(no subject)
I'll not be forgotten. I'll not be expunged from history. How dare you, Scott Summers? How dare you consider it all so distasteful you'd rather make up stories and blame your 'weaknesses' on Amahl Farouk.
I'm not that easy to be gotten rid of. Ask Winston Frost. Ask yourself when you wake up in the middle of the night remembering me. Because you will remember. I'll see to it.
ooc: I hate my character at the moment. *sob* Log rated... uh, PG-13 for suggestions of not nice things, and some mild swearing.
Hellfire Clubhouse - Emma's Office
Flanked on either side by uniformed security officers and still privately marveling to be even allowed this far, Scott nonetheless had no idea what to say. It'd taken him a number of weeks to make the decision to come here in the first place, in full knowledge that Emma was dangerous and not at all pleased with him (less pleased than usual) at the moment. Easy to dismiss guilt by stating to oneself that the wronged party was villainous, untrustworthy, and no matter what Shadow King had imparted in those last few dark minutes, not possessing enough sensitized feeling to have been overly affected by anything one could have done (to said villainous party). However, Scott could not exactly believe this last priviso, as Emma did not seem to have an underabundance of, ah, feeling. An apology, an attempt, and he could try to rest easy on this front. And liably fail. The security officer on his right knocked on Emma's door, announced his presence.
And underabundance of feeling? Ah, no. Despite her frosty facade, Emma is, in truth, quite passionate. As Scott /does/ well know. "Come in." The guard opens the door and ushers Scott in, stepping in right behind him and positioning himself against the wall, eyes most assuredly fixed anywhere but at the leg peeking out of the slit in Emma's calf-length pencil skirt as she perches on the edge of her desk, facing the door, legs crossed at the knee. "Scott," she greets coolly, gripping the edge of her desk in a white-knuckled grasp, the only indication of agitation. "You've got a lot of nerve."
Scott looks there not at all either, his glasses doing nothing to conceal the frontward face-focused direction of his gaze. His arms are militarily set at his sides, his face all but expressionless, save a quiet nuance of apologetic regret around his mouth, not quite a frown. Just a pulling down. "Yes. I would have to, to come here. But I have several important things to impart to you, if you're willing to receive them."
"There's very little I'm willing to receive from you, actually. Unless you're imparting them from your knees with your face inspecting my carpet." She shifts, straightening and moving her hair back over her shoulder with a careless flick of her hand.
"Let me rephrase myself," Scott says, the regret tightening into merely tautness. "I came to apologize. For a great deal. Some of it extremely complicated."
Emma lifts a brow, her mouth rounding into a fine-tipped purse. She's listening. And noting the solid wall of apprehension and reluctance emanating from him. "Why?" Why what? Oh, so many answers to that one word.
"Because I caused you injury," Scott responds, tersely. "I was acting as a tool for one Shadow King, do you recognize the name?"
Emma's eyes widen, and she blinks in surprise. ".../him/? What does /he/ have to do with anything?"
"Well." Scott makes a mild, constricted, throat-clearing cough. "Apparently, he was lodged in my mind a certain number of months."
Her eyes narrow, face falling back into intensely composed lines. "Oh? A number of months? How many months, do you know?"
"Since December 2003," says Scott, after a faint withdrawing, remembering. "Although Shadow King varied from active to dormant, so it was not continual, per se."
Emma lifts her chin, jaw muscles bunching and tightening. "December? Of 2003? Well. How convenient for you," she says, spite turning the edge of her lips up and coloring her voice.
"Actually, not," Scott negates, slowly, carefully, his eyelids half closing behind the glasses. "There's a high likelihood that I would have made a fair attempt at dating you anyway, Shadow King or no Shadow King. He, after all, does not fabricate emotions. I only, on my own, would have done it differently."
"A high li--" Emma sputters, rising off the desk edge, fists balling at her sides. "Done it differently? Like how? Maybe /not/ lied to me? Or maybe you would have lied... I don't know. What's your idea of 'a fair attempt'? What was real and what was fabricated, Scott Summers? Or do you even know yourself."
"It's impossible to know for sure what was what, Emma," Scott's voice drops tenser, with a verge of half concealed uncertainty under the tone. "I could point out several times when I went over the top, acted . . . in a way I would hope I would never, and, no, I do not consider the relationship in and of itself one of those times. But I can't map for you after the fact what exactly would have been different and what would have not. I could tell you that I would not have left the Institute so easily, or been quite so, ah, blatantly jealous -- but nor am I much of a romantic paramour at the best of times."
"You don't consider the relationship out of character for you, but everything else associated with it? Damn you and your moralistic sermonizing. What the hell gives you the right to waltz in here and drag the precious little that I thought you had felt for me through the mud. /Again/. Romantic paramour? Is that what you think you were? To me?"
"Damn it, Emma," Scott snaps out of tension to simply snap. "That's not what I mean. Not all of it was out of character, most of it was in character. But there were sections that weren't. And I came to apologize for those sections, not apologize for having feelings for you and acting on them." One wishes many times that one had some sort of Warrenesque gift with words as well as a gift for bouncing eyebeams. Scott recognizes a panicked drowning sensation somewhere in the back of his mind. "Maybe I didn't mean romantic paramour. I'm not all that familiar with the term. Heard it somewhere. Ah," Scott continues, briskly, revisiting statements of before, "by the, ah, sections, I do mean the points where I passed into what I might consider abusive behavior, although I do admit that first time you slapped me post-relationship was entirely my fault, but I was somewhat confused at the time."
Emma glances away from Scott and toward the guard still playing 'hear no evil, see no evil' at the door. A tiny jerk of her head, and he slips out the door, closing it behind him. When she looks back, her face has softened into wide-eyed hurt, complete with pout. "Scott, darling..." The first nebulous tendrils of her powers snake out, wrapping themselves around his head, sinking in. "Then you did have feelings for me? Do still?" Brush away the defenses, soothe the agitation. This is Emma. Good, misunderstood Emma. The Emma that held him and stroked him and whispered her love into his ear...
Scott's private panic (not so private, expressed in the unstructuredness of the words, the undertone of the undertone) flares into an alarmed peak when the guard leaves, all uncertainty and exposure. The over-developed tactical brain warns that the exit of the guard might be a sign of Emma opening up, but is just as likely a sign of wanting-to-deal-with-something-herself and this /is/ the woman -- But all these quiet. Not quite gone, but muted, and Scott looks out at Emma with a recognition not blocked by several layers of explanations, Institute duty, old flames, etc. Not entirely, anyway. "Of course. I wouldn't have come here if I didn't. I would have sent you a letter."
"Paramour. Illicit lover. Squire, suitor, swain. Suppliant. Beloved. Inamorato..." Emma sounds out the synonyms, defining and shaping the word in Scott's mind as she approaches, lashes lowered demurely while his head starts to spin. "You were all these things to me at one time," she breathes, stepping into reach and lifting a hand to his arm, wrapping her fingers around his bicep as she winds behind him. "Were they the lies? Are they what you regret?"
The other voices, concerns mute a little bit more. Scott's hand, the one not attached to the gripped (this is how it works, touch, unworried touch, companionable, possessive) bicep, makes a fingered motion in air, impotent but questing. "Not lies. I regret leaving the Institute and discarding parts that I did not have to. That I was miserable without. I did not regret you so much as myself."
Deeper, deeper, the touch carries her mental probing, into old paths familiar, tripping her up on new memories and conscience. Ah. Regrets, old and new. Separate, quell, inflame. She edges around, moving her hand across the expanse of his back (Remember that touch) and up over his shoulder, pressing close to his other, previously questing arm. "I never forced you to too. Why did you blame me for that?" The corners of the room darken, his perceptions distorting the distant shadows and sharpening the focus near. (She's warm and soft. Always was encouraging. Never perfect. Real. Attainable.)
Hard for a tactical man not to see into the shadows, distance, catch angles, catch attacks, but the tactical brain is not functioning on more than a removed, elsewhere level. Scott can't hear it as more than an indistinguishable murmur. It is a lighter sensation, feeling lighter. Less weighed down. Regrets, however, weighty. Unpleasant, always. Always too many of them. Scott regards them with an air of someone observing crocodiles. "I blamed myself. Not you. But I could not understand why I did what I did, so I made reasons that seemed plausible." His arm, after the first questing, seems uncertain what to do, how to react. Despite impressions. Awkward, always.
Ah, the awkwardness was always part of the charm, and the fun. Press or withdraw, that was always the question. But not this time. Not now. "And your reasons were my influence?" Emma whispers lowly, pushing up on tiptoe to place her lips near his ear. She stills his arm in her hand, sliding her fingers down it's length to curl against his palm, encouraging it to open up, to receive her touch. The world closes in, tighter, slowly fading sensations and sounds apart from the little bubble surrounding them. There's nothing else to consider. Nothing else.
"No. I never seriously considered that," Scott starts, his eyes widening only briefly before even the indistinguishable tactical mutter dies away, and his palm opens up to press against her fingers. The heartbeat in his chest, point of contact on hand, proximity of Emma Frost gives more data currenly than memory, environment, analysis, but there is no opportunity to be disturbed, frightened, concerned about this, nor act against it. No reason. No desire other than the obvious reactive ones.
"But you did consider it, before you knew. Before you had /him/ to blame..." A kiss is placed at the corner of his jaw, and her fingers stretch out luxuriously against his palm before twining into them. Her eyes glitter dangerously through their narrowed lids. She slides deeper into his mind, looking for confirmation, affirmation, and justification. "Scott... do you miss me? Do you miss us?" She finds a memory, one held closer and deeper under his control. Held away. "Ever?" A telepathic fingernail pries it loose and begins to pour in, amplifying it until he can't ignore it.
"I never took the consideration seriously," Scott repeats, paraphrases, his fingers closing on hers, needing. His mind is stripped of angles and compartments and organizing notes and check-this-laters, even in the tangled complicated period that was Emma. But was any period not tangled, complicated? The tangles are always on the surface, however, like tentacles on an anemone, the happinesses always buried, always uneasily acknowledged, always fatalistically nervous. "I do," Scott responds, slowly, as a single memory, a single quiet, gentle night, unfettered with those endless outside concerns and self too-awarenesses, becomes more real and present and somehow destined than it ever was, even when it stood in front of him. The ever tight shoulders relax.
A gentle nudge, a lean, a nuzzle. "Then hold me, Scott," she guides, shifting to face him fully, closely. Her arms wind up and around his neck. "For old time's sake..." She tugs on the back of his neck, and his control, his precious control is cracked and loosened.
A final moment of panic, swiftly gone. (Control necessary. Could have killed someone that Prom night, many someones, always in danger of killing someone, anyway, especially) Scott's arms wrap around Emma's waist, his head inclines downward, and he kisses her without thought, if not still without that half second's residual hesitation. Control still there, weakened, but clinging.
An outpouring of exaltation and desire floods over them both, tugging at reciprocating emotions, pulling them to the fore. Emma presses up, winding her fingers into his hair and moving in practiced ways to avoid his visor and his resistance. A few moments later she drops back, breathless, and lifts the back of her fingers to her mouth. The other captures his and gives a pull, her eyes inviting him to follow.
Resistence minimal, passing down to none. Scott's movements are not entirely blind and unpracticed, and make up for the occasional inevitable clumsiness in energy. But then this is over, and there is a hand in his hand and a direction which despite all in all, Scott is nowhere near closed off or naive enough to mistake. The panic does not re-emerge, but the shell of the control makes a solid effort in rejoining, and its effort provokes a resurgence of other efforts. Too quick. Not yet. What would be the real reasons for doing this now, immediately. What would Jean think. What would everyone. Too many relationships, not enough Scott.
The response is blindingly quick, and there is no mistaking that Emma does not intend to let this encounter end on anyone's terms other than her own. She returns to his arms and pulls him down into a hard, fast kiss, her hands gripping his face while her powers batter at his resistance from the outside and encourage his own desires to swell from within. (Who cares what Jean thinks? She's made her choice. She'll move on. Not a new one for Scott. A return to something familiar. For a night. Just one night to let him rest. No need for reasons. Emma's here. Willing. Wanting, despite the hurt.) The thoughts fly too quickly for him to analyze, their wings tickling his attention, diverting and teasing. (Pick her up. Take her. Just do it.)
Scott can't do much against reciprocating the kiss, as hard, if less fast, while his mind is promptly overwhelmed and goes mostly silent. Listening, but pulling in sharp and defensive and unresponsive. When the echo does come, it is little more than a whisper behind walls. No. Too fast. Too much past. Too /fast/.
Emma breaks the physical contact, holding tight mentally while she runs through another approach. "...Scott?" she whispers, pleading with her hands and her eyes and her voice, while pricking his conscience. (Bastard. Still can't allow. No past. No future. Just now. Just...)
Silence. On both fronts. Scott's face goes very blank, initially. Then there is a flicker of that old, old guilt. (Not her fault. Never fulfill anyone's needs, you don't. What is a night? She's asking so lit--) Silence again. Utter. Then, behind the wall, a hiss of violated rage, if slow in coming, and only that hiss, that echo. NO. Not for you. Not for /anyone/.
<< Never for me. But /always/ for everyone else, >> Emma explodes telepathically, forcing her response to his unarticulated rage into his mind. << How does it feel, Scott? To feel betrayed? To feel used, and common, and pathetic? >> Angry projections rip through the layers of healing scars that had begun to form over the memories of the final moments of the Shadow King's co-existence, the 'gifts' he'd returned before being forced out. Into them, she begins to pour her own, the too-like and yet not sets of emotions curdling the other, foaming and expanding, ripping the last of Scott's conscious control away. Emma drives him to his knees and approaches, smiling bitterly as she kneels next to him and brushes oddly tender finger tips over his jaw. << You've ruined me, Scott Summers. Do you know that? Why couldn't we work? Why'd you lie to me? >>
Twitch, hitch, and the hiss is gone, and much is gone, temporarily obliterated in the floodgates opening all of it, all of it. And, of course, on top of it, her acid. Fresh acid. He goes to his knees without struggle, but his jaw is unresponsive under her touch, almost nerveless. Scott sags, his eyes closed behind the glasses. And then they open again, a slit. Very weak, it comes, but dry and tired and bitter. And helpless. << I could explain. You have the capability to see in every detail. But you will have your revenge, won't you, Emma? >>
<< Could you? Could you really explain? Why you stayed every chance I gave you to leave? Why you said that you'd fight for me? For us? That what others said didn't matter? Could you /really/ explain that, even to yourself? And then why you entertain the notion that you were nothing more to me than a... 'romantic paramour'. Is that all I was to you? A bit of foolish rebellion? You date the bad girl, but marry the good, hmm? Is that what it was all about to you? >>
<< No. No, no, no. Shadow King was using me to hurt you, Emma. I did love you. But he used what I felt and twisted it. Made me leave my home. Made me leave large parts of myself. This is why I could not think back on it without shame. Please, >> a low laugh, completely humorless, << stop throwing that term back at me. All I meant was I have never been much good at romance. Never. But it would have been different. Had I been myself. >>
<< And now? >> Emma asks, her expression hardening as she rocks back on her heels, oblivious to the twists her skirt makes, straining seams. << Prove it. >>
A laugh. A slow, granite laugh that makes it out between his lips in a frailer, briefer incarnation. The laugh inside his head, stronger, more acerbic, longer lived. << I'm sorry, Emma. But given my current circumstances? It would feel a little bit forced, wouldn't you think? >>
<< I can make it feel however it want, >> Emma purrs, eyes narrowing, smirk twitching her lips. And then she strikes. In the morning, there will be altered memories of bantering and teasing, tears and apologies. Pieces of the exchanged honesties. One last night. Emma's revenge. Tousled sheets. Bitterness. Guilt. Recriminations. Satisfaction.
Morning is just starting to dust a pink sheen across the still grey sky. An hour ago, Emma had slipped from the bed, donning a robe and taking up a habitual perch on the window seat of one of the two ceiling height windows that illuminate her room. The routine meditative state is hard to attain this morning, that required center of calm obscured by considerable rumpling in spirit and body. So, she settles for resting her forehead against the cool pane of glass.
Scott's eyes are just now cracking open, a gradual blurry process. Feeling one part lightly hungover -- nauseous, headache, unease, another part the kind of glowing content which is supposed to be more appropriate. He does not yet move.
Emma notes the gradual return to consciousness by way of the increased pressure on her unusually sensitive shields. Well, unusual, but not unexpected. She tilts her head and regards the still motionless form in her bed. All semblance of control has lifted, save that imposed by altered memories.
Small blink. Not much width of eye beneath eyelid to reconceal. Blurry. The glow begins to fade into a chiller confusion. Scott raises his hand to pull the back of it over his forehead. Confusion fades. In its place is a certainty imposed by said memories. And Scott's stomach gives an unconscious twist. What does he do with this?
So. Emma turns, drops her feet to the floor, and stands, tugging her robe into place as she pads across the room, heading for the door.
Scott sits, sudden, abrupt, board straight, his brows furrowed. "Emma. Where are you going?" he calls, voice a little rough. There is less the air of emotional need and more the air of needing more information to process ... what happened. With the solidity of an order. Not the lover, but the commander sitting in the bed this morning.
Emma slows to a stop and turns, presenting a shoulder (over which she looks) to Scott. "It's morning, pet," she points out, reminding him of the routine she has altered very little since their parting. "And I've a headache. I'm ringing for breakfast. Eggs, toast, and orange juice?"
A little of the ramrod stiffness relents. "Right. Yes. Those would be fine." Eyebrows still down, Scott reaches up to massage his forehead with his fingerpads. It's all right. Everything is apparently quite made up. But.
Yes. Quite. Emma moves into the other room and makes all the appropriate noises before returning a few minutes later, glass of water and a pill in hand. She eyes him critically for a moment, the takes the pill before closing back tot he bed and sitting gingerly on the edge. "So."
Scott eyes her back, although the thin scrutiny ends once she sits on the bed. Terminates in a blink, glance sideways. Another blink. "So. What happens now?"
Emma glances up, a brittle smile edged with satisfaction growing on her face. "Now? You go home, or to school, or to whatever it is that is taking up your days now," she replies simply.
"Then this is it. We resolves issues, sleep with each other, and then that is it," Scott says, his brows still furrowed, expression growing darker. The concept of one night passion is difficult for him to wrap his mind around.
"What? Did you expect me to throw myself at you again? Or perhaps to give up my evil ways and prance after you back to Xavier's, so your precious school can flaunt the redemption of another villain." She smirks, lifting a cruelly amused smile. "Or perhaps it's my turn to assure /you/ that our love will over come all obstacles. Would you like that?"
Scott replaces the hand on his forehead. His gaze is directed upward. Ceiling. "I am just not sure what last night was for, Emma. Then. If this is it."
She shrugs and reaches out to pat his knee fondly. "It was for enjoyment's sake? A reminder of what we once had? A chance to vent a little frustration?" Still with that far too casual smirk. "What do you mean, 'if this is it'? Don't tell me, lover, that you're going to feel honor-bound to propose to me now. I might be forced to accept, and then wouldn't we be a miserable pair." Emma winks, sliding off the bed at the sound of the outside door opening. She stops before exiting the room, and turns back to him, astonishment and sympathy painting her expression. "Or are you asking if last night was about love?"
Smirk. Knee pat. Scott's expression is all kinds of clenched and uncertain. "No. Not honor bound. But it seems to me that we both risked a good deal, considering our factions, those above issues, and other relationships, and I'm not talking romantic, for a one night stand. But it wasn't love, apparently. It was for ... fun?"
"Why? Why would we have risked /anything/ for last night. You'll return home, I'll continue as I am. There's no commitment involved, nor any love. Not anymore."
"It is a risk. People tend to find out," is Scott's tactical analysis of the situation. His fingers shift across his knee. "I'm sorry. I don't do things like this for fun. You know that. Thus, my ... wavering, this morning. Sorry."
Emma narrows her eyes and gives the man a sated look and a low-voiced chuckle. "Well, I do..." and pushes through the door, closing it behind her and already moving across the room, her attention fixed on belting her robe closed as she speaks, "Just set the tray down on the desk."
She must be distracted, he notes idly. Otherwise the distinctive mind of a particular gentleman would have been noted in it's approach before ever stepping into the same room. The sound of a tray being placed down lightly on the desk's surface precedes the wash of amusement coloring a smooth baritone. "Tastes running a bit toward the plebian this morning, Emma darling?" Impeccably attired in a white suit, tie and kerchief colored to match his eyes, the winged form of Warren Worthington smirks at the white Queen, one blonde brow arched bemusedly.
In the bedroom, Scott is still sitting, contemplating the foot shaped forms beneath the sheets. Which do presumably belong to him. This is supposed to be cheerful. But with Emma out of the room, he occupies himself scratching the side of his head, a gesture he has used seldom since he was sixteen, and trying hard to puzzled out these memories next to Emma's amused attitude of this morning. And the knot in his stomach is getting no better.
Emma's head jerks up at the very un-servantish tone that answers her. For an instant there is surprise, horror, and chagrin on her face, but is dissolves smoothly into a familiar mask. Bemused indifference freezes her expression and distances her eyes. "Mmm. It is dreadfully common fare, isn't it? Though I doubt I'll be able to stomach it this morning. At least not until the headache fades a bit." She steps close and lifts up on tiptoe to press an easy kiss to Warren's cheek. "Would you prefer something else? Kitchen staff is already roused..."
Warren's smirk deepens into a proper smile, as the white king trails a touch down the length of Emma's neck, in a feather light reply to that kiss to his cheek. A headache? "Have you been straining yourself again, my dear?" His touch, now at the base of Emma's neck, brushes back the lightly mussed curtain of Miss Frost's hair, back over her robed shoulder. "That depends, my Queen.. do you wish to dine in this morning?" he inquires a rakish lilt to his tone.
Naked. Ah, yes. Scott is currently naked. This will not do. Even in the best of times, there are always Jubilees bouncing in and making one spill one's coffee. Scott slides out of bed and begins a systematic search for the appropriate items. It is a welcome distraction from his persistent and growing unease. Guilt, perhaps. One often feels guilty.
"Well, I'm hardly dressed to be seen in public," she teases back, fluttering her lashes and returning a wink. "But yes, I was a bit over zealous last night." She pulls away and turns, letting her fingers drifts the length of Warren's arm to tangle in his hand. "I've already taken something, but I think I /would/ prefer to stay in this morning. At least until my shields are back up to par."
Warren draws those tangled fingers to his lip to place a light kiss on Emma's delicate hand. A quiet laugh behind his bright smile as he teases back, "Oh, but you could start such a stunning trend.. All wish to be as the Queen is seen, after all." A wink, as he agrees, "But so be it. If you've overwrought yourself, I know just the thing-" Sugars do her well after stretching herself too thin, he's noted. "We've a new chef on staff.. an artful hand at crepes."
Lower half of clothing. Recovered. Donned. Scott feels something like relief. Some cousin of relief. Here is a wall. Scott leans up against it, back of head resting prone. I feel like ... I have just been to a whore. No. Like I was the whore. I don't /do/ this kind of nonsense. Either way. Scott lifts his head and recovers his shirt, unease, confusion, guilt doing a three beat waltz. He's not sure whether to find Emma and apologize again or climb out the nearest window and run.
"Don't tell me you're in favor of reviving the Club tradition of having its women walk around in their unmentionables, Warren, love," Emma purrs, stepping back and lifting the phone off its cradle, handing it over with a demurely wicked look.
Warren accepts the phone with a dignified chuckle, "Surely not, darling-" a fond tone curls his pronunciation of that last endearment. Half turning, one wing spreads to reach a feathery light caress up the length of Emma's extended arm. "Oh, and do keep next friday free.." he notes with a bit of teasing mystery, adding a moment later, "Washinton," before raising the phone to his ear, eyes still on Emma.
Shirt donned. One is clothed. Scott checks himself twice to make sure he is truly and thoroughly closed and decides that breakfast will, after all, not be a viable option. He would pick at it and make no conversation whatsoever. Especially after the conversation made with Emma just post waking up. No point. Casual. This is all purely casual. Scott moves to the door, opens the door, all while repeating to himself various versions of sorry, skipping breakfast, morning, bye.
"Washington?" Emma repeats, satisfyingly intrigued, releasing the phone into Warren's hand and dropping hers behind her back, her fingers twining together as she leans forward, all eagerness, like a little girl waiting for a present. Until the door opens behind her. Her eyes widen and turn worried, though her expression freezes, apparently indifferent to what she knows is behind her.
Warren smirks, as his bait draws the desired response.. Idly, glancing down to the phone, finger poised over the dial that will ring the kitchen, he lets the anticipation build for a moment longer.. The door opens, and blue eyes flick back up to fix upon Emma's- noting the brief widening of her gaze. In that one instant before his gaze flicks over her shoulder, << Shall I play the jealous lover and scare this one off, darling? >> After all, he's not the senselessly jealous sort. Scott steps out of Emma's bedroom. Warren's eyes freeze on the other man for a moment, before coming back to his Queen.
Stop. Dead stop. Scott's eyes go fixed and wide behind his glasses. His mind is no less eloquent. This figures, says it.
So that leaves it up to Emma to frantically try and explain this all away? Heh. Poor boys. She inhales slowly, drawing herself up straight with the breath, chin lifting in response to the unspoken questions (or just plain shock) floating about the room. << Certainly. Enjoy yourself, >> she replies archly to Warren before turning her head to peer behind her. "Breakfast is ready. Warren was a dear and brought it in himself." Smirk. Beam.
Warren's eyes remain fixed even as Emma turns around to playfully address Scott Summers. Scott Summers, who had just emerged from her bedroom, after he had entered in time to see her adjust her robe. Not nightgown, but robe. In that moment, as she turns, his attention is so intent that he catched himself counting the hairs in the gilded curtain left facing him. Jaw tight, he sets the telephone back down on the hook, before looking back up at Scott, chin low, wings rigid at his back.
Scott's eyes remain fixed, but his mind recovers. Courses out possibilities. Chance? Did she set him up for this? For what? Embarrassment? "I'm sorry, but I'm ... not very hungry," comes out terse, distant, toneless.
<< Bastard. I've /never/ received the benefit of the doubt from you, have I? >> Emma snarls directly to Scott, words delivered with the force of a physical blow. Yes, she can't help but overhear the noisy thoughts tumbling around Scott's mind. Warren's, on the other hand... The White Queen turns her head back to face the Angel, worry tucked away under a considering glance, matching his gaze evenly. She flicks out out a dismissive hand, sweeping Scott's words away, "We've had enough apologies between us for the time being, so I won't do so for not seeing you out. You remember the way."
A breath through the gentleman's nose, as Warren reflects: Scott is just the sort who would stay, and try to make sure there's no misunderstanding. Lest this be the case, and the former Angel's composure, or control be threatened again, he adds coldly after a moment, "Get out. Now." Chill stare meeting that of his one time friend, before coming back to focus on Emma.
A recoil, mentally, but it is brief and the return is fierce. << I'm sorry, Emma /dear/, but your manner since I woke up has not put me given me much opportunity to. I couldn't imagine why. >> Scott blinks. It seems like it has been some time since he has blinked. Then he bows, a low mocking sweep, and steps around the table. Heading out.
Emma is distracted. She spins to glare back at the X-Men leader, two steps pulling her away from Warren's space and bringing her into Scott's. Another step and she's blocking his path, trembling slightly as she reaches for his face and drags it down to hers. Yes. There is a kiss. She releases him and snarls, "There? Is that what you wanted from me? Should have asked for more of them last night, then. Get out, Scott. You had your fun. Make sure you wipe your feet before you leave."
Warren never expected Emma to stop being beautiful, or powerful, or to cease manipulating men. But this is'nt for power. She is'nt securing a man's loyalty, or provoking a dangerous enemy into making a mistake. She's angrily kissing Scott Summers. The one she let hurt her, the one whose ghost Warren has been trying to drive out her heart for so long.. And as enraging, and painful as this sight is, Warren can't look away. His blue eyes are fixed on Emma and do not slip.
Scott does not return the kiss. His face is blunt and unreceptive. And before Emma has even released him, his fists are bunched, and his complexion has turned oddly waxy. "No, Emma, I did /not/ want that," he shouts. Bellows, even. And surprised by the force of his own response (Not jealousy, not humiliation, not all, not quite, the litany going through his head is a dizzy "What the /hell/?" on loop. Perhaps gult. Easy guilt), he edges past.
"Whatever, Scott. You can lie to yourself all you want, but you can't lie to me. You can't suppress your feelings out of existence, and you can't suppress me out of your past, no matter /how/ hard you try." Emma steps out of the way, allowing him free passage to the door. Warren, for the moment, /is/ forgotten. The headache on the other hand...
Warren grips the edge of Emma's desk with both hands, spread apart, eyes still riveted to Emma Frost's movements. Silently, he waits for Scott to leave, lips pressed together lest he say something unbecoming. << Yes, suppressing past feelings out of existence seems to be rather difficult, doesn’t it? >>
"Will you please make up your mind?" Scott growls as the door becomes quite imminent. "One night stand, or trying to reign in a wayward lover, whatever you're doing, I don't care any more." Door open. Closed. Good morning, Scott.
She at least waits for the door to close before hurling something heavy and breakable at it? But there will be no large scale damage like the aftermath of Scott and Emma's /last/ meeting. This time, she gasps and plants a hand on the nearest support, her hand at her temples, force of will keeping herself on her feet. "Don't start, Warren," she warns nearly inaudibly.
"Tell me Emma," Warren answers, anger buried under enforced composure, "Precisely what do you expect my reaction to be?" A short breath drawn through the nose, handsome features drawn and hardened. "Perhaps if I insulted you, treated you as some possession, or placed myself on some higher moral pedestal, I'd hold your attention?"
Emma briefly ponders fainting, tossing the notion away as a stupid, damsel in distress ploy beneath her. But she does consider it. She turns back to face Warren, hand still gripping the chair back, holding her in place. The strain under her own marble-cut features is evident, and her eyes flash at him, sapphires in snow. "Jealous, Warren? You needn't be. He's running home even now, to dither, no doubt, about how he could be so weak, so pathetic." She narrows her eyes, smiling cruelly. "The guilt alone will have him self-flagellating by the end of the day."
A small moment wherein he stares at her, the angel's own cold gaze unblinking. "So, now that Scott is injured, I'm.. to think nothing of this?" he queries sharply. "I'll begrudge you no idle amusement, Emma-" Eyes narrow as blonde brows draw together angrily. "But you should have left Scott Summers in the past. Of what worth is HIS guilt?" he demands, a shade of high emotion coloring his words.
"I /was/. /He/ came to /me/. I didn't seek him out, and I didn't /intend/ to sleep with him again," she snaps, letting go of the chair and storming across the room, past the Angel, to her desk, yanking open a drawer and pulling out a small prescription bottle. "I don't /know/ what you should think."
Warren turns to follow her with his livid stare. "Then let me tell you, what I should think.." he intones shortly, "After hearing that, I should wonder whether it's Scott Summers who is to feel weak.. or you," he adds icily. "Here you smile at me, and say it was all your design, *you're* in control, and in the next breath lay this on HIM?" That it's Scott is where the true injury comes in. "What were you thinking, Emma?" the king demands harshly of his queen.
"I wasn't thinking," Emma retorts, honest in her agitation. She fumbles with the bottle top, shaking out two pills once she gets it open. That would be three in the course of less than an hour. ... They are swallowed dry, and the remainder scatter on her desk. "Dammit, Warren, leave me alone. It's none of your business." She leans over the desk, head tucking down between outstretched arms.
Damn Scott. Damn HER. "How dare you," the white king murmurs. "None of my business?" Warren repeats furiously, pain and betrayal hardening into a defensive chill. Clenching his jaw hard, and voicing icily, "If you care for NOTHING else, Emma.. yes it is my *business*. I can't have my Queen acting so irrationally." Damnit *I love you*..
Emma's head jerks up, a fresh wash of anger escaping her thinly held control. "You /can't/, can you? I /do/ apologize my /King/. Shall I prostrate myself at your feet, or would you prefer your bed?" she purrs, the sound grating.
Warren's fingers whiten in thier grip on the desk, as the once-angel faces the white queen and leans slightly lower, inner corners of drawn blonde brows shaking with his stare. "Have you not mocked me enough yet, this morning?" he demands tersely. A breath taken through closed teeth, "I find your apology rather lacking, my *dear*. If that's the level of regard you have for me, then fill your bed with whomever you choose."
"Maybe because I don't know exactly /what/ I'm supposed to be apologizing /for/. It's not like we've agreed to the monogamous life, so it's not /that/. And if it's the fact of it being /Scott/..." She looks away, snapping her mouth shut, the poorly modulated emotions washing off her in palpable waves. "I don't know what to tell you, darling," she finally says softly.
Warren has studied every nuance of Emma Frost's expression. Her abruptly ended words, the aversion of her eyes. It speaks volumes. She does'nt know what to tell him? "Figure it out," he advises lowly. His anger has peaked, and Warren does not intend to remain here for the control that outrage grants him to break. Stepping back from the desk, he turns toward the door.
She's quiet for far too long, mind numbed by overextension of powers and self-medication. There's no last minute plea for him to stay. In fact there's the barest registration that he's moved. Moments later, she disappears back into her private quarters, and isn't heard from for the rest of the day.
I'm not that easy to be gotten rid of. Ask Winston Frost. Ask yourself when you wake up in the middle of the night remembering me. Because you will remember. I'll see to it.
ooc: I hate my character at the moment. *sob* Log rated... uh, PG-13 for suggestions of not nice things, and some mild swearing.
Hellfire Clubhouse - Emma's Office
Flanked on either side by uniformed security officers and still privately marveling to be even allowed this far, Scott nonetheless had no idea what to say. It'd taken him a number of weeks to make the decision to come here in the first place, in full knowledge that Emma was dangerous and not at all pleased with him (less pleased than usual) at the moment. Easy to dismiss guilt by stating to oneself that the wronged party was villainous, untrustworthy, and no matter what Shadow King had imparted in those last few dark minutes, not possessing enough sensitized feeling to have been overly affected by anything one could have done (to said villainous party). However, Scott could not exactly believe this last priviso, as Emma did not seem to have an underabundance of, ah, feeling. An apology, an attempt, and he could try to rest easy on this front. And liably fail. The security officer on his right knocked on Emma's door, announced his presence.
And underabundance of feeling? Ah, no. Despite her frosty facade, Emma is, in truth, quite passionate. As Scott /does/ well know. "Come in." The guard opens the door and ushers Scott in, stepping in right behind him and positioning himself against the wall, eyes most assuredly fixed anywhere but at the leg peeking out of the slit in Emma's calf-length pencil skirt as she perches on the edge of her desk, facing the door, legs crossed at the knee. "Scott," she greets coolly, gripping the edge of her desk in a white-knuckled grasp, the only indication of agitation. "You've got a lot of nerve."
Scott looks there not at all either, his glasses doing nothing to conceal the frontward face-focused direction of his gaze. His arms are militarily set at his sides, his face all but expressionless, save a quiet nuance of apologetic regret around his mouth, not quite a frown. Just a pulling down. "Yes. I would have to, to come here. But I have several important things to impart to you, if you're willing to receive them."
"There's very little I'm willing to receive from you, actually. Unless you're imparting them from your knees with your face inspecting my carpet." She shifts, straightening and moving her hair back over her shoulder with a careless flick of her hand.
"Let me rephrase myself," Scott says, the regret tightening into merely tautness. "I came to apologize. For a great deal. Some of it extremely complicated."
Emma lifts a brow, her mouth rounding into a fine-tipped purse. She's listening. And noting the solid wall of apprehension and reluctance emanating from him. "Why?" Why what? Oh, so many answers to that one word.
"Because I caused you injury," Scott responds, tersely. "I was acting as a tool for one Shadow King, do you recognize the name?"
Emma's eyes widen, and she blinks in surprise. ".../him/? What does /he/ have to do with anything?"
"Well." Scott makes a mild, constricted, throat-clearing cough. "Apparently, he was lodged in my mind a certain number of months."
Her eyes narrow, face falling back into intensely composed lines. "Oh? A number of months? How many months, do you know?"
"Since December 2003," says Scott, after a faint withdrawing, remembering. "Although Shadow King varied from active to dormant, so it was not continual, per se."
Emma lifts her chin, jaw muscles bunching and tightening. "December? Of 2003? Well. How convenient for you," she says, spite turning the edge of her lips up and coloring her voice.
"Actually, not," Scott negates, slowly, carefully, his eyelids half closing behind the glasses. "There's a high likelihood that I would have made a fair attempt at dating you anyway, Shadow King or no Shadow King. He, after all, does not fabricate emotions. I only, on my own, would have done it differently."
"A high li--" Emma sputters, rising off the desk edge, fists balling at her sides. "Done it differently? Like how? Maybe /not/ lied to me? Or maybe you would have lied... I don't know. What's your idea of 'a fair attempt'? What was real and what was fabricated, Scott Summers? Or do you even know yourself."
"It's impossible to know for sure what was what, Emma," Scott's voice drops tenser, with a verge of half concealed uncertainty under the tone. "I could point out several times when I went over the top, acted . . . in a way I would hope I would never, and, no, I do not consider the relationship in and of itself one of those times. But I can't map for you after the fact what exactly would have been different and what would have not. I could tell you that I would not have left the Institute so easily, or been quite so, ah, blatantly jealous -- but nor am I much of a romantic paramour at the best of times."
"You don't consider the relationship out of character for you, but everything else associated with it? Damn you and your moralistic sermonizing. What the hell gives you the right to waltz in here and drag the precious little that I thought you had felt for me through the mud. /Again/. Romantic paramour? Is that what you think you were? To me?"
"Damn it, Emma," Scott snaps out of tension to simply snap. "That's not what I mean. Not all of it was out of character, most of it was in character. But there were sections that weren't. And I came to apologize for those sections, not apologize for having feelings for you and acting on them." One wishes many times that one had some sort of Warrenesque gift with words as well as a gift for bouncing eyebeams. Scott recognizes a panicked drowning sensation somewhere in the back of his mind. "Maybe I didn't mean romantic paramour. I'm not all that familiar with the term. Heard it somewhere. Ah," Scott continues, briskly, revisiting statements of before, "by the, ah, sections, I do mean the points where I passed into what I might consider abusive behavior, although I do admit that first time you slapped me post-relationship was entirely my fault, but I was somewhat confused at the time."
Emma glances away from Scott and toward the guard still playing 'hear no evil, see no evil' at the door. A tiny jerk of her head, and he slips out the door, closing it behind him. When she looks back, her face has softened into wide-eyed hurt, complete with pout. "Scott, darling..." The first nebulous tendrils of her powers snake out, wrapping themselves around his head, sinking in. "Then you did have feelings for me? Do still?" Brush away the defenses, soothe the agitation. This is Emma. Good, misunderstood Emma. The Emma that held him and stroked him and whispered her love into his ear...
Scott's private panic (not so private, expressed in the unstructuredness of the words, the undertone of the undertone) flares into an alarmed peak when the guard leaves, all uncertainty and exposure. The over-developed tactical brain warns that the exit of the guard might be a sign of Emma opening up, but is just as likely a sign of wanting-to-deal-with-something-herself and this /is/ the woman -- But all these quiet. Not quite gone, but muted, and Scott looks out at Emma with a recognition not blocked by several layers of explanations, Institute duty, old flames, etc. Not entirely, anyway. "Of course. I wouldn't have come here if I didn't. I would have sent you a letter."
"Paramour. Illicit lover. Squire, suitor, swain. Suppliant. Beloved. Inamorato..." Emma sounds out the synonyms, defining and shaping the word in Scott's mind as she approaches, lashes lowered demurely while his head starts to spin. "You were all these things to me at one time," she breathes, stepping into reach and lifting a hand to his arm, wrapping her fingers around his bicep as she winds behind him. "Were they the lies? Are they what you regret?"
The other voices, concerns mute a little bit more. Scott's hand, the one not attached to the gripped (this is how it works, touch, unworried touch, companionable, possessive) bicep, makes a fingered motion in air, impotent but questing. "Not lies. I regret leaving the Institute and discarding parts that I did not have to. That I was miserable without. I did not regret you so much as myself."
Deeper, deeper, the touch carries her mental probing, into old paths familiar, tripping her up on new memories and conscience. Ah. Regrets, old and new. Separate, quell, inflame. She edges around, moving her hand across the expanse of his back (Remember that touch) and up over his shoulder, pressing close to his other, previously questing arm. "I never forced you to too. Why did you blame me for that?" The corners of the room darken, his perceptions distorting the distant shadows and sharpening the focus near. (She's warm and soft. Always was encouraging. Never perfect. Real. Attainable.)
Hard for a tactical man not to see into the shadows, distance, catch angles, catch attacks, but the tactical brain is not functioning on more than a removed, elsewhere level. Scott can't hear it as more than an indistinguishable murmur. It is a lighter sensation, feeling lighter. Less weighed down. Regrets, however, weighty. Unpleasant, always. Always too many of them. Scott regards them with an air of someone observing crocodiles. "I blamed myself. Not you. But I could not understand why I did what I did, so I made reasons that seemed plausible." His arm, after the first questing, seems uncertain what to do, how to react. Despite impressions. Awkward, always.
Ah, the awkwardness was always part of the charm, and the fun. Press or withdraw, that was always the question. But not this time. Not now. "And your reasons were my influence?" Emma whispers lowly, pushing up on tiptoe to place her lips near his ear. She stills his arm in her hand, sliding her fingers down it's length to curl against his palm, encouraging it to open up, to receive her touch. The world closes in, tighter, slowly fading sensations and sounds apart from the little bubble surrounding them. There's nothing else to consider. Nothing else.
"No. I never seriously considered that," Scott starts, his eyes widening only briefly before even the indistinguishable tactical mutter dies away, and his palm opens up to press against her fingers. The heartbeat in his chest, point of contact on hand, proximity of Emma Frost gives more data currenly than memory, environment, analysis, but there is no opportunity to be disturbed, frightened, concerned about this, nor act against it. No reason. No desire other than the obvious reactive ones.
"But you did consider it, before you knew. Before you had /him/ to blame..." A kiss is placed at the corner of his jaw, and her fingers stretch out luxuriously against his palm before twining into them. Her eyes glitter dangerously through their narrowed lids. She slides deeper into his mind, looking for confirmation, affirmation, and justification. "Scott... do you miss me? Do you miss us?" She finds a memory, one held closer and deeper under his control. Held away. "Ever?" A telepathic fingernail pries it loose and begins to pour in, amplifying it until he can't ignore it.
"I never took the consideration seriously," Scott repeats, paraphrases, his fingers closing on hers, needing. His mind is stripped of angles and compartments and organizing notes and check-this-laters, even in the tangled complicated period that was Emma. But was any period not tangled, complicated? The tangles are always on the surface, however, like tentacles on an anemone, the happinesses always buried, always uneasily acknowledged, always fatalistically nervous. "I do," Scott responds, slowly, as a single memory, a single quiet, gentle night, unfettered with those endless outside concerns and self too-awarenesses, becomes more real and present and somehow destined than it ever was, even when it stood in front of him. The ever tight shoulders relax.
A gentle nudge, a lean, a nuzzle. "Then hold me, Scott," she guides, shifting to face him fully, closely. Her arms wind up and around his neck. "For old time's sake..." She tugs on the back of his neck, and his control, his precious control is cracked and loosened.
A final moment of panic, swiftly gone. (Control necessary. Could have killed someone that Prom night, many someones, always in danger of killing someone, anyway, especially) Scott's arms wrap around Emma's waist, his head inclines downward, and he kisses her without thought, if not still without that half second's residual hesitation. Control still there, weakened, but clinging.
An outpouring of exaltation and desire floods over them both, tugging at reciprocating emotions, pulling them to the fore. Emma presses up, winding her fingers into his hair and moving in practiced ways to avoid his visor and his resistance. A few moments later she drops back, breathless, and lifts the back of her fingers to her mouth. The other captures his and gives a pull, her eyes inviting him to follow.
Resistence minimal, passing down to none. Scott's movements are not entirely blind and unpracticed, and make up for the occasional inevitable clumsiness in energy. But then this is over, and there is a hand in his hand and a direction which despite all in all, Scott is nowhere near closed off or naive enough to mistake. The panic does not re-emerge, but the shell of the control makes a solid effort in rejoining, and its effort provokes a resurgence of other efforts. Too quick. Not yet. What would be the real reasons for doing this now, immediately. What would Jean think. What would everyone. Too many relationships, not enough Scott.
The response is blindingly quick, and there is no mistaking that Emma does not intend to let this encounter end on anyone's terms other than her own. She returns to his arms and pulls him down into a hard, fast kiss, her hands gripping his face while her powers batter at his resistance from the outside and encourage his own desires to swell from within. (Who cares what Jean thinks? She's made her choice. She'll move on. Not a new one for Scott. A return to something familiar. For a night. Just one night to let him rest. No need for reasons. Emma's here. Willing. Wanting, despite the hurt.) The thoughts fly too quickly for him to analyze, their wings tickling his attention, diverting and teasing. (Pick her up. Take her. Just do it.)
Scott can't do much against reciprocating the kiss, as hard, if less fast, while his mind is promptly overwhelmed and goes mostly silent. Listening, but pulling in sharp and defensive and unresponsive. When the echo does come, it is little more than a whisper behind walls. No. Too fast. Too much past. Too /fast/.
Emma breaks the physical contact, holding tight mentally while she runs through another approach. "...Scott?" she whispers, pleading with her hands and her eyes and her voice, while pricking his conscience. (Bastard. Still can't allow. No past. No future. Just now. Just...)
Silence. On both fronts. Scott's face goes very blank, initially. Then there is a flicker of that old, old guilt. (Not her fault. Never fulfill anyone's needs, you don't. What is a night? She's asking so lit--) Silence again. Utter. Then, behind the wall, a hiss of violated rage, if slow in coming, and only that hiss, that echo. NO. Not for you. Not for /anyone/.
<< Never for me. But /always/ for everyone else, >> Emma explodes telepathically, forcing her response to his unarticulated rage into his mind. << How does it feel, Scott? To feel betrayed? To feel used, and common, and pathetic? >> Angry projections rip through the layers of healing scars that had begun to form over the memories of the final moments of the Shadow King's co-existence, the 'gifts' he'd returned before being forced out. Into them, she begins to pour her own, the too-like and yet not sets of emotions curdling the other, foaming and expanding, ripping the last of Scott's conscious control away. Emma drives him to his knees and approaches, smiling bitterly as she kneels next to him and brushes oddly tender finger tips over his jaw. << You've ruined me, Scott Summers. Do you know that? Why couldn't we work? Why'd you lie to me? >>
Twitch, hitch, and the hiss is gone, and much is gone, temporarily obliterated in the floodgates opening all of it, all of it. And, of course, on top of it, her acid. Fresh acid. He goes to his knees without struggle, but his jaw is unresponsive under her touch, almost nerveless. Scott sags, his eyes closed behind the glasses. And then they open again, a slit. Very weak, it comes, but dry and tired and bitter. And helpless. << I could explain. You have the capability to see in every detail. But you will have your revenge, won't you, Emma? >>
<< Could you? Could you really explain? Why you stayed every chance I gave you to leave? Why you said that you'd fight for me? For us? That what others said didn't matter? Could you /really/ explain that, even to yourself? And then why you entertain the notion that you were nothing more to me than a... 'romantic paramour'. Is that all I was to you? A bit of foolish rebellion? You date the bad girl, but marry the good, hmm? Is that what it was all about to you? >>
<< No. No, no, no. Shadow King was using me to hurt you, Emma. I did love you. But he used what I felt and twisted it. Made me leave my home. Made me leave large parts of myself. This is why I could not think back on it without shame. Please, >> a low laugh, completely humorless, << stop throwing that term back at me. All I meant was I have never been much good at romance. Never. But it would have been different. Had I been myself. >>
<< And now? >> Emma asks, her expression hardening as she rocks back on her heels, oblivious to the twists her skirt makes, straining seams. << Prove it. >>
A laugh. A slow, granite laugh that makes it out between his lips in a frailer, briefer incarnation. The laugh inside his head, stronger, more acerbic, longer lived. << I'm sorry, Emma. But given my current circumstances? It would feel a little bit forced, wouldn't you think? >>
<< I can make it feel however it want, >> Emma purrs, eyes narrowing, smirk twitching her lips. And then she strikes. In the morning, there will be altered memories of bantering and teasing, tears and apologies. Pieces of the exchanged honesties. One last night. Emma's revenge. Tousled sheets. Bitterness. Guilt. Recriminations. Satisfaction.
Morning is just starting to dust a pink sheen across the still grey sky. An hour ago, Emma had slipped from the bed, donning a robe and taking up a habitual perch on the window seat of one of the two ceiling height windows that illuminate her room. The routine meditative state is hard to attain this morning, that required center of calm obscured by considerable rumpling in spirit and body. So, she settles for resting her forehead against the cool pane of glass.
Scott's eyes are just now cracking open, a gradual blurry process. Feeling one part lightly hungover -- nauseous, headache, unease, another part the kind of glowing content which is supposed to be more appropriate. He does not yet move.
Emma notes the gradual return to consciousness by way of the increased pressure on her unusually sensitive shields. Well, unusual, but not unexpected. She tilts her head and regards the still motionless form in her bed. All semblance of control has lifted, save that imposed by altered memories.
Small blink. Not much width of eye beneath eyelid to reconceal. Blurry. The glow begins to fade into a chiller confusion. Scott raises his hand to pull the back of it over his forehead. Confusion fades. In its place is a certainty imposed by said memories. And Scott's stomach gives an unconscious twist. What does he do with this?
So. Emma turns, drops her feet to the floor, and stands, tugging her robe into place as she pads across the room, heading for the door.
Scott sits, sudden, abrupt, board straight, his brows furrowed. "Emma. Where are you going?" he calls, voice a little rough. There is less the air of emotional need and more the air of needing more information to process ... what happened. With the solidity of an order. Not the lover, but the commander sitting in the bed this morning.
Emma slows to a stop and turns, presenting a shoulder (over which she looks) to Scott. "It's morning, pet," she points out, reminding him of the routine she has altered very little since their parting. "And I've a headache. I'm ringing for breakfast. Eggs, toast, and orange juice?"
A little of the ramrod stiffness relents. "Right. Yes. Those would be fine." Eyebrows still down, Scott reaches up to massage his forehead with his fingerpads. It's all right. Everything is apparently quite made up. But.
Yes. Quite. Emma moves into the other room and makes all the appropriate noises before returning a few minutes later, glass of water and a pill in hand. She eyes him critically for a moment, the takes the pill before closing back tot he bed and sitting gingerly on the edge. "So."
Scott eyes her back, although the thin scrutiny ends once she sits on the bed. Terminates in a blink, glance sideways. Another blink. "So. What happens now?"
Emma glances up, a brittle smile edged with satisfaction growing on her face. "Now? You go home, or to school, or to whatever it is that is taking up your days now," she replies simply.
"Then this is it. We resolves issues, sleep with each other, and then that is it," Scott says, his brows still furrowed, expression growing darker. The concept of one night passion is difficult for him to wrap his mind around.
"What? Did you expect me to throw myself at you again? Or perhaps to give up my evil ways and prance after you back to Xavier's, so your precious school can flaunt the redemption of another villain." She smirks, lifting a cruelly amused smile. "Or perhaps it's my turn to assure /you/ that our love will over come all obstacles. Would you like that?"
Scott replaces the hand on his forehead. His gaze is directed upward. Ceiling. "I am just not sure what last night was for, Emma. Then. If this is it."
She shrugs and reaches out to pat his knee fondly. "It was for enjoyment's sake? A reminder of what we once had? A chance to vent a little frustration?" Still with that far too casual smirk. "What do you mean, 'if this is it'? Don't tell me, lover, that you're going to feel honor-bound to propose to me now. I might be forced to accept, and then wouldn't we be a miserable pair." Emma winks, sliding off the bed at the sound of the outside door opening. She stops before exiting the room, and turns back to him, astonishment and sympathy painting her expression. "Or are you asking if last night was about love?"
Smirk. Knee pat. Scott's expression is all kinds of clenched and uncertain. "No. Not honor bound. But it seems to me that we both risked a good deal, considering our factions, those above issues, and other relationships, and I'm not talking romantic, for a one night stand. But it wasn't love, apparently. It was for ... fun?"
"Why? Why would we have risked /anything/ for last night. You'll return home, I'll continue as I am. There's no commitment involved, nor any love. Not anymore."
"It is a risk. People tend to find out," is Scott's tactical analysis of the situation. His fingers shift across his knee. "I'm sorry. I don't do things like this for fun. You know that. Thus, my ... wavering, this morning. Sorry."
Emma narrows her eyes and gives the man a sated look and a low-voiced chuckle. "Well, I do..." and pushes through the door, closing it behind her and already moving across the room, her attention fixed on belting her robe closed as she speaks, "Just set the tray down on the desk."
She must be distracted, he notes idly. Otherwise the distinctive mind of a particular gentleman would have been noted in it's approach before ever stepping into the same room. The sound of a tray being placed down lightly on the desk's surface precedes the wash of amusement coloring a smooth baritone. "Tastes running a bit toward the plebian this morning, Emma darling?" Impeccably attired in a white suit, tie and kerchief colored to match his eyes, the winged form of Warren Worthington smirks at the white Queen, one blonde brow arched bemusedly.
In the bedroom, Scott is still sitting, contemplating the foot shaped forms beneath the sheets. Which do presumably belong to him. This is supposed to be cheerful. But with Emma out of the room, he occupies himself scratching the side of his head, a gesture he has used seldom since he was sixteen, and trying hard to puzzled out these memories next to Emma's amused attitude of this morning. And the knot in his stomach is getting no better.
Emma's head jerks up at the very un-servantish tone that answers her. For an instant there is surprise, horror, and chagrin on her face, but is dissolves smoothly into a familiar mask. Bemused indifference freezes her expression and distances her eyes. "Mmm. It is dreadfully common fare, isn't it? Though I doubt I'll be able to stomach it this morning. At least not until the headache fades a bit." She steps close and lifts up on tiptoe to press an easy kiss to Warren's cheek. "Would you prefer something else? Kitchen staff is already roused..."
Warren's smirk deepens into a proper smile, as the white king trails a touch down the length of Emma's neck, in a feather light reply to that kiss to his cheek. A headache? "Have you been straining yourself again, my dear?" His touch, now at the base of Emma's neck, brushes back the lightly mussed curtain of Miss Frost's hair, back over her robed shoulder. "That depends, my Queen.. do you wish to dine in this morning?" he inquires a rakish lilt to his tone.
Naked. Ah, yes. Scott is currently naked. This will not do. Even in the best of times, there are always Jubilees bouncing in and making one spill one's coffee. Scott slides out of bed and begins a systematic search for the appropriate items. It is a welcome distraction from his persistent and growing unease. Guilt, perhaps. One often feels guilty.
"Well, I'm hardly dressed to be seen in public," she teases back, fluttering her lashes and returning a wink. "But yes, I was a bit over zealous last night." She pulls away and turns, letting her fingers drifts the length of Warren's arm to tangle in his hand. "I've already taken something, but I think I /would/ prefer to stay in this morning. At least until my shields are back up to par."
Warren draws those tangled fingers to his lip to place a light kiss on Emma's delicate hand. A quiet laugh behind his bright smile as he teases back, "Oh, but you could start such a stunning trend.. All wish to be as the Queen is seen, after all." A wink, as he agrees, "But so be it. If you've overwrought yourself, I know just the thing-" Sugars do her well after stretching herself too thin, he's noted. "We've a new chef on staff.. an artful hand at crepes."
Lower half of clothing. Recovered. Donned. Scott feels something like relief. Some cousin of relief. Here is a wall. Scott leans up against it, back of head resting prone. I feel like ... I have just been to a whore. No. Like I was the whore. I don't /do/ this kind of nonsense. Either way. Scott lifts his head and recovers his shirt, unease, confusion, guilt doing a three beat waltz. He's not sure whether to find Emma and apologize again or climb out the nearest window and run.
"Don't tell me you're in favor of reviving the Club tradition of having its women walk around in their unmentionables, Warren, love," Emma purrs, stepping back and lifting the phone off its cradle, handing it over with a demurely wicked look.
Warren accepts the phone with a dignified chuckle, "Surely not, darling-" a fond tone curls his pronunciation of that last endearment. Half turning, one wing spreads to reach a feathery light caress up the length of Emma's extended arm. "Oh, and do keep next friday free.." he notes with a bit of teasing mystery, adding a moment later, "Washinton," before raising the phone to his ear, eyes still on Emma.
Shirt donned. One is clothed. Scott checks himself twice to make sure he is truly and thoroughly closed and decides that breakfast will, after all, not be a viable option. He would pick at it and make no conversation whatsoever. Especially after the conversation made with Emma just post waking up. No point. Casual. This is all purely casual. Scott moves to the door, opens the door, all while repeating to himself various versions of sorry, skipping breakfast, morning, bye.
"Washington?" Emma repeats, satisfyingly intrigued, releasing the phone into Warren's hand and dropping hers behind her back, her fingers twining together as she leans forward, all eagerness, like a little girl waiting for a present. Until the door opens behind her. Her eyes widen and turn worried, though her expression freezes, apparently indifferent to what she knows is behind her.
Warren smirks, as his bait draws the desired response.. Idly, glancing down to the phone, finger poised over the dial that will ring the kitchen, he lets the anticipation build for a moment longer.. The door opens, and blue eyes flick back up to fix upon Emma's- noting the brief widening of her gaze. In that one instant before his gaze flicks over her shoulder, << Shall I play the jealous lover and scare this one off, darling? >> After all, he's not the senselessly jealous sort. Scott steps out of Emma's bedroom. Warren's eyes freeze on the other man for a moment, before coming back to his Queen.
Stop. Dead stop. Scott's eyes go fixed and wide behind his glasses. His mind is no less eloquent. This figures, says it.
So that leaves it up to Emma to frantically try and explain this all away? Heh. Poor boys. She inhales slowly, drawing herself up straight with the breath, chin lifting in response to the unspoken questions (or just plain shock) floating about the room. << Certainly. Enjoy yourself, >> she replies archly to Warren before turning her head to peer behind her. "Breakfast is ready. Warren was a dear and brought it in himself." Smirk. Beam.
Warren's eyes remain fixed even as Emma turns around to playfully address Scott Summers. Scott Summers, who had just emerged from her bedroom, after he had entered in time to see her adjust her robe. Not nightgown, but robe. In that moment, as she turns, his attention is so intent that he catched himself counting the hairs in the gilded curtain left facing him. Jaw tight, he sets the telephone back down on the hook, before looking back up at Scott, chin low, wings rigid at his back.
Scott's eyes remain fixed, but his mind recovers. Courses out possibilities. Chance? Did she set him up for this? For what? Embarrassment? "I'm sorry, but I'm ... not very hungry," comes out terse, distant, toneless.
<< Bastard. I've /never/ received the benefit of the doubt from you, have I? >> Emma snarls directly to Scott, words delivered with the force of a physical blow. Yes, she can't help but overhear the noisy thoughts tumbling around Scott's mind. Warren's, on the other hand... The White Queen turns her head back to face the Angel, worry tucked away under a considering glance, matching his gaze evenly. She flicks out out a dismissive hand, sweeping Scott's words away, "We've had enough apologies between us for the time being, so I won't do so for not seeing you out. You remember the way."
A breath through the gentleman's nose, as Warren reflects: Scott is just the sort who would stay, and try to make sure there's no misunderstanding. Lest this be the case, and the former Angel's composure, or control be threatened again, he adds coldly after a moment, "Get out. Now." Chill stare meeting that of his one time friend, before coming back to focus on Emma.
A recoil, mentally, but it is brief and the return is fierce. << I'm sorry, Emma /dear/, but your manner since I woke up has not put me given me much opportunity to. I couldn't imagine why. >> Scott blinks. It seems like it has been some time since he has blinked. Then he bows, a low mocking sweep, and steps around the table. Heading out.
Emma is distracted. She spins to glare back at the X-Men leader, two steps pulling her away from Warren's space and bringing her into Scott's. Another step and she's blocking his path, trembling slightly as she reaches for his face and drags it down to hers. Yes. There is a kiss. She releases him and snarls, "There? Is that what you wanted from me? Should have asked for more of them last night, then. Get out, Scott. You had your fun. Make sure you wipe your feet before you leave."
Warren never expected Emma to stop being beautiful, or powerful, or to cease manipulating men. But this is'nt for power. She is'nt securing a man's loyalty, or provoking a dangerous enemy into making a mistake. She's angrily kissing Scott Summers. The one she let hurt her, the one whose ghost Warren has been trying to drive out her heart for so long.. And as enraging, and painful as this sight is, Warren can't look away. His blue eyes are fixed on Emma and do not slip.
Scott does not return the kiss. His face is blunt and unreceptive. And before Emma has even released him, his fists are bunched, and his complexion has turned oddly waxy. "No, Emma, I did /not/ want that," he shouts. Bellows, even. And surprised by the force of his own response (Not jealousy, not humiliation, not all, not quite, the litany going through his head is a dizzy "What the /hell/?" on loop. Perhaps gult. Easy guilt), he edges past.
"Whatever, Scott. You can lie to yourself all you want, but you can't lie to me. You can't suppress your feelings out of existence, and you can't suppress me out of your past, no matter /how/ hard you try." Emma steps out of the way, allowing him free passage to the door. Warren, for the moment, /is/ forgotten. The headache on the other hand...
Warren grips the edge of Emma's desk with both hands, spread apart, eyes still riveted to Emma Frost's movements. Silently, he waits for Scott to leave, lips pressed together lest he say something unbecoming. << Yes, suppressing past feelings out of existence seems to be rather difficult, doesn’t it? >>
"Will you please make up your mind?" Scott growls as the door becomes quite imminent. "One night stand, or trying to reign in a wayward lover, whatever you're doing, I don't care any more." Door open. Closed. Good morning, Scott.
She at least waits for the door to close before hurling something heavy and breakable at it? But there will be no large scale damage like the aftermath of Scott and Emma's /last/ meeting. This time, she gasps and plants a hand on the nearest support, her hand at her temples, force of will keeping herself on her feet. "Don't start, Warren," she warns nearly inaudibly.
"Tell me Emma," Warren answers, anger buried under enforced composure, "Precisely what do you expect my reaction to be?" A short breath drawn through the nose, handsome features drawn and hardened. "Perhaps if I insulted you, treated you as some possession, or placed myself on some higher moral pedestal, I'd hold your attention?"
Emma briefly ponders fainting, tossing the notion away as a stupid, damsel in distress ploy beneath her. But she does consider it. She turns back to face Warren, hand still gripping the chair back, holding her in place. The strain under her own marble-cut features is evident, and her eyes flash at him, sapphires in snow. "Jealous, Warren? You needn't be. He's running home even now, to dither, no doubt, about how he could be so weak, so pathetic." She narrows her eyes, smiling cruelly. "The guilt alone will have him self-flagellating by the end of the day."
A small moment wherein he stares at her, the angel's own cold gaze unblinking. "So, now that Scott is injured, I'm.. to think nothing of this?" he queries sharply. "I'll begrudge you no idle amusement, Emma-" Eyes narrow as blonde brows draw together angrily. "But you should have left Scott Summers in the past. Of what worth is HIS guilt?" he demands, a shade of high emotion coloring his words.
"I /was/. /He/ came to /me/. I didn't seek him out, and I didn't /intend/ to sleep with him again," she snaps, letting go of the chair and storming across the room, past the Angel, to her desk, yanking open a drawer and pulling out a small prescription bottle. "I don't /know/ what you should think."
Warren turns to follow her with his livid stare. "Then let me tell you, what I should think.." he intones shortly, "After hearing that, I should wonder whether it's Scott Summers who is to feel weak.. or you," he adds icily. "Here you smile at me, and say it was all your design, *you're* in control, and in the next breath lay this on HIM?" That it's Scott is where the true injury comes in. "What were you thinking, Emma?" the king demands harshly of his queen.
"I wasn't thinking," Emma retorts, honest in her agitation. She fumbles with the bottle top, shaking out two pills once she gets it open. That would be three in the course of less than an hour. ... They are swallowed dry, and the remainder scatter on her desk. "Dammit, Warren, leave me alone. It's none of your business." She leans over the desk, head tucking down between outstretched arms.
Damn Scott. Damn HER. "How dare you," the white king murmurs. "None of my business?" Warren repeats furiously, pain and betrayal hardening into a defensive chill. Clenching his jaw hard, and voicing icily, "If you care for NOTHING else, Emma.. yes it is my *business*. I can't have my Queen acting so irrationally." Damnit *I love you*..
Emma's head jerks up, a fresh wash of anger escaping her thinly held control. "You /can't/, can you? I /do/ apologize my /King/. Shall I prostrate myself at your feet, or would you prefer your bed?" she purrs, the sound grating.
Warren's fingers whiten in thier grip on the desk, as the once-angel faces the white queen and leans slightly lower, inner corners of drawn blonde brows shaking with his stare. "Have you not mocked me enough yet, this morning?" he demands tersely. A breath taken through closed teeth, "I find your apology rather lacking, my *dear*. If that's the level of regard you have for me, then fill your bed with whomever you choose."
"Maybe because I don't know exactly /what/ I'm supposed to be apologizing /for/. It's not like we've agreed to the monogamous life, so it's not /that/. And if it's the fact of it being /Scott/..." She looks away, snapping her mouth shut, the poorly modulated emotions washing off her in palpable waves. "I don't know what to tell you, darling," she finally says softly.
Warren has studied every nuance of Emma Frost's expression. Her abruptly ended words, the aversion of her eyes. It speaks volumes. She does'nt know what to tell him? "Figure it out," he advises lowly. His anger has peaked, and Warren does not intend to remain here for the control that outrage grants him to break. Stepping back from the desk, he turns toward the door.
She's quiet for far too long, mind numbed by overextension of powers and self-medication. There's no last minute plea for him to stay. In fact there's the barest registration that he's moved. Moments later, she disappears back into her private quarters, and isn't heard from for the rest of the day.