ArchivedLogs:Treading Lightly

Treading Lightly
Dramatis Personae Emma, Parley
In Absentia	2013-04-13 '
Location <NYC> White Queen's Office - Hellfire Clubhouse
Despite Emma's love for the color white, she has chosen to decorate her office in rich wood paneling and black and white to keep with the main entry hall's theme. Her desk is wide and her chair black leather. The chairs opposite her desk are upholstered in black and white check. Her couch, by far her favorite place in the room, is a long, white chaise lounge, adorned with beautiful scrolled wood and high backs and arms where available. A single black, wing backed chair sits with a couple small circular end tables in accompaniment. The best part of the room are the closets and cabinetry hidden in the paneling around her desk, providing the event coordinator the ability to coordinate to each event. Emma has been living in her office lately, but it is not incredibly office. The cleaning staff manages to keep the lived in mess to a minimum, her laundry kept out of sight, her dishes collected when she is done with them, and her personal belongings have been put in some of the storage closets. The only evidence is a blanket and a pillow folded up on the chaise, and her personal laptop sitting next to her work computer on her desk. Emma is fresh from a shower and is still in her work out clothes as she enters her office, a door kept locked in her absence. She is fresh and clean, but incredibly distracted. She puts her gym belongings in a drawer and pulls on an extendible closet rod in one of the other hidden spaces, exposing a few different selections of work clothing. She's toying with a skirt suit, but opts for the divided leg variety, which she lays out on the back of the black chair as she searches through to find the appropriate stockings. Parley didn't have an appointment, but he ghosts past security on silent feet by virtue of offering no signal to hang in the forebrain. Combed neat in stylish form-fitting charcoal turtleneck, black slacks and a brown belt, brown loafers, he has a few lingering signs of wear; one finger is bandaged, his left cheek sporting a few light scab-scrapes, but he doesn't wear them with any apparent thought. He washes up at the outside of Emma's door and knocks quietly after a soft-silent feather-brush into the room's interior turns up only Emma within. << (shh. me.) >> It's difficult to tell if it's in humor or not. << Come in, >> Emma remarks quietly, finally selecting some thigh high silk stockings from a drawer. She lays those over the arm of her desk chair and looks up as Parley enters. The door shifts open and Parley drifts inside, closing and locking behind himself. "I'm not interrupting?" He swipes his eyes over Emma's attire. "I don't care. Do you?" Emma considers him for a moment, then moves over toward him, eyes narrowing on his face and his finger. A wrinkle appears between her brows, a small scowl on her lips. "What happened?" It's less of a question and a requirement speak, but at least her tone is quiet and laced with concern. She gestures to the chaise and bits him sit. "I have something for you," Parley opts to answer with, crossing the room to settle on the chaise in an attentive, upright seat; for him, apparently silent implies consent, in that he doesn't seem to mind at all, no. From inside a back pocket, he extracts a thumbdrive, setting it on the edge of his seat nearest to Emma, "-you keep your clothes in your office?" "Some, yes, for quick changes during the day." Emma rests her hands on her knees for a moment, those knees pressed tightly together as she leans a little closer to examine Parley's face. She considers quietly, then reaches out for the thumb drive. "I appreciate presents." Her mood is tense, her muscles tense. "I hope you didn't go to too much trouble for this." And with that, she's up again, moving toward her desk and slips said drive into a small drawer. Closer examination finds a face so slightly tight as well, with smudges of color beneath either of Parley's eyes as they look back at Emma, studying her in turn. He's scrubbed immaculate, to the point that the scrapes on his cheek may be just cooling down from a mild rawness. "--not too much." He says, slowly, with an odd smile slanting his mouth, watching her retrieve the thumbdrive. << (oscorp; anti-telepathy research.) >> There is nothing about it even trying to be covert - his mind reaches out, touches the outside of Emma's mind in a soft feathery brush. It less requests entrance so much as offers; hallways opening up in great, deep channels along the surface of his mind, where influences both external and internal have worn smooth a touch-stone path. << (tension?) >> It invite/asks. << My apartment was broken into. >> Emma admits quietly, taking a deep breath before slipping out of her clothes, exposing a lace bra and panties that she was definitely not wearing in the gym. She sets to work slipping into the thigh high stockings, lace trim on the upper three inches. Her fingers work meticulously to ensure that the thin material is situated carefully and not twisted as it goes on, and that the mildly rubberized grips at the top are secure and comfortable. She rises and walks over to her suit. << Thank you. I will review it later. >> Parley doesn't turn his eyes away when Emma changes; openly curious, inspected is her face and hair, the line of her jaw as easily as the rest of her body, of her state in muscle tone or presence of scar or mole or mark. << (anything stolen?) >> A very simple question, but carried on a weighty concern that implies, in an echo that presents itself practical, if for no other reason than that anything else would be /obstructive/ right now, << (are you compromised?) >> << It wasn't about theft. >> "I think we should order some food. Are you hungry? It's probably a good time for dinner." Words and thoughts entwine as Emma unwinds the jacket from the hanger than holds her pants as well. She shakes the pants out after moving the jacket to the back of her desk chair. Soon, she's stepping into the leg coverings, the heading toward the closet to select a blouse. << I was untouched. >> but the face - that of Goblin in his full green skinned, yellow eyed glory looming over her, canines near face level - that leaks across the thoughts she shares with him seems to express the intention of other things. << I have a new job because of it. >> << (...-) >> Apparent is the subtle rise of inquiry, nearly asking, mitigated with a gradual exhale through nose, and Parley rubs the back of his neck. "I could eat." It's a slight lie; he hasn't eaten today. It's expressed somehow less in a thought and more pinned intentionally to the words. Small honesties in a deep sea of unspoken words and kept secrets. << (i am glad)(you're not hurt.) >> 'Untouched' is such an interesting choice, and as she moves further away, a part of his mind follows along with her like a shadow. << (what do you need.) >> << I don't know yet. >> Emma finds a satin shirt with a billow cowl, that will lay nicely with her jacket and slips it on, fingers toying briefly with the button behind her neck. She then moves over to her desk and extracts a leather bound menu from a different drawer. "You pick, but I want desserts." She is then slipping into her jacket, rubbing her arms like she is cold. << I have been asked to help someone with a split personality. I am not entirely sure there's anything I can do until I get a chance to really examine the problem. >> The menu is consulted, the transition of Parley from his seat to the desk one savage-quick, for a closet (or not so closet) hedonist in the name of food. "What dessert would you prefer," Parley inquires, rather deliberately hoisting a hip up onto the corner of Emma's desk and then gathering up his legs to perch on her workplace, lotus-style. And quite zen while he browses, invested in every word read. Mentally, he is allowing the image of yellow eyes to lay in a backdrop against his own impressions of Osborn's mind; of a caged lion, on the hunt. Of the consideration to lock the doors of his office. His emotional responses are carefully muted, even possibly to himself, as he picks and tiptoes at it. << (he knows, then.)(about you.) >> It's neither pushy nor clenched with anxiety. Just - a tension. Carefully arrested. << (--be careful.) >> The look Emma gives Parley could freeze water. She then turns back to the mirror she is using to brush out her hair. "I will take the creme brulee and the zeppole, thank you," She replies still icy. << You're the one who asked why I am tense. >> Her meaning is clear, do not tell her what is painfully obvious. Parley smiles down at the menu, not raising his eyes - though possibly his fur ruffles for her frosty glare; you would have to guess though, by the evidence of him running his hand down the back of his turtleneck, "Mmh. Creme brulee and zeppole, then. And for me, a tiramisu, I think. I like dishes with lady fingers." << (ahh?) >> Its a very soft sound, carefully dipping a mental concession. << (and i am)(grateful)(you answered.) >> His concept of 'grateful' is complicated, with some veiled anxiety, curiosity, interest, all breathless little rushes that slip in, and out. Perhaps it's a return in kind, that he offers, mildly, << (i was in his laboratory.) >> "Dinner too, Parley. We cannot live on sweets alone." Emma chides, sliding into her seat when she is done. She boots up the computer and begins to run through her schedule for the night. There is too much to do and Emma does not wish to leave her office. << /His/ laboratory. >> She considers. << I never said it was /him/. >> she quibbles slightly, somewhere underneath it is evident it is for the young man's sake, implanting doubt in order to protect him. << But never the less, I am glad you made it out. >> << (ahah. so am i.) >> Her intentions to obfuscate are not shrugged off; Parley reads them, turns them over in his channels in a yawning moment of thought. And, cautiously, allows them to have their way. << (no.)(you didn't, did you.)(i rescind my assumption.) >> "Can't we?" he asks, from his parch. "I do like sweets. Tsssss... Though the braised ribs sound tempting." He stretches out, lays out his mind alongside Emma's, quiet sheets of gray that do not yammer, nor crave. They're quiet, and along her edges they churn, streamline, groom mildly. Emma closes her eyes for a moment, getting the feel of Parley's psionic self quietly. She keeps them closed as she leans back in her chair, quiet. "Yes, the braised ribs sound good. Please, order it." There's a small flick of her fingers, a wave of her hand, while her other hand reaches up and pinches the bridge of her nose like a headache is coming on. "Thank you." A hook of quick fingers retrieves Emma's phone from its cradle, and Parley's polite voice places the order while he idly runs a hand up and down one of his overlapped shinbones. While he does, his mind is soft to her touch; it rolls into it, folds around it, and lets her in. It's a curiously numb world, inside; smooth and unobstructing and quiet, as permissive as it is obscure in its own shape. By the time he hangs up the phone, he's watching her face thoughtfully, and then props a cheek on his fist, eyes closing, "If you wanted to close your eyes until it arrives, I could answer the door." "That would be lovely, dear." Emma's mind remains cool and reserved, shields up around all of her private thoughts. Any flare ups of emotion, tension or concern run up against Parley's mind and get lost in the numbness. She focuses on that numbness and uses it herself, closing herself down further and almost resting in it. "Don't let me sleep. I have too much to do." It's given, like lengths of silk, smooth frictionless lengths unraveling where they're used. Parley makes no attempt to breach Emma's boundaries, only to smooth and clarify them, and he slips down from the the desk to pass behind Emma's chair. His hand trails over the back of her shoulders, a light touch as he passes, and crosses the room, "Alright." From an inside vantage, it can be felt, how his mind expands further, further, like a dispersing cloud, aware of distant minds as they exist outside the room, not so sharp nor talented as a telepath, but aware of intention, of alertness. He positions himself with his back against the door, arms and ankles loosely crossed, monitoring quietly anything that passes near Emma's door. Standing guard over the quiet of the room with a subtle hardness.