Flashback: Risk-taker
[Late July, 1998]
The stupidity of that woman - one would think those blonde locks aren't died. Does she think I can afford that sort of complication? /Stupid/. Well, she's learned now, I suppose.
Late July, 1998 - early evening, and Sebastian sent word ahead that he intended on a private dinner with Emma in quarters. It is a dinner, perhaps predictably, that he is now late for, as he should have returned from the office some twenty minutes past.
Emma is here, and the dinner is here, but she does not dare touch it until he arrives, despite the warning her stomach is growling at her. She's spent the time in an equally dangerous pastime, however, poking around in drawers and cabinets until she found an old newspaper with an undone crossword puzzle. Thus, she's seated at the table with it, tray pushed away, feet up on the edge of the seat, brightly painted toes peeking out from underneath the hem of black, wide-legged pants. She's thrown a large shirt of Sebastian's on over a mint green tank top, and a vent directly overhead waves the short strands of hair escaping her makeshift bun, secured with a pencil.
The door handle clicks as it is open, and Sebastian Shaw slips inside - charocal gray suit with three buttons and an abbreviated collar, with a light window-pane shirt and a blue tie. He seems positively casual, and he is even smiling as he closes the door behind him. "Sorry I'm late," he offers Emma, a paper bag in his hand. "But I have something for you."
Emma looks up and scrambles to her feet to cross the room and greet him with reserved affection. "Dinner's probably cold. Do you want me to call the kitchen?" she asks, reaching up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek and tug on the back of his jacket. Her eyes shift to the bag and turn interested. "Oh?"
Sebastian smiles, and pleased warmth radiates from the brief psychic spark as lips touch cheek. "Indeed," he says, offering the brown paper bag. "And..." He eyes the plates on the table. "I don't suppose you have the power to heat things up?" he says. It's a gentle teasing. "If Stephen King was writing you," he tells her, "you'd be able to start fires."
"Who?" The ignorance is /not/ feigned, but she diverts attention from it by smiling and taking the bag, peeling away before peeking inside. "What is this?"
"Four different kinds of painkillers," Sebastian says, "and prescriptions for all of them." He leans towards Emma with a half-step, pressing a kiss to her hair. "For your headaches," he says, turning to go inspect the food. A finger is pressed to a steak and he sighs. "What do you think about tuna instead?" he says. "I could go for some ahi..." He's already starting towards the phone.
Emma looks up from the bag and turns to face him, the bag held out slightly. "How did you get these? I haven't seen a doctor since I got here."
Amusement bubbles over in Sebastian's mind. "Billionaire, my dear. Billions are to millions like your father is to you." He smiles. "I made a call, is all. Described the symptoms, and it wasn't a problem." He's got the phone in his hand. "Ahi? Do you mind fish?"
"The symptoms? Sebastian!" She shoots forward, her hand grabbing his arm in a panic and pulling him to face her fully. She looks up at him. "You didn't say anything about the reason, did you? You didn't say anything about my telepathy?!"
The phone is replaced, and Sebastian looks down at Emma with a calm expression. "Kitten," he tells her. "I've been a mutant for longer than you've been alive. Of course I didn't tell him about what you can do," he murmurs. "Here - come here," he says, reaching with his free hand in an effort to draw Emma against him. "I told you I'd take care of you, remember?"
Emma is easily gathered close, and she leans her cheek against him and starts to still the pounding of her heart. "Of course," she replies shakily. "I'm sorry... I didn't think." She tucks the hand still holding the bag up under her chin. "I wish you would have told me you were getting these though," she says after a moment.
"Hush," Sebastian says for a moment. "Why would I go through all the trouble of protecting you only to torment you with headaches that leave you in tears?" he wonders, reaching up to pet the younger woman's hair softly. "As for the drugs... it was a little surprise." A smile. "Allow me my indulgences."
Emma pulls far enough back to turn her head and tilt her face up, though her eyes fix on a shirt button. "Yes. Thank you. But," she flicks a glance up then returns it to the button and continues, "would you mind getting me an actual appointment? Or even just let me talk to the doctor myself?"
Curiousity piques, but Shaw nods easily enough. "Of course," he says. "Dr. Stanislaus moonlights as an in-house physician... he stands by during our headier parties, and in exchange he gets a sort of de facto membership." A chuckle. "Gets to take advantage of all the Club's luxuries... he's usually around, afternoons. I'll tell him to expect you tomorrow?"
Emma exhales and looks up with a smile. "Thank you. Yes, the fish sounds fine. Why don't I call it down, and you make yourself comfortable?" She pulls away from him and slides to the side to reach for the phone. "If I could remember the name of what I was on before, I wouldn't need to see him," she says blithely, pressing a button.
"I think just about every painkiller there is in that bag," Shaw says, turning back to start unbuttoning his jacket. He shrugs out of it and finds a hangar, retreating into the closet to hang it up. From inside, he calls out, "you're sure you didn't see it?"
"Oh, I'm not talking about a pain kill-- Hello? Yes." Emma turns and leans a hip against the table and places the order.
"Oh?" Shaw says, starting to pour a pair of glasses of wine. Red, at least, improves with breathing. "What, then, kitten?" He smiles. "Tell them to just sear it - I want it sushi in the center," he says. "If you want to murder yours, though, you can." A snort of mental disdain at the thought of well-done ahi.
Emma repeats his order verbatim, then doubles it for herself with a coy smirk. Order placed, she sets the phone down and awaits his pleasure.
Sebastian tilts his head to look at Emma. "Mmm?" he asks, mind repeating his earlier question.
Emma moves out of the air conditioning's draft and shrugs Sebastian's shirt off her shoulders, moving toward the bed to drape the garment across. "Birth control." She kneels down by the side of the bed and roots underneath it for the pair of slippers she knows is secreted there.
The Black King is watching Emma's progress - or at least her ass - with idle curiousity, and there's amusement as he watches her go for the slippers. "You know all my secrets, do--" Her words trickle in. "What?"
Emma finds them and pulls them out, then rolls to a seat with her back against the bed and slides them on her feet. She looks up and blinks at Shaw, brows lifting in query.
"Birth control?" Sebastian echoes, hackles raising across the man's mental picture. "Do you mean you're... not... on birth control?"
"No? How could I have been?"
"Emma," Sebastian says very quietly, "please pardon my language." He pauses. "In advance - but I have been /fucking/ you day and night for nearly a month." There's emphasis on the word, and then a rise of visceral memory. "Don't you think this was relevant?"
"I'm sorry. Am I supposed to be the one doing the thinking? I could have sworn you told me /not/ to," Emma answers, her sweetness biting. She rocks up onto her feet and stands, apparently indifferent to his reaction. "I suppose I just thought you would have taken precautions if you wanted to. After all, you had to know I didn't come in with anything, and haven't had access since."
Sebastian just stares at Emma. "I don't really... deal... with that," he says, gesturing vaguely. "Those are all... woman... things." A slow shake of his head. "I mean, you're really saying that...? Fuck, Emma. It's not that it's so much of a surprise..." Memories of abortions past, purchased by Sebastian for women in tears. "It's just I thought /better/ of you."
"You don't deal with /that/? How can you not when you've dealt with every other little facet of my existence here?" She turns toward him, hands perched on her hips, and returns his stare with one that is cool and guarded. "Obviously, you didn't think well enough of yourself."
Sebastian's eyes tense. "Take care of it," he says to Emma. "We can have dinner tomorrow night - I'll have someone make the arrangements for you to see a physician this evening."
"Take care of it?" Emma echoes, clasping her hands behind her back and rocking forward. "It? You say that with such detachment, Sebastian. Fine. Thank you. Tonight will be convenient." She releases her hands and sashays toward him.
"I'm /glad/," Sebastian responds, watching Emma's approach. "As for my detachment..." There's a dangerous tone somewhere in his voice, in his thoughts. "How would you like me to say it? Make sure I don't have a bastard, Emma." He steps towards her, reaches up - takes her chin. "I don't want competition."
Emma's chin rises and she looks at him, weighing his words against her own. "Of course, Sebastian," she murmurs soothingly after a moment's hesitation. "No one ever /could/ compete with you."
"Good girl, kitten," Sebastian responds with a smile and a note of fondness. He bends his neck and puts lips to Emma's, briefly. "After you get your prescription, you can join me again for the night - maybe get a movie, while you're out," he says. "Something sweet, for dessert."
The stupidity of that woman - one would think those blonde locks aren't died. Does she think I can afford that sort of complication? /Stupid/. Well, she's learned now, I suppose.
Late July, 1998 - early evening, and Sebastian sent word ahead that he intended on a private dinner with Emma in quarters. It is a dinner, perhaps predictably, that he is now late for, as he should have returned from the office some twenty minutes past.
Emma is here, and the dinner is here, but she does not dare touch it until he arrives, despite the warning her stomach is growling at her. She's spent the time in an equally dangerous pastime, however, poking around in drawers and cabinets until she found an old newspaper with an undone crossword puzzle. Thus, she's seated at the table with it, tray pushed away, feet up on the edge of the seat, brightly painted toes peeking out from underneath the hem of black, wide-legged pants. She's thrown a large shirt of Sebastian's on over a mint green tank top, and a vent directly overhead waves the short strands of hair escaping her makeshift bun, secured with a pencil.
The door handle clicks as it is open, and Sebastian Shaw slips inside - charocal gray suit with three buttons and an abbreviated collar, with a light window-pane shirt and a blue tie. He seems positively casual, and he is even smiling as he closes the door behind him. "Sorry I'm late," he offers Emma, a paper bag in his hand. "But I have something for you."
Emma looks up and scrambles to her feet to cross the room and greet him with reserved affection. "Dinner's probably cold. Do you want me to call the kitchen?" she asks, reaching up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek and tug on the back of his jacket. Her eyes shift to the bag and turn interested. "Oh?"
Sebastian smiles, and pleased warmth radiates from the brief psychic spark as lips touch cheek. "Indeed," he says, offering the brown paper bag. "And..." He eyes the plates on the table. "I don't suppose you have the power to heat things up?" he says. It's a gentle teasing. "If Stephen King was writing you," he tells her, "you'd be able to start fires."
"Who?" The ignorance is /not/ feigned, but she diverts attention from it by smiling and taking the bag, peeling away before peeking inside. "What is this?"
"Four different kinds of painkillers," Sebastian says, "and prescriptions for all of them." He leans towards Emma with a half-step, pressing a kiss to her hair. "For your headaches," he says, turning to go inspect the food. A finger is pressed to a steak and he sighs. "What do you think about tuna instead?" he says. "I could go for some ahi..." He's already starting towards the phone.
Emma looks up from the bag and turns to face him, the bag held out slightly. "How did you get these? I haven't seen a doctor since I got here."
Amusement bubbles over in Sebastian's mind. "Billionaire, my dear. Billions are to millions like your father is to you." He smiles. "I made a call, is all. Described the symptoms, and it wasn't a problem." He's got the phone in his hand. "Ahi? Do you mind fish?"
"The symptoms? Sebastian!" She shoots forward, her hand grabbing his arm in a panic and pulling him to face her fully. She looks up at him. "You didn't say anything about the reason, did you? You didn't say anything about my telepathy?!"
The phone is replaced, and Sebastian looks down at Emma with a calm expression. "Kitten," he tells her. "I've been a mutant for longer than you've been alive. Of course I didn't tell him about what you can do," he murmurs. "Here - come here," he says, reaching with his free hand in an effort to draw Emma against him. "I told you I'd take care of you, remember?"
Emma is easily gathered close, and she leans her cheek against him and starts to still the pounding of her heart. "Of course," she replies shakily. "I'm sorry... I didn't think." She tucks the hand still holding the bag up under her chin. "I wish you would have told me you were getting these though," she says after a moment.
"Hush," Sebastian says for a moment. "Why would I go through all the trouble of protecting you only to torment you with headaches that leave you in tears?" he wonders, reaching up to pet the younger woman's hair softly. "As for the drugs... it was a little surprise." A smile. "Allow me my indulgences."
Emma pulls far enough back to turn her head and tilt her face up, though her eyes fix on a shirt button. "Yes. Thank you. But," she flicks a glance up then returns it to the button and continues, "would you mind getting me an actual appointment? Or even just let me talk to the doctor myself?"
Curiousity piques, but Shaw nods easily enough. "Of course," he says. "Dr. Stanislaus moonlights as an in-house physician... he stands by during our headier parties, and in exchange he gets a sort of de facto membership." A chuckle. "Gets to take advantage of all the Club's luxuries... he's usually around, afternoons. I'll tell him to expect you tomorrow?"
Emma exhales and looks up with a smile. "Thank you. Yes, the fish sounds fine. Why don't I call it down, and you make yourself comfortable?" She pulls away from him and slides to the side to reach for the phone. "If I could remember the name of what I was on before, I wouldn't need to see him," she says blithely, pressing a button.
"I think just about every painkiller there is in that bag," Shaw says, turning back to start unbuttoning his jacket. He shrugs out of it and finds a hangar, retreating into the closet to hang it up. From inside, he calls out, "you're sure you didn't see it?"
"Oh, I'm not talking about a pain kill-- Hello? Yes." Emma turns and leans a hip against the table and places the order.
"Oh?" Shaw says, starting to pour a pair of glasses of wine. Red, at least, improves with breathing. "What, then, kitten?" He smiles. "Tell them to just sear it - I want it sushi in the center," he says. "If you want to murder yours, though, you can." A snort of mental disdain at the thought of well-done ahi.
Emma repeats his order verbatim, then doubles it for herself with a coy smirk. Order placed, she sets the phone down and awaits his pleasure.
Sebastian tilts his head to look at Emma. "Mmm?" he asks, mind repeating his earlier question.
Emma moves out of the air conditioning's draft and shrugs Sebastian's shirt off her shoulders, moving toward the bed to drape the garment across. "Birth control." She kneels down by the side of the bed and roots underneath it for the pair of slippers she knows is secreted there.
The Black King is watching Emma's progress - or at least her ass - with idle curiousity, and there's amusement as he watches her go for the slippers. "You know all my secrets, do--" Her words trickle in. "What?"
Emma finds them and pulls them out, then rolls to a seat with her back against the bed and slides them on her feet. She looks up and blinks at Shaw, brows lifting in query.
"Birth control?" Sebastian echoes, hackles raising across the man's mental picture. "Do you mean you're... not... on birth control?"
"No? How could I have been?"
"Emma," Sebastian says very quietly, "please pardon my language." He pauses. "In advance - but I have been /fucking/ you day and night for nearly a month." There's emphasis on the word, and then a rise of visceral memory. "Don't you think this was relevant?"
"I'm sorry. Am I supposed to be the one doing the thinking? I could have sworn you told me /not/ to," Emma answers, her sweetness biting. She rocks up onto her feet and stands, apparently indifferent to his reaction. "I suppose I just thought you would have taken precautions if you wanted to. After all, you had to know I didn't come in with anything, and haven't had access since."
Sebastian just stares at Emma. "I don't really... deal... with that," he says, gesturing vaguely. "Those are all... woman... things." A slow shake of his head. "I mean, you're really saying that...? Fuck, Emma. It's not that it's so much of a surprise..." Memories of abortions past, purchased by Sebastian for women in tears. "It's just I thought /better/ of you."
"You don't deal with /that/? How can you not when you've dealt with every other little facet of my existence here?" She turns toward him, hands perched on her hips, and returns his stare with one that is cool and guarded. "Obviously, you didn't think well enough of yourself."
Sebastian's eyes tense. "Take care of it," he says to Emma. "We can have dinner tomorrow night - I'll have someone make the arrangements for you to see a physician this evening."
"Take care of it?" Emma echoes, clasping her hands behind her back and rocking forward. "It? You say that with such detachment, Sebastian. Fine. Thank you. Tonight will be convenient." She releases her hands and sashays toward him.
"I'm /glad/," Sebastian responds, watching Emma's approach. "As for my detachment..." There's a dangerous tone somewhere in his voice, in his thoughts. "How would you like me to say it? Make sure I don't have a bastard, Emma." He steps towards her, reaches up - takes her chin. "I don't want competition."
Emma's chin rises and she looks at him, weighing his words against her own. "Of course, Sebastian," she murmurs soothingly after a moment's hesitation. "No one ever /could/ compete with you."
"Good girl, kitten," Sebastian responds with a smile and a note of fondness. He bends his neck and puts lips to Emma's, briefly. "After you get your prescription, you can join me again for the night - maybe get a movie, while you're out," he says. "Something sweet, for dessert."