--patterns repeat,. (Violet Hour)

Title: --patterns repeat,.
Description: emily

Aidan Hayle - May 13, 2010 04:07 PM (GMT)

Aidan stared blankly out the window as the bus rumbled noisily beneath him, turning the corner toward Stanmer Park College. It was times like this that he realised just how ridiculous it was for him not to have a car. After all, he had plenty of money, and he quite liked cars. Alternately, he hated busses more than any other form of transportation. They were dirty—the likeliness of anyone cleaning thoroughly enough to erase the grime of hundreds, nay thousands, of people was very slim—not to mention loud and not at all pleasant to look at. What was the purpose of transportation, he wondered silently if there was nothing at all pleasing about it, aesthetically or otherwise? Certainly, he mused, the bus driver with the balding head and double chin did not help matters any, though the man seemed quite oblivious to the disservice he was doing the world simply by existing in his pathetic state.

In any case, he had long ago found that he preferred walking to any other form of transportation—yes, even driving. There was a surety to it, a comfort in the solid ground beneath his feet, his ability to know exactly how far he was going and how long it would take to arrive at his destination. However, on this particular day he did not have time to walk the distance from his flat in Brighton to the college. Emily’s insistence that she needed him—yes now, not later—had pulled him from a rather dull afternoon of listening to Pavarotti and scrubbing the kitchen counters in his flat. Though he was neat—indeed, even obsessively so—grime did tend to accumulate over time, especially in the kitchen. He could scarcely go a week without giving the entire flat a thorough cleaning. Somehow, it seemed to make everything much clearer when things were sparkling and well organised. However, he wasn’t a woman and he didn’t particularly enjoy cleaning. As such, it had been an unusually uncomplicated task for Emily to convince him to leave his flat and head toward whatever favor she might have to ask of him this time. There had, certainly, been his usual question of why he would want to do such a thing and what, exactly, he would benefit from this situation. However, her insistence that she needed him… well, what else was there for him to do? Perhaps, he’d thought with a slight grin, the dear girl was finally coming to her senses.

If he was to be honest with himself, the most likely cause for her having called him was a problem with her car. Indeed, he was quite certain that he had spent more time with Emily’s car than with the girl herself. It wasn’t that he particularly minded this, as he found cars—especially beauties like Emily’s car—to be quite enjoyable. If only, he mused, he had been able to reap a few more fringe benefits from this scenario. However, the girl remained stubbornly set in her ways. He wasn’t quite sure what she saw in her ebullient, high-energy boyfriend, but whatever it was often caused her to scold Aidan and pull away from him. The initial amusement that had accompanied her reactions had faded somewhat, coming to be replaced with slight irritation. This was, admittedly, half the reason he continued to cater to her wishes, teetering dangerously close to the line which separated men like him from affectionate, mindless lap dogs. The other half, excluding the fact that Emily was hardly an eyesore, primarily had to do with her car. Yes indeed, he could think of things much worse than spending another afternoon under the hood of said vehicle with Emily nearby, watching him closely with scrutinizing eyes. As he pictured the girl however, he realised that he could most certainly think of far more appealing things to do with his time, and her.

As the bus rolled to a stop, Aidan stood carefully from his seat and quickly crossed the six steps down the aisle and three steps out the door of the bus. His thumb tapped out a quick text message informing Emily that he had arrived, and he made his way down the path leading to the dormitories. To his great fortune, as he approached the gate, a student was walking out. He moved swiftly, picking up his pace just slightly, and caught the gate before it closed. Well, this was certainly convenient. He wouldn’t have to wait for Emily after all, as he suspected that she would already be heading out of her dorm building by the time he arrived.

True to his assumptions, she had just exited the building when he approached, a slight grin playing at the corners of his lips. He offered no verbal greeting, simply tossed an arm loosely around her shoulders and began to play with her hair, hmming absently as he studied her face. He remained like this for a long moment before stepping away and allowing her to unlock the door, then holding it open so she could pass through ahead of him. As they made their way up to her flat, he asked evenly, “So, my dear, would you care to tell me why I am here?”

||The overall suckiness of this post will be made up for in subsequent ones, I promise!||

Emily Madison-Valentine - June 10, 2010 04:08 PM (GMT)

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 THERE WERE STRAWBERRIES ON THE WALLS. They were on the countertop too, and the fridge; they were dripping down her cheeks and she was fairly certain there were some in her hair. Emily glared at the blender, and at the white plastic lid that sat at its side, the same plastic lid that had deceived her into believing it was on, nice and tight, when in fact it had not been. It had been loose and she hadn’t realized until the slimy bits of strawberry started flying. Moments too late, she’d searched hurriedly for the Off button, only to slap it down just a little more roughly than she’d have liked. An alabaster hand raised to gingerly pat the top of her head. No, no, nothing substantial there, though she did need a fresh dishtowel, once lemon yellow, now a rosy pink, to mop off her sopping face. As she ran the towel under cool water, wringing it once, twice, third time’s a charm, she scolded herself quietly with the knowledge she ought to have previously made use of : she should’ve waited for Aidan. 
There was a reason, after all, that she had asked him to come over, and that was because she needed him. Though it pained her to admit that her male friends seemed to be more skilled in the culinary arts than she was, it was a fact, and one she’d have to try to make good use of if she ever wanted to improve her own performance in the area. And try she did, by calling him up, beseeching him to come over and assist her, though in what, she’d said not. He’d be more inclined to come, she’d reasoned, if he were left in the dark about her motives; boys seemed to like mystery, for some reason or another, and she ? She’d always been partial toward certainty, but no-one of consequence ever seemed to listen to her very much anyway. 
Including herself, apparently. Silly girl, left in a mess of a muddle, and only two clean dish towels left with which to fix things. Still, she set to work, but it didn’t last long; only moments later, she was interrupted by the opening notes of Just Like Heaven, signalling the arrival of a new text message and possibly – probably – that of Aidan as well. Quick as a wink, she ascertained her assumption and let out the slightest and softest of sighs; he’d be here shortly. So shortly, she was sure, as she cautiously glanced around the sullied room, that she’d not have even half the time she’d need to tidy up. Though her pride would be injured, perhaps, she thought to herself as she dried off her hands, it was for the best. At least in this scenario, she’d have a spare pair of hands in this unsavoury task. 
A quick glance in the mirror to ensure that she no longer had <s>m</s>any traces of strawberries scattered along her person (the once-over wasn’t, by the way, as satisfactory as she’d have hoped; there were some suspicious red stains on the front of her blouse, and a crimson streak, or two, or four, that she’d missed on her collarbone and her bare upper arms), and it was off to the races, in a manner of speaking. She came to her entrance, greeting Aidan just in time, and nearly warned him of her prickly predicament when he’d already draped an arm easily around her shoulders and started to idly toy with her hair. It might be best to wait then, until they got upstairs. She pressed her cheek gently to his side as he spoke, thoughtful as she considered an appropriate reply, “Well, you were initially invited to assist me in making strawberry-flavoured frozen yogurt.” 
Her eyes darted down toward her red-speckled arm as she paused for a moment, careful as she chose her words. But they’d now be sidetracked ? But there’d be a delay. But she’d made a mess, Aidan. But there were more pressing matters. She swiftly stepped away from him, head now upright and alert as she entered her flat, then trod on ‘til the kitchen. Emily turned on heel and then looked around, from scarlet-stained fridge to stove, walls to red tie-dye countertop, all for her gaze to land right back on Aidan, her wide blue eyes steadily meeting his, “As you can probably tell, we have…this to take care of first.” 
Emily sucked in her slowly reddening cheeks – a colour which, at least in this case, had nothing to do with her fruity mishap – and snatched up her remaining dishtowels, pool blue and snow-pea green, offering him both, from which she presumed he’d pick one, though she didn’t yet share an explanation. A step to the left, and she shifted her weight, then bit down gently on the corner of her lower lip in a [mild] show of her now-blossoming embarrassment. Just a second longer, Emily-Dear, and she ran her tongue quickly along her teeth before presenting what she hoped was a decent defence of her culpable case, “I may have grown impatient while waiting for you and started working by myself.” That much was obvious, she knew, and almost went without saying, so she proceeded, feigning her general characteristic coolness, though it wasn’t nearly so easy to acchieve as it normally ought to have been, “I also may have forgotten to make sure that the blender’s lid was properly put on. In my haste. While I was waiting. For you.”

 
 
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Aidan Hayle - July 4, 2010 02:23 AM (GMT)

It seemed to be appropriate, Aidan thought as his gaze travelled over Emily’s person, to not mention the fact that she did not exactly appear to be entirely clean. That is to say, her blouse seemed to be in dire need of either a good bleaching or a trip to the garbage bin. However he found himself able to briefly consider the fact that she might, actually be fond of this particular blouse and, in a fashion very unlike herself, keep it in spite of the red stains scattered haphazardly across the front. Alternately, he thought, she might think the stains were somehow aesthetically pleasing, clever, pink-hued embellishments to a formerly pale yellow blouse. Whether it was possible for Emily to suffer such a lapse in judgment, he knew not, but he determined that, regardless, it would not serve him well to bring this issue to her attention. If someone were to speak up, let it be one of her female friends—few as they may be—or Theo. Coming from him, of all people, Aidan wondered if it would simply seem antagonistic.

It was only when they had entered her flat and moved into the kitchen that he recognised the true nature of how these stains had come to be on her person. His gaze travelled through the room, across the counters, wet with juice and… yes, those were, in fact strawberries. The mess did not end there, however—no, that was only the beginning—but spread across the fridge, walls, and thankfully not the ceiling, he noted as his gaze moved upward. He then eyed first the blender, sitting on the counter with the lid off and, unsurprisingly, only a very small amount of strawberries still inside, then Emily, wide-eyed and obviously embarrassed at her small mishap. He took this all in quickly, amused grin spreading across his features as the puzzle pieces began to fit together. By the time Emily opened her mouth to explain, he was already two steps ahead of her—at least two steps he thought, though there was always room for both interpretation and improvement. He snatched not one but both of the dishtowels from her hands and turned first to the walls—most likely to stain, he determined—before looking over his shoulder briefly to ask, “Do you have a washcloth, my dear?” Pausing, he looked toward the sink—yes, it appeared that they would also be cleaning that—and shook his head. “Never mind that, actually.” He tossed one of the towels to her, offering a simple, “Here,” then made his way to the sink, where he turned on the water and wet the corner of his own towel.

It was an amusing situation, really, and he couldn’t help but laugh softly as he crossed the room once more and used the damp corner of the towel to dab at the mess. This was so very like Emily, to stubbornly—foolishly, even—set her mind to a task and allow herself to be carried away so far in the effort of it that the details ended up being left behind. Even more amusing, though, was the fact that she had interrupted him doing this very thing—not making a mess, certainly, but cleaning one—to call him over and, in her haste, she had constructed a similar task for him to tackle. Though he was not entirely ecstatic to find himself cleaning yet again, he found that he also did not mind entirely. It was an amusing situation, to be sure, and he found himself unable to be displeased that he was caught in the midst of it. It was, admittedly, even a bit enjoyable.

He hummed under his breath, the melody of Debbusy’s “Beau Soir” reverberating lightly through his cranium and providing a nice soundtrack to this little cleaning game of theirs. As quickly as it began, however, it ended and he spoke again, his face turned to the wall but his words directed, ultimately, at Emily. “May I inquire as to why you wished to make frozen yoghurt? It’s not exactly difficult to come by.”

It took a considerable amount of dabbing—not scrubbing, however, to avoid ruining the paint—to get the strawberries off the wall, but at least it hadn’t had time to set in yet. He could, really, only imagine how difficult it might have been in that case. As he turned and began wiping down the fridge, he stated, quite simply, “I do wish you would have called me before I arrived. I could have brought supplies. Reinforcements, even.” He smiled at her almost playfully before returning to his task. A long moment passed before he asked, “Do you, by chance, have any more strawberries? If not, we might have a slight issue making strawberry flavoured frozen yoghurt.”

Emily Madison-Valentine - September 10, 2010 11:53 AM (GMT)

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 EMILY SO HATED TO ALLOW AIDAN to see her this way. It made her bite at her lips, turned her cheeks a shockingly rosy hue, and it put her through all sorts of other unseemly trials, only to end with her feeling horribly embarrassed. This, notably, only further worsened the undesirable situation of feeling as though she’d been caught unawares, was flustered, utterly agitated at some variable gone awry and entirely out of her own control. If a part of her hadn’t been so glad of his arrival, she might’ve resented him for having caught her this way, even though it wasn’t his fault in the slightest (but then, it’s always much easier to pass the blame to others, than to assume it yourself). Incidentally, since targeting Aidan was an impossibility, she chose to instead aim her ire toward the blender. Evidently, all this was the pugnaciously disobedient appliance’s fault. It hadn’t been shut tight, it had sprung the leak, and it was it – and not she – that had caused this mess. Obviously. With her red little cheeks and her sideways stare, the small part of Emily that was far too mature to truly believe in all of this was silently grateful that the inanimate blender was unable to talk back in order to correct her and her injured pride for such childish – but comforting - rebuke.
 
Worse still than all of this was that she’d had to explain every bit of it to him. Her ego was struck and her nerves, invariably touched : she felt antsy in each sense of the word, not to mention halfway inadequate, though this, at least, she refused to admit. Not that she’d necessarily have to. Aidan was quick and he was clever, he knew her well, and from the way his eyes had swiftly darted around the room, she could tell he’d deduced the afternoon’s events prior to his arrival before she’d even had a chance to speak of them. She grew redder still, uncharacteristically so, but thought to herself that at least, he was smiling, even if she thought it might perhaps be the superior sort. Emily nodded quickly in response to his request, and was about to assist him in his query for a washcloth, but it appeared to her that he’d taken the bull by the proverbial horns and seated himself at the helm of this sanitary operation. She caught his proffered washcloth, then went to dampen it before setting to work on the strawberry-streaked countertops.
 
She worked quietly, diligently, though not for long. She felt warm all of a sudden, her hair felt heavy against the nape of her neck, and the sheer stickiness of the fruit juice that lingered on her here and there sunk in at once. Emily felt uncomfortable. Literally this time, to match the figurative discomfort of before. And now. She shimmied her shoulders, she shifted her hips, and she lifted one hand to tug lightly at the collar of her blouse. No good, Emily dear. So she frowned, wondering if she perhaps ought to get changed until she heard a soft song – sweet song – behind her. Not for long at all, but it was undeniably there. It sounded like a lullaby, and it was curious to her, very curious indeed, that Aidan would be humming something like this by…Brahms ? No. That wasn’t it.
 
Debussy.
 
There. She knew she’d recognized it, and she almost smiled softly to herself at this small triumph in what seemed to be a monstrously disastrous day thus far. Emily eyed him carefully, half-hoping he wouldn’t realize; she presumed that if he did, he’d stop, and for some reason, she didn’t want him to. It might’ve been because he seemed sweet right then, and she did like that, despite his blatant protests at even the mention of the word. Without any warning though, and without any hint on her part that she’d been listening in, it stopped. Sadly. She crinkled her nose, almost instinctively, then let out a quiet sigh before going back to work. Then he spoke to the wall, but she knew it was meant for her, and she gave a small scowl, though she knew he couldn’t see it. Another sigh, softer now, and still grimacing, she responded with the only answer she had to his question, “I know it isn’t… I buy it all the time. I only thought it might be nice to make it myself.” A quick swipe of the counter and she added off-handedly, “Some more practice in the kitchen couldn’t possibly hurt.”
 
And it couldn’t, she knew he knew as well as she. She was fairly sure he’d experienced her cooking, if it could really be regarded as such. Four tries to make eggs, easy-over, three to prepare a decent roast… At least she’d approved, she knew that she had; her brownies, among another handful or so of items, were now quite good. If he commented on this, she thought to herself, as she finished off the counter, then moved on to the stove, she might want to respond with that. Painstakingly, she went over the knobs and the dials in search of even the smallest strawberry-juice stain. Smoothly, seamlessly, until his next comment, when her head turned back at him and her hand caught on the back-burner’s dial. Emily frowned, about to retort when he smiled back at her : it had been in good-humour. Or at least, it had been in part, so with a tone to match his, she lightly quipped, “What a shame. Who did you have in mind ? Mr. Clean ?”
 
Though if that had caught her off-guard, the strawberry inquiry made her eyes go wide, and her heart sink, if only a little bit. More strawberries ? She’d bought them in bulk, with enough to spare, but she hadn’t quite anticipated this Her eyes fell on the fridge Aidan was now tidying, and she shook her head slowly. Emily shifted her hips, took her towel in hand. “If that’s the case,” she paused, making her way to the fridge, “We might have a problem.” One hand moved to the handle, the other gently over his, tacitly asking him to move it over, and she opened the door, peeked in, and ultimately sighed. Emily looked back at him and shook her head once more, “It would appear that we might have to alter our plans.” She crinkled her nose, and leaned slightly against the now-clean fridge, “We might have other fruits somewhere in there, but…you don’t happen to have any other suggestions, do you ? ”

 
 
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Aidan Hayle - September 29, 2010 09:58 PM (GMT)

It was quiet in the room. Too quiet, it felt, as they worked away on stove and fridge, silently wiping, scrubbing, cleaning. Aidan felt the silence pressing in, the absence of Emily’s typical chatter, her unnecessary questions and constant naggings. Though he would, by no means, even dream of going so far as to say he missed these idle workings of her lips—or that he would, should they ever cease to exist—it was strange, certainly. Her flat felt empty in her silence, even with them both clearly occupying the space. Where he quite enjoyed silence in typical moments, it now felt strained and uncomfortable. Above all, Aidan was not fond of being uncomfortable.

The sound of his humming slowly began to replace the quietude of the room, filling the space with the intangible yet spirit-lifting sound of music. Even so, it was inadequate. Even so, his thoughts crowded to the surface of his mind, scattering haphazardly the notes of “Beau Soir” and erupting from his mouth in what he thought must be an equally melodic emission. After all, his voice was surely a part of the charm. There wasn’t a part of him at all that wasn’t charming—no part that he displayed for the ladies, he amended silently—and, as such, his voice must have been terribly attractive. Briefly, he wondered, as his voice slid once more into patterns of silence, what would Emily do if he happened to one day burst into song? He had received formal training as a youth, not only in various musical instruments, but in voice as well. A lovely alto he had been as a boy, in fact, aging later into a baritone who sang only in the shower and refused to acknowledge any musical talent whatsoever. Truly, Aidan found nothing at all wrong with music. He quite enjoyed it, in fact. However, he had learned that it was far better to omit unnecessary information until such as time as it became necessary. If it did not become necessary… well, then there was no reason to bother sharing it, was there?

“Some more practice in the kitchen couldn’t possibly hurt.” It was true, and the admission earned an inward chuckle from dear Aidan. He nodded slowly, masking his face into indifference as he responded, “Of course there isn’t, darling. However, practice only makes perfect when patience is also involved.” He offered her a small, slightly patronising smile and moved across the kitchen, gently wrapping his arms about her waist and kissing her neck, so as to ensure she remained pleased with him. It was a hope, in fact, and an excuse to turn his physical attention to her, as he so wished to. “Rome was not built in a day, you know.” He meant it in the most encouraging manner—most encouraging as far as he was concerned, that is, as encouragement of any sort had never quite been his strong suit—but they both had to concede that Emily was not the most skilled of chefs, and practice must certainly be measured in small, well-contained doses. This afternoon was evidence enough of that.

“Who?” He repeated, moving back to finish his job on the refrigerator, a smile teasing at the corners of his lips. “The entire British military, I should think. They would make quick work of this mess.” He paused, chuckling slightly. “On second thought, perhaps the French would do a better job of it. We are horribly talented, you know.” Another chuckle sounded from within him. “I suppose you chose the correct aide for this after all. I am more French than any of your other friends, surely, and thus the best choice.” A playful smile was aimed in her direction then, and he finished his job on the fridge, resisting the impulse to pull her to him once more, thus forgetting the mess and moving onto more enjoyable things. At least, he thought, if they had brought in reinforcements, they would have finished by now.

He moved as she made her way over to the fridge, swiftly crossing the room to rinse and ring out his towel two times before setting to work on the cabinets. “Suggestions Hmmm… Well, my dear, you know that I always have plenty of suggestions. However,” he set his damp towel on the now-clean countertop and turned to face her, “you ought to also know that my suggestions never come without a price.” Crooking a finger, he beckoned her forward. “I do hope that you are prepared to offer me compensation for my efforts.”

Emily Madison-Valentine - November 19, 2010 03:15 PM (GMT)

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 IT HAD BEEN A WHILE since someone’s hands had rested so comfortably on her waist, since their arms had pressed lightly against her sides, and their lips had touched so gently against her neck, even if only for a moment. It might’ve been a short while for another, for someone who’d abstained from such things for so long; it might’ve been a short while for her too, not so very long ago. Cue entry, stage left, and along came Swayze, with his sweet smiles and tender touches, with his butterfly kisses and hugs abounding. If it hadn’t been for him – for having grown happily accustomed to him - she mightn’t have minded so much. He’d been there though, he’d strutted into her life, and with a big black Sharpie, thick-nibbed and pungent, he’d scribbled the most appropriate and imperfect triangle on the back of her hand. Three sides, because she’d like it that way.
 
Made my mark on you. He’d said it with a great, big lop-sided grin, and her whole insides had turned to butterflies. She’d felt like the heroine in an after-school special with her wild-haired hero to stand by her side, and yes, to make a mark on her. How right he’d been. Sway-Babe had cha-cha’ed in with the most tender of kisses on her birthday and as swiftly as he’d come, he’d waltzed right out, days before his own. At least, it felt this way, and she didn’t like it, because besides hurting, it made her feel very alone. Aidan’s hands, broad-palmed and strong as they brushed against her sides, were a far cry from Swayze’s slender-fingered, tickling, squeezing ones, but they helped all the same. It was funny, she thought, that they were starkly different even in their hands – as different even in this as they were with nearly everything else.
 
Where Swayze was good-humoured, amicable with everyone, Aidan could be saturnine, even more so than herself. In the place of his easy openness, his carefree attitude, Aidan was closed off and circumspect; Emily could relate. She understood, at least a little bit, the nature of these traits; she saw them in herself, at least some of the time, and in certain ways. It wasn’t quite the same with him though – how could it be – and it sometimes felt to her that he took these things to another level, one she was unfamiliar with and wasn’t sure she’d ever know. Sometimes. Though she was curious about all these things that were unknown, she didn’t completely mind the mystery. There’d be time later, always later, to better understand. When he was ready, or perhaps when she was tired of waiting. She wasn’t sure either would ever happen, or what would come of it if one did, but then, a girl could hope. She could hope as much as she wanted to, and dream as big as she could. The trick in the matter was not to speak of it, so that no-one would ever know about this, or about any disappointments, only of successes she might speak of after the fact. It was much safer that way.
 
In a way, it was sort of like how it was far safer to follow up a teasing, half-way chiding remark about her culinary failures with shows of fondness than it was to leave the comment up in the air. Clever Aidan. But then he always had been and she’d always been perfectly aware. Still, Emily couldn’t help but smile, in spite of his somewhat superior tone. She stood up on tiptoe, eager to press a kiss to his cheek as he had done to her throat before he inevitably slipped away. He felt warm, his cheek was smooth – almost smooth enough to turn her cheeks rosier than the embarrassment at her predicament had already made them. When coupled with his own small tokens of affection, it was lovely, lovely enough that his previous remark barely bothered her at all; little miss Emily took it in stride and offered a concessionary, “Of course it wasn’t,” followed by laughter at his following jibes.
 
The British Army ? She might’ve been insulted if she hadn’t agreed, though she couldn’t ascertain their skills paling in comparison to those of the French. At any rate though, if she wished for Aidan to remain in good humour – and I assure you, she very much did – she’d have to agree, despite personal uncertainty. So she smiled and laughed back, though this was natural, brought about by the smile he shot her way. Shaking her head, thoroughly amused, “Naturally. I wouldn’t have dreamt of asking anyone else.” A small shrug as she feigned off-handedness in a way that was too cheeky to ever be perceived as aloof, “I’d so hoped you’d wear an apron though. It might’ve added to your dashing good looks.”
 
Resting her back against the refrigerator door, she watched him carefully as he made his way across the kitchen, as he wrung his dish towel right out. Emily pursed her lips and crossed her arms across her chest. He was very handsome, now wasn’t he ? There wasn’t any point in denying it; it would only make her seem either stupid or a liar. Neither title seemed too desirable. Never mind that. She shook her head, put her thoughts right back on the straight and narrow where they belonged. They had a kitchen to clean – far wiser to think about this instead. Or she tried to, but her eyes lingered just a little longer than she’d have cared to admit.
 
The sound of suggestions seemed a far better distraction than detergents and splattered strawberries, for as soon as the word was out of his mouth, Emily glanced back at him, her stare meeting his. Suggestions. She knew what kind of suggestions he had, and she knew she liked them much more than she wanted to. She gave a small nod and sucked in her cheeks, then approached him ever so obediently. Delicate steps, dainty, lady-like, one after the other : she stopped right in front of him, then tipped her head back to have a better view of his face, “I’m entirely prepared. I have a game of Scrabble in the cupboard just for you.” A pause, she rested her hands lightly on her hips, “Unless you have something else you’d prefer, in which case I might have to oblige. Or at the very least consider it.”

 
 
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Aidan Hayle - January 9, 2011 09:34 PM (GMT)

Once upon a time, Aidan had been a thinker. A scholar despite his years—too few, by the standards of the older, “wiser” parts of society—and a true mathematician. He had been brilliant, once. He had possessed a working brain, once. It may have been too much to claim that this was no longer the case. He had a brain, surely, and one that worked quite nicely. However, he did not often choose to use it, at least not in such a way as it might show to others. Internal calculations were always made, steps were counted, as always, but Aidan remained the self-made dunce on the outside. He preferred it this way, for no one would expect anything of him if he remained incapable. He revelled in his own laziness. This was his choice.

It may have seemed, to the eye of the observer, that Aidan was not lazy at all. He was pursuing Emily, was he not?—and ha-ha, he thought to this, as nothing could be more of a falsehood. He seemed to exert more effort than he did, at least as far as he had gathered from the comments of others. He did not mind this falsified impression exactly, but he did find it to be rather humorous. Impressions meant nothing. He was who he was, yet no one would ever understand this entirely.

In this particular moment, he was feeling rather lazy indeed, though it surely did not show as he scrubbed away at the kitchen cabinets. He was lazy, yes, an he fully intended to make Emily work for him, once this task was completed. She would glide straight into his arms and he would tease her mercilessly. This was, after all, what he enjoyed most about Emily. She was simply a delightful creature to tease. Chuckling to himself under his breath, he turned to watch her finish up her job on the fridge. It looked nice, he thought, bright and sparkly now under the sheen of cleanliness. It looked better, even, with her standing before it. Whatever Emily may have been, there was no doubt that she was a stunning creature.

Her agreement did not surprise him. What did, however, was the laughter that followed. It was a soft sound, a sweet sound. He did wish that she would make it more often rather than that assertive babble that seemed to flow from her lips more often than not. Even so, with these odd fantasies of his, he did not dwell on what could be—or could not be, considering who, exactly it was that he was thinking of—but rather turned his attention to his next words as she offhandedly agreed with his remark about the French Army. He chuckled once more and leaned against the countertop, arms crossed. “Oh, indeed?” The smirk that lit his face was certainly not an uncommon one. It fit quite like a well-formed mask, one that had been donned often and worn comfortably for hours—even days—at a time. “You agree, then, that the French are better? How very interesting.” He paused, adding a weight to his words—this was, at the least, the desired effect—then began to speak once more. “What would you say makes them so, Emily dearest?”

At her next comment, his typical chuckle gave way to a louder, more genuine sort of sound. It was not a belly laugh, not in the slightest, rather was quite short and pronounced. Even so, it was a laugh indeed and he adopted the sound with little thought aside from one of himself in an apron, of all things! He shook his head.

“Sarcasm becomes you after all, doesn’t it? Even so, I think that I ought to keep to my usual attire. However lovely an apron might be, I do not think that it would suit me. I thank you for the suggestion, my dear.”

Her obedience was ever so welcome as she stepped toward him. He wrapped his arms once more about her slight little frame and pulled her close, perhaps even closer than she might have liked. He cared not, however. If she wished to push him away, she may do so. He doubted, even so, that this would be the case. Emily wanted more than she would admit to. He could see it in her face. He may not have been the noble sort, but he was hardly a fiend. He would never have touched any woman without express permission. Words aside, Emily had spelled out her own agreement on more than one occasion. He had no concern for what her lips might say now.

“Scrabble?” He raised a brow, watching her carefully for any sign of an ulterior motive. What could she possibly have to gain by suggesting such a game, unless she wished to beat him by way of choosing a game that he would surely lose. She did, he had noticed in the past, have a tendency to cheat. Firmly, though with an amused smile, he played with the ends of her hair and stated, “No.” Still amused, he added, “We could always play poker again. Then again, I fear that you might cheat… or lose horribly if you did not cheat. As enjoyable as that might be, perhaps we should play something more your speed. A matching game, perhaps?”

||It's awful, I'm sorry!||

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