Ice and Ivory
I think she forgets how much she is mine. Even if my control wanes, my influence - my ways and mores - are written into every little corner of her psyche. She may call herself a Frost, but I know and she knows who her family is.
But then, she is all the family I have, too.
=NYC= Gardens - Hellfire Clubhouse
The sun hasn't come out to play, but that doesn't keep everyone indoors, especially when escaping the four walls of an office building. Still dressed in linen and silk from the work day, Emma stands at the entrance to the gardens looking out across the yard that slopes down to the river bank in the distance. A nattily-dressed man waits at a remove from her, and between them, a large Newfoundland runs eagerly.
The door opens and closes up on the back deck, and there is the sound of shoes along with the familiar mental presence of Sebastian Shaw, approaching until he tromps down the stairs to stand a few steps above and behind Emma Frost. A brief sound like the rush of a jet, and then puffing breaths as the scent of a cigar fills the immediate vicinity.
Emma waits until Sir Didymus (named by Rebecca and Tyanna, not her, thank you) drops the drool coated ball at the attendants feet before lowering herself and calling the dog over. "Good afternoon, Sebastian," she says indifferently as the dog bounds across the grass at her call and pushes his nose into her hand to take the treat held against her palm.
"Emma, dear," Shaw murmurs from around his cigar. "How are you?" He eyes the dog, and - stepping closer to the White Queen - drops down onto his haunches. "Hey, pooch," he says affably to the canine. A sidelong glance at Emma. "Should I read something into your keeping a black dog?"
"I didn't pick him out, so I doubt there's any particular significance. I keep a white cat as well, if that means something to you," she says with a twisted smile. Well trained, Didymus sits mostly, his hindquarters practically hovering centimeters off the ground.
"A white snake, too," the Black King says with a smile. "Though yes, kitten - I do find your feline friend's symbolism... amusing." A low chuckle around his cigar, as he reaches out to scratch the dog behind the ears, making cooing noises as he does.
Didymus responds to the attentions with a patient swipe of his tongue at the Black King's wrist, but when Emma rises, so does his attention. "Another gift from Tyanna. I swear she would have turned the fraternity into a petting zoo if I would have allowed her." Emma nods a dismissal at the servant still standing apart with the soaked ball pinched between his fingers, and she turns to step away with Didymus at her heel.
"Greek life has never really caught up with this co-ed business," Shaw remarks. "Every time I hear about you being in a fraternity, Emma, I wonder about beer pong."
"About what?" The question drifts over a shoulder already moving toward the gardens.
"Beer pong," Shaw says. "Where you take a ping-pong ball and a glass of -- have you really never seen Animal House?" he wonders, shaking his head, starting to rise and meander after Emma. "I sometimes forget you're so much younger - when I was in college..."
Not just younger. Emma's awareness of general cultural phenomenon has always been rather dismal. "Animal House? Is it a zoo program?" She waits for him to catch up, then tucks her hand between his elbow and body and leans on him lightly. Didymus trots along next to her until something ahead catches his attention and he wanders off to investigate. "When you were in college, I hadn't even learned to walk, I'm sure."
"I'm not that old," Shaw says a little defensively, but it's with good humor. "You were, I don't know - eight, nine? I was a -" a snort "- late bloomer." He smiles, reaching over with his free hand to pat hers in brief affection. "Snow's going to come soon."
"I was entirely precocious," Emma replies absent-mindedly, tipping her head back to focus up on the chill-gray sky. "Perhaps." Memories of last year and a snow fight bring a tiny smile to her lips.
"It becomes you," Shaw murmurs. "The snow. It smoothes out the hard edges of your color." His hand leaves Emma's, and he takes his cigar from between his lips, exhaling aromatic smoke in the air. "I suppose," he says wryly, "I should worry about cancer, but..."
Emma's hand leaves his arm, and the smile disappears. "There are a thousand and one things that might kill you, and only one that will," she says sourly, snapping her fingers to attract her pet's attention.
"I'm pretty confident I know the one thing, Emma," Shaw says with a brief maudlin streak through his thoughts. "Day by day, kitten, just sands trickling out of a glass."
"Time, my King?" Emma responds archly, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.
"Time and pride and the curse of genetics," the Black King replies. "I am << mostly>> resigned to it." A brief smile to catch Emma's eye. << Mostly. >>
"So you scramble and fight for what?" Didymus lopes back and butts the side of her leg trying to get his massive head into her hand, knocking her off balance.
An instinctual hand reaches out to steady Emma. "I'm Popeye," Shaw says with a quirk of humor. "I am what I am." He shrugs. "Besides," he says, and there's something calculating in those wheels within wheels, "I have a legacy to consider."
"Who?" Nevermind. It doesn't matter. Emma is steadied and her gaze flicks down to the hand on her arm, then lifts to his underneath an arched brow. "What legacy would you leave?"
"It's an excellent question," Shaw says. "A prosperous business to someone, I suppose, but... A strong club. It's a new age, Emma, and I fear sometimes for our ability to look more than a few months in advance."
Emma shrugs and steps away. "When information and secrets took months to develop, we could afford to think solely in terms of years. It is no longer a game of endurance, but rather a race that is determined by sprints and dashes."
"That race is important," Shaw agrees. "But all it does is win us battle after battle, Emma - it says nothing at all about the course of the war." He shakes his head. "I want the Club to have a /vision/, a vision of the future, and work to achieve it."
"It does. Mine." She says it so simply, so carelessly, that one might be tempted to discount the determination and ambition that drives the reality they represent.
"Dear girl," Shaw murmurs with amusement. "Where do you think that vision came from?"
Emma knees the dog aside as he starts to cross in front of her to sniff at Sebastian's shoe. "From my own pretty, empty head."
"Pretty, kitten, it is," Shaw replies. "Empty, not so much." He pauses. "I'll have my legacy," he says with a note of steel. "I will - but I will not tell you, Emma, that you do not figure largely in it."
"I told Paris once that only a fool underestimates me, do you remember?" The question is oddly-nostalgic and pointed. "You're not a fool, Sebastian."
"No," Shaw replies firmly. "I'm not, Emma - but I'm not Paris Seville, either. I haven't her... frailty." A pause. "I'm weak, my Queen, but..."
"But you're far from frail," Emma soothes, cosseting a cranky child. She puts a hand to his arm to pause and turn them toward each other as she looks back down the path they had come.
"Far," Shaw emphasizes. "And it is still /our/ club." << Mine, >> his mind echoes. << Mine and yours, and you are mine. >>
<< Your Galatea? >> She looks back at him and perfectly reflects the statue's frozen unattainableness.
"Call me Pygmalion," Shaw positively whispers. "For I am he."
Emma pushes up on tiptoe to lift her face close to his for her return whisper. "As I recall, she broke his heart."
"Ah, Galatea," Shaw breathes in silent response. "E'en through blush of life your ivory shines."
<< I don't blush anymore. >> Emma settles back and arches a brow at him before turning and calling for Didymus.
Shaw's smile quirks. << Not ever? >> he wonders, amused. << I suppose we've all made sacrifices, my dear, haven't we? >> He looks after the dog thoughtfully. "Nice pooch," he offers in its direction.
Emma heads down the path with the canine in question loping contentedly behind her, his tongue hanging out and his breath coming in little puffs of steam in the cold air. << And I'm sure there are still more to come. Good evening, Sebastian. >> She doesn't look back.
Shaw glances only briefly at Emma and the dog before he takes his cigar from his mouth, puffing contentedly. "I would," he whispers to the empty air, "count on it." Wisps of thought carry words to the White Queen in her retreat.
But then, she is all the family I have, too.
=NYC= Gardens - Hellfire Clubhouse
The sun hasn't come out to play, but that doesn't keep everyone indoors, especially when escaping the four walls of an office building. Still dressed in linen and silk from the work day, Emma stands at the entrance to the gardens looking out across the yard that slopes down to the river bank in the distance. A nattily-dressed man waits at a remove from her, and between them, a large Newfoundland runs eagerly.
The door opens and closes up on the back deck, and there is the sound of shoes along with the familiar mental presence of Sebastian Shaw, approaching until he tromps down the stairs to stand a few steps above and behind Emma Frost. A brief sound like the rush of a jet, and then puffing breaths as the scent of a cigar fills the immediate vicinity.
Emma waits until Sir Didymus (named by Rebecca and Tyanna, not her, thank you) drops the drool coated ball at the attendants feet before lowering herself and calling the dog over. "Good afternoon, Sebastian," she says indifferently as the dog bounds across the grass at her call and pushes his nose into her hand to take the treat held against her palm.
"Emma, dear," Shaw murmurs from around his cigar. "How are you?" He eyes the dog, and - stepping closer to the White Queen - drops down onto his haunches. "Hey, pooch," he says affably to the canine. A sidelong glance at Emma. "Should I read something into your keeping a black dog?"
"I didn't pick him out, so I doubt there's any particular significance. I keep a white cat as well, if that means something to you," she says with a twisted smile. Well trained, Didymus sits mostly, his hindquarters practically hovering centimeters off the ground.
"A white snake, too," the Black King says with a smile. "Though yes, kitten - I do find your feline friend's symbolism... amusing." A low chuckle around his cigar, as he reaches out to scratch the dog behind the ears, making cooing noises as he does.
Didymus responds to the attentions with a patient swipe of his tongue at the Black King's wrist, but when Emma rises, so does his attention. "Another gift from Tyanna. I swear she would have turned the fraternity into a petting zoo if I would have allowed her." Emma nods a dismissal at the servant still standing apart with the soaked ball pinched between his fingers, and she turns to step away with Didymus at her heel.
"Greek life has never really caught up with this co-ed business," Shaw remarks. "Every time I hear about you being in a fraternity, Emma, I wonder about beer pong."
"About what?" The question drifts over a shoulder already moving toward the gardens.
"Beer pong," Shaw says. "Where you take a ping-pong ball and a glass of -- have you really never seen Animal House?" he wonders, shaking his head, starting to rise and meander after Emma. "I sometimes forget you're so much younger - when I was in college..."
Not just younger. Emma's awareness of general cultural phenomenon has always been rather dismal. "Animal House? Is it a zoo program?" She waits for him to catch up, then tucks her hand between his elbow and body and leans on him lightly. Didymus trots along next to her until something ahead catches his attention and he wanders off to investigate. "When you were in college, I hadn't even learned to walk, I'm sure."
"I'm not that old," Shaw says a little defensively, but it's with good humor. "You were, I don't know - eight, nine? I was a -" a snort "- late bloomer." He smiles, reaching over with his free hand to pat hers in brief affection. "Snow's going to come soon."
"I was entirely precocious," Emma replies absent-mindedly, tipping her head back to focus up on the chill-gray sky. "Perhaps." Memories of last year and a snow fight bring a tiny smile to her lips.
"It becomes you," Shaw murmurs. "The snow. It smoothes out the hard edges of your color." His hand leaves Emma's, and he takes his cigar from between his lips, exhaling aromatic smoke in the air. "I suppose," he says wryly, "I should worry about cancer, but..."
Emma's hand leaves his arm, and the smile disappears. "There are a thousand and one things that might kill you, and only one that will," she says sourly, snapping her fingers to attract her pet's attention.
"I'm pretty confident I know the one thing, Emma," Shaw says with a brief maudlin streak through his thoughts. "Day by day, kitten, just sands trickling out of a glass."
"Time, my King?" Emma responds archly, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.
"Time and pride and the curse of genetics," the Black King replies. "I am << mostly>> resigned to it." A brief smile to catch Emma's eye. << Mostly. >>
"So you scramble and fight for what?" Didymus lopes back and butts the side of her leg trying to get his massive head into her hand, knocking her off balance.
An instinctual hand reaches out to steady Emma. "I'm Popeye," Shaw says with a quirk of humor. "I am what I am." He shrugs. "Besides," he says, and there's something calculating in those wheels within wheels, "I have a legacy to consider."
"Who?" Nevermind. It doesn't matter. Emma is steadied and her gaze flicks down to the hand on her arm, then lifts to his underneath an arched brow. "What legacy would you leave?"
"It's an excellent question," Shaw says. "A prosperous business to someone, I suppose, but... A strong club. It's a new age, Emma, and I fear sometimes for our ability to look more than a few months in advance."
Emma shrugs and steps away. "When information and secrets took months to develop, we could afford to think solely in terms of years. It is no longer a game of endurance, but rather a race that is determined by sprints and dashes."
"That race is important," Shaw agrees. "But all it does is win us battle after battle, Emma - it says nothing at all about the course of the war." He shakes his head. "I want the Club to have a /vision/, a vision of the future, and work to achieve it."
"It does. Mine." She says it so simply, so carelessly, that one might be tempted to discount the determination and ambition that drives the reality they represent.
"Dear girl," Shaw murmurs with amusement. "Where do you think that vision came from?"
Emma knees the dog aside as he starts to cross in front of her to sniff at Sebastian's shoe. "From my own pretty, empty head."
"Pretty, kitten, it is," Shaw replies. "Empty, not so much." He pauses. "I'll have my legacy," he says with a note of steel. "I will - but I will not tell you, Emma, that you do not figure largely in it."
"I told Paris once that only a fool underestimates me, do you remember?" The question is oddly-nostalgic and pointed. "You're not a fool, Sebastian."
"No," Shaw replies firmly. "I'm not, Emma - but I'm not Paris Seville, either. I haven't her... frailty." A pause. "I'm weak, my Queen, but..."
"But you're far from frail," Emma soothes, cosseting a cranky child. She puts a hand to his arm to pause and turn them toward each other as she looks back down the path they had come.
"Far," Shaw emphasizes. "And it is still /our/ club." << Mine, >> his mind echoes. << Mine and yours, and you are mine. >>
<< Your Galatea? >> She looks back at him and perfectly reflects the statue's frozen unattainableness.
"Call me Pygmalion," Shaw positively whispers. "For I am he."
Emma pushes up on tiptoe to lift her face close to his for her return whisper. "As I recall, she broke his heart."
"Ah, Galatea," Shaw breathes in silent response. "E'en through blush of life your ivory shines."
<< I don't blush anymore. >> Emma settles back and arches a brow at him before turning and calling for Didymus.
Shaw's smile quirks. << Not ever? >> he wonders, amused. << I suppose we've all made sacrifices, my dear, haven't we? >> He looks after the dog thoughtfully. "Nice pooch," he offers in its direction.
Emma heads down the path with the canine in question loping contentedly behind her, his tongue hanging out and his breath coming in little puffs of steam in the cold air. << And I'm sure there are still more to come. Good evening, Sebastian. >> She doesn't look back.
Shaw glances only briefly at Emma and the dog before he takes his cigar from his mouth, puffing contentedly. "I would," he whispers to the empty air, "count on it." Wisps of thought carry words to the White Queen in her retreat.