9/18 - Percy
9/18/2008
Logfile from Emma
A clap of heels and a whiff of perfume. Sometimes, they are just as effective as trumpets and fanfare at announcing the approach of royalty. Though this royal figure would make the Royal Family blush for shame (and that's quite a feat, don't ya know?). Emma appears in the doorway to the watch post, posing for dramatic affect just because she can. A business skirt an inch too short to be considered immodest, a jacket with no shirt... she's dressed to kill /something/. "Percival, darling, I have discovered the most delicious man."
Percy sits at his desk with the tip of a pen tapping repeatedly against the accumulated papers of a folder that has left him less than pleased. Mouth pressed to a thin line, he exhales the breath of a snort as he lifts a glance at Emma over the top of his reading glasses. "Traditionally," he says, librarianish in the prim, dryness of his speech, "one isn't supposed to actually consume them." He is dressed in a suit of pinstriped black, the crisp white of his collared shirt thrown into sharp relief by the dark purple matte of his checkered tie.
Emma slides in, each step taking a long leg in a quest for the perfect patch of ground to press a toe to, rolling the rest of her body forward like the tide. "One isn't?" she asks in Lolita-like innocence. "What is one /supposed/ to do with them then?" She reaches his desk area and forces herself between him and it, a knee to the edge of his chair, body curving forward to offer just a glimpse of what Leon Alvarez of the Banco Bilbao Vizcaya Argentaria was too busy ogling earlier to realize that he was actually losing his bank money in the transaction he was negotiating with Frost Enterprises. Too bad Percy never notices any more. Fucker.
"I believe there are some remarkable taxidermic applications." Percy frowns down at ink splotches he has managed to make on the nice clean report that has been given him, and drops both pen and pages down on the desk with an irritable flick of his wrist. Sliding his glasses up his nose with the tips of two manicured fingers, he glances back up at her again. As aggressively gay as he has chosen to be lately, certain of her characteristics are difficult to entirely overlook! "I didn't realize Harper had made off with quite so /much/ of your wardrobe," he says, bitchiness cheerful as he lounges backwards in the office chair (and partly threatens its stability with the casual, suit-rumpling drape of his torso).
"Do we have any pawns in the field?" Emma asks brightly, the glint and gleam of her expression turning hard and glittery at his bitchiness. She loves him so. Really. "Poor dear. She /did/ need the fashion direction so," she purrs, following after his lounge, hands on the chair arms now, knee supporting her weight. Just because, dear.
Tipping his head back against the seat's back, Percy arches his eyebrows as she looms. Smile twitching his mouth's curve at but one corner, he says, "You know, I think we are short on interestingly mutant taxidermists. We should really look into rectifying that." The scent of his cologne lingers close to his skin, amber and sandalwood musk hued slightly sharper and more acrid by the lingering taint of cigarette smoke. To receptive empathy, it is quite clear that he slogs through frustration, although the strew of paper and ink over the desk leaves this relatively easily deduced as well. "I suppose the bright side of any missile being used to detonate one's wardrobe is the excuse for more fashionable replacements."
Emma twists and sits down in his lap, caring not a whit for his suit or stability. "We must, because I have made a find that absolutely must be preserved. I don't know exactly what he does, but being around him was delightful."
"Being around me is delightful," Percy tells Emma solemnly. He shifts beneath her, planting his heels more firmly on the floor and looping his arm around her waist, thus to loosely clasp his fingers over her the curve of her hip. "Somehow I don't imagine that's what you're talking about right now."
"You have no idea what I'm talking about right now," Emma retorts, arranging herself somewhat more comfortably and drumming her fingers over his. "One of Bahir's subjects. Hewitt. Mutant. Like a shot of espresso." She adds a moment later, "Bad hair."
"Did you want me to put someone on him, or just make a latte out of him?" Percy's sense of humor is sometimes regrettable.
Emma wrinkles her nose and makes a face at him. "Information will do nicely, dearest. Thank you."
"Asking Bahir to snoop seems favorite, what with the confluence of events there," Percy says, his shrug partial in a shift of his spine against the back of the chair. Tipping his head up again, he gives her a slight frown. "I'll look into it. Emma, we need to talk."
"Nothing good has /ever/ followed those words," Emma groans as she pulls herself out of Percy's lap and tugs things back into place (and actually manages to find another inch of skirt).
"No, probably not." Percy sits forward as she pulls off his lap, palms flattened to his knees as he exhales another snort. "The Pawns are restless. There's not much to be said for Circle or balance with only one monarch. And I think their work is deteriorating, or else it really is next to impossible to find terrorist maniacs who explode buildings." Well. Maybe that /is/ kind of a bad example.
Emma looks over her shoulder at him, expression disgruntled. "I find there is /much/ to be said balance-wise with a single monarch." She turns and leans back against the desk, a crossing an ankle over the other and folding her arms in front of her. "Disperse the ones we don't need close to home."
"Emma," Percy says in a mild tone, reproach reflected more in the deepening frown than in his voice as he taps his thumbs together, "as tempting as it is to merely avoid the issue forever. You know the board as you know the game. I should think you'd know it better than anyone."
"I do, Percy." Her voice reflects her attention more than her expression. It is suddenly flat and closed, while her voice drops and softens. "And I think that it is time for a /new/ game." There is a subtle shift in her body's chemical output, and anger and avarice writhe incestuously into Percy's perceptions. She stills. "I will not have another King."
The slight flare of Percy's nostrils coupled with the narrowing of his eyes, he looks at Emma quietly for a moment. Expression closed, his reserve laid over him like a cloak, he says nothing.
"A king brings nothing but strife and contention," she continues softly, ignoring the distance that grows between her Rook and her. Tension eats at the frozen facade from behind. "I will not suffer further challenges to this Court's power."
Slowly shaking his head, Percy swivels his chair to face the scattered papers over his desk, and rests his elbows on a slim patch of its surface. "You will not suffer further challenges to yourself," he corrects, his tone soft, almost gentle. "Do not pretend this is about more than you, your past and your own scepter, Emma Frost." He glances away from the chill of her, a slight flicker of his fingers suggesting a dismissal of his own meager wisdom. "But I am not your Bishop, am I?"
Emma does not respond for a moment too long while the twin motives retreat back under her practiced control. The she melts like sun-softened wax, and creeps around his chair to hang her arms over his shoulders from behind. "That doesn't mean I don't value your opinion as well, darling. You handle the pawns well. What do you suggest for them?" Her voice drips honey into his ear.
"Balance." Percy turns his head slightly and smiles into her face, beatific with the slow sweep of his lashes over whiskeyed-dark eyes. At such proximity their breath is close enough to mingle, a shadow of the intimacy of a kiss. "The service of something greater than themselves."
Emma's breath is warm and sweet. "Then we will find something worthy of their attention," she promises, inhaling his own breath in exchange for that pledge. She pulls up and away.
"We'll see." His voice follows her at a murmur, his gaze lowered to his hands where he has let them rest on the desk's surface. He does not quite watch her move away, lashes lowered in a dark veil over his eyes.
That's ok. She doesn't watch him at all once she turns her back and moves for the door.
BYE EMMA.
Do those words /ever/ mean something good?