2/13 - Percy
2/13/2009
Logfile from Emma.
=XF= 202 |Percy| - Residences - Chemekata Military Base
Heels may make a wicked fashion statement and be as much a part of Emma's wardrobe as any uniform, but there is nothing that makes them any more /comfortable/ at the end of a day spent closeted with odious little men holding threats and smugness over her head. That is why they are /off/, in a little pile on the floor directly in front of Percy's couch. Across the back of the couch is her jacket, leaving a skirt of pearlized dove grey and a simple white shell on /her/. ".../donuts/. I told him that I would not settle for anything less than L'Oulette, and he we were done."
"Donuts," Percy repeats in a tone that suggests dry incredulity. He is standing, but he is not very insistent about it in posture; that is, his arms are folded in a loose drape over the back of a chair he is not sitting in, and he is leaning forward on the balls of his feet, which are presently bare. There is a cloud of low-level fatigue that has soaked through his limbs, due to the strenuous physicals through which he spent a good portion of the day. He's showered since, though, and dressed himself in dark blue jeans and a dress shirt of crisp grey. "I have no automatic objection to fried dough, but really, you do sort of have to wonder who they think they're dealing with here, as a matter of principle."
"I suspect the extent of their experience with fine cuisine is the local pancake house," Emma sniffs in disdain as she shifts on the piece of furniture she has laid claim to. She regards him through narrowed eyes, then looks about the room. "I fear your palate may suffer by exposure."
Percy shifts forward in his lean, tipping his head down to rest his chin on the fold of his arms. His expression a bastardization of smile and grimace, he exhales in a low snort. "I got through university all right," he says. "Bahir brought all of his pots and pans, anyway."
"I will arrange for periodic deliveries for you," Emma offers, dropping her head back and letting tension bleed off her as she stares up at the ceiling. "You look tired."
"If I plead old age, will you throw things at me?" Percy wonders. He lifts a hand away from the fold of his arms to rub at his eye with the pad of his thumb. "They wanted to see how fast I could run a mile. Or swim one. Last night they wanted mutation demonstrations. The day before, I demonstrated my haphazard sparring and showed them I could fire a goddamned gun."
"Yes," Emma answers wryly, then actually looks at him with fresh curiosity. "How did you do?"
"Fine," Percy replies sullenly. He scruffs fingertips through the dark waves of his hair, and then rubs at the back of his neck. "I've been training with Harper for awhile, and it's not like I don't work out otherwise. Just." He gestures dismissively, frustration writ briefly across his expression, and then flips Emma an ironic imitation of a salute. "If I had wanted military structure I'd've joined the damn military."
"Come here, Percy," Emma orders, the potential edge blunted by familiarity and softness. She glides an leeringly amused look across him and point out that "You will be absolutely irresistible once your training is over, at least?"
Sniffing haughtily as he pushes away from the back of the chair, Percy points out, "I haven't received many complaints." He eyes Emma and then especially the sofa with an air of luckluster enthusiasm. "Did you want me to sit in your lap?"
Emma makes a face. "There was a time I couldn't keep you out of it." In answer, however, she pushes up from it's overstuffed grip and points him down.
All obedience, Percy folds himself down into the couch, and slouches back into it, hands sliding up his thighs. He cants his head, eyeing her sidelong with his mouth turned up at one corner. "He's having a shitty week, too," he says lightly.
Emma resettles herself on the arm of the couch, gingerly, as if afraid the cheap furniture would break beneath her, and reaches her arm along the back so her hand drapes easily against his neck. Her fingers pinch and squeeze in rolling motions while she drifts a slightly questioning impression against his thoughts. All she says, however, is "Who isn't?"
"Well, I guess the proper question /would/ be who isn't," Percy replies, dropping his head in a slight shift against the back of the couch with another snort. To the brush of her touch against his thoughts he shares the shades of impressions with her: the lingering chemical hues of tension, strain and wear everywhere, blent with the signs of physical exertion and the glow of health so often reflected by his new teammates. << Do you know what you'll do? >> he doesn't quite ask.
<< Do? >> With the reflexes of a skittish animal, Emma dances away from the intentions of the question and barricades herself behind walls of flippancy and business. << Return to New York, work with the investigative agencies there to harry cooperation and information exchange, ensure the stability of a few additional enterprises, and track down where our leak came from. I will be bored stiff. Tell Bahir I'm trying to get him something to work on. >>
Percy reaches to take one of her hands in his and wind their fingers together. He lifts it to his lips, which he brushes lightly over her fingers, and looks up at her with a slight lift of his eyebrows, mouth rueful. << He'll be delighted, >> he non-answers her non-answer.
Emma squeezes the muscles in his neck with her non-captured hand, finding and stroking knots down its length. She purses her lips and returns his look in equal measure. << I will get you out of here as soon as I can, >> she finally says, desperation faint, but present.
Percy's lips part in a slight smile, lashes falling low over his eyes with a slight shake of his head. << It's true that there are uses to be found here, >> he tells her. He lifts his gaze again, a faint ripple of tension tightening in his shoulders and in his neck beneath her hand. << It could be a lot worse. >>
Emma stills her hand and leaves it there, warm and firm against his neck, as if forgotten for the moment. << True. You could be here without Bahir's pots, >> she points out with amusement.
<< That's right. >> Percy laughs, though quietly, and briefly. He brushes his knuckles against his forehead with his free hand, mouth twisting. After a moment he says aloud, "I will miss you, Emma. It's been a few years since I didn't see you all the time."
Emma's hand squeezes and she brushes her thumb over his knuckles. "It will be unbearably lonely," she admits in reply, then slips free from him and the couch to stand and go searching for her shoes.
Percy watches her shoe collection hunt, sliding forward to rest his elbows on his knees with his shoulders slightly hunched. "I'll call you," he promises lightly. "Maybe I can write entertaining little travelogues which they will then make me censor."
Emma captures a shoe and turns it up with her foot before wiggling into it and repeating the process for the other. "I demand censored mail from you now, you know," she says turning around to him and holding her hands out. "C'mon. Walk me to the plane, darling."
Percy takes both her hands and drags himself to his feet with a great show of reluctance, although the couch really isn't that comfortable. "I will send you censored mail if you send me an acceptable sofa," he tells her, releasing her hands only to brush imaginary dust off of his clothes. Then he offers her his arm, lofty-faced.
Emma takes his arm, and then swings in to transmute the contact into a hug. What little comfort it offers is quickly drained, though, because she steps back and to his side, hand till captured in arm. "I will expect a mountain of censored mail for the sofa I send you," she murmurs, lifts her chin and snatches up her jacket on their way out.
Percy has the most interesting habits.