Settling and resettling
Still so much to do - and that's only with my mundane job. Damn Mondays!
At least the Rook's squared away for now. I'll intervene (or ask Jean to) with her and Percy if need be, but it had better not "need be." She needs to work more with him, if he might someday be my Bishop. Well, even if he doesn't: if we need to dispose of him, say, one way or another. Good to get him figured out now for planning for all the eventualities.
I will do my best not to waste more time pondering how in the world she and Oliver possibly get along.
12/5/2005
Logfile from Shaw of X-Men MUCK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hellfire Clubhouse - Shaw's Office
Ebony, sable, and jet: black defines this capacious room, making its modern furniture all the more sleek and its softening touches all the more deep. A desk dominates the space with massive construction and shining-clean top, empty of all but a silvery computer's flat-panel monitor, slim tower, and keyboard. A high-backed Aeron chair looms behind the desk, lording over the two guest chairs on the opposite side. A wet bar stands against the wall opposite the desk, next to a single armchair.
One entire wall lies shrouded in black velvet; whether the drapes cover only wall or windows as well stays hidden. A miniature marble obelisk, fully six feet high, guards a corner between the office's two doors, its sloping sides and pyramidal peak gleaming darkly pristine but for stray chips and scuff marks. The rest of the room is its own adornment: crown-molded white ceiling, pale-rose silk wallpaper, and lush black carpet interwoven with tiny scarlet diamonds.
--
Shaw sits at his desk in a wash of paperwork and the slight frown of concentration that accompanies it. The curtains are open on the cold, cloudy day outside, but inside the heat's going, and anyway, he's wearing a full and proper suit. Shoes are off, though, as revealed when he tips back in his chair to study a thick contract and crosses his socked ankles on the desktop.
Sal's entrance is understated, quiet -- a brief word with the bodyguard on duty, a quiet knock on the door. She waits, equally quiet, and smoothes the lines of her skirt: business length, muted grey.
Shaw mutters annoyed syllables, but swings his feet down and himself up to go bring down the security systems and undo the physical locks. "Harper," he says with some surprise, then, holding the door open between them. His scent piques, too, with habitual arousal. "Haven't seen you in a while. Come in."
Arousal to arousal -- and quiet guilt. Which is smothered in a heartbeat, betrayed only by a twinge in her gut and the slightest slip of her eyes -- from Shaw's face to a point slightly above his collar, then back. "Shaw," is even, controlled -- allowing just a hint of the former into her voice. "Thank you. Things ahve been ... busy." She steps into the office, and makes her way toward one of the guest chairs in front of the desk.
"You're telling me," Shaw replies lightly and swings the door shut again. On his pace back to the desk, his frown resettles itself on his face, and he doesn't reseat himself, but folds his arms and cocks his hip into the desk's edge. Looking down at her, he wonders, "Everything all right? Not /too/ busy, I hope."
"Business, mostly," is honest, if not the complete truth. Sal looks up at him, measures his mood -- takes in the frown. "Is there anything I should be aware of, that you haven't seen fit to mention in email or over the phone?" Her expression is quiet, intense -- another question, underlying: is there anything that /she's/ told him, in a less than rememberable position.
Fortunately for her (perhaps), Shaw's diverted from subtext by the spoken question: a grin chases the frown away, and he tells her, "We have the Inner Circle. She capitulated last night. And /you/ have a new Black Pawn."
An answering grin, chasing away worries of her own: triumphant. "Ours." She feels the weight of the word, chooses another: "Yours." Curiousity follows on triumph's heels, and she asks, "And who might that be, Shaw?"
"The former White Bishop," Shaw replies, sobering somewhat. "His turning coat is what turned the tide our way, and we're going to protect him to the hilt. As for trust..." He sighs, tips his head back, and rolls his eyes shut. "I don't know. I'd like you to work with him -- keep an eye on him if nothing else. Let's see if we /can/ trust a traitor."
Shock wars with control, with guilt -- wins out for the briefest of moments. "Percy." It is blank. Toneless. Therefore, suspicious.
Shaw agrees, "Percy," and the frown's back. "I can't take him on right away as Bishop, but maybe someday... Do you have a problem with this move, Rook?"
"No." Beat. "He may, however, have a problem with reporting directly to me."
"Too damn bad," is the Black King's first and immediate response, but he softens it some, considering her across the space (heated and strained with tension now) between them. "If he does, I'll speak with him. He /is/ a special case, after all. But why would he? Because of his sexuality?"
"Yes," is breathed, quiet. "But more directly, because of mine." Sal maintains eye contact during this, though she does not (yet) volunteer any more information.
Shaw blinks into the contact, visibly rearranging some thoughts and expectations in his head. "All right. Is this a problem in a working relationship going forward? I can bypass you and have him report to me instead if it's smoother that way, and you could be on call for whatever I need in his case."
"I do not know that it will be. I do, however, feel that you need to be aware of the possibility -- so that if there /is/ a problem, it will not come as a surprise." Sal considers for a moment, then allows, "It is ... complicated. It invloves Oliver."
"Oh, Jesus," Shaw mutters and sits more heavily on the desk. "What?"
"I need to be more selective of the place I choose to frequent when my goal is unfettered relaxation, apparently." She pauses, then leans her head against an elbow-propped hand. "I encountered the brothers Talhurst. Things proceeded in interesting directions, from there." Pause. "I nearly slept with both of them."
Shaw's mouth twitches, and his jaw clamps hard, and so do his hands on his folded arms' biceps, and he clears his throat. "I see." His voice is admirably level. "'Nearly' as in you didn't? So -- what, did Percy take it amiss? Oliver, I'm sure--" oh, the weight of baritone irony "--didn't mind one bit. His fiancee might, but that's not our concern."
"Oliver was a little bit drunk at the time, as well -- Percy. Well. Pheremones are lovely, aren't they -- I tried to sleep with them both. At the same time -- was on board until they -- I guess there's just some unspoken brotherly code that says no matter how drunk or horny you are, you're just not getting naked and having sex with a woman ... at the same time." Now that it's out, she might as well reveal it in its entirety. "he shut us down like a splash of cold water to the face. I was ... a little bit drunk."
Black eyes narrow, and this time, Shaw lets his mouth move, into a slight, pleased smile. "So he uses his mutation in appropriate ways. Good to know. These things happen, Harper. I'm not judging you, and if he does ... that's between you two, I suppose, unless you need to bring it to my level. But," he emphasizes, "the offer stands: he can report to me or to the Black Queen. Maybe you can suss him out, see where you stand? Then tell me."
"I took Oliver home," is wry, rueful. "I did, however, mean what I told Percy as it was all happening -- he /is/ under my protection." A pause, a glance back up to Shaw. "More so, now that he is our piece. I'll talk to him."
Shaw drums his fingers on his upper arm. "I'm not interested in what's going on between you and Oliver," he says bluntly, "as long as it doesn't affect our relationship or mine with him, on the business front. Keep it that way, and we're all happy." He leaves out the mention of Ashleigh Donner this time. "Talk, then, and report back. Thank you."
"It won't." She keeps her tone level, without betraying her relief. Regains some of her confidence, as well -- back straighter, gaze more level, the parts and pieces of Sal Harper fall back into place. "How are things progressing with Jason Wyngarde, on your level?" Rook, interested in King's Pawn.
Breathing a sigh, Shaw answers then with patent disgruntlement, "Nearly done, thank God. Joelle says that it'll probably come to a head tomorrow sometime, and then back to Ms. Frost he goes, duly broken and ready to serve in his place. She's done a great job with him, but ... I might send her to you next, when you have time." Chilled displeasure now: "Her loyalty might be wavering because /she's/ fallen in love with /him./ I'd hoped she wouldn't, but there you go. Kids."
"Lovely." There is a small sort of amusement in Shaw's problem with Joelle -- an abortive snort, resolved into an even look. "Loyalty," she rolls the word around, weights it with meaning. "Supercedes love. She will learn."
"I don't want to break her," Shaw says quietly, "but we will have to judge her performance tomorrow very closely, and go from there. She's the one breaking him, not me, and if she doesn't, out of love..."
"I understand," is stated with quiet, calm surety. She meets his eyes. "We will see."
Shaw dashes out a satisfied smile and then levers himself up from the desk. "Good. That's all I have for you. Nothing will change too much in the Circle for the moment: everything needs to sort itself out, and I need to renew allegiances. And find out from my Queen where we are on Wide Awake. And see what I can do to help Emma rebuild her Court. And so on. It's good to be the King," he tosses off with self-deprecating sarcasm.
A slow, satisfied smile spreads, as Sal stands. "Yes. But you /are/ King. The Circle will now run according to your rules." She smoothes her skirt again, this time with surety, rather than nerves. Looks back up again. "Guided by your hand."
"That's the idea," agrees Shaw on his sink back into his chair. He glances at the waiting paperwork, then smiles back up at her, a soft and open expression for once. "We did it, Sal. Thank you for your help along the way."
"You can continue to count on it, Shaw," promises the Harper. "You can count on it." She takes in his smile for a moment before answering with one of her own, and exits as quietly as she arrived.
[Log ends.]
At least the Rook's squared away for now. I'll intervene (or ask Jean to) with her and Percy if need be, but it had better not "need be." She needs to work more with him, if he might someday be my Bishop. Well, even if he doesn't: if we need to dispose of him, say, one way or another. Good to get him figured out now for planning for all the eventualities.
I will do my best not to waste more time pondering how in the world she and Oliver possibly get along.
12/5/2005
Logfile from Shaw of X-Men MUCK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hellfire Clubhouse - Shaw's Office
Ebony, sable, and jet: black defines this capacious room, making its modern furniture all the more sleek and its softening touches all the more deep. A desk dominates the space with massive construction and shining-clean top, empty of all but a silvery computer's flat-panel monitor, slim tower, and keyboard. A high-backed Aeron chair looms behind the desk, lording over the two guest chairs on the opposite side. A wet bar stands against the wall opposite the desk, next to a single armchair.
One entire wall lies shrouded in black velvet; whether the drapes cover only wall or windows as well stays hidden. A miniature marble obelisk, fully six feet high, guards a corner between the office's two doors, its sloping sides and pyramidal peak gleaming darkly pristine but for stray chips and scuff marks. The rest of the room is its own adornment: crown-molded white ceiling, pale-rose silk wallpaper, and lush black carpet interwoven with tiny scarlet diamonds.
--
Shaw sits at his desk in a wash of paperwork and the slight frown of concentration that accompanies it. The curtains are open on the cold, cloudy day outside, but inside the heat's going, and anyway, he's wearing a full and proper suit. Shoes are off, though, as revealed when he tips back in his chair to study a thick contract and crosses his socked ankles on the desktop.
Sal's entrance is understated, quiet -- a brief word with the bodyguard on duty, a quiet knock on the door. She waits, equally quiet, and smoothes the lines of her skirt: business length, muted grey.
Shaw mutters annoyed syllables, but swings his feet down and himself up to go bring down the security systems and undo the physical locks. "Harper," he says with some surprise, then, holding the door open between them. His scent piques, too, with habitual arousal. "Haven't seen you in a while. Come in."
Arousal to arousal -- and quiet guilt. Which is smothered in a heartbeat, betrayed only by a twinge in her gut and the slightest slip of her eyes -- from Shaw's face to a point slightly above his collar, then back. "Shaw," is even, controlled -- allowing just a hint of the former into her voice. "Thank you. Things ahve been ... busy." She steps into the office, and makes her way toward one of the guest chairs in front of the desk.
"You're telling me," Shaw replies lightly and swings the door shut again. On his pace back to the desk, his frown resettles itself on his face, and he doesn't reseat himself, but folds his arms and cocks his hip into the desk's edge. Looking down at her, he wonders, "Everything all right? Not /too/ busy, I hope."
"Business, mostly," is honest, if not the complete truth. Sal looks up at him, measures his mood -- takes in the frown. "Is there anything I should be aware of, that you haven't seen fit to mention in email or over the phone?" Her expression is quiet, intense -- another question, underlying: is there anything that /she's/ told him, in a less than rememberable position.
Fortunately for her (perhaps), Shaw's diverted from subtext by the spoken question: a grin chases the frown away, and he tells her, "We have the Inner Circle. She capitulated last night. And /you/ have a new Black Pawn."
An answering grin, chasing away worries of her own: triumphant. "Ours." She feels the weight of the word, chooses another: "Yours." Curiousity follows on triumph's heels, and she asks, "And who might that be, Shaw?"
"The former White Bishop," Shaw replies, sobering somewhat. "His turning coat is what turned the tide our way, and we're going to protect him to the hilt. As for trust..." He sighs, tips his head back, and rolls his eyes shut. "I don't know. I'd like you to work with him -- keep an eye on him if nothing else. Let's see if we /can/ trust a traitor."
Shock wars with control, with guilt -- wins out for the briefest of moments. "Percy." It is blank. Toneless. Therefore, suspicious.
Shaw agrees, "Percy," and the frown's back. "I can't take him on right away as Bishop, but maybe someday... Do you have a problem with this move, Rook?"
"No." Beat. "He may, however, have a problem with reporting directly to me."
"Too damn bad," is the Black King's first and immediate response, but he softens it some, considering her across the space (heated and strained with tension now) between them. "If he does, I'll speak with him. He /is/ a special case, after all. But why would he? Because of his sexuality?"
"Yes," is breathed, quiet. "But more directly, because of mine." Sal maintains eye contact during this, though she does not (yet) volunteer any more information.
Shaw blinks into the contact, visibly rearranging some thoughts and expectations in his head. "All right. Is this a problem in a working relationship going forward? I can bypass you and have him report to me instead if it's smoother that way, and you could be on call for whatever I need in his case."
"I do not know that it will be. I do, however, feel that you need to be aware of the possibility -- so that if there /is/ a problem, it will not come as a surprise." Sal considers for a moment, then allows, "It is ... complicated. It invloves Oliver."
"Oh, Jesus," Shaw mutters and sits more heavily on the desk. "What?"
"I need to be more selective of the place I choose to frequent when my goal is unfettered relaxation, apparently." She pauses, then leans her head against an elbow-propped hand. "I encountered the brothers Talhurst. Things proceeded in interesting directions, from there." Pause. "I nearly slept with both of them."
Shaw's mouth twitches, and his jaw clamps hard, and so do his hands on his folded arms' biceps, and he clears his throat. "I see." His voice is admirably level. "'Nearly' as in you didn't? So -- what, did Percy take it amiss? Oliver, I'm sure--" oh, the weight of baritone irony "--didn't mind one bit. His fiancee might, but that's not our concern."
"Oliver was a little bit drunk at the time, as well -- Percy. Well. Pheremones are lovely, aren't they -- I tried to sleep with them both. At the same time -- was on board until they -- I guess there's just some unspoken brotherly code that says no matter how drunk or horny you are, you're just not getting naked and having sex with a woman ... at the same time." Now that it's out, she might as well reveal it in its entirety. "he shut us down like a splash of cold water to the face. I was ... a little bit drunk."
Black eyes narrow, and this time, Shaw lets his mouth move, into a slight, pleased smile. "So he uses his mutation in appropriate ways. Good to know. These things happen, Harper. I'm not judging you, and if he does ... that's between you two, I suppose, unless you need to bring it to my level. But," he emphasizes, "the offer stands: he can report to me or to the Black Queen. Maybe you can suss him out, see where you stand? Then tell me."
"I took Oliver home," is wry, rueful. "I did, however, mean what I told Percy as it was all happening -- he /is/ under my protection." A pause, a glance back up to Shaw. "More so, now that he is our piece. I'll talk to him."
Shaw drums his fingers on his upper arm. "I'm not interested in what's going on between you and Oliver," he says bluntly, "as long as it doesn't affect our relationship or mine with him, on the business front. Keep it that way, and we're all happy." He leaves out the mention of Ashleigh Donner this time. "Talk, then, and report back. Thank you."
"It won't." She keeps her tone level, without betraying her relief. Regains some of her confidence, as well -- back straighter, gaze more level, the parts and pieces of Sal Harper fall back into place. "How are things progressing with Jason Wyngarde, on your level?" Rook, interested in King's Pawn.
Breathing a sigh, Shaw answers then with patent disgruntlement, "Nearly done, thank God. Joelle says that it'll probably come to a head tomorrow sometime, and then back to Ms. Frost he goes, duly broken and ready to serve in his place. She's done a great job with him, but ... I might send her to you next, when you have time." Chilled displeasure now: "Her loyalty might be wavering because /she's/ fallen in love with /him./ I'd hoped she wouldn't, but there you go. Kids."
"Lovely." There is a small sort of amusement in Shaw's problem with Joelle -- an abortive snort, resolved into an even look. "Loyalty," she rolls the word around, weights it with meaning. "Supercedes love. She will learn."
"I don't want to break her," Shaw says quietly, "but we will have to judge her performance tomorrow very closely, and go from there. She's the one breaking him, not me, and if she doesn't, out of love..."
"I understand," is stated with quiet, calm surety. She meets his eyes. "We will see."
Shaw dashes out a satisfied smile and then levers himself up from the desk. "Good. That's all I have for you. Nothing will change too much in the Circle for the moment: everything needs to sort itself out, and I need to renew allegiances. And find out from my Queen where we are on Wide Awake. And see what I can do to help Emma rebuild her Court. And so on. It's good to be the King," he tosses off with self-deprecating sarcasm.
A slow, satisfied smile spreads, as Sal stands. "Yes. But you /are/ King. The Circle will now run according to your rules." She smoothes her skirt again, this time with surety, rather than nerves. Looks back up again. "Guided by your hand."
"That's the idea," agrees Shaw on his sink back into his chair. He glances at the waiting paperwork, then smiles back up at her, a soft and open expression for once. "We did it, Sal. Thank you for your help along the way."
"You can continue to count on it, Shaw," promises the Harper. "You can count on it." She takes in his smile for a moment before answering with one of her own, and exits as quietly as she arrived.
[Log ends.]