50 shades [emery]

[Shax]

Shax - or, as she currently needed to grow accustomed to being called, Sonja - liked antique shops. She'd been around for a long time, long enough to see most of these antiques in active use, and the way they were preserved and put on pedestals by humans was amusing to her, in some manner. It was almost cute. She supposed she was considered something of an antique herself, though she didn't look it - thankfully. She may not have been human herself, but she could still appreciate the difference between a young, attractive person and an old, shriveled, dying one; she never wanted to appear on earth as the latter.

It was midday when she entered this particular antiques shop, and it was a Tuesday. She had Tuesdays off because she took all the weekend shifts at the hospital - because the most exciting injuries happened on the weekends, no one else was out on her days off, and no one else wanted to work on the weekends. They all wanted to spend time with their families or...whatever it was they did behind closed doors. The demon felt a twinge of disdain at this thought; she disliked these characteristics of the humans because she thought they were foolish, which in turn was caused by her inability to understand them. She had felt things close to affection before, but never very strongly. She wasn't sure if she was able to or if she just didn't want to.

These thoughts accompanied her as she meandered through the store, which seemed to be empty aside from the various aged objects scattered about. Her eyes scanned over the vases, pieces of furniture, clocks, and - clocks. She actually twitched in surprise as a particular clock caught her eye, and Sonja quickly swept over to it, ignoring everything else in the room. It was a large grandfather clock, taller than herself, made of the most beautiful wood. The recognition she felt was stronger than she could have anticipated; she'd owned this clock once, many years ago. Looked at it every day. It had been in her living room...how had it gotten here?

Momentarily forgetting the unspoken no-touch policy these places generally had, she reached out a small hand and ran it down the side of the clock, stopping at the point where she knew there was a tiny scratch. The woman would have recognized it even without the scratch. It was a feeling that she couldn't shake. It was then that she realized how odd she must have looked; sheepishly, she withdrew her hand and brushed it nervously across the front of her dress, although the black garment had no visible faults. She didn't need to feel self conscious suddenly, but the emotion was difficult to control. Sonja just hoped no one had witnessed her behavior.

[Emery]

Mondays and Tuesdays are typically the antique shop’s slowest. The traffic Emery does see, at best, consists of elderly women or curious children cutting school. Tuesday’s doldrums are enough to see Emery, who embodies stoic patience, bored and perhaps even listless. The door to the shop is left unlocked even as he abandons the desk for his upstairs living quarters. It may be a lapse in judgment to leave a room full of old and priceless things unsupervised, but Emery has no need for constant watch or a security system. Those old and forgotten things murmur. They have voices and he has experienced the roaring whispers when a stagnant item is disturbed. His shop, though serene and quiet, is buzzing with life.

Upstairs, a tea kettle screams shrilly. The screeching comes to a curt stop, steam rises to the ceiling. Earl Grey turns the water in a mug deep brown and Emery sips the hot liquid idly as he looks out of a window. This part of Boston is old brick and lived-in history. It is far enough removed from the soaring skyscrapers and the rumble of industry that a remote soul like Emery can find peace. Here, in his small shop tucked inside of a brownstone building, he needn’t worry about the frenetic energy of city life. It is, after all, a life that Emery is simply not built for. When he takes an old object into hand, he can understand its age, its origin— its worth. People, to the contrary, remain a riddle he cannot grasp even through stilted attempts at conversation.

His inability to be normal has not presented too difficult an issue as of yet. Most write him off as an eccentric artisan, and some claim he is autistic. Emery does not argue; their guess is as good as his. The cup is nearly empty by the time the shop below murmurs to life. He throws a look towards the door and sets his mug down. The shop has a guest and it would be rude to keep them waiting. Emery descends the stairs with easy grace and only a few creaks of the old wooden steps give him away. Around delicate and priceless things, he has learned to be light-footed.

He catches the woman as she withdraws her hand from the grandfather clock and there is a sudden, if brief energy in the air. It is enough of an anomaly to have Emery frozen in thought. He quickly recovers. ”It is alright,” comes his decidedly soft-spoken voice. ”These items all have stories. Sometimes you need to touch –“ to hear them ”— to understand.” He supplies the woman with a gentle smile and, in demonstration of his words, reaches out to place his hand against the clock’s wooden body. The old timepiece has never had this much energy around it; Emery is curious. His index finger runs over the scar and he is greeted by a distinct sensation of recognition – like two lost puzzle pieces slotting into place.

Blue eyes regard the stranger with a veiled curiosity. This is not the time or the company to investigate the clock’s memories. Emery cannot risk an episode. He withdraws his hand. ”I found it at a flea market,” he explains, ”It was in a state of disrepair but I did what I could.” He glances at the object and then returns his attention to the guest. ”It still keeps time.” There, within a thick layer of monotone explanation, is a hint of pride.

He is proud of his work.