Temptation and waiting

[Emily Littleton] [Subterfuge: -1 die]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 3, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] It's been awhile since they saw each other for tea, began the long and twisted path of catching up and determining who they be to one another in their newly-changed lives. For Emily, it's felt like a lifetime. She's journeyed into the Labyrinth, emerged changed and diminished, sworn her vows and taken on the sacred duties of her chosen Tradition. She's been cut to the quick and left to mend, slowly, as her body finishes the work her Will began. But mostly? Mostly she's been struggling to find her place, again, in the unsteady social tide of the city.

In August, there was a great egress. And yet Jarod returned. More than halfway through, Emily is still not sure what September will bring.

Mid-evening-ish, she calls, asks if he might mind company once Ilana has finished her homework and turned in for the evening. Emily does not know the schedule of a school-age girl, but she can guess at it from some social cues. She can piece together a workable idea, from the stories she's overheard time and again. But it's only a guess, never a surety.

It's raining, again, by the time she approaches his building, but Emily has an umbrella with her this time. Usually she does not bother to ward off the rain, but tonight she does not want it to bead up on the light lambswool sweater she wears (lavender [he might remember the hue from the Winter before]) with her jeans tonight. There's no messenger bag slung across her body, instead a small purse is tucked under one arm and close to her ribs. She's gotten better at carrying herself so no one can tell she's hurting; the meds help a little; practice helps the most. Emily's called on long-forgotten body postures and cautiousness to cast herself hale, whole.

Greeting the lobby staff with a warm enough smile (probably friendlier than they get from most guests), she waits to be sent up the long elevator ride to his floor. She's remembered to wipe clean the soles of her shoes so that she wouldn't be pained so at the scrape of footsteps along the polished wood floor.

There's a quiet knock on his door, however certainly she is expected. Then a pause, and another. Only two. Only ever two. And Emily waits quietly for Jarod to answer.

[Jarod Nightingale] [Per+Empathy - can you really hide this from me?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 1, 8, 9, 9 (Success x 1 at target 5)

[Jarod Nightingale] [Apparently so.]

[Jarod Nightingale] [Screw you, empathy dice, I'm a life mage]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 5, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 3)

[Emily Littleton] In the times in the past when Jarod had checked on Emily's pattern, he found small hurts, bruises or a cut here or there, never anything as clear and malicious as what he sees now.

There are bruises down her arms and blossoming across her chest, but they are mostly healed now. They are just echoes, now, of what they were a few days ago.

The majority of the damage she carries is internal, as if something had cut into her pattern directly, twisted and warped it without ever leaving a laceration or welt on the skin above. It's been healed, partially, but whoever began that rote did not have the decency (or capability) to see it through. Around the margins of what was hurt-then-healed, her body is fitting itself back together. There will be scar tissue, it's gone long enough now that some things will not heal perfectly, not even with magical intervention.

She is stable and not worsening.
to Jarod Nightingale

[Jarod Nightingale] [How clear are my reactions?]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 3, 9, 10 (Failure at target 6)

[Jarod Nightingale] They haven't spoken in a week. No, more than a week. Since then, aside from the meeting with Ashley, the days had passed in some sense of mundane normalcy for one of them, at least. Lately, Jarod's days were filled with responsibilities: the responsibilities of being a parent, and the responsibilities required of someone who is trying to change the world one small step at a time.

This was a fact about his life that most people never knew. He'd seldom spoken about it even to Emily. But this... this was something that had been a long time coming. Not just any opportunity, but the right opportunity. The right people, the right project, the right timing. But it took energy, these things. Balancing a heavy amount of responsibility had never really been one of Jarod's strong points, character-wise, and it strained him a little. The weight of it. The feeling of being tied down to things. He was exploiting a system that he had highly ambivalent feelings about, but that, at least, was nothing new for him.

He looked a little tired when he opened the door. Not from lack of sleep. Just... drained. Then again, he hadn't been through a Nephandic labyrinth. So it was probably safe to say that of the two of them, Emily had been through a significantly worse time of things lately. (One could not really compare the two.) She was good at hiding things, though. She'd had many years of practice at pretending to be okay even when she wasn't. So there was a soft smile from the man as he leaned against the doorframe, and for a moment there, perhaps he forgot that things had changed between them, because he reached out and brushed a few strands of hair behind her ear, affectionately.

(Maybe he just missed her.)

But that smile fell when he touched her, and there was a moment where it seemed like he had to school himself not to be worried (because Emily could take care of herself, and because things were different now.) Maybe it was because he was tired, but for some reason, it didn't work tonight. The ice that usually covered the nuances of his emotions had melted in places. He didn't say anything about her injuries.

But he looked... sad.

Then he stepped back to allow her entry. As usual his feet were bare. But he was dressed in a pair of black pinstripe pants and a buttoned white shirt that suggested he'd probably been out earlier. There was a relaxed air about the way he wore these things now, though. No jacket. Buttons partially undone. Sleeves rolled up.

"Ilana's in bed, so we'll have to be quiet, but the walls are pretty thick. I'm glad you came by."

[Emily Littleton] [Aware as Empathy, -1 die: You seem... sad?]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] For a moment, then, perhaps it seemed like things had not changed so very much between them. Jarod swept a few strands of hair behind her ear and Emily's eyes closed for a moment, lashes kissing the ridge of her cheekbones demurely. There's a softness to her eyes when they blink open again; it's affection, remembrance, and likely something more. Or maybe something ever so slightly less, diminished, quieted.

His smile falls and her brow creases with a concerned note. It mirrors what she picks up in his expression but this, like so many moments before it, is a wordless thing between them. They often say so much more to one another when neither says a thing.

He's worried.
Maybe she, too, forgets the time that has passed between them, because she reaches out to gently lay a hand on his arm as she moves into the apartment. It's a small touch, a little affectionate thing, effortless for people like them -- if it were only just a seeming.

She leaves her shoes in the entryway, tucked up near the wall as always. She leaves her purse beside them, and Emily's phone will not ring while she's here.

"I hope you don't mind," she says; it's part of the dance, a nicety, the things they say to one another while meaning something else entirely. "I wanted the company."

She doesn't say: I wanted your company. He's left to read into that what he will.

[Jarod Nightingale] Jarod's fame wasn't very far-reaching, and frankly he preferred it that way, for all that it often seemed like he courted a certain kind of celebrity. Very few people in the States knew who he was. Occasionally someone would recognize him from a print ad, and those who were up with the fashion business knew him by name. In Asia, it was a little more noticeable, but even there, it wasn't like he couldn't walk down the street unmolested. He was known, but he wasn't a supermodel. (And most models, even those who did well in the business, tended to blend into their work. That was part of their job, really. To be beautiful but nameless.)

Suffice to say, it was an unusual occurrence for him to be on the news. Something worthy of note, perhaps. This was not the first time it had happened, granted. There'd been a few tabloid journalists in Japan and Korea, and twice while he was a kid, he'd been on the local news very briefly. (Once, after being arrested along with a handful of other middle-school aged children at a rave, and once when his father had been interviewed for a story on the Texas oil business.) This was the first time that actually mattered, though. So perhaps he should have said something about it, but... he didn't.

Instead he shut and locked the door, and returned Emily's gesture with a brief touch of his hand on her shoulder. (It was easy to touch her. There was familiarity in it.) "I don't mind. I don't get to have people over as often as I used to. Can I get you anything?" This last was asked as he wandered into the kitchen and picked up a half-full glass of water from the counter that he'd likely been midway through drinking when she'd knocked on the door. It wasn't very cold outside tonight, but an orange glow emanated from the fireplace, along with the muted snap of burning wood. A comforting thing, that. It made the place seem a little more homey.

[Emily Littleton] There was a billboard in Taipei. Emily remembers it because she stopped, cold, in the middle of the crossing-way -- which was hardly a good idea, even in a well marked margin of traffic -- until her friend had tugged her out of the street. Stopped and stared at the stories-tall portrait of a man she knew, State-side, under very different circumstances. They'd talked about it, lightly, in near-misses and glancing words. It had been a thing to laugh about.

Billboards aren't interactive, he'd said. If you can't fuck it, what's the point?

So it had been less of a shock to her system when he'd appeared, rather professionally attired, on the local newscast. Irritatingly, this had prompted a labmate to tug her into the break room -- she made a point not to let her fellow graduate students know that her extracurricular pursuits had left her flirting with the idea of admitting herself to the hospital Tuesday night -- to watch the Tree of Life story.

You know him, right? someone had asked Emily.

Emily had imperiously arched one eyebrow. She was unlikely to like whatever came next.

Can you get me an internship there?

She'd snorted, rolled her eyes and gone back to the lab.

He doesn't mention the spot, and neither does she. Just yet. She won't be asking after open internships if she does, either. Emily hadn't come by to snoop about the edges of his newfound fame. There was a fire in the hearth, and it made his flat seem homier. Somewhere there was a young girl sleeping, and they were quieter, voices were hushed, footsteps softer because of it.

It felt almost like a home, and he was familiar. More than familiar, Jarod had been someone she could consider a friend. Emily wasn't here to talk about magery, or engineering, or the trials of raising a pre-teen daughter. She was here to be within arm's reach of someone she'd once held close. It's a comfort thing. It's obvious in how she keeps near him without invading his space; without breaching the boundaries they've rebuilt, not overmuch.

"Mmm, no, thank you. I'm okay," she says. He could argue, might argue (It's Jarod, after all.) And now that he's a parent, he might hand her a glass of water anyway, make some cryptically correct comment about taking care of herself whilst she healed.

"And it's a shame, that you don't have people over much. I like this flat. It's warmer," she tells him. She'd also, quite some time ago, told him that she liked his other flat. It had echoed out aspects of home. This is different; it's a committed warmth; it whispers of permanence and that doesn't scare her quite as much these days.

"How are you two settling in? I hope the city's treating you well."

[Jarod Nightingale] Nothing he could give her would heal her wounds. Not tonight. These were not the kinds of injuries that could be easily mended. Not even by him. Certainly not by a glass of water or a cup of tea. In any case, he didn't press the issue. Merely nodded and took a drink from his own glass before setting it inside the fridge to keep cold. He might have simply dumped the remainder down the drain, but he was a little conscious of these things. He didn't like to be wasteful. Chicago had a more than plentiful supply of water, but it was habit - ingrained from a time when he'd lived in a much more arid landscape.

He walked to the sofa and sat down on the far side, closer the the windows. Shifting into a position of comfort, one of his feet lifted to rest on the cushion, knee bent, and his arm wrapped loosely around the leg, hand resting on his ankle. "I've been busy, but otherwise, things are good." (And this was true, despite the stress.) He smiled a little. "There's a lot going on. I'm trying to quit modeling so I don't have to travel as much. There's a company that I invested in that's starting to take off. I'm hoping things will work out there."

(Not least because he'd invested a rather large chunk of his savings into the business, and couldn't really afford not to get it back.)

"I like it better too," he added after a moment. "The flat, I mean." His eyes shifted from the fire to Emily. "Seems like you've had a longer week than I have." His voice dropped in volume at that last part. Almost a whisper. "Are you okay?"

[Emily Littleton] "I saw the spot, on the news today," she tells him as Emily folds herself into the other corner of the couch. She doesn't do much to hide from him the little tells of relief that cross her features, or show in the way her body slowly relaxes into the cushions. Slowly. Carefully. It's not overt, but now that he knows he can hardly miss the little cues. "It sounds like a solid company. Eight percent efficiency gain is no small feat."

Not only had she seen the spot, she'd done some quick searching to see what she could pull up on the company and the tech. Considering she'd found part of a demon's True Name via google, Emily felt confident that what she'd gathered was at least decent intel. She'd not had time to do much than skim the surface, though. Fact-checking much of what the TV journalist had thrown into a brief short.

"I hope it works out for you. It sounds like a good change."

The smile she offers him is genuine, warmer at its edges and in the way it touches her eyes. It lasts until his voice falls to something softer and his questions turned back to her.

"I'm mending," she tells him, keeping her voice low and steady. It's even. "It was worse, before, but I could heal myself this far." There's no overt pride in how she tells him this; he already knows she is an Initiate now, and that her first foray into higher spheres had been the one he had first taught her. "I'm just too spent to push further right now; I'm afraid I'll make it worse if I slip up."

This is not a plea for help, just a simple statement. She's tired, much like he is, but it isn't pulling her down the way it used to. She seems steady, still, somehow. Grounded.

"What I told you about before? It's done with. It should be safer here for awhile," she says, and Emily doesn't have to glance over her shoulder toward the girl's room for Jarod to know that she's thinking of Ilana's security more than their own, just now.

[Jarod Nightingale] He nodded, accepting her explanation, though it was likely that the underlying concern remained unchanged. Nor did he sound very warm or relaxed when he said, "I'm glad to hear that. Maybe the universe will let you breathe for a little while."

It wasn't a lack of relief that was there in his voice (he was grateful for a respite, no matter how small of one.) But he'd long-ago come to an understanding about the world, and that understanding kept him wary of good news. These things never really ended. One threat might be neutralized, and then another would step up to take its place. On a certain level, it all felt relatively meaningless. Just a bunch of wolves, fighting over territory. On another... it was much more personal. People got hurt. Innocent people. People he cared about. Were it not for Emily and Ilana, he might care a great deal less. The two of them might never know this - how important they were, how much they humanized him.

When he breathed, there was tension in his chest, despite his relaxed pose, but it wasn't very noticeable. There was a heavy feeling in the air, so he said, in an echo of his old self, "Am I intended to be the night's distraction?" And he let the corners of his mouth quirk into a wry smile.

[Emily Littleton] Maybe the universe will let you...

There's so many echoes for Emily in this city, now. Things she hadn't stayed put long enough to run across before. The thing that comes readily to mind to quip here is an echo of something she'd said nearly this-time last year, in a cafe. Something about Fate (you know what they say about...) that had gone enigmatically unfinished. It was in a coffee house. With Adam. She might have been wearing the same sweater.

It catches her by surprise, this predictability she has around him, and so the retort does not slip past her teeth. It is gated. Guarded. And then he's pushed into the wryness for them, asking her, around the heaviness in the air, with that smile, if he might be the night's distraction.

"Oh," she says, with a mirrored bemusement. "I think we both know quite where that game goes." A slightly lofted eyebrow, just quirked, like the perfectly calculated tilt of her head. It's all for show, though, for a moment of recollection and remembrance and echoed warmth (and it is warm, this memory [it is warm and unfettered] no hard feelings for how they left things). It fades when she no longer wishes to hold that piquant moment out, when she does not let it soften and stale to something gentler.

Emily's smile warms, and she shifts on the sofa to rest one elbow over its back. She tips her head into that hand and regard him, with a fondness and familiarity that is unocculted just now.

"Not a distraction," she says, at last, with the weight of sincerity. "I told you: I want the company. It's nice to be around you; we knew each other well once -- or so I like to think. It's ... nice ... to not feel on-guard, or burdened with expectations." Her smile twitches into something faintly rueful, then gentles.

[Jarod Nightingale] He laughed a little, when she said: I think we both know quite where that game goes. This laugh was hardly a denial. It echoed the sentiment completely.

"You say that like it's..." (a sin) "...something we're supposed to resist."

But there was a difference in him, tonight. The banter was just that. It wasn't laden with the full force of desire and determination that so often spurred on his words and actions. He'd said to someone once - If I'm trying to seduce you, you'll know. And it was true. When he really wanted something, he didn't make a halfway showing of it. And his sensuality ran very, very deep.

Emily knew that, of course.

But the banter shifted, because she said something softer (gentler - a little more vulnerable.) Jarod leaned back a little, against the satin throw-pillow that was tucked in behind him at the crook of the arm-rest. In turn, there was something very soft (not hesitant, but honest and intimate) in the way his mouth turned up. "I know what you mean." And though he may not have been able to claim that he felt entirely unguarded, it was true that they were both something closer to themselves when around each other. There was an ease, there.

"And I'm glad, if I make things easier for you in some way."

[Emily Littleton] "Ah... I think it might be, for me, for a while yet at least," she said, in a bemused and bewildered tone of nonchalance that spoke quite candidly to her confusion on this front. It didn't explain the circumstances, or even truly hint at it, but his laughter had called forth a familiar lop-sided smirk that played into this muddled moment perfectly.

Emily shrugged a little, brushing that thought aside.

"That was supposed to be my line, someday," she tells him, lifting one hand to point at him with one lazily trailing finger. Waggled, somewhat. Vaguely disapproving (just for show). "When I grew up and out of my apprenticeship and all of that. It was supposed to make things easier on you."

She's not chastizing him, not quite, but that tone is touched upon lightly. Playfully. For all her breathing is careful and her body is mending, there's a renewed warmth in Emily. He had not seen her in June, so he cannot know how much better she is now. A part of that is his to claim; some of it is her own.

She shifts a little, so that she can fold her legs up beneath her on the couch, and lean into the back a little more to support her sore torso. Things are not quite comfortable for her, so she moves more often. Small resettlings. Little bits of disquiet.

[Jarod Nightingale] [Per+Empathy - what was that now?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 6, 6, 8, 10 (Success x 4 at target 5)

[Emily Littleton] She's not lingering on it, this half-admission that very few would have caught, so Jarod has only a moment to suss it out before it fades. What is clear is that she's not talking about her injuries -- this waiting is of another nature.

That she's waiting at all is most perplexing. Emily, who says Goodbye as if she'll never return, is unaccustomed to it. She does not wear or weather it well. There's a fondness and regret underlying the befuddlement. And a sadness; poignant; still sharp but fading. No bitterness. Not just yet.
to Jarod Nightingale

[Jarod Nightingale] [Man+Sub]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 3, 3, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Jarod Nightingale] It was very much a truth, between them, that often more was said in silence than in words. Emily said something in response to his delicate jest, and there was... something there. Meaning lay heavy and only-just-barely unspoken. And perhaps, to some extent, he'd anticipated that Emily's life would change in many ways (this one included), because when he heard the conflicted tone in her voice, he did not brush it off as shyness (they were long past that) or a symptom of her injuries. He watched her, and there was a soft but direct focus to his attention. The kind of measuring gaze that nearly always signified that he'd noticed something he wasn't supposed to see.

But to his credit, he was... careful, with his reaction. Perhaps that was for her benefit. (Perhaps that was for his own.) He smiled a little, again, but there was something lacking in it, this time. (It felt distracted.)

"We make our own lives easy or difficult. It isn't really for other people to change."

(And oh, what a very patently Jarod thing to say.)

And then, after some silence: "I'm sorry if I imposed on you. I've been gone a long time. I imagine that the details of your life have changed. That's only natural." (He'd returned with the addition of a daughter, after all. It was not at all unlikely that Emily would have found other friends, other lovers, and for all that she resisted attachment, that sort of thing tended to happen of its own accord, if one wasn't careful.

[Emily Littleton] [Aware as Empathy! -1 die, ow.]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 5, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] It's quiet between them for a moment, and not the sort of effortless companionable quiet they had once been accustomed to. This one is gravid, pregnant with things they are not saying. He looked at her, like that and then schooled away his reactions. It is enough, tonight, to slip by her. Perhaps because of the hurts she carries, or other distractions.

"You didn't," she says, first, and her brow draws together a little. Eyes narrow dismissively before she waves that off. This is candid; they would both know if he had imposed upon her in any way. Jarod didn't half-ass anything, especially not these topics. She draws a little breath, holds it a moment, and then exhales it in an uncharacteristically flustered manner.

"I... I find myself waiting on someone." She says the phrase like it's an imperfect term from a foreign language. Heavy and awkward on her tongue. Novel. Strange. "I'm not very good at it, truth be told. I've not practice at all with it. So the awkwardness, here, is mine."

She rolls a silent chuckle against her vocal chords, just once. It comes across as more of a huff. That much doesn't cause her to wince, not this time. She shakes her head.

"Aiya. I'm not used to falling in with people unfamiliar with the rules of Goodbye. You," she says, and looks back at him, directly. "You had the decency to go when you needed to, and leave it at that."

There's a gratitude in the way she talks about their parting, no malice held over the long months to unleash on him when he'd come back. As if he'd left her free, unfettered -- aching, yes, because that's not something she'd pull back from him, but able to pursue her own ends and means. She hadn't waited on him. He hadn't promised to come back to her. They'd parted ways. End of story.

And now he was back, and they were talking, like old times. The thought bothers her, for a moment, and that ill-ease crosses her features faintly. Emily drags her fingertips through her hair, lets her hand come to rest on her shoulder for a moment.

"I suppose this is when most people say It's complicated."

She presses her eyes shut for a moment, then exhales heavily again.

"This is -- I'm sorry." Flustered. "I'm not supposed to talk to about this, am I? Can we --" A small frown. "Ah, if I'm squarely out of line, we can write this all off to the medications, right?" A smaller smile, almost sheepish; worried.

[Jarod Nightingale] He rolled his head a little to one side as he watched her (something indicative of curiosity - one of those almost animalistic gestures that he tended to exhibit unconsciously), and listened patiently as she tried to explain what she was feeling. This wasn't easy to put into words. He understood that. Neither of them were very good at expressing their emotions verbally.

Once, only, he looked away. At something else - the fireplace, the flickering orange heat that resided there. The glowing embers, held safe behind pristine glass. It was at the beginning, when she'd said, I find myself waiting on someone. But it was a momentary thing.

His gaze softened a little at the end, with her flustered apology, and he shook his head gently in rebuttal. "You can, and should, talk about whatever you want to talk about. You aren't out of line in the slightest."

After a moment, he added: "Though I am a little surprised. I suppose, if you're waiting, then he must be worth waiting for." And for once, thankfully, he did not make one of his usual nihilistic comments. Whatever he thought of her situation, he kept it to himself.

[Emily Littleton] [Subterfuge, -1 oww.]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 6, 7 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Jarod Nightingale] [Per+Sub - cause I'm evil]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 4, 6, 7, 7, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] Neither of them were very good at expressing their emotions verbally, oh, but they were light years ahead of the person whose absence was currently be talking around without naming it. The man she was waiting on, in a most un-Emily fashion.

Maybe that's why she only almost fell into that opening at the end of his pleasantly accepting statement. (Not nihilistic at all ['tis a trap!]). Why her lips parted and she drew a little breathe before:

"Ah. Ha. On that front, I have no comment, Mr. Nightingale. You should form your own opinions." Ah, yes, the triumphant return of the wry smile and carefully poised pronunciation. There's a warmth underscoring it, but that could be appreciation for his acceptance or a fondness for the missing party.

Or both. Possibly a little of both.

There is, though, a hidden sense of tension when she says he'll have to form his own opinion. Most days, she'd be quick enough to hide it away. From most people. But Jarod was not most people, and their time apart had not deceived her into thinking she could keep her small tells from him. (In this manner [and perhaps only this manner] the two were alike.) She is uncertain about the idea of them meeting -- there's a myriad of possible reasons for that. This time, it's the simplest among them: She does not think that they will get along.

At all.

[Jarod Nightingale] [Subterfuge +1]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 3, 6, 8 (Success x 1 at target 7)

[Emily Littleton] [Per + Subterfuge, -1 die]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 4, 5, 6, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Jarod Nightingale] Clever girl. She was wise to his subtle conversational manipulations. More than most. But not more than he expected her to be. On any other day, he would have smiled at that, as if in silent approval. Tonight, though, his reaction was muted (distant.)

There was a slight movement in the muscles around his eyes. A minute expression, barely noticeable. In and of itself, it didn't express much, but the fact that he stopped this expression from forming was telling enough. And maybe Emily would see the way his chest tightened when she said: You should form your own opinions. As if she'd just suggested that he try jumping in a swimming pool filled with maggots. (Well, maybe not quite that awful.)

He glossed over it, though, of course. He always did. And there was a smirk, and he let his foot slide back gently to the ground as he shifted position, closing some of the distance between them. When he came to rest on the cushion next to her, he leaned in almost... conspiratorially.

"Is he hot? Maybe we should all go for drinks some time."

There was a certain amount of deliberate playfulness in that comment. Enough that Emily would know the implied suggestion was mostly teasing in nature. (Hopefully.)

[Emily Littleton] [...]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 7, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] He leans in, all conspiratorially, and suggest that they should all go out for drink some time. It's everything Emily can do to keep the sudden burst of laughter from erupting from her, aloud, stifling it instead behind playfully pursed lips and a little shake of her head. The laughter, though, touches her eyes and leaves them brighter. Dancing.

"Oh, love," she says, breathing out the endearment with mirth and fondness both. "I do not think he is quite your type." Each word is enunciated just so, but the tripping cadence to it takes the sting off that particularness, leaves them all but lilting in the small space between them. They are light, faintly shimmering with that open amusement.

"Also," mock-serious no. Would be serious-serious if she could manage it, but she couldn't just yet. "He doesn't drink." A little shrug of her shoulders, very what can you do. As if that, alone, would render Jarod's plan inconceivable (oh, but he is so much more tricksy than that).

"But, yes," she tells him, her tone almost perfunctory now against the brightness of her amusement. "I find him attractive." (Thank you for asking.)

[Jarod Nightingale] She didn't think that this man (whoever he was) was quite Jarod's type. In truth, they'd never really spoken about what his preferences may or may not be regarding the male sex. There'd been Nick, of course, whom Emily had met once. Some assumptions could be made from that, if indeed the blond sociology student was indicative of a certain type. Nick had been (was) very attractive, a bit boyish, smaller in stature than Jarod himself was, intellectual, emotionally sensitive, and, from what Emily had seen, not always tremendously good at hiding what he was feeling. He was also very personable, under more favorable circumstances.

A rather large portion of that list probably did not fit Owen very well at all, so perhaps her assumption was accurate. Then again, it was more likely that what she really meant when she said that was: He is completely straight. And of course, Jarod knew that. But still, he said, a little challengingly: "And how do you know my type, hmm? My tastes might be broader than you think."

But then, there was the drinking comment, and Jarod made a bit of a face. "How very responsible of him."

He did not respond to the statement of mystery-man's level of attractiveness. Instead, he glanced at the cuticles of his nails absently. When he looked up, there was something a little... devilish, in his eyes. It was very reminiscent of past encounters, when the two of them were only just getting to know each other, and he'd been something of a symbol of the most divine sort of deviance.

"Well, if you get tired of waiting, I'll be here."

[Emily Littleton] For once, Emily is not really saying all that much more than what's she's offered up. Nick was personable, articulate if a bit overly-emotive, and Emily herself had a fair helping of social skills (when she wanted to play nice). Jarod was manipulative, and clever, and played with language (and people). Owen's taciturn and often blunt personality would likely not sit well.

"How about this. If you two ever meet, you can tell me if I'm wrong about this type thing, mmm?" She doesn't say when because Emily does not yet believe that Owen will return. And she doesn't say when because this is a hypothetical situation she has no need to force into a reality. And she doesn't say when, because she cannot force the word across her lips. Like Home, it is resonant in all the wrong ways to be spoken so cavalier and unthinkingly.

But that last statement of his, however casually he phrases it, however easily throw out there it is, it catches Emily's breath, steals her glance away from him and toward the fire for a moment. There's a quiet, another heavy and thoughtful moment between them. The smile that curls at the corner of her mouth is fond, and gently colored with regret.

"Ah. See. And I think," she says, lofting that word upward, positing it precariously. "That that, right there... that's my cue to head home." She's starting stand, but it's a slower process than usual tonight. It makes this a thoughtful thing, not a hasty exit. "I need a little more bedrest and a lot less meds before that."

That is the devilry in his eyes, the temptation there (for both of them). It finds an echo in the fondness of Emily's own expression, in a caged and kept wistfulness she's not ready to share but can't quite keep at bay. Hence the retreat, and the unwillingness to toy further with fire. Just yet.

"Though I've a feeling..." (Ahem. Not playing with fire?) "That when I get there, you'll be among the first to know."

[Jarod Nightingale] There was... some regret, after he'd uttered that oh-so-casual (but far too dangerous) offer. Jarod watched Emily's reaction and... felt the whispers of something that most people probably assumed he didn't have (a conscience.) This had nothing at all to do with mystery-man, whose relationship with Emily was not the slightest bit sacrosanct in Jarod's mind, and everything to do with Emily herself. Emily, who deserved to be happy. Emily, who deserved to have someone stable and strong and loving. Someone who did not follow every single selfish whim. Someone who did not hold back from forming genuine bonds. Someone who did not dangle temptation in front of her simply because he could. Someone who knew what it really was to love another person.

(That word that Jarod had not uttered even once, in its true meaning, since his mom's death nearly 20 years ago.)

And maybe this other person was none of those things either. Jarod had no way of knowing. What he did know, however... was that he, himself, certainly wasn't.

So there was a knowing smile, and oh, the soft flames that danced in his eyes. And they both remembered many things. And those memories flared up, unspoken but very much present. Strangely, the shift in his expression didn't come until she offered him a hint of what it seemed like he wanted. The seductive gleam brightened momentarily, but then... his Cheshire-cat smile receded, and his face softened. He glanced away, and then back.

"You should do what makes you happy. Don't listen to me. All I ever do is get people into trouble."

And then he stood, and walked toward the door so that he could hold it open for her. (Gracious, in spite of everything. It was habit, those courtesies.) He smiled again, though, when she came near, and waited patiently for her to gather up her bag and put the shoes back on her feet. And, when she passed into the hallway, he reached out and touched her shoulder, letting his fingers trail down her arm until he touched nothing but air.

[Emily Littleton] "That's not all you do," she says, and this is firmly. Gentle, but clear. She's not buying into that line, not now and likely not ever. They have known each other better than that; the statement was too general and absolute to let slip past.

And Jarod, for all his graciousness and hospitality, for the whisper of fingertips that trailed down her arm, is not left with little more than air in the wake of her leaving. Emily kisses his cheek before she goes, rests a hand on his arm for a moment. A light touch. These small affections are left, without promises or expectations, even in light of the turn their conversation had taken at the end.

"Good night, Jarod," she says. Tonight it is not goodbye.