After Communion, Tacos.

Fr. Echeverri­a
High Mass begins at eight o'clock in the morning on Sunday. Only the diehard Roman Catholic members of the congregation show up to that service and that's only because this church used to be a Roman Catholic situation. The Puerto Rican who has led the flock for the last year is an Anglican. The grandmothers and the widowers all thought about abandoning ship when Father Ojeda was promoted to Bishop and left them behind but it's been over a year now and very few people left when Father Echeverría took over.
The Awakened population of Denver doesn't need to know the history of this building or the man who's in charge of it. All they need to know is that by early afternoon the place is just about empty.
There was a wedding yesterday. Grains of rice and flower petals still cling to the sidewalk amidst the salt.
The doors are unlocked and the rector is in his office. Hard to tell where exactly he is because the same resonance that protected the Chantry for so long has cast itself over this place.

Connor
Not even an act of God could get Connor to go to high mass, or anything, that happens before the noon hour of any given day.  It is not before noon, though, which gave Connor time to slowly, slowly, slowly come to consciousness and then slowly, slowly, slowly go about all the things he needs to do to get ready for his day.  Do his business, brush his teeth, shower, check in with his business and see how it's doing, watch an episode of Adventure Time on Netflix.
You know, normal everyday things that everyone does, right?  No, but they are the things that Connor does.
Finally, a 2013 Honda Civic hybrid, bright orange, pulls up outside the church on Federal.  Pan had said people could drop in, right?  Had mentioned this place?  Connor pauses before he opens his door not to feel daunted or out of sorts at the idea of a former drug dealer going into a place of holiness and worship, but to marvel at the construction of the place.  Snow is still piled thick on the lawn but the roads are clear and steaming where the sun hits any remaining snowmelt.  Connor stops and stares up at the place, slackjawed and full of awe before finally he closes his mouth and swallows.
He goes inside and he has no clue whatsoever how to find Pan, so he tries the old fashioned way.
Cupping his hands round his mouth, he shouts, "YO!  PADRE!"

Kalen Holliday
The church is like a blaze of all-seeing light.  There have been other churches with Resonance for Kalen, and on most day he would have said that he preferred the slightly gentler ones.  Today though, judgey-judgey light is vastly preferable to anything that could even be considered shadowy.
He moves slowly deeper into the church, between the limp and the lack of any hurry there are doubtless tortoises that are more speedy than Kalen right now.  Somewhere inside, he should find Pan.  If encounters the altar he does stop long enough to murmur a prayer before he continues looking for Pan.
And then he encounter's Connor.  Or at least his voice.  He shakes his head a little and heads back in that direction.  Yelling will perhaps bring Pan.  Or someone with directions to Pan.  Either is acceptable.

Serafi­ne
There is no particular reason Sera decided to go to church on Sunday.  She may not even precisely understand that it is in fact Sunday, the day Father Echeverría's God claimed for himself, out of all the others.  Because he was tired or what the fuck ever, from birthing creation, like that is a big-ass deal.
Sunday though; superbowl Sunday.  Even Pan's parishioners come to church in their team colors and the buzz after the morning services was bright and full and football football football.
The chilly Sunday afternoon finds her there, though.  The low density neighborhood full of Pho places and taquerias, bars and liquor stores and churches too.  All the things folks need to cope with the idea of time and its passing, the immediate and hereafter.  Even though she may not particularly understand that it is Sunday, Serafíne looks as though she is dressed in her Sunday best.  Chanel and Chanel and Chanel.  A swinging white skirt - the weave loose enough that it is see through rather than solid - and a brilliantly textured jacket in hooded white brocade over a fishnet tee, over a black satin bra.  High-heeled black peep-toe sandals, with white white heels carved into the shape of a bleached, branching coral, and glasses like a sunburst because nevermind that the sun is now only occasionally peaking out from behind scudding clouds, everything, everywhere feels far too bright.
Sera is walking in those shoes: from somewhere, god knows where, grains of rice and salt crystals crunching beneath her toes.  She must be cold like that; and has indeed pulled her white hood up to mostly-cover her loose blond curls, but the hood and jacket can only do so much when the rest of her clothing is basically constructed from holes.
Sera runs her fingers along the fence framing in the church yard as she goes down the sidewalk.  Pauses at the steps leading to the church proper, lilting her head back and taking in the shadow the place casts against the sky.  Breathes in and wonders why she feels so fucking warm, considers the nature of wonder, then.
Understands, intellectually mind, that she may still be tripping just a little bit as she climbs the concrete steps to the church and opens the doors.
A stray thought makes her wonder when he hears confession.
That thought makes her smile rather indulgently to herself.
That rather indulgent smile is shattered when Connor shouts and Sera - behind both Kalen and Connor, winding rather than seeking - winces.
She may also be a little bit hung over.

Fr. Echeverri­a
The foyer of the church is bare hardwood that groans beneath the weight of foot traffic but does not buckle. Salt-stained carpet runners span the length of the hall as do cork boards with fliers and pictures tacked to them. As visitors glance around they can see evidence of past festivities and upcoming events.
The schedule for Narcotics Anonymous is prominently stapled to the corner of the board closest to the door. Both sides of the hall. Noon and six o'clock on Thursdays.
No way Pan did not hear Connor. His voice went tearing ass down the hall like a schoolboy unsupervised. Bounced off the empty space and carried itself as far as it could go. Sera knows Pan's office the last door down the left side of the hall. It's choked with books and shares a wall with reception.
They have about thirty seconds before the old man graces them with his presence. They can hear his shoes on the floor as he starts to walk towards them.

Connor
The young man with the dark skin and the mess of dark curls atop his head gives off a similar light to what is filling up this place, but it is dim, so dim in comparison his light gets swallowed up and lost.  That is resonance.  It would appear that nothing like that could diminish the bright light of his personal spirit.  Connor moves with an energy that could almost be described as bouncing as he searches the foyer, poking his head into classrooms, even (very briefly) calling through a slight crack in the women's restroom dooor in a loud stage whisper, "Hey padre, you in there?"
Of course not, Connor.
Kalen and Serafíne enter the foyer and hear his next loud shout, "HEY YO PADRE WHERE ARE YOU??" echoing throughout the fellowship, where the services take place, swaggering through like he's not completely disrupting some old women knelt in prayer.  Needless to say, they are not at all pleased by this shouting youngster.
Connor turns and as he turns he spies Kalen through the doors leading back out into the foyer (and a woman behind him, but hey it's Kalen so no one else exists for a moment).  His face lights up in a bright warm smile at sight of the Hermetic.  "Hey!" he says, still too loud and he takes off quickly for the door.  Twists as he does to wave and offer an apologetic smile to the people he's disrupted.  Then he's turning back, opening his arms wide, and clapping them around the Hermetic before he has a chance to even consider trying to amble out of range.
"Kalen, hey!"

Kalen Holliday
Anyone who thinks that Kalen dislikes hugs has fallen for one of his schemes.  There are circumstances under which Kalen might have tried to dodge, but none of them are currently in effect.  Particularly considering that Connor also feels like the opposite of horrifying madness shadows.  He returns the hug one-armed, but he leans into it.
And there is Sera.  Sera has not taken to greeting him with hugs, but that...that will be fine.  He smiles and waves to Sera and absolutely does not call out to her.
"Some people," he says quietly, "Know that it is generally not desired to be yelling in a church.  God has very good hearing.  Prefers whispers.  Or you could deafen him, or something."  There is a trace of amusement and no real trace of censure.  Exasperation, maybe.  But Kalen is all enchanted by Connor, so there is no real sense of that being a real complaint.

Serafi­ne
"You don't have to shout," Sera, behind.  Behind Connor, behind Kalen, behind her sunglasses.  Her voice is rough with the night-before.  That's the gravel in it; the lazy give-me-a-mimosa-or-something-so-I-can-face-the-day of it.  She is still walking, though.  She knows exactly where she is going.  Her heels click precisely on the well-worn wooden floor and she slips past NA postings and scribbled invitations to the Veneration of the Holy Mother or the Winter Carnivale, the smaller, handwritten postings seeking employment or offering something for sale.  Slips past them neatly and easily as if she belongs here, as if she belongs whereever she is, sauntering, see.  Headed toward the office, or at least on an intercept course.
"His office is the last door on the left.  If he's not there, you might find him at the rectory across the street.  Downstairs, not up."
Today Sera's outfit cost more than the entirety of the take from the morning's collections at the church.  Connor and then perhaps Kalen are reflected in the dark discs of her ridiculous and ridiculously expensive glasses.  The hallway is dark enough to make them absurd but she doesn't care.
She likes the smell of furniture polish and floor wax and incense and old books.
She likes so many things, does Sera.
"And," ahead of them now, glancing back over her shoulder, the hood swayed, its shape distorted and distended by her glance back at the pair of them. An indulgent disagreement.  "God likes everything in churches.  Absolutely every fucking thing."  She inhales, all sharp, and keeps walking, see - click click click.
"That's just the way she is."

Fr. Echeverri­a
Luckily the sanctuary is far enough back that anyone who was knelt in prayer would have a buffer of doors and space between them and the disruption even if they were still here. Even the most devout of them have things they have to do today. They have already lit their candles and gone home to their families or their volunteer responsibilities. Rosa isn't even still here.
The priest moves at a steady pace. Not hurrying or dragging ass. He knows they're all there. No surprises when he turns the corner.
He stands right in Sera's path but he does not block her way. If she really wanted to she could find a way around him.
As they must expect by now Pan is wearing black. His shoes are simple but shined and his slacks fit him and his short-sleeved button-down shirt is tucked in and belted. He's wearing suspenders but not a suit jacket. It's probably back in his office.
His black-gone-white hair has been combed into compliance but he hasn't shaved his face. His beard is trimmed. It suits him. Makes him look less gaunt.
"Everything alright?" he asks.

Connor
The quiet chiding from Kalen, the gravelly to-the-pointedness of Sera's You don't have to shout do not phase Connor in the slightest.  To Kalen he only releases one arm and uses the other to practically crush him into his side.  "Yeah but I'm looking for God today, I'm looking for a regular guy."  Regular?  Guy?  Only Connor would describe Pan as such.
He looks at Sera and he watches her go down the hallway, and he grins at her correction of what God likes in churches.
And then there he is, the man himself, the one Connor came to see for a bit.  His face lights up all over again and after a brief look at Kalen to make sure he's not about to yank away a support beam holding him up, Connor breaks free and closes the distance.  He scoots around Sera and holds out his hand toward Pan, but if the priest thinks he's not getting a one-armed hug he is sorely mistaken.  They're Awakened!  At least he knows that Pan and Kalen are.  And that makes them friends.
"Hey hey, I was looking for you," he says, just in case anyone here was left in doubt as to his purpose in the church today.  He reaches for a handshake and, should he get it, goes in for that hug.  And as he does he looks back over at Sera.
"Hey, I'm Connor."  He doesn't know if she's part of Fight Club, too, so he doesn't finish up with any kind of declarations as to his state of magical awakening.

Kalen Holliday
Kalen is used enough to Connor's propensity to go scampering off that he is already pulling his weight off Connor when Pan comes into view.  It's just like anticipating that your adorable golden retriever puppy is going to go chasing that rabbit that just sprung out of the bush and you need to be sure you have a firm hold on it's leash.  You can't expect Connor to be still when you want him to.  Sometimes he is.  But he'll be still when he wants and nothing comes rushing out for him to chase.
He follows Connor at a slower pace.  Despite her remarkable ability to walk in heels, Kalen isn't about to use Sera for stability.  Pan is stable, but pretty much only God and Pan know how that would go.  Kalen isn't sure he wants to find out.  And so, despite the presence of perfectly serviceable walls and Connor's tendency to go flying off in other directions, he resumes leaning into Connor.
"I think everything is okay here."  It's a guess.  Connor seems okay.  Sera doesn't seem anything much worse than hung over.  No one is screaming, or bleeding, or missing.  That he knows of.
Maybe he should call Grace.
Maybe he should calm the fuck down.

Serafi­ne
See, then Pan's in her way.  Sera doesn't go around him, doesn't want to go around him.  Her heels are a solid four inches, four and a half-inches hight but the priest still towers over her so there's a moment where she's looking back and looking up at him, her head tipped backwards, the hood caught up on the apex of the crown of her head.  He is reflected in the dark discs of her sunglasses and she's smiling up at him both hung-over and still fucked-up, as if there were no one else in the room.
Her eyes catch and linger on the beard, though that is hard for anyone else to see except - perhaps - in the orientation of her face, the way her chin drops a bit, the way she cranes her neck to examine his not-quite-scruff anymore.
It suits him.
She likes it.
Some part of her wants to reach out and run her fingers through it, to feel it rough against his skin.
Pan asks if everything's okay Sera's brows draw together, a thoughtful pursing of her mouth: because yes everything's okay, everything's fine, everything's lovely, everything's golden, everything is incense-smoke and offerings-to-the-gods -
--
That's when Connor swoops in; beats her to the let's-hug-Pan punch, reaching out for a handshake and a one-armed hung.
Her eyes are all on Pan, even so.  Her eyes are all on Pan at least until Connor speaks directly to her, and then she lifts her chin and swivels her attention to him, and he sees himself reflected, yes, twinned in the very dark glass of her sunburst sunglasses.
"Serafíne.  Call me Sera.  Connor of the free samples?"
--
- but there's a spark inside her.  Those glasses turn to Kalen, as he limps up.  Linger there, see.  She's hidden behind them and her perusal of him is therefore entirely private.  Withheld.
Then she turns back to Pan.
"Everything's fine."  Which is true but also equivocal.  Sera feels both fine and strange.  She's also on drugs.  Perhaps she always feels fine and strange.  "I just wanted to see you.  You're wearing suspenders."

Fr. Echeverri­a
Pan does not look like a man who is inclined to hug people. But then these young heretics don't know him very well. They know who he is and what he is capable of but they do not know him. They have not seen him in his element before. They are afraid to talk beliefs with him because why on earth would they do that. He's immovable. He's a mountain.
And yet he does not hesitate to help convert that handshake into a one-armed hug. He is warm and stronger than he looks and gives good hugs. Claps Connor on the back a couple times just before he releases him and then turns to give Sera a hug with two arms.
"Claro," he says to the presence of his suspenders.
Fuck it. Kalen you can have a hug too. When all the hugging and greeting and assurances that nothing has blown up or started running red with blood are over Pan puts his hands in his pockets and turns back to Connor who was looking for him.
"How can I help you?"

Connor
"Yes!" is Connor's reply when Sera asks if he's Connor of the Free Samples.  That is what pulls him free of Pan's hug, but of course he can't get to Sera because now pan is hugging her (with two arms?? envy!).  The apprentice of no affiliation is indeed a lot like a gold retriever of the puppy variety, in that he is young and golden-lit and has a tendancy to bounce from person to person to oo what is that! to person again.
"What'd you think?" he asks, like he needs Sera's criticism.  He knows how Kalen liked it and it's been flying off shelves - but then, everything is flying off shelves in these first few glorious weeks of legalized marijuana distribution.  So sometimes Connor isn't so sure if people are buying his product like they're on fire and it's the water that'll put it out because they enjoy it, or because it's there and available.
"I bred it to have more of the pleasant effects, the high, y'know?  And less of the bad side effects, the paranoia and stuff."  He is actually capable of going into a more scientific explanation, but in his line of work, Connor knows that 99.9% of people don't give two shits about the pH levels in the dirth and the compound structure of the fertilizer and the cross-breeding of the pollens.
Pan asks how he can help him and Connor just beams at him.  "Not help, really.  When I stopped by the house yesterday you weren't there and it looked like you were never there, so I thought I'd say hi and see how you're doing."

Kalen Holliday
Kalen understands that Pan has a congregation and that he hugs them.  He knows that Pan hugs Sera.  And he knows that Pan doesn't flinch away from contact.  He still isn't expecting Pan to hug him.
Even so, aside from a little flicker of surprise in his pale eyes, you wouldn't know that.  He doesn't stiffen or step back or any of the things people caught off guard about hugs will often do.  He doesn't lean into Pan quite like he leaned into Connor, but he still does a little.  There is, and you would have to be right on top of him or paying very close attention to notice, a little catch of breath that wasn't present when Connor hugged him.

Serafi­ne
DID SERA NOTICE THAT. Per + Awareness-as-empathy
Dice: 7 d10 TN5 (3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 10, 10) ( success x 5 )

Serafi­ne
Sera inhales when Pan hugs her and turns her head into his solid frame and closes her eyes behind the glasses.  She feels all expectant, tipping her brow forward against his jaw, and something about the gesture - everything about the gesture - is remarkably and distinctly intimate.  The frames of her glasses are cold metal where they ouch his skin.
It only lasts a second, then he is letting her go to include Kalen in the hugs and telling her of course he is wearing suspenders and Sera is reaching out like she's following tracers as he leans past her for more hugs, catching those suspenders between her thumb and forefinger.   All, oh.  hey.  suspenders.   She wants Pan to kiss her on the crown of her head or something as he ducks back but he doesn't and that's okay, too.
And she's watching him; and because she's watching him move she's watching Kalen too; and she observes the little catch of breath, the frame of it in her periphery, inhales it really, the way she inhales all things, pulls them into her, splits them asunder somewhere deep inside her body, beneath the hard line of her sternum.  Perhaps Kalen will feel the edge of her hidden gaze on his profile, lingering, as Pan steps back and her hand drops from his fucking suspenders that she cannot seem to stop going on about and Connor is asking for a review of his product and Sera hardly hears him but she does hear him.  Gives him this full-mouthed smile.
Her lips are painted red, such a goddamned red.
"Grace told me about them.  I didn't actually get a chance to try.  Haven't been out to the house for a while.  I'm sure it's awesome, though."
Then Sera's in motion; leaning in to Pan and sliding her arms around his neck and lifting her mouth to his ear.  Murmuring something to him and him only, before she peels herself away and slips beyond him, off in search of the lady's room.
Or the men's.  Really, it is hard to say where she will end up.

Grace
[Nightmares!]
Dice: 6 d10 TN7 (1, 3, 4, 4, 9, 10) ( success x 2 )

Grace
[Perception+Awareness!]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (3, 3, 6, 8, 10) ( success x 3 )

Grace
When Kalen said that was going to go by la Iglesia del Buen Pastor, at first she declined the invitation to go with. Grace walking into a church would probably be grounds for instant smiting, or whatever it is that God does.
God kills infants. No, mass-slaughters infants. Because he's jealous. Anyone who actually reads the bible must come back with a few questions as to the actual goodness of the deity thus described within. Or they didn't read very closely. It reads at times like the book it must have really been -- a single desert tribe's vicious middle finger to the rest of the world -- their enemies. Our God is better than your God, ours will take the souls of your children!
To be honest, she's not so much afraid of God. More afraid of Pan, the wielder of God's power -- or at least he thinks he is. And there's the thing that gives a tick of guilty nervousness when she's around him. If he knew what she thought...
It reminds her of another conversation she had with Kalen. How she's too afraid of what people will think of her -- even people with the ability to call fire down from heaven.
Well, okay, fine. Maybe even going to the church on a Sunday like she's a goddamned believer... it might not be terrible. And if it does turn out to be crappy, it's all Kalen's fault anyway.
Her old red Toyota joins the new, glossy orange hybrid in the street outside when she becomes bombarded with the feeling of watchful, judgmental light. Pan. He bleeds into the bone of this place, doesn't he?
Trepidation is masked with a look and posture that says 'I'm cool'. Or maybe it comes across as 'I'm trying to be cool'. Either way, she pushes the door open, finds some of her favorite people in the world, and that mask melts into a genuine smile.

Fr. Echeverri­a
See: he catches that catch of breath when he hugs Kalen but he doesn't make anything of it. Hugging for his congregation is just something that happens. This is a house of worship and a house of gathering and a house of safety. They're in His house. They are not strangers.
So hugging happens and Pan doesn't interrogate Kalen when he stiffens.
Sera murmurs something in his ear and Pan keeps a hand on her upper back long enough to steer her in the general direction of the restrooms. Doesn't ask her what's wrong and doesn't fret after her. She is a Cultist and a grown woman besides and if she needed help she would have damned well asked for it.
And then here comes Grace.
This is weird, even for him.
"Miss Evans," he says. "Welcome."

Connor
Sera says she didn't try it but Grace told her about it and Connor gets this look on his face like she's just shattered his heart into a million, trillion pieces.  She also presents a mystery.  The weed he left was gone within a week, had to be replaced, and that replacement disappeared a bit more slowly.  Someone is using it up and not telling him what they think about it, which is one thing, but who is it?  And there is the mystery.
Which is forgotten when Sera leans up to murmur something to Pan.  Connor turns to look over at Kalen.  "So what're you doing here, anyway?" he asks, because it had been a bit of a surprise to find him here.  "You coming to make sure the guy's not dead of a heart attack, too?" he asks, in that same stage-whisper he'd issued into the women's restroom.  There is movement down the hall and Connor lifts his gaze to see Grace come into view.  His expression pinches at the sight of her, brightens when he looks away to Pan again.
"Welp!  I just wanted to make sure you weren't dead.  I've got like six Super Bowl parties to hit before midnight so I better get a run on that."  He claps his hand on Kalen's shoulder, gives it a friendly squeeze before he starts heading for the exit.

Kalen Holliday
His eyes roll at Connor's question about coming to see if Pan was dead.  "Maybe I like churches.  Stranger things have happened."  But his expression softens a little at the hand on his shoulder, but all he says is, "Call me when you wake up in a ditch somewhere.  I only kind of sleep."
He waves to Grace and then looks at Pan.  "This hallway is starting to be like Oz."  He does not try, hugs or not, leaning into Pan the same way he was leaning into Connor.  There are walls, and he employs one for that purpose now.

Grace
Kalen's hugging Pan, and the priest turns to greet her with a 'Miss Evans'.
Oh if only she could go back in time and just introduce herself to everybody as 'K1llab33' or something equally stupid. It would be better than 'Miss Evans' any day of the week.
Miss Evans is what people call you when you're a child and you've done something wrong -- when they're appending the title out of irony. Remember your place, missy.
"It's just Grace," she says, but the smile stays. It might a bit harder to keep going, but it stays.
"Oh hey, Connor!" she says, as he makes his way out, oblivious to the pinchedness of his expression when he looks at her. "I just have to say, great product you have there. Helped me relax when I really needed it. Thanks."

Fr. Echeverri­a
Pan may never understand young people's insistence on being rude in social settings. They can keep right on correcting him when he prefixes their surnames with some sort of honorific. He didn't start calling Kalen by his first name until they reached the ball-busting stage of their relationship. Something about Kalen falling asleep on the couch while they were reading.
The crack about making her he's not dead of a heart attack rolls off his back. The way he does not react might imply he hadn't heard the comment. That is not accurate. Connor doesn't appear to have much of a filter.
"Good to see you again, Mister Whitman," he says as Connor starts hauling ass out of there.
And then there were three. The priest looks between Grace and Kalen and then indicates the intersection behind him with a tilt of his head.
"We can go into my office, if you'd like to have a seat."

Connor
Connor doesn't mind being called Mr. Whitman.  There's a part of him that derives a perverse sort of pleasure out of it, because most people when they look at him would not say he looks like a Whitman.  His father's father's name is a great means of weeding out the racists.  A great part of him likes it because there's a poet of the same name and that's cool.  He wrote something about paths in a wood and taking the less traveled road.  Maybe that had an affect on Connor, the poem and the similarity in names.  Who knows, really?
Most people would take Connor's comment about Pan dying of a heartattack as an offense.  Hey we're not old, shut up, kid, that kind of thing.  But even though Connor's only met the guy once before this he already knows he's cool.  You should hear his jokes, they're hilarious!  There was a genuine desire to make sure he was okay involved in coming to the church, and now that he knows he's alright he can go on to his first of half a dozen sports parties.
Grace calls out to him and he turns his head to give her a nod of greeting that turns into a narrow-eyed suspicious look.  "Welcome," he says, and he continues on out the door, into his snowmelt-stained orange hybrid.  It was so pretty when it was new just a little over a year ago, but he still likes it.  The grime and grit is nothing a good wash can't clear off.
[and with that, Connor flees.  thanks for the scene, yo!]

Kalen Holliday
Without Connor there to flop on and roll his eyes at, Kalen's expression settles back into a more familiar neutral one.  He smiles for Grace though, real and warm, when she reaches them.
"I didn't think you were coming."  Though, judging by the smile and the tone, he's glad that wasn't the case.
"That sounds good."  Kalen says to Pan and starts in the direction of the intersection.  He doesn't know precisely where he is going, but Sera gave a location and Pan indicated a direction.  Even if they hadn't, it doesn't matter.  In three steps they'll be ahead of him anyway.
Grace
Pan's reverted to calling her Miss, and Connor's giving her suspicious glares, and Grace wilts. Kalen, this is all your fault. "What was his problem? I mean, he said 'Welcome' like he was spitting out nails. Should I not have taken the free samples? He left a note!"
At least Kalen is here, one person who doesn't feel quite so distant and separate. And he sets her back to rights with the warmth in his gaze. He gets a smile back. "Well, you know... I need to get out more," she says back to him. Because 'getting out more' means going to church?
She follows them then then, off to the office. She was about to say something about how there are seats everywhere in this place, but maybe Pan means to discuss things that should be done in private. Like demons.

Kalen Holliday
[And then magically, we move to tacos.]

Kalen Holliday
After they talk with Pan, they move on to get tacos.  Of course they do.  Kalen has a strange obsession with making sure Grace has eaten.  As he does about half the times he drags her out to get food, he doesn't seem terribly interested.  Probably most of his tacos are going to be boxed up and taken home.
"So.  Ah.  How was the...entire half hour we were apart?"  He asks Grace, a little amused, once they've settled into a table.

Grace
"It was boring. I had time to think, which is a terrible thing really," she says, and then crunches into her (green chili pork) taco. Her face registers a shock at the bright green fire coming from the thing, but then she mutters "mm goom" with her mouth full. The thing is full of fresh green chilis that taste like they were picked and chopped and served that day. In other words, fantastic. And completely too hot to scarf down.
"These. are. so. good," she remarks, once she can speak again. Federal may not look like much from the outside, but you cannot complain about the street's food. This is where little old grandmothers will serve you the same thing they feed their grandchildren, and it can sometimes be just that glorious.

Serafi­ne
So.
Serafíne did not actually rejoin the mages who repared to the priest's book-filled study.  She's been there before; she knows where it is.  Something else commanded her attention or dragged her from the immediate and temporal to what- and where- the fuck ever.  Kalen and Grace and Pan had time for a genuine conversation with currents and threads and peaks and valleys before hunger or duty or whim brought the gathering to an end and Kalen and Grace to the taqueria on the corner of Federal and Eleventy-Fifth Street.  Which may not be an actual address.
The place is small and close and has a window from the street right into the kitchen where you can see the cooks making the tortillas by hand.  Slapping them out expert and quick and frying them lightly on the griddle, one side then the next.
Though it is usually crowded, the location is not crowded tonight.  They haven't got a single television mounted to a single bracket anywhere in the tiny dining room, so the Super Bowl fanatics have parked themselves elsewhere.
Grace and Kalen practically have the dining room to themselves.  At least until the front door opens and a certain someone slips into the place.  Still wearing her ridiculous sunburst-bright sunglasses, her nearly pristine white brocade jacket over a fitted fishnet top over a black satin bra.  Her arms are stacked with particolored bracelets glittering with glass, mirrors, bits of crystals, which make a quiet song with every movement she makes.

Kalen Holliday
"Well, perhaps you must sign up for more classes, so that all of your thoughts will become structured and boring and in danger of calcifying or something."  Kalen teases.  And then he catches sight of Sera.  Or the feel of her.  Either could be responsible for the pause.
He lifts one hand to wave.

Grace
"Sera!" Grace says, and waves her over. It's a bit of a surprise, because while she may have slightly been aware of the Cultist's presence at the church, that feeling vanished soon after. Wasn't expecting to see her again today.
"You should try the tacos. I mean seriously, try the tacos."
Grace is dressed in her usual jeans and sneakers and turtleneck combo, her laptop bag slung over her still, even though she's seated now. Maybe she's thinking it belongs as close to her as possible? She's also wearing this grin on her face, what with her two favorite people in the world now in the taco place, with tacos that are hot as hell and heavenly besides.

Serafi­ne
Sera tips her sunglasses down her nose so that she can look over those gilt, baroque frames at Kalen and Grace, as one waves, and then the other.  Her mouth is painted and absolute crimson today and it makes the coil of her half-smile quite a distinctive and crawling sort of thing, though that precision last just so long, before the smile widens and deepens and she is waving back and sauntering over.
Distorting the world with her presence, the way they all do.
She catches the waitress on her way over to the table and murmurs an order in the woman's ear and, Grace, Sera's not order tacos.  She leans over Grace all familiar and drops her mouth to the crown of Grace's head and smiles over the crown of Grace's head at Kalen and a few strands of Grace's hair catch in the intricate frame of the glasses.
Everything feels so surreal tonight.  Sera lets Grace go and pulls out a chair, dragging it across the tiled floor.  Shakes her head quietly to Grace over the tacos.
"Dan made me eggs this morning."
By which she means: two hours ago.
"You'll have to enjoy them for me, yeah?"
Meanwhile, the waitress is already approaching with Sera's order.  A bottle of excellent tequila.  Three shot glasses.  Lime, and salt.

Kalen Holliday
Kalen sighs and leans across the table to pick up Grace's taco.  He takes a bite of it, and makes a face, but he doesn't actually seem put off by the spice, just surprised.  He sets the taco back down on Grace's plate once he's swallowed.
"I see we like our endorphins," he says to Grace with a laugh.  "It is good though."
He watches Sera and Grace, perhaps a bit curiously.  He doesn't seem bothered about Sera's assertion that she had eggs this morning at this hour and he seems amused when he sees what Sera ordered, though beyond a slight widening of his smile it's hard to be sure, exactly what he's thinking.  Outside the church, he's a little more concerned with the possible entrances and exits and a little less open.

Grace
"I always like my endorphins. They're very nice," Grace says, just as Sera bends over and kisses her head. Which, by the way, she accepts like the does most of Sera's touchy-feeliness, like it's just a thing. Doesn't both her, really.
"Dan's a good guy, then, but you are missing out."
Well, okay, maybe not missing out actually, since tequila is coming. With three shot glasses. Why Sera? Are you trying to get Grace drunk again? It's a question with only one possible answer.

Serafi­ne
The bowl full of limes, the dish of sharp little crystles of rock salt crowd their way onto the already full table.  The basket of chips and the bowls of salsa that come gratis with the meal, the plates of tacos and beans and rice and accoutrements for the meal in which Grace and Kalen were already engaged.  She has pulled the white hood of her brocade jacket up to rest on the crown of her head, in a way that emphasizes rather than conceals the razor line of her sidecut.  For the bottle of tequila, Sera pays immediately and in cash with or perhaps two of those larger, more crowded bills, waving away any change.
"I never miss out Grace,"  Sera remarks with a deep, rich inhale as she takes the seat beside her.  A spark of a look across the table at Kalen and while Sera is easy as fuck to read, she is wearing sunglasses tonight which makes it a mite more difficult.  Still: something about the survey she takes of him, the way her chin drops and then rises in a lifting arc suggests that she has taken note of his wariness.  The shuttered body language.
Sera herself sometimes looks for entrances and exits.  Usually when she wants to go smoke.
" - and see," quietly, murmuring, challenging, as she unseals the bottle and starts to pour the shots.  " - endorphins.  Perhaps you were meant to be one of fucking us."

Kalen Holliday
Kalen seems mostly content to watch the exchange between Grace and Sera, and beyond them the rest of the remarkably empty restaurant.  His lips again curve up into a smile as Grace insists to Sera she is missing out on the tacos and Sera bids that maybe Grace should have chosen the Ecstatics, with a little more force than he ever has about the Order.  Granted.  Grace could have been happy as an Ecstatic.  The same is less true with the Order.  Of course, when Marcel had brought Kalen home, wild and wary and unconcerned with things like books or rules...there had been a pretty heated debate about even trying to train him.  Marcel had won.  And he had been right.
There is tequila falling into shot glasses and it sounds for a few seconds like rain.  Waterfalls.  He can taste the air in the rainforest where it once rained so hard the roar of the water drowned out all the sound and consumed itself somehow until everything was a great roaring silence.
No.  They are not somewhere to go falling through time and memory now.  He forces his attention back to the sight of Sera's hands and all those glittering bracelets and people making tortillas.
Grace is used to that by now, the way his eyes lose focus and then snap back, suddenly clear again.  She's been around for a few times when he suddenly snaps back and has to figure out what they're talking about.  He's never asked her what day it is, or anything terribly dramatic.  But it isn't uncommon to watch him trying to fill in the last thing you must have said based on the last thing he remembers and the thing you're saying now.

Grace
"Man, all the time, nothing but the blasted recruiters after me," she says, but it's no complaint. The grin on her face says as much.
There have been others, oh Sera, oh Kalen. Between the Ecstatics and the Order, she'd pick the Ecstatics every time, but then their ways do not make any sense to poor, logical Grace.
She crunches her way through her taco again, all glorying in food while Kalen is off in la-la land. She's off in a la-la land of green chili sweetness.
"Speaking of recruiters. I met a guy named Adam Gallowglass the other day. Has a book shop. Also desperately wants me for his crowd," she rolls her eyes at that one.

Serafi­ne
There is a rather distracted air about Serafíne tonight, as well.  Later, later she will slip out with her housemates who are also her bandmates for a show.  Their first show since she they were infected with the Hydra virus.  Since she was kidnapped and locked away for a week or more, dying.  Drowning in her own blood.  Sera does not really think about such things these days, and her distraction is less specific and more general, this spark of something, this kernal, this thing-to-be-known inside of her that she can feel between her sternum and her skin or perhaps beneath her sternum; some sort of bright aura haloing strangers at the edge of her field of vision.  Something, god - something.
Still, she is nearly always aware of the people around her.  Their shifting moods; their sudden changes.  When Kalen snaps back to the hear and now he may find Sera's eyes quite directly on him.  Her glasses, rather: two of his selves framed in the dark lenses, framed by a sunburst of ornate little gold discs.
Something remarkably bold, absolutely frank, about the way she stares.
"You good?"  Sera asks him, outright, as he comes back.
Tequila.  Sera takes a shot, licks her thumb for salt and does not bother with the lime, after.  Pours herself another in quick succession and scoots the other glasses toward Grace and Kalen respectively.  Sera is not trying specifically to get Grace drunk.  Sera is trying to get the world fucking drunk, and Grace is just a casualty.  Still, she does not insist, like an asshole, that they drink if they wave their shots away.  Just takes that in stride as well.
" - never heard of him.  Where's the bookstore?"
Somewhere in an expensive handbag we have not yet described, Sera's phone is starting to buzz.

Kalen Holliday
"What?"  He asks, tiling his head at Sera.  It takes him a second to understand why she's asking.  "Oh.  I'm fine.  Thank you."  It's difficult to be sure if that thank you is for asking, or for the shot he's accepting, or for both, but he takes the shot glass in his hand.  He does not drink it though.  Kalen is accustomed to toasts.
And speaking of memory...Adam....  "You would not be so poorly matched to his crowd of people, Kit.  They have a particular thirst for knowledge.  More reading.  Less adrenaline.  I'm actually half surprised he's come out into the wild."  Kalen smiles, but it is a fond smile.
"If he stays, he'll probably help us with our project."  Something occurs to him that sends a frown appearing and disappearing so quickly it's difficult to catch, and then he smiles again.  "It's good that he's in town."

Grace
[[To Jess: I told you, it would show up in the scene just like that. To the others: Jess has yet to figure out where the bookstore is, so assume you know IC!]]

"So Denver is the wild eh? Where is the not-so-wild? Think he'll help us with all those books?" she asks, and takes her own salt-covered shotglass in hand. There's something hungry there, in that look she gives Kalen, that has nothing to do with tacos.
"The bookstore is at the corner of [blank] and [awesomesauce]," Grace says, spinning the shotglass around and admiring the crystals of salt, the glass. "And it's full of neat stuff. I signed a book for him."

Serafi­ne
Sera does not make a verbal toast.  She drinks and pours herself another and Grace is admiring the viscous liquid and the gleam of light on the salt crystals and Kalen is asking hmm? and saying thank you and Sera does not seem to care what or why for.  She is already on her second drink and will soon be on her third, but there is a very precise way she picks up the shot glass and sort of crashes it firmly and deliberately into Kalen's shotglass and then into Grace's shotglass.  Just enough to splash a little tequila on the table or at least the nachos for the gods.
Then she inhales, all sharp, downs it all.  Makes note of the address in her head as Grace tells them that she signed a book and Kalen comments on their project.  Projects!  Sera does not like projects.  Sera does not like work and -
- her phone is buzzing and she retrieves and thumbs it on and curls her tongue over her lower lip in consideration as she listens to her consor on the other side and she doesn't know where she is so Kalen and Grace hear from her "Okay" and "okay" and "you can pick me up but bring me something else to wear." and "I don't know" from Sera's end before Sera hands the phone to Grace asking Grace to tell Dan where they are and therefore where he can pick her up.  "
And. So.
She will pour herself at least one more shot and hang out a bit longer after Grace passes on the directions, but soon enough she will escape, slip out into the now-darkness, sunglasses still firmly in place, hardly knowing what she's following but understanding that it is all inside her.  Always.

Grace
[And I think we are fading there! Goodnight!]