she takes what's offered with thanks, a grateful feeling that doesn't quite vocalize. after all, a conversation isn't normally expected at places like this. work takes precedent, and doesn't she have plenty of it. between her work with the university and this newer position, she's started seeing numbers when she closes her eyes.
"i don't..." it's been a while since she's been recognized on her own merits. people still half-assume that myles' daughter has remained frozen in time. that young silent face, pouting and playing the piano, the addition to a joke when she couldn't speak on the stage. it's not out of the realm of possibility, though the answer does tire her.
"you're thinking of my dad." she looks up from the flickering laptop screen, the expression on her face struggling to turn itself into a smile. "myles delaney."
The name sparks nothing from him. He should know the name. The context clues demand that he does, and yet Grayson's mind draws a blank. Where do they overlap? What would her father have to do within his circle of work and pure isolation from the rest of society?
Slowly--as much as he begs himself not to--his head shakes. Delaney. Besides the first name she's already spoken, he's further stumped to attach another to the surname; the one that must be hers. "No…" he begins, second-guessing just enough to pause, pursing his lips to stitch any scraps of information together.
"Does he--your father, I mean--work for or with Marc?" Vaguely, he squints, or perhaps winces. There's a feeling of a sudden appearance once his boss' name is said aloud, but nothing occurs, no ringing of the ears, no pop of a can of redbull or cheery greeting. She may not even know who he's referring to, now. "At Prometheus?" he finally goes on, catching up. "That's where I work. Primarily, at least. The marketing department?" There's an easier way, a quick flash of a thought, and never as gracefully executed as imagined; the lanyard around his neck is pulled out from under his buttoned jacket, the keycard flying out, picture, name and role all in one.
It's only when it's successfully in his hand, does it put the moment in perspective. His fingers play around with the smooth lamination, gradually letting it rest back against his chest. She never asked. She doesn't care. He's exhibiting erratic behavior. "You… look busy. I can--I can leave."



















