Presents at the Door [Inkie + Owen]

It had been sweet, but it had also been embarrassing. Sweet to give her the magpie feather she cleaned and attached to a hidden braid along the nape of her neck. Embarrassing that she hadn't made a gift for him. Oh, Inkie should know by now. She had plenty long enough to adjust to this gift giving thing. The logical part of her figured the least she could do was make some kind of generic gift, stock up on it, and give it out whenever someone decided to waste a gift on her. But Inkie...no, she wouldn't do that. Half because such a gift would be terribly half hearted, and half because she never truly expected a gift. She couldn't bring herself to.

In any case, she had replaced her four hours of sleep with four hours of quick crochet with an expert hand. Red, she wound around the needle, red. Halfway through she realized such a color wasn't the best choice if read into. It could be so easily misunderstood, but it wasn't meant to be. She had chosen the color for Owen's complexion; the red would bring out the warmth of his cheeks. And maybe the warmth of his emotions, too. So, she left it. Inkie used the thirteen minutes left before her alarm to snuggle in her bed, comfort washing her thoughts of red and noose away.

The morning came quick. It took her awhile to drift away from the land of sleep, to finish her tirade of tired protests as she was gently reminded to wake. She got to the scarf, eventfully. The scarf was even brighter in the light, so much more red. But it was a pretty red, the red of blushing cheeks and warm hugs. It was, however, shortly stifled by brown wrapping paper,plain brown paper like her. A white string, more tan now than white with age now, she tied it with, and added a note with a sharpie marker:

There was no “from” to identify the gift from her, no signature. But still, her handwriting was clear with a flourish on the “Q” and the dot of the “I” a clear afterthought.

Later in the evening she dropped it at his door. Like the lack of identification on the package, she planned that when the boy found it there would be a lack in her presence. Inkidortes turned on her heel and strode away down the hall, hearing the creak of a door as she turned the corner, out of sight...except for the stolen white scarf that trailed behind her for an unwarranted second.

Oh... oh no. He had seen her. Should she keep going? Her white scarf was clearly not from her wardrobe, so if that had been the tip off she should have been mistaken for Rhys. She could technically still flee and avoid...whatever came next. That would be low though, and the decision was made as she turned to wait for Quinn at the corner.

"I waited, Quinn." She murmured quietly, looking down into his pale face. Yes, red had been the right color. A red would flush out his cheeks, compliment his blue eyes.

"Thank you, for your gift. It was very kind of you." Her joy and giddiness about receiving a gift had simmered down underneath her mask of maturity and professionalism. Still, her eyes lit up at the mention and she smiled warmly.

"Yes."

"Yes."

"A surprise."

Inkidortes crossed her arms, uncomfortable. She didn't want to have this interaction; she had planned to avoid it. Granted, a thank you was within what she didn't mind, but that had already been said. These moments after were awkward and drawn out, a waste time in her book. Where were you supposed to look when someone opened their present? What were you supposed to say to them? What happens afterwards? She didn't care to find the answers.

"Would you not prefer to go back to your room an open it?"

She sighed. Inkidortes didn't want to...it would be odd and uncomfortable. But she had no where else to be, nothing to excuse her cleanly. And lying was always an option. she'd rather not stoop to it.

"For a time I will," she rigidly expressed. "Only a short time." Instead of crossing her arms in a clear uncomfortable, defensive movement, she curled her fists and a worry-wrinkle manifested itself in her brow.

Ah, here surfaced her strange habits. Unless Inkidortes owned the room or had been given recent permission, she remained at the threshold, just as she did now outside Owen's dorm. It was a small piece of her living life she had willingly clung onto that had inspired more than a few vampire jokes around headquarters for short period of time.

"May I come in?" It was an age old question, but no weariness could be heard. Inkidortes waited, clasping her hands together, eyeing the the couch critically before looking at Quinn with a much kinder expression.

With a slight nod of recognition she strode in, gave the room a cursory glance, and lowered herself to the couch. "Of course, carissimi. The gift is for you; you may do as you like with it." Stray hair had floated in front of her warm hazel eyes, and she lifted a calloused hand to sweep them away.

Inkidortes still didn't want to be here but...Quinn was happy, yes? That make it a bit more bearable. Perhaps any awkwardness would be diluted by such...if he was still happy when he opened the gift...

Ordinarily, Inkidortes might have been irritated by such a question, but with Quinn she merely answered it without a thought. "A scarf. For the winter." She paused, then tacked on: "red, crocheted" just in case.

She looked at him then, at those pale eyes and lashes that gave way to innocence and a good heart. "It might do you some good to wear it, and it too -- after all, handmade items deserve to be worn."