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The invitation is unexpected and relatively vague, a typical habit, mostly because she doesn't feel the need to read every text message that she receives. She reads the first message asking her to come over and she sends an emoji at random. Isn't that how people talk these days? With silly faces that mean nothing? How the hell is she supposed to know.[break][break]

An Indeedee opens the door and the woman looks at it for a while as if trying to figure out what exactly it was. It looked like a butler, but it also looked like a Pokemon. She'd never seen anything like it. Odd.[break][break]

But her gaze shifts upward to meet the face of her host and closest friend, if Emma Wolfe was capable of friendship. Her expression bears no real indication she's thrilled to see him, and instead she gestures idly to how quickly his shoulders relax.[break][break]

"Expecting the boogey-man? Did you invite him, too?"[break][break]

A slight smirk, gone in an instant, before she enters his home.[break][break]

The pair make themselves comfortable on the cozy pillows on the floor, Emma curling her legs under her. Her fingers curl around the cold can when he passes it, but she idly presses on the tab instead of opening it.[break][break]

Instead, her attention is engrossed in the cake between them. It's not tall enough for her to not be able to see him finish his drink on the other side of the table, but it still perplexes her nonetheless. Maybe she should really start reading all of his texts. Oh well.[break][break]

Chances were he hadn't even brought it up.[break][break]

"Am I here to walk you through a bad breakup or something?"

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[attr="class","mthread"][attr="class","rocket"]the sound he makes is a cross between distress and annoyance. marcel, unfortunately, still has the coherency and self-awareness to recognise it as a sort of pathetic sound. emma had hit a nerve--though his thoughts hadn't been anywhere near the subject before, they sure as hell was now.
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he moves swiftly on to his next beer.
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"i would've needed a relationship for that..." he grumbles. marcel hadn't had a solid relationship since the death of his wife, given his lifestyle and temperament, he had to grudgingly admit that this wasn't much of a surprise. for a while now he'd been stuck in a loop of half-hearted, casual flings. not that he minded.
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seriously, he didn't.
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before he knows it he's finished his third beer. he grabs a fourth without hesitation. "no it's not a breakup, thanks for that though." he takes a large forkful of cake, continuing his sentence as he chews, "fuck, you made me forget what i was gonna say."
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Fuck.[break][break]

Her bluntness, her sarcastic attitude, her general 'don't-give-a-fuck' vibe had been too intense. She'd overstepped, let her guard down, made a mistake. She never makes mistakes.[break][break]

He makes a noise akin to pain or annoyance, she can't decide which, but she's cracked open her beer to distract herself with a long sip. [break][break]

Fuck.[break][break]

Marcel grumbles, reaching for his fourth beer, finishing his previous one with conviction. She'd never seen him like this, never seen him this.. unhappy. She'd overstepped. She'd said the wrong thing. How had that happened? How had she forgotten about his wife?[break][break]

This is why she didn't keep people close to her, because she always fucked it up.[break][break]

"Marcel."[break][break]

Her voice is flat because she's not good at comforting, and she figures he doesn't want it anyway. He reaches for a forkful of cake but she doesn't stop him. Instead, when he snaps, she slowly closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

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[attr="class","mthread"][attr="class","rocket"]marcel read people for a job, but even he found it notoriously difficult to glimpse to emma's mind, outside of her blatant vendetta. in this moment, her regret is impossibly clear. he takes another drink.
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"fuck." he says again. a breath, then: "forget it, i'm not mad."
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it didn't hurt to think of lia anymore--there were times he missed her like crazy, yeah, but four years had passed and as stubborn as he was, those wounds had long scabbed over. nothing worth arguing with emma over, anyway. in an attempt to change the subject, he passes emma a fork. "have some, it's kalosian."
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emma was never one to talk about her past, but the heavy accent at least told him something. well, unless it was fake, but he doubted that would have been wasted effort for the woman. he wondered if she was as fond of the desserts of her home region as his mother was. as he continued to eat, he finally regains his train of thought.
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"my birthday passed," he finally says, "didn't even notice, it's long gone now, but it got me thinking--" he puts down his fork, decides his sentence isn't worth the sacrifice, and picks it up again. another bite of cake fills his pause. "--ten years. it's been ten years since i joined, well, you know."
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it feels as if he's been part of rocket forever yet the number still surprised him. it felt stranger putting a quantity to what he'd used to not-so-fondly call his 'sentence'. the nickname had only taken in later years, of course. when marcel joined rocket he'd been bright-eyed, arrogant, and incredibly naive.
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"so yeah, guess this is me celebrating. probably a shit reason to celebrate, now i think about it. i think i just wanted the cake. did i tell you it's kalosian?"
[break][break]realising he's beginning to ramble, he takes another drink to silence himself.
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Oh, but he is mad. He's been mad a long, long time. This is just a glimpse of the buried emotion that he works so hard to choke. Her gaze shifts momentarily to the drink in his hand, how fervently he sips at it. She swallows another mouthful of her own, its bitter taste lingering.[break][break]

Marcel passes her a fork and she hesitates, her fingers lingering in suspense before she takes it from him. He mentions the cake spread between them and she sucks in a breath. She hadn't thought of Kalos in a long, long time, let alone tasted it's sweet reminder.[break][break]

There's a pain in her chest then that she hides dutifully if only noticed by the way her fork hovers. It doesn't surprise her that he knows where she's from - her accent was strong almost to a fault. Perhaps it was a blessing she spoke so little, said so few words. [break][break]

The man continues to drown his emotions in bites of cake and sips of beer and still she hesitates. [break][break]

Instead, the woman's sharp gaze finds Marcel's, regardless of if his eyes had shifted from the edge of the table.[break][break]

She stifles her surprise expertly with a bite of cake. It occurred to her then that she knew little of Marcel. She hadn't really looked into him and now she doesn't know why. What he's saying is shocking to her, a revelation she hadn't wanted to come to. She had assumed he had been in a similar position as she - forced to serve the organization that had brought her nothing but pain.[break][break]

"The cake is lovely, Marcel."[break][break]

Her words are quiet as she swallows, fully comprehending the situation. There was no anger in her expression, there was merely nothing.

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[attr="class","mthread"][attr="class","rocket"]her words and face do not match. marcel stares into a void. nothing in the face of nostalgia, the reminder of home. he supposes he can't judge her too much for that--he'd be lying if he said he held any attachment to his home outside of a half-hearted taste for patisserie--but there's something in that hollow expression of hers he can't quite bring himself to shake.
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"we all need some nice things in our lives." he says, gruffer than expected.
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whatever anger, hurt, or upset bubbling towards his surface seemed to die down under emma's stare. perhaps her detachment was contagious. marcel's chewing turns thoughtful; he's made his way through a good half of the cake now.
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"how long?" he drags his fork along the gold card disc the cake rests on. "since you joined rocket."
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he probably knows, some part of him is aware of it, but alcohol makes for difficult information retrieval. that same part of him knows a shift in conversation topic will result in a far more pleasant evening, but it's hard to escape this spiral of thought after he's fallen in.
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Emma averts her gaze at his gruff sentiment, but his words only encourage her to put the fork down. She swallows slowly, either savoring the bite or finding it difficult to swallow, before sitting awkwardly across from the man who seemed to be wearing his heart on his sleeve.[break][break]

But as quickly as his emotions rise to the surface they seem to disappear under her cold stare. It's what causes her to look away and break contact, for fear she's the reason he's upset. It wouldn't be unreasonable, she had never been the type to maintain relationships effectively.[break][break]

He continues to indulge in savory cake and her attention lingers on the scrape of his fork against the golden base. Her eyes flick up to his chin, settling on a crumb dangling below his lip, before settling on his face once again. Her expression is guarded, she isn't expecting the question. Perhaps she's assumed he knew already.[break][break]

"It feels like a lifetime ago now - or my entire life, depending on how you look at it."[break][break]

Despite her better judgement, she finds herself rolling the fork between her fingers, poking at what remains of the cake. Temptation lingers and she takes another bite.[break][break]

"Six years, maybe seven."

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[attr="class","mthread"][attr="class","rocket"]he's surprised. marcel had always assumed emma had been in this longer than him--perhaps because she was more callous when it came to her bloodied hands. she hid her guilt well; marcel (at first, at least) tended to crumple under pressure. once he's sober, he'll remember he went through this exact line of thought before.
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but that was for tomorrow.
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"sorry," he says, because there's not much else to say when it comes to rocket. while marcel had joined willingly, he hadn't signed up for the truth of it. as much as he's tempted to pry further, marcel knows the questions on the tip of his tongue would not spark a pleasant reaction. that was the general consensus, when it came to rocket's hurt.
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She had been in this longer than he had - longer than she had even mentioned. Her six or seven years had been those spent in Rocket control. Where her orders had come from high above and her targets hand-picked for her to take care of. But her hands had been covered in blood a lot longer than that.[break][break]

And she had learned to hide her guilt because, at first, she hadn't had any. Desensitized to the immorality of her situation, she had come to feel nothing even as she struck down people who didn't deserve it. It was just how things were.[break][break]

Emma's eyes find his and they seem softer - far less harsh than normal - as she studies the expression he bears. His apology is heard and she sets her fork aside. She smooths her hand against the table, eyes following the motion as she allows herself to actually relax, even a little bit. Perhaps whatever cheap beer he's offered has helped loosen her up, because she sighs and for once, she doesn't sound angry.[break][break]

"Don't be - I chose this life. This might not be where I wanted to be, but it's where I belong. As fucked up as that sounds, as fucked up as I am."

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