"Have your $10 and a migraine."

[Morgan Lake] Morgan woke early, as usual, but completely not feeling up for a run. Her head hurt and her limbs felt heavy, and so she simply lay there for a long while before getting out of bed. When she dressed it was not in running clothes or the preppy-casual she usually wears, but in red jersey shorts that say 'track & CC' across the bottom in golden yellow and a t-shirt proclaiming some ritzy private school on her chest - basically, the summer version of sweats and a hoodie. That she doesn't feel well is clear when she shuffles into a handy drug store wearing that and flip flops, not having bothered to do anything with her long hair, which is left to tumble straight down her back almost to her waist, nearly perfect even without having seen a brush since before she went to bed the night before.

Have your $10 and a migraine. Need comfort food and coffee. Breakfast?

So says the text she sends James as she grabs what she needs - excedrin migraine, St. John's Wort and something with primrose in it, both proclaiming that they help even out moods and anxiety. She doesn't like this vaguely off kilter feeling she's suffering, doesn't like not being relatively certain how she's going to react to any given thing, certainly doesn't like the pain shooting through her head. Still, she needs food and doesn't mind the thought of company.

On impulse, on the way out, she grabs a pen.

[James Blake] He was asleep when his phone went off. The fact that he cannot hear his phone when it goes off presents something of a problem for him...or, it would if he were a deep sleeper. If he were even a normal sleeper. James, though, manages to get by on very little sleep, and awakens easily. When he hears his cell phone vibrating on the table next to his head, he wakes up. There is no one with him this morning. He's at his apartment, the windows filled with clouds, his landlord running lawnmower outside.

Maybe two minutes pass before she receives a response: Where?

[Morgan Lake] Oak Tree Restaurant/Bakery. 900 N. Michigan Ave. Am block away. See you there.

She plugs her meter with a few more quarters, deposits her drugstore bag (minus the maximum recommended amount from each of her three pill bottles) in the back seat of her car, and covers the distance at that slow shuffle she'd evidenced going into the drug store in the first place - it's very different than yesterday's energy, this. And, when James gets there, she's outside waiting. Better than making him find her at a table inside.

[James Blake] Be there in 20 minutes.

It's an overestimation. He doesn't shower before he leaves the apartment, and the time between the call for and the arrival of his cab is less than two minutes. When he arrives at Oak Tree Restaurant, James looks sloppy but not disgusting. His clothes are clean even if he isn't. He needs a shave, and his hair is a mess, but he doesn't smell like anything notable. He hasn't smoked since he brushed his teeth. Morgan would probably notice if he had.

He gets out of the cab twelve minutes after he said he would be there, wearing sneakers and khaki shorts and a gray t-shirt. It's a far cry from the suit he had on the first time they met. He looks more relaxed, though. He doesn't look as though he's on his way to a funeral.

"Hey," he tells her, louder than he needs to. Then he gets close enough, and really gets a look at her. He frowns. Pulls out his notepad. Flips. Writes.

Should you be out if have migraine?

[Morgan Lake] She hadn't grabbed a notepad (and had winced just slightly at the louder than necessary 'hey'), just a pen - that, now, is pulled from behind her ear and she gestures at the notepad, which she takes without touching him. Probably not. Am light and sound sensitive, but needed meds and didn't feel up to cooking. Roommate doesn't & nothing delivers in the morning. Want me to write or talk?

It's handed back as she took it, without so much as brushing his skin, and she keeps a carefully (unconsciously) calculated personal space, but for during the trade. It had been there yesterday, through talking at the park and the time in the restaurant both, but this is more obvious - before, it could almost have escaped notice. Now, there's no way not to take note, but she still smiles, even if it is a bit tired, a bit pained. Apparently, sleep hadn't been a restful thing last night, either.

Regardless of the answer on the paper, there's a gesture towards the door, which she opens for both of them - it's busy at breakfast time on a work day, this place, and they have to wait to be seated. Morgan can't have her personal space inside and flinches away from anyone who comes close to touching her, though she tries to keep it hidden; it's troubling to her, this reaction.

[James Blake] He noticed the space between them yesterday. He'd thought it had to do with the cigarette smoke, or her Tradition. The thought occurred to him that she just didn't want to be too near to him. Maybe she was afraid standing too close would make him interested in her. Or he'd think she was interested in him. Girls are strange. He hadn't flirted with her yesterday (much)...and now that she looks like the walking dead, pale and bloodshot and exhausted, he would have to be a much bigger jerk than he actually is to try and put the moves on her in this state. She seems much more skittish today. Fearful, even. It catches his attention, even if he doesn't say anything yet.

He reads what she's written, then looks over at her before responding.

Do what will hurt less.
I cook. If too noisy, we can leave.

His eyes darken the first time he sees her flinch from someone. He just hands the notepad back and watches her.

[Morgan Lake] She is, in fact, just keen on a certain amount of personal space most of the time - it hadn't been unique to James, but had been there with Molly, too. Perhaps it's Tradition, perhaps it's upbringing, goodness only knows. The only people she touches more than incidentally are those of whom she's exceedingly fond. Which is to say, the only person she reaches out to regularly on a tactile level is Ashley . . . but there's no way James could know that.

The notepad is handed back and she looks up to find his blue eyes darkened; an eyebrow raises questioningly in a what did I do sort of way that makes the question mark sketched out on the paper redundant. She doesn't know what it is he wants her to write down, and so she studies him to see what she can find out in addition to whatever she says.

And then is completely distracted when some businessman-in-a-hurry actually puts a hand on her to ask she move out of the way rather than just brushing past. The shriek is relatively quiet and blessedly short, but there, and she drops pad and pen both. Her face after that is ashen, and she nods before speaking, once she's sure he's looking at her.

".....somewhere else might be best."

This place is full of comfort food and good smells, but she'd overestimated her capability of handling it.

[James Blake] James can't hear the shriek, but he sees it. It's on her face, in the muscles of her throat, her body language. Other people react to it. The Chorister frowns. Morgan looks as though she's about to drop, but he doesn't touch her. He reads her lips. Even if she hadn't given an answer, he would have suggested they leave. There would be no way to force her. They don't even know each other well enough for her to know why his eyes suddenly seem clouded. All he knows is that she is a cacophony of magic right now, and that she shouldn't be trying to function normally. He'll be surprised if she doesn't pass out in the cab.

He picks up the pad and pen from the carpet. Pockets them. Gestures to the door with a jerk of his head, then holds the door open for her. It isn't until they're on the sidewalk that he speaks again. He lifts his arm to hail a cab. The driver ignores him.

"What happened?" he asks. Every time he speaks it has to be like a nail in the center of her skull. He can't control the volume of his voice.

[Morgan Lake] "I have a car," she says when he's looking, pointing down at some anonymous-looking late model American car a block away, in front of the drug store. "We don't need a cab." It's quiet compared to her normal voice, but he can't hear her anyway - so long as he can read her lips, they're good. The 'what happened' question, she shakes her head to - either she doesn't want to talk about it at all, or it'll wait until they're alone, be it in her car or . . . wherever they're going for breakfast. Goodness knows, she doesn't bring people back to Blackstone Manor.

So, once they are alone, she shrugs. "It's . . . a long story. I don't really understand all of it. But it started a couple months ago when I saw a kid commit suicide." She says this matter of factly, as if it's something that happens every day, but with no small bit of disgust at the same time - at the weakness, the lack of Will one would have to have to do something so stupid. "There was . . . he was under a contract with a spirit . . . thing. 's been in my dreams since, until last night. They're both gone now."

Thankfully. but it'd taken work, and no doubt that's what caused a lot of her obvious problems today.

[James Blake] If she's going to drive, she can't read. He has to know, on some level, that the volume of his voice hurts her ears. Were he a Disciple...if he had a better grasp of Mind...they could communicate without a physical medium. That will be some time off, though. He only just had his first Seeking very recently.

When he becomes a passenger, James does not fidget or touch things inside the car. He sits still, knees apart, hands in his lap. He's still wearing the rings he had on yesterday. The one on his left hand could be a wedding band. He'd said he hadn't been here long, and had not mentioned a wife.

They're silent as they drive, then. He doesn't want to hurt her head or take her eyes off the road. If he had the slightest idea how to drive, he would have offered to do it for her. He has to be remembering all the migraines he's gotten after vulgar effects. They're not pleasant. When they finally get out and start walking to her place, James keeps his distance. He doesn't reach out a hand to steady her, as much as he might want to. The fact that she isn't wearing very much clothing doesn't help him keep his hands to himself. The memory of her screaming at the touch of the business man does that.

I don't think I understand. What do you mean, "They're both gone now?"

[Morgan Lake] Morgan makes no assumption on the ring - it could be a wedding band (though he seems a bit young for that) or a family heirloom or any number of things. Morgan herself has a ring on a chain around her neck, gold and diamond and antique, that feels of growth when probed, though she just holds it, twists it between her fingers at stop lights, worries at it. It's a source of comfort for her, that ring, for whatever reason . . . though the resonance is very clearly not particularly in line with her own. Somewhat contradictory, in fact.

Her place - as it had been the only one that makes sense - is not truly hers. And it's huge, and very, very Arcane. She's a boarder, a tenant, not the owner of the place and it shows . . . but there are touches of her influence, her resonance, amongst it all. This house? It's nearly as old as the city itself, and certainly amongst the finer in it, even if it could use a bit of work on the exterior. The car's parked in the drive and he's led in through the entry way (where she drops her keys in a handy bowl) and directly to the kitchen. There are wards here, and more, but she's not paying attention to that just now - she's headed for food. For all she'd said she's not up for cooking, she heads for various cabinets and pulls out ingredients for french toast - eggs, milk, vanilla, cinnamon raisin bread that appears to be home made, and so on. She doesn't even think about it, just does, and nods towards the table. "You can sit, if you'd like."

But then it occurs to her that it would be difficult to communicate with him all the way over there, and she revises. "On the counter. Or lean. I do it all the time."

Then there's thought about the question, and she shrugs. "I don't . . . it doesn't make sense, really. The spirit-thing is dead, I'm pretty sure. And Autumn was dead anyway. But he's not in my head any more, not in my dreams. I can feel it."

[James Blake] He has a keen eye for his surroundings. He's not naturally perceptive. Things don't jump out at him without some effort. He has to make himself look around to take in windows, trees, possible hiding places for intruders. This is what he does as they walk up the driveway...he looks around. Once they're inside he does the same thing, making notes of the exits and the windows and whether there are any other bodies to be found. There aren't. It isn't as though he can hear someone mucking about upstairs. He is not so paranoid that he tries to check every room before he settles in for the morning. He follows Morgan into the kitchen. Before he can ask what she wants to eat, she starts to get it for him.

He doesn't sit even after she tells him he can. He stands near to her but not so close that she'll recoil. When she says it doesn't make any sense, he doesn't press her. Stark eyes watch her face a moment longer than might be entirely comfortable, and then he looks down to pull his notepad out of his pocket again.

You're in pain. I'll cook.

[Morgan Lake] "You don't have to, you're the guest," she says, but doesn't protest overly hard - in fact, steps out of the way after making sure a cast iron griddle that fits over two of the burners and all the other necessary implements are available. She finds a place to lean, conveniently out of reach but close enough that he can cook and look at her at the same time, or that they can pass the notebook back and forth, or both. When the notebook comes back, it says first, simply, thank you, but she's held onto it longer than is necessary for just those two words, and turning the page reveals one filled with her neat, almost-bubbly cursive which is easy to read, though she's purposely written small enough to take as little of his paper as possible while still being legible.

I got an invitation to a concert at a church a couple months ago. Was raised atheist, but have been curious since . . . for a while, and like music. Went, ran into Nathan (CoE), met Kaya (DS) and Marianna (DS). Things were weird, all magic and resonant. Kid played his show, then pulled out a gun and swallowed it. Almost talked him out of it but not quite. Was in my dreams since, pulled me out of a nightmare or two, sang, talked. Kissed me once - not my dream. That last is bold and underlined and more than a bit disgusted - it would be one thing if she'd dreamt of kissing some boy on her own, but another entirely to have some not quite dream-thing kissing her without her permission, though she hadn't fought it at the time. Spirit thing showed up talking about contracts and needing them fulfilled, said I'd signed willingly or un-. So, since it wasn't hurting anyone, I did it - just wanted me to do magic. Could do . . . I don't know, extra things, things I don't even understand, not really. Then he was there last night, said I could keep the kid from going to whatever hellhole he was going to if I just gave up some 'piece of my sanity'. Didn't agree, fought. Talked to the kid, he kissed me again, bastard, which could well explain the space and touch issues, not that she's particularly conscious of manifestation or explanation, I told him to GTFO, fought the thing. Almost died, I think. Is it like Freddy Krueger, where if you die in your dream you die for real? Woke up with a migraine from hell - maybe literally - and unable to do the things I've been doing for months. HATE. FML.

It took a fairly long time for her to write all that, though it takes less time to read. And then, at the bottom, there's an arrow indicating he should turn the page. On the back, in normal size and neatness, it reads, Haven't told Ashley yet. You're not allowed to.

[James Blake] She relents, eventually, and James smiles, satisfied. With that, he washes his hands in the sink and starts cooking while Morgan writes out the longest response to a question he has likely ever received. He is deft and quick with unfamiliar instruments, cracking and whisking eggs as though he has been doing this all his life. Only once has she seen him sign. There was an artistry to it. It was as though he were conducting a symphony instead of ordering food he would not stay to eat. His hands are not artist's hands if only because his ears will never hear what they produce. That hadn't stopped other artists in the past. It stopped him, though. Now he uses his hands for other things. Right now, he's using them to cook.

By the time Morgan has finished writing, James has the griddle heated up and the first few slices of French toast frying. He flips them over with a fork, then takes the notepad back to read. At the sight of the arrow, he flips the page. He's not allowed to tell Ashley. James looks at her. He ignores the pan and the pad for a moment. Eye contact says what he's about to write. The man is capable of expressing a lot without words.

I won't. I think you should, though.

[Morgan Lake] "I will. I tell her almost everything." She answers verbally this time - the story had been easier to write down for a couple reasons, partly because she's not ready to verbalize it, partly because it didn't require him to read her lips for all that talking, and other, lesser reasons. "I mean. She knows part of it, knows the kid was in my dreams and what happened at the church. She doesn't know about last night."

James has the dubious privilege of being the first to hear all of that, and Morgan is a little mortified for sharing all that with a relative stranger - but her head hurts too much to care about anything else overly just now. Then there's a sigh and a reach for the notepad to write down what she doesn't want to say aloud - doesn't want to think, but can't help it.

I feel a little crazy right now. Sorry. Can't be that fun to hang out with.

[James Blake] Knowing that Morgan will tell her mentor what she just told him makes the near-complete stranger nod. She knows next to nothing about him. She knows his Tradition. She knows that his mentor and his cabal are "gone" without knowing how "gone" they are. She knows that he has a job that has him wearing a suit and liable to disappear from breakfast at ten o'clock on a Sunday morning. She doesn't know how old he is or where he comes from. She doesn't know whether he's in a relationship or if his heart's been broken. She didn't know he could cook until just now...she didn't know that he either doesn't or can't drive. None of that matters. Out of the dozen Awakened she knows in Chicago, he is the one she sent the SMS this morning.

The cooked French toast is put on a plate. He loads another batch of battered bread into the griddle, then takes the notepad. What it says makes him frown. He looks over at her. His eyes search her face. His hand twitches as if he is about to reach out to her but stops himself. It goes to the handle of the griddle. After he nudges the cooking bread, he writes.

There's more to life than fun. You sounded like you needed someone here.

[Morgan Lake] His hand twitches out like he might reach for her and Morgan is very still and very tense for that moment - like she might try to let him touch her if he wants, depending on how he goes about it - but then the moment passes, and he's prodding the toast, writing.

There's a lot more that Morgan doesn't know about him than she does - she doesn't know how old he is, though based on appearance she guesses that he's not much older than she is. She doesn't know what he does for fun or a paycheck, though she does know he smokes, which he likely (correctly) suspects is a strike against in her book. She doesn't know whether he didn't drive to the Mile because he doesn't have a car or doesn't have a license (doesn't know the statutes about hearing and driving, though does know that the legally blind aren't allowed licenses) . . . but all of this is easily reversible as well. He knows that she looks young, but not how old she is. He knows her Tradition and informal rank (though which degree of apprentice is a mystery) and who her mentor is, but not if she's part of a cabal, or with whom if she is. He doesn't know if the high school on her shirt is the one she went to, though he does know that she runs, so the 'track and CC' across her bottom could well mean she was on a team at some point. He doesn't know what she does for money or what she wants to be when she grows up.

Doesn't matter, though - she'd sent a text and he came, and rather quickly at that.

Thank you again, then. Do you want coffee or tea?

[Morgan Lake] [pause]