Stopover
A useless day at the office. Four meetings, two conference calls, and nothing actually done, but I'm sure we generated enough paperwork to push around enough desks to keep people busy until the end of the month. So it goes.
Picked up enough coffee (and conversation) on the way home to let me finish catching up on emails . . . and I Googled "Borg," too, while I was at it.
Interesting. I took notes.
2/21/2006
Logfile from Shaw of X-Men MUCK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The White Room
A small, comfortable little place, this - a minuscule cafe of little fame and ridiculously good coffee. The main room is small and rather inordinately comfortable, prevented from being claustrophobic by a theme of whites in the decor and the fact that the regulars - a sundry bunch of academics, artists, lawyers, workpersons, and every other group New York has to offer - are generally quietly occupied with coffee and good, solid plates of food. There is no theme, no specialized and exotic varieties of coffee or tea - the atmosphere is thick with cigarette smoke and comfort, not desperate sophistication.
--
Shaw ducks in from the lowering cold evening, rubbing his hands briskly for warmth and then snapping his long black coat away from an encroaching table. He doesn't even glance down at the irritated patrons he passes there, but moves straightaway for the queue at the cafe's counter, to wait his turn for hot, life-giving java.
At some distance safe from but still near to snapping coats, another pair of hands rubs for warmth. Jareth occupies that table, recent arrival evidenced by his habitual curling of fingers around a steaming cup of some form of drink. His attention turns to the new arrival, lingering there long enough to try and parse the nagging but vague familiarity.
Shuffling steps sideways, and then it's Shaw's turn. "Black, to go -- don't give me that Starbucks song-and-dance," he interrupts the counter-girl's offer of something more than, yawn, plain black coffee, and his irritation smooths under a polite, fixed smile. "Just a black coffee to go. Thank you."
Black to match some part of mood, perhaps? At least an eclipse of a black mood, judging by the subsequent smile. Jareth's observation of the proceedings remains rather mild, not fixed directly so as not to stare. He downs another swallow of his own drink with another glance toward the counter before absently tapping the cup, still seeking memory of identity.
Shaw pays with cash peeled from the clip he pulls from his slacks pocket, past the drape of coat, and after a moment gets his coffee. In a cup. To go. He eyes the girl, who boldly stares back, daring him to check the beverage. He does, with a sip. It must be satisfactory because he turns away, back to the main room, leaving the girl to smirk victory behind him.
A final tap of the finger coincides with the moment when something clicks into place, and Jareth glances once more at the cantankerous patron. The presence of a money clip on Sebastian Shaw - perhaps known to the girl as Moneybags McCrabby - seems now less out of place than on Joe Sixpack. Common sense drives him to tamp down, or try, any similar emerging smirk, even if it's only for simple bemusement over the situation entire.
Narrowed black eyes pin Jareth's way, with the pinpoint precision of someone who's spent his fair share of time in the public eye. Shaw saunters towards the tables, never breaking the visual contact with the other man. "Help you with something?" he inquires when he's within conversational range.
Somewhere in the depths of Jareth's mind, that same common sense, while smacking hand to face, mutters assorted forms of told-you-not-to. Any trace of smirk has quickly vacated, but Jareth still meets the contact and approach with a reasonable semblance of continuing calm. "Hmm? Oh. I was just watching the attempt to fend off the influence of Starbucks of Borg."
Shaw twitches part of a smile and shrugs. "I didn't know I was speaking that loudly." He sips coffee, eyes Jareth again. "Borg?"
Jareth shrugs his hands in kind against the cup. "Too close not to notice, I suppose." One hand lifts to wave the expression easily away. "Sci-fi reference. 'Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated.' and so on."
"This doesn't," asks Shaw with sudden, wary suspicion, "have anything to do with a Hellmouth, does it?"
Slowly, quizzically, an eyebrow creeps upward, and Jareth's expression adjusts into something odd. "Not to my knowledge, unless, if I place *your* reference right, someone is playing very fast and loose with assorted series."
Shaw sighs on his way down into a chair at an adjacent table. His coat settles around him with raven-winged rustles, and he hunches his shoulders irritably. "No. I don't know. Just something someone said to me in a bar last week-- Apparently, I need to watch TV more."
Jareth settles back in his chair and plucks up his straw between his fingers for purposes of slow twirling. "I'm not overly familiar with what I suspect that's referring to, myself. Maybe that or spend more time in the sci-fi section at bookstores."
"Right." Shaw favors him with a dry look and another twitch of wide, unamused lips. "I'll get /right/ on that. It'd be a nice break from my routine."
Jareth's straw-bearing hand droops in much the same manner as his expression, though the latter only does so to achieve a state of pristine and finely-tuned deadpan. "Well, I'm glad I could help, then. I do try."
Shaw's mouth tightens into a slot, and he shifts his weight forward on the chair with another coat-rustle, another sip of steaming coffee. "Do you?" he asks pleasantly to that deadpan. "Just hang around cafes, offering advice to strangers?"
Just as quickly and with equal ease, Jareth slips into an appearance of thought, tapping the straw against his mouth. "Hmm." Several quick taps go by while he stares at no point in particular, then looks to Shaw again. "You think there's a career in it?"
"There's a career in anything, if you try hard enough." Shaw taps a peremptory forefinger's tip on the table. "I can say that with certainty. Going to give it a shot?"
That same straw-bearing hand upturns in a shrug. "Probably right. I don't expect a position of living fortune cookie and or prognosticator pays so well, though." Jareth commences the tapping of straw to mouth again. "Mmmm... No."
Shaw twitches a little irritation in his expression at the tapping, and refocuses down on his coffee, which gets a measured sip. "Then what /do/ you do with your life?" he asks, passing time.
However it may be possible for an appendage to appear slightly chagrined - independent of any mien of its owner, at that - the culprit hand does so and deposits the straw back in the cup. Jareth folds one hand over the other atop the table and resumes placidity. "I teach."
"Teach what?" is Shaw's patient prompt.
A tilt of one hand angles one far enough to mark off a short list on fingers. "Programming, graphics, math..."
A spark of interest lights Shaw's gaze, which rises from his coffee and pins more securely on Jareth's face. "Computers? Any engineering?"
Briefly within Jareth's expression might be found something that suggests the thought that if he were to correlate this spark of interest with, for instance, the expression on the face of Dr. Frankenstein as his monster arose, the two would appear more similar than is entirely comfortable. "I did study electrical engineering, yes."
"So did I," Shaw responds, a little pleased, a little more relaxed. "Where do you teach?"
Between this question and any answer passes a brief moment of consideration, but Jareth places very little wager on Shaw ceasing to be interested without an answer. "Out in Westchester. You studied it?" Blessed be small diversions.
Shaw's expression rolls right along, as pleasant as his polished velvet voice. "Westchester? Nice. Beautiful country out there. And yes, I did. Penn State." He tips a nonchalant shoulder. "It was something to do before taking over the world."
Velvet wrapped around a large and solid mallet, perhaps adorned with a smiley face, or so goes the voice of warning. Jareth's small smile comes with the added fuel of relief of avoiding further inquiry. "It's very nice. I went to MIT. Something to do before dethroning Bill Gates, although that amounts to the same thing."
"How's that going for you so far?" Shaw asks, eyes soaked with innocent curiosity.
Jareth slips on the face of deadpan again and summons its equivalent intonation. "Spectacular. I can start throwing twenties on the barbecue already."
Shaw snorts and sits back, bringing his coffee with him. "Good luck," he offers and climbs to his feet. "Redmond is very pretty at this time of year."
Jareth turns up his hands again in wide-armed resignation. "Hope springs eternal. 'Next year in Redmond' doesn't quite ring the same as 'in Jerusalem,' though."
Shaw breathes a softer noise and bobs his head. "Still. Good night, Teach."
Jareth offers a final small smirk, then a sketch of a wave before gathering his drink for another swallow and a return to whatever happenings came before.
[Log ends.]
Picked up enough coffee (and conversation) on the way home to let me finish catching up on emails . . . and I Googled "Borg," too, while I was at it.
Interesting. I took notes.
2/21/2006
Logfile from Shaw of X-Men MUCK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The White Room
A small, comfortable little place, this - a minuscule cafe of little fame and ridiculously good coffee. The main room is small and rather inordinately comfortable, prevented from being claustrophobic by a theme of whites in the decor and the fact that the regulars - a sundry bunch of academics, artists, lawyers, workpersons, and every other group New York has to offer - are generally quietly occupied with coffee and good, solid plates of food. There is no theme, no specialized and exotic varieties of coffee or tea - the atmosphere is thick with cigarette smoke and comfort, not desperate sophistication.
--
Shaw ducks in from the lowering cold evening, rubbing his hands briskly for warmth and then snapping his long black coat away from an encroaching table. He doesn't even glance down at the irritated patrons he passes there, but moves straightaway for the queue at the cafe's counter, to wait his turn for hot, life-giving java.
At some distance safe from but still near to snapping coats, another pair of hands rubs for warmth. Jareth occupies that table, recent arrival evidenced by his habitual curling of fingers around a steaming cup of some form of drink. His attention turns to the new arrival, lingering there long enough to try and parse the nagging but vague familiarity.
Shuffling steps sideways, and then it's Shaw's turn. "Black, to go -- don't give me that Starbucks song-and-dance," he interrupts the counter-girl's offer of something more than, yawn, plain black coffee, and his irritation smooths under a polite, fixed smile. "Just a black coffee to go. Thank you."
Black to match some part of mood, perhaps? At least an eclipse of a black mood, judging by the subsequent smile. Jareth's observation of the proceedings remains rather mild, not fixed directly so as not to stare. He downs another swallow of his own drink with another glance toward the counter before absently tapping the cup, still seeking memory of identity.
Shaw pays with cash peeled from the clip he pulls from his slacks pocket, past the drape of coat, and after a moment gets his coffee. In a cup. To go. He eyes the girl, who boldly stares back, daring him to check the beverage. He does, with a sip. It must be satisfactory because he turns away, back to the main room, leaving the girl to smirk victory behind him.
A final tap of the finger coincides with the moment when something clicks into place, and Jareth glances once more at the cantankerous patron. The presence of a money clip on Sebastian Shaw - perhaps known to the girl as Moneybags McCrabby - seems now less out of place than on Joe Sixpack. Common sense drives him to tamp down, or try, any similar emerging smirk, even if it's only for simple bemusement over the situation entire.
Narrowed black eyes pin Jareth's way, with the pinpoint precision of someone who's spent his fair share of time in the public eye. Shaw saunters towards the tables, never breaking the visual contact with the other man. "Help you with something?" he inquires when he's within conversational range.
Somewhere in the depths of Jareth's mind, that same common sense, while smacking hand to face, mutters assorted forms of told-you-not-to. Any trace of smirk has quickly vacated, but Jareth still meets the contact and approach with a reasonable semblance of continuing calm. "Hmm? Oh. I was just watching the attempt to fend off the influence of Starbucks of Borg."
Shaw twitches part of a smile and shrugs. "I didn't know I was speaking that loudly." He sips coffee, eyes Jareth again. "Borg?"
Jareth shrugs his hands in kind against the cup. "Too close not to notice, I suppose." One hand lifts to wave the expression easily away. "Sci-fi reference. 'Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated.' and so on."
"This doesn't," asks Shaw with sudden, wary suspicion, "have anything to do with a Hellmouth, does it?"
Slowly, quizzically, an eyebrow creeps upward, and Jareth's expression adjusts into something odd. "Not to my knowledge, unless, if I place *your* reference right, someone is playing very fast and loose with assorted series."
Shaw sighs on his way down into a chair at an adjacent table. His coat settles around him with raven-winged rustles, and he hunches his shoulders irritably. "No. I don't know. Just something someone said to me in a bar last week-- Apparently, I need to watch TV more."
Jareth settles back in his chair and plucks up his straw between his fingers for purposes of slow twirling. "I'm not overly familiar with what I suspect that's referring to, myself. Maybe that or spend more time in the sci-fi section at bookstores."
"Right." Shaw favors him with a dry look and another twitch of wide, unamused lips. "I'll get /right/ on that. It'd be a nice break from my routine."
Jareth's straw-bearing hand droops in much the same manner as his expression, though the latter only does so to achieve a state of pristine and finely-tuned deadpan. "Well, I'm glad I could help, then. I do try."
Shaw's mouth tightens into a slot, and he shifts his weight forward on the chair with another coat-rustle, another sip of steaming coffee. "Do you?" he asks pleasantly to that deadpan. "Just hang around cafes, offering advice to strangers?"
Just as quickly and with equal ease, Jareth slips into an appearance of thought, tapping the straw against his mouth. "Hmm." Several quick taps go by while he stares at no point in particular, then looks to Shaw again. "You think there's a career in it?"
"There's a career in anything, if you try hard enough." Shaw taps a peremptory forefinger's tip on the table. "I can say that with certainty. Going to give it a shot?"
That same straw-bearing hand upturns in a shrug. "Probably right. I don't expect a position of living fortune cookie and or prognosticator pays so well, though." Jareth commences the tapping of straw to mouth again. "Mmmm... No."
Shaw twitches a little irritation in his expression at the tapping, and refocuses down on his coffee, which gets a measured sip. "Then what /do/ you do with your life?" he asks, passing time.
However it may be possible for an appendage to appear slightly chagrined - independent of any mien of its owner, at that - the culprit hand does so and deposits the straw back in the cup. Jareth folds one hand over the other atop the table and resumes placidity. "I teach."
"Teach what?" is Shaw's patient prompt.
A tilt of one hand angles one far enough to mark off a short list on fingers. "Programming, graphics, math..."
A spark of interest lights Shaw's gaze, which rises from his coffee and pins more securely on Jareth's face. "Computers? Any engineering?"
Briefly within Jareth's expression might be found something that suggests the thought that if he were to correlate this spark of interest with, for instance, the expression on the face of Dr. Frankenstein as his monster arose, the two would appear more similar than is entirely comfortable. "I did study electrical engineering, yes."
"So did I," Shaw responds, a little pleased, a little more relaxed. "Where do you teach?"
Between this question and any answer passes a brief moment of consideration, but Jareth places very little wager on Shaw ceasing to be interested without an answer. "Out in Westchester. You studied it?" Blessed be small diversions.
Shaw's expression rolls right along, as pleasant as his polished velvet voice. "Westchester? Nice. Beautiful country out there. And yes, I did. Penn State." He tips a nonchalant shoulder. "It was something to do before taking over the world."
Velvet wrapped around a large and solid mallet, perhaps adorned with a smiley face, or so goes the voice of warning. Jareth's small smile comes with the added fuel of relief of avoiding further inquiry. "It's very nice. I went to MIT. Something to do before dethroning Bill Gates, although that amounts to the same thing."
"How's that going for you so far?" Shaw asks, eyes soaked with innocent curiosity.
Jareth slips on the face of deadpan again and summons its equivalent intonation. "Spectacular. I can start throwing twenties on the barbecue already."
Shaw snorts and sits back, bringing his coffee with him. "Good luck," he offers and climbs to his feet. "Redmond is very pretty at this time of year."
Jareth turns up his hands again in wide-armed resignation. "Hope springs eternal. 'Next year in Redmond' doesn't quite ring the same as 'in Jerusalem,' though."
Shaw breathes a softer noise and bobs his head. "Still. Good night, Teach."
Jareth offers a final small smirk, then a sketch of a wave before gathering his drink for another swallow and a return to whatever happenings came before.
[Log ends.]