[it is an office closet. dun dun dun.]
Pen
Surprise!
Instead of texting at lunch, there is a real live Penelope in the threshold of his door (or, having found the office devoid of a dark-haired man with a hallowed crown invisible, waiting at Nicholas's desk), and as soon as a real live Nicholas presents himself or looks up and meets her eyes, she says, "Hello. I have brought you food; it a lentil salad, falafel, and hummus."
Nick
To get here, Pen crossed through numerous winding halls (perhaps it is impressive she got here at all, but then again, she does have certain Arts at her command to help with that) and through the palliative care unit, which even on its best days smells like...well, there is no other way to describe this smell other than to say it is the smell of the dying. Decay and infection and the salt-tang of blood and the sharper reek of urine underlying it all. Even when it's faint, it's there. Nick no longer notices it.
She arrives at the office a moment before he does, and when he notices her there in his doorway there's this look that is pleased and surprised all at once. "Hello," he says, and he is so pleased he leans in to kiss her before following her into his office. It's an office: its distinguishing features are a framed photo of the two of them, and a few plants which all told look pretty healthy.
And he shuts the door, with a sigh of relief, shutting out the beeping of one of the EKGs and that ever present smell. And he sits. "That is exactly what I want to eat today."
Pen
Oh! A kiss. Pen is (more than) happy to oblige; ardent. And if it smells of dying, of the end of the body, well maybe that adds something; life is always a sharp contrast to the dead (and life is nothing more than dying, the race until the end, the force that through the green fuse drives the flower - Dylan Thomas, and that poem one of Pen's favourites). She places the plain white bag on his desk; sweeps the room with a judgmental glance - horrified is too strong a word; she is not horrified. She is observant and this is awful and she will be fixing it and now we move on.
Inside the bag are the foodstuffs promised, plus some walnut baklava, paper napkins, some Lebanese cheese-pastry with french influence.
Pen sits herself on the edge of Nick's desk; then decides to sit in a chair like a human being instead. She came with a specific purpose but the courtesies, and besides, she wonders: "Is today a fair day?"
Nick
Nick is actually not a difficult person to please, or perhaps Pen is just good at it: the pleasure he takes in pulling foodstuffs out of the bag and setting them on his desk and with Pen's presence is strong enough to be evident in the way he smiles the entire time he does it. Pen has to pull over one of the chairs if she'd like to sit beside him; his office chair is the thing nearest the door, and the other chairs are on the opposite end of his desk, close to the window.
"Today is a productive day, but I think the last day I'll see one of my clients," he says, and if he has a sense for this it's because he has Sight. It helps: he's always there at the right time, always knows the right things to say, at least for those that Sleep. "I like having you here."
Pen
"I like having you," Pen says in reply. How is it his statement managed to elicit a rill of pleased surprise (tamped down [contained)? Pen did not choose to move one of the chairs; she is just as content to lean across his desk as sit beside him.
"Do you think they'll go well? Is everything come into place for them?"
Nick
Nicholas, he smiles again. He does that a lot around a lot of people - more than one might expect - but especially around Pen. He eats the lentils and enjoys them, though his longing is for the baklava. Is there a second fork? He arranges the containers so that she can reach them as well, should she desire.
"I think so. He's young, it was more difficult for him. More blame placed, toward things that were nonspecific. But I think he accepts, now."
Pen
There is only one fork. Pen is perfectly satisfied being a savage and using her fingers when and if she decides to thieve some of the food she brought Nicholas specially to brighten up his day. "Because their words had forked no lightning they," Pen says, meditatively. And then, "I am enamoured of you. Even in this, the most boring room I have ever let my shadow fall upon."
And then, "Grace called with news; she did the," Pen wiggles her fingers to pantomime typing on a keyboard.
Nick
Nicholas encourages the food thieving; as with most things involving Pen, he prefers to share. "I love you enough to take your suggestions regarding my office decor. Anything is better than the motivational posters the other counselors have."
Hang in there!
Ah, Grace. Nick flicks a glance up at Pen through slightly lowered brows, and chews and swallows a mouth full of falafel and hummus. "I heard a little - she said Ginger was gone, which is apparently an information sharing network we didn't know about."
Pen
Pen deigns to take one single grain of lentil salad for now. Pinches it out; puts it on her tongue; swallows. Symbolic food-sharing, and then she rests her elbows on Nicholas's desk and laces her fingers together and rests her chin on the cradle they make.
"From what I gather it was some computer network internet thing - it was probably only a matter of time, even with a Virtua erm Mercurial Elite's safeguards."
After all, a 'computer internet thing' is just technology, says her tone. The easy assurance of every Hermetic ever, which is not the same as a lack of regret.
"The information she found is this," Pen looks at Nicholas to make certain he is listening; of course he is. Counts out on her fingers, which are almost bare of rings today, only three and one of those her wedding ring. "One. Alex is still alive; splendid. Two. They had to reconstruct his knee." This difficult-to-read look, a moment of silence. "Three. He has had daily counseling sessions. They continue apace, or did when Grace checked those records. Four. The room he is held in is Primium-lined and he can no more Work within it than you or I likely could." Likely she says because there is always a chance. "Five, there are two emergency drills scheduled for," the day that is most convenient for Liz to run the thing. "One during the day, one overnight. Six!" She leaves off counting on her fingers, resting on her elbows again, "Ward 2. Room 7."
Nick
Of course he is listening, though the falafel is a distraction. He is at this very moment glad that he has falafel to cram into his mouth, because: they had to reconstruct Alex's knee, and he is getting daily counseling, and Ward 2 Room 7. No, this will not be the same man that they took, once he has been found again. He puts more falafel and hummus into his mouth.
"I think we need to plan for who is going to try to unWork the conditioning he's likely suffered from. How is Grace holding up, with all of this?"
Pen
"She is worn as thin as a communion wafer after it has been floating in wine for a spell. She's like the last saltine cracker in the packet, the one that's just barely a cracker. Something traced her back to, get this, the location they'd volunteered for a second safe haven; it appears that it was Grace's home. Or they began to trace her back to it; she said she shook them off, but is currently homeless. We met at an apartment, very new, very empty; I think it was her backup." Pause; then this unbidden smile. "She and Andrés have been clashing I think. She was concerned he might not be the best man for the job."
Nick
"I see," he says. "I met another Chakravanti the other day and we ran into Grace together. She said she's staying with Kalen, but River offered her a place to go to, too, so I think she'll at least be safe," he says. Evident, perhaps, from the furrowed brow here that this would have troubled him otherwise, and his soft heart might have led them to play host to a Grace for a while regardless of whether he preferred to do it or not.
"I had some concerns about how quickly Andrés volunteered, myself. Did Grace have anyone else to suggest?"
Pen
"They strike me as so careless," Pen says, gravely; solemnly, even. "In the future ... When we are more established here," and she pauses: how does she want to finish that sentence? There's a moment's consideration: she reaches for the baklava and peels a tiny flake from the top, then pinches some of the stickier center away too, licks her fingers. Eating like a savage; her mother would have hit her for it. "We can talk about it later."
"Grace had wishes. She wished for someone named Ian to be around; she was also very confident in Kiara. Grace's concern about Andrés's suitability don't align with yours -- or mine," serious solemn Pen, here she rests her chin on the desk top instead of her hands, scooting the chair back so she can sit thus comfortably. "She was concerned he wouldn't be able to resist telling people that they were wrong long enough to make it through the gauntlet. I think she is wrong in that."
"And I think Andrés will do well."
Nick
When we are more established here, Pen says, and then pauses, and there is a quick flash of a smile in her direction. "You can't just start a sentence that way and then leave off, Pen." Though clearly she can: it is more that it is going to gnaw at him for the rest of the day.
He finishes the lentil salad, which is set aside; the falafel and hummus is also not long for this world. "I agree that she is wrong in that. Andrés - he's very capable, I think. I can't think of anyone I've met here better suited to go in, personally." A beat. "Kiara...I also have a lot of confidence in, but I don't think understands the Union well enough to infiltrate it, at least based on the short conversation I had with her."
Pen
Pen gives Nicholas a certain kind of look. She does not mean to give him a certain kind of look at this juncture in time, but it's just as if too much water was poured in a glass; it trembled on top, and then the slightest movement (a ripple in the air), caused the water to tremble and to spill over; it could not be contained. Perhaps it is occulted, though; perhaps it's exact meaning cannot be teased out: just this vague trouble, this fond and clear-sighted concern. Pensive Pen, she props her chin up on her fist again.
"If it's a get-in, get-out situation - as I hope it will be; as it should be - well. Perhaps she won't have a problem. I wish I could do it myself."
"Let's see, what else? I think that's it for now, at least until the ritual with Sera and Kalen, then your reconnaissance with Kiara, go down. Do you like the lentil salad?"
Nick
Pen has looked pensive rather often lately; Nicholas has noted this. Perhaps it's this realization that leads him to reach across the small gap between them and catch one of her hands in his, and their fingers tangle together. It doesn't have to be for long and anyway there's baklava. He just wanted the contact.
And Pen wishes she could go herself: Nick bypasses this comment. "Kiara and I are going tomorrow night," he says. "I liked everything. I'm glad you came today."
Pen
Pen smiles at Nicholas when he takes her hand in his; it is an active entangling on her part; there is strength in her fingers, and keeping. What? You wanted the baklava? Guess who has another hand and is gonna snicker-snack out to pretend (poorly) to pull it away so only Pens get to eat baklava? That would be Pen, you guessed right!
"Maybe I'll come more often to visit you during your lunch hour," Pen says. Her gaze has gone bright. "At very least, I will send you flowers."
"Will you come home before you go to do the deed; or do you go direct?"
Nick
Nick watches as the baklava grows distant, and Pen, who has orchestrated this, becomes the recipient of such a look, or would have become if the prospect of her visiting more often on his lunch hour (or even sending flowers) didn't visibly cheer him so. "I would like that," he says.
"I'll come home before we go," he says. "We'd planned to go out at night. Less chance of being seen that way, and we've planned to summon a crow or raven spirit, which I think will prefer the dark."
Pen
Pen slides the baklava close again, apparently repentant (except clearly not at all; she just tries to look repentant and fails).
"An unkindness of ravens or a murder of crows; better be the crow, we've enough unkindness already," and see, there's a twinkle in her eyes as she says this, a just-submerged glint: poetry!
And then Pen: sliiiiiiiiiides the chair around the corner of Nicholas's desk, scootch-scootches it so she is right next to him, and puts her hands on his knees. Her eyebrows loft: "How much longer do you have for your lunch?"
Because she is: deciding whether to stay around and talk (she always wants to stay, it's Nicholas), or leave this at that and hie herself away.
Nick
Pen speaks poetry, and Nick smiles at that glint there. "I've spoken with Crow before, he'll be easier to bargain with at least," he says. So it will be: he'll offer to trade secrets, because they have an understanding. Pen's nickname for him is an apt one.
As she scoots around Nick swivels to face her, and there is a quick glance toward the clock on his wall (plain, of course - it came with the room.) "Another half hour. I'd like it if you stayed a little while longer."
And because they both would like it, that is probably exactly what she does: and she will be there long enough that maybe some of her resonance will linger here, a bright spot of resplendence in this most boring room of all time.
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