She doesn’t say anything for a moment. You can feel her internal struggle as she tries to bind the jealousy up, leaving the jagged shards of anger free to grow deeper, sharper within her. Even with your face turned away, you can see her bury her head in her knees from here.
Once she has it back under control, she looks up again, nodding. Tiredness has spread over her face, seeping into her posture; she’s almost slumping over where she sits. “I see,” she murmurs, her voice almost inaudible. Then, louder; “You always were the kind of person to just power through tiredness when you wanted something.” She looks up, giving you a small smirk. There are no traces of that seething jealousy on your face.
You’re glad you’re still looking away from her, only able to watch her through your peripheral vision, because you’re pretty sure she’d notice your frozen expression otherwise. Your heart is beating a little faster than usual, beating hard enough that you can feel it thumping against your ribcage, almost. It’s a conscious effort to get your face to loosen back up so you can turn back to her as you reply.
“It’s not like you’re any better.” You match her small smirk. “You were always the one who made us both stay awake until two on Christmas morning.”
“It’s not like you ever argued,” she notes. “You were always so eager to see Santa Claus. Remember the periscope?”
A loud gasp escapes you. “Oh, the periscope!” The periscope had been your idea, when you and Emma had been just four years old. Your preschool teachers had taught you about submarines earlier that December, and you’d gone home and bugged Dad until he helped you make a silly little periscope you could use to pretend to be a submarine in the bathtub. When Christmas had rolled around, you’d come up with the fantastic idea of sitting at the top of the stairs and using the periscope to peer down into the living room where the Christmas tree sat, hoping that Santa’s anti-spy powers wouldn’t activate if he couldn’t see you. It had almost worked, until Alan had found the two of you awake and giggling to each other at the top of the stairs half an hour past midnight.
In retrospect, it’s probably a good thing he’d found the two of you. If you’d spotted Emma’s mother putting the presents beneath the tree when you were just four years old, it would have absolutely crushed you.
Her smirk grows into a more genuine grin. “And there was the Tooth Fairy incident,” she recalls. You shake your head, a low “nooo” escaping you as you try to fight off the memories, and her grin grows even bigger. “And you made me wait to go to bed until midnight on every single one of your birthdays until you were ten so I could wish you happy birthday straight away.”
Your smile turns nostalgic. That had been one of the best feelings, watching Emma struggle to stay awake as the two of you played with your dolls while the minutes ticked by. It was the one night of the year Mom and Dad didn’t make you go to bed by eight, and you made the most of it, enacting silly night-time plays with Emma and your dolls. Emma had done it, too. Every single time, she had fought to stay awake until midnight so she could lean over and place a single kiss on your forehead and wish you happy birthday “on the firstest minute!”.
“Yeah, but I always let you go to bed at midnight,” you recall, tapping your chin. As you talk, you reach out with your power, gently touching her emotions again. You’re not sure if it will help much, but—even if you’re too tired to decipher what’s going on here, you know for sure that whatever she’s feeling right now is much darker than you ever want Emma to feel. You don’t tug on it, though—you just gently pull on that happiness she’s feeling, trying to ease it up as much as you can without being too overt. “I remember your eleventh, Emma.”
On Emma’s eleventh birthday, the two of you had stayed over at your place for the night. Mom and Dad had sent the two of you to bed at nine, but you had remained awake until they had gone to bed, at which point the two of you had snuck out to the living room and watched Cinderella three times in a row, until eventually the two of you had fallen asleep against each other on the couch. You can still remember the sound of Emma’s snores.
A flush rises over her cheeks as her grin grows a little wider. “That was a good night,” she recalls fondly. She releases her legs, looking wistfully over at you. “At least until your mom woke us up at eight and yelled at us.”
Chuckling, you nod. That hadn’t been a pleasant moment.
Determined not to let the conversation slip back into awkward silence, you take a deep breath. Emma is looking down at the couch now, tracing small circles over its surface. There’s not much more the two of you can say along those lines without straying into territory neither of you are comfortable with.
Instead, you move onto a simpler topic. “So what have you been doing lately?”
If you didn’t have your grip already on her happiness, you’d be taken aback by the sudden surge in stormy sadness that rises in her briefly, before she fights that, too, down beneath bands of iron self-control. As she does that, you give her happiness a somewhat stronger tug, and watch in relief as a small smile blooms on her face. Aside from that, though, she just shrugs half-heartedly.
“Nothing much,” she mumbles. “School. Hanging out with Sophia. Homework. That kind of thing. Um. Oh! Dad’s been getting involved in the campaign for mayor this year, so I’ve been helping him make posters for that.”
You blink at her. Huh. “Your dad is getting involved in politics? Isn’t he a lawyer?”
She shrugs. “I think he wants to move into a position with the council,” she says, frowning. “Dad’s work has been having trouble lately. Not a lot of people in the city have the money to afford a divorce lawyer any more. Mister Calvert says that if some of Mister Christner’s policies go through, there could be some new jobs opening, so Dad’s been helping out where he can.”
A frown steals over your face for a moment. Isn’t that a conflict of interest? Actually, for once, you’re pretty sure you don’t know—does it count as a conflict of interest if you’re hoping that a candidate you support will create a job you can apply for?
You dismiss the thought almost immediately. No, if Alan is involved, then it’s not corruption. He’s not the kind of man who would do illegal stuff like that.
“What are you doing to help?” you ask instead. “Are you designing the posters or helping to make them?”
“I’m just helping to make them,” she admits. “It’s kind of tricky, actually. You can’t just print them on regular paper…”
The two of you continue talking for a while. At first, the two of you talk about Emma’s responsibilities in politics— “It might look good on a college application,” she says wryly at one point—and eventually move on, talking first about how Emma is doing in school—“I’m doing pretty good,” she says, a tiny hint of pride in her voice that abruptly drops into a depressed murmur as she continues, “It’s not like I have much else to do these days”—and then on to how her modelling career is going—“It’s going okay. I’ve had other things on my mind so I haven’t been speaking to my agent as often as I should.”
By this point in the conversation, though, she’s interrupting her words every other sentence to stifle a huge yawn and blinking sleepily. You’re not doing much better; in fact, you’re pretty sure you’re slurring your words all over the place.
“Still half an hour until dinner,” Emma moans. Behind her, her cup of coffee still sits there, half full but no longer steaming. Your own sits on the table, abandoned and almost forgotten. She lets out a frustrated groan. “I’m so tiiiired.”
You lean over and pat her on the arm sympathetically, drawing a thankful smile from her. “I know,” you admit. “I’m tired too.”
She snuggles up against the arm of her couch, lowering her head to rest on the armrest. “Dinner’s going to be soon,” she slurs. She stretches her feet out hesitantly, eventually letting them come to rest a little over halfway across the couch. “We could, uh.” She yawns again, attempting to stifle the movement against the armrest before just accepting that she wasn’t going to be able to hide this one. “We could, uh. Watch a movie or something.”
You blink hazily at her, the words taking a few seconds to penetrate into your head. By that point, Emma’s eyes are already half-closed, although her gaze is fixated on you.
“Maybe later,” you mumble. You were going to say something else, but—whatever you were going to say, it’s lost somewhere in the fog in your mind. “Could keep talking. Talk about, um. Books.”
But when you look up, Emma’s eyes are completely closed, and her chest is gently rising and falling.
Her feet are warm. You stretch out your own legs alongside hers, lightly rubbing your feet against her thighs. Mmm.
… Emma’s already asleep. It’s only half an hour until dinner time anyway. And you are feeling pretty tired.
Dad will wake you up for dinner anyway, won’t he?
You close your eyes for a moment, letting out a tired sigh. You’ll just think about it for a moment. Weigh up the pros and cons of taking a nap.
(The last thing you register is the feeling of Emma shifting against you, her legs moving backwards to tangle against yours.
Her stockings are soft against your legs. It feels nice.
And then, nothing.)
Sunday comes and goes in a blur. Dad does not, as it turn out, feel like waking you up. You were out like a light, he tells you on Sunday afternoon; you didn’t even stir when he picked you up and carried you out to the car. He tried to tell you that you curled up and snuggled against his chest, but you’re pretty sure he’s just making fun of you by that point.
For most of Sunday, you just go and spend some time with Victoria—which reminds you; you should really ask her what was up with those questions the next time you see her—before coming back home to hang out with Dad.
As it turns out, he got a whole lot more than just one DVD. As he explains to you with an embarrassed smile, apparently this man—David Attinsomething—has done several series covering different topics, and he got three complete series for less than twenty dollars. They’re not the most thrilling videos you’ve ever watched, but they’re informative enough, and Dad seems engaged with the man’s style of narration.
It’s a good time, at least.
You’re still feeling the lingering aftereffects of your tiredness when you finally collapse in bed on Sunday night, however. Your study is proceeding apace, but you’re too tired to sit there until eleven at night doing it, so you’re in bed a little after ten.
You close your eyes and snuggle into your pillow, considering your plans for the next couple of days. This is the last week of school before you have holidays for two weeks, so… hm. [Pick two of the following options. Note that Taylor currently has two large expenses remaining.]
[] Amy is working on Tuesday, so you’d like to go and visit her at the clinic—and spend some time doing your duties at the clinic, of course. You’re curious to see what Dr. Fitzgerald has for you this week, too, but mostly you just want to see Amy. Maybe you can arrange for another date with her? You’ve gone to the movies and the museum—maybe you could go out for lunch? You might even be able to set up a time to meet with her through the holidays and go on a more proper date. Maybe up to that bookstore in Boston.
— Success chance: 80%
— General results: Taylor will return to the clinic as usual, and be given more forms to fill out as she talks to a rather stressed Amy. Spending time with Taylor will blunt the worst of Amy’s stress. Taylor will arrange for a date over the weekend.
— On a success: Increases Amy’s Affection by 1. Circumstances line up well enough that Taylor is able to convince Amy to ask her mother to drive the two of them up to Boston and visit that bookstore during the school holidays, on top of their weekend date. The prospect of having time for herself and her own hobbies, along with time spent with her cute girlfriend, will decrease Amy’s stress more.
— On a failure: No additional benefits.
[] You’re not quite sure what was going on there, but whatever you just felt, you know for a fact that it isn’t good. Emma is in a bad place right now, and if you’re being honest with yourself, you’re not sure if you’re helping or hurting. What you do know is that you can’t just sit back and watch her suffer. It might make you uncomfortable—no, it will make you uncomfortable, but you’re going to invite Emma over to your house on Monday afternoon.
— Success chance: Cannot be failed. A roll will be made anyway; on a 51 or higher, bonus successes may be had.
— General results: Taylor will invite Emma over to her house to hang out—and a little more importantly, to use her power to help nudge Emma’s emotions back towards happiness. Please note that choosing this option will stop Emma from sliding any more into depression, and will encourage positive results with regards to Emma’s therapy, but will also encourage Emma to grow dependent on both Taylor’s presence and Taylor’s powers. Will also substantially increase Taylor’s stress levels.
[] You’ve finally managed to meet up with Aisha, and she’s indicated a willingness to spend some time at school with you. You’re pretty sure that Madison will be receptive to Aisha joining you, so you want to invite her over and get to know her some. Of course, you’ll have to refrain from touching her in front of Madison to ease Madison into accepting her, so you won’t be able to seduce her just yet—but seducing her isn’t your only goal, and getting her on your table is key if you want to learn more about Rune.
