd have to be stupid to not heed warnings when they come to him. Years ago he'd learned this. If you get a vision...a dream...a flash of insight...you don't ignore it. Gossip and hearsay can be dropped to the side. But an apprentice telling you she's difficult and you should ask around...he nods. It sounds almost like a challenge. It makes him smile though. As though any student is easy. James considers her for a few seconds. His expression is thoughtful. Emily doesn't feel any further intrusion into her Mind though. He's just thinking.

I haven't met Father Ward. His opinion would be worth little. Anything worth undertaking isn't easy anyway.

[Emily Littleton] "Father Ward is a Disciple Singer," she tells James when he attests that the Priest's opinion would be worth little. "And there are difficult undertakings worth enduring, and tasks that are difficult just to be so."

There's a wry cant to her smile, now, and that challenge may just be becoming a bit more literal. Her fingers brush against his as she recovers her prayer beads, then Emily drapes and coils them into one hand. Her thumb brushes across the eight-fold cross.

"Ask Ashley, if not Father Ward. Someone. You should know what you're getting into."

[James Blake] OK.

He can take a hint. It's kind of similar to a conversation he'd had with a tiny blond Cultist God knows how long ago. Only they're not in a beat up truck driving in the middle of nowhere while snow falls down on the windshield and he's not asking her to marry him. James rubs his chin and cuts her a smile.

I'll talk to Ashley.

[Emily Littleton] He smiles, and Emily searches it for more than its apparent meaning. She does not know the things that come to mind when she insists, pushes back, tells him to do some research into what he may be offering. She's not entirely sure why it warrants a smile. So there's a press, the push of blue eyes against the curl of his smile, the weight of that scrutiny and then...

... she looks away to the beads in her hands. The effect is starting to fall away now. To fade. The refrain lightens until there is no sound for James just now. Emily doesn't break it off sharply, abruptly. It decrescendos into silence, gently. It's clear, now, in contrast, just how brilliant her pattern had been to his prime-sight. She carries a lot of quintessence in her, and has no way to mask it yet.

"Alright, then," she echoes. It is Emily's stand in for okay. There's an odd pause, before she adds, somewhat hastily and shyly, "This isn't why I asked to meet you tonight, you should know. I'm not fishing for a mentor."

This is stern, a bit uncertain.

[James Blake] He's usually reluctant to laugh in front of people. It isn't that he cares what they think. It's that he's been told that it's unsettling if you're not expecting it. Usually he can gauge if someone is going to react strongly to it and he tries to tone it down. Emily must pass the test. She says she's not fishing for a mentor and he laughs. Not uproarously...but he's obviously amused. He makes the No sign a few times, shaking his head, and then emphatically signs.

I didn't think that was why you wanted to meet. But it's not easy to learn without a mentor. And I'm pretty sure I -offered-.

[Emily Littleton] No is one of the few signs she knows, without translation. So she understands it, and its magical subtitling, and the shake of his head and the amusement he wears. It's enough to squirrel her smile up into something pertly and vaguely irritated (no on enjoys being laughed -at-).

And yet that irritation does not touch her eyes. It doesn't last. It burns off quickly, is fleeting. It carries no weight.

"What does it mean to you, to mentor someone?" she asks. The question is thoughtful, somewhat piercing in its directness and apparently innocent if he does not begin to read into it.

Emily is thinking of the words that Ashley used, of Dominion and Will over, the structure and the hierarchy. It makes her nervous; the girl reaches up to touch her arm, to rub at it idly. She breaks away from making eye contact with James and looks over his shoulder instead. Worried, but not sharing the root of the feeling with him just now.

[James Blake] He won't talk to her if she's not looking at him. He understands that she can hear him regardless. It's just that it's hard to reconcile that she doesn't need the visual aid that he does. When he isn't looking at Emily he doesn't know what she's saying. There are other reasons behind it...but mostly he just doesn't trust that she'll see him if she's staring over his shoulder. So James taps an invisible surface in her line of sight, his brow furrowed. If Emily looks back at him, he answers her question.

I don't know how Owen was. But I'm not going to try to mold you to fit into the Tradition. My mentor tried to do that with me and it didn't work. To me that's not what it's about. It's about...offering guidance. Answers, if I can. Light, at least. So you're not walking around in the dark.

[Emily Littleton] She looks back over, but with the gently disgruntled moue of someone who's been pursuing pensiveness, only to be brought back to something less inward by a gesture. A reminder. This is, perhaps, one of the hurdles they'd have to repeatedly surmount. The irritation fades quickly, and she listens/reads as best she can.

"I made a mistake with Owen," she tells him, and there's a sharpness to that admission. It is new. It has not worn down to where it does not hurt to say aloud. It pricks the corners of her eyes and she blinks back a dampness there. "That's what Ashley told me. I'm not sure I understand what a mentor is, rightfully. She makes it sound like a mentor is a Master in some ways, with words like Dominion and Will --"

"-- but guidance I'd be grateful for. Fellowship. Grace. Answers when we both can manage them," something about how she says this implies that Emily does not view mentoring as a one-way street. There is a necessary reciprocity to it, by definition.

[James Blake] There's a time for pensiveness. The middle of a conversation may not be it. For James a conversation is something that takes all of his attention. It can be dangerous to talk to him because he loses track of what's going on around him. As he gets older he will get better at not blinding himself. But the first 16 years of his life he didn't have to worry about monsters and maniacs coming out of the darkness when he wasn't paying attention. You could say he's placing trust in his hearing companion. That if anything were to happen Emily would make sure he knew. But he's placed trust in other people and it's come back to punch him in the face or wrap around his ankle and try to eat him so really...either he's too trusting, or he's too forgiving.

She does have his full attention as she speaks though. Emily mentions a mistake, and clarifies that that was what the Hermetic Adept told her. She can tell he doesn't agree with the older woman. Why would he? They're in different Traditions. They have different paradigms. They do things differently. She would be grateful for guidance. James makes a sign that comes across as acceptance and agreement both. Then he says I'll contact you after I talk to Ashley. I won't offer again unless I'm sure.

[Emily Littleton] She nods. His acceptance and assurance is enough, somehow, and that nod turns into a small smile. And another sign that she knows, if admittedly imperfectly: Thank you.

"In the meantime, if there is anything you need, you can write me." She doesn't say call because they both know that would be futile. "I am my cabal's Emissary to the local council -- a representative," she says, in case the other word is too old-fashioned or unclear. "If anything comes up, like the club the other night, and you need to in touch with everyone, just let me know."

There's a pause here and her smile broadens slightly. "And thank you, for your help that night. I'm no good in a fight."

[James Blake] The last time he laughed she looked annoyed. So he doesn't laugh again. James just smiles. It isn't amused. Someone could have gotten hurt that night. That club is still lurking in the back of his mind waiting for the opportunity to do something about it. Those symbols taunt him in his sleep. You're welcome. You shouldn't have to be. I'm not either.

She doesn't need to know whether he's lying or not. Just like she doesn't need to know that he carries a handgun with him just about everywhere lately. James sits still for a moment. He doesn't wear a watch or consult his cell phone but he seems aware of the hour anyway. He stands up and stretches.

Come on. I'll walk you home.

[Emily Littleton] Likewise James does not need to know what the too-thin Apprentice beside him could do (has done) with the sort of weapon he carries. What an application of their primary sphere and a little necessity had brought into her life as a sudden, stark reality. There is far more than symbols that taunts Emily in her sleep, not the least of which being the cold-skinned, blue-lipped girl child she helped ferry from this life to the next on a damp Spring evening.

There's no mirth there, for either of them however easy her admission was. That smile of hers, which he'll be well acquainted with soon, hides a myriad of sins. When he says she shouldn't have to be, Emily doesn't argue. She glances down, and to the side, then back up to meet his eyes.

She stands when he does, slings the messenger bag's strap over her head. She tucks her ball between one arm and the curve of her waist, just above the swell of her hip. It rests there, idly, without her paying it much mind.

"You don't have to," she tells him, but there's not much weight to it. "I can mind myself," she adds. It's possible that Emily is testing boundaries; it's possible too that she doesn't want him to go out of his way for her. If he so much as casts her a cautionary look, or rolls his eyes, she will recant and accept the company.

[James Blake] There is no caution in his look. He doesn't roll his eyes. But James does give her a look that's easily understood. Give me a break. He doesn't lecture her about the dangers of walking alone at night. Doesn't tell her that there are plenty of things out there that would love to drag her off, human and not so human. He scratches the back of his head, then says, out loud, "My wife used to say that." When he's done scratching he makes the Come on sign again, and starts walking.

[Emily Littleton] It's not the look he gives her, but what he says, that quells the rebellious streak in Emily. Not that it was terribly pronounced to begin with, just that it is noticeably absent immediately after he says my wife used to.... She follows, then, without hesitation. She also does not seem to draw attention to the phrasing, to the tense choice. Emily minds her ball while they walk, keeps a reasonable closeness to him without being in his space or problematically far.

She knows this drill; it is an automatic thing. Emily is not he sort who needs to fill every moment they are near one another with words, with conversation, mindless or otherwise. They fall into companionable quiet, unless James maintains the conversation somehow.

Her walk up is not so very far away. Brick-faced and in need of moderate repair, it's a well-enough place. It's not as nice as it might be, given the neighborhood, and James will notice (if he's keen on details) that the building's front door requires no key. It yields when she opens it, with the barest of pressure. It keeps out nothing but the wind.

Emily does not invite him up, but she does make sure he has her number, some way to contact him, and that he's not shy about using it. There's a Thank you in there, as well, both sign and spoken, before they part ways. Then it's up the flights of stairs, past the lift that will not work, and into her small flat she goes.