What happens in Madison...

[Jarod Nightingale] If anyone who knew Jarod prior to this year had been told that some day he would be taking a couple of kids on a Birthday trip, they would have laughed. Hell, if you'd told him, he would have laughed. But that was the thing about life: things happened that you didn't anticipate, and the choice was to either resist those changes or adapt to them. The real trick, of course, was to adapt without becoming someone wholly different. To change without losing the vital qualities of self. In this, Jarod had succeeded. He was still very much himself. Now he was simply a version of himself that went to children's museums and special ordered birthday cakes. These things were easier to accept when he didn't think about the ramifications too much, so he tried, for the most part, not to do so. Instead he focused on making Ilana happy (or trying to), which was enough of its own reward to cancel out his anxieties.

When Emily arrived at his place early on the morning of the 30th, she'd find him with a small assortment of expensive-looking luggage that he was in the midst of carrying down to the car. Ilana was in the living room with a brown-eyed, sandy-haired boy her age whom Emily hadn't met. His name was Logan, and he was the same age (slightly younger - he'd been a summer baby) and went to the same school as Ilana. The two of them were best friends in the way that only children could be, practically attached at the hip at times. Neither of them knew where they were going - only that they were going on a trip. They seemed alert and excited, and would bounce up and down on the sofa whenever Jarod wasn't actively watching them.

When everything was ready, and the kids had finished their breakfast, they all piled into the M3 and headed out of the city. Once they'd reached the highway, Ilana had insisted (and rightfully so) that they listen to a playlist that Nick had made for her as a birthday present. This was the first time that Emily would have heard any mention of Nick since their fateful encounter many months ago, and knowing how she probably felt about the man, Jarod had glanced at her to gauge her reaction, and explained briefly that Nick watched Ilana for him now and then - because he was someone that he trusted with her (one of the only people) who was not... a part of their world. (In other words, he was safe.) Following this, Ilana had complained about the lack of her favored sitter's presence, and was reminded by Jarod that Nick had to spend the holiday with his boyfriend. (It was likely that he'd vocalized this information not only for Ilana's benefit.)

To his credit, he did not complain once about the music selection, though it was undoubtedly much too cute and peppy for his own tastes. Ilana and Logan seemed to know one of the songs by heart (Sons and Daughters by the Decemberists), and they sang along with it loudly. It was the last song, though, that made Jarod glance at the face of the car-stereo and smile softly.

keep all your crows away
hold skinny wolves at bay
in silver piles of smiles
may all your days be gold my child

Upon arriving in Madison, Ilana set about gleefully looking out the windows and pointing to various landmarks as she spoke of them to Logan. This was a place she had been before, and loved. It had some sentiment (which was, naturally, a large part of the reason that Jarod had brought them here.) They checked into their hotel (the Concourse, which was exactly as luxurious a setting as one would imagine Jarod preferring), then walked down to State Street to get lunch, where they ate at a Nepalese restaurant with extremely good lassi drinks. (The mango was the universal favorite with the kids, and had a lingering note of cardamom.)

Under normal circumstances, Ilana might have complained that she was too old for children's museums, but this one in particular held good memories for her, so when the idea was suggested, she happily went along with it. The Madison Children's Museum was a big place, full of hands-on exhibits that most adults seemed to enjoy nearly as much as their children. It had both art and science, and a large outdoor garden (though sadly the plants had gone to ground for the winter) with sculptures and a play area. For the most part, they avoided the groups of smaller children, and Jarod sat back and watched as Ilana and Logan tinkered thoughtfully with the various displays.

Of course, there was really only so much of squealing children that Jarod could handle, but he held up admirably until it seemed as if Ilana was ready to leave, making only the occasional grumbling comment to Emily when neither of the kids could hear him. He was, however, more than happy to leave by the time they exited the building.

From there the group of them walked around, heading up to the capitol, where the kids played tag (with their seemingly endless amounts of energy) along the marble halls, their laughter echoing resoundingly through the large building. They also visited a tea shop where a loud Slovakian woman pinched Ilana's cheek. (She was not thrilled about this, and momentarily affected a very Jarod-esque expression.)

Dinner was at a Scandinavian restaurant called Magnus that served what could arguably be called the best fish in the city. They had great cocktails too, but Jarod, knowing what he had planned for the evening, only drank one - a mix of grapefruit and tequila that was pleasantly dry and bitter. By the end of dinner, the kids were finally beginning to tire, but Ilana perked up when she was told that she was going to get to see her aunt. Maia was even more excited to see her, and when they arrived at Jarod's sister's apartment, the younger woman beamed happily and threw her arms around the girl, giving her a kiss on the cheek. "Happy almost-birthday to my favorite niece!"

"Aren't I your only niece?" Ilana asked, though she seemed pleased in spite of herself.

"Details, details." Maia released her and turned to Logan, holding out her hand to introduce herself to the boy. Once the two of them had officially met, she stood up and gave Jarod a hug, which seemed to surprise him slightly, but he held up gamely, with only a slight roll of his eyes to indicate that familial affection made him uncomfortable. "Nice to see you too, Maia."

She turned her focus to Emily next, giving her a shrewd (but playful) once-over before smiling and offering her hand. "I remember you. Emily, right? Don't let him drag you into too much trouble tonight."

[Emily Littleton] Jarod and Emily had long traded travel stories, so it cannot be surprising to him when she shows up with one small bag for the weekend and not her messenger bag. The laptop, her things, whatever changes of clothes and toiletries she needs all fit into something that would still be considered a small carryon by most airlines -- even with today's hostile security agents. There's a silver tag on it, too, which has her name and address, as it is, also unsurprisingly, the bag she actually takes on weekend trips by plane.

It is quite possibly the first time Jarod has ever seen her middle initial (which is V [short for very good question, Mr. Nightingale, but I won't be telling you]). Emily introduces herself to Logan, intimates with a waggle of eyebrows and a broader smile for Ilana that there is, indeed, a present for her hiding away in that small bag. Oh, but she doesn't mention it until Jarod has already taken it down to the car.

Too bad, so sad. She'll have to wait until this evening to get all sugared up and incorrigible.

It is possible that Ilana and Logan may have goaded Emily into singing along in the car, had she known the words to any of the songs. And if they insisted on telling her them, then she would try, in her best insufferable adult sort of way, to make a game of the experience along the long drive to Madison. Car trips were untroubling to the Singer, who could read with even the most trying of distractions and had spent more hours than she cared to think of with her attention halfway between the windscreen and the great beyond. But mostly those car trips were between points in continental Europe; she'd done little exploring by automobile in the States.

The mention of Nick piqued Emily's interest, but that was all. There was no bristle, especially as Ilana seemed so fond of him. There was, though, a little knowing look when Jarod mentioned the Sleeper's boyfriend. Oh, it was possible, just now, that Emily and Nick might have been able to occupy the same room for a birthday party without enmity. However, that good will did not extend to hours-long car trips, and she was glad he'd had other plans.

At the children's museum -- which is not the sort of museum Emily had ever known as a child -- she explored the exhibits and joined in play, whenever she was tolerated by the younger contingent. She was happy to be a structural consultant when they flexed their young engineering skills, or to cheer enthusiastically if they were playing some sort of eccentric sport, but she left the finer points of discussing their finger painting's merits or the magnetic poetry sonnets to Jarod, who was better versed in the arts.

By the end of a long day of exuberant children, Emily seemed a little more human herself. Unwound enough that she did not bristle at meeting Maia again, but rather smiled that warm (and yet politically careful) Diplomat's Daughter's smile when Jarod's sister's attention turned toward her.

"It's nice to see you again, Maia," she says, and there's a sweetness to her voice even if there is a dark something wicked to the corner of her eyes. Oh yes, this woman well knows her brother's wiles. If they two were to, say, leave him with the children and go out on their own? Oh the stories they could tell. You see, Emily has gotten better at this game since last she met Maia.

"I think I'll be quite alright," she says, letting the wryness seep into her smirk-smile now. "But thank you for the warning!" Here, then, she glances to Jarod, as if they might silently agree, in the way the women sometimes did, that he ought come with warning labels of one flavor or another.

[Jarod Nightingale] Oh yes, Maia knew her brother's wiles, though to be fair... not quite as well as her older sister did. Violet had seen and heard more of Jarod's wicked pursuits than she ever had cared to, but as she now lived in Boston, she was not present for this particular event, and could not have voiced her agreement even had she desired to. Nonetheless, had Emily and Maia decided to make a night of it, they could have indeed swapped stories. Luckily for him, then, that neither of them suggested this.

"Don't bother with Club 5," she offered to her brother by way of advice for the evening's plans. "They're having this big country-western thing, and Inferno is making people wear costumes." She turned and held the door open so that the kids could wander inside, which they did without much preamble.

"I was going to go the Cardinal Bar anyway," Jarod offered with a shrug. "I'm not sure when we'll be back, but if it gets late, here's the keys to our rooms at the Concourse. You can hang out there after they go to sleep. Order something if you want. No porn."

Maia rolled her eyes as she took the key-cards from him. "Yes that's just what I was going to do. Right after I invited my new boyfriend over to do some coke." For all the teasing, she didn't seem offended. This was a joke between them. (Possibly based on some memory or another - Maia was, after all, no perfect princess herself.) "Give me some credit, big brother. I work at a day-care for fuck sake. Y'all go and have a good time. I promise I will not break or misplace the children."

Jarod smiled. "Thanks."

"Yeah yeah, go away, we have plotting to do." And with that, Maia disappeared behind the door, leaving Jarod and Emily to their own devices.

After getting back down to the car, Jarod paused to close his eyes and take in a long, calming breath. It wasn't that he'd been stressed or had an unpleasant time. Far from it. In fact, he'd been unusually good-tempered and friendly all day long. It was obvious just from watching them interact that he loved his daughter, and he seemed more than a little fond of Logan as well. These kinds of things just tended to take a lot out of him, as they usually might with anyone who was not necessarily a natural with children.

"Have I told you how glad I am that you're here? Because I am." A rueful smile accompanied this, shot in Emily's direction as the two of them climbed back into the car.

A short drive later, and they were back at the hotel, in the room the two of them were going to share for the weekend. If they were going to go out dancing, that meant a change of clothes, and so he set about sorting through the things that he'd brought with him to pick out a suitable outfit. Eventually Jarod settled on something, but he left the bathroom for Emily to use (at least for the moment) while he got dressed in the main room.

"Sadly the nightclubs here aren't nearly as nice as the ones in Chicago, but they usually have good drinks, so after awhile, we might not notice."

[Emily Littleton] Jarod and Maia tease one another in quite a different way than Emily and Gregory do. She cannot ever imagine having a conversation with her Brother involving the words "porn" and "coke" and any intimation of her evening activities. So one eyebrow raises a little, but that's about all the side-long query they get.

Even Emily, who seemed far better adjusted to handling children than Jarod may have imagined, exhaled a little sigh of relief when they were reprieved from the young people for a little while. She tipped her head from side to side as they made their way to Jarod's car, and answered his rueful smile with a knowing grin as they slipped into the car.

"You only invited me as a decoy to intermittently draw their fire," she tells him, citing the age old rules of divide and conquer. "I'm wise to your ways," she teases, her voice curling with mischief and good-natured delight. It's as close to laughter as he's heard since he got back to Chicago. Being out of the Windy City has done her well, even if only for a few hours. Jarod is getting to see a bit more of who Emily is, who she was before a few key pieces of her Awakened life fell into place.

And it's that same before that lends her the travel knowledge of packing away a slim-line dress in a fabric that hangs out in no time at all. It's a black sheath with a red underlay, asymmetrically cut about her knees with a flirty hemline and thin straps. If there are some wrinkles left in it, they hardly show. Emily changes in the bathroom, but leaves the door slightly ajar so that they can talk.

"You forget, I think," she tells him, "That I'm still technically a college brat. So long as you don't let any other college brat mistreat me, I'm sure we'll be fine."

There's jest to the words, a light taunt, but also meaning. Earlier this year she'd been assaulted in a club. Emily hadn't told Jarod the whole of it, but he'd seen enough of a shift in her demeanor to guess. Because she trusts him, and because she remembers what the silver does to his abilities, Emily slips the locket off for tonight and puddles it in a loose coil on the coffee table.

[Jarod Nightingale] It wouldn't have been an inappropriate request, even taking away the knowledge of Emily's past, and what had happened to her recently at a club just like the one they were going out to tonight. Madison was a University town, for both better and worse. Usually, it was for the better, but tonight was Halloween weekend and a particularly rowdy festival was occurring on State Street. Even on a normal Saturday night, drunk students populated the downtown area. Tonight, there were huge, teeming crowds of them, dressed in all manner of fun and/or clever and/or inappropriate costumes.

"They can try, but they won't succeed," he offered, matter-of-factly. Jarod was not the most physically intimidating person, but he had a few tricks up his sleeve. Sleepers were not difficult for him to deal with. Thankfully, they weren't likely to run into any serious trouble. Not so long as they avoided State Street. Even then, the people there were much more likely to vandalize property than accost an unknown woman.

When he was done changing, Jarod tapped on the bathroom door to make sure that his entry would not be unwelcome. Assuming that it wasn't, he wandered in and leaned against the counter of the sink, looking at himself in the mirror. The outfit that he'd chosen was a mix of fun and formal - something extremely club-worthy. The pants were black with very thin white pinstripes, and he'd adorned his waist with a thick belt that had a large silver (in color, not in composition - in fact it was probably steel) buckle into which was carved an elaborate asian dragon. The boots on his feet had a heel, adding another couple of inches to his height. On top, he wore a snug-fitted black t-shirt, and both of his wrists had leather bands fasted around them.

A glance at Emily, and he paused for a moment. The gaze was steady, and warm, and he smiled just a little at one corner of his mouth. "You look beautiful."

When he turned back to the mirror, he began to play with his hair. A tiny bit of product between his fingers was applied as he ran them through the soft black strands, then neatened and ordered the shape to his liking. The bits around his face were arranged with rather more care and precision than one might expect, given their intentionally haphazard appearance.

[Emily Littleton] Her called her beautiful and it caught Emily off-guard, captured a rare and unveiled moment where her eyes met his, before her smile softened and she looked down. She willfully shifted that to something a little less intimate, something gently wry.

"You're too kind," she tells him, with the same sort of British coquetry he'd remember from the year before. When they'd first met. When she was a little more uncertain around him. When she was uncertain around him in other ways.

While he's fussing with his hair -- and she'd say it that way, just to get under his skin a little bit -- Emily slips in a pair of drop earrings. She twists back her curls into a loose bun and secures them with half a dozen small clips. If a few escape, trail down to touch her shoulders, then so be it. She is not as precise in her carefully unkempt look as he is. It takes her only a few minutes to put on a light blush of makeup -- mostly around her eyes, she is too pale to wear much without looking overly dramatic. Emily is also rather plain beside him on the best of days; Jarod is the model after all.

She slips on her coat before they go. And maybe it's while he's finishing getting ready, or before they head out the door, but the Singer takes a moment to bend her awareness of space and distance to her once more. Jarod can assure her all he likes that he will keep her safe, and he will keep the co-eds at bay, but there is something in Emily that needs this wrapped around her as well.

"You look quite dashing yourself," she tells him, playing up her accent enough to make the Northern edge sound flirtatious rather than stodgy or particular. She was in heels, but they were not tall enough to make up the height discrepancy between them tonight. Even still, they would make quite the impressively tall couple on the dance floor. Emily was not a short woman, and Jarod attracted attention wherever he went.

The throngs of people will make her nervous enough to keep closer to his side, but that's the only outward tell she gives. Perhaps her hand in the small of his back, firmly enough to be more than glancing, forging a tactile connection as the press of people draw closer.

[Jarod Nightingale] Before they left, there was one more addition to the night's costume (it was always a costume, the things he wore, picked out and arranged to give whatever impression most suited him). Jarod had brought along a case of make-up (some normal, some theatrical) to be used on the kids tomorrow evening. On impulse, he grabbed some things out of it and disappeared for another five minutes in the bathroom. When he came out, there was carefully applied liner around his eyes, and dusting of glitter that sparkled in iridescent color whenever the light caught it just so. The effect wasn't dramatic, especially not compared to the elaborate costumes that other people were likely to be wearing, but it was a nice little touch of something to acknowledge that this was not just any other night on the town.

One could make all sorts of wry insinuations about men who wore makeup, but he more than likely wouldn't have cared. This was, after all, a man who could turn himself into a woman. And yes, he was also a model, which meant that he'd almost certainly been painted and made up in any number of dramatic and glamorous ways. None of this really implied anything. To him it was all just... costume.

She told him that he looked dashing, and he quirked a playful smile in response. It wasn't the borderline-demure response that she'd given him moments earlier, but her compliment had been more playful, and he was more than certainly used to being told that he looked nice. Still, because it was Emily who'd said it, it seemed to make him happy.

The Cardinal Bar was within easy walking distance of their hotel, so there was no need to take the car. Downtown Madison was not a terribly car-friendly location, even on ordinary days. Tonight, the parking situation was nightmarish. So they walked the fifteen minutes it took to arrive at their intended destination, passing by students in various states of inebriation and holiday-inspired glee. No one bothered them, except for a group of young-looking women (probably freshman or sophomores) who sent whistles and cat-calls in their direction. When he glanced over at them, one of the girls turned and flashed a glimpse of her breasts before giggling and running off. Jarod gave a brief, amused chuckle, but otherwise didn't seem particularly phased (or interested.)

When they arrived at the bar, Emily would see that he had indeed not been kidding when he'd warned her that it wasn't like the places they'd been in Chicago. This place was much smaller, and had a more local, indie vibe to it (though that was not necessarily a bad thing.) After paying the cover charge at the door, they swept past the coat-check (where Jarod left his jacket) and made their way into the crowd. As expected, it was a busy night, but not as horribly so as it would be later on when the festival let out. Jarod put his hand on Emily's shoulder and led her to the bar with him, where he promptly signaled to get the bartender's attention. A youngish man with auburn hair approached them with a smile, asking what they'd like. Jarod ordered a dry martini.

After Emily had placed her order, he turned around and leaned against the bar, choosing for the moment not to sit down. His gaze looked out over the dance floor, and the throng of warm bodies that occupied it. "Are you glad you came?" he asked, as if to continue their earlier conversation.

[Emily Littleton] She isn't comfortable in the press of people, less so when they're baring -- was that? Oh, oh my. Emily blushes a little, and casts Jarod a wary (warning) look. She has her limits, when it comes to wanton misbehavior. And there is much Emily will do, but it all stops before the point of public indecency. Or usually stops. How about we don't tell that story, just now, hmm?

Emily left her coat at the check as well, baring her slim shoulders and arms. The press of bodies left the space warmer than the out of doors. She leaned against the bar next to him, placing her side against it so she was turned toward him. She could hear him better this way, and it left little question to any passing observer who she was with tonight. Nevermind that Emily did not need to make eye contact to place anyone else in her immediate vicinity. There were blessings and peace of mind hidden in this simple rote, perhaps the highest of them was that she began to truly relax despite her dislike of the crowd and their threats of rowdy, raucous holiday celebration.

"Yes," she tells him, and the warmth that curls her mouth is genuine instead of being wily and wrought of mischief just now. There's that, too, but it's measured and only a part of what she offers him. "It's good to get away."

"Ilana and Logan seemed to be enjoying themselves," she says. There's a slight fondness to her voice, but it's kept carefully quiet. Emily rests her arm on the bar behind him. Her gaze travels out to the dance floor as well while they wait on their drinks. He's not ordered tequila, so she stays away from her trouble-making favorites as well. Vodka and cranberry. Twist of lime. Please.

[Jarod Nightingale] Indeed, the children had enjoyed themselves immensely. Emily herself had contributed to this, which may have been the reason why Jarod looked at her the way he did when she mentioned them, with an expression that was subtly fond and appreciative. If she paid close attention (if she looked directly in his eyes at that moment), she might catch the deeper emotion behind that look. Or not. Either way, it was given, and then he smiled and kissed her on the cheek. His lips were soft and warm where they touched the edge of her cheekbone. Tonight he smelled like rosewood and a hint of exotic spices.

Just then their drinks arrived, and Jarod picked up his glass to take a drink. Martinis could be deceptively dangerous. They had a very high alcohol content. The gin was icy fire as it slid down his throat.

"Anytime you want to get away," he said, "just tell me."

And he meant that, because he understood what things were like for her right now. Because he'd been there, in almost every conceivable way (though he had reacted to it all a bit differently than she had.) Perhaps he seemed like the type who was never touched by war or tragedy (let alone the type to feel responsible for any of it), but he'd been Awake for a long time, and he hadn't learned the things that he knew by shutting himself in a glass tower.

He didn't talk about that though. He never talked much about his past at all.

He finished off his drink rather quickly, and popped the olive into his mouth. When he bit into it, a burst of brine flooded his senses, overlaying the lingering flavor of the alcohol.

"Dance with me?" he asked, though the answer seemed assumed by the way he lifted away from the bar and gently grasped her wrist to tug her along behind him.

[Emily Littleton] Emily wasn't sure what game they were playing at tonight, precisely, save that there was something hidden behind the tart bite of cranberry that could ease her toward a sort of wickedness befitting the holiday, and that she felt safer with Jarod than she did with almost anyone else. There was a Brother (Warder. Friend.) in another country who stood above him in that sense; there was a dark-haired Singer, who stood a little to the side.

When his hand found her wrist she stilled for a moment. Half a heartbeat, maybe less, though her pulse drummed under his fingertips and her gaze fell to the point where their skin kissed. Whatever it was that held her, frozen, for a moment passed and she finished her drink and followed him out onto the floor with little more than amusement and playfulness in her eyes.

"I'd love to," she tells him, and the words are darkly shaped and resonant. Playful, in a wicked way, as she rolled the thought of making getting away a more habitual thing across her mind. It felt like a positive thing, something that might actually help with the tension she carried, the readiness wound up so tightly at her core that it almost ached.

Emily trailed her fingertips down the back of his shirt, just to one side of his spine, as she followed him out onto the floor. Her mouth was set in a wry smile when he looked back to her next.

[Jarod Nightingale] [Alertness +1(gin)]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 5, 7, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 7)

[Jarod Nightingale] The effects of the alcohol had begun to settle in, and it made the room a little brighter and the drum of the music a little headier. Unlike the last time that Emily had encountered him drinking in a club, there was no heightened stamina to protect him. (Likely he'd planned on using those rotes tomorrow, which meant that a day of rest was required.) The effect was immediate. But it wasn't strong enough to dull his senses, and he was as attuned to Emily's body now as ever he had been. So he noticed the way that her pulse quickened when he touched her, and the momentary hesitance that came with it. He knew what it meant, and where it came from, and when he glanced back, he let his fingers slip away from their delicate hold.

She pushed past it though, so he didn't dwell on the moment beyond that brief, apologetic look. I'd love to, Emily all but purred, and his smile returned. Soon enough they'd threaded their way into the crowd, and Jarod managed to find a place where people weren't pressing too close, so that they could move without brushing against a stranger. Just as they got there, the song turned over, blending from one into the next as beats and rhythms melded. There was an actual DJ playing tonight: a 20-something woman with boy-short hair and tattooed arms, and her selections were a fair notch better than the usual fair that one might find in a club. Just now it was Cult Logic, by Miike Snow. (A very thoroughly Madison song if ever there was one.) The sound was glittery modern disco, and it was easy to slip into. It felt like an escape.

They say everyone is beautiful at the center of the world.

Jarod reached down and grabbed the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head. He would hardly be the only man without a shirt on the dance floor tonight, but he got a few looks all the same. There was a certain cocky abandon to the way he did it, too. As if to say that he knew, without a doubt, just exactly how beautiful he was. There was glitter dusted there, too, on his chest and shoulders. It made him look ethereal in the colored light. (Some kind of Asian fae-creature, perhaps.)

Emily had been offended at the girl's display of breasts on the street. Hopefully she would not hold the same thing against him now. (Then again, he was a man, so the whole thing was considerably less shocking.) In any case, he tossed his shirt to the side, where it landed on the metal rail that surrounded parts of the dance floor. Then he flashed a smile and started dancing, moving with a kind of relaxed grace. It wouldn't take long before he was completely absorbed.

[Emily Littleton] There are things that Emily would not do. She would not go to a club alone, and dance among strangers without either a serious amount of alcohol in her system or the express understanding that she was up to no good. Around Jarod, though, she could loose these restrictions. She could dance just to dance, without needing to be on the edge of something self-destructive, and trust that she'd be walking out with him at the end of the evening. Which might be strange to anyone who knew them both, and separately, that Emily considered him safe. Solid. Trustworthy.

She remembers the last time he took of his shirt and threw it aside. There's a lilt to her eyebrows that reads lightly of a challenge, and a fondness and amusement that curls her mouth. There is no less need to her tonight, but it is a thing caged and kept. All that escapes is a little curl of laughter, before she joined him.

There's no disdain for him going shirtless, either. Emily still had quite an appreciation for his body, for the effortlessness about the way he moved. That grace. She could not emulate it, but being near him left her less overly-aware of how she might look to others and more focused on the moment transpiring between them. Though she could tell the exact placement of everyone around them, they didn't really exist to Emily until Jarod deigned to interact with one of them, or they tried to join this corner of the dance floor.

Jarod could move like a whisper, like an innuendo, fluid and suggestive and alive all the same. Emily could, and did, dance like she had something to leave behind her, a thing to forget, and she trusted him enough to stop worrying about whoever was at her back, to not balk if someone brushed up against them or bumped into them. It all burned away by the time some of his glitter had found its way onto her dress, leaving glimmering outlines of the place where their bodies had almost touched, separated only by damnably thin layers of clothing and the suggestion of space.

[Jarod Nightingale] They'd been here before, in so many ways. But it was a welcome kind of familiar, and not a rote one. Perhaps this was what they were to each other - a warm, glittering escape. Something to fall into. An experience that healed as much as it distracted - a sensation that made the world momentarily bright and beautiful and... stable. Perhaps that was indeed an odd association, given the nature of these two people and the particular activity they found themselves in at the moment, but there it was.

It felt good to be here with her. It felt like home.

So they danced, and they both lost and found themselves. And the songs changed, and the night progressed, and gradually more people began to file in, pumped and excited from the festival. It was when the press of people began to push in on them in a claustrophobic way that Jarod touched Emily's arm and gestured that they should leave. (Better to go when things were still good - before they got unpleasant - and they could ride the high all the way home.) As they pushed back through the crowd, Jarod looked for his abandoned shirt.

But it was gone. He sighed, but didn't really seem too distressed. It wasn't the first shirt he'd lost in a bar, and wouldn't be the last. When they got to the coat check, he tossed his leather jacket over his bare chest, and the girl who'd handed it to him looked momentarily amused. (Perhaps she remembered that he'd been wearing a shirt when he'd come in.) It was warm in the building, and dancing had left his body temperature elevated. He didn't bother to zip the thing up, so the cold breeze outside struck his skin abruptly, like a cold shower after working out. The sensation was welcome relief.

As they walked back to the hotel, Jarod glanced over and noticed the faint sparkle of glitter that had found its way to Emily's dress. The sidewalks were quieter now. People had either gone home for the night or found a bar to while away the hours.

"Sorry about that," he offered with a wry smile as he gestured to her dress.

[Emily Littleton] "It's hardly the worst this dress has seen," she tells him, and there's moonlight caught up in her hair, too, brightening the corners of her eyes and dancing off the glitter he had left on her his, that his skin has left on hers and her dress. Emily slipped back into her coat, which was also a leather jacket (which had softened, now, to be supple even at its cuffs and collar). She had tucked her hands into her pockets when they first left, feeling the cold a little more sharply then he did. But now, as they walked further, she slipped them out again.

If one found its way over to tangle her fingertips with his, well, then Emily would say nothing about it. Saying nothing was what they did best. They spoke volumes without saying a word, so maybe it's the slide of her fingers between his and the delicate pressure of holding onto his hand that say more to him than the quieter expression.

There's the click of heels on the pavement. The flush to their skin and the dampness of sweat and salt. She smells faintly of cedar and clove, a small note of vanilla. He can hear the echo of her laughter from earlier in the day, when she was playing with Logan and Ilana at the museum, or running away from the game of tag at the Capitol.

Her heartbeat takes longer to slow than his does.

"I had fun tonight," she tells him, with a sidelong glance, and the sweetness in it can be forgiven, perhaps, for its stark contrast to the way they'd been dancing. Because she's Emily, and because it's honest, and because there's a moment without wickedness here, witnessed by the Cheshire moon and the nearly quiet street. Her fingers squeeze his and then begin to slip away, so that she can tuck them back into her jacket pocket and keep them safe from the cold.

[Emily Littleton] ((edit: dancing off the glitter has left on *his skin, that his skin has left ...))

[Jarod Nightingale] They passed back by the Capitol now as they walked, heading down one side of the square. It was a beautiful part of town during the summer. The building at the center rose up like a monument, and its grassy lawns were well-manicured, and decorated with flower gardens. This time of year the flowers were gone, but everything else was the same, and the architecture was lit up from beneath by lights buried in the ground.

I had fun tonight, Emily said, as she took his hand. Jarod smiled, and there was something more honest about it than usual.

"Did you know that this building is the tallest Capitol in the country, except for the one in DC? Apparently it was going to be taller even than that one, but someone made a fuss about not upstaging the seat of the Nation's government, or something like that." He smirked a bit as he told her the story, then they rounded the bend that took them down the road to their hotel. When they neared the doors, though... Jarod paused.

He looked at Emily for a long moment - at the way the moonlight lit up the silky curls in her hair, and the way that her dress hung flatteringly off her hips. He looked at her legs (long, elegantly shaped.) That was all momentary, though. It was an appreciative gaze, and not an overt one. Mostly, he looked at her face. At her eyes.

"I meant it, you know. You really do look beautiful."

And he leaned in to kiss her, just beside the corner of her mouth. It was an almost-kiss. Still within the bounds of friendship, but treading close to being something else. Perhaps it would continue along that direction, if she let it. And if not, then this was all it would be.

[Emily Littleton] Jarod gives her a brief history lesson, and Emily studies the dome in the distance for a moment. It is not the shape she thinks of when she thinks Capitol, though she understands how it pervades the American iconography. She can understand why it would matter which dome sat higher, even if elevation changes and topography rendered that idea moot. There's a quirk to her smile and a knowing expression for this bit, a European smugness that says she is elevated beyond such Continental concerns. It passes for lightly teasing between them.

She could claim this heritage, if she wanted to, but only one of the Chicago mages knows that. She keeps that bit of her history hidden away, like the rest of the tiny personal details that flesh out the pieces between the places she's lived. Emily leaves the mortar of it out, whenever she explains her life to anyone. She lets the bright colors and far away places, names to fill up spaces and photographs on the wall tell the story that someone's mind might want to write. There are gaps between these in which she lives, but most people don't notice they're being cheated.

And there are gaps, too, in the response he gets tonight. Because she's always been fond of him, and they've always had a gravity between them. It was foolish to think that they could be this close (close enough to touch) without falling into one another. So her eyes close when he leans in, and her pulse quickens. Anticipation. Hopefulness. There is a very real attraction, and a want, and beneath that want a need she has been trying to conceal. A need to dig her toes back down into the dirt of life, to tangle her fingers in someone's hair, to drown in something so much more vital than memories, or waiting, or words. Damnable words and one armed hugs. There's all of this, just beneath the curl of her breath, and Emily was foolish for ever thinking that Jarod was safe.

Nothing was safe when you wanted it this much.

There's the flush of alcohol in her system, still. Dancing has left them both elevated. Let's not confuse this, in any way, with simple afterglow. They are tied to one another, this Singer and this Verbena, perhaps by Fate, perhaps by nothing more divine than affection, perhaps by nothing more permanent than a string of vivid, real encounters.

He places a kiss at the corner of her mouth. When he withdraws a little, she turns her head, just enough to brush her lips across his, a fleeting touch, a fracture in the wall she's placed between them. When she exhales, her breath shakily fills the space between them. There is a tension to it. It wants. It needs, but does not ask.

For a moment, there is nothing more than the thrum of the night, the warmth of him near, the cadence of their heartbeats. For a moment, it's like no time has passed between them at all.

This is their gravity.

She's falling into it.

[Jarod Nightingale] People tended to make assumptions about this man. By all accounts, they were assumptions that he let them make - that he often wanted them to make. So much of what he said and did was in the service of creating certain an idea of himself in people's minds. People like Ashley and her apprentice (formerly known as Enid) made the assumption that he was not what he appeared to be, but that wasn't entirely accurate. In many cases, Jarod was exactly what he appeared to be. But he was also many, many other things. Things that most people never saw at all.

Like Emily, there were things he let stay in easy view, and things he left buried in dusty cardboard boxes.

He knew what impermanence meant. He knew it very, very well - had known it since he was the same age as his daughter was now, when the suffocating, nauseating reality of it had exploded into his life like a bullet fired from a gun. But there was also the unendurable reality of things that did not end, and this he learned later, as years passed and memories lingered like ghosts. He was not immune to feeling, as much as he tried to be otherwise. He did know what it was to love another person. To be in love with another person.

And he remembered that it hurt.

So perhaps he could be forgiven for the snarl of rage that had erupted when Ashley had accused him of caring more about another person than he did about himself, and the subsequent attempt at a denial that neither of them actually believed. And perhaps he could be forgiven for thinking, at first, that he didn't care what Emily did with her life, because she was not a part of his world - not really. Certainly not anymore. And perhaps he could even be forgiven now for the way that he hesitated when this invitation was left open for him (he who never hesitated when he wanted something), despite the fact that it had been his own actions that had set them down this particular path.

Her lips brushed like a feather across his, and briefly his eyes closed. Her breath was warm in the cool night air, creating little tendrils of steam that touched his mouth. He breathed them in.

A few seconds passed. Time measured in syncopated heart-beats.

It didn't happen in a rush, as one might expect. Pent-up attraction did not explode into sudden action. What actually happened was that distance disappeared until once again their lips met, and they touched softly (almost reverently), like a teenager exploring the idea of kissing for the first time. He memorized the shape and feel of her (already well remembered), pulling gently on her lower lip. His mouth opened. Their tongues just barely touched.

But this restraint did not last. It was never meant to. And when he pressed in again, he breathed out roughly and put his hands at either side of her face so that he could pull her into him. Once freed, tension mounted quickly, and then they were two people kissing on the sidewalk in front of a fancy hotel, looking for all the world like they'd completely forgotten where they were.

[Jarod Nightingale] [...of creating a certain idea of himself.]

[Emily Littleton] It did not happen in a rush because there was no way to wade through the quagmire of time and emotion, layer upon layer of circumstance, heavy things and hopes and expectations, without getting tangled in the uncertainty of it. And for Emily, there was so much more than uncertainty. For Emily, there were things behind that dam that threatened to consume her if she let it give way, and she wasn't certain that she could survive the flood. It might wash her out to sea. She could drown in it without ever meaning to.

His lips found her, gently, and her hand slid along his jawline, moved to cup his cheek. There was warmth and hesitance to it, uncertainty, a little awkwardness. She'd grown out of practice in these things; she had never been practiced at honesty. There's a wonder there, still, that all of this could have slumbered through the Spring and Summer, that it could spring up again full-formed when Autumn came again.

That hand slides away when he pulls her toward him, it ducks between the open jacket and his skin. If Jarod were wearing a shirt, her fingers would tangle in it, pull gently. As it is, her hand alights on his side and it's all the more electric, intimate, sudden and a bit too forward.

There is a part of her that is kissing him to forget. To forget finding a dark-haired Singer, head bowed, eyes bright with tears, beside the bedside of a familiar Orphan. To forget the Loneliness that has seeped into her Autumn, stained it sepia toned and wistful. To forget the crackle of ozone as the essence of everything ripped through her body, like lightning strike would fell a tree. To forget a damp basement, rough hands, harsh memories. To forget a frat boy with no sense of boundaries -- and that was her last kiss, before this, that thing of forced physicality, so she kisses him like she could over-ride the memory by force, flood it from her synapses, undo what came before.

To forget Goodbye.

And there is a part of her that kisses him to remember what it's like to be swept away by a beautiful stranger, to slide her arms around him and hold onto him in the snow, to find him wherever she went wandering, to fall into him whenever she came by to visit. There's a part of her that remembers warmth and surety, and possibly even beginning to fall in love with someone. Opening a possibility.

What Emily found with Owen would never have happened, had she not known Jarod first. They are not just two people kissing on the sidewalk before a fancy hotel. They are beings of memory and ecstasy, who breathe in one another and breathe out regrets. There has been no one since him, and no one before him, that Emily Littleton kisses like this. The curl of her fingers against his side, dragging neatly manicured nails against his skin, is testament to that.

[Jarod Nightingale] It was cold. His skin ought to have felt numb and frigid beneath her hand, but it didn't. Winter touched him where the wind bit, along the neck and collarbones, and the ridges of muscles. It dusted across his torso like a delicate kiss of frost, but beneath that there was warmth, burning like an ardent furnace. Where her hand found him, at his side and beneath the protective layer of his coat, it was almost hot. Thoughts of propriety would never have entered his mind, even had he been present enough to consider such things.

But he was conscious of where they were standing, and it felt somehow... inadequate. There was only so far that one could get lost out here, like this. But as far as that took them, that was where they ended up. The muscles in his abdomen tensed when he felt her nails, but it wasn't in resistance. And they remained tangled in each other for a long time. Long enough to remember (long enough to forget.)

It was difficult to pull away, but eventually he broke the kiss and looked at her. His eyes were vivid in the warm glow from the hotel, giving off a faintly violet hue (a trick of the light, but a pretty one.) "We should go inside before we freeze to death."

(As if that was even remotely possible.)

The smile he flashed her was soft, but radiant. And he kissed her one last time, lingeringly, before finally turning to walk past the doors and into the hotel lobby. He wouldn't range very far from her proximity, though, and ensured himself of her presence by threading his fingers into her own.

In the elevator, he pulled her against him again, and found a place on the side of her throat that smelled enticingly of vanilla and clove. His lips memorized that place, tasting the skin there, and the salt that the evening's activities had left behind.

When they got to the doors that marked the adjoining rooms, though... he paused to collect himself, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. He had a set of key-cards (alternates had been given to Maia) in the inside pocket of his jacket, and the first one that he used was the one that led them to the room that Ilana and Logan shared. He opened the door very carefully, slipping inside without turning on any of the lights. It was late, and they'd had a long day, so the two children were sleeping deeply. Jarod watched them for a moment, smiled softly, and slipped back out into the hall, shutting the door quietly behind him. When he opened the door to their own room, they found Maia curled up on top of one of the two queen-sized beds, head laying across a sprawled arm. She blinked when she heard the door shut, and sat up slowly, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

"Hey you. Have fun?" She yawned and stretched, sliding her feet to the ground. When her eyes settled upon the pair once more, she seemed to notice for the first time that Jarod's t-shirt was missing. This resulted in a brief, amused (and knowing) chuckle. "I'm guessing yes."

"It was a lovely evening had by all," Jarod replied, without missing a beat. "Thanks for watching the kids."

"Of course. You know I love Ilana. She's an absolute dream." After getting to her feet, Maia slid her feet into the shoes she'd left against the wall. "See you at dinner tomorrow."

As she left, she turned to glance at Emily, and smiled. Perhaps thankfully, the pretty girl did not attempt to voice whatever it was that she was thinking. Then the door clicked shut once more, and they were alone.

[Emily Littleton] It was cold. Some part of Emily's mind knew that. Knew that it was cold, and if they stayed out here long enough the muscles in her legs would cramp, and the small of her back would get tight in protest even with the warmth of her jacket dispelling the Winter chill. Some part of her mind knew that it was late October, and that their breath would soon form small clouds in the night air. But that part was not too terribly vocal right now. She'd had a lot of practice this year in ignoring what that attentive, detail-oriented part of her mind wanted to say.

It was one part survival instinct and one part saving her sanity. Right now, it was all borne of lust and need and wanton distraction. But Emily is not darkly mischievous, like she has been with Thomas. She is not playing a part, or stepping into a role, or toying with him when their tongues touched.

His eyes were nearly violet, but hers were dark and touched with slate. They were not veiled just now, for better or worse, and the softness in them was genuine. So was the quiet vulnerability. Many things had changed in Emily since Jarod went away. He had not been there when she grew into her Unrelenting overtone. He had not known her when she flirted with Death, when she had become its instrument. He'd barely known the Reverence that sang from her center, because she'd not found her place in the Choir until after he'd gone. But that grace does not pull her away from humane and human things, it does not separate or divide; it is a surety and brilliance that has dug down into her bones and refuses to be besmirched, denied, sullied with the weight of all that's come between him. Looking in, he's close enough to see the foothold that firmament has taken in her, beneath the muddle of things left unsaid.

It's a little like the intimacy of sharing his Sight (now their Art) in the arboretum last Winter.

He pulls her away from the cold, this time with his fingers threaded through hers. This time to the hotel lobby and not to a parking garage with the sleek M3 waiting. But he takes her out of the cold all the same, with almost the same line, even though they both know they've weathered harsher things than this.

Emily laughs a little at the touch of his lips to her throat, letting that low and resonant sound fill the lift with them for just a moment. It is happy, and a little darker. There's a playful edge to whatever memory tugs (never in an elevator) at the corner of her mouth when his eyes find hers next, or the door parts, and they step out like respectable adults. Respectable shirtless adults in his case. To check in on the children, to greet Maia.

Those moments of quiet do much to pull them both back. Jarod has to be a responsible parent; there is a girl whose fortune and future rests in his hands, and a son of another family who has been entrusted to him for the weekend. He has responsibilities and duties, and Emily knows all about these. They help to school the tympanic thrum of her thoughts, to pull her away from what has happened out of doors, to school herself for -- oh, for Maia, whom she had quiet forgotten until the moment just before he opens the door.

Emily is slipping out of her coat, behind Jarod in the entryway, when Maia greets them. She peeks around him and waves a little, grins broadly, pulls hard on the memory of elevation and euphoria just after exiting a club (the club [any club]) to mask whatever other tells she might show Jarod's beautiful sister. It pays, at times, to have been a Diplomat's Daughter, buried in half-truths and indiscretions that need hiding away or shading with more palatable smiles.

But Maia didn't speak directly to her, so Emily just offered a smile in return. Which is enough, between women well versed in these things, to say all that they needed to to one another. So if Maia's gaze lingered, or her head tipped just so, or there was a flick of her eyes back toward the well-storied brother... well then Emily would know what to expect the next night at dinner. She imagined that Maia had made assumptions: they were sharing a room; there'd been that lovely how-do-you-do at Christmas time.

The door clicked shut once more, and rather than returning to what they had begun, Emily laid her jacket over the arm of a chair. She gathered up one of the water bottles from the room and loosed the cap. It incidentally left her shoulder and side facing him; she could watch him out of the corner of one eye as she stepped out of her heels. Sipped at her water. Waited to see what a moment's pause to think might lead them into, and there, again, the uncertainty rises. It's a little shimmy of awareness along her spine, a wonder, a second guessing.

Emily sets down the water and begins to pull the clips from her hair.

[Jarod Nightingale] Things were quiet now, between them. Emily removed her coat and shoes, and took a drink of water. Jarod mimicked this behavior, sliding the jacket from his bare shoulders and hanging it up in the closet. Emily would be given a momentary reprieve of his presence when he disappeared into the bathroom. Water ran in the sink, and when he reappeared he'd removed the faint shadow of black from around his eyes, as well as most of the glitter from his face and chest. Not all, of course. Glitter was like that. Just when you thought it had all gone, the light would catch a stray sparkle somewhere on one's skin.

Sitting down on the bed, he unzipped the inside of each boot and pulled them, one by one, from his feet. These were deposited neatly on the floor, in the same closet he'd stored his jacket in. There was something almost ritualistic about all of this - the way he carefully put away each of the remnants of the day. Even his belt was removed, pulled slowly through the loops in his waistband, curled up neatly, and then placed in one of the drawers in the mostly-empty bureau. Had Emily not been here, he probably would have set about unpacking the rest of his things and organizing them on those drawers, as if to claim them (however temporarily) as his own.

But she was here. And Jarod was very much aware of this. She hesitated now, watching him quietly, and he did the same, though it was less because of his own motivation than because he knew, to a fair approximation, what was going on in her head. After some thought, he sat down on the bed once more, keeping his eyes trained on her.

"Come here?" he asked softly.

[Emily Littleton] Jarod put his things away. He folded them into drawers. He hung them up in closets. It almost seemed like he intended to stay. Emily kept her things in a close cluster near the sole bag she'd brought with her. All grouped together for easy access. It almost seemed like she was expecting leave on just a moment's notice. It didn't clutter up the room, but she had no opening of drawers or closets to do. Her life, what of it she'd brought with her, was this shadow imposed on a tight corner of the room. All in plain sight. Totally unremarkable.

While he was putting his belt away, she was tucking the clips away into her bag. When she crouched down beside it, the dual hems of her skirt brushed against her heels. Her curls spilled down, over her shoulders, in leggy loose limbed locks.

When he called to her, softly, Emily paused in what she was doing and looked over to him. When she rose, she set the water bottle aside. Her footsteps were quiet, mindful of the people in neighboring rooms and the ones below them. She walked, like always on the balls of her feet. He'd seen enough of her pattern to know why. Her locket and its chain were still puddled on the coffee table; they would not interfere with any Art he chose to work. Some of his glitter still clung to her dress; her eyes were still darkened, faintly, with shadow and mascara. She did not break eye contact when she crossed the room to join him.

Emily stood before him, just within arms reach but not so close that her legs brushed up against his knees. He could easily reach for her, pull her closer, draw her down beside him or close to straddle or fit between his knees.

[Jarod Nightingale] Emily approached, but did not reach out to touch him. Jarod's eyes trailed up slowly from her stomach to her face. In this moment, she was taller than he was, and he had to tilt his head back to look at her.

After regarding each other for a long moment, he reached out with slow deliberation to touch her hands, one each in his own. He touched her palms, the pads of her fingers... traced lightly over the sensitive skin on the underside of each wrist, where her pulse thrummed delicately. From there his hands traced their way slowly up the sides of her arms, and when they got to her shoulders, slid down her back, until they rested at the small of it. This was when he pulled her, gently and without insistence (she could escape easily at any moment), toward him and onto his lap. One of his hands came around to her hip, and slid down to rest at the outside of her thigh, to help encourage her to settle there with her knees on the mattress.

"If you want to stop," he all but whispered, "just tell me, and we will."

And he meant that. She'd see it plainly on his face for a moment. Notes of honest concern mixed with the heady intensity of desire and the flickering warmth of affection. But it was almost certainly the case, on his end at least, that he did not want to stop. And if she let him, he'd reach up with the hand that had been resting on her back to bring her face down to meet his, so that he could kiss her again. This kiss wasn't a hesitant thing. It wanted. It claimed. It promised things that might sweep them up into a beautiful dream and keep the barking wolves at bay (if only for a few moments.)

[Emily Littleton] He touched her like she was a fragile and flighty thing, with genuine concern and muted desire, and it was almost enough to break her, to crumble her to sand where she stood. Emily swallowed down a lump of apprehension and he had to know that this would be hard for her. Not because of Owen. Not because of the loneliness, but because of everything that the Labyrinth had dredged up. There's a tremor to her hands, for a moment, and her head tips back when he pulls her closer. It pulls her gaze out his line of sight for a moment. It gives her a flicker of privacy for those thoughts, which were thick and heavy like river mud, which clung to everything like cobwebbed memory.

Her knees settled on either side of him on the bed, and she tipped her chin down again when he guided her mouth to his. Emily draped her arms around his shoulders, let the fabric of her skirt puddle against his skin.

There was a slowness to how she kissed him, now, as if each meeting of their lips displaced something unwanted. And there would be times when her mouth broke from his, and she rested her head against the crook of his neck and had to just be for a moment. Just breathe. Because it was a struggle, this time, to be open and vulnerable, even around him. Even with him. It was a private and wounded thing. He wanted, and she wanted. He claimed, and she surrendered. But Emily couldn't promise him anything, and there's a poignant sadness to her that had not been there when he left.

This may not be the dream he wanted, but she fights to stay in it with him, and she does not ask him to stop.

[Jarod Nightingale] [Empathy please?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 5, 5, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 6 at target 5) [WP]

[Jarod Nightingale] He claimed, and she surrendered, but there was heaviness behind that surrender. She wanted this as much as he did, but the ghosts of memories so recently brought back to life haunted very closely. This was the time of year for such ghosts, for better or worse. It took effort not to lose himself completely in the kiss, this time. Not when every nerve in his body burned with heat. Not when his own memories of her flooded his senses. But his awareness of Emily was so acute as to be nearly painful tonight, and he felt the mixed reaction that happened in her body as much as he understood the look of naked emotion in her eyes. He broke the kiss so that he could look at her and catch his breath.

His hand on her thigh had grasped a little more roughly than he'd meant it to. He relaxed it now, and let it fall away, along with his other hand as he leaned back, resting his weight on his palms behind him.

Emily might wonder at the pause - why he pulled away now, just as he'd been slipping fully into the moment. He seemed to be considering something.

"I see you," he whispered softly. And then he let himself fall back onto the mattress, lifting his arms slowly to lock at the wrist above his head. This, too, was surrender. Like a wild tiger sheathing its claws. It was not submission so much as restraint.

Maybe she would understand how much that very small and simple gesture meant, coming from him - this man who claimed and controlled and possessed everything that he touched. This man who could not stand to be vulnerable, even for a second. He did not put his hands above his head like that. He did not surrender.

Except that he just had. Even if only for a moment.

[Emily Littleton] He lays back. Lies still. Bares the soft and vulnerable places that every predator and prey alike know to keep hidden, protected by strong bones, or by second skins of heavy fabrics. It is an intimate thing, a mark of trust that turns him from a force of sensuality and surety into something gentled. For a moment.

Her eyes don't leave his as he reclines. She watches him as if he might recant on this, with an attention and focus that seems out of place except that Jarod knows what she's struggling with perhaps better than she does in this moment. And he knows, when she exhales and closes her eyes, what ripples across her features in emotions that are not so well formed as to be known and named. They're merely felt. Deep, primal, nameless things, splayed like the fingers of her hand she rests on his abdomen. She can feel him breathing, even with her eyes closed. There is no magic to this. This is something very human; something older than humanity.

And that moment he might have intended to be brief stretches until her breathing falls into place with his, until she can feel without thinking the place that her knee brushes up against his shirtless side, even though her calves rest alongside his slacks. Until she can think, a little clearer -- or not think at all.

Her nose stings, and she sniffs quietly. She has to blink, with a measure of surprise, when there is dampness to the corner of her eyes. It is not what she has intended; she did not kiss him hoping to come undone halfway through undressing. It is not even what she wants, but he's taken away the presence and surety that she was borrowing on. He's fallen away like something gentle and calmer and Emily can't... she doesn't know how to push past this on her own.

There's a panic that rises in the back of her throat, which tastes sharp and bright and forces her eyes open, forces her to find him with more than the connection their bodies share. To see him with a part of her mind that can name and know and is not overwrought yet with whatever threatens to consume her just now.

Add to the already heady mix, now, apology and embarrassment, a quiet shyness, uncertainty. Her hand slips upward, glides of his ribcage as she lowers herself to rest beside him on the bed. This is important: what she's feeling is not rejection of him, it's a heart-stopping sense of abandonment even with his skin beneath her fingertips, some out of place emotion that swarms and swells and inserts itself without her willing it. But it doesn't not take her away; Emily comes closer again.

[Jarod Nightingale] In all the complexities of human nature... of all the many, many forms of sexual expression that a person might cling to in a given moment, there were very few that he did not understand. So too with emotions, and in particular, how sex and emotion tied into each other. This was part of what made him a good bed-partner. Sex was not simply about performance, it was about being able to get inside the head of the other person and learn what makes them tick. And Jarod became those things. Not because he lost himself, but because he was capable of embodying sex in all of its faces. Sometimes those faces were primal (even violent.) Sometimes they were gentle. He had not gentled himself now because he did not want her, or because he wasn't feeling that want as a near-overwhelming urge.

There'd been a time in his life when he'd been able to take comfort in control. To some extent, he still did. Vulnerability, to him, was not something that you chased away by force. But that didn't mean that he was perplexed in any way by Emily's response. Perhaps a touch, at first. But he moved past it quickly. His expression softened when she began to cry, and he shifted when she lay down at his side, curling his hands back down and wrapping one arm around her tightly.

"Shh," he murmured softly, and kissed the top of her head. "I'm sorry." Fingertips trailed through her hair, sliding through loose curls. As he did this he found her lips again and kissed her there too. And again. And again. (As if to emphatically insist that she had done nothing wrong.)

"Would you rather I be less careful?"

That need he understood as well. The desire to force back all of the perilous things in one's mind with an even more overwhelming force.

[Emily Littleton] Jarod is speaking to her, and though he uses clear words and uses them sparingly, nothing reaches her as clearly as the arm that pulls her close to him, or the way his fingers thread through her hair. The brush of his lips against hers, time and again. These things do not require translation or speak to her of muddled intent. Emily knows how readily people can lie to one another with words, but this sort of compassion and affection has not been a source of trickery for her yet. No one has broken that for her, yet; damn whoever might.

She holds to him, not quite as tightly as one my grasp a raft in a storm, but as an anchor nonetheless. And if Jarod needed her to coalesce what she was feeling into words, to know it deeply enough to name it and rationally discuss it, Emily would stare at him mutely, struck dumb by her inability to process all of it in simple strains of thought.

She had not handled what happened to her as a teen, not well enough to talk about it in the first year. Not well enough to talk about it until last Winter, really. She'd gone out and reclaimed part of her life by pushing boundaries and taunting and teasing until a thing spilled over into its logical conclusion. She didn't let her feelings get wrapped up in; she had a ready excuse of alcohol on many, many occasions. Emily let the other person push across that threshold, and in ways that didn't require her to stop and think.

It had happened with Jarod.
And Chuck.

But his voice threads through the strands of her hair, and the question draws her brow into furrows. Her voice is quiet and small between them, hushed and heady from want and darker things.

"I... I don't know."

Perplexed. There's no wicked self-assurance here to carry them over, nothing to help her push past that breaking point. She wasn't supposed to be pushing, either; Emily was supposed to be waiting. She closes her eyes for another moment, kisses him. There is no less want, no less need, but an overwhelming uncertainty to it. As if, in kissing him, she might find the answer she needs, some clarity, some thing to carry her carefully across this moment.

"I don't... know how to do this ..." she murmurs against his lips, as if she's forgotten how this dance goes. As if this is not the same one they danced before, and that newness gives her pause and makes her struggle.

[Jarod Nightingale] [I can feel your heart beat...]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 4, 5 (Success x 2 at target 3)

[Jarod Nightingale] It was a natural thing, the way that it happened. Almost without conscious effort. They touched. They kissed. There was skin and breath and warmth. And gradually then, there was more of it. A heart-beat, drumming like a wild animal beside his own. Nerves that lit up when touched. Muscles, alive with tension of both good and bad sorts. Scar tissue, both old and new. If Emily had connected to him in the same way, she might be surprised to find that he was not as languid and relaxed as he usually was. There was also some tension in his body, but it had begun to ease when she'd joined him on the bed, and despite Emily's hesitance and confusion, it continued to do so. This closeness, despite being something of a source for his tension, was also the remedy for it. There had never been a moment in his life where he had regretting doing what his blood had wanted him to do.

But he answered her honestly, for all that it may not be a comfort. "I don't either."

He kissed the curve of her throat, nuzzling beneath her jaw to gain better access. As he did this, he spoke, and his voice hummed against her skin. "But I know that I want you. I know that the smell of you makes me dizzy. I know that I could kiss you forever and not get tired of it. I know that I want to fuck you. As long, and as often as you will let me. That's all that I need to know."

But if she wanted to stop, they would. And if she needed to fall apart, that was okay too. But this... this was not falling apart. This was a very human reaction to a messy and deeply personal mix of memory, instinct and emotion. And no one could, or would blame her for that.

Jarod rolled in a fluid motion, pushing Emily beneath him on the bed as he came to rest atop her, one leg melded between her own. It pushed, making space for the other one to join it, and he shifted so that their hips molded together, holding his torso a little above her own. When his lips returned to kiss her, they were more insistent, and he let his teeth graze her neck before finding the edge of a collarbone.

[Emily Littleton] Emily would have made a poor Verbena. She didn't follow her blood; she sometimes followed instinct. She often followed whimsy, or pushed for the sake of pushing. You'd make an excellent elevator operator, Gregory had teased her, once, using the Continental word so that the sing-song came out in his teasing. When she asked why, he told her that she was already proficient at pushing buttons.

She doesn't follow her blood, but she does follow her heart and her head -- when her head is enough in the moment to offer counsel and direction. But even consumed by this, and the relief of being away, and the swell of things now and yesteryear, Emily knows that her head and her heart will not begin to mend until her body lets go of some of the things it carries deep in its muscle memory, deep at her core. So deep that the stories are scored into her bones; that they slosh like moonbright in her marrow; that they shape the sound of her every heartbeat. These deep hurts are what cause her to wake in Nightmares; what make her flinch when fingers close around her wrist; what makes the smell of heat and humidity and time so unbearable.

If there is anyone in her life that she can trust with that sundering, that vulnerability and naked emotion, it's the man beside her now. And while her head can come up with half a dozen reasons to refuse, a handful of those are borne of fears and the remainder lead back to a dark haired Singer, whom Emily is not sure she could or would ever trust with these things. So there is need, and want, and trust, and the potential for something to unclench, unfurl, to begin the slow and painful process of healing in real and genuine ways. And there is what the blood wants. And all of this wars with the instinct to run from intimacy, with the rational reasons that this is a bigger mistake, with the insecurity that fear brings forward, because it is hard to refuse his mouth against her skin, or the warmth of him above her.

She shifted to loosely wrap her legs around his, to accept if not pull him toward her. Her breath hitched, hissed between her teeth when his caught her collarbone. She does not moan, not even quietly, just yet, but Emily has never been loud. He's always had to read the arc of her body against his more readily than the resonance in her throat. Her dress is a spill of red and black layers against the bedding, where it has been pushed out of the way of his knees, his legs, it bunches between them.

There are children in the next room over, but Emily is lost to this moment and the warm and the struggles that enfold it. For a moment, her world is whittled down to the things that fit in this room, in the space between their bodies, in the last bits of rational thought that flicker across her mind. Ilana and Logan are not one of those thoughts, just now. Hopefully he will not hold it too much against her.

[Jarod Nightingale] He wouldn't hold it against her, though there may yet be a point where he reminds her, with a smile not unlike that of a teenager who knows they're doing something they're not supposed to be doing, suspects they might get caught, but doesn't presently care too much, to be mindful of the sleeping children in the next room.

His mouth continued to travel downward, following the neckline of Emily's dress. Hands found their way to her sides, fingers curled as if to clutch at her as they slid up and then around to her back. They found the zipper there, and pulled it slowly downward until he could slide his hands onto warm skin and memorize the musculature of her back. He had the clasp of her bra unhooked... likely before she'd even realize that he was doing it. And he pulled his head up to kiss her while he slid the garment free from beneath her dress and discarded it. The kiss was a heady one, intoxicating and distracting. He tasted her tongue - claimed it briefly before releasing her mouth once more to return to her neck, her shoulder, her sternum. Perhaps teasingly, his lips discovered her breast through the fabric of her dress, and he pulled the nipple into his mouth with his teeth. There'd be a spot there, where the wetness from his mouth marked the place he'd touched, and when he lifted his head up, he grazed that gently with the back of his knuckles.

But this wasn't really a night for going slow. They'd already waited for... longer than perhaps either of them had expected to hold out. And Emily seemed to need this release, if anything, even more than he did, so he didn't prolong it. He sat back, slid the dress free from her body, and in a few moments they were both undressed. They'd been this way before with each other. It was not new, but he drank in the sight of her all the same. This time when his weight pressed against her, there was nothing to restrict (or protect) them. But he paused, just for a moment, to look her in the eyes, and to kiss her very slowly and sweetly, before he pushed in and surrendered to instinct.

Unlike her, he was not always quiet, and he had to school himself not to be vocal now. It was breath that gave him away instead. The quickness of it, the force of it when it hitched and gusted outward. Beyond that one concession, there was no hint of restraint in this. If she'd asked, he could have tried, but it would have required considerable will. This moment had been boiling beneath the surface since that afternoon in a tea shop when he'd looked at her with eyes that spoke of much more visceral and primal things than spending the day at an Art Museum. It consumed them. It was as much a force of nature as any storm. But that... was only natural, for a Verbena. And perhaps, if only for a moment, even a Singer might find some peace in the ecstasy of human desire.