A mutual decision

[Molly Quincannon] It's been a rough few days for a lot of people, and Molly's no exception. (It's likely to get rougher, seeing as what's at this moment being shoved under the crack in her front door by people who have no consideration for 'DANGER: HIGH VOLTAGE' signs, but that's for later. Now is now.) But a certain note on the Chantry bulletin board indicates that there's more sudden bumpy road for various people in a lot of ways, and Molly is concerned as well as curious, so investigations are in order.

One she doesn't know.
One she has no contact for.
One she can't call (until and unless he calls first).
And Emily's the one she's most worried for anyway.

Therefore, there's a call for Emily asking if she's okay, and if she wants to meet up for coffee and chat. She gives a time and a place (she names the tea house that she knows that Ashley and Emily frequent; Molly's more partial to Joe's but this is for Emily, not her) and arrives on the early-ish side of on-time after an appointment with the optician in which she got mroe than a little bit of a funny look for how hard she apparently is on her glasses. She's still wearing the old pair, in point of fact, while waiting for the new ones to get made - the nose-bridge is mended with electrical tape and the lenses are scratched, probably by whatever impact caused the fading bruises on her face. She's a bit of a mess all around, is Molly - Ace bandage on her right wrist, oil stains on her fingers that she's tried to clean but will probably take a few more scrubs to remove and a slight stiffness of bearing.

There's a pot of the peach black tea that she and Emily both have a fondness for on the table, as well as a couple of pastries courtesy of the tea shop. One can tell they're not Molly's work because they don't look like they've been assembled by a five-year-old, a hallmark of Molly's cooking. With comforting things set out, Molly waits.

[Emily Littleton]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 6, 6, 6, 8, 9, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 8 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1
to Emily Littleton

[Emily Littleton] It's deep into winter weather, now. The blizzard over the weekend had dumped piles of snow all over the Midwest, closed airports, collapsed the Milwaukee metrodome. Winter was in full swing, and so Emily's coat is buttoned all the way up and her hair is pulled back low at the nape of her neck so that it won't get tangled in the weave of her hat. There is a scarf wound around her neck and ...

... no, she has yet to really acquiesce to gloves. So her hands stay in her pockets, and she has developed the usual graduate student hunch against the cold. Her messenger bag keeps close company to her side, even though the school term has finished. When she doffs the coat, and scarf, and hat, though, runs her fingertips through curls that are neither unruly nor perfectly kempt today, and settles into the table beside Molly, Emily is every bit her father's daughter.

She is smiling, just warmly enough, just like she always does, not quite warm enough to be friendly, perse, but leaning that way. She's always insinuating friendship where it doesn't quite yet seem ready to blossom. Emily is not naturally warm the way Riley is. Was. Probably still is, somewhere.

"Hey, Molly," she says, settling into her chair, pared down to just her sweater and jeans she seems almost like the Emily Molly first met. Her eyes are calm, clear, a little less encumbered than when they usually met. "Happy Holidays," she adds, not insinuating a particular religious flavor to the greeting, though Molly could guess at Emily's personal preferences.

There's a touch of concern in her features when she takes in the tape-mended glasses frame, the bruise on Molly's face; it deepens when she sees the wrapped wrist. Emily's smile shifts slightly toward a displeased frown.

"Are you alright?" she asks. The tea and cookies and comfort things can wait, just now. Emily may not be an Emissary any longer, but she is concerned about her fellow magi. She is still ready to stand beside them and fight, however wearying that can become, and perhaps, today, it is more about the warpath than she had expected. "Is everyone else alright, too?"

[Molly Quincannon] "Hey, Emily. Merry Christmas." While Molly isn't particularly religious (though, oddly, she celebrates the entire season as Yule), she knows Emily's preferences, and is flexible enough in her holiday well-wishes to give a specific one where preferences may be. The season means a thing to Molly, and it means another to Emily, but it all comes down to the same root, so she's not going to be a PC Nazi about the whole thing.

Emily's concern-query injects a certain amount of sheepishness into Molly's smile, and a bit of pain, and a bit of pride. Never let it be said that Molly's in any way simple. "Oh, sore but surviving," she replies. "It wasn't Cloudy-With-A-Chance-Of-Doom stuff. The face and the glasses was ... you don't read Failblog, do you? There's an unfortunate picture of my poor TARDIS after a run-in with a patch of black ice, some kid's snowman and an outdoor, decorated Christmas tree. In that order. Thanks be to Kibo for air bags, is all I can say, and that'll teach me to drive when I'm upset. So I'm still working on the repairs and the wrist is only slowing me down. Nathan's teaching me to shoot and encouraged me to show off by firing one-handed. It ... didn't go very well. Though the rest of it did. I guess all that Duck Hunt as a kid paid off."

There's been enough explanation of why Molly's not immediately hefting teapot and pouring, but there's a certain amount of 'tea can wait; questions nao kthnx'. "But never mind me and my various levels of low-key owie. I saw the bulletin board. You seem to be doing pretty well, considering. I mean, I know that came up when you and I talked last, but ... well, last time I talked to any of your erstwhile crew, that ... wasn't exactly what we had to yell at each other about." She shakes her head, getting back on topic. "I mean ... how'd that one go over?"

[Emily Littleton] Molly doesn't pour tea, but Emily does. About halfway through the explanation of why Molly came complete with minor medical accouterments today, Emily took up the teapot and began pouring for her. There's a delicacy to her wrists and elbows whenever she pours tea, a whisper of grace from somewhere not here and likely not England either. It's a hallmark of one of her borrow traditions that she wears like a second skin, and sets aside without remark.

She does pause, though, and glance over at the mention of the outdoor decorated Christmas tree. There's a little wince of sympathy. Then she finished pouring for them both and sets the teapot aside.

Emily makes a small, dismissive gesture, then takes that hands on to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. It's easy, effortless. Her smile broadens and warms slightly.

"Oh, is that what you were worried about?" she asks, as if it had come as a little surprise after all. "No, really, it was a mutual decision --" which is, for those of you following along at home, precisely how she worded her break up with Chuck all those months ago, "-- and probably a long time coming. But now he doesn't have to do rounds, and I'm free of Emissary meetings."

There's an easy lilt to her voice, a comfortable cadence. Emily takes up her tea and sips from it, then glances at it approvingly. She likes this flavor.

"You'll be down to three again, I think," she says, of the council. "It should be easier to find a majority vote now. There's a thing." She lifts her mug a little, as if to toast the simplification of local politics.

[Molly Quincannon] The glance she gets at the mention of outdoor decorated Christmas tree gets a shrug and a sheepish wince. Maybe someday she'll laugh about the time she's spent (and will yet spend) digging Christmas tree lights and tinsel out of her front bumper. Today is not that day. Tomorrow doesn't look good either. (And let's not mention the roof-mounted snowman head. Even if every commentor on Failblog did.)

But at least that is not what they're talking about today. Yes, Emily seems fine. Molly doesn't doubt for a second that the Chorister is fine. But you can't read that from a note on a bulletin board, after all. "Well, that's good to hear. Well, not good, exactly, 'cos it's not exactly puppies and rainbows when a crew breaks up, even if it is a mutual decision, but..." She shrugs, picking up her tea left-handed. "Well. You sounded a bit upset by the prospect when we last talked, was all, so when I saw that, I thought I'd check in. Y'know."

She sips her tea and then sighs. "Man, Chuck's having a worse week than I am. And in some ways, it's the same damn week. I'd feel sorry for him if I weren't so angry with him. As to majority votes and all ... I dunno. Maybe that's a good thing, maybe no. I admit, I think I liked the idea of someone as diplomatic as you seem to be on the Emissary Council. Just now, I dunno what we're going to end up left with. I think Wharil's having a rough time right now, for one thing. But then, I haven't even been to any meetings yet. Though I guess you're just as well to be missing the next one. Atlas is on me to basically dismantle the whole system for one he likes better. When I haven't even been to a meeting yet. Politics, man. Never thought I'd be up to my neck in it."

Then she realises that she's more or less complaining when that wasn't the intent. "Sorry. Mainly I just thought I'd check in. Hard to tell how someone you're fond of's coping via bulletin board message, y'know? And everyone needs tea and a change of scene now and then."

[Emily Littleton] "Israel's diplomatic. You'll do fine. And Wharil? Wharil knows how to stick to his principles, and that's the heart of everything the Emissaries are trying to do," Emily tells her, inequivocally. There's surety in it, and a measure of calm now that Emily doesn't have to deal with that process herself. She had never wanted to be part of the Council to begin with, but the Singer had a hard time shirking responsibility when it found her.

"Though I appreciate the concern. Thank you," she tells Molly, even briefly makes eye contact as if she has nothing to hide. Emily sips from her tea, now, too. "Mmm, and on that change of scenery -- I'll be out of town most of the month. I'm visiting another Singer to try and study up on a few things, and then I've holidays in Provence with my family." This earns another wave of one hand, like a forgettable thing, something imminently unimportant.

"Are you traveling for the holidays or staying here?" she asks, happy to shift the conversation away from her cabal's quite implosion. Blessedly, Emily does not venture toward the failblog-worthy conversation topic either.

[Molly Quincannon] When so reassured, Molly smiles a little, with a tiny touch of nerves. Overconfident she may be, but there's a difference between I can survive this and I can be taken seriously. Still, she doesn't go into it. She doesn't know what's up with Wharil, but if Emily's sure that he'll be fine Council-wise, she'll respect that. After all, she knows nothing about these kinds of things.

The thanks get a shrug and a more sure sort of grin. "No problem. I try not to fuss, but I think Israel's rubbing off on me. Her and Ellie, who fusses like whoa. Anyway, sounds like fun, the fuss and Provence. Never been out of the States myself, so I'll hope you can find it in your heart to send me a postcard. As for me, I'm staying here. At least it's not going to be me, a microwaved turkey dinner and my usual overdose of Christmas shmaltz-movies this year, which is kind of novel. Ellie and I are going to try to roast a duck or something. And then there will be shmaltz-movies. Possibly A Muppet Christmas Carol."

[Emily Littleton] Molly hasn't been out of the States at the holidays. Emily tries not to be in them. Her travels are the stuff of magic and wonder to some of the other magi, but really it's just the lifestyle she's always had. So last year was Taipei, and this year is Provence, and few, if any, Christmases have been spent at her family home since her grandmother died. Where Emily would like to be? That's bundled up in front of a fire at the Manchester house. Where she will be? At her mother's side, dressed like a Diplomat's Daughter, using her fussy Northern accent to sound a little more impressive than she actually is to people who couldn't judge her full merit if they tried.

This is the first year she'll be celebrating Christmas, reborn into her place within the Church and Chorus. Still she smiles at the mention of schmaltz movies, or roasting a duck, or the general conviviality that people associate with holiday good cheer.

"I'll bring you a postcard back. Maybe even a Christmas present," Emily tells her, with a smile that is warmer than patience but quieter than mirth. "It sounds like you've found a family-of-sorts in friends. It's a good thing. I wish you well with your duck," she says, as if it's quite the undertaking. Emily has been supportive of Molly's forays into the culinary world. Emily is, usually, a fairly supportive person.

"I've a favor to ask, though, if you wouldn't mind? I need somewhere for An to stay while I'm away. Seeing as having Chuck look in on her went so well last time that she all but mauled me for attention when I got back after a week -- perhaps not again, non? And just dropping her at Owen's flat would be cruel, to them both. Might you be willing to look after her for the two weeks I'm away?"

[Molly Quincannon] "Thanks." That's first, and sincere. "Oh, and speaking of presents, seeing as I wasn't sure you weren't going to be around, I brought this from under the tree at the House." From her laptop bag comes a wrapped parcel - it's roughly square, about the size of a dinner plate and kind of squashy, suggesting that something of cloth is inside. It's wrapped in green wrapping paper printed with 'CAN HAZ' in white LOLcat font. "You can feel free to open it now, or wait until actual Christmas. And yeah, I'm lucky in my friends and their family-of-sorts-ness. Haven't spoken to my blood relations in over ten years now - by choice, so ... y'know, no issue - so I feel blessed to have people I can share the seasonal warm-n-fuzzies with. Especially people in a smiliar boat to me."

Mention of An gets an agreeable chuckle. "I think I can manage having An dropped on me, seeing as I'm the reason she needs a place to be dropped in the first place. Neal and Hardison are pretty contained, so that's not an issue, and if Ellie can take Hardison spazzing through the Deep Roads, An won't be a problem. I'll reinforce the playpen and hope An doesn't find my beanbags as tasty as she does that cushion on that rocking chair at yours." (You see, Molly doesn't know that it was Owen's Chair. She barely knows that it is An's Chair. She just knows that it is a chair.) "So just give me a heads-up when you need to drop her and her bits and pieces over at my place. I'd offer to do pick-up, but I'm kind of nervous about driving the TARDIS in this weather until I at least get the muffler fixed and the snow tyres on."

[Emily Littleton] "I'm pretty sure she's just being spiteful with that pillow, but I'll bring it along so that your beanbags are saved," Emily tells her, with a low chuckle underscoring her words. There's a fondness for the kitten, now, but Emily has not grown into a pet person overnight. She is an Architect and a Perfectionist, and these do not jive with small, fuzzy, self-interested bundles of free-ranging teeth and claws living in the same apartment as she does.

The Singer tests the gift, squishing it slightly with her fingertips with its texture yields. Not firmly enough to crinkle the paper, but just enough to give a hint of the gift inside.

"Thank you, Molly. For the gift, and for kitten-sitting."

Molly doesn't know it's Owen's chair, so she can't use it as a segue to ask after the other Singer, so Emily is spared yet another round of politely demuring replies to another person's concerns. In all fairness, the rocking chair should have slipped from Owen's to An's by now. There's still part of Emily that wants to bring it back to Good Will and let it find a new home to warm. But she can't, just yet. It's not that she's hoping on a Christmas miracle or anything so self-centeredly silly. It's just that she isn't ready for that dwindling bit of hope to be extinguished, just yet.

These are things she doesn't even hint at, though. They're quiet sadnesses she's carried for so long that they don't even merit mention. They don't rise to the planes of her eyes, or darken the corners of her mouth. They're weightless. Soon to be forgotten.

She sips at her tea.

"I hope the Tardis is mended soon, as is your confidence. Driving in snow is particularly wretched. I try not to do it, but public transport in winter isn't all that much better. Six of one sorrow, half a dozen of the other misery."

[Molly Quincannon] The bit about kitten-'spite' gets a laugh. "I'm convinced that pets do that kind of thing for attention. At least she seems to keep it to the pillow?" It's an honest question; she's hopeful, always, that An isn't wreaking havoc on poor Emily's house. Still, they seem to be getting on well enough ... though with Emily, it's always hard to tell if anything's actually bothering her. "But you're welcome, anyway. For the gift, and for kitten-sitting."

Emily has a kitten. Therefore, Emily knows 'circumspect watchful anticipatory' looks. When Emily tests the gift, that's the look on Molly's face; clearly Molly is going to respect Emily's decision to open it as and when she likes, but ... curious Molly wants to know what Emily thinks of it. (This time of year must drive a certain Cultist absolutely crazy.) But she smothers that with another sip of tea and a moving on to the other point of conversation. "Oh, it's not the confidence thing, exactly. Like I said, that's what I get for driving after an argument. I'll know better next time and keep it out of my head while I'm driving. Just I don't want to hit a bump I can't see for the snow and lose the muffler entirely. And yeah, public transport's brutal this time of year. The delays, man, seriously. Freezing my butt off on an El platform is not my favourite way to spend time. But we persevere."

Then, another line of questioning. "So how's school, anyway? It's about finals time of year, isn't it?"

[Emily Littleton] There, again, is the dropped mention of an argument -- Emily can guess with whom and about what -- that Emily lets slide right by. She doesn't furrow her brow slightly; she doesn't tip her head quizzically. It's mentioned and then it's passed them by, all in one heartbeat.

"I'm just glad you're okay," is what she says, instead of asking. It belies a sort of concern that does not really need to be spoken. It absolves her of asking after anything more personal. This is a fine line; Emily is familiar with walking this tightrope.

"I finished last week, and I finished grading this weekend," Emily says, about school, with a palpable measure of open relief. "Now my mind and my time are my own until the new year. It's a good feeling. I could find things to do in the lab, if I really needed to, but I want out of this city like you cannot imagine. So Seattle will be a good break. And Provence is always lovely. And maybe, by the time I get back, I'll actually be ready for the new variations on the Dog Ate My Homework routine."

She smiles. It's warm and generous today. There's laughter behind it, even as she mocks the undergrads who try to tell her that the email server was down -- or some such nonsense -- each year at this time.

"Speaking of the El," she says. "It's my ride home tonight, so I can't stay too late."

[Molly Quincannon] Molly doesn't actually want to discuss the argument - not with Emily, and actually not with anyone. She did her venting with handguns. (And one very big shotgun, even if it was loaded with blanks. And a kerboom of epic proportions courtesy Nathan's newly-acquired skill with Matter.) She's as over it as she's going to be until whatever happens next ... well, happens. It's just A Thing What Happened. So she smiles and says, "Hey, we all know it takes more than that to flatten me completely. But again, thanks for the concern." A blanket statement, which covers the physical, mental and emotional. It'll do.

Mention of Seattle ... okay, so Molly doesn't bother to hide a bit of a cutting her eyes away from Emily. There's no offered explanation, as it's only a tiny moment, as her gaze returns to the here and now when conversation turns to Provence. Then the mockery of the undergrads, which gets a chuckle - Emily's smile might have laughter behind it, but Molly's rarely content to leave laughter lurking behind her eyes or smile. Laughter, she believes, should be free-range.

Then she nods acquiescence to the bit about not staying long. "I can't either, really - my new glasses will be ready for pick-up soon. No more electrical tape! But enough time to have tea and pastry, if only briefly. And hey, at least it means I got to touch base with you before you leave this snowy wasteland we call Chicago. We'll try not to burn it down in your absence."

[Emily Littleton] "Well that, there, is cause to celebrate," Emily says, with a smile that finally blossoms into a full grin. "No more electrical tape!" It could be a rallying cry, possibly had been one in her lab at one time, could be again whenever she gets back to it. They both seem in good enough spirits, all things considered. Perhaps they two were a testament to the mind-over-matters powers willworkers necessarily had.

"I've been a little out of touch with everyone, lately," Emily admits. She doesn't press any lament or relief into that, so Molly's left with the impression that the Singer thinks these things happen. That she thinks these things will mend themselves in time. "Thank you, again, for calling. It's good to see you. And I hope the new glasses are all sorts of lovely, and that the wrist mends soon -- even if only so you can wrestle the duck in and out of the holiday oven without it becoming a team sport."

There's warmth enough in Emily to carry them to the end of the tea-and-pastries meet and greet. There's grace enough to get them out the door and back into the blustery Chicago winter without any touch of sadness or awkwardness.

This is what she does, or, rather, it's what she can do: smooth things over until the rough places seem less abrasive and immediate.