Black Queen's Ball (Part 1 of 2)
10/25/2005
Logfile from Shaw.
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Hellfire Clubhouse - Ballroom
Easily the largest room in the estate, the ballroom is able to accommodate upwards of a hundred fifty people comfortably. The vaulted ceiling rises at least thirty feet off the floor, soaring through the second story of the mansion and reaching for the roof of the building itself.
Black and white marble squares tile the floor in the distinctive design of a chessboard framed by dark stained wood paneling, accented by drapery, ornaments, and along one side, a series of glass doors leading out onto the patio. Abstract but spare patterns in wrought iron hold the glass and provide a feeling of weight and presence to the otherwise perfectly transparently glass. Of course, they are not without their surprises: a switch hidden behind a panel flick the windows to complete opacity at a moments notice, and they are a fair bit thicker than one might expect.
Alcoves nestle in regular intervals along the wall, holding suits of armor and cases of artifacts from the history of the Hellfire Club. Above them, small projections in the railing form discrete balconies from which those who have free reign of the upstairs level may peer down on the room's occupants.
--
Black is the rule of the evening, in decor and for the honor of the approaching holiday and the party's guest, the club's new Queen of that color. The color sweeps starkly across the ballroom in silk and velvet hangings and touches on the long food table set up against one wall, where servitors in matching garb shuttle most thickly to keep guests well-plied with culinary and potable entertainment. For the ears, there is a string quartet playing in a corner, just waiting for the dancing to begin and the event to roll on and on, towards night, towards dawn, towards Halloween.
Shaw is already making the rounds, though it isn't /his/ party: the King still has duties, and he's attending to them with all due, light social grace. His tuxedo's tails flap lightly behind him on his stalk -- to chat here, to shake hands there, to laugh politely at this joke or that sniping comment -- and he's keeping an eye out for that guest of honor, through the milling, buzzing crowd.
If black is the rule of the evening, then Magneto is no exception. His tuxedo defined by slightly varying shades of sable, from collar to cuffs to well polished shoes, there's not a flicker of white to be seen on Erik's rigid person. Silver gleams at his wrist and in his hair once hat and coat have been taken care of at the door, but overall, he blends in reasonably well with the crowd - the cold pallor of his glare lacking some of its usual unpleasant intensity.
The party has started, but just barely, when Sabitha and Percy appear at the door. It's his invitation that gets them in - she simply stands next to him, in flowing red and teetering heels that make eye contact easier, with an air of expectance. "You know," she converses jokingly as they pass by the entrance and into the party proper. "I really ought to work on this entrepreneurial thing so that I can manage my own invitations. I'd make feminists cringe, the way I keep sneaking in here on someone's arm." An over-dramatic sigh echoes quietly out, around an amused smile. "If only it weren't so much /work/."
Unless one's Paris Hilton, it's quite difficult to be late to one's own party. Without the hired help of some of the well-heeled crowd, Jean's been forced to tend to her own dressing, and has elected to do her own driving, but she's not more than twenty minutes behind the first real knot of arrivals, thank-you-New-York-Traffic, and arrives through the grand golden doors with head high and neck arched, and one hand lightly lifting her rustling black ballgown free of her feet. Without waiting to see if there are any silly things like conversational hushes awaiting her, the newly-crowned Black Queen makes her entrance quietly and smoothly, and with a steady dignity. Her first stop is not to her King, oh no, but rather to an aging nonagenarian sitting in an alcove off to one side. Christopher Grey, patriarch of his clan, hasn't been to a Club function in many years, but tonight he'll trade the indignity of being seen with a walker along with his suit in exchange for seeing his granddaughter tapped to a ruling spot. Even if his stay won't exceed an hour, 'lest his doctors disapprove.
So many women manage to get in on men's arms. Toxin is no exception, her gloved hand resting lightly on Magneto's elbow. Her dress is such a dark green that it is almost black, but not quite. She tilts her head upwards to look at Erik, a tiny smile gracing her lips. "This might even be entertaining." she murmurs, her eyes flicking over the crowd, careful not to rest on any one person too long. Tonight, she's here to make him look good.
Warren has foregone his usual choice of white suit tonight, donning instead a more traditional black and white tuxedo as a nod to old friends recently crowned and the theme of the evening. Emma has no such inclination, and stands out all the more in her white silk affair as she circulates in the room, having arrived earlier on the arm of the winged gentlemen, and then peeled off charm and flirt her way through the crowd. Jean's arrival does pause the conversation in her immediate vicinity, but not for long as the White Queen gathers the attention back into the palm of her hand.
Dark and sleek in his tuxedo - for one thing a White Bishop knows, apparently, is how to wear clothes - Percy's entrance to the party with scarlet-clad lady on his arm is traced by the low-level amusement curling lips and glinting in his eyes. Social life marred by jailtime? Let's not even think of it. "Can always beat 'em off with sticks. Or flame-retardant chemicals. I'm sure there's an extinguisher around here somewhere."
No hush for Shaw's vicinity: it's enough that sharp eyes caught the flash of auburn hair (and that gown!) through the mill, through which he coasts on easy, assumed power. "Dr. Grey," he offers quietly, smiling to match, and then brightens a polite gaze upon her gentleman in the alcove. "Good evening, sir. I don't know if we've met...? Sebastian Shaw, at your service."
Magneto doesn't look so sure - cool glare passing a little uneasily over the milling crowd before it settles back down onto Toxin at his side. Familiar faces, more of them enemies than friends. "Did I remember to tip the driver?"
Toxin once again warms herself, at least emotionally, with another smile. "Of course you did. Shall we go and get a drink?" she inquires, her hand firm on his elbow. "Try to -look- a little more relaxed, dear." If nothing else, she can keep him from sprawling on the floor if it comes to that.
"I should start to carry mace," Sabby suggests on a politely entertained smile, although the richness of her voice indicates far more amusement than her expression. Polite society. Her eyes trace out the sections of the crowd with neat efficiency. Noteable faces are marked and plotted, and she inclines her head slightly toward Percy. "Do you have goals for this evening, or is this purely enjoyment tonight?"
"Goals?" Warm tenor, draped in amusement, as Percy casts a glance - all half-lidded indolence beneath dark lashes - down at her. "Would you like bullet-points?"
Sal enters without pomp, without notice -- or so she would hope. Black's Rook has taken another line, tonight -- grey drapes her elegant figure, silver darkening nearly to black. The crowd is scanned, positions of important players noted -- and she begins to make her rounds, stopping to chat with someone now and then when absolutely unavoidable -- all the while keeping subtle, keen watch on her side's King. You can dress her up in pretty clothes, but some portion of her attention will always, always be on business.
And how many of those enemies are his own fault? Emma laughs and curls her hand possessively into the crook of an older gentleman, smiling coyly up at him as they sweep around the outside of the room toward the back tables where red-jacketed servers man the alcohol.
"It might be helpful," Sabby agrees, head tilted back to meet his gaze with laughing eyes. "I forgot to ask my role in this, you know. Someone gave me such terribly short notice that I am /entirely/ unprepared. Recycled the gown, even, and if anyone so much as comments, I'm blaming you."
Allison arrives late, not guiltily so but only fashionably late. It bothers her slightly though, was she supposed to bring a date? Yes, you always bring dates to secret society balls. Steeling her courage, she pulls at the cuff of a long black glove, straightens the slinky evening dress with the price tag still in her purse, and enter, smiling politely and greeting a few acquaintances.
Jean says, "Sebastian," Jean greets in turn, looking up from where she's settled beside her paterfamilias on the bench, a hand laid across his, to settle lively eyes upon the arriving Shaw. "I'd like you to meet Christopher Grey, my grandfather. Grandfather, this is Sebastian Shaw... my king." There's a bit of amusement for the court formality of the title, rolled about the two word, but there's a bit of friendly respect in the tone as well. Christopher's wrinkles may be deep, but his eyes are sharp and measuring as he turns them on Shaw. "I've heard of you, of course, Shaw," he pronounces, giving a slight nod. "Self-made man. Always a good one to have in charge of a club, I've found. Keeps us from getting fusty." He offers a hand to him, trembling slightly and given a look of disfavour for such muscular treachery.
"Mmm." replies Erik, not entirely convinced by the warmth of her smile or the potential distraction alcohol may offer. Still, eyes lifting back to the crowd, he makes a concentrated effort to slack out the hard line of shoulders upon angling himself in a direction that seems likely to produce alcohol. Individiuals are largely ignored for the moment, save for the one at his side. They're all blurring together a bit anyhow. "I'm trying."
Shaw takes the hand smoothly, for a firm (but not too firm) grasp that he holds as he says, "Thank you, sir. You do us honor by attending tonight and by helping delivering us your granddaughter, of whom you should be proud, indeed." He floats a light, lazy smile at Jean; his mind is thoroughly locked down into party mode, just like his expressions, his words, his moves. "If there's anything we can do for you, or I myself," he returns to the elder Grey, sober as a judge, "please let me know? I do need to steal Dr. Grey away to open the dancing, in the meantime. Please forgive me."
"Just keep walking. A slow, stately pace is quite dignified, after all." Toxin teases in a soft tone, her voice lilting. An attempt to keep him in a good mood, and perhaps a bit more focused. Relieving a waiter of a flute of champagne, she takes the opportunity to give the room another once-over. "You do realize we're not staying all night."
"Did I or did I not offer to steal you away for a dress hunt?" Percy demands with chin-jutting reproach. Letting whatever point she might possibly have about his having invited her, er, yesterday wash over him like water off a duck, he casts his glance on a boomerang circuit through the assembled, picking out faces and idly attaching associative information. "The trouble with parties is that you have to be so appallingly social. I'm sure Oliver and Ashleigh are here somewhere, so if you see a small blonde woman bearing down on us I advise you to duck."
"I had things to /do/ on my lunch hour," Sabby protests firmly, and digs her fingers into his arm even as she smiles sweetly up at him. "I never mind social," she allows, "So long as I get to go home and collapse at the end of the... /oh/? /Really/?" Interest lights bright and clear in Sabby's eyes, and were she not already balanced on tiptoes, she'd stretch up in search. "You have to introduce me. Do you see them?" Her eyes scan the crowd hopefully, and then turn back to Percy. "Does Oliver resemble you at all?"
In a traditional tux, accenting black to the great white wings that curve over his back, the White King /needs/ no invitation! Especially considering as he's already entered, dear man, if exited again to take care of something presumably urgent. Now, he reappears in debonaire glory, at the door and through the door, unchallenged, unharried. One could totally get used to this.
"Ah yes, the dancing." The eldest of the Greys awards this a tolerant, knowing nod, a pleased little smile crinkling his features as he notes the traditions of the Club being properly upheld despite his absence. (Undoubtedly his granddaughter's doing, of -course-.) "Go on then, don't let an old man keep you now that respects have been paid," he teases. "-Grandfather-," Jean begins, with the chiding tone of a grandchild to an elder fond of old jokes, but it's with a light laugh and a familial kiss to his forehead that she rises and lights herself upon Shaw's arm. "I'm amazed he made it," she murmurs to him once the old man has found himself an old friend to occupy his alcove and talk the old days, the weather and grandchildren with.
Magneto snorts softly to himself at that, a half-smile following on the heels of a glance downward as he too takes advantage of the passing tray. Slow and stately is certainly the way he seems to be intent upon moving - even in bringing the glass up to sip at the contents as he continues on, one step at a time. His balance seems to have returned, anyway. "Is that an order, Lieutenant?" Pausing to sip again, Erik pulls in a deep breath as he looks back out over the crowd, at and then away from the White King. "I suppose it would be terribly rude of me to kill Mr. Worthington in the middle of Jean's celebration."
Sure enough, tiny and blonde and ringletted: aristocratic features, blended angles sharper more than classically pretty -- Ashleigh Donner in shimmering, floor-kissing navy, propped a few inches higher by her heels (from 5'1" to 5'3", to be exact). And attached, clinging as though for dear life, to the arm of one Oliver Talhurst: he cuts a tall, square-shouldered figure in his tux. And pointed out by his younger brother to Sabitha with a jerk of manicured thumb. "He's taller than I am," Percy notes, low voice for his date's ears alone, tenor's tones brushed with an ever-so-light taint of sulk.
"He's delightful," Shaw assures her on their walk to the cleared center of the floor. Anticipation prickles light, light through voice and thoughts as the music shifts from soft background accompaniment to the crowd's chatter, into a stately (well, ponderous, anyway) waltz of deep bass and dark minor notes. And so, spinning her expertly into the first steps, the Black King begins the dancing ... and continues his conversation, a half-smile still tucked aslant. "Was it his idea to come? We'll make sure he's taken care of, of course."
Toxin takes a tiny sip of her drink. Of course, she'll ever-so-accidentally drop the glass when she's finished. One can never be too paranoid. "Not an order, my dear Mr. Lenscherr. However, if you insist on staying until dawn, I'm leaving and I'm taking the limo with me." A dry smile is offered Erik, and Toxin lets out a soft laugh at the easily recognizable sight of Warren Worthington. "I imagine it would be. A corpse -does- tend to put a damper on things."
"And she's nearly as short as I am," Sabby returns in quietly bubbled delight. Her grip on Percy's arm tugs, firmly. "Introduce me. Oh, tell Oliver I'm the girlfriend in the hospital. Can we break his mind, maybe?" She smiles sideways, just short of a grin (polite society), at him. "I can even call you 'darling' if you like. Or 'buttercup.'"
Ponderous the waltz may be, but Jean's steps are light and reasonably practised as she slides into step with Shaw. In an aside, she notes to his ear that "I've always preferred dancing with alpha male sorts. You actually know how to -lead-," with the sort of humorous vehemence to her tone that speaks of too many high school aged dances with nervous boys. As the precise turns of the waltz bring the alcove back into her field of view again, she nods thoughtfully. "The family grapevine carried the news to him, and he announced to all sundry and his nurse that he would see his granddaughter's coronation ball, and God damn his stroke damage. Greys tend to do what we want when we decide to do it."
Percy closes his eyes briefly, to hide the signs of suffering, though they certainly hang heavy in his plaintive tone. "Oh, please, Sabitha, you have /no/ idea what you're asking ..." Though he does also suffer himself to be steered brotherwards.
"It's going to happen sooner or later," Sabby returns to Percy as they progress toward the opposite Talhurst pair. "I really do think that you ought to at least allow me to meet your brother while I'm wearing a stunning dress. Do you prefer 'darling,' or 'buttercup,' my sweetums?" She does not snicker - simply not appropriate - but the echo of one is evident in her eyes. They light expectantly on the distant Oliver. "Maybe he'll dance with me. Maybe we'll switch, and /you/ can dance with Ashliegh." And won't /that/ be delightful?
Shaw tells his partner comfortably, "We know how to do a lot of things, we alphas. We're handy that way. Let me know if you want any fire hydrants conveniently watered." He does lead, and does it well, and he's even paying most of his attention to the dance and the dancer. His gaze flicks out at the alcove, and then he snorts inelegantly back to Jean. "Yes, I've noticed that about your family. I hope he enjoys himself. The older members are a great resource -- treasure -- around here, if only because, Christ, I get sick of the up-and-coming pups. I might throw tradition around, myself, but at least I'm /nice/ about it."
Round and round the conversations go -- the conversations are notably redundant, repetative in their boredom -- and so it's an unwary Sal that approaches a small, blonde, ringletted, and altogether unfamiliar form. An incautious one, as well -- a misstep, a moment, and she manages not to bowl the smaller woman over and maintain a sense of dignity for the moment. Her partner is notably ignored, though keen senses trigger memory, delight. "Excuse me, miss," is murmured, pitched just loudly enough for her companion to hear, as well.
"You would certainly think so, wouldn't you? But I suspect most of the people here who've actually spoken with him might be quietly pleased to see him go." Erik swallows the rest of his champagne, holds the glass out at his side, and drops it. "Of course, I may not be invited back again if I make a mess of the dance floor. And you wouldn't dare." Deep breath finally expelled, Erik slides a steadying hand to Toxin's hip and glances to the floor in question. "Shall we?"
Manuevering through the crowd (carefully, now, wings are tricksy), Warren's general route is nonetheless that of a circuit, attempting to locate one's Queen, and there she is. Quite occupied. Warren tilts his mouth down in a moue of disappointed disapproval. Terrible. But Emma marked and noted, Warren has a trajectory to swoop in and claim his dance. Thus does he approach.
"Just following the dictates of genetics and tradition," Jean allows, something far too girlish for a researcher, doctor and businesswoman not a fortnight from thirty twinkling in her eyes. Attuned to signals from her partner, she spins neatly at a cue, outwards and inwards in a rustle of satin that brushes at Shaw's legs. "There's nothing that says that tradition and innovation can't exist in the same room together. I think that realization's one that has to come with age, though."
"Oh, dear God," Percy mutters.
Oliver, hardly the most social of creatures, seems to have subtly geared in a coincident direction himself. "Wotcher, Perce," is offered, and the harried glance is not all that well-masked by the slightly sheepish smile. "Planning on showing up at the office this week?"
Percy's answering smile is edged and sharp as it glitters in the amber eyes. "Don't rent out my office just yet, old boy," he purrs. "Ash, still haven't got rid of the old musty sock, eh?"
It is with some call to bravery that slight, bird-boned Ashleigh tilts her head up at Percy, perfect ringlets a-tremble with the motion. "Good evening, Percy," and the Oxford tones from both brothers' throats are met in soft soprano's Boston counterpoint. "Might we be introduced to your --" But the delicate social heroics are cut off, alas, in round-eyed startlement as she finds herself mildly jarred, and addressed; she cants her head to peer nervously up at the tall and silver-clad creature, and loses her words a bit. "--er."
Ashleigh's reaction draws the attention of her affianced, who echoes the syllable: "Er," and follows it with, lame though it might seem, "hi."
Emma detangles herself from the partner's arm at Warren's approach, having caught it from the corner of her eye rather than any mental marking (shields must, of necessity, be raised high and hard in such crowds). "Hello, love," she murmurs, gliding to his side and placing her hand in his, anticipating the necessity of entering the floor themselves. "Slatter filed yesterday," she adds in an undertone. Cryptic for anyone but the White King.
Shaw mutters, "Or after a two-by-four to the back of the head." He smooths his expression, though, back to happy blandness. "Well, now you're coronated, if you like. Do you feel any different, Jean?"
Toxin laughs again, draining her own glass and dropping it as well. Such fun. "They might be at that. However, it's a theory we really shouldn't test anytime soon." she points out, her eyes glittering with mischeif. "If you get yourself into trouble, you'll see my pretty curls heading out that door." A glance towards the dance floor, and she shrugs, smiling up at him. "If you like."
Sabitha's smile lights eagerly on Oliver and then moves with swift interest to Ashleigh. Her hand drops from Percy's arm as they settle into a conversational arc, and her lips curl with genuine pleasure. "Oh, I /like/ her, Percy," she declares warmly. "She, unlike some, remembers manners." Sabitha's head tilts, just slightly, to suggest, "You're Asleigh, of course?" before 'er's and 'hi's serve as distraction, and Sabby blinks sideways at the pair of Oliver and Sal.
Warren's hand closes with cheerful possessiveness (mood changed like sweet lightning upon the reclaimation of Rightful Partner) over Emma's. He leans his head in and gives her a full, slanted grin. "Hello, pookie!" Voice quickly drops to close and conspirital, "And, oh, did it?"
"Y'know," Jean muses, expression growing briefly vague and medical, "Depending on the location of the blow, that just might-- but do I feel any different?" The imp of mischief returned, the Black Queen breifly breaks proper waltz form to flutter a hand, Scarlett O'Hara style. "Why I do declare, I feel filled to the brim with regality, poise and the spirit of Machiavelli himself." Snapping back to an amused deadpan, she wonders "Will that do?"
"Oliver," is acknowledged with genuine warmth, voice's dangerous edge softened for but a moment. "Hello." Cool grey regard moves from his face, to his companion's -- she is dismissed, perhaps out of turn, with an inclination of curl-capped head. "And you must be--?" But there is Sabitha to the rescue, providing the name she so conveniently plays at forgetting. "Ashleigh. Yes." Percy, for his part in this, is ignored.
"If something happened to me, you'd feel terrible." Erik mutters for Toxin's ears only, cold eyes fixed dimly upon Jean as he leads his lieutenant out onto the floor. The moment she's turned out of view behind Shaw, his focus is back upon rearranging his hands properly around Toxin - right hand lifting to a more proper position at her back as his left seeks to twine with her right.
Shaw skims a politely appreciative smile over emotion more direct, nearly pouncing with glee. "Sure it will," he says. "Sure it will. And Heaven help us if you need to have all that at your beck and call while we're in this bloody club. --Not that we'll discuss business tonight, of course. Excuse my slip."
Toxin's hands automatically go into the proper positions, and she can't help but keep up the smile. "I would be heartbroken for about ten minutes. Honestly, there might even be tears." she quips softly. She has eyes only for Magneto, as a good lieutenant should.
Emma stumbles into position for the waltz, surprise'd catch of feet veiled as an introductory dance step. "/Pookie/?" she echoes, brows lifting. But it is an moment's aberration, and Emma sloughs it off with a nod. "They anticipate inspection within six months." Doesn't make sense, does it, /snuggums/?
"Ashleigh, yes, Ashleigh Donner." It is a possessive curl of one tiny hand on Oliver's forearm as she gazes up at the inimitable Ms. Harper. "Oliver's fiancee." Pink flush touches pale cheeks beneath the expert touch that applied Ashleigh's makeup. She dips her head, then, glance nervous as it aims for Sabitha -- seeking a comrade-in-arms, perhaps.
"Sal," Oliver echoes. Involuntary warmth curls around the word even as it curves his mouth, though there is a slight jerk of wary brown eyes at Ashleigh's renewed grip, felt through his sleeve. He clears his throat. "It's good to see you."
"Ms. Harper," acknowledges Percy in a low drawl, tenor darkening to baritone with low humor; though little else is offered.
Beautiful upon the dance floor are Warren's feet, all grace to Emma's recovery. His smile remains constant and quite beamish. "Oh, do they?" he croons, er, on the low end of quiet. Quiet, secretive snuggums. And full of affirmating questions!
"Of course," Jean agrees, crinkling her nose with dry appreciation as she intones the dire sentence that "Tonight's for small talk and schmoozing, God help us." She falls silent and gives her grandfather a bright little smile and a wave over Shaw's broad shoulder as they swirl past him again, before once more turning her attention to the crowds, Shaw, and the footwork, in varying but approximately equal measure. "Completely without mentioning business, anyone you recommend I schmooze?"
Magneto gives her a bit of a jerk at that, stiff and staunch as his left elbow lifts - arrogant, proper, and not entirely without good humor. "I trust you would at least have the decency to bury me before liquidating my assets and running off to Bermuda with Derek." A slow blink betrays a few seconds of hesitation on his part, as the first three count is missed...and the second. Finally, on the third, he steps into the dance, operating on a hefty structure of false confidence in his ability, even in this state.
Sabitha's eyes brush across Sal and Oliver, testing and then dismissing. Her thoughts on the encounter, whatever they might be, are kept locked neatly behind a smiling expression. "Yes, I'd heard," she encourages to Ashleigh. Her eyes flick toward Percy with arched brows, and then she adds in teasing lecture, "As I'm apparently not to get an introduction, /Percival/... I'm Sabitha Melcross." She'll let Percy put a title to her, if he chooses. Observant eyes note the increased grip on Oliver's arm, the faint flush, the returned greeting, and Sabby steps sideways, closer to Ashleigh (who is apparently the focus of her interest, whilst Oliver is distracted, and half an eye on /that/ exchange). "I've heard a good many things about you. And forgive me if it's out of line, but your gown is absolutely /stunning/. I imagine Oliver can't take his eyes off you," she smiles. Oh dear.
Emma falls silent as they sweep past Erik and escort, irritation flickering a small grimace to life. And still Warren beams. "Yes, they do. What /are/ you grinning like a naughty school boy about?" she demands once they move past.
Shaw studies his own footwork for a moment while he thinks. "Touch base with the others," he finally answers, and there's amusement's cynical spark deep in his eyes, trained on hers. "We've put you on display; now you can collect their allegiance. Pay court to our opposite numbers, of course: I'll be spinning Emma around once we've finished. Otherwise, do as you will. As ever. You /are/ a Grey, aren't you? It's in the blood."
"So I heard," Sal answers Ashleigh, "and may I ofer my congratualtions?" The words sound sincere enough, though her smile does not quite reach her eyes. As Sabby's interest in Ashleigh increases, so does Sal's decrease -- and her eyes are all for Oliver, though she dips her head to Percy. Hopefully none of the room's telepaths are listening in for the nastiness that underlies her thoughts about /that/ Talhurst. "Oliver, old friend -- if your charming companion does not object, may I steal you for a turn out on the dance floor?"
Toxin isn't through by any means. With a toss of her head, she gently guides them into the dance, not leading, but definitely not just following along. "Of course. There would be a proper funeral, with a eulogy and all of that. I don't think I'll be going anywhere with Derek. Perhaps Mystique would go with me." A flash of her eyes, and a wink.
Warren also falls silent, schooling his expression to dislike at Magneto's back. Must not grin at Magneto. Improper. The grin, indeed, is reincarnated as a bemused smile as Emma questions him, lightly, no doubt. "Oh, good mood. Dancing and all. And, perhaps, plotting. If I can get some inspiring impetus to plot."
"I sincerely doubt it." Erik replies evenly - half-smile having returned a little distractedly in the course of their first few steps. Distractedly, perhaps, because he feels eyes on him and is a little torn between focusing on the dance and glancing aside for just a moment...and then there's Emma, moving past, and his curiosity is cancelled out into a faint scowl. In the meanwhile, the fact that Toxin isn't simply going along is causing a fairly constant stream of tension on Erik's part - her efforts met with slight resistance more than once.
"A Queen's sworn oaths from her subjects," Jean nods, grin crooked and brief before settling back into the light smile she's picked for the evening along with her jewellry. Tucking the information away as a neatly-marked roadmap, her own private flourishes to the route let be, she wonders "Is that Knight of yours attending tonight? I'll need an introduction, although Rook and pawns I can find on my own. And you'll probably find me hiding out on the patio if the crowd doesn't thin out a bit by midnight." With the string quartet slowly beginning to lose intricacy as the waltz winds down, Jean falls silent to simply enjoy dancing with a learned partner for a bit.
"I was picking," Percy informs Sabitha with a stab at wounded dignity, "my moment."
Ashleigh awards Sabitha a grateful smile, though the glance shot Sal's way is all threatened wariness adrift in sea-blue eyes. "But of course," she says, courtesy not allowing much else.
Oliver's look down at Ashleigh might be interpreted as an appeal, and one that from the ever-so-slight twist of his mouth that is denied; still, he is all the pleasant charm he can muster as he returns his attention to Sal. "I'd be delighted."
Ashleigh raises her chin, withdrawing her slender arm from and stepping lightly away from her prospective husband's side; this brings her closer to Percy. Not her usual haven. But Sabitha ... "I love your gown, too. Such a lovely shade," she announces with fervent earnestness, the square of narrow -- and /cold/ -- shoulders presented to Oliver. "It's lovely to meet you, Miss Melcross. Might I call you Sabitha?"
Emma leans close and peers up into familiar blue eyes suspiciously, stretching her perceptions beyond human five to test the mental feel of Warren's mind, and find it distinctly different. "/Jason/!" she hisses in an undertone, hand tightening in his, the one on his shoulder moving to pinch at the join of neck. "You--"
"You never know." Toxin retorts, slipping slowly back into following mode in the dance. Emma is spared a glance, with only a slight narrowing of the eyes on her part. The memory of the story Magneto told of Emma hanging over the edge of a building is enough to cause a fleeting smile before she schools her features once more. "I do hope you're not planning on abandoning me at some point tonight."
Warren is hit with a sudden unmanly fit of coughing which he much suppress in his elegant white hankerchief (tugged from elegant black pocket). They are indeed horrid tuberculosis-style coughs, not snickers. At all. That pinch hurts a wee. "Oh, come on," he undertones. "I was /awesome/."
"No, he's not a club member, and I'm keeping him away from here unless necessary." Shaw winds down, too, his attention already leaning towards the crowd, the next dance-- Sly black gaze slides to her. "I'll come find you if it gets that bad. More Scotch overlooking the dinner? It can be our tradition. And now I'd better go capture the White Queen -- hell, what's wrong with Worthington? Is he dying on us?"
"Have you found it yet?" Sabitha quips cheerily to Percy. Her eyes settle with quiet interest on Sal and Oliver (and haven't /they/ been rude this evening?) before she returns them to Ashleigh. Encouraging, quietly. "Certainly, if I may call you Ashleigh, I hope? I..." Her next thought is broken off by the appearance of a middle-aged man, smiling his apologies, at her shoulder. A few murmurs, and then Sabitha sends a smile skittering between Percy and Ashleigh. "I'm being swept away for a dance, I fear. Ashleigh, I do hope we'll get to talk a bit tonight." Smiling eyes rest on Oliver, and then Percy. "Perhaps I'll even manage an introduction to your fiance, if Percy can be bothered."
"Don't we all wish." comes Erik's answer to Shaw in an undertone - swept away in a pair of steps almost as soon as he's spoken. "I may attempt to get Jean's attention, if I make it through the next few minutes without doing anything too embarassing."
Sal is oh so gracious as she draws Oliver away from the prospective bride, from Sabitha, from Percy. "Darling little thing," is murmured in quiet reference to the former, grey eyes gleaming. "It's good to see you again, Oliver. I met your brother at the Clubhouse," and oh, the distain, the disgust in her tone. "It was an interesting meeting. I think he decided I was off-limits, however." Eyes cut over to Warren and Emma, at whom she frowns deeply. Die, birdboy, die.
Emma scowls as the winged gentleman doubles over. "If you don't stop drawing attention to yourself, I'll pluck your feathers myself," she growls, stepping back and pulling her hands away from him, sympathy pulled over her expression.
Toxin manages to keep her delight at Erik's comment down to an unladylike snort. "You can't get rid of him -that- easily." A look around them, at the swirl of color as the waltz continues. "I think you'll manage. Will you steal her away for a dance, then?"
Eyes half-lidding, Jean allows her mind loose from behind protective walls to run a quick mental sweep for Warren. And she finds him... not where 'Warren' is. She earns a stabbing, buzzing flash of pain from too many mindvoices for her troubles along with this news. Wincing and rubbing at her right temple with two fingers for a moment, she reveals that "That's not Warren, unless he's had a clone made. Practical joke, I think?" A moment's quiet, a moment's focusing, and pain is willed away and the easy, queenly smile brought forth again as she smooths a hand across her dress, the murmur of talk in the room notching upwards in the absence of music.
"Oliver's boring," Percy points out sulkily. "Well, Ash. Guess that leaves you and me." He leers down at her, habitually. "Trust me to keep my hands to myself?"
Ashleigh nods to Sabitha. "I hope so, too." Percy is favored with a snowmelt smile. "Implicitly," she replies.
There is warmth to Oliver's smile, dark brown eyes lit with it behind the slow blink. "Percy's smarter than he looks," he agrees mildly. It is with an apologetic air that he adds, odd protective instincts struck by Sal's disdain (however gratifying it might be on another level): "He's not really that bad, you know."
Shaw cuts the Black Queen a startled look that swiftly shades into tight irritation. "We've had too many of those lately," he replies with forced lightness. "Just ask Percy Talhurst." Then he bows slightly from the waist. "Until later, Jean. Wish me luck." Oh, Emmmmmmmma... (Pookie?)
"Well, you can go ahead. It wouldn't exactly /hurt/," is stated again too cheerfully. The hankerchief is returned to his pocket -- not stained, thank you, and he's all well upright dignity. "Isn't this a delightful night, dearie?"
"Play nice, Percy," Sabitha instructs with laughing eyes. "I'll be back before you know it, and I'll lecture you if Ashleigh has bad things to say." And then her partner is whirling her away from conversation and into dance (and idleness).
Emma smiles and releases a few, short spurts of indifference to those nearest before raising her shields again and stepping in close to Jason!Warren's side. "It will if I do it," she purrs sweetly, hand wrapping around his bicep in a vise grip. "Now, you will walk out of here and return yourself to the house. And if you ever pull this little stunt on me, /pookie/, I will see to it that you spend the rest of your life thinking you are a performing french poodle in a pink tutu."
Magneto stops rather abruptly and perhaps a little belatedly upon recognizing the increased chat volume to mean that the dance has come to an end. Most unfortunately, the room continues to move without him - a sharp intake of breath doing little to ease his disorientation. His grip on Toxin going a bit stiff, Erik shifts his left hand onto her shoulder to wait out the worst of it, eyes unfocused...and distinctly agitated.
"Ow," Jason protests lightly at both vice squeeze and image of plucked immaterial feathers -- yeesh. "Oh, really, I think I made it pretty frigging obvious," he mutters as he tries to disengage himself (obediently!). "And if you do /that/, you will be wasting enormous talent."
With the timing of a rather-late Devil (damn the crowd), Shaw breezes up to the lovely White couple. "Sir," he accords 'Warren' mildly before fixing attention on Emma. "I'd be remiss if I didn't have a turn with you immediately after your rival, darling. Shall we?"
Toxin steps closer to Erik as his grip tightens, her right arm sliding around his waist. Her left arm moves up his shoulder, and her head rests on his shoulder. While she actually rests no weight on him, to most it would appear she's merely getting close after the dance. "Shall we wait out one?"
"You could have warned me he was gay," she notes cooly, though her thoughts are far from civil on the subject. fortunately, no one seems to be listening. "I think he might be interested in learning how to shoot -- or he was, the last time we talked. A lot has happened, since then." She regards the dance floor, the absence of music -- waits it out. "I didn't expect to run into either of you in New York." There is regret in her tone, drawn out slowly. "I read about the engagement."
Jean, meanwhile, seems to have decided that if you can't have a little fun at your own party (And never mind the Jane Austen reasonings behind why Emma's thrown it.) then where can you? Parting the crowds with about as much efficiency as Shaw, she hovers near the ersatz Angel, exchanging small talk with a local lobbyist and waiting her turn to gently tweak at a feather. "Planning to leave without a dance for me, old friend?" she accents the last two words ever so lightly, and with an odd look to her eyes.
Emma smirks and lifts a brow, indicating the door with a tip of her head before turning to Sebastian, the expression souring only a little. The White Queen slides her hand into Shaw's and follows his lead smoothly to the floor. "My rival, Sebastian? That implies I consider her competition," she purrs.
"It's only traditional," Shaw grieves quietly. "Let's cling to that while we can, all right? I'm a simple man; I like the whole black-versus-white scheme." Stepping into the music, spinning her around as promised, he gloats dark eyes down at her. "Just as much as I like watching you arch your back and spit about Jean Grey, in fact."
Warren turns with full moue of disappointment -- and Shaw avoidance -- toward the indicated door. But hark! A tug, an obstruction? (A whore-- shut up, /telepath/) Jason marks sad regret to his inability to comply with Emma's request and bows deeply. "Never, Jean Grey. Why, that'd be /impossible/." He straightens and holds his arms out to begin the dance.
Magneto is, in turn, resting a fair amount of his weight on Toxin, his irritation at his own need clear in the hard line of his jaw. But soon enough, he manages a nod, his grip on her subsiding as he shifts his attention back off to the side, staunch once more. "Perhaps."
Oliver winces and avoids eye contact. "'Snot the sort of thing we talk about. And there's only so long I've been certain. Anyway it's hardly like that's any of my business." The words are strung together: swift, defensive, low-voiced. He clears his throat as he attempts to marshall a bit more self-control. "Home office is here. Heart of the business world ..." He pauses, lapsing into quiet, uncertainty reflected in dark brown eyes. The lack of music leads to an extremely undignified temptation to fidget. Softness-wrapped baritone ventures, "Did it surprise you?"
"You know," Jean notes to her winged companion, taking a moment to glance over to the string quartet and nod at them out of some vague sense that this might make the music start up again, "One of the pitfalls of masquerading as someone as well-connected as Warren is that he's got old friends all over the place. Old friends have inside jokes and habits, and you've already missed two of them. Can you dance?"
"And doesn't white and black compliment the other best when side by side?" Emma returns, tightening her hold on him as he spins them. "But really, I only do it because you /are/ a simple man, with simple pleasures."
Shaw grins. "As you well remember. Oh, Emma. I'm touched. Truly."
"I wasn't," Jason explains, with tone too swift to be strictly demure, "trying to fool anyone on any permenant basis. However, I tugged Emma on for a while, didn't I? Prank, not a spy mission." Jason clears his throat. "And I can . . . dance. But I can /appear/ to dance much better, wouldn't you know?"
Toxin continues to keep up the facade of attempting to get Magneto to hold her close, much to her own amusement. "You could escort me to the side. That would be the gentlemanly thing to do." A tiny dig at her leader, and she pulls away just a bit, tilting her head back. "Of course, you could wait until I was out of breath and begging prettily for a chair."
"Of course, even if you appear to dance very well, if you actually step on my toe, it'll still bruise even if I don't notice it," Jean warns, tone mockingly dark as she pokes forth a sandal'd foot to wriggle her toes at 'Warren' for inspection. Behaving herself thereafter, she allows him to lead them, waiting patiently, and perhaps with a little well-hidden sense of loss at not having the genuine Warren for this second of the dances, for things to lead off.
"I will endeavor to preserve your toes, dear." And Jason, after examining the toes carefully for future reference, takes the lead and for all the flippancy, does his level best to lead well. "Know who I am?" he asks, quietly, curiously, after a few steps.
Jean, Warren, Shaw, Emma. Over Toxin's shoulder, distractions abound. Erik's left hand eases from shoulder to back, while the right eases from back to...lower back. And then her voice is there, and he recalls himself and tilts his chin down abruptly to meet her gaze - hands freezing where they are once she's pulled slightly away. A little blankly, mind, but at least he's looking in the right spot. "Escort, did you say? Sorry..." He's here, really. Hands dropping back to his side, he tuns enough to offer an elbow.
"I'm sure you are. Somewhere in that black heart," Emma replies, all sweetness and light. And speaking of such, "Our Jason is quite the little devil, isn't he?" she murmurs, spying the dancing couterparts across the floor. "I think a turn or two on the floor as a Black Pawn may do him good after all." Concession? Can this be?
Shaw accepts it as such, and gloating's long gone, anyway. A shrug follows him around the dance's pattern. "If he's slipped the leash again," he tells the White Queen pleasantly, "I'll see what I can do about fitting him with something a little more difficult to remove." A pause, a few more steps, a simmering little smile. "Did you like his Warren? If you ever get tired of the old one..."
"You're far too kind to a lady." Jean's tone is playful, determinedly so, although she turns a speculative glance upon 'Warren'', measuring and thoughtful. "Well, that badly-stifled thought about whores just tied you into some interesting things, but thanks to various briefings and the fact that you're obviously a master of illusions, you'd have to be Jason. Although I'm not entirely clear which side of the board you're playing on -now-. Grey pawn sound about right, for convenience?"
"Ah hah, yes, whores -- sorry about, er, that. Not personal, but that time in the mall with all those mistaken identities . . ." Jason rolls his eyes heavenward in resigned apology to the past. "But, yes, ma'am," and eyes return down. "You have me pegged, although I must," sigh, "correct you. Both sides play /me/. I'm just that useful. And," aside, behind a hand briefly taken from dance position to assist said aside, "that unmanageable. But, shhh, don't tell anyone." Hand returned to the proper place with a light ahem. "And /you/ are our benevolent and beautiful Black Queen, master of altruism and the souls of men?"
[Continued in Part 2.]