[Emily Littleton] When Emily pushed out of the neon-flicker and pounding bass, into the starkly quite thrum of the Magnificent Mile, the weather had warmed up a little. The snow had begun to fall, and it settled lightly on her eyelashes, her hair, her shoulders. It dusted everything with a fine frost of (forgiveness) white. It eddied and whorled away from her face, driven by her still-tense exhalations.
It was cold. Emily pulled the cold down deep into her lungs. Let it scour away the echoes of another time. A dark hand on her wrist. A voice in her ear saying Do. Not. Move.
The snow fell silently. It fell without prejudice on parked cars and street signs. Meters. Passersby. Her hands didn't shake quite as much (now) as before. Emily pulled her cellphone out of one pocket of her (new) winter coat. She briefly weighed the costs and consequences, and then thumbed through the contact book for a familiar name.
Before she could talk herself out of it, or go through another round of rationalizations (he told me to call if...), Emily pressed send. If it was his voicemail, she left a stilted message. Saying that she was... back ... in town. And hoped he... had... a happy new year. And to call her, whenever, that was, if he wanted to.
If it was him, then, well... she simply said Hello.
[Jarod Nightingale] On another night, Jarod might have quite easily picked up his phone and said hello. But tonight there was hesitance. He'd been sitting stretched out on his couch, watching a dvd of Hiroshima mon Amour when the small black cell vibrated against the smooth surface of the glass coffee table where he'd set it down earlier.
His hand drifted to the remote beside it, hitting the pause button and halting the black and white images on screen. Now the room was silent but for that incessant buzzing.
Emily.
Jarod let it ring twice. Three times. Four. And eventually it went to voicemail. His hand hesitated on the remote, but didn't resume the film. Then he sighed softly and grabbed the phone, flipping it open so that he could check the message she'd just left him.
Inexplicably, it made him smile. Despite having nearly killed someone yesterday. Despite having nearly been killed himself. Despite having had what could easily be called a rather unhappy holiday. Jarod wasn't the sort of person who called people back instantly after they left him a message that basically amounted to simply... checking in. But after hanging up (without erasing the message), he drummed his fingers lightly on the table once, gazed out the window for exactly ten seconds, then dialed Emily's number.
"Hey, sorry I missed your call. Do you want to come over? You can tell me all about your fabulous trip."
[Emily Littleton] He hadn't picked up. Emily wasn't sure why that was significant, only that it tugged at some barely settled place just left of her stomach. She tucked her phone back into her pocket, smoothed her hands down the sides of the wool coat she was (re-)learning how to wear with ease. Emily had only just started down the path towards her car when her cellphone rang.
Once. Twice. (She hadn't expected him to ring back.) She caught it midway through the third ring.
"Hey..." she replied, and it was softer than their usual helloes. It was also decidedly more British than usual, as if the people she had spent her time with over-seas had forced her word shapes to one extreme of her well-traveled accent. "I'd... love to."
She smiled. It was a warmer thing, and this smile touched her eyes in ways none of her others had that night. She exhaled a little, still shaken (lessening [by degrees]), and added before he could ask after the hurriedness of her message, "I'm only over on the Mile. It shouldn't take me long. I'll see you soon?"
[Jarod Nightingale] "Alright. I'll tell Charlie to let you up when you get here."
The well-meaning but somewhat naive doorman had, in fact, been dealt with shortly after Emily's last visit. When you lived in a world where impossible things existed and the potential for personal injury and/or death was rather more real and immediate than it was for the average person, security was a pretty big deal. Even when it came to those who were supposedly allies. Or even friends. But ultimately whatever Jarod had said to Charlie, he hadn't insisted upon getting the man fired. The situation had been resolved with relatively little fuss, in fact. (Possibly because it had been the holidays, and Charlie was extremely likeable, and more importantly... because Emily seemed to put Jarod in oddly gentle moods.)
Jarod hung up the phone and flipped the movie back on, content for the time being to sit and wait until Emily crossed the relatively small distance from her current location to his apartment building. One might wonder what on earth he was even doing home alone on a Saturday evening, but then, Emily hadn't asked, so he hadn't offered.
[Emily Littleton] And that was how so many things had passed between them. She hadn't asked, he hadn't answered. Don't ask, don't tell. It was one way to manage a relationship of sorts. And it had served them well enough thus far. But Emily had gone and come back across the width of the world in the past week and a bit, and it had left her in an altogether different place. She'd returned to the snow with a somewhat altered countenance and immediately had it shaken, stirred, and left unsettled.
The young woman that approached Jarod's building was not immediately recognizable as Emily. She wore a wool coat, slacks, and stood three inches taller (boots with heels [grown up shoes]) than Charlie had ever seen Emily. Her hair was pinned back in a demure bundle of curls at the nape of her neck that had somehow, miraculously, survived the unending hours of her confinement at thirty-thousand feet. Furthermore, there was an odd set to her features, not quite in keeping with her "Happy New Year," and softened smile.
Emily was... off. But she was still Emily. She was still the Emily that had gotten Charlie in trouble, so he no doubt telephoned Mr. Nightingale before he sent her up.
Emily had been across the width of the world, and when she came back... she'd come to see him. At some point the elevator doors parted, and he was either standing there or still ensconced behind his apartment door. So he either caught or missed the small moment when her gazed flicked down, away from the illuminated numbers, and forward to where he (ought) might be.
Like so many things between them, he either caught or missed this terribly unguarded moment. Wherein the weariness and unsettled places mixed with something brighter, something akin to Hope, and that something called to the small heartbeat she wore around her neck that called out, quietly tonight, of Home, home, home...
[Jarod Nightingale] He didn't wait at the door. That would have spoken of a kind of eagerness that just never seemed to exist within his particular emotional library. But some moments after hanging up with Emily, Jarod had called down to the front desk to let them know she was coming, and Charlie had dutifully informed him as well of her arrival, once she'd been sent up on the elevator.
So Jarod knew she was there. And he'd already turned off the movie by the time the elevator doors opened, but he didn't actually stand up and move to let her in until a knock came at his door. He missed whatever moment of honesty or vulnerability was there to be seen in her eyes. Maybe that was just as well.
You would never know that the temperature outside had dropped down to the single digits. Not in here. Jarod's apartment was thoroughly comfortable, despite being spacious and having hardwood floors. Actually, the floor itself was unusually warm to the touch. Emily might not notice until she removed her shoes, but it radiated (radiant) heat. Which may have explained why Jarod always seemed to go barefoot when he was at home, even this time of year. Emily was dressed up. He was dressed down, in jeans and a snug black t-shirt that hugged the lines of his torso.
As he opened the door, he leaned one arm against the frame and blocked her path briefly, fixing Emily with a teasingly flirtatious expression before saying, "The prodigal apprentice returns." Then he lifted himself away and stepped back, giving her space to move past him. "I see you survived the flight home. Can't imagine that it was terribly pleasant."
He hadn't yet mentioned the card(gift) he'd given her. Neither of them had. Instead, there was this easy exchange. This casual greeting. Although there was something a little off about the both of them tonight.
[Emily Littleton] She was dressed up, and he was dressed down, and some karmic clothing-scale was kept in balance. It never came to be that he was dressed down when she was, or that she was dressed up when he was -- no, the closest they got to that was when they'd worn nothing but each other. And that was neither here nor now.
Her gaze (stormy [like the sea]) met his (bright [like sapphires]) for a moment when his expression curled and her mouth quirked in kind. Beneath the muddle of Things Not His that rode the surface of her deeply colored eyes there was wamrth, fondness, and it reached down to soften the wry twist of her lips.
"Oh, it was lovely," Emily replied, and the word twisted like deftly weilded dirk. Sarcastic. It was at odds with that warmth, and with the way she reached out smoothly (unassumingly?) to graze her fingertips along his side as she slipped past him in the doorway.
And just as deftly she withdrew them. As if she hadn't quite meant to (needed to) touch him. Emily unzipped her boots and placed them near the entry way. She went through the little rituals of respecting his space, of coming (home) to visit. She made easy conversation to fill the space between them, just like a prodigal Apprentice... who'd had one hell of a homecoming already.
"They're still not letting you carry on anything," she said, ruefully. "I must have read the in-flight magazines four times. Dreadful articles." They were just sounds, comfortable, familiar sounds. Emily was unusually chatty, all the while avoiding the things she really wanted to say. (Did you miss me? [Because I missed you.])
[Jarod Nightingale] Jarod made a little sound in his throat: one of noncommittal agreement. Yes, in-flight magazines were awful. Yes, he'd heard that things were still rather tight with security. And of course it was just... lovely. "I was glad I decided to drive home, myself, so I didn't have to deal with any of it. Course, I'll have to next weekend when I go for a shoot in Shanghai. The joys of working overseas."
It was easy conversation. Just sounds. But then, Jarod spoke so rarely of the details of his life that any tidbits were usually worth saving. For all that he was dressed so casually, the outfit he had on at the moment had cost a total of $225 before tax. Only a model would spend so much to look like he'd just rolled off the couch on a lazy day off, his step-mom had commented once with a sigh. (As if she had any room to judge.) Then again, he looked a damn sight better than most people who'd been lounging on the sofa all day. (He looked good in everything. Especially tight black t-shirts that showed off the length and lean muscle of his upper body.)
That was deceptive, though. Physically, he was fine. But a very close inspection might reveal that he was a little... tired. It wasn't so obvious as dark circles under the eyes or a tendency to nod off while no one was looking, but there was a very low-key quality to his movement and energy, and his eyes weren't quite as... clear as usual.
Emily got herself settled. Removed her boots and whatever else she might need to discard. Jarod glanced down as her fingers brushed his side, then he watched her briefly as he closed and locked the door, and walked back into the living room without waiting. She'd follow when she was ready to do so. In the kitchen, the container of cookies that she'd brought him before Christmas sat on top of the refrigerator, and was currently about half-empty (not that this was immediately visible.) The open DVD case for the movie he'd been watching still lay on the coffee table, providing some clue as to what he'd been doing before she got there. Maybe it would be comforting to know that people like Jarod (who Enid had decided might not be entirely mortal) still did such ordinary, human things.
Then again, he was a little more human around Emily, in general. As he sat down, he looked over and contemplated the sight of her for a moment. The last time they'd seen each other, he hadn't been entirely certain that she was coming back, despite words to the contrary.
(And it was... reassuring, to see her again. Especially now.)
"So, are you going to tell me about your trip?"
[Emily Littleton] That he had not squirreled away all hints of what he had been up to for the evening was almost endearing to Emily. Of course, he could have just as easily planted these nonchalant clues... which would not have been endearing. They danced, often, but knew so little of each other's modus operandi. Emily hung her coat in the coat closet this time, like a well mannered houseguest ought, and padded to the living room on her bare feet (tippy toes). Her posture was a little straighter, her movements a little more carefully kept.
At least at first. Emily could not stay rigid in any sense around him. Not tonight. This was their usual dance: someone moved close enough to touch (kiss), the other moved away. Someone followed, someone led (left). But the were both a little off, and the cadence between them slightly unfamiliar.
I'm leaving... she had said, not too long ago, on a night too different from this one. And yet, for reasons unknown to either of them, she'd found her way back to him.
Emily folded herself into a spot on the couch near him. Close enough to reach out and touch, but not so close he could casually (accidentally) brush up against her. Not without meaning to. She rested her arm on the back of the sofa, and leaned her head against it. Outwardly she seemed quite okay. She was becoming okay again.
"Shanghai," she had replied, with an elevated eyebrow. Just the touch of feigned surprise. Now, sitting near him, her mouth curled (again [wryly]) with remembered mirth. "I suppose that makes sense," she said, softly.
"You know..." Emily looked at him strangely, caught his eyes for a moment and then looked away. "It is somewhat unnerving to encounter you -- or what looks like you at least -- looming over the buildings in Taipei." There was laughter in her eyes, but she didn't voice it. Not yet. "Quite the surprise, that was."
Emily left out the part that had her standing in the street, gawking at a billboard for long enough to get called some particular uncouth things.
"Otherwise my trip was... nice enough. I saw some people I barely remember, we had some get together where we all pretended to be friends, and they pretended to care that I am have a postively riveting collegiate life in Chicago, Illinois."
She hadn't told them, then, who it was she texted near-enough to midnight on the First of the Year. She hadn't flaunted him like a bauble, tried to incite jealously. No. Emily had kept quiet. She had kept quite a few things quiet, until now.
"I missed you," she said. And she said it plainly, without evasion. (There it is.) The words were light, and seemingly without expectation. It was a statement of fact, and not a question or query. She had missed him... surely the quip would come (But my aim is getting better.), any moment now.
[Jarod Nightingale] "Oh, didn't I tell you I had an evil twin running around? Apparently he's a bit famous in certain parts of the world. Suppose I ought to have warned you." He was kidding, of course, dry humor present in his voice as he smiled (just a little) and leaned back against the soft cushions, resting his head and looking up at the ceiling.
When Emily spoke again, though, his eyes slid back to her face, and there was an earnest look to his expression, as if he was actually interested in whatever she had to say. It may have simply been a trick of his positioning, head back and neck curved out (that was a vulnerable pose), and the way he had to raise his eyebrows slightly in order to get a clear vantage point.
"Sounds a lot like my trip." At least, a very edited version of it, but then Emily was probably giving him a very edited version of her own vacation as well.
And then...
I missed you.
Jarod wasn't quick to respond to this. He kept his eyes on hers, and for a moment they actually seemed to become... clearer. Brighter. More focused and intent. She'd missed him, and that was... not good. She wasn't supposed to say it, and he wasn't supposed to like hearing it. In a way, he didn't. Things like that tended to herald an onset of expectations, and it nearly always meant that someone (not him) was going to get hurt. But Emily had said it plainly, as if it were the most easy and natural thing in the world, and in the end, Jarod lifted his head from the cushion and let out his breath in a little sigh... as if he found this news troubling. But he didn't tease her or say anything hurtful. He probably should have (end this now, before it gets worse). Instead he reached down and picked up her hand, turning it over so that he could place a kiss on the sensitive skin on the underside of her wrist.
The kiss lasted a long moment, and he closed his eyes and focused on the delicate pulse of blood through her veins just beneath the skin. He didn't say anything. But there was something communicated nonetheless. (I missed you too.)
[Emily Littleton] No, it wasn't good. It wasn't good because someday she would have to pack her bags and go, and leave him behind whether she wanted to or not. There wasn't enough will-working or world-bending to erase that ugly truth. Some day... she wouldn't come back to him, and someone would end up getting hurt.
But that day was not here, and it was not now. Whatever her intentions had been when she stepped off the plane earlier this evening, Emily had (needed) wanted to tell him this, damn the inevitable ache and ending. It would be better to have it out now, plain where they could both see it, where he could reject it and ...
He wasn't supposed to tenderly kiss the inside of her wrist. And it wasn't supposed to be whipser soft (barely there [and yet so unlike the gently traipsing fingertips of the spider an hour before]). He was supposed to laugh, melodically, and make some sort of joke.
Emily let her fingertips trail along his cheek, softly caress his jaw. Her hand shook (I'm scared [I don't want to hurt you] I don't want to get hurt), but it was a light tremor and forgiveable in a moment like this. Especially when one had traveled as many miles, as many sleepless hours as she had.
"And I don't," she said softly, but firmly. "I have never," she emphasized the word, but not ungently, "Thought of you as just a model, or arm candy." She repeated the words he'd thrown out, in another year, in her half of a rented room across town. "I don't know what this is, and I'm not asking tonight but... Please..." Emily's brow furrowed gently, "Don't say that again."
(About yourself. About me.)
[Jarod Nightingale] (Stop.)
To be completely honest, he'd nearly forgotten about the comment Emily was referring to. (A light-hearted joke about a game he was clearly adept at playing, and had no qualms about.) It took a moment to recall precisely what she was talking about, but in the end the memory did click into place as he released her hand (after she touched his jaw, after her fingers shook so very slightly) and looked up.
A crease formed between his eyebrows, something a little like a frown touching his features. "I was just teasing, Emily." And then, after a pause, "why does it matter?"
He didn't acknowledge her brief mention of their (not)relationship. Not yet, at least.
[Emily Littleton] (( More than you're saying? -- Per + Aware))
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 7 (Failure at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] "Because..."
It was an all too heavy word, and an all too gravid pause. Emily's eyes closed before she let her secrets escape through their open windows. She let out a tense little breath, and it too shook somewhat.
"Because it matters, to me." Because everyone she had left behind had mattered, and no one had been just a stereotype or a cliche. Because Emily, despite the torment of constantly ripping herself away from familiar places and facing and beginning anew, had never really learned how to grow callous or distant. She played the part, but never quite convinced herself.
She sat up a little more on the couch, and the fingers of her that had been resting the sofa came up to play with that little bauble at her neck. But tonight, no matter how it called out (Home, Home, Home) it would not completely calm her. It could not quiet what her time away, or her homecoming had stirred up.
Emily blinked a few times, and shrugged quietly. She would not look directly at him when she said: "I... I just wanted you to know. I never know when," (I'll have to go... [I'll meet another crazy in the street] when Fate will tire of this cat-and-mouse game), "... something will come up."
She chewed at the inside corner of her lip a little. "I just... thought I should tell you." Small smile. (Sad. [Passing.]) "But if it was only a joke, maybe I'm... just being silly." Warmer.
She did look over to meet his eyes, once again, if he was looking to her. Emily was not completely here, not completely away. The odd between-space of being half a day out of sync with the world around her must have been getting to her. It was easy to explain away, and they were both so very good at explaining things away.
[Jarod Nightingale] Emily explained (a little), and the look of slight and unidentifiable displeasure slid away from Jarod's face. For a moment there, he'd actually been slightly irritated. It was only the briefest hint of something that most people found out about him sooner or later: he didn't like to be judged. Even the slightest whisper of it, and his hackles would go up.
But maybe that's not what was happening here, and he considered the entirety of Emily's communication before answering. "No... it's not silly. But I wonder if you entirely understand what kind of world I live in. Sometimes that's... all that I am. Something physically desirable. Sometimes that's all that I want to be." There was a lot of meaning behind that last sentence, and he paused to make sure that it sunk in. That she understood. This was not something she could entirely separate him from, much as she might want to.
"Not that I'm not glad to hear that you don't hang around with me solely for the pleasure of staring at my pretty face." (Or his pretty... anything else, really.) And ah, there it was. He smiled. Honestly, for what it was worth. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize it bothered you so much."
[Emily Littleton] "If that was all of it, I could have stayed in Taipei and mooned over billboards," she said lightly. Emily couldn't quite completely smile, but she did try. And it was a heartwarming expression, if a somewhat wary one.
"And you're right. I can't..." imagine the world he lived in, fully understand it; Emily couldn't touch it, it was so foreign to her. "Or I can't, just yet. But give me some time, and I'll try to." There was so very little Emily could not wrap her mind around, given time and motivation. It had been that way for a long while, long before she had Awakened. Perhaps, in time, even his odd world of beautiful people would make its own sort of sense.
"I didn't mean to come back and leave all of this on your doorstep," she said, apologetically. "Believe me, I had plenty of time to practice what I wanted to say, but I ... lost track of it somehow." She huffed a little. "I had hoped to be so much more eloquent, I'll have you know."
This smile was a bit more genuine, less distant. (Immanent.)
[Jarod Nightingale] "Billboards aren't interactive," Jarod replied with some wry humor. "If you can't fuck it, what's the point?" Somehow this came out sounding like deep, philosophical advice. Like he'd just broken down the meaning of life into one simple, basic (and base) concept. (Was that how he thought about other people? Maybe it was just how he thought about himself.)
"Don't apologize. You haven't burdened me with anything. And you don't need to be eloquent. Honestly I'm just... glad for the distraction." For a moment a little emotion showed on his face: stress, frustration, exhaustion (emotional and physical)... guilt. Emily may have been surprised to see it. There were not many moments when Jarod simply allowed his moods to express themselves naturally, and while they could not be called obvious, neither were they particularly ambiguous. Maybe he was just too tired to bother.
But he smiled a little, anyway, and reached out to brush his thumb lightly across Emily's lower lip. "Did I ever tell you I love the way your lips are shaped?"
[Emily Littleton] Emily kissed his fingerprint as it brushed across her mouth. For a moment, she let her eyelids slip closed (heady [heavy]), and let herself feel the ineffable pull of him. Jarod had his own sort of gravity, and she found herself (often) falling into it. Then her lashes parted, and her eyes blinked open.
They were both a little to wearied for deceptions. A little too tired to hide in plain sight. Her brow furrowed, and her eyes softened. "You okay?" she asked, but Emily didn't push. She wanted him to know she'd noticed, but she didn't pull away and demand any explanations. It was just a question. Just one (concerned) question.
[Jarod Nightingale] You okay?
It should have been an easy question, but it wasn't, and ultimately he didn't have any easy answers. So he let his hand drop away and shrugged, not to imply that it didn't matter or even that he didn't know... but rather that he didn't have the right words at the moment, and didn't much feel inclined to search for them. "I had a bad day yesterday. Didn't sleep much. I guess I'm a little tired."
And I don't know what to do with you. But I don't want you to leave.
Then, inexplicably, he laughed. "I must be getting easier to resist in my old age." (As if 29 was old by any stretch of the imagination. As if he was used to people completely falling into him at the slightest opportunity. What an odd perspective he must have.)
[Emily Littleton] His hand fell away and Emily shifted on the couch, bringing them nearer. She reached out to touch him again, to be closer to him than an arm's length away. Emily could fall into him without throwing herself after him, however uneasy this night's disclosures had been for them both.
"My night didn't start off so well either," she admitted. "But it's steadily getting better." A small smile. Warmer. "If you'd like me to go, I can." Emily paused, then looked up at him and said simple, "But I'd like to stay."
[Jarod Nightingale] "You only just got here. Would be a waste to kick you out."
Two nights ago, Jarod had been sitting on this same couch with Nick. If he closed his eyes, he could still smell the other man's hair. He could still feel him pressed into his space, knees tucked in on either side of his hips; wanting, aggressively; biting at his neck. He could still hear him whispering fuck me, fuck me over and over again, in that ragged, desperate tone. (As if he needed it to go on living.)
But he didn't close his eyes, because he didn't want to remember that right now. Not with her. And that was troublesome, because of all the unpleasant qualities Jarod would readily admit to having, he'd never deliberately allowed someone to think that they were getting more from him than they really were. (Well, that wasn't entirely true, but instances of deception for the benefit of personal survival could be excused.)
Emily reached out to touch him after his hand dropped away from her lips, and the contact was welcome enough. There was a magnetic pull that drew them to touch each other, even in seemingly casual and innocent ways. If that pull hadn't been there, then none of this would have happened in the first place. He'd have walked right by her. Even knowing what she was, he wouldn't have invited her back with him. It did... make things complicated though. Because she wasn't just some random encounter. She wasn't a pretty sleeper he'd met some night and fucked for the pure physical enjoyment of it (the addictive nature of being that close to another living body, of feeling their pulse and their pattern and the ecstatic heights they could be driven to). She was... Emily.
In the same way that Dana was Dana (well, not precisely the same.) And Rada had been...
Jarod slammed down a brick wall in his mind so hard it actually made his muscles tense. (Before that thought, and the memories attached to it, even had time to finish coalescing.) Emily might wonder at that. Why his eyes had looked a bit out of focus (turned inward), and why his neck and shoulders seemed to tighten of their own accord when he glanced away (at the window, at the wall, at nothing in particular.)
"I'm glad I can help with that, at least." He pulled himself back to the present quickly enough, his eyes shifting back to her own, and there was a curious expression there, as if he was wondering what she might be thinking. (As if he wished he could read her mind. But he didn't try.) Then he reached out with one arm and pulled her in next to him, wrapping it around her waist so that his hand rested loosely at her stomach. And he leaned in to kiss the side of her face, just at the edge of her cheekbone, before trailing his lips down to finally meet her own. "Tu m'incite à rappeler. Tu m'incite à oublier," he whispered against her mouth before kissing her.
[Emily Littleton] You make me remember.
Sliding in beside him, feeling his arm wrap around her, his warmth flow into her -- it was like finally finding water after weeks of wandering, parched and lonely, in unfamiliar places. Emily had been wound so tightly for so long that the tension was a tight ball of unsettled nerves that sang frantically at her core: a faint, high whine that could be assumed away into the white noise of a wearied soul. It was like finding water, finally finding water, and throwing herself into it to suddenly remember she couldn't swim. Emily could drown in him tonight, without ever meaning to.
Emily made a small sound when he kissed her the first time. Appreciative (relieved). It rolled, low and resonant, across her vocal chords, escaped from still-closed lips. Her eyes closed, before giving him too much of a glimpse of the unsettled places within, and she fell into kissing him. She kissed him carefully, at first, but with an ever building insistence. As if he was the water she'd craved, the air her lungs burned to breathe. She didn't whipser words to him, but Emily's fingertips and mouth spoke volumes in how they sought him. How they found him.
You make me forget.
If she could but drown in him, then she might forget the dank smell of river mud on a hot June afternoon that wafted in from nowhere in particular. She might forget the gristle-scratch of His unshaven cheek as it slid along her collarbone. She could forget the way he held fast her arm and growled Do. Not. Move. into her ear as if it was the only directive, the only thing that might spare her.
Forget the flicker of neon lights and the thrum of the bass and the iron-fast grip She had on Emily's wrist. The whisper-light footfalls of Her eight-legged friends, climbing Emily's long fingers like ladder rungs.
Forget that she was falling into him, falling for him, in terrifyingly dangerous (wonderful) ways.
She could drown in him tonight, without ever meaning to. And it was exactly what she (needed) wanted.
[Jarod Nightingale] So much of their relationship was built upon not speaking. Upon things that went unsaid but were still somehow understood, and upon things that should have been said but... weren't. This was true on multiple levels, and if you asked either Jarod or Emily whether or not they might have anything important to tell the other at this particular moment, both parties would be forced to admit that they did, and that they were probably intentionally avoiding these prickly topics in favor of drowning in the so-much-more real immediacy of each other.
(For two people who seemed so different on the outside, they had a great deal more in common than anyone might suspect.)
If Emily had been tentative then... if she'd pulled away, the moment would have settled back into comfortable normalcy, and they would have continued talking. (And maybe Jarod would have told her about the marauder he'd tried to murder yesterday.) But she wasn't (at least, not for long), and she didn't. And Jarod didn't need to read her mind to know what it was she wanted (to remember, to forget, to drown), because for that one moment they were completely and perfectly in sync.
He pushed, gently, easing into Emily's space and pressing her back onto the couch beneath his weight. The hand around her waist slid free from its hold so that he could balance himself over her on one arm while the other reached down to touch her outside leg and trace his fingers from hip-joint to knee. He never once stopped kissing her. Somehow in the midst of things he slid in to rest his pelvis between her legs, and his hand on her knee pulled the limb up against his own hip, then he released his hold and let his weight settle there, the length of his body melting against her own. His hands found her hair, tied back as it was, and he set about undoing the careful work she'd put into keeping it there so that eventually he might be able to feel the loose curls soft and free between his fingers.
Emily's mouth held a significant pull. It fascinated. The soft curve of lips, the warmth of breath, the physical closeness that had been absent for these past weeks. Jarod's own lips parted so that he could briefly touch her tongue with his own. Not forcefully. Not the invasive, demanding and unskilled action of horny teenage boys across the globe. This was graceful and soft, and he breathed in as he did it so that he pulled her breath into his lungs. Then he pulled back a little to bite at her lower lip, and he made a sound like a low hum in the back of his throat.
Missed you. Want you.
[Emily Littleton] When she had left him, Emily had been tentative, shy, quiet, uncertain. Given time, Jarod would come to understand that she had left him, with no expectations of anything beyond that goodbye. She had walked out of his apartment, and believed in some (unrelenting) visceral way, that it would be the last time they met like this (or otherwise). And it made the homecoming all the harder (sweeter), to be tangled up like this in him, feeling his weight against her and his mouth against her skin.
Emily had left uncertain (tentative), but there was a clearer need (want [desire] hunger) in how she touched him now. No hesitance to how she rucked up his shirt to trail her fingerprints (fingernails) along the sensitive skin of his hip, just about the rise of his jeans. There was nothing quiet (but something wordless) in how her body rose to meet his, moved with his, reminded him in fleeting skin-on-skin touches that there were but fibers and fabrics between them. Nothing as heavy as expectations. Nothing as binding as words.
She breathed out a small, tremulous (heady) sound that may have been a word. May have been some nascent thought that tripped over its starting sound and tumbled from her lips as a sigh instead. It could have been an endearment (Love [mo chroi]), an exclamation (oh God [Mmmmm...]), and invitation.... but it was not Nick's pleading (fuck me), or any sort of deterrent.
Emily pulled him into her, into her space, into the unspeakably thin veil between them. If Jarod could feel her heartbeat from across the room, then perhaps he could feel his own (her) skin slide past her (his) fingertips, feel his (her) breath against her (his) skin, feel the dizzying way that they melted into one another when neither wanted anything to do with the prickly, naggling thoughts (memories) of less carnal moments.
You are the place my mind runs to today
Wherever it wanders, it finds you
[Jarod Nightingale] [Life 1 - I want to feel your heart - diff 4 -1(focus)... after he takes the necklace off]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 5, 9 (Success x 3 at target 3)
[Jarod Nightingale] Emily wasn't Nick, or anyone else for that matter. She was completely herself. Completely her own experience. And Jarod adored this about her, even if, on occasion, he found her a little... perplexing. When he was with her, he never thought about anyone else. He never forgot who it was that he was kissing and breathing in.
Eventually he managed to free her hair, and his fingers wound through it as if she felt like home. Beneath his chest, her heart beat, and he could feel it even without the benefit of any magical intervention, but there was skin and fabric and much too much between them and he wanted... more. To be close. To feel every pulse, every spark of a nerve ending, as if it were his own. So his hands slid down to the back of Emily's neck and quickly (but carefully, skillfully) unhooked the clasp that held it in place, pulling it off of her and reaching out to set it down on the coffee table. The silver chain made a faint slithering sound against the glass as it pooled around the locket.
And then he reached out, and he felt... everything. And it was like someone had reached into him and ripped out every tense thought and emotion that had been plaguing him all evening. Because nothing in the world could exist within the same space as the overpowering presence of her. Jarod let out a long, shaky breath when his senses flooded, not entirely unlike the reaction of a drug addict who'd just shot up after a prolonged wait. The force of it caused him to close his eyes for a moment, and he rested his forehead against the base of Emily's throat and just... breathed.
But she was touching his skin. His hip. Side. The edge of his stomach. And it drew him out of his momentary trance. He kissed the hollow of her throat, where that pulse beat so clearly, and touched his tongue to her skin. His hands grasped at the sides of her waist, fingers digging in a bit more roughly than he perhaps meant them to, and with a sudden, forceful movement of his hips, he pushed against her. But there were clothes in the way, and the exercise was both futile and frustrating. (Though perhaps that was the point. He did like to tease, after all.) For once, Jarod wasn't cold. He wasn't frozen. His body was alive with warmth. It flushed his skin and lips (swollen and reddened from so much kissing) and radiated off of him. When he opened his eyes and looked at her, they were impossibly dark. Black pools surrounded by a thin ring of deep blue.
Every single instinct he possessed screamed at him to repeat what he was doing, but instead he pulled away (agonizingly) and stood up. Reaching down, he grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and peeled the fabric off his skin, dropping it unceremoniously on the floor. (That was unusual. He never left his clothes on the living room floor like that.)
Bedroom, his eyes said. And he kept his gaze locked on hers as he backed up into the hallway and turned, heading in the direction of the open door at the end of the hall.
[Emily Littleton] Emily's day had begun far away, so many hours ago now that the day had become less a neatly cordoned-off box on the calendar and more a suggestive smear of collected hours. She'd watched the blackness envelope the world beyond the airplane window, and the Blue Moon sing past full-faced and harried. Rosy-fingered dawn had lifted the world from slumber, and twilight had plunged it back into the depths of night. She had gone from smoggy, sunny, warm to bitter cold and snowing. From bored, to anxious, to restless... all to lead her here, close enough to (kiss) touch, to (have) hold.
So entwined was he in her senses, that Jarod could feel the way Emily ached when he pulled away. Even for a moment. He could feel how her breath rattled in her chest, short and tense, and how the muscles of her core tightened to even it out. How the world around her thrummed dizzingly, loudly, with him in one moment and then... there was this damnable distance. This unwanted separation between his skin and hers.
It took Emily a moment to pull herself off the couch, to find her bearings in the not-nearness of him. Her own eyes were dark, half-hooded behind dark lashes, soft and (hungry) somewhat impatient. Impatient with him for walking away (leaving), even if he kept his eyes trained to hers, his heartbeat twined with hers.
She followed. Once she had remembered how to find her feet, and make her way across the room. Emily followed, stopping only to pick his shirt up off the floor with a deft swipe. Later, when she was closer, she'd throw it back to him. Because it wasn't like him to leave clothing on the living room floor, or allow crumbs in the entryway, and because it was fun to make him wait... for just a moment longer... since he seemed so intent breaking the all-consuming focus she'd cultivated on his closeness.
[Jarod Nightingale] They were facing each other in the dim light of the bedroom (an ambient glow that was a mixture of city and moonlight spilled in through the uncovered windows), and Jarod uttered a delicate, throaty laugh when Emily tossed him his shirt. He caught it in one hand, and, as if to prove to her that he'd fully intended to do something that was out of character (something messy and chaotic), he immediately tossed it on the floor again. (Although his floor was, admittedly, cleaner than most people's closets, and wasn't likely to cause any undue harm to a piece of clothing for a few moments.)
There was a challenge in that. Maybe she would see it. Maybe she wouldn't. I want to not be so controlled, right now. I want to forget. Drown. Become lost. Will you let go, with me?
And then he crossed the couple of steps that separated them and almost instantly set about removing the rest of their clothes. On past occasions (even during moments of intensity, like the night they'd kissed so roughly in the parking garage) he'd done this very... deliberately. Letting the build-up happen in his own time. Making the removal of clothing something of a dance. Tonight he simply wanted to be rid of these things that suddenly seemed to be so frustratingly in the way of what he needed. And although he wasn't by any means clumsy or inconsiderate, neither did he feel the need to waste any time. Perhaps Emily helped him. Perhaps she simply allowed his hands access, to do as they needed. Regardless, fabric was peeled away and dropped between hungry, breathy kisses that he applied to her lips and neck.
Within moments, neither of them had anything left to remove, and Jarod pressed his palm against Emily's chest and pushed her back onto the bed, pulling away the covers as he climbed in after her. They were both impatient, and it showed. They were both already exhausted, but for the moment, Jarod felt anything but. Rather, he was very, very much alive. And that, really, was the best present Emily could have given him. It was everything. The only thing that mattered.
When her head found the pillow, he melted into her, just as they'd been on the couch, only now there was nothing between them but skin, and he slid up slowly so that he could focus for a moment on the way her breasts felt when they dragged against his chest. His erection pushed against her stomach (impatient, hungry, wanting), but for a few seconds he simply lay there, feeling the shuddering pulse of her heart-beat beneath him.
"Am I going too fast?" he asked softly, though it was mostly a precaution. A slight concern, since she had seemed a little off-kilter (they both had.)
[Emily Littleton] Will you let go, with me? ([i]Will you help me to let go...?)
What they wanted (needed) from one another, as much as the intimacy and elation of two bodies moving in concert, was perfectly twined. Jarod wanted Emily to let go with him; she needed him to push her until she could. Until they could both fall away from the walls (walled in [fears]) and echoes (memories) that wound their way around hearts, minds, souls. It was a challenge, met by a challenge (promise).
Emily didn't answer him in words. They had strayed into the place where she did not makes sound for him, not yet, not quite until... Instead she slid her legs up to wrap them around him soundly, caught his lower lip with her teeth and tugged -- not too hard, but insistently.
She was off-kilter, yes, but she didn't want to stop and talk about it. She didn't want to talk at all. And no, he was not moving too fast, not now that their bodies were intertwined (almost [achingly close]). Emily threaded the fingers of one hand through his dark hair and kissed him again. Not so sweetly. Not so carefully. She kissed him until there was no room in their mouths for questions, for words. She kissed him until they both began to drown in the moment.
[Jarod Nightingale] Emily didn't want to talk, and Jarod knew how much she wanted this without even needing to ask. He could feel her body's aching need all wrapped up and intertwined with his own. But he'd asked anyway, because he didn't want to hurt her, like other people probably had (he'd never asked, but he'd suspected.) Like others had hurt him (long ago, in another life he tried not to remember and usually succeeded.)
She didn't speak. She never did, during these moments. But her answer was there in the way that she kissed him, and the way that she pulled him against her with her legs. Jarod threaded his fingers through her hair and grasped at the sides of her face as he kissed her back, falling completely into the moment. There was an almost primal (primordial) impulse behind these kisses. Instinct and hunger and things much older and much more powerful than language or man-made expectations.
He released his hold, pressing palms against the soft surface of the mattress beneath them, and broke the kiss as he lifted up on both arms. His eyes never left hers. They remained locked in place, dark and intense and glittering in the soft light. Then he angled their hips together, and when he pushed in, it wasn't nearly as slow or careful as he usually was. Instead he buried himself as deeply within her as he could manage, and only then did his eyelids slide shut, just for a moment, as a soft moan caught and hitched in his throat.
Yes... that.
He didn't linger, though. There wasn't any teasing tonight. No slow and sensual explorations of precisely which places on Emily's body made her pulse quicken the most. That was yesterday, and tomorrow, but not tonight. Tonight he just fucked her like he was starving for it (like they both were), and he thrust against her quickly, roughly, deeply. Like he wanted (needed) to be close. Closer.
Emily may have been quiet at first, but he... wasn't. So often in such tight control of himself during day to day interactions, it was perhaps telling that he was so eager and capable of throwing himself into sex so completely. (And of course, he had no reason to be shy.) His breathing was harsh, and gentle, delicious-sounding moans escaped his throat with some regularity. Midway through, he shifted to lean his weight on one arm so that the other was free to let his hand wander the welcome soft heat of her body, and eventually it found its way down between them, his thumb seeking out and finding the spot where her own desire was centered. The sensation was rather uniquely heady for him, being so in tune with her body. He felt the steadily building heat and the little electric jolts as if they were his own, and ultimately the line blurred to the point where there simply was no distinction.
It was ultimately the sensation of her own orgasm that sent him over the edge. The rush of blood. The clench of muscles (that grabbed and pulled him in deeper) and the absolutely perfect feel of her, warm and soft and tightening around him so that every single nerve ending in his body suddenly shivered and overloaded with sensory input. He buried himself within her, and let out a strangled shout that was mostly muffled against the skin of her shoulder when he bit down on it, hard enough to leave a mark.
Slowly... slowly... he started to catch his breath. To return. His eyelids fluttered, and he kissed her softly over the place where he'd bit down, almost as if in apology.
He didn't roll away instantly. Instead, he let his weight rest back on her chest and stayed where he was, listening to (feeling) Emily's heart beat.
[Emily Littleton] There was a shudder, a sundering, and she cried out: a voice triumphant and at once strangled. As they fell together in the aftermath of their undoings, Emily's breath was shaky (shaken) against his skin. In time, the space of heartbeats, it slowed but did not settle. Her eyes, still closed and demarcated by rows of dark lashes, did not open. Did not seek out his. There in the creases of the corners of her eyes, a twinkle, tears and sweat intermingling, inseparable, indistinguishable.
She slid her hands up his back and held him to her, held onto him as if he were a lifeline in the storm. She shuddered against him, again. Tipped her head so that rested against him, so that her exhaled breaths pooled in the space between their bodies. So that he couldn't meet her eyes just yet.
Slowly... slowly... she let him go. Withdrew. (Retreated.) When her eyes blinked open they were bright (wet) and soft (unveiled). Whether Jarod would look in to see her looking out, that was his decision and his alone. She couldn't hide here, not now. Now she has no energy for deception, no strength to hold the walls. Now there is only sleep, and in its blissful halls perhaps there is mending.
But for all that she is (broken) wearied, Emily is no longer tense (fearful), no longer taut enough to break (be broken). The storm has passed, and she is quieted. If nothing else, this much is good.
[Jarod Nightingale] He hadn't pulled away. He wasn't striding toward the shower (yet). This was significant.
And there was an uncommon vulnerability simply in the way that he had allowed himself to be human. To not be perfect. To finish perhaps more quickly than he might otherwise have wanted to, and to let it all be a little messy and honest and uninhibited. Ultimately, despite that, he felt so much calmer and more at ease than he had in... a long time. There was a quiet happiness in that.
But he also felt exhausted. Pushed to the limits of his stamina by physical and magical exertion from the previous day, coupled with lack of sleep, and then topped off by... this. It was the last little bit of energy he'd had, and when he sighed against her neck, it sounded like he was about ready to fall asleep right there. To forget everything, as he'd been wanting to do. As he had done, for awhile, with her.
But he must have been a bit heavy (for all that he was rather lean - he still weighed more than she did), and he was conscious of that, so with a great push of willpower, he started to try and sit up, but was stopped by Emily's expression when his eyes met hers.
"Hey," he spoke with surprising gentleness. "Are you okay?"
He leaned in to place a butterfly-soft kiss at the corner of her eye, feeling the dampness there.
[Emily Littleton] "I'm getting there..." Her reply was not so much evasion, because Emily was incapable of that at this point in time, as it was a thin, tentative hope. She needed to not say "No, I'm a little (fucked up) freaked out" outloud almost as much as she'd needed to be with him (not anyone [just you]) like this, here, somewhere that was safer than anywhere she'd called Home in recent years. And so it's not willful, and it's not pushing him away when she can't quite say that she's not entirely okay. Because she needs to believe that she's getting back to good. Needs him to believe it.
Emily did not like to be needy. She wasn't clingy. That wasn't what this was. Whatever it was, and she'd told him she wasn't asking after that tonight, Emily was certain that this wasn't about clinginess or neediness.
"I just... I got a little turned inside-out tonight," she said, reaching out to touch him softly. Gently. Like he might fade away or turn to nothing more than whispers if she spoke too loudly or touched to harshly. This was a place for whispers. Quiet. "Got a little spooked by someone at the pub when I'd first gotten in, but it all worked out, no matter."
She hadn't left it at just another side-step, not this time. Emily let the words run together, run out of her like some sort of absolution. As long as he was close enough to touch, to cleave to. Emily turned her head a bit and laid a kiss on his shoulder. (I'm fine... [Thank you.] I missed you [this].)
[Jarod Nightingale] He couldn't stay against her (in her) forever, so after listening to her response and making a close study of her face (his own expression shifted a little, into something like concern), he finally pulled away (his breath hitched slightly) and shifted to lay on his side next to her. One arm wrapped around her rib-cage, just beneath her breasts, and he pulled her in close.
(Protective, maybe.)
"Do you want to talk about it?"
He still hadn't so much as even glanced in the direction of the bathroom door, though that little nagging voice in the back of his head was beginning to stir and murmur disapproval. Mostly, it was overwhelmed by the thick, draping web of sleepiness and the warm, gentle glow of post-sex.
[Emily Littleton] Emily fitted in beside him, held fast by his arm and this was good. This was good enough to stave off any coming disquiet. Any memories she didn't want to fight again, tonight. She drew a deeper breath, and this one was not so shaken, not so uneasy.
"Not... right now," she said, and it wasn't a matter of not telling him as much as it was that she was tired, they were tired, and the things that had quickened her pulse, and jumbled the voicemail she'd left him, these hauntings were not what she wanted to revisit immediately before sleep. "Right now, I want to stay here, with you, in this moment. In something good. I want this to be what I'm thinking of when I fall asleep... tonight."
Emily ran her hand over his arm, the one that held her close. Her fingers close on his forearm, squeezed lightly, then just rested there. She took another deep breath (yawn) and let it out slowly....
"But I'll tell you, if you want," she said softly, at odds with the strong sentiments she'd just voiced. Because this moment wasn't only hers, and what he wanted mattered to her, too.
[Jarod Nightingale] "No, later is fine. You should sleep. You need it."
So did he. And although he had something he needed to talk to her about as well, he could hardly even bring himself to keep his eyes open, let alone attempt a difficult (and entirely unpleasant) conversation about things like... marauders. Now he finally did glance in the direction of the shower, but lifting his head up off of the pillow took so much effort that the very notion of even standing up seemed torturous.
You're a mess, the voice insisted. She's a mess. The sheets are a mess. You aren't seriously going to just... fall asleep like that, are you?
Emily yawned, and it proved infectious. Jarod released his hold on her just for a moment, so that he could stretch, and it was such a patently feline action, the way he spine arched and his arms pushed out above his head, coupled with the yawn and the flash of bright teeth... it was almost... amusing.
"I think... if I try to get up, I might just pass out," he mused lazily, eyelids falling slightly out of sleepiness. So he did not, in fact, get up. Instead he grabbed the blankets and lifted them up to envelop their bodies in soft, cozy warmth, returned his arm to its place around Emily's body and curled in against her. Surprisingly content.
(And even more surprisingly, the voice in his head grumbled softly and then... was silent.)
"J'aime sentir ton corps à côté de moi," he murmured, almost without thinking, as his eyelids slid shut. He was asleep before even a few more breaths could escape his lips.
[Emily Littleton] Emily did not know any French, but she can place the language just fine. It goes right there, in her head, in the Languages I Don't Speak box. So it makes sense to her that she should pick something, some little phrase, that she knows from another tongue as a reply. It's even relevent, somewhat.
"Süßige Träume" she breathes out, and the S-sounds become sliding sussurations. For a reputedly harsh language, the German is sweet (no pun intended) in Emily's voice. Endearing. Like the single word of Chinese he's heard her toss out in a moment of frustration, this is a perfectly shaped (parroted) momento from somewhere she has lived. It is, quite possible, something that has been tucked into the curl of her ear many times as she drifted off to sleep.
Emily shifted a little, nestling into the warmth of the blankets yet unwilling to give even the slightest ground between them. Yet. Jarod fell to sleeping first, but Emily was close behind him. Not too long later her body went slack, and her breathing slid into something more rhythmic. For the first time in far too many hours, Emily was at rest.
