A/N: Whoops, totally forgot that there were two chapters on AO3 that never got posted here. So, erm... here ya go? XD Enjoy.

There were no dreams of the Void haunting his sleep, no torturous staccato of whales, just calm, dreamless rest. Arguably the best kind. He felt fulfilled, satisfied and comfortable where he lay. Even when morning came and he felt the groggy emergence of consciousness creeping up on him he still remained there, sprawled out along the bedsheets, his clothes littering the floor.

He let out a deep, contented sigh, prepared to lay there all morning long, even though he knew they had a day to look forward to, walls to build, standards to meet. They couldn't just sit here, skin against skin, silently holding one another. He knew soon he'd have to get up. He'd have to wash himself and dress and slick his hair to the side and put a little charcoal on his eyelids so as to bring out the color; he'd have to be human like everyone else. And then he'd have breakfast with Emily and Corvo. ...Corvo...

His eyes shot open. "Report," he whispered, furrowing his brows. "... Report," he repeated. He threw himself out of bed so quickly he nearly fell flat on his face, rushing over to the chair at the workbench and throwing himself into work, scribbling away at a new piece of paper. He hadn't even gotten to the nature of the Void, the way it watched people from within, or the branches, hells the branches, horrible glimpses of eternity — or the leviathans that swam through the air with glossy eyes and skin torn and gnarled, or the vast, insatiable hunger that rang like an echo through reality-

He stared down at the papers, hands being rather disagreeable. He couldn't possibly write as fast as he could think, especially when his handwriting was so meticulous. Perhaps it'd be easier to type, but it would lose all sense of meaning and impact, it would completely strip this report of the Void itself, leaving it a hollow husk of what it should be. So, put simply: he'd have to postpone the project, finish it tonight after dinner. Corvo Attano would not be happy with that. Not only that, but he'd have to conjure up an excuse, he'd have to lie to the Lord Protector. And also make it believable.

Lying was not his forte.

He was most definitely awake enough to be terrified of that man.

Emily stirred with a heavy inhale and satisfied sigh. She curled fingers and toes, stretching and bending and taking up the whole bed as she luxuriated in her own skin. She let out a deep morning moan as she spread her arms wide, flexed her feet and hips, reached back, hooking a hand over her shoulder to stretch. She felt that perfect soreness, like she would after a particularly difficult night's run of the city. Muscles throbbed that hadn't seen use in some time, and she rubbed the back of her neck, hand slowly curving around to the front, feeling the small aching spots that peppered her skin. Her lips curved into a wicked grin as she opened her eyes.

She rolled over, shifting to face toward where he sat at the workbench. She bit her lip and managed to keep her laugh silent, shoulders bouncing with the effort, just shaking her head at him sitting - stark naked - writing furiously. It was very hard to keep quiet. So instead she directed her attention away, glancing over the little bed nook, curious to see if he'd changed anything.

There wasn't much to change, but there were still papers that had been knocked to the floor in their fervor of the night before — the thought of which made heat spread across her chest again. She leaned her chin in the crook of one arm while the other swept down, browsing through the sheets that had just escaped being completely crumpled by excited limbs just hours ago. She was surprised to find a couple of her old drawings, at least one of which she remembered drawing during her time cooped up at the Hound Pits Pub, but also-

Her gaze flicked up, glancing at his back - the Outsider, Oliver, Lir's back - as she gently drew the page away from the others. The sketch wasn't entirely finished, but it was obvious what it was — and the detail was astounding. He never ceased to amaze her, one body that held innumerable stories and talents. She supposed four thousand years would give a man a lot of time to learn. A finger passed over the spot in the drawing where her fingers were linked with his. It had only been days since all of this began. A wild ride of pain and hope and guilt and now… She paused. She didn't want to start thinking about all the possible consequences of her actions. She just wanted to enjoy what they had right this second.

She let the sadness pass, sitting up on her elbows and watching him for another moment before shifting over and digging a hand under the bed. She used to keep a spare robe under there-

Nope, no robe, but she did feel her fingers passing over the dulled point of an old bone charm she'd strapped to the underside of the bed years ago, when she'd first been worried about contraception. She'd been a little obsessive, taking every possible precaution, her months at the Golden Cat having at least taught her something useful alongside all the other awful things. Both this bed and the one in her bedroom had contraceptive charms that she - as a sixteen year old who wouldn't even sleep with someone for another two years, and not with a man for four - had deemed completely necessary. Well, that relieved an anxiety she hadn't even remembered to be worried about. She shook her head, trying not to chastise herself for how hurriedly this had all happened. They'd kissed, what, once before? And suddenly…

She let out a soft breath, resolving to forgive herself for the impropriety, and glanced around until she found the spare robe she sought, folded on a shelf beside the bed. She stood, with another long stretch, and slipped the navy silk over her bare skin. Silent delicate steps brought her to the workbench and she slipped her hands over his shoulders and down his chest, ducking to kiss the top of his head. Touching him still made her skin sing, gave her such a high... Feeling particularly playful, she nuzzled her face into his hair, moving to nibble his ear. "Good morning," she purred, arms wrapping around to squeeze his shoulders in a hug even as her mouth sought his neck. She may still have been a touch frisky — it was a side effect of the morning. Helped along with how incredibly well-rested she was.

He heard her wake but did not turn to look, brows furrowed in concentration as he idly gnawed at the inside of his cheek. He wrote attentively, but it was when he felt her press against him, her lips soft against his neck, her hands, so perfectly manicured, contrasting his own which were scarred in some places, calloused with nails bitten down out of habit. It was then that he stopped. He was most definitely not going to finish this report today if she kept at that.

He drew the air into his mouth and let out a wistful sigh, eyes fluttering closed. "You're in a rather chipper mood this morning. I wonder why." He spoke sarcastically, with lips curling into a small smirk. He didn't mind being exposed, but admittedly it was a bit cold. He had the same marks she had too, he could feel them, little pieces of evidence left behind by the previous night's happenings. His body otherwise was almost shockingly clear, he was perfectly aware of that.

He did not sport the same physique that Corvo or any of the laborers did; he was leaner, less bulk and more grace — it was another one of those ancient Tyvian traits. No matter how much he tried to tan he'd probably never get much darker than near white sand of the Serkonan shoreline. He wondered if that bothered Emily, suddenly feeling a little self conscious. Maybe he should have at least put on a pair of pants...

She grinned against his skin at his words, kissing him on his jaw, behind his ear, on his neck, his shoulder… She was always affectionate in the mornings, before her daily walls came up, and today even more so. Her kisses lavished his skin until she finally slipped around him and straddled his lap, leaning to one side so his writing hand would still be free. She didn't want to stop him from getting anything done, after all.

Her lips continued to work him over as she breathed him in. He still smelled like sex. She probably did, too. She liked it, but she always had — that lingering evidence of the satisfaction she had given and taken from her partner in turn. The hand on his writing side, to stay out of the way, trailed over his torso, passing a thumb over his chest as his mouth had over hers the night before. She shifted gently against him, bare thighs on his as her robe spilled off the front of the chair, draping over his knees, the sash - only casually tied - already coming loose.

She closed her teeth over his shoulder in a soft bite, just scraping them over his skin before kissing again, letting herself spoil him with affection. She couldn't be physically affectionate all day, so she'd have to make up for it now. Besides, once they left this room she'd have to deal with figuring out what was going on.

It had become clear to her that she'd been lying when she thought she didn't have feelings for him. She did. It was just easier to see now. Despite her dislike of being hugged or touched by people she didn't know well, she'd always been very physical with her partners. It was important to have that physical touch, and she hadn't realized how much she needed it from him until she allowed herself to take it free of guilt. She wasn't sure she would call it love - it was a label she often shied away from - but there was certainly affection, perhaps even infatuation. The thing she worried over was how much of her affection came from the relief his presence brought?

But no, she wouldn't think of that. She'd been fascinated by him before she'd ever been touched by the Void. She'd felt for him. Been intrigued by who he was and how he was, the way he spoke, the story of his life. She wanted to know more about him. Even now, she had so much she could ask him. But more than that, in the moment she just wanted to be around him. To bask in his presence, in the sunshine his touch brought into her veins. She shifted in his lap again, nuzzling into his shoulder, sighing.

There was certainly no protest coming from him, the quill slipping out of his hand. He set it on her waist, eyes scanning her body, studying the fine details, memorizing them as well as he possibly could. He would draw her later like this, he decided. Her hair disheveled and tumbling down her back and shoulders, the playful glimmer in her gaze, her lips peppering over him, affectionate, warm, unrestricted.

She was so beautiful that it made his heart swell in his chest and he wished that there were some way he could convey how much he felt, but words escaped him, and he knew that they couldn't even begin do her justice anyways. He also knew that she grew bored quickly, and the last thing he wanted was to lose her attention. She always had his. But doubt burdened his shoulders, whispering awful things in his ears that made shivers run down his spine. Or perhaps it was just her touch provoking them. He couldn't tell.

He reached up and settled the back of his hand against her chest, feeling the pulse beneath her skin before dipping it down over the loose tie and toying with the sash. Ducking forward, he settled his lips against her midsection, pressing gentle kisses wherever he could but stopping abruptly and smirking. "My my, Empress Emily Kaldwin, not only are you harboring a heretic, but now you're having an affair with The Outsider himself. The gall — how the corruption has tainted you, seeped into your being... The Abbey would be so very disappointed in your actions," he chastised sarcastically.

She adored his touch. It was warm and reverent and reminded her of lazing about on the roof on summer days. Fingers played through his hair as he kissed her skin, a softness in her eyes that so rarely appeared. Her smile turned wicked at his words, as they stirred that desire in her again.

As the silk of her robe slipped down her shoulders she hooked a finger under his chin, lifting his face. She admired him for a moment, staring into those gorgeous pale eyes, his hair a mess. Beautiful. He was absolutely beautiful. All of this 'former' god business — he still was one. Still otherworldly and breathtaking. And hers . She brought her lips down to his gently: a sweet chaste kiss.

With a slow shift of her hips on his lap, she ghosted her lips to his ear. "Fuck the Abbey."

"I wouldn't be surprised," he teased with a small, devious smirk. He leaned forward, both hands now planted on her thighs and carefully sculpting their way up to her hips, dipping beneath the silk that played on her skin. He grazed his kisses along her chest once more then suddenly nipped playfully just beneath her collarbone.

His eyes flickered up to hers and the corner of his lips upturned smugly. "I don't believe we have much time for another game, dear Emily. Your father might grow suspicious, sitting at the breakfast table alone muttering to himself over a cup of black coffee. I wonder if he'd send someone to check on you? What a compromising position they'd catch the Empress of the Isles in... Only fuel for nasty rumors, wouldn't you say?" He peppered kisses over the dull bruising along the length of her neck. Perhaps it was a silent apology, perhaps he just liked the way she tasted in the morning.

Emily had been grinning, but the mention of her real-life duties made her lips twist and nose scrunch. She'd been so happy to avoid that. Her scowl softened at his lips on her neck, fingers twirling idly in his hair. Finally she sighed, supposing he was right. She buried her face in his hair, breathing him in one last time before untangling their bodies. Pulling the robe around herself again, she shot him a playful smirk. "Well, at least I'm clothed." Somewhat, at least. Glancing back toward the bed she spotted their attire of the night before, spilling off the sides and onto the floor, tangled in sheets. Picking through the fabric wasn't exactly something she wanted to do at the moment, so she may as well leave it. Being that close to the bed again may not be the best idea, anyway.

She had fallen to temptation. All of her promises to herself, assuring herself that it was better she didn't… She wasn't sure how she felt about it anymore. She… felt things for him. She would've spent all day with him if it was possible, but there was work to be done — for both of them. Speaking of which-

Her eyes scanned the workbench, looking over some of the pages that had been set aside. His penmanship was flawless. She picked up a page, looking it over as her gaze sharpened and her focus shifted. "...I'm going to have to ask Corvo to have duplicates made," she murmured. "I'd quite like my own copy of this — this copy, if I can convince him to part with it. You have lovely handwriting," she added, not looking up from her perusal of the document.

Oliver's eyes traced her figure as she moved — not with any particular grace, but with a certain agility to her step that he'd always admired, even from the vestiges of the Void where he waited, always watching, always thinking. He looked over the papers, swallowing softly to himself and nodding. "...There are some things about the world no one should know. Let alone the Empress of the Isles... or some lowly urchin born of common waste, ripped off the streets. It would be in your best interest to keep one manuscript, lest someone unsavory get their greedy hands on information they might use to further their own interests..." he warned warily. "You and I are well aware that knowledge is power." He pulled the papers together, sighing as he began to spin little webs of lies in his head, hoping that the Lord Protector himself would at least have some pity and pretend to believe them...

The morning went by much quicker than he would have preferred. He used her washroom, idly chattering with her as he readied himself for the day, lining his eyes with just the slightest bit of charcoal and slicking his hair down carefully. For someone who'd been born less than a peasant with not a cent to his name, living amongst street rats and con men, he sure cared for himself meticulously.

Truth be told, he had finally gotten his body back; he wanted to take care of it.

Once he'd finished the routine he'd established for himself, he stood against the wall outside the door, waiting patiently for Emily to finish up as well. She seemed occupied, reading the report he'd written, unfinished as it was. It read like a novel, some parts so difficult to understand they seemed almost pieces of pure fiction. It was a contradictory thing, the Void. Thus far, his report detailed the creatures of the Void, encased in stone: so lost to the influence of eternity that they'd been devoured, not dead nor alive, no discernible human features, just walking stone golems with no sense of self, stripped of their identities only for a taste of immortality.

There were pages that recollected the apathy and yet somehow twisted malevolence of its interests. It was not man, nor being, but entity in itself; not location, but tangible; not state of mind, but present within the mind. There was no escaping it, only appeasing it for just a little longer to prolong a grand inevitability — the divine equilibrium that it sought to construct through subtle prods at reality. But most of all, he pressed the fact that the Void and the real world, where man and man walked hand in hand and spoke unrestricted, were intrinsically connected at the very core of their foundations. It was an almost overwhelming read. The kind that leaves a person questioning the very nature of existence.

It was dangerous, in the wrong hands.

It hurt Emily, hearing him speak of his past. She couldn't help her upbringing, but she wished she could alleviate the pain of his. But she didn't let her mind dwell on the things she couldn't change, instead pouring herself into her study. She was so engrossed in the mystifying report - ideas that seemed to overlap and knot in her mind as she tried to comprehend them - that she was surprised by his appearance when he exited the washroom. Briefly pulled from her puzzling, her lips curved up in a teasing smile. "Pretty-boy." It suited him. Her fingers twitched, wanting to pull him to her for a kiss, but she resisted, glancing away again as she set the papers aside to keep them dry as she went to get herself ready.

Hiding the marks on her neck presented its own dilemma. She considered just leaving her hair down, hoping the dark tresses could offer some modesty, but even then it wouldn't be foolproof. So instead she went for a fashionable ascot. Not horribly unusual, so hopefully she could keep her composure about it. How to deal with Corvo… She'd have to tell him about it eventually, but maybe she could at least pretend to have waited more than a few days before taking their otherworldly ally into her bed.

The thought of her haste heated her cheeks. But she hadn't been able to stop herself — he just felt so good, it felt so right, just… Her fingers trailed over the bruised skin, the faint ache making her bite her lip as she remembered the night before. Her breath came more heavily at the thought of it, and she quickly snatched her hand away, blinking her eyes clear again. Focus. She straightened, adjusting her clothes, hiding the marks again. Careful fingers formed a quick sweeping braid that curved over one shoulder and might help hide the worst of it. Her mind, meanwhile, considered this new information.

The Void was inevitable. It was gone for now, but would always come back if given the space to. She couldn't keep the former god at her side at all times — not without appointing him a bodyguard, at least. Which was an idea. She was reminded suddenly of her mother and Corvo. He'd been her Royal Protector before her lover, of course — but in a way, so was he. Lir . Her lips twitched at that. She may be the only person alive who knew that name. Who knew so much about him at all. And there was so much more she wanted to know — what had his childhood been like? His parents? How did he end up where he did? What did he love before he was killed? What made him happy? But of course, those questions had to wait. At least until her official day was over. Before that, she had hours of reports, audiences — even an official tea today, if she remembered correctly. What joy. Truly.

But first, breakfast.

Corvo eyed the clock in their little offset section of the dining hall. They were late. Both of them. His first thought was that something was wrong. That Emily was hurt or distressed, that Oliver was trying to help. But surely Emily would send for him if that were the case? ...Or maybe not, she wasn't particularly fond of asking for help. Oliver would probably send for him, though. The kid had a bit more common sense about those things.

His second thought was that the kid was still working on the report. That wasn't out of the question; he'd offered a lot of information, and for some reason had stocked up on ink instead of typewriter tape or audiograph cards. But then why would Emily be missing, too?

He spun his knife on its point against his plate, though the experience with the hall's fine cutlery wasn't quite as satisfying as using a real knife. Still, it calmed some of his anxiety.

They must be fighting. Though Emily hadn't been so petty as to skip a meal just to avoid someone for years — not since he'd been a very very awkward third wheel on her garden date with Wyman. Back then, that sort of behavior earned him two days of the silent treatment before she would set aside her anger for the sake of efficiency. But ever since the coup she'd been particularly diligent. If anything, he'd expect her to show up and Oliver to pout elsewhere.

…He should go check on her.

Corvo stood, ready to head for the Empress's chambers, but halted on his exit as he spotted an increasingly familiar head of black hair nearing the hall, at least half relieved by the young man's presence.

The portraits that lined the walls of the grand tower were old, and he knew them like the back of his hand. He knew the paints, the canvas itself, who'd made the canvases — and most of all, he knew who'd painted them. Some were done by Anton Sokolov himself, but the old man hardly had it in him anymore to paint things as complicated as he used to. Some were even older than those; many reached back to generations before Jessamine.

He stopped every now and then in his journey to the dining hall, eyes scanning different pieces of art, reminiscing, a bittersweet nostalgia prodding at the back of his mind. He'd left Emily to her own devices, figuring she probably wanted a little alone time. He certainly didn't.

His hand settled on his neck, still a little dark where the bruising was, but he'd managed to cover most of the evidence of the night before with a black scarf tied in an elegant knot. He wore gloves too, but beneath the gloves it was clear he still hadn't taken off the silver rings that lined both hands. He'd hardly even noticed Corvo's steps, the man was light on his feet, despite being a bit past his prime.

"Lord Protector," he greeted, the corner of his lip upturning smugly. Regardless of his steadily rising levels of anxiety, he always managed to lace his words with a sharp entitlement that was very characteristic of the Outsider. But that wasn't who he was anymore.

Corvo glanced over the man, taking in his particularly gothic styling with a raised eyebrow, but dismissed it easily enough. He had more important things on his mind. "You're late." It was as much accusation as observation, even as he glanced past Oliver to the hallway. "And the Empress? She wasn't still asleep, was she?" From what she'd told him, she shouldn't be left to sleep alone — and if she had been he would be very disappointed. This kid was supposed to be protecting her, and here he was wandering the tower like he owned the place and smirking like —

Corvo's eyes narrowed. The day before Oliver had been downcast and quiet. Keeping himself small, out of the way, somber — perhaps even dejected. And now he seemed in relatively good spirits. He took another glance over the man. No, there were nerves in his stance, it wasn't all bravado. "...And your report?" He kept a steady gaze on the younger man, watching for tells, unwavering.

Good spirits? It was far more than that. His features betrayed him, they seemed to be especially treacherous nowadays. They communicated his mood, which was content, satisfied, a myriad of synonyms that ultimately communicated what he'd accomplished: those very human, primal hungers satiated for the time being. But it was more than that. It was Emily. It was always Emily. Only.

He cleared his throat, clasping his hands behind his back and straightening his posture, almost too stiffly. "She was occupied before I left. We agreed to meet at the dining hall... I..." He stopped himself before he could trip over his own words, thinking for a moment, a silence falling between them.

"...I hope you... don't mind me asking for a bit more time. I overestimated how quickly I can write. It seems my thoughts race faster than my hands. The Void is an enigmatic thing — polarizing. To capture every fine detail takes a considerable amount of effort, and compiling it all into something comprehensible is the most difficult task over all else." He was stalling. More specifically, he was rambling. Distant, struggling to keep the conversation off of Emily as one hand unconsciously moved up to fix his scarf.

So so many things were suspicious. His whole body language screamed avoidance, and Corvo tried to read between the lines. Occupied… Well that was vague, for one. His silence didn't help, though he very nearly managed to distract Corvo with talk of the report —

That distraction was lost, however, as Oliver shifted the fabric around his neck.

Sharp eyes spotted small discoloration, and while his first thought was that Emily very well may have strangled the guy, he quickly realized that that was wrong. His lips twisted, a question on the tip of his tongue as he bit it. Was it worth it, to ask? Did he really want to know? Maybe he could convince himself that the former god was having an affair with some random palace servant - maybe even Borne, Void knew the man enjoyed a well-groomed man on the side - but it seemed doubtful.

The Royal Protector stared at the ground, nodding quietly with a grimace. Take it in stride. This was Emily's choice. Not his.

His nodding became a bit more fervent, mouth even tighter as his jaw jutted.

Yes. Emily's choice. Not his.

Had it really been just yesterday that he'd considered the man a kindred spirit? Not so much today, with that smarmy grin. Rationally he had to remind himself of the things that had been said the day before, remind himself that his daughter wasn't being treated as some sort of notch in this man's bedpost, because it certainly seemed that way.

Nope. No. Emily's choice. It was her body, it was her room — it was technically her Empire, but that didn't mean she should be jeopardizing an important diplomatic relationship-

Right. Calm.

Corvo loosened the fists that had formed at his sides, smoothing them over his pants as he tried to still them. "Oliver. ...I'm going to say this once, so I hopefully never have to say it again." A long slow blink and he was finally able to turn his sharp gaze on the man who definitely didn't have his daughter's marks on his neck. A long… uncomfortable pause… "If you hurt her…" One hand flexed, but he managed to keep it from clenching — just barely. "...If you distract her from helping the Empire…" He closed his eyes and straightened his spine, rolling his shoulders back. A deep breath, steadying himself. "If you let her distract you from helping the Empire - from stopping the Void-" Fierce eyes turned on the man. "I swear, I will-"

"Father!"

He was immediately distracted, his daughter appearing at the end of the hallway.

The tension rose just as quickly, if not quicker than his anxiety. He mentally chastised himself for not keeping track of his movements. But it was harder to hide those tiny micro expressions when he wasn't being followed by wisps of the Void, when people didn't see him through fractures of the cosmos. He turned to Corvo reluctantly, listening to him, realizing that he was most certainly catching on.

This wasn't working.

When he began to speak, the gravel undertones of his voice hit Oliver in the chest like an actual brick wall. He was overwhelmed again, his senses spinning, the world whirling around him and threatening to collapse. Not only was he slightly terrified, but he was incredibly guilty. He didn't regret his actions, but he realized he could have gone about them better. He could have gone about a lot of things better.

He knew Corvo knew — how could he not know? Corvo's attention to detail was unrivaled, he couldn't imagine how obsessive he was about who his daughter associated with. Well actually, yes, he could. Emily was the last person Corvo had close to him, the last person he held dear. The last remnants of Jessamine. The thought stirred something in his chest that made him uncomfortable.

His eyes shifted to Emily and widened, two pale green hues studying her from a distance. His mind went blank and for just a moment he felt like he did the moment he saw her that night near the lab: relieved; longing for her touch, the warmth in her palms, the darkness behind her eyes. His expression softened, all of the stiffness in his posture escaping him. She was absolutely, without a shadow of doubt, the most beautiful person he'd ever seen. His expression, as per usual, betrayed him in communicating just how he felt.

Emily was lucky she'd gotten there in time: he looked terrified, and her father's hand was flexing at the hilt of his sword. "Father!" She repeated it again, sharply - a warning and an admonishment - and although she didn't run, her strides were self-assured and imposing.

What had he been thinking? And here, of all places? They were just feet from the dining hall, still bustling with activity: did he think no one would notice?

Her lips were tight and imperious, chin high, as she walked to them. The sweeping braid may have softened her features a bit, but it did nothing to lessen her piercing glare. Her voice was quieter once she was close to the entrance to the dining hall, speaking only to the two men before her. "Stand down, Lord Protector." It was an order. Her eyes hadn't left her father, pinning him in her sight, their gazes locked as she held her ground. Her hands itched to grab for Oliver - for Lir - but she masterfully kept them still. Her personal business wasn't going to become gossip fodder for the tower servants, or the guards, or anyone. When she wanted it out, she'd make it clear.

Corvo looked annoyed, lips still tight, and held her gaze for a tense moment before glancing to Oliver and then away. He shifted from foot to foot, cowed by her dominating stare but irritated nonetheless.

Emily held back a tight smile: there was always something satisfying about beating her father — actually beating him, not him just choosing to give up. She wielded her power carefully with him, wanting his honest input and counsel, but there were times she simply had to put her foot down. And this was one of those times.

She turned to the younger man, glancing over him carefully. He seemed untouched, just shaken. "Are you alright?" Her tone and her gaze were far softer with him than they had been with her father, and she ran a thumb over the tip of her index finger in a small self-soothing motion as she stopped herself from reaching for him, touching his face, making sure he was okay.

"Emily-" Corvo's voice was part incredulous and part chastising, but it was cut off by another sharp glare.

"When I want your opinion, Lord Protector, I will ask for it." Her whole body seemed to change when addressing the two different men. With Lir it was careful, soft, protective — and with her father it was a stone wall with no compromises to be made. She stared him down for another moment, making her immovable position clear. "Now. We have important Imperial matters to discuss regarding a certain report. I had hoped to do it over breakfast here, but if you can't seem to keep your composure perhaps we should relocate to somewhere a little more private where you can have your little tantrum."

Corvo's eyes flashed with a warning, but he made no comment.

There were many things about Emily Kaldwin that Oliver found particularly admirable. He respected how elegant she was, how unpredictable her actions were, how mature she'd grown to be while still maintaining a childlike wonder for the world around her. He admired her ability to silence a man with a single sharp glare more than he probably should have, more than he'd ever actually admit.

He was surprised, as well, by how gentle she'd been towards him, and he felt it flutter in his chest, tugging at the strings of his heart. But he couldn't let that show now; he had work to do. While he hated to admit it, Corvo had a point: this was the Empire at stake. He couldn't let either of them distract one another from their duties. He would tread these foreign grounds with a bit more caution. So he turned to Corvo after a few moments of thought and he stood up straight.

His eyes did not hold any hint of fear, his lips weren't curled into that signature smug grin — he was completely serious. He knew what Corvo was getting at, there was no point in beating around the bush. "... I understand," he spoke suddenly, interrupting their conversation... or perhaps lack thereof.

Emily's eyes shot to Oliver with a slight question in them, and then immediately were back on her father, who was also looking to the man, nodding stoically. What did he understand? What had Corvo been saying? No, he'd probably been threatening. Poor Oliver, to be threatened so constantly by someone as imposing as her father. A couple quick blinks and she directed her attention to the matters of the morning.

"Now. Will we take our breakfast in the hall or should I request food be brought to my study?"

Corvo seemed to have calmed slightly and just gave her an irritated glance. "Whatever Your Imperial Majesty desires will suffice, I'm sure."

Emily hmphed. Really? How petty. But she glanced to the side, allowing herself a couple seconds to breathe and center herself. There were serious things going on in the world at large, and she couldn't let petty feuds come between herself and the most helpful agent of the Empire. At times she had to set aside her pride for the sake of her people, and this was one of them. Besides which: he was her father. She couldn't stay mad at him for long, anyway. She may as well speed the process along.

She let out a small sigh. "To be honest, I think Oliver made a good point earlier," she admitted. "This is sensitive information. We'd do best to talk about it in private."

Corvo's stance loosened ever so slightly, and it was clear that both read this as the peace offering it was intended to be. "Very well." No further barbs were made about tantrums, though Emily was sure it came to her father's mind — it came to hers, at the very least. And the matter seemed to be dropped. A quick spat, a battle for dominance, acceptance, and then a quick salve for the wounded pride. An efficient argument.