Ice-cream social
I asked him, Emma. I asked him your question. (I won't tell you this. I won't send you an update. I will keep my thoughts rattling quietly around my skull, and they will be mine for a while, all and only mine.) He didn't give the best answer, but he gave an honest one, I believe that. I have a hold on his loyalties, but I don't hold them all, in all situations. If you think that you're holding all of Adel's . . .
But you don't, you're smarter than that, and anyway, you'll find out the truth of that matter yourself if you must. The White Court is not my business except how it affects my pieces and our work. I will have to speak with you about Melcross if that problem crops up again. I won't tolerate her interference, you know that. I need to confer with the Black Bishop and get his report, but I might be making solid progress with this al-Razi twin. Nothing should mar that, that I can prevent. Bahir is useful, if only I can put my hand to his leash of thorns and guide him where I need him to go.
It's been a long day. I'm thinking about beaches again, and the reflection of the noonday sun on South Sea waves. Instead, I have paperwork and phone calls, politics and power-plays, and one hell of a prickly young man I'm still trying to get an angle on.
Oh, don't you just love pawns, my darling dear Queen? Don't you love our life?
4/17/2006
Logfile from Shaw of X-Men MUCK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Molly's Icecream Parlor
In a cheerful, cozy little atmosphere that almost might be better suited to Coney Island or some other such humble environment, Molly's Icecream Parlor is nevertheless a popular spot on a hot summer's day. The interior of the establishment is decorated in refreshing tones of blue and white tile, with the air conditioning ever-faithful and vases of fresh-cut flowers on every round little table. Up front, a painted wooden sign complete with little cows and ice cream cones lists the thirty or forty flavors that Molly's has to offer, while the display and freezer case along with the cashier counter rests just underneath.
--
It might be the time of night (early evening) or the weather (clear and warm), but the ice-cream parlor is not the most crowded spot on the Upper East Side. The two workers behind the counter are chatting about the latest episode of Lost. A trio of college students, by their dress and behavior, are digging through a shared sundae easily the side of one of their heads and also discussing Lost. The man poking dourly at the half-eaten bowl of vanilla in front of him? Does not seem to have Lost, or any TV show, on the mind at the moment. Instead, Shaw's glancing out the windows at the city going by and, every few minutes, trying another tiny nibble-licking bite of his delicious frozen delicacy.
One portion of the city detaches from the rest, not simply going by but turning to push the door open with his hip and join the parlor's patrons. Bahir pulls cotton, blue denim and white linen, back from his wrist to check the time on his watch. He frowns slightly, stepping in and letting the door shut behind him with a pleasant chime. Less pleasant, his expression: he makes an effort to smooth it, running hooked fingers down the strap of a messenger bag heavy against his body. He crosses to join Shaw. "By my watch, I'm not late," he says, already defensive.
"Did I say you were?" Shaw responds by way of greeting and reassurance in one rolled-up ball of baritone. Clattering his spoon back into the bowl, he sits back on a scanning sweep, head to toe, of his pawn, then smiles a little. "Pull up a chair, anyway. I was getting sick of the same four walls, and this is a nice out-of-the-way place. Not as good as Serendipity downtown, but . . ."
"Of course not." Bahir takes his seat, as instructed, and looks over his shoulder at the sign near the door. He bites his lower lip and then looks back to Shaw. "What did you want to talk about?"
Shaw waits until the college trio has roughhoused its way out the door (his eyes follow them, and his nostalgic/annoyed mind). "Business," he answers then, quietly intent on the younger man. He fingers his spoon, stops when it starts up clattering. "The usual, between us, and what I asked about the last time I saw you. If you don't want to do it here, we can take a walk outside." << Or you can mask/screen/hide us? If you know how. >>
Bahir shakes his head, just slightly, as he frowns through the glass of the window. << I can redirect wandering attention. That's it. >> He reaches up past the collar of his jacket, running fingers along buttons of his shirt. He begins to redirect attention: eyes turn elsewhere, and when pausing, soon move on. There is no notable difference, no change; Shaw does not feel the effects. "Oh, business. Sure. What had you asked that you wanted a better answer to?"
"Your work with Percy." Shaw taps a forefinger to his temple for clarification. He props his chin on the heel of that hand and folds his other arm behind the elbow. His hair, freshly cut and tousled, ruffles the shoulders of his black leather jacket, open over a dark red pullover shirt; if not for the hooded intensity of his expression, he'd be as casual as he ever gets in this life. "I'd like to hear about it. Lessons and so on. Then I'd like to talk about working with you myself."
Evasion in the sideways slant of his eyes, Bahir shrugs. "I've worked with Percy based on notes he received from you and my own lessons from Ms. Frost, Dr. Grey, and Dr. Xavier to learn to shield his thoughts from a casual scan." Flat, he says, "He is good." Silent, the constant disclaimer, 'for a non-telepath.' "I find it somewhat disconcerting, which I'm sure you will be glad to hear."
Shaw makes a surprised face. "I will be? Are you precognitive now, too?"
"Yes," Bahir says, bitchy.
Shaw deliberately imagines, loud enough for perceiving, a reach across the table to pat Bahir's dark delicate hand in soothing sympathy. He doesn't actually move except to shift his expression towards sardonic amusement. "All right. Why would I be glad to hear that? And why does it matter what I feel about what you're doing?"
Bahir waves his dark delicate hand in a sharply annoyed gesture. "No one likes telepaths. No one trusts them. Why wouldn't you be glad to hear a deadhead such as yourself could gain some skill keeping them out?"
"I already know I have some skill in keeping telepaths out," Shaw replies evenly. "A little, and it takes a lot out of me, /and/ it doesn't work if you really push it. But I've known that for months. You missed my moment of gladness on that count, Bahir. I'm sorry." He's not. "So, my second question? Why does it matter?"
A silent, annoyed look is not an answer, but it is all Bahir provides for a moment. Bright and inane, he says, "Gotta keep the boss happy!"
Shaw's initial response, a return snap, dies sharp and quick under control's iron fist. "It's not a bad plan," he allows and starts tapping his thumb on the table: clink-clink-clink goes the heavy silver ring with its black onyx eye. "Perpetually pissing me off doesn't get a person too far in this world . . . but you aren't your brother." << Happy shiny tail-wagging puppy. God. >> He stops tapping. Looks closely at Bahir, his thoughts screened with natural emotional fog: concern, wariness, curiosity. "Are you worried about working with me? In any way, not just these lessons."
Dark eyes fall to the ring and then shift back to Shaw's face; Bahir bites off the edge of a smile. "No. And, if it helps, I do not go out of my way to piss you off." He shakes his head, look fading to a vague tension as he spreads his hands, palms up and fingers wide. "I am not worried about working with you. You have not given me reason to be. Sabitha -- does not have a high opinion of this group, but I do not have a high opinion of her."
The screen thickens briefly with the mention of that name, under Shaw's conscious attention, and perhaps that's as much a comment on the White Pawn as whatever he's trying to hide. "I don't go out of my way, likewise, but we're both prickly men, right? We've had that conversation," and he looses a small smile pro forma. "I'd like to know, though, how Ms. Melcross figures into this equation, please. Are you working with her, too?" The faint, rippling shadow of danger/warning/disbelief.
"No," he says, with just a hint of disgusted irritation. "I was acquainted with her before this--" Bahir waves, briefly. "Adel slept with her once. She is friends with Percy. That is how she figures."
Shaw is blank with incomprehension, but he blinks to get his mind going again. "I'll speak to Emma," he decides. "A White Pawn should not be getting in the way of Pawn, Bishop, and King's dealings in the other court. In the meantime, never mind her; she's not important. You say that Percy's doing well with the exercises?"
Bahir just says, "Yes."
Shaw just nods. "Then I'd like to practice with you, too, as our schedules allow. Just to keep the lessons sharp in my mind." He drops his propping arm into a fold with the other one, and shrugs. Leather creaks. So does his smile, somewhat, like a grimace. "You know I'm not comfortable with the idea--" << not like Percy, /he/ never had a telepath hurt him, humiliate him, violate and destroy >> "--but you've already visited my brain, huh? And we both survived the experience."
"I assume you have the originals of the notes Percy worked off," Bahir says, nodding acceptance. "Much of that you can do on your own. What I did with Percy -- what I'll do with you -- is testing, not walking you through it."
"Of course." << Like her. >> Shaw shunts that thought away before it gets very far out of his upper mind, a chipped obsidian arrow trailing phoenix-bright fletching. His hands turn in on his forearms, grasp them loosely, and the ring flashes a wink at Bahir around the side of the bowl. "Not tonight," he decides. "But soon. I don't know if I could concentrate . . . and we /are/ in an ice-cream parlor. In public." Whimsy, there.
"Well, yes." Bahir tugs white cuffs beneath dark denim, straightening them. Mild, he says, "You have my number. You can call and we can schedule these lessons. There is little more I can teach Percy. We have discontinued our lessons. We won't have to schedule around that."
Shaw pauses for thought, then asks delicately, "Any problem there?"
Bahir shrugs. "Nothing of account. There is just nothing more to teach."
"Because he's a deadhead, too." /Almost/ Shaw manages to keep sarcasm from biting into those clear, calculated syllables. "Do you pity him for that?"
"I pity all of you," Bahir says with a clear, sweet smile. "And yes, because he is not a telepath, there is nothing else to teach."
Shaw's mouth relaxes near a smile. "Well, it's all right. I'm sure you attract your own share of pity for who and what you are. We're none of us perfect, Bahir al-Razi. Including you."
"Yes. Well. Some of us are better at perfect," Bahir says, hackles rising in a ripple of tension up his spine that squares strong shoulders.
"/Getting/ better at it, I'm sure," Shaw assures him. "I have no doubt you practice that every day of your life. Who knows? Maybe someday, years and years from now, I might have to worry about you taking over my seat, although just in the Circle, I'd think. The business prowess, the media contacts, the personal entertainment -- you have a long way to go in catching me there."
Bahir snorts, shoulders hunching as he rests elbows on the table. "A long way to go, and no interest. I have no skill with people, individually, or in groups."
"Why not?"
Bahir shrugs. "I guess I'm not perfect."
"He admits it!" Shaw makes the exclamation soft, however, and doesn't prickle Bahir with it. If anything, he's coolly sympathetic. "No, you aren't. You know what thinking you are can lead you into?" Cloudy, pain-ragged memories shoulder to the forefront of his mind, held in tight check but /leaning/. "You know you aren't perfect or invulnerable or-- Keep yourself safe, pawn o' mine. Please."
Lips thin over a murmured, "Mmm." Bahir inclines his head, hair falling, slipping loose away from his face. "I know. So tough to remember. We youthful ones are supposed to be foolhardy and charge forward, thinking we're invulnerable." He taps fingers along the line of his jaw and then shakes his head. "There are mutants who negate telepathy," he says, the thin sheen of fear glossing his words. "Not invulnerable."
Shaw ignores the riposte, instead focusing on, "Ryan Bach? He's harmless. A fluffy, fluttery owl. And I have his firm on retainer, so you really don't have to worry about him, but I could intervene if there's a problem--?"
Bahir startles, visibly, and rounds a surprised look at Shaw. Shoulders hunch again as he gathers himself to shake his head. "No problem. There was--" He pauses, smirks, and says, "--a disagreement. Adel and Mr. Bach have since worked it out. He is /not/ harmless."
"He is as far as I'm concerned," says Mr. Shaw, client extraordinaire of Stagram & Wolf. He blinks kindly curiosity. "Is this a story I'd like to hear? Your brother . . ." He shakes his head slowly.
"No."
Shaw tries to hide his horrible, horrible disappointment. "All right." He has a thoughtful bite of melted vanilla, then pushes the bowl away entirely. "Do you like your brother?" << I don't. >>
Running fingers through his hair, Bahir laughs: a sound with little humor. "How does it go? I don't always like him, but--? It is something like that. It is hard to be angry with your own hand."
Shaw fists one of his helpfully. Thumps it on the table, even (the faintest sparkle of energy through his mind, coruscating and intoxicating). "No, it isn't. I'm angry with parts of my body quite a lot when they aren't serving me as they should be. He's a separate person from you, anyway; the metaphor doesn't hold." He eyes Bahir. "Does it?"
Bahir looks at Shaw's fist, curling the fingers of his own and comparing them in his mind. He smiles slightly. "Okay. It is hard to stay angry. They are still a part of you. Lose your arm, your leg and you are crippled." He meets Shaw's gaze, slightly uneasy. He shrugs. "The metaphor is flawed. I am not good with metaphors, with words. My brother and I were much more closely linked a few months ago. The metaphor would have been better then."
Looping his fingers around his arm again in the relaxed leather-sleeved fold, Shaw keeps studying the Black Pawn, and thoughts flit and flutter nakedly behind his eyes. Adel, Emma -- Percy, Bahir. Himself. "Mmm," he says wisely, covering the flutters. "All right. You don't like talking about him; I remember that. Is it still true?"
"I am fickle," Bahir says with a sharply twisting rue curve of his lips. "If the conversation crosses lines, I will tell you."
"Boundaries," Shaw returns in grave cheer. "Yes. Be fickle, but give a man some warning. That's all anyone can ask. --Tell me how you two are getting along these days? One White, one Black . . . is it a problem? Does it even come up?"
A sharp, somewhat snide, "Well," is followed in a softer, "Better." Bahir even smiles slightly. "It was initially problematic. I don't like secrets. I didn't like that secrets were even /possible/ between us. It does not come up, really. It may, at some point, in the future, but for now -- the difference does not seem much."
Shaw tips a brief nod, satisfied if not sympathetic. "Then I'll just be blunt, Bahir, because that seems to serve us both best and I'm not subtle nor especially sneaky. Where do your loyalties lie? With him or with me?"
Bahir slants a look at Shaw. "Him."
"No matter what?"
At that, Bahir hesitates. Finally, reluctantly, he says, "No."
Shaw concentrates on refolding his arms on the table and easing the hunch out of his shoulders. His emotions pound like drums in the aether: anger, mostly, but also a grey species of resignation, thickly twined around and through his perception of the pawn. "I don't," he says softly but clearly, "have any intention of pitting you against your brother. No. But I can't say it wouldn't happen, and if it did, I would expect you to stick to the side for which you were chosen."
Bahir regards Shaw uneasily, shifting back, away, as he folds arms over his chest. "I can't promise that. But Adel is capable -- I could see--" He breaks off with a sharp gesture. "It is not a game. I am not going to follow you because you picked me when the other team didn't. I will follow you because I have a reason."
That strikes a deep brass bell in Shaw's mind, momentarily drowning out the disgruntled thunder. He leans forward a little. "What reason is that?"
Eyelashes lower in a dark veil over Bahir's eyes, and he smiles, just slightly, almost coy. "I don't trust Ms. Frost."
Surprise -- then swift calculation. "She hasn't approached you--?"
"Approached? No." Bahir shakes his head and then lifts fingers in the vaguest of waves. "I should rephrase. I do trust her, in certain limits."
Shaw's surprise settles into more cynical grooves. "Well, I'm not keeping her within any limits; that's not my job, dream, /or/ curse. Emma does as she does, and she tends to do it for the good of the group. I don't understand where the problem is, Bahir."
Bahir weighs words in the spread of his hands, awkward and unwieldy. "I think you more likely to put the good of the group before your own good. I think Emma more likely to make the good of the group her own. It is a fine line."
The amateur shields waver into place, but secrets still peek out: Circle, plans, Queens, projects. Gritting his teeth, Shaw focuses away from them (don't think of pink elephants -- damn) and says coolly, "So noted. Thank you. I appreciate the feedback, and it won't go beyond us. Unless you've let that slip to her already? I can protect you only so far--"
"You /do/ need to practice your shields," Bahir murmurs in an undertone, his own wisping up, layer after layer, to muffle the world outside his mind. "She works with my brother, mostly, but I would be surprised if she was unaware of my opinion of her. She has been in my head; I have been in hers."
"And thank you for staying out of mine," Shaw replies tightly. "It's been a long day. I apologize for leaking my brains out. Happens." He blows out a long, low breath and leans back in his chair to the sinewy chorus of spinal pops. He hardly winces at them: all focused on Bahir, wrapped up in busy thought that has his expression coiled and foggy-eyed. "Fine. It doesn't sound like a problem, and I trust that you can take care of yourself on that ground. My concern is unfounded. Do forgive me."
"Forgiven. I think you may misunderstand me: I respect Ms. Frost. I would not trust her with my life." Bahir's lips thin. "Or my brother's."
Shaw snorts. "A little late for that, I have to say."
Bahir shrugs.
"Not worried about it?" Shaw shrugs, too. "Blase works for me, too. What is, is, and what will happen, will. We'll all end up dead of this game, anyway; might as well do what we can with the time we have."
"A little late to worry," Bahir says, smile darkened by the gallows' shadow. "I see you are an optimist."
Shaw shakes his head slowly and doesn't respond to the humor, not even mentally, projected past the pawn's muffling. His eyes lose their fogged else-focus, but don't regain the usual obsidian glint, and they consider Bahir's face quietly. "I'm a survivor. --I did take your advice on being more active in the media. I hope it'll go well. Some bluster and froth, huh? Make the bad guys look really bad."
Bahir sets the other topics aside with a bland flick of his eyes to turn to media. "Well. Good luck. If the bill passes, Adel and I have discussed returning to Bahrain, or finishing our educations elsewhere."
"Elsewhere in the U.S.?" Shaw twitches his lips. "We'd have to see how that works out with your extracurricular duties."
"No," Bahir says, the syllable slow off his tongue. "Somewhere across the pond. That a problem for the extracurriculars?"
Shaw informs him, "We're franchised. New York /is/ a franchise, in fact; we're not the original club."
"Well." Bahir shakes his head, tucking hair behind his ear, and straightens. "That is then. I didn't know that. Where is the original?"
"London. And Paris, Rio, Rome . . . but London, always London first and foremost." New World disdain colors Shaw's voice and mood. "As they like to remind us colonials whenever we visit. We're on good terms with the London Circle, but it can be trying sometimes. Now Paris, on the other hand -- oh, I love to go to Paris on business." With a reminiscing smile, Shaw hooks his arm over the back of his chair and starts to give a little history, old-timey and recent, of his Hellfire roots.
[Log ends.]
But you don't, you're smarter than that, and anyway, you'll find out the truth of that matter yourself if you must. The White Court is not my business except how it affects my pieces and our work. I will have to speak with you about Melcross if that problem crops up again. I won't tolerate her interference, you know that. I need to confer with the Black Bishop and get his report, but I might be making solid progress with this al-Razi twin. Nothing should mar that, that I can prevent. Bahir is useful, if only I can put my hand to his leash of thorns and guide him where I need him to go.
It's been a long day. I'm thinking about beaches again, and the reflection of the noonday sun on South Sea waves. Instead, I have paperwork and phone calls, politics and power-plays, and one hell of a prickly young man I'm still trying to get an angle on.
Oh, don't you just love pawns, my darling dear Queen? Don't you love our life?
4/17/2006
Logfile from Shaw of X-Men MUCK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Molly's Icecream Parlor
In a cheerful, cozy little atmosphere that almost might be better suited to Coney Island or some other such humble environment, Molly's Icecream Parlor is nevertheless a popular spot on a hot summer's day. The interior of the establishment is decorated in refreshing tones of blue and white tile, with the air conditioning ever-faithful and vases of fresh-cut flowers on every round little table. Up front, a painted wooden sign complete with little cows and ice cream cones lists the thirty or forty flavors that Molly's has to offer, while the display and freezer case along with the cashier counter rests just underneath.
--
It might be the time of night (early evening) or the weather (clear and warm), but the ice-cream parlor is not the most crowded spot on the Upper East Side. The two workers behind the counter are chatting about the latest episode of Lost. A trio of college students, by their dress and behavior, are digging through a shared sundae easily the side of one of their heads and also discussing Lost. The man poking dourly at the half-eaten bowl of vanilla in front of him? Does not seem to have Lost, or any TV show, on the mind at the moment. Instead, Shaw's glancing out the windows at the city going by and, every few minutes, trying another tiny nibble-licking bite of his delicious frozen delicacy.
One portion of the city detaches from the rest, not simply going by but turning to push the door open with his hip and join the parlor's patrons. Bahir pulls cotton, blue denim and white linen, back from his wrist to check the time on his watch. He frowns slightly, stepping in and letting the door shut behind him with a pleasant chime. Less pleasant, his expression: he makes an effort to smooth it, running hooked fingers down the strap of a messenger bag heavy against his body. He crosses to join Shaw. "By my watch, I'm not late," he says, already defensive.
"Did I say you were?" Shaw responds by way of greeting and reassurance in one rolled-up ball of baritone. Clattering his spoon back into the bowl, he sits back on a scanning sweep, head to toe, of his pawn, then smiles a little. "Pull up a chair, anyway. I was getting sick of the same four walls, and this is a nice out-of-the-way place. Not as good as Serendipity downtown, but . . ."
"Of course not." Bahir takes his seat, as instructed, and looks over his shoulder at the sign near the door. He bites his lower lip and then looks back to Shaw. "What did you want to talk about?"
Shaw waits until the college trio has roughhoused its way out the door (his eyes follow them, and his nostalgic/annoyed mind). "Business," he answers then, quietly intent on the younger man. He fingers his spoon, stops when it starts up clattering. "The usual, between us, and what I asked about the last time I saw you. If you don't want to do it here, we can take a walk outside." << Or you can mask/screen/hide us? If you know how. >>
Bahir shakes his head, just slightly, as he frowns through the glass of the window. << I can redirect wandering attention. That's it. >> He reaches up past the collar of his jacket, running fingers along buttons of his shirt. He begins to redirect attention: eyes turn elsewhere, and when pausing, soon move on. There is no notable difference, no change; Shaw does not feel the effects. "Oh, business. Sure. What had you asked that you wanted a better answer to?"
"Your work with Percy." Shaw taps a forefinger to his temple for clarification. He props his chin on the heel of that hand and folds his other arm behind the elbow. His hair, freshly cut and tousled, ruffles the shoulders of his black leather jacket, open over a dark red pullover shirt; if not for the hooded intensity of his expression, he'd be as casual as he ever gets in this life. "I'd like to hear about it. Lessons and so on. Then I'd like to talk about working with you myself."
Evasion in the sideways slant of his eyes, Bahir shrugs. "I've worked with Percy based on notes he received from you and my own lessons from Ms. Frost, Dr. Grey, and Dr. Xavier to learn to shield his thoughts from a casual scan." Flat, he says, "He is good." Silent, the constant disclaimer, 'for a non-telepath.' "I find it somewhat disconcerting, which I'm sure you will be glad to hear."
Shaw makes a surprised face. "I will be? Are you precognitive now, too?"
"Yes," Bahir says, bitchy.
Shaw deliberately imagines, loud enough for perceiving, a reach across the table to pat Bahir's dark delicate hand in soothing sympathy. He doesn't actually move except to shift his expression towards sardonic amusement. "All right. Why would I be glad to hear that? And why does it matter what I feel about what you're doing?"
Bahir waves his dark delicate hand in a sharply annoyed gesture. "No one likes telepaths. No one trusts them. Why wouldn't you be glad to hear a deadhead such as yourself could gain some skill keeping them out?"
"I already know I have some skill in keeping telepaths out," Shaw replies evenly. "A little, and it takes a lot out of me, /and/ it doesn't work if you really push it. But I've known that for months. You missed my moment of gladness on that count, Bahir. I'm sorry." He's not. "So, my second question? Why does it matter?"
A silent, annoyed look is not an answer, but it is all Bahir provides for a moment. Bright and inane, he says, "Gotta keep the boss happy!"
Shaw's initial response, a return snap, dies sharp and quick under control's iron fist. "It's not a bad plan," he allows and starts tapping his thumb on the table: clink-clink-clink goes the heavy silver ring with its black onyx eye. "Perpetually pissing me off doesn't get a person too far in this world . . . but you aren't your brother." << Happy shiny tail-wagging puppy. God. >> He stops tapping. Looks closely at Bahir, his thoughts screened with natural emotional fog: concern, wariness, curiosity. "Are you worried about working with me? In any way, not just these lessons."
Dark eyes fall to the ring and then shift back to Shaw's face; Bahir bites off the edge of a smile. "No. And, if it helps, I do not go out of my way to piss you off." He shakes his head, look fading to a vague tension as he spreads his hands, palms up and fingers wide. "I am not worried about working with you. You have not given me reason to be. Sabitha -- does not have a high opinion of this group, but I do not have a high opinion of her."
The screen thickens briefly with the mention of that name, under Shaw's conscious attention, and perhaps that's as much a comment on the White Pawn as whatever he's trying to hide. "I don't go out of my way, likewise, but we're both prickly men, right? We've had that conversation," and he looses a small smile pro forma. "I'd like to know, though, how Ms. Melcross figures into this equation, please. Are you working with her, too?" The faint, rippling shadow of danger/warning/disbelief.
"No," he says, with just a hint of disgusted irritation. "I was acquainted with her before this--" Bahir waves, briefly. "Adel slept with her once. She is friends with Percy. That is how she figures."
Shaw is blank with incomprehension, but he blinks to get his mind going again. "I'll speak to Emma," he decides. "A White Pawn should not be getting in the way of Pawn, Bishop, and King's dealings in the other court. In the meantime, never mind her; she's not important. You say that Percy's doing well with the exercises?"
Bahir just says, "Yes."
Shaw just nods. "Then I'd like to practice with you, too, as our schedules allow. Just to keep the lessons sharp in my mind." He drops his propping arm into a fold with the other one, and shrugs. Leather creaks. So does his smile, somewhat, like a grimace. "You know I'm not comfortable with the idea--" << not like Percy, /he/ never had a telepath hurt him, humiliate him, violate and destroy >> "--but you've already visited my brain, huh? And we both survived the experience."
"I assume you have the originals of the notes Percy worked off," Bahir says, nodding acceptance. "Much of that you can do on your own. What I did with Percy -- what I'll do with you -- is testing, not walking you through it."
"Of course." << Like her. >> Shaw shunts that thought away before it gets very far out of his upper mind, a chipped obsidian arrow trailing phoenix-bright fletching. His hands turn in on his forearms, grasp them loosely, and the ring flashes a wink at Bahir around the side of the bowl. "Not tonight," he decides. "But soon. I don't know if I could concentrate . . . and we /are/ in an ice-cream parlor. In public." Whimsy, there.
"Well, yes." Bahir tugs white cuffs beneath dark denim, straightening them. Mild, he says, "You have my number. You can call and we can schedule these lessons. There is little more I can teach Percy. We have discontinued our lessons. We won't have to schedule around that."
Shaw pauses for thought, then asks delicately, "Any problem there?"
Bahir shrugs. "Nothing of account. There is just nothing more to teach."
"Because he's a deadhead, too." /Almost/ Shaw manages to keep sarcasm from biting into those clear, calculated syllables. "Do you pity him for that?"
"I pity all of you," Bahir says with a clear, sweet smile. "And yes, because he is not a telepath, there is nothing else to teach."
Shaw's mouth relaxes near a smile. "Well, it's all right. I'm sure you attract your own share of pity for who and what you are. We're none of us perfect, Bahir al-Razi. Including you."
"Yes. Well. Some of us are better at perfect," Bahir says, hackles rising in a ripple of tension up his spine that squares strong shoulders.
"/Getting/ better at it, I'm sure," Shaw assures him. "I have no doubt you practice that every day of your life. Who knows? Maybe someday, years and years from now, I might have to worry about you taking over my seat, although just in the Circle, I'd think. The business prowess, the media contacts, the personal entertainment -- you have a long way to go in catching me there."
Bahir snorts, shoulders hunching as he rests elbows on the table. "A long way to go, and no interest. I have no skill with people, individually, or in groups."
"Why not?"
Bahir shrugs. "I guess I'm not perfect."
"He admits it!" Shaw makes the exclamation soft, however, and doesn't prickle Bahir with it. If anything, he's coolly sympathetic. "No, you aren't. You know what thinking you are can lead you into?" Cloudy, pain-ragged memories shoulder to the forefront of his mind, held in tight check but /leaning/. "You know you aren't perfect or invulnerable or-- Keep yourself safe, pawn o' mine. Please."
Lips thin over a murmured, "Mmm." Bahir inclines his head, hair falling, slipping loose away from his face. "I know. So tough to remember. We youthful ones are supposed to be foolhardy and charge forward, thinking we're invulnerable." He taps fingers along the line of his jaw and then shakes his head. "There are mutants who negate telepathy," he says, the thin sheen of fear glossing his words. "Not invulnerable."
Shaw ignores the riposte, instead focusing on, "Ryan Bach? He's harmless. A fluffy, fluttery owl. And I have his firm on retainer, so you really don't have to worry about him, but I could intervene if there's a problem--?"
Bahir startles, visibly, and rounds a surprised look at Shaw. Shoulders hunch again as he gathers himself to shake his head. "No problem. There was--" He pauses, smirks, and says, "--a disagreement. Adel and Mr. Bach have since worked it out. He is /not/ harmless."
"He is as far as I'm concerned," says Mr. Shaw, client extraordinaire of Stagram & Wolf. He blinks kindly curiosity. "Is this a story I'd like to hear? Your brother . . ." He shakes his head slowly.
"No."
Shaw tries to hide his horrible, horrible disappointment. "All right." He has a thoughtful bite of melted vanilla, then pushes the bowl away entirely. "Do you like your brother?" << I don't. >>
Running fingers through his hair, Bahir laughs: a sound with little humor. "How does it go? I don't always like him, but--? It is something like that. It is hard to be angry with your own hand."
Shaw fists one of his helpfully. Thumps it on the table, even (the faintest sparkle of energy through his mind, coruscating and intoxicating). "No, it isn't. I'm angry with parts of my body quite a lot when they aren't serving me as they should be. He's a separate person from you, anyway; the metaphor doesn't hold." He eyes Bahir. "Does it?"
Bahir looks at Shaw's fist, curling the fingers of his own and comparing them in his mind. He smiles slightly. "Okay. It is hard to stay angry. They are still a part of you. Lose your arm, your leg and you are crippled." He meets Shaw's gaze, slightly uneasy. He shrugs. "The metaphor is flawed. I am not good with metaphors, with words. My brother and I were much more closely linked a few months ago. The metaphor would have been better then."
Looping his fingers around his arm again in the relaxed leather-sleeved fold, Shaw keeps studying the Black Pawn, and thoughts flit and flutter nakedly behind his eyes. Adel, Emma -- Percy, Bahir. Himself. "Mmm," he says wisely, covering the flutters. "All right. You don't like talking about him; I remember that. Is it still true?"
"I am fickle," Bahir says with a sharply twisting rue curve of his lips. "If the conversation crosses lines, I will tell you."
"Boundaries," Shaw returns in grave cheer. "Yes. Be fickle, but give a man some warning. That's all anyone can ask. --Tell me how you two are getting along these days? One White, one Black . . . is it a problem? Does it even come up?"
A sharp, somewhat snide, "Well," is followed in a softer, "Better." Bahir even smiles slightly. "It was initially problematic. I don't like secrets. I didn't like that secrets were even /possible/ between us. It does not come up, really. It may, at some point, in the future, but for now -- the difference does not seem much."
Shaw tips a brief nod, satisfied if not sympathetic. "Then I'll just be blunt, Bahir, because that seems to serve us both best and I'm not subtle nor especially sneaky. Where do your loyalties lie? With him or with me?"
Bahir slants a look at Shaw. "Him."
"No matter what?"
At that, Bahir hesitates. Finally, reluctantly, he says, "No."
Shaw concentrates on refolding his arms on the table and easing the hunch out of his shoulders. His emotions pound like drums in the aether: anger, mostly, but also a grey species of resignation, thickly twined around and through his perception of the pawn. "I don't," he says softly but clearly, "have any intention of pitting you against your brother. No. But I can't say it wouldn't happen, and if it did, I would expect you to stick to the side for which you were chosen."
Bahir regards Shaw uneasily, shifting back, away, as he folds arms over his chest. "I can't promise that. But Adel is capable -- I could see--" He breaks off with a sharp gesture. "It is not a game. I am not going to follow you because you picked me when the other team didn't. I will follow you because I have a reason."
That strikes a deep brass bell in Shaw's mind, momentarily drowning out the disgruntled thunder. He leans forward a little. "What reason is that?"
Eyelashes lower in a dark veil over Bahir's eyes, and he smiles, just slightly, almost coy. "I don't trust Ms. Frost."
Surprise -- then swift calculation. "She hasn't approached you--?"
"Approached? No." Bahir shakes his head and then lifts fingers in the vaguest of waves. "I should rephrase. I do trust her, in certain limits."
Shaw's surprise settles into more cynical grooves. "Well, I'm not keeping her within any limits; that's not my job, dream, /or/ curse. Emma does as she does, and she tends to do it for the good of the group. I don't understand where the problem is, Bahir."
Bahir weighs words in the spread of his hands, awkward and unwieldy. "I think you more likely to put the good of the group before your own good. I think Emma more likely to make the good of the group her own. It is a fine line."
The amateur shields waver into place, but secrets still peek out: Circle, plans, Queens, projects. Gritting his teeth, Shaw focuses away from them (don't think of pink elephants -- damn) and says coolly, "So noted. Thank you. I appreciate the feedback, and it won't go beyond us. Unless you've let that slip to her already? I can protect you only so far--"
"You /do/ need to practice your shields," Bahir murmurs in an undertone, his own wisping up, layer after layer, to muffle the world outside his mind. "She works with my brother, mostly, but I would be surprised if she was unaware of my opinion of her. She has been in my head; I have been in hers."
"And thank you for staying out of mine," Shaw replies tightly. "It's been a long day. I apologize for leaking my brains out. Happens." He blows out a long, low breath and leans back in his chair to the sinewy chorus of spinal pops. He hardly winces at them: all focused on Bahir, wrapped up in busy thought that has his expression coiled and foggy-eyed. "Fine. It doesn't sound like a problem, and I trust that you can take care of yourself on that ground. My concern is unfounded. Do forgive me."
"Forgiven. I think you may misunderstand me: I respect Ms. Frost. I would not trust her with my life." Bahir's lips thin. "Or my brother's."
Shaw snorts. "A little late for that, I have to say."
Bahir shrugs.
"Not worried about it?" Shaw shrugs, too. "Blase works for me, too. What is, is, and what will happen, will. We'll all end up dead of this game, anyway; might as well do what we can with the time we have."
"A little late to worry," Bahir says, smile darkened by the gallows' shadow. "I see you are an optimist."
Shaw shakes his head slowly and doesn't respond to the humor, not even mentally, projected past the pawn's muffling. His eyes lose their fogged else-focus, but don't regain the usual obsidian glint, and they consider Bahir's face quietly. "I'm a survivor. --I did take your advice on being more active in the media. I hope it'll go well. Some bluster and froth, huh? Make the bad guys look really bad."
Bahir sets the other topics aside with a bland flick of his eyes to turn to media. "Well. Good luck. If the bill passes, Adel and I have discussed returning to Bahrain, or finishing our educations elsewhere."
"Elsewhere in the U.S.?" Shaw twitches his lips. "We'd have to see how that works out with your extracurricular duties."
"No," Bahir says, the syllable slow off his tongue. "Somewhere across the pond. That a problem for the extracurriculars?"
Shaw informs him, "We're franchised. New York /is/ a franchise, in fact; we're not the original club."
"Well." Bahir shakes his head, tucking hair behind his ear, and straightens. "That is then. I didn't know that. Where is the original?"
"London. And Paris, Rio, Rome . . . but London, always London first and foremost." New World disdain colors Shaw's voice and mood. "As they like to remind us colonials whenever we visit. We're on good terms with the London Circle, but it can be trying sometimes. Now Paris, on the other hand -- oh, I love to go to Paris on business." With a reminiscing smile, Shaw hooks his arm over the back of his chair and starts to give a little history, old-timey and recent, of his Hellfire roots.
[Log ends.]