Grudge match
Didn't make up for being late to the meeting with Stanley and Parker.
Close, though. Very close.
What a pleasant fellow. I must remember never to cross his path again.
3/21/2006
Logfile from Shaw of X-Men MUCK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Central Park South
Deviating from the slightly more.../lonely/ feel of the northern sections of the park, the area here seems no less appealing to the eye, regardless. In the distance through the thick treelines of maple and oak, the skyline of New York can be seen looming. Smaller bodies of water than the Reservoir dot the green here, as do the bronze statues placed seemingly at random. The Shakespeare Garden, Tavern on the Green, Strawberry Fields, and the like of more popular 'hotspots' of the park flank to all sides.
--
Under the scudding clouds and weakly glaring sun, Shaw strides across the southern border of Central Park with long coat a-flapping and dark eyes a-roaming. He's got his hands shoved in pockets and shoulders hunched against the warming noon chill, and after a minute's brisk walk through the thin pedestrian crowds, he finds what he's looking for: a hot-dog cart! He pounces on the surprised vendor like a big black predator.
Trotting at a fair strolling pace comes Sean Cassidy, arms swinging free as he marches towards that same vendor; an old acquaintance. With battered leather jacket scuffling a rhythm to his steps, he jerks to a sudden halt. Someone in his way. The hint of a scowl flickers over his features. Then he waits. Impatiently.
"--o, no, no," Shaw is saying, impatiently, himself, to the vendor. He frees a hand to gesture frustration at the poor man. "Just mustard and ketchup! I didn't say /any/thing about relish, and that stuff looks pretty dodgy, I have to say." He leans over the cart's row of metal containers, sniffing at the greenish slush in one. Then he scowls and accuses, "When was the last time you changed this? I think it's ready to evolve and crawl away. --A plain dog. That's all. And quick, please, I'm in a hurry."
Something tugs Cassidy's lips to a purse, and slips his tongue from between them. Thoughtful. Dawning comprehension. "Sebastian Shaw," comes the tenor's brogue, laced with an accusation.
Shaw half-pivots on the heels of his splendidly polished shoes and transfers irritation to whoever's interrupting these delicate lunch negotiations. (The vendor, for his part, looks relieved and smiles at Sean before bending to fixing up a new hot dog.) "Yeah?"
Blue eyes shoot to the vendor, promising future Talks. He turns and smiles beamingly at Shaw. "Sean Cassidy. Friend of--" One hand snaps out, launching a suddenly balled fist for Shaw's jaw. The final word is grunted; gutteral. "--Jean's."
The punch clocks an astonished Mr. Shaw quite solidly in the jaw, yes, and he stumbles back, as much from momentum as that flat, unbelieving surprise. It drops away quickly, however, as quickly as he steps back up to his attacker and pushes a forefinger hard into his chest. (His other hand is rubbing his face, obscuring any physical traces of the blow.) "I've been through this once before," he says, low and clear, eyes burning like black hellfire. "If she wants to confront me, she can do it her own self, Lucky Charms, not through this string of alpha males she sends out instead."
Blue eyes blaze back, surprise flickering behind them somewhere. Both fists now balled, Cassidy holds arms taut, pointing to the ground by his sides. The attacking fist opens; shakes itself. (Ouch.) "Shouldn't hit a woman, Seb," he says, levelly. "'Specially not a woman like her." He takes on a mocking lilt, a twisted little smile bringing his expression darkly amused. "How're your talk shows?"
"Fuck off," Shaw says shortly and turns his back elaborately on the man, to stare smoldering at the hot-dog vendor. Lunch. Now.
"Oh, lord," Cassidy singsongs, mockingly, also turning towards the vendor, and spreading a thin smile towards him. "No dressings, just the hot dog, please," he requests. "Not talking to me, Seb? Cat caught that bigoted little tongue?"
Shaw accepts his dog in one hand, tosses a crumpled five onto the cart with the other, and takes a bite. He chews. He eyes Sean malevolently, but with sparks of recognition, contemplation -- calculation -- lighting his gaze and easing the tight, offended lines of his face. (He keeps the punched jaw turned /away/ from the other man. Nothing to see here.) "I'm hungry," he responds after a minute, levelly. "And I'm going to be late for a meeting, Mr. Cassidy. If you have more to yap at me, you can do it while I walk." And he sets off for midtown's business district without looking back.
"Yap my arse," Cassidy tells him, blunt and angry; blaze fading slowly, to be replaced by a slowly spreading smirk. "You got an explanation for what you did?" He takes his hot dog with a brief muttered promise to return, and turns on a heel to spring long strides after the retreating Shaw.
"What did I do?" Shaw asks. He sounds amused now, darkling with secrets and arrogance, but keeps his face turned to the path ahead: traffic, pedestrians, intersections, and trashcans. He tosses his hot dog's wrapper in one of those, brushes off his hands, and sticks them back in his coat's pockets. His brisk pace doesn't slacken for a second.
Lengthy, practised strides keep Sean up to speed, as he simply stares ahead. "Too cowardly to respond to a question, Shaw?" he wonders. "You get a kick out of hitting a woman? Figure you kick puppies as well."
"Only when they piss on the floor, Mr. Cassidy."
"Don't think Jean ever pissed on a floor," Sean muses, with a shot of humour threading past the quiet irritation stuttering across his features. "Maybe pissed on your ego."
Shaw barks a short laugh. His shoulders hitch on the zenith of a stride, drop again on the nadir. But he ripostes, "I'm not interested in discussing Dr. Grey. You've made your position clear to me. Painfully clear. Do you have any other reason to be bothering an honest businessman, mutie?"
"Depends," Cassidy replies, snorting his own derisive laugh for the final word. "Do an honest mutie and a businessman have anything else to discuss?" Hands thrust into leather jacket pockets. "I probably shouldn't have actually -punched- you," he decides, before upper lip is pushed out by a probing tongue. Thoughtful.
"How kind of you to think of it now," is Shaw's acidic response. He slows down a little bit. Glances over, black eyes to blue. His mouth is a stiff snarl of discontent. "I'm used to it, though. Don't worry about it. You don't say the things I do without getting that reaction now and then. I promise--" his tone swaggers "--I shall survive."
Cassidy turns his head, to meet the look impassively. "You alright?" he checks, flicking eyes down to the approximate location of the landed strike. "I'd never punch a man for his opinions, Shaw. It -was- a bastard thing to do-- who was the other assailant?"
Shaw's jaw is shadowed. Might be a nascent bruise. Might be a passing cloud overhead. He tightens it and turns away again. And ignores the question after his health, /thank/ you. "Some hairy asshole," he answers the other inquiry, still vitriolic (but sounding more grumpy about it). "Her boyfriend, I think. If I'd known she liked 'em feral, I would have taken a different tack with her."
Shoulders twitch into a shrug. "Think I might've met him," he says, off-handedly. "I doubt she'd go for you, no matter what the tack. She's got taste."
That pulls a smile out of Shaw's prickly funk, and for that second it's honest amusement. "I didn't want her to go for me. Not my type. But -- well, no matter." Subject shift, swift as the snap of his coat's wings: "Do you have a personal beef with me, Cassidy? Might as well get it all out of your system, so my lawyers really have something to play with for a suit against you."
"Nothing really," Sean tells him, "apart from your choice of stance on all things mutant, but that's not for violence." He takes on a more businesslike manner, striding along and offering sage advice. "I'd advise calling the cops now, though, if you plan on it. Civil suits can be easier if you've got the guy charged with something properly. Got the number for MA, if you'd like to get them involved as well?"
Shaw snorts. "I'm sure Mutant Affairs has better things to do than handle the problem of a hysterical human battered by a mean old mutie. No. Thank you for the suggestion, however. Still keeping in touch with your brethren in blue?"
"Well, you can always claim I used my special powers, and caused you irreparable harm," Sean suggests, easily. He lifts a hand to rub fingers over a day's worth of stubble. "Once blue, always blue. It's a shame I had to leave, really. Good pensions. You on a decent plan?"
"Yeah," Shaw answers, letting his accent slide a little lazily to match, again, a slower pace. He floats his words light, light, light: "Nothing like having a billion in the bank to make retirement look good."
Sean beams back an amused smile. "Money does buy happiness, I hear. Shame so many get irrepressable arseholeship thrown in for free." Long, easy strides carry him by the other man's side. "Ought to get to a doctor to assess the damage, as well."
Shaw marvels, "A regular font of human kindness and decency, you are," with a sarcastic edge slicing an undercut through the words. "Really, you should take this show on the road. Don't limit yourself to bringing benevolent advice to only the downtrodden of New York, Cassidy. Go worldwide! I have no doubt that any number of lost souls would tune in to lap up your Blarney words of wisdom."
"It's a pleasure to provide a beacon of shining light to those lost in the foggy darkness of bigotry," Sean returns, oh(!) so pleasantly. Hands fold together behind his back, withdrawn from pockets in one, easy movement. "I do my utmost to serve. I could always give you lessons in oratory."
In the shadow of an office building, Shaw finally stops walking. Looks heavy-lidded at the former cop. "I don't," he says distinctly, "want to be served by the likes of you." It's a challenge, offended and disgusted, dropping right out of their friendly testosterone-soaked banter into stark seriousness. "How about we agree to part ways and never see each other again?" His smile twists in the shade: the expression of a Goya devil. "That worked for me and your mistress."
"She'd love to hear you call her that," Sean replies, with a gleam trickling back into his look-- hungry, almost. "She'd love to know quite how stupid you are. Maybe one day someone'll convince you the truth of mutants. Doubt it'll be me, though." A tiny shrug, before he snaps into icy amusement. "You're too intimidated. Never again, Sebastian."
Shaw contemplates the gleam, then meets it and matches it with a courtly nod: acknowledgement, acquiescence, man to man. He backs off from the subject of Grey, at least, yielding the battlefield to him, and shrugs back. "Never again, then. Good day, sirrah."
Cassidy nods, once -- testosterone's only allowance. Then he turns, beginning to stroll away. "Goodbye."
Hardly a breath, only a few beats of the telltale heart, then Shaw's low, rough, merry baritone pads after him, with a vocal tap on the shoulder: "Hey, Cassidy."
Head turns over shoulder. "What?"
And Shaw is there, large and sudden and dark as the shadows swathing him, and then his fist is there, explosive (but pulled, clearly, mockingly /pulled/ from full strength) into Sean's jaw, exactly where he himself was hit. "Good day," he repeats, grinning, and steps back to proceed on his own way.
Head snaps back, and Cassidy steps back, cutting short the blaze that immediately enters his eyes. A hand lifts to rub over the spot; before the man breaks into a rich chuckle. "Not bad, fer a pussy," he says, quietly, watching after the other man for a long moment.
[Log ends.]
Close, though. Very close.
What a pleasant fellow. I must remember never to cross his path again.
3/21/2006
Logfile from Shaw of X-Men MUCK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Central Park South
Deviating from the slightly more.../lonely/ feel of the northern sections of the park, the area here seems no less appealing to the eye, regardless. In the distance through the thick treelines of maple and oak, the skyline of New York can be seen looming. Smaller bodies of water than the Reservoir dot the green here, as do the bronze statues placed seemingly at random. The Shakespeare Garden, Tavern on the Green, Strawberry Fields, and the like of more popular 'hotspots' of the park flank to all sides.
--
Under the scudding clouds and weakly glaring sun, Shaw strides across the southern border of Central Park with long coat a-flapping and dark eyes a-roaming. He's got his hands shoved in pockets and shoulders hunched against the warming noon chill, and after a minute's brisk walk through the thin pedestrian crowds, he finds what he's looking for: a hot-dog cart! He pounces on the surprised vendor like a big black predator.
Trotting at a fair strolling pace comes Sean Cassidy, arms swinging free as he marches towards that same vendor; an old acquaintance. With battered leather jacket scuffling a rhythm to his steps, he jerks to a sudden halt. Someone in his way. The hint of a scowl flickers over his features. Then he waits. Impatiently.
"--o, no, no," Shaw is saying, impatiently, himself, to the vendor. He frees a hand to gesture frustration at the poor man. "Just mustard and ketchup! I didn't say /any/thing about relish, and that stuff looks pretty dodgy, I have to say." He leans over the cart's row of metal containers, sniffing at the greenish slush in one. Then he scowls and accuses, "When was the last time you changed this? I think it's ready to evolve and crawl away. --A plain dog. That's all. And quick, please, I'm in a hurry."
Something tugs Cassidy's lips to a purse, and slips his tongue from between them. Thoughtful. Dawning comprehension. "Sebastian Shaw," comes the tenor's brogue, laced with an accusation.
Shaw half-pivots on the heels of his splendidly polished shoes and transfers irritation to whoever's interrupting these delicate lunch negotiations. (The vendor, for his part, looks relieved and smiles at Sean before bending to fixing up a new hot dog.) "Yeah?"
Blue eyes shoot to the vendor, promising future Talks. He turns and smiles beamingly at Shaw. "Sean Cassidy. Friend of--" One hand snaps out, launching a suddenly balled fist for Shaw's jaw. The final word is grunted; gutteral. "--Jean's."
The punch clocks an astonished Mr. Shaw quite solidly in the jaw, yes, and he stumbles back, as much from momentum as that flat, unbelieving surprise. It drops away quickly, however, as quickly as he steps back up to his attacker and pushes a forefinger hard into his chest. (His other hand is rubbing his face, obscuring any physical traces of the blow.) "I've been through this once before," he says, low and clear, eyes burning like black hellfire. "If she wants to confront me, she can do it her own self, Lucky Charms, not through this string of alpha males she sends out instead."
Blue eyes blaze back, surprise flickering behind them somewhere. Both fists now balled, Cassidy holds arms taut, pointing to the ground by his sides. The attacking fist opens; shakes itself. (Ouch.) "Shouldn't hit a woman, Seb," he says, levelly. "'Specially not a woman like her." He takes on a mocking lilt, a twisted little smile bringing his expression darkly amused. "How're your talk shows?"
"Fuck off," Shaw says shortly and turns his back elaborately on the man, to stare smoldering at the hot-dog vendor. Lunch. Now.
"Oh, lord," Cassidy singsongs, mockingly, also turning towards the vendor, and spreading a thin smile towards him. "No dressings, just the hot dog, please," he requests. "Not talking to me, Seb? Cat caught that bigoted little tongue?"
Shaw accepts his dog in one hand, tosses a crumpled five onto the cart with the other, and takes a bite. He chews. He eyes Sean malevolently, but with sparks of recognition, contemplation -- calculation -- lighting his gaze and easing the tight, offended lines of his face. (He keeps the punched jaw turned /away/ from the other man. Nothing to see here.) "I'm hungry," he responds after a minute, levelly. "And I'm going to be late for a meeting, Mr. Cassidy. If you have more to yap at me, you can do it while I walk." And he sets off for midtown's business district without looking back.
"Yap my arse," Cassidy tells him, blunt and angry; blaze fading slowly, to be replaced by a slowly spreading smirk. "You got an explanation for what you did?" He takes his hot dog with a brief muttered promise to return, and turns on a heel to spring long strides after the retreating Shaw.
"What did I do?" Shaw asks. He sounds amused now, darkling with secrets and arrogance, but keeps his face turned to the path ahead: traffic, pedestrians, intersections, and trashcans. He tosses his hot dog's wrapper in one of those, brushes off his hands, and sticks them back in his coat's pockets. His brisk pace doesn't slacken for a second.
Lengthy, practised strides keep Sean up to speed, as he simply stares ahead. "Too cowardly to respond to a question, Shaw?" he wonders. "You get a kick out of hitting a woman? Figure you kick puppies as well."
"Only when they piss on the floor, Mr. Cassidy."
"Don't think Jean ever pissed on a floor," Sean muses, with a shot of humour threading past the quiet irritation stuttering across his features. "Maybe pissed on your ego."
Shaw barks a short laugh. His shoulders hitch on the zenith of a stride, drop again on the nadir. But he ripostes, "I'm not interested in discussing Dr. Grey. You've made your position clear to me. Painfully clear. Do you have any other reason to be bothering an honest businessman, mutie?"
"Depends," Cassidy replies, snorting his own derisive laugh for the final word. "Do an honest mutie and a businessman have anything else to discuss?" Hands thrust into leather jacket pockets. "I probably shouldn't have actually -punched- you," he decides, before upper lip is pushed out by a probing tongue. Thoughtful.
"How kind of you to think of it now," is Shaw's acidic response. He slows down a little bit. Glances over, black eyes to blue. His mouth is a stiff snarl of discontent. "I'm used to it, though. Don't worry about it. You don't say the things I do without getting that reaction now and then. I promise--" his tone swaggers "--I shall survive."
Cassidy turns his head, to meet the look impassively. "You alright?" he checks, flicking eyes down to the approximate location of the landed strike. "I'd never punch a man for his opinions, Shaw. It -was- a bastard thing to do-- who was the other assailant?"
Shaw's jaw is shadowed. Might be a nascent bruise. Might be a passing cloud overhead. He tightens it and turns away again. And ignores the question after his health, /thank/ you. "Some hairy asshole," he answers the other inquiry, still vitriolic (but sounding more grumpy about it). "Her boyfriend, I think. If I'd known she liked 'em feral, I would have taken a different tack with her."
Shoulders twitch into a shrug. "Think I might've met him," he says, off-handedly. "I doubt she'd go for you, no matter what the tack. She's got taste."
That pulls a smile out of Shaw's prickly funk, and for that second it's honest amusement. "I didn't want her to go for me. Not my type. But -- well, no matter." Subject shift, swift as the snap of his coat's wings: "Do you have a personal beef with me, Cassidy? Might as well get it all out of your system, so my lawyers really have something to play with for a suit against you."
"Nothing really," Sean tells him, "apart from your choice of stance on all things mutant, but that's not for violence." He takes on a more businesslike manner, striding along and offering sage advice. "I'd advise calling the cops now, though, if you plan on it. Civil suits can be easier if you've got the guy charged with something properly. Got the number for MA, if you'd like to get them involved as well?"
Shaw snorts. "I'm sure Mutant Affairs has better things to do than handle the problem of a hysterical human battered by a mean old mutie. No. Thank you for the suggestion, however. Still keeping in touch with your brethren in blue?"
"Well, you can always claim I used my special powers, and caused you irreparable harm," Sean suggests, easily. He lifts a hand to rub fingers over a day's worth of stubble. "Once blue, always blue. It's a shame I had to leave, really. Good pensions. You on a decent plan?"
"Yeah," Shaw answers, letting his accent slide a little lazily to match, again, a slower pace. He floats his words light, light, light: "Nothing like having a billion in the bank to make retirement look good."
Sean beams back an amused smile. "Money does buy happiness, I hear. Shame so many get irrepressable arseholeship thrown in for free." Long, easy strides carry him by the other man's side. "Ought to get to a doctor to assess the damage, as well."
Shaw marvels, "A regular font of human kindness and decency, you are," with a sarcastic edge slicing an undercut through the words. "Really, you should take this show on the road. Don't limit yourself to bringing benevolent advice to only the downtrodden of New York, Cassidy. Go worldwide! I have no doubt that any number of lost souls would tune in to lap up your Blarney words of wisdom."
"It's a pleasure to provide a beacon of shining light to those lost in the foggy darkness of bigotry," Sean returns, oh(!) so pleasantly. Hands fold together behind his back, withdrawn from pockets in one, easy movement. "I do my utmost to serve. I could always give you lessons in oratory."
In the shadow of an office building, Shaw finally stops walking. Looks heavy-lidded at the former cop. "I don't," he says distinctly, "want to be served by the likes of you." It's a challenge, offended and disgusted, dropping right out of their friendly testosterone-soaked banter into stark seriousness. "How about we agree to part ways and never see each other again?" His smile twists in the shade: the expression of a Goya devil. "That worked for me and your mistress."
"She'd love to hear you call her that," Sean replies, with a gleam trickling back into his look-- hungry, almost. "She'd love to know quite how stupid you are. Maybe one day someone'll convince you the truth of mutants. Doubt it'll be me, though." A tiny shrug, before he snaps into icy amusement. "You're too intimidated. Never again, Sebastian."
Shaw contemplates the gleam, then meets it and matches it with a courtly nod: acknowledgement, acquiescence, man to man. He backs off from the subject of Grey, at least, yielding the battlefield to him, and shrugs back. "Never again, then. Good day, sirrah."
Cassidy nods, once -- testosterone's only allowance. Then he turns, beginning to stroll away. "Goodbye."
Hardly a breath, only a few beats of the telltale heart, then Shaw's low, rough, merry baritone pads after him, with a vocal tap on the shoulder: "Hey, Cassidy."
Head turns over shoulder. "What?"
And Shaw is there, large and sudden and dark as the shadows swathing him, and then his fist is there, explosive (but pulled, clearly, mockingly /pulled/ from full strength) into Sean's jaw, exactly where he himself was hit. "Good day," he repeats, grinning, and steps back to proceed on his own way.
Head snaps back, and Cassidy steps back, cutting short the blaze that immediately enters his eyes. A hand lifts to rub over the spot; before the man breaks into a rich chuckle. "Not bad, fer a pussy," he says, quietly, watching after the other man for a long moment.
[Log ends.]