Road Tripping with Choristers [attn: Margot & Pan]
One bright and shining morning, despite the protest of the disembodied voice under the sofa and his very insistent reflection, William Holmes got on an airplane with Margot Travers. They were going to Los Angeles.
Of course, this was after he got back from Baton Rouge with an unloaded suitcase and the kind of recharged tiredness that only comes with seeing family. Will decided at that point that he wasn’t going to rub it in that he was rather void of awkward family situations; if Margot wasn’t in her position, they wouldn’t be cashing in his frequent flyer miles. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the Hermetic is a seasoned traveler. He also has no problem with airplanes and was asleep for most of the flight (thank you magickal intervention.)
He’d made arrangements- couches to stay on if Margot were inclined (“You’ve met Jenn, right? She used to be my roommate. We go pretty far back.”) and hotel rooms if she were not (double beds because, well, it’s Margot). Made arrangements with Pan before any of this to confirm that he was, in fact, okay with meeting with them and he wouldn’t be too busy. Information exchanged or not, Will wanted to buy Pan lunch. Information or not, he offered his services for whatever to Pan over the weekend.  He even gave the man the heads up that he was still in Quiet so if William was acting strangely it really, really wasn’t personal.
Socializing is part of House Jerbiton’s thing. He’s not half bad at it.
All that prelude and jet lag and unpacking and settling and whatever led to one place: La Imperial Tortilleria. It was a little restaurant in east LA that had Mexican coke, burritos that Urban Spoon raved about, and a little convenience store section where you could get pastries and soda and packaged ice cream. It also had a parking lot that wasn’t a mile away from the location, which was most assuredly a big selling point in William’s opinion. His sense of direction was not exactly fantastic and, when left to his own devices, he ambled.
The restaurant was not a visually appealing place inside, but it made up for the bland walls and unevenly painted ceiling with the smell of it. Fresh-cooked food has its own soul, and scent was enough to keep butts in those ugly brown-and-red chairs at their boring tables. The beauty of the place was held in the open kitchen where the chef performed whatever sorcery it was that turned raw ingredients into satisfaction. Cooking is an art; baking is alchemy. This man, Javier, was skilled in both. The little pastries shoved in the cabinet were his.
The other worker- a teenage boy with a few extra pounds whose nametag said Nacho- was hovering over a book at the register. The tables, boring as they were, happened to be very neat and clean and well-stocked; that attention was also paid to the faced-and-stocked grocery section. There weren’t any people to tend to, so he was more-than-happy to be engulfed in his reading.
Initially Margot didn't want to go on a trip to Los Angeles. William had brought up Pan, how he would be a good source for question-asking about the Celestial Chorus and if he had ever heard of her father or what he does or anything of that nature. When he suggested that they go visit to LA, the witch looked uncomfortable-- she was nervous about leaving the house for long, especially with the Library still feeling as volatile as it was, and generally just a bit of a homebody who appreciated the feel of her own bed and pillow at night.

Will had offered to carry along any questions she had to ask in her stead, and that caused her to stop and think and scowl and, ultimately, relent. Realizing that digging for information was more of an interactive thing than a 'send a messenger' affair (for how would she know what follow-up questions to ask if she wasn't hearing the information in real time?), she sighed and agreed to pack a bag.

Margot proved not to be too nervous of a flyer, though she did grasp her hands together firmly and close her eyes and steady her breathing intentionally during both take-off and landing. She didn't sleep as Will did, but rather listened to the quiet rhythm of his breathing and the low hum of the plane itself while intermittently reading and staring out the window lost in thought.

Upon arrival, both to LA and this little tortilleria, Margot was ravenous and antsy alike. She glanced around without judgment for the execution of paint or choice of decorations, and was soon focused on picking a burrito and Mexican Coke alike. She was eyeballing the pastries like she may be back for one of them later, too. She'd just have to see if she still had enough of an appetite left for one after hearing what this Pan fellow had to say; she suspected chances were good that what she would learn may have her belly feeling full of rocks soon enough.
Francisco Echeverría asks questions when necessary but for the most part his is a role of acceptance. Hearing confessions and fielding requests for help. If Will had asked him to, he would have come back to Denver on the next available flight. If Will had asked him in a certain tone of voice he would have teleported. That's the sort of man he is.

They decided to meet nearby and he did not ask for many details over the phone. Denver is not on the list of Technocratic crackdown locales anymore but Los Angeles is a teeming cesspool of vampiric machinations and street-level Orphan recruitment.

The former rector of the Church of the Good Shepherd is now the -- well, it doesn't really matter. Margot has never met him before and Will went by "Elijah" the last time he and the reverend were in the same room together. When deciding where to meet up, the priest gives a neighborhood and a few suggestions.

And the time of the agreed-upon arrival is upon them.

It would be hard to miss this Pan fellow even if they were in a larger establishment. He would stand 6'2" barefoot, and now that he's in his late forties, early fifties, wherever the hell he is age-wise, he's had more than enough time to recover from that Paradox backlash that nearly killed him several years ago. Built like a boxer, the aura he exudes is part personal magnetism and part his resonance.

If Margot feels as if the holy illumination he projects is an indication that she is being judged, no one would blame her. But there's a warmth in the light, closer to that of Sol than of God, and when he removes his sunglasses it is to be polite.

He smiles the instant he sees Will, and if the Hermetic is amenable he will offer him a handshake-hug combination.

"You're looking well, Elijah," he says. Whoops. He speaks in a soft yet confident voice that belies his size. It's the voice of someone who could get real loud real fast if he needed to. He does not need to right now. When they separate, he clips the sunglasses onto the V of his black button-down shirt and plants his hands on his hips. "This must be Margot."
Look. I have school. And RP. And all my other time is taken up by sheer, unreasoning panic. I don't have time for Reddit.
-- ixphaelaeon

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