All that jazz
Date with Melcross: drinks and live music at Sweet Basil, followed by dancing at another club down the street.
She does flinch from the topic of Emma Frost. And she did accept not only the costume idea but also the small, accumulated intimacies of touching her foot, using her nickname, kissing her cheek.
I have made the right decision in picking my escort. Cats among the pigeons, and catfights to come, and who knows what to follow from there?
Careful, careful does it, old dog. No room for relaxation or overconfidence now.
6/24/2005
Logfile from Shaw.
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Sweet Basil
Undoubtedly one of the finest jazz clubs to be found in the southern sectors of Manhattan, and most definitely in Greenwich, Sweet Basil has seen the faces of some of the greatest jazz legends to cross the planet in its time. A relatively down-home charm manner of club, low-key and looking as though it belongs more in New Orleans than New York, many evenings can simply be wasted away being serenaded within the walls of the Sweet Basil, which, in turn, are plastered with black-and-white photographs of the legends that have graced this club's demure little stage and polished wooden floors.
--
Despite Sabby's preferences for quiet and cozy, the jazz headlining tonight was too much to resist. The club is increasingly crowded, but Sebastian Shaw's name has kept the small table she sits at, just to the left of center stage, free of anyone but herself. Sabby may not be one for clubbing anymore, but that doesn't mean she can't dress up a bit for a Friday night of jazz, although her ensemble is perhaps a bit more tasteful. Her legs are crossed gracefully in black skirt, not /quite/ too short, and her foot bobs in absent time to the music in strappy heels that are obviously not meant for much actual walking. A wine red blouse, neckline cut in a deep enough V to give a good hint of cleavage, completes the outfit. Not above using certain charms to maintain an advantage when needed, is Sabitha. And she waits.
Not for long, because never let it be said that Mr. Shaw lacks for mannerly punctuality when he chooses it. Through the club patrons' chattering swirl, he moves from entrance towards reserved table, and he's dressed to match the waiting woman, all unknowing, in red and black: a slick silk shirt of deep hue and unbuttoned collar, and casual canvas slacks. The only adornment he has, besides the effortless assurance that guides him through hastily parted and then resealed crowd, is the silver ring catching his hair at his nape. It's enough for a night out, its variables all reasonably defined -- and for, of course, the finest, funkiest jazz in the city.
Sabitha /was/ on the lookout for Shaw. Really she was. She has, however, gotten caught up in the music, and her gaze lingers longer and longer on the band onstage and looks less and less toward the door. Thus, she doesn't notice Shaw until he's right on her, and she leans back slightly with a surprised smile. "Mr. Shaw. If only you'd called me, we could have coordinated our wardrobes," she teases.
Shaw hooks a chair out from the table with his foot and settles therein, comfortably near but not /too/ near her, and with a good view of the stage, with a returned, quirked smile. "I tend to stick to the same colors in my wardrobe," he confesses, "so the chances of this happening were probably pretty good. I hope you don't mind. It's not as if we were wearing a pair of 'I'm with Stupid' T-shirts."
"I'll keep that in mind, then," Sabitha answers, and shifts just a bit to accomodate his seat at the table. She inches just a bit closer, in order to be heard over the jazz. "Although the T-Shirts may've been accurate. Assuming we could find one in my color," she jokes.
Shaw rests both elbows and loosely clasped hands on the table, and rolls her an amused eye. "I don't think that'd be a problem, Sabitha. A great many colors would suit you, after all." The compliment delivered, he glances up at the stage, then back. "Have I missed much? Traffic was a bear going downtown."
Sabitha returns his amused look with a smile of her own. "Flatterer," she quips, and then shakes her head as she rests her forearms against the table and leans forward just slightly. "Just the opening song, really. I got here a bit early, while they were warming up." She flashes a quick smile, and then lets her eyes drift toward the stage. "I'm afraid I was a bit paranoid that they'd give our table away, but it seems that Sebastian Shaw commands enough respect that it was free and clear."
"Well, I should hope so," Shaw replies with no little entertained indignation, "considering all the bother and bullshit I've put into making myself worth a damn. What's the use if I can't get a good table at a jazz club? Might as well give up and crawl back home in ignominious defeat." His gaze glints, studying her sidelong as he too drifts attention to the band. "Shall we order something? Let's see if a name's weight is worth its weight in drinks, too."
Sabitha glances back at Shaw, as the band ends one song and riffs quickly into another. "Their drinks are fabulous," she informs him. "I'm fond of the amaretto sours. Although if I have too much, I start thinking that this place would be perfect if only they allowed dancing." Another easy smile, self-depricating, is directed at him.
Shaw notes regretfully, "Not enough room, no," as he twitches a little gesture at one of the servers loitering along the wall leading to the bar. When the girl slinks over, full of just the right attitude for a Basil employee, he makes the order for them both (whiskey, neat, for him) and then dismisses her in favor of returning bright attention to Sabitha. "There are plenty of other places to go dancing; we might try to dig one up sometime. I like it, too. It's almost the only physical activity I've managed to conquer, and enjoy."
"Do you?" Sabitha questions with pleasant surprise. "I wouldn't have thought it of you! I used to love to dance. At least once a week, almost." Her fingers pick up an unconscious beat on the table, in time to her twitching foot. "I suppose the life of a college student is more condusive to a night out on the town, dancing, than that of a working girl, hm?" she suggests.
Shaw is tapping a finger himself, but just that. "Work's an obstacle that way; good for you for finding ways around it. And yes, I do love dancing, so we'll have a good time at the ball, I hope. Is it so difficult to believe of me?" he asks with sad-eyed wheedling, nearly spoiled by his mouth's disobedient shift towards another smile. "I'm not /entirely/ a mindless brute, dear Sabitha, I assure you."
"Oh, I'm certain we'll have a fabulous time at the ball. I admit, I love an excuse to dress up in fantastic dresses," Sabby teases, and then her smile fades just a bit and she lifts her brows in mock indignation. "Come now. We're enjoying jazz, aren't we? Hardly the mark of a mindless brute, or someone who thinks it of you. Dancing just doesn't seem to be a popular passtime among the boys I know." A brief pause, and then she admits, "Of course, I suppose you can hardly be lumped with my college friends." A flicker of a smile makes it a compliment.
Shaw bobs his brows back at her, and he follows the shift into easy amusement. "Of course, Sabitha, I'm sorry. It was a long day, and I had one too many insults hurled my way by . . . irresponsible members of the corporate world, let's say." Who might be looking for new jobs, even now, or /should./ He assures her, "I don't mean to take it out on you. I promise to enjoy jazz and your company, and think nothing more of it." That settled, he leans his weight onto his far elbow, angling more towards her than the stage, and wonders, "Your college friends weren't that bad, were they? Or that good. Middling, maybe."
Sabitha laughs easily, and leans toward him in echoing response. "Don't worry about it, Sebastian. I'm just teasing you. And if my week has been long and tiring, I can't imagine what yours has been like. I think it must be enough to drive a lesser person slightly insane." She lifts a hand to wave it, and then settles her elbows lightly on the table's edge. "Depends on the friend, I suppose. I'm ashamed to admit that I spent far too much of my last year or so hidden in my room with my books or out dancing with strangers. I wish I'd kept in better touch with some of them." A pause, and she inquires, "Have you ever lost touch with and old friend, and then regained it later to find that you'd grown in such totally opposite directions that there's no connection at all anymore?"
Shaw considers the question seriously, aided by the drinks that finally arrive. With his hands curled around the highball glass, he tells it as much as her, "I don't think so, no. When I left my old stomping grounds, I did it almost completely; even now, I go back to Pittsburgh only for business, and the people I knew in college . . ." He shrugs, taps a forefinger against the glass a couple times. "I don't know if I'd want to look them up, and they haven't done the same for me. Lost in the mists of time, it seems. Why, has that happened to you?"
Sabitha takes her glass with a flash of a smile toward the waiter and pauses to sip at it. "Mmm," she replies, lowering her glass. "Of a sort, I suppose. Things just... change." And then she gives him an intentionally bright smile, and shakes her head. "And what a good way to bring a conversation down, hm? Mourning the lost past. It must be the jazz getting to me."
"It does that," Shaw says softly. After a slow swallow, he cocks his head over the glass and eyes her with due consideration. "Music just brings out whatever you're feeling inside and gives it shape and weight, or so I've always thought. It's not a downer, Sabitha. It just . . . is. Go with it, if that's what you need to do." A quick, small smile. "I promise not to tell a soul."
Sabitha's smile remains bright, and she shakes her head shortly. "I refuse to ruin a perfectly pleasant evening, with good drinks, music, and company, with a melancholy mood. I don't get out nearly often enough to do that," she counters, and swirls her glass slightly. "Tell me about your week?"
Shaw gives her the sad-eyed look again, sparking a bit with suppressed emotion, but obeys. "Oh, the usual. It was pretty quiet, actually; I spent most of it at my office, catching up on faxes and phone calls. The high life," he names it with dark whimsy. "And yours? How's life in the senator's office?"
Sabitha chuckles darkly at his whimsy. "A bit insane at the moment," she admits. "Big vote, controversial bill, in the near future, you know. It has everyone in a bit of a tizzy." Her smile has faded into a more relaxed expression, and she shakes her head. "Probably half of the mood. It's been more than a little exhausting this week."
Shaw tips his glass towards hers. "All the more reason," he says firmly, "to forget about it and let the music take it away. From both of us! Here's to jazz, and the weekend, and to hell with work."
"I'll drink to that," Sabby agrees easily, and lifts her drink to clink it against his. "To hell with work /indeed/." She pauses for a sip, and then lets her eyes roam back to the stage restlessly. "They're good," she remarks after a moment.
"And I'll drink to /that,/" responds Shaw on an easy, heavier lean against his propped elbow. He's looking more relaxed, too, his gaze moving lazily on the band, a finger tip-tapping again to the music. "I was in here a few weeks ago to hear this girl from Jersey sing sad, sad songs about things I'm sure she's never experienced in her life." He snorts. "But I guess that's show business, isn't it?"
Sabitha's lip quirks slightly, and she inclines her head. "It is," she acknowledges. "It's all about the show. Making people believe you've felt... whatever's called for." She turns a curious gaze on him. "Was she any good?"
Shaw says, "Not really. Well--" immediate temporization, since it's a nice evening "--she wasn't /bad./ I liked her voice: like silk and smoke. But the songs irritated me, and that ruined it." He sighs, sparkles a wink. "I'm a curmudgeonly old bastard, count on it."
Sabitha actually laughs at that, either his words or his wink. She shakes her head and trails a finger around the rim of her glass. "I don't believe that for a moment. You've already admitted to me that you like jazz and dancing," she points out. A pause, and she tilts her head toward his to ask with twinkling eyes, "So tell me, Sebastian, do you stick to strictly ballroom, or do you live a bit dangerously when it comes to dance?"
Shaw looks alarmed. "I enjoy your company, and I like you a good deal, Sabitha, but I will /not/ perform the lambada under any circumstances."
Sabitha feigns hurt and leans back. "Honestly, Sebastian, and here I'd gotten my hopes up. You've crushed me."
Considering, Shaw allows cautiously, "Is there a second option?"
Sabitha lifts her brows pointedly, and holds back the smile that threatens to twitch at her lips, although she can't quite keep the amusement from her eyes. "Did you have something in mind?"
Oh, definite alarm, entertained as it is, and suspicion into which Shaw leans, forward over his chair closer to her. "/You/ brought it up. I think the proposition is still incumbent upon you, not me."
Sabitha can't quite keep the grin at bay, and it flickers onto her face before she can help it. She covers half the expression with a sip, watching him over the rim. "Oh, I don't know," she returns lightly. "I had my heart set on the lambada." She gives him a teasing wink and shifts, crossing her ankles under her chair. "And now I'm trying to picture you in the middle of smokey club with strobe lights and college girls in next to nothing. Somehow, it doesn't seem quite your element."
Shaw broods, brows and lips similarly furrowed, and has to ask, like a lawyer delicately exploring an unexpected motion, "Now, is that the girls in next to nothing, or me? I confess that your sentence can be parsed either way, so . . ."
Sabitha's brows shoot up. "I was thinking of the girls," she clarifies, letting her expression move into the feigned shock of a not-so-good-girl trying to pretend she's otherwise. "Although the image of you in a sparkly top and short, short skirt /does/ amuse, I have to admit," she teases with a slow smile.
"Ha!" Shaw relents, and grins back. "Dream on, dream on. I enjoy a good sparkly top, but short skirts do /nothing/ for my legs. At least--" he pretends to ponder it, while a knee bobs to the music or his own internal energies, sparked by the game "--at least not without the right shoes. It really is the shoes that make an outfit, after all."
Sabitha's foot darts out to nudge at his leg briefly, and she shakes her head with a slow grin. "It takes practice, getting the outfit just right," she agrees. "I think for your figure, you'd definitely want heels."
Shaw laughs and nudges her back, foot to foot. "Are you kidding? They'd ruin my spine; you /know/ what a medieval torture device those things are. Although -- good for posture. Get my shoulders and hips aligned just right," and he squares the former just a bit, with a grin's twist, for effect. "What color? Is black too formal? Too obvious?"
Sabitha shifts slightly to cross her legs again, the better to wiggle a strappy-heel-clad foot at him. "It's all in learning how to walk in them properly," she returns, and then gives him a carefully considering once-over. "Mmm. Formal, yes, but I think it suits you." She leans forward slightly, to brush her fingers lightly against his collar, straightening. "You manage red well, too. And there /is/ something delightful about a bold red."
"That's me," says Shaw demurely, "bold. And red, obviously, though not blushing yet, you devil." He leans back, hooking an arm over his chair, and studies the wiggling foot. "That's very nice. Where'd you get them?"
"More people could do with being bold, I think," Sabby shares, and leans back slightly to better show off her fabulous shoes. "Do you know, I can't remember?" she shares. "I've had them forever, I think. They /are/ fabulous, aren't they?" Sabitha, it seems, is not above gushing over a really nice pair of shoes.
Shaw, in response, leans forward for a better look. From that angle, he slants up a merry black question in his eyes. "May I?" he asks, gesturing at the shoe and its foot and then holding out that hand to cup it. "I want to see those straps; I think I do love them."
Sabitha lifts her brows again, but she raises her foot, nevertheless. "Feel free," she answers in a murmur.
Shaw's hand slides around the shoe's sole to brace it on the fulcrum between toe and heel, and he gives it that closer look. His fingers just touch her foot's skin, warm and faintly callused, but it's a chaste touch, for an engineer's examination. "And it stays on like that," he marvels, glancing up at her. "Do they dig in much? It doesn't seem so, but if you wore them too long . . ."
Sabitha's brows stay firmly in place, and her toes curl just slightly. Erm. "I don't wear them for jogging, Sebastian," Sabby points out. "They are, however, comfortable enough to get me where I need to go." Her brows settle back down, and she smiles slowly. "And they do fantastic things for my posture, of course."
"I noticed," quoth Shaw, and he surrenders foot and shoe and sits back and fetches his whisky for a nonchalant swallow. "--Thank you, anyway, but I do think I'll pass on a pair for my own. Not sure how that would help my dancing at the ball or . . . whatever club you might have in more immediate mind?"
"You haven't seen me standing in them yet," Sabitha points out with another lift of her brows that is definitely edging into the flirtatious zone. She grins, uncrossing and recrossing her legs in the opposite direction and putting her feet firmly out of Shaw's range as she leans forward to claim her drink. "I think I prefer you without, anyway." A pause for a sip, and then, "Are you suggesting that the jazz isn't holding your unqualified attention, Sebastian?"
Shaw waves an idle hand. "Well, a man can extrapolate, but you're right, you're right. I promise to pay full attention when you /are/ standing, if you wouldn't think that rude, of course." He lowers his eyelids slowly, lets them rise again in something between a wink and lashes' bat. And he's smiling, oh, is he smiling, thoroughly enjoying himself and her. "I'm glad you prefer me in any way, Sabitha; thank you. It does make it hard for the jazz to keep me in hand, with this good company."
Sabitha laughs lowly, and focuses a grin on him. "I have to wonder if you practice your flattery in the mirror before you come out," she teases, and leans toward him again, elbows resting on the table. "You do a girl's ego good, anyway. I'm beginning to feel I ought to keep you on speed dial for when I have a bad day." She swirls her glass again, though the liquid is nearly gone, leaving only an ice cube or two to clank against the glass.
"How /did/ you find my financial advice?" Shaw takes the segue with smooth ease, even as his smile widens a touch for her teasing. He doesn't refute it, either. Ha. "Nothing like buttressing your personal fortunes to help a bad day go good again."
Sabitha's eyes widen, and she looks briefly horrified. "Oh! I'm so sorry.. I meant to thank you. I think it will turn out very well. The names you gave me were /most/ helpful," she gushes, managing the feat of making it apologetic at the same time. "I'm happy to finally be doing something useful with it."
"Sabitha, Sabitha, it's all right!" Chuckling, Shaw leans to touch the back of her hand in reassurance. "Thank me or not; I'm just glad to be of assistance, as you know." He gentles into a smile, slightly lopsided for her reaction. "It's gone well, then, and you'll be set for whatever you want to do with the sum?"
Sabitha's eyes flick briefly to where his fingers touch her hand, and then return to his, smiling. "I think so, yes. It's invested, anyway, and quietly earning me something in return." Her head tilts, and she shoves her empty glass toward the center of the table. "You're a convenient man to know, when it comes to such things, Sebastian. Not everyone would be willing to give a near-stranger such help."
Shaw repeats, "'Convenient.' I like that. I feel like an ATM now." A smile's flash burns away any unintended insult. He's still swirling the last finger or so of whisky in his glass; it's anyone's guess whether he or the band, still smoking the tunes onstage, will finish first. "Not everyone would, no, but if you're thinking that I did so to cultivate you in some way -- earn a marker from you, or at least good will -- please don't. Sometimes . . . it's just nice to help, when I can, on a subject I do care deeply about."
Sabitha wasn't thinking along those lines.. until Sebastian mentioned it. She glances toward the stage, the better to hide any suspicious flicker that may light in her eyes, as she shakes her head and murmurs. "Of course not. If anything, it ought to be the other way round, don't you think?" Expression under control, she looks back toward him with a smile. "I'm hardly a social catch, after all. I don't have many favors tucked up /my/ sleeves, unfortunately."
"Just good company," Shaw reminds her and taps a finger peremptorily on the table between their hands. "And I'm grateful to have it. A little relaxation -- God, Sabitha, you have no idea what a luxury that can be from where I sit." His mouth tucks into a rueful smile not quite matched by snapping black eyes. "Milton's Lucifer, brooding upon his exile, has it easy some days, I swear to it. If I can get a little taste of freedom in return for a few bits of advice? I'll take it. I surely will."
Sabitha studies him in silence for a moment, thoughtfully. "It's mutual," she assures him after a moment, quietly, and then breaks the briefly serious mood with a sudden smile. "So. The question, then, is whether I can tempt you into the favor of finding somewhere that encourages dancing." Her brows lift suggestively.
Shaw leans back on a groan. "I don't want to know, I just don't." But then, he hasn't risen to power by playing it safe, so he concedes, "I'm game if you are -- and you are, so why don't we?" His teeth gleam in the gloom: smile's challenge. "And if I can't keep up, well, you can find some suitable way to mock and chasten me."
Sabitha laughs, and leans forward slightly to gather herself before she unfolds herself to stand. "I'll be merciless in my mocking," she assures him. "I'll tease you horribly."
Staying back in his chair, Shaw stays true to his word and visually admires her posture, all of her way up to standing. "High heels /are/ beautiful things, indeed. All right," and it's his turn to climb to his feet. He turns slightly away to toss off the last of the whiskey, drop the glass and a couple bills on the table. When he blinks back at her, doleful, he threatens, "Just don't make me cry. My pride absolutely could not handle it, dear Sabitha."
Sabitha doesn't reply to the compliment with more than an arched brow, but she can't quite keep from smiling. Easily flattered? Certainly. "I have a hard time believing that I could make you cry even if I were trying," she counters, waiting a moment before moving to twine her way out the door. "And I suspect your pride can handle far more than I can dish out." Her eyes twinkle as she moves out the door and into the balmy air outside with easy, swaying steps (helped by those heels). "We'll have to hope you can keep up then, I suppose."
Shaw lingers behind her on the way out (ah, that sway, those heels--), but catches up quickly enough once they're on the sidewalk, with the club's noise shut dimly behind them. "Which way?" he asks brightly. "--I /would/ cry. I promise. It would be a deeply disturbing experience for us both, though, so I'll endeavor to keep up and prevent your cruel teasing."
"See, now you're tempting me," Sabby teases on a light laugh. "Never tell a woman she has that much power - you never know what she'll do with it." She grins sideways at him, and then pauses to take her bearings. "Mmm. Well. I suppose that depends on what you're in the mood for. Shall we aim for something a bit older than the college crowd? Or do you want strobelights and techno?"
Shaw answers dryly, "Only if you want to be taking me to the emergency room for all the blood that will pour from my eyes and ears. Let's go a little upscale, a little boring. It's been a /long/ time, Sabitha; you have to ease me back into the scene."
"Tempting," Sabby replies, inclining her head to the right as she starts down the sidewalk in that direction. "But since you've been kind to me this week, I'll take pity. There's a nice dim-and-smokey place that does a lot of mellow, bass-heavy kind of stuff, with just a bit of the techno thrown in for good measure every now and then. And the volume's low enough to allow something resembling conversation." She glances at him, questioning in search of confirmation.
Shaw matches his stride to hers, angles down a lazy smile. "Perfect," he declares. "I appreciate your pity, though my pride does prickle. A bit." He makes a face, but eyes are still sparkling, mouth still mobile. "What do we have to talk about next? We covered work, and clothes, and the mourned-for past. . . ."
"Ah, that's the fabulous thing about dancing," Sabby returns with an echoing twinkle to her eyes. "You don't have to bother with conversation unless it strikes you." Her lips twist into a dry smile. "I'll try to refrain from taking that as an insult to my conversational skills."
"Sabitha," drags out Shaw, woeful Shaw, and he nudges his elbow into her arm as they walk. "You know I didn't mean /that./ So prickly. I'm going to have to watch everything I say, aren't I?"
Sabitha lifts her arm to thread it through his, effectively pinning his elbow for the moment as they walk. It makes the heels easier, that's all. "Absolutely," she confirms, deadpan. "I take everything seriously, you know."
Shaw, thus escorted (and he makes no move to pull away, not at all), rumbles assuredly, "A very good trait for your job, but hell on casual conversations. Give me hand signs when I trespass. Or blink once for 'okay' and twice for 'fuck off already, Sebastian.' That's easier than reading the tea leaves of our talking."
Sabitha laughs quietly, nearly a giggle. "If you go too far, be assured that I'll simply /say/ 'Fuck off, Sebastian," she replies, and there's something fabulously freeing about the ability to curse in polite society again. She steers them round a corner, and then nods at a glowing neon sign a few blocks down. "There."
"You say it so well," Shaw realizes. "Goodness. Maybe that's not such a good idea." He amiably keeps on the path to the sign, stepping over the last reaches of an alleyway garbage can's spill without breaking stride. Ah, New York. It's put him in a good mood, anyway, one he keeps sharing with his date. "It /is/ better than getting a drink thrown on me. Someone did that to me not long ago, and oh, the humiliation." Resentment swims briefly under his voice's rough velvet. "Or getting a slap to the face! That's pretty cliched, though. I'm sure you wouldn't stoop so low."
Sabitha gives him a sidelong glance. "Maybe you overestimate me," she suggests lightly. "Although I do usually save the throwing of drinks and the slapping of faces for /after/ the 'fuck off' hasn't worked. I'm almost afraid to ask how you managed to have a drink thrown on you." She, too, sidesteps the garbage, although not quite as easily - heels, mind - and she's briefly grateful for the balance his arm provides.
Shaw solicitously snugs her arm close with his, riding out the balance shift with her, and muses, "I had no idea women had a workflow for those responses. Is it ingrained? Do you learn it from your mothers? And you may ask." Assure her, he might, but he does keep his eyes steadily on the approaching sign. "It's a silly thing, really."
Sabitha laughs and shakes her head. "I suppose some do," she admits. "Me, I worked it out on my own. Escalation, you know. Some things deserve a bit of public humiliation, now and then." She glances at him briefly before turning her attention back to their path. "Did you deserve yours, or was it entirely uncalled for?"
"/She'd/ think so," is Shaw's response. Steady, even, on they go-- "It was Ms. Frost, after all."
Sabitha stumbles at that. Pure and simple. It's unclear whether her foot has caught on some hidden crack in the sidewalk or whether Emma's name is enough to make her lose her footing, but either way, she finds herself positively clinging to his arm to remain upright. Once she's regained her balance, she gives him a sidelong look. "Diverging interests, hm? Business dispute?" she questions in a dry tone that gives nothing beyond wry amusement away. If only her mind were so evenly calm.
The stumble catches Shaw by surprise, apparently, and he blinks down curiosity even as she clings. "Bad heels?" he supposes sympathetically. "They get caught on the damnedest things. As for Emma, speaking of the damnedest things, she was being a bitch, and I was on the receiving end, unfortunately." He summons a thoroughly believable smile. "It happens. At least I got the dry-cleaning bill paid, so it all worked out in the end. See, silly, as I told you."
"The price to be paid for beauty," Sabby agrees ruefully, and pauses to flex her ankle, testing, as they reach the neon sign. "Yes. It'd be horrible to have to pay your own, after all," she answers dryly, and then nods at the sign overhead. "Shall we?" Please? So we don't have to talk about Emma Frost anymore?
Shaw squeezes her arm companionably. "I like my little victories wherever I can get them, Sabitha," and he releases her to catch at the door's handle. A pull releases the first, throbbing measures of the music promised within, and the steaming breath of busy body heat. His expression hones sharper, as if already enjoying it, already anticipating this new challenge, but he invites with courtly manners, "Ladies first, I insist."
Sabitha catches the expression shift on a quick glance, and it's filed away in the portion of her brain marked 'to mull over later'. Mention of Emma, of course, brings the game back to the forefront of her mind. Still, later is later, because /now/ there is music, and the thrill of an evening dancing, and so she flashes a silent, bright smile at Shaw and slips inside.
So after her he must go, Sebastian Shaw on a date's dare, and he prowls in her wake, not yet catching up while he takes the measure of the place. The music, the dancers, the ceiling, and the walls -- "Not bad," he grants Sabitha on her choice, pitching his voice to carry through the few feet between them. "Is it a favorite place of yours?"
Sabitha shakes her head briefly. "I don't get out to places like this often anymore," she answers, likewise pitching her voice loud enough to carry over the music. "But I thought it might suit. I remembered that it's low on the strobes. She twines her hand around to grab his, and then weaves her way through the crowd. "So what do you say, dear Mr. Shaw?" she teases. "Drinks, or dancing?
Shaw tugs along after, and down the chain of arm to arm and up to her face, he smiles lopsidedly, giving her the barest glimpse of a young roughneck from the wrong side of the tracks, but always the right side of a fight. "Ah, what the hell. Let's dance, Sabby."
And that, my friends, is exactly what a Sabby likes to hear. She grins, and there's a hint of wickedness, a brief glimpse of the wild party girl she was not all that long ago, as she leads him onto the dance floor. "I was hoping you'd say that."
The music catches them up in a swift, stealthy net of bass lines lying shadowy-dark under the brighter threads of guitar licks and electronic harmonics. Shaw lets himself be led into the dancing, but once there, he shifts their roles, if only because he must, and because it suits him so very well. The man leads, and whatever his humble protests, he does keep up, he does move with the music and with her, and it's not bad -- a delighted grin as he spins her out in an old-fashioned move, to tuck her in on the return against his body -- it's not bad at all. ". . . So? Having fun yet?"
Sabitha is more than willing to let Shaw set the pace, so long as she gets to bask in the mindless glow of a throbbing base. A man who knows what he's doing doesn't hurt, either. Sabby, for her part, looks positively in heaven. A club such as this is as close to nirvana as she gets. She grins up at him in response as he tucks her close, and she raises on her tiptoes to speak to him, though in the heels, she only gains another half inch or so. "No broken toes yet," she answers. "Absolutely."
Shaw bows his head like a gentleman to bridge the gap, arm still around her waist, and then he laughs. "No mocking yet, then, either," he reminds her. The song shifts into a deeper, steadier pace, the musical net loosening to let the dancers catch their breaths with milder, subtler moves, though no less satisfying. This, /this/ is better for Sebastian, too, and he positively glows back to her. On their next mutual inbound, he comments, "Worth the hassle, huh? Work, traffic, high heels--"
Sabitha adjust easily to both music and Sebastian's lead, and she merely grins at his question, twirling briefly away. She's nearly caught up in the press of the Friday night crowd before she slides back in to murmur loudly - murmuring is all in the tone of voice, after all - "Quite worth it. Hell, you've no idea how much I needed this this week." She stays close for a minute. "And you're a more than adequette partner. You'll have to watch to be sure I don't make a habit out of taking advantage of you."
"If you think you can," Shaw teases back, sliding his hands down around her waist to match their steps for a few measures. "Like to see you try, anyway."
"Is that a challenge I hear, Mr. Shaw?" Sabby teases, letting one arm drape easily across his shoulder as they dance in time before she spins away again. And so the dancing goes, in and out, song after song, with a gentle tease or joke offered when opportunity presents itself. Finally, the driving beat shifts a step lower, and Sabitha pulls herself into Shaw again. She tiptoes up to share, "I think my feet are beginning to protest my fabulous shoes."
Shaw makes a rude noise. "Impertinent. Well, then there's nothing for it, I guess--" he loops his arm comfortably around her, to guide them over and off the dance floor "--but to get you seated. Or maybe home? I can have my driver drop you off on our way back uptown."
Sabitha gives Sebastian a grateful smile. "Oh, would you? I always hate catching a cab alone at this time of night. I find that the thought wipes any shame at taking advantage clean away." She doesn't move away from his arm, but neither does she return the gesture. Maybe she'll get to dial down the guilt a few points later on that count.
Maybe Shaw isn't counting coup, or guilt points, but only offering a casual kindness. It could be; his demeanor, pleasantly tired and just plain pleasant, suggests it. "Let's get some air, then, and I'll pray for decent reception down here for my cell." He's already pulling out the little silver toy from his pocket on their way to the door and back out onto the sidewalk, in the cooling rush of the city at night.
Whether Shaw is counting or not will have little effect on Sabby's frustration and guilt later on. She's quite aware that they'll come - she's simply choosing to ignore them in the face of an enjoyable evening out. Sabitha drags in a deep breath as they step into the night air. "It's cooled down since we went in," she remarks.
"Yeah, and you can smell the river behind it, or what I /hope/ is the river," Shaw says, distracted while he's futzing with the phone. There: a quick call, a few quiet words, and he can stuff it away and face her. "So."
Sabitha remains quietly standing while Shaw places his call, and her mind has wandered far enough that when he faces her again, she turns to him in surprise. It takes a moment to pull herself back, and she gives him a quiet smile, tinged with tired satisfaction. "So," she echoes, and then adds, "Thank you for risking the dancing, Sebastian. It was just what I needed to take the edge off the week."
Shaw's eyes flicker off her surprise, but he remains genial and doesn't speak to it. Only: "Me, too, Sabby. Thanks for pushing me to it . . . and trusting me not to stomp your lovely toes too badly." He peeks down at them, then angles a wry glance back up. "See, this /is/ why you won't get me into high heels. Well, among other reasons, I suppose."
Sabitha wiggles her toes happily, following his gaze, and then grins back up at him. "I still think you'd look smashing," she returns. "You should really think about it for the ball. It'd make quite the entrance."
Shaw stretches a grin into a chuckle. "No. I did have an idea for our costumes, if you want to hear it . . . ?" The car's probably still a few blocks away, after all, negotiating clubbing traffic from whatever safe corner its master had it tucked into while he was off and away.
Sabitha's brows shoot up, and anticipation lights her face as she watches him. "Oh, you'd /better/ share! Is there a theme, then?"
His hands sliding into slacks' pockets for balance, Shaw swings forward, closer, just a tad to add to the conspiracy of it all. "There is, of sorts. There'll always be the iconoclasts and the idiots who break from it for their own reasons." He dismisses them with a shrugged shoulder, all the better to share this moment alone with her. "It's literary, which is pretty broad, and so I thought that with your theatre experience, it'd be perfect. You know Marlowe's _Faustus_, I'm assuming?"
Sabitha gives him an easy nod. "Of course. I read it in a literature course, actually. And who doesn't love a good Faustian bargain?" she questions with a broad wink. She settles back, and then queries in sudden glee, "Oh! Do you have in mind Faust, or the devil?"
Shaw's grins gleams smugly in the gaudy splashes of neon from overhead. "What, me sign away my soul? Never! The devil, naturally, Mephistopheles himself, and I thought you--" he inclines a slight bow "--would be the one and only choice for Helen of Troy. 'Is this the face that launched a thousand ships, / And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?'" He reads the quote with deliberately bombastic emphasis, and completes it with a wicked gleam to black eyes: "'Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss--' Would you, d'you think?"
Sabitha laughs in obvious delight, and her hands come together in one brief clap before she brings them to smother another burst of laughter. "Oh, that's delightful. I'll feel horribly inadequette. But then, I suppose that's what the costume is for, isn't it?" The quote, and anything that comes after, is brushed aside in an excess of gushing, which may or may not be designed to do just that. "I have to admit, I'm looking forward to it."
"Good," declares Shaw and leans in for a kiss, indeed: not immortalizing, but brief and briefly hot to her cheek. "Now, you let me know if you do want to use my tailor. It's really no trouble, and he's well equipped to handle these requests. I've already started him on my part."
Sabitha is not surprised in the least by the kiss, and she turns her head just slightly to return it, though her lips are cooler and briefer against his skin. "Oh, don't worry," she answers with a slow smile. "I know someone who can do wonders for me. Besides, it's more fun if it's a bit of a surprise, don't you think?" she questions.
Shaw eases out, "Ye-es," as the long, sleek black Lincoln Towncar ghosts to the curb several feet up the walk. He flicks it a look, bends attention back to her. A smile, tired and true. "You're nothing but surprises, I think, whatever either of us might expect. Well enough. Your chariot awaits, fair Helen. May I escort you?" He turns and sticks out his arm for her arm's slip-through, waggling the elbow for comical effect.
Sabitha gives another laugh, light-hearted and easy. There's that to take from this evening with Sebastian Shaw, anyway. "I do it to keep you on your toes," she returns as she steps forward to take his arm. "Helen of Troy." She gives a short shake of her head. "What an entrance we'll make, hm?"
"That's the idea," Shaw observes her with the least bit of gloating, and into the car, and then into the traffic, the spangled streets of their city, they go.
[Log ends.]
She does flinch from the topic of Emma Frost. And she did accept not only the costume idea but also the small, accumulated intimacies of touching her foot, using her nickname, kissing her cheek.
I have made the right decision in picking my escort. Cats among the pigeons, and catfights to come, and who knows what to follow from there?
Careful, careful does it, old dog. No room for relaxation or overconfidence now.
6/24/2005
Logfile from Shaw.
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Sweet Basil
Undoubtedly one of the finest jazz clubs to be found in the southern sectors of Manhattan, and most definitely in Greenwich, Sweet Basil has seen the faces of some of the greatest jazz legends to cross the planet in its time. A relatively down-home charm manner of club, low-key and looking as though it belongs more in New Orleans than New York, many evenings can simply be wasted away being serenaded within the walls of the Sweet Basil, which, in turn, are plastered with black-and-white photographs of the legends that have graced this club's demure little stage and polished wooden floors.
--
Despite Sabby's preferences for quiet and cozy, the jazz headlining tonight was too much to resist. The club is increasingly crowded, but Sebastian Shaw's name has kept the small table she sits at, just to the left of center stage, free of anyone but herself. Sabby may not be one for clubbing anymore, but that doesn't mean she can't dress up a bit for a Friday night of jazz, although her ensemble is perhaps a bit more tasteful. Her legs are crossed gracefully in black skirt, not /quite/ too short, and her foot bobs in absent time to the music in strappy heels that are obviously not meant for much actual walking. A wine red blouse, neckline cut in a deep enough V to give a good hint of cleavage, completes the outfit. Not above using certain charms to maintain an advantage when needed, is Sabitha. And she waits.
Not for long, because never let it be said that Mr. Shaw lacks for mannerly punctuality when he chooses it. Through the club patrons' chattering swirl, he moves from entrance towards reserved table, and he's dressed to match the waiting woman, all unknowing, in red and black: a slick silk shirt of deep hue and unbuttoned collar, and casual canvas slacks. The only adornment he has, besides the effortless assurance that guides him through hastily parted and then resealed crowd, is the silver ring catching his hair at his nape. It's enough for a night out, its variables all reasonably defined -- and for, of course, the finest, funkiest jazz in the city.
Sabitha /was/ on the lookout for Shaw. Really she was. She has, however, gotten caught up in the music, and her gaze lingers longer and longer on the band onstage and looks less and less toward the door. Thus, she doesn't notice Shaw until he's right on her, and she leans back slightly with a surprised smile. "Mr. Shaw. If only you'd called me, we could have coordinated our wardrobes," she teases.
Shaw hooks a chair out from the table with his foot and settles therein, comfortably near but not /too/ near her, and with a good view of the stage, with a returned, quirked smile. "I tend to stick to the same colors in my wardrobe," he confesses, "so the chances of this happening were probably pretty good. I hope you don't mind. It's not as if we were wearing a pair of 'I'm with Stupid' T-shirts."
"I'll keep that in mind, then," Sabitha answers, and shifts just a bit to accomodate his seat at the table. She inches just a bit closer, in order to be heard over the jazz. "Although the T-Shirts may've been accurate. Assuming we could find one in my color," she jokes.
Shaw rests both elbows and loosely clasped hands on the table, and rolls her an amused eye. "I don't think that'd be a problem, Sabitha. A great many colors would suit you, after all." The compliment delivered, he glances up at the stage, then back. "Have I missed much? Traffic was a bear going downtown."
Sabitha returns his amused look with a smile of her own. "Flatterer," she quips, and then shakes her head as she rests her forearms against the table and leans forward just slightly. "Just the opening song, really. I got here a bit early, while they were warming up." She flashes a quick smile, and then lets her eyes drift toward the stage. "I'm afraid I was a bit paranoid that they'd give our table away, but it seems that Sebastian Shaw commands enough respect that it was free and clear."
"Well, I should hope so," Shaw replies with no little entertained indignation, "considering all the bother and bullshit I've put into making myself worth a damn. What's the use if I can't get a good table at a jazz club? Might as well give up and crawl back home in ignominious defeat." His gaze glints, studying her sidelong as he too drifts attention to the band. "Shall we order something? Let's see if a name's weight is worth its weight in drinks, too."
Sabitha glances back at Shaw, as the band ends one song and riffs quickly into another. "Their drinks are fabulous," she informs him. "I'm fond of the amaretto sours. Although if I have too much, I start thinking that this place would be perfect if only they allowed dancing." Another easy smile, self-depricating, is directed at him.
Shaw notes regretfully, "Not enough room, no," as he twitches a little gesture at one of the servers loitering along the wall leading to the bar. When the girl slinks over, full of just the right attitude for a Basil employee, he makes the order for them both (whiskey, neat, for him) and then dismisses her in favor of returning bright attention to Sabitha. "There are plenty of other places to go dancing; we might try to dig one up sometime. I like it, too. It's almost the only physical activity I've managed to conquer, and enjoy."
"Do you?" Sabitha questions with pleasant surprise. "I wouldn't have thought it of you! I used to love to dance. At least once a week, almost." Her fingers pick up an unconscious beat on the table, in time to her twitching foot. "I suppose the life of a college student is more condusive to a night out on the town, dancing, than that of a working girl, hm?" she suggests.
Shaw is tapping a finger himself, but just that. "Work's an obstacle that way; good for you for finding ways around it. And yes, I do love dancing, so we'll have a good time at the ball, I hope. Is it so difficult to believe of me?" he asks with sad-eyed wheedling, nearly spoiled by his mouth's disobedient shift towards another smile. "I'm not /entirely/ a mindless brute, dear Sabitha, I assure you."
"Oh, I'm certain we'll have a fabulous time at the ball. I admit, I love an excuse to dress up in fantastic dresses," Sabby teases, and then her smile fades just a bit and she lifts her brows in mock indignation. "Come now. We're enjoying jazz, aren't we? Hardly the mark of a mindless brute, or someone who thinks it of you. Dancing just doesn't seem to be a popular passtime among the boys I know." A brief pause, and then she admits, "Of course, I suppose you can hardly be lumped with my college friends." A flicker of a smile makes it a compliment.
Shaw bobs his brows back at her, and he follows the shift into easy amusement. "Of course, Sabitha, I'm sorry. It was a long day, and I had one too many insults hurled my way by . . . irresponsible members of the corporate world, let's say." Who might be looking for new jobs, even now, or /should./ He assures her, "I don't mean to take it out on you. I promise to enjoy jazz and your company, and think nothing more of it." That settled, he leans his weight onto his far elbow, angling more towards her than the stage, and wonders, "Your college friends weren't that bad, were they? Or that good. Middling, maybe."
Sabitha laughs easily, and leans toward him in echoing response. "Don't worry about it, Sebastian. I'm just teasing you. And if my week has been long and tiring, I can't imagine what yours has been like. I think it must be enough to drive a lesser person slightly insane." She lifts a hand to wave it, and then settles her elbows lightly on the table's edge. "Depends on the friend, I suppose. I'm ashamed to admit that I spent far too much of my last year or so hidden in my room with my books or out dancing with strangers. I wish I'd kept in better touch with some of them." A pause, and she inquires, "Have you ever lost touch with and old friend, and then regained it later to find that you'd grown in such totally opposite directions that there's no connection at all anymore?"
Shaw considers the question seriously, aided by the drinks that finally arrive. With his hands curled around the highball glass, he tells it as much as her, "I don't think so, no. When I left my old stomping grounds, I did it almost completely; even now, I go back to Pittsburgh only for business, and the people I knew in college . . ." He shrugs, taps a forefinger against the glass a couple times. "I don't know if I'd want to look them up, and they haven't done the same for me. Lost in the mists of time, it seems. Why, has that happened to you?"
Sabitha takes her glass with a flash of a smile toward the waiter and pauses to sip at it. "Mmm," she replies, lowering her glass. "Of a sort, I suppose. Things just... change." And then she gives him an intentionally bright smile, and shakes her head. "And what a good way to bring a conversation down, hm? Mourning the lost past. It must be the jazz getting to me."
"It does that," Shaw says softly. After a slow swallow, he cocks his head over the glass and eyes her with due consideration. "Music just brings out whatever you're feeling inside and gives it shape and weight, or so I've always thought. It's not a downer, Sabitha. It just . . . is. Go with it, if that's what you need to do." A quick, small smile. "I promise not to tell a soul."
Sabitha's smile remains bright, and she shakes her head shortly. "I refuse to ruin a perfectly pleasant evening, with good drinks, music, and company, with a melancholy mood. I don't get out nearly often enough to do that," she counters, and swirls her glass slightly. "Tell me about your week?"
Shaw gives her the sad-eyed look again, sparking a bit with suppressed emotion, but obeys. "Oh, the usual. It was pretty quiet, actually; I spent most of it at my office, catching up on faxes and phone calls. The high life," he names it with dark whimsy. "And yours? How's life in the senator's office?"
Sabitha chuckles darkly at his whimsy. "A bit insane at the moment," she admits. "Big vote, controversial bill, in the near future, you know. It has everyone in a bit of a tizzy." Her smile has faded into a more relaxed expression, and she shakes her head. "Probably half of the mood. It's been more than a little exhausting this week."
Shaw tips his glass towards hers. "All the more reason," he says firmly, "to forget about it and let the music take it away. From both of us! Here's to jazz, and the weekend, and to hell with work."
"I'll drink to that," Sabby agrees easily, and lifts her drink to clink it against his. "To hell with work /indeed/." She pauses for a sip, and then lets her eyes roam back to the stage restlessly. "They're good," she remarks after a moment.
"And I'll drink to /that,/" responds Shaw on an easy, heavier lean against his propped elbow. He's looking more relaxed, too, his gaze moving lazily on the band, a finger tip-tapping again to the music. "I was in here a few weeks ago to hear this girl from Jersey sing sad, sad songs about things I'm sure she's never experienced in her life." He snorts. "But I guess that's show business, isn't it?"
Sabitha's lip quirks slightly, and she inclines her head. "It is," she acknowledges. "It's all about the show. Making people believe you've felt... whatever's called for." She turns a curious gaze on him. "Was she any good?"
Shaw says, "Not really. Well--" immediate temporization, since it's a nice evening "--she wasn't /bad./ I liked her voice: like silk and smoke. But the songs irritated me, and that ruined it." He sighs, sparkles a wink. "I'm a curmudgeonly old bastard, count on it."
Sabitha actually laughs at that, either his words or his wink. She shakes her head and trails a finger around the rim of her glass. "I don't believe that for a moment. You've already admitted to me that you like jazz and dancing," she points out. A pause, and she tilts her head toward his to ask with twinkling eyes, "So tell me, Sebastian, do you stick to strictly ballroom, or do you live a bit dangerously when it comes to dance?"
Shaw looks alarmed. "I enjoy your company, and I like you a good deal, Sabitha, but I will /not/ perform the lambada under any circumstances."
Sabitha feigns hurt and leans back. "Honestly, Sebastian, and here I'd gotten my hopes up. You've crushed me."
Considering, Shaw allows cautiously, "Is there a second option?"
Sabitha lifts her brows pointedly, and holds back the smile that threatens to twitch at her lips, although she can't quite keep the amusement from her eyes. "Did you have something in mind?"
Oh, definite alarm, entertained as it is, and suspicion into which Shaw leans, forward over his chair closer to her. "/You/ brought it up. I think the proposition is still incumbent upon you, not me."
Sabitha can't quite keep the grin at bay, and it flickers onto her face before she can help it. She covers half the expression with a sip, watching him over the rim. "Oh, I don't know," she returns lightly. "I had my heart set on the lambada." She gives him a teasing wink and shifts, crossing her ankles under her chair. "And now I'm trying to picture you in the middle of smokey club with strobe lights and college girls in next to nothing. Somehow, it doesn't seem quite your element."
Shaw broods, brows and lips similarly furrowed, and has to ask, like a lawyer delicately exploring an unexpected motion, "Now, is that the girls in next to nothing, or me? I confess that your sentence can be parsed either way, so . . ."
Sabitha's brows shoot up. "I was thinking of the girls," she clarifies, letting her expression move into the feigned shock of a not-so-good-girl trying to pretend she's otherwise. "Although the image of you in a sparkly top and short, short skirt /does/ amuse, I have to admit," she teases with a slow smile.
"Ha!" Shaw relents, and grins back. "Dream on, dream on. I enjoy a good sparkly top, but short skirts do /nothing/ for my legs. At least--" he pretends to ponder it, while a knee bobs to the music or his own internal energies, sparked by the game "--at least not without the right shoes. It really is the shoes that make an outfit, after all."
Sabitha's foot darts out to nudge at his leg briefly, and she shakes her head with a slow grin. "It takes practice, getting the outfit just right," she agrees. "I think for your figure, you'd definitely want heels."
Shaw laughs and nudges her back, foot to foot. "Are you kidding? They'd ruin my spine; you /know/ what a medieval torture device those things are. Although -- good for posture. Get my shoulders and hips aligned just right," and he squares the former just a bit, with a grin's twist, for effect. "What color? Is black too formal? Too obvious?"
Sabitha shifts slightly to cross her legs again, the better to wiggle a strappy-heel-clad foot at him. "It's all in learning how to walk in them properly," she returns, and then gives him a carefully considering once-over. "Mmm. Formal, yes, but I think it suits you." She leans forward slightly, to brush her fingers lightly against his collar, straightening. "You manage red well, too. And there /is/ something delightful about a bold red."
"That's me," says Shaw demurely, "bold. And red, obviously, though not blushing yet, you devil." He leans back, hooking an arm over his chair, and studies the wiggling foot. "That's very nice. Where'd you get them?"
"More people could do with being bold, I think," Sabby shares, and leans back slightly to better show off her fabulous shoes. "Do you know, I can't remember?" she shares. "I've had them forever, I think. They /are/ fabulous, aren't they?" Sabitha, it seems, is not above gushing over a really nice pair of shoes.
Shaw, in response, leans forward for a better look. From that angle, he slants up a merry black question in his eyes. "May I?" he asks, gesturing at the shoe and its foot and then holding out that hand to cup it. "I want to see those straps; I think I do love them."
Sabitha lifts her brows again, but she raises her foot, nevertheless. "Feel free," she answers in a murmur.
Shaw's hand slides around the shoe's sole to brace it on the fulcrum between toe and heel, and he gives it that closer look. His fingers just touch her foot's skin, warm and faintly callused, but it's a chaste touch, for an engineer's examination. "And it stays on like that," he marvels, glancing up at her. "Do they dig in much? It doesn't seem so, but if you wore them too long . . ."
Sabitha's brows stay firmly in place, and her toes curl just slightly. Erm. "I don't wear them for jogging, Sebastian," Sabby points out. "They are, however, comfortable enough to get me where I need to go." Her brows settle back down, and she smiles slowly. "And they do fantastic things for my posture, of course."
"I noticed," quoth Shaw, and he surrenders foot and shoe and sits back and fetches his whisky for a nonchalant swallow. "--Thank you, anyway, but I do think I'll pass on a pair for my own. Not sure how that would help my dancing at the ball or . . . whatever club you might have in more immediate mind?"
"You haven't seen me standing in them yet," Sabitha points out with another lift of her brows that is definitely edging into the flirtatious zone. She grins, uncrossing and recrossing her legs in the opposite direction and putting her feet firmly out of Shaw's range as she leans forward to claim her drink. "I think I prefer you without, anyway." A pause for a sip, and then, "Are you suggesting that the jazz isn't holding your unqualified attention, Sebastian?"
Shaw waves an idle hand. "Well, a man can extrapolate, but you're right, you're right. I promise to pay full attention when you /are/ standing, if you wouldn't think that rude, of course." He lowers his eyelids slowly, lets them rise again in something between a wink and lashes' bat. And he's smiling, oh, is he smiling, thoroughly enjoying himself and her. "I'm glad you prefer me in any way, Sabitha; thank you. It does make it hard for the jazz to keep me in hand, with this good company."
Sabitha laughs lowly, and focuses a grin on him. "I have to wonder if you practice your flattery in the mirror before you come out," she teases, and leans toward him again, elbows resting on the table. "You do a girl's ego good, anyway. I'm beginning to feel I ought to keep you on speed dial for when I have a bad day." She swirls her glass again, though the liquid is nearly gone, leaving only an ice cube or two to clank against the glass.
"How /did/ you find my financial advice?" Shaw takes the segue with smooth ease, even as his smile widens a touch for her teasing. He doesn't refute it, either. Ha. "Nothing like buttressing your personal fortunes to help a bad day go good again."
Sabitha's eyes widen, and she looks briefly horrified. "Oh! I'm so sorry.. I meant to thank you. I think it will turn out very well. The names you gave me were /most/ helpful," she gushes, managing the feat of making it apologetic at the same time. "I'm happy to finally be doing something useful with it."
"Sabitha, Sabitha, it's all right!" Chuckling, Shaw leans to touch the back of her hand in reassurance. "Thank me or not; I'm just glad to be of assistance, as you know." He gentles into a smile, slightly lopsided for her reaction. "It's gone well, then, and you'll be set for whatever you want to do with the sum?"
Sabitha's eyes flick briefly to where his fingers touch her hand, and then return to his, smiling. "I think so, yes. It's invested, anyway, and quietly earning me something in return." Her head tilts, and she shoves her empty glass toward the center of the table. "You're a convenient man to know, when it comes to such things, Sebastian. Not everyone would be willing to give a near-stranger such help."
Shaw repeats, "'Convenient.' I like that. I feel like an ATM now." A smile's flash burns away any unintended insult. He's still swirling the last finger or so of whisky in his glass; it's anyone's guess whether he or the band, still smoking the tunes onstage, will finish first. "Not everyone would, no, but if you're thinking that I did so to cultivate you in some way -- earn a marker from you, or at least good will -- please don't. Sometimes . . . it's just nice to help, when I can, on a subject I do care deeply about."
Sabitha wasn't thinking along those lines.. until Sebastian mentioned it. She glances toward the stage, the better to hide any suspicious flicker that may light in her eyes, as she shakes her head and murmurs. "Of course not. If anything, it ought to be the other way round, don't you think?" Expression under control, she looks back toward him with a smile. "I'm hardly a social catch, after all. I don't have many favors tucked up /my/ sleeves, unfortunately."
"Just good company," Shaw reminds her and taps a finger peremptorily on the table between their hands. "And I'm grateful to have it. A little relaxation -- God, Sabitha, you have no idea what a luxury that can be from where I sit." His mouth tucks into a rueful smile not quite matched by snapping black eyes. "Milton's Lucifer, brooding upon his exile, has it easy some days, I swear to it. If I can get a little taste of freedom in return for a few bits of advice? I'll take it. I surely will."
Sabitha studies him in silence for a moment, thoughtfully. "It's mutual," she assures him after a moment, quietly, and then breaks the briefly serious mood with a sudden smile. "So. The question, then, is whether I can tempt you into the favor of finding somewhere that encourages dancing." Her brows lift suggestively.
Shaw leans back on a groan. "I don't want to know, I just don't." But then, he hasn't risen to power by playing it safe, so he concedes, "I'm game if you are -- and you are, so why don't we?" His teeth gleam in the gloom: smile's challenge. "And if I can't keep up, well, you can find some suitable way to mock and chasten me."
Sabitha laughs, and leans forward slightly to gather herself before she unfolds herself to stand. "I'll be merciless in my mocking," she assures him. "I'll tease you horribly."
Staying back in his chair, Shaw stays true to his word and visually admires her posture, all of her way up to standing. "High heels /are/ beautiful things, indeed. All right," and it's his turn to climb to his feet. He turns slightly away to toss off the last of the whiskey, drop the glass and a couple bills on the table. When he blinks back at her, doleful, he threatens, "Just don't make me cry. My pride absolutely could not handle it, dear Sabitha."
Sabitha doesn't reply to the compliment with more than an arched brow, but she can't quite keep from smiling. Easily flattered? Certainly. "I have a hard time believing that I could make you cry even if I were trying," she counters, waiting a moment before moving to twine her way out the door. "And I suspect your pride can handle far more than I can dish out." Her eyes twinkle as she moves out the door and into the balmy air outside with easy, swaying steps (helped by those heels). "We'll have to hope you can keep up then, I suppose."
Shaw lingers behind her on the way out (ah, that sway, those heels--), but catches up quickly enough once they're on the sidewalk, with the club's noise shut dimly behind them. "Which way?" he asks brightly. "--I /would/ cry. I promise. It would be a deeply disturbing experience for us both, though, so I'll endeavor to keep up and prevent your cruel teasing."
"See, now you're tempting me," Sabby teases on a light laugh. "Never tell a woman she has that much power - you never know what she'll do with it." She grins sideways at him, and then pauses to take her bearings. "Mmm. Well. I suppose that depends on what you're in the mood for. Shall we aim for something a bit older than the college crowd? Or do you want strobelights and techno?"
Shaw answers dryly, "Only if you want to be taking me to the emergency room for all the blood that will pour from my eyes and ears. Let's go a little upscale, a little boring. It's been a /long/ time, Sabitha; you have to ease me back into the scene."
"Tempting," Sabby replies, inclining her head to the right as she starts down the sidewalk in that direction. "But since you've been kind to me this week, I'll take pity. There's a nice dim-and-smokey place that does a lot of mellow, bass-heavy kind of stuff, with just a bit of the techno thrown in for good measure every now and then. And the volume's low enough to allow something resembling conversation." She glances at him, questioning in search of confirmation.
Shaw matches his stride to hers, angles down a lazy smile. "Perfect," he declares. "I appreciate your pity, though my pride does prickle. A bit." He makes a face, but eyes are still sparkling, mouth still mobile. "What do we have to talk about next? We covered work, and clothes, and the mourned-for past. . . ."
"Ah, that's the fabulous thing about dancing," Sabby returns with an echoing twinkle to her eyes. "You don't have to bother with conversation unless it strikes you." Her lips twist into a dry smile. "I'll try to refrain from taking that as an insult to my conversational skills."
"Sabitha," drags out Shaw, woeful Shaw, and he nudges his elbow into her arm as they walk. "You know I didn't mean /that./ So prickly. I'm going to have to watch everything I say, aren't I?"
Sabitha lifts her arm to thread it through his, effectively pinning his elbow for the moment as they walk. It makes the heels easier, that's all. "Absolutely," she confirms, deadpan. "I take everything seriously, you know."
Shaw, thus escorted (and he makes no move to pull away, not at all), rumbles assuredly, "A very good trait for your job, but hell on casual conversations. Give me hand signs when I trespass. Or blink once for 'okay' and twice for 'fuck off already, Sebastian.' That's easier than reading the tea leaves of our talking."
Sabitha laughs quietly, nearly a giggle. "If you go too far, be assured that I'll simply /say/ 'Fuck off, Sebastian," she replies, and there's something fabulously freeing about the ability to curse in polite society again. She steers them round a corner, and then nods at a glowing neon sign a few blocks down. "There."
"You say it so well," Shaw realizes. "Goodness. Maybe that's not such a good idea." He amiably keeps on the path to the sign, stepping over the last reaches of an alleyway garbage can's spill without breaking stride. Ah, New York. It's put him in a good mood, anyway, one he keeps sharing with his date. "It /is/ better than getting a drink thrown on me. Someone did that to me not long ago, and oh, the humiliation." Resentment swims briefly under his voice's rough velvet. "Or getting a slap to the face! That's pretty cliched, though. I'm sure you wouldn't stoop so low."
Sabitha gives him a sidelong glance. "Maybe you overestimate me," she suggests lightly. "Although I do usually save the throwing of drinks and the slapping of faces for /after/ the 'fuck off' hasn't worked. I'm almost afraid to ask how you managed to have a drink thrown on you." She, too, sidesteps the garbage, although not quite as easily - heels, mind - and she's briefly grateful for the balance his arm provides.
Shaw solicitously snugs her arm close with his, riding out the balance shift with her, and muses, "I had no idea women had a workflow for those responses. Is it ingrained? Do you learn it from your mothers? And you may ask." Assure her, he might, but he does keep his eyes steadily on the approaching sign. "It's a silly thing, really."
Sabitha laughs and shakes her head. "I suppose some do," she admits. "Me, I worked it out on my own. Escalation, you know. Some things deserve a bit of public humiliation, now and then." She glances at him briefly before turning her attention back to their path. "Did you deserve yours, or was it entirely uncalled for?"
"/She'd/ think so," is Shaw's response. Steady, even, on they go-- "It was Ms. Frost, after all."
Sabitha stumbles at that. Pure and simple. It's unclear whether her foot has caught on some hidden crack in the sidewalk or whether Emma's name is enough to make her lose her footing, but either way, she finds herself positively clinging to his arm to remain upright. Once she's regained her balance, she gives him a sidelong look. "Diverging interests, hm? Business dispute?" she questions in a dry tone that gives nothing beyond wry amusement away. If only her mind were so evenly calm.
The stumble catches Shaw by surprise, apparently, and he blinks down curiosity even as she clings. "Bad heels?" he supposes sympathetically. "They get caught on the damnedest things. As for Emma, speaking of the damnedest things, she was being a bitch, and I was on the receiving end, unfortunately." He summons a thoroughly believable smile. "It happens. At least I got the dry-cleaning bill paid, so it all worked out in the end. See, silly, as I told you."
"The price to be paid for beauty," Sabby agrees ruefully, and pauses to flex her ankle, testing, as they reach the neon sign. "Yes. It'd be horrible to have to pay your own, after all," she answers dryly, and then nods at the sign overhead. "Shall we?" Please? So we don't have to talk about Emma Frost anymore?
Shaw squeezes her arm companionably. "I like my little victories wherever I can get them, Sabitha," and he releases her to catch at the door's handle. A pull releases the first, throbbing measures of the music promised within, and the steaming breath of busy body heat. His expression hones sharper, as if already enjoying it, already anticipating this new challenge, but he invites with courtly manners, "Ladies first, I insist."
Sabitha catches the expression shift on a quick glance, and it's filed away in the portion of her brain marked 'to mull over later'. Mention of Emma, of course, brings the game back to the forefront of her mind. Still, later is later, because /now/ there is music, and the thrill of an evening dancing, and so she flashes a silent, bright smile at Shaw and slips inside.
So after her he must go, Sebastian Shaw on a date's dare, and he prowls in her wake, not yet catching up while he takes the measure of the place. The music, the dancers, the ceiling, and the walls -- "Not bad," he grants Sabitha on her choice, pitching his voice to carry through the few feet between them. "Is it a favorite place of yours?"
Sabitha shakes her head briefly. "I don't get out to places like this often anymore," she answers, likewise pitching her voice loud enough to carry over the music. "But I thought it might suit. I remembered that it's low on the strobes. She twines her hand around to grab his, and then weaves her way through the crowd. "So what do you say, dear Mr. Shaw?" she teases. "Drinks, or dancing?
Shaw tugs along after, and down the chain of arm to arm and up to her face, he smiles lopsidedly, giving her the barest glimpse of a young roughneck from the wrong side of the tracks, but always the right side of a fight. "Ah, what the hell. Let's dance, Sabby."
And that, my friends, is exactly what a Sabby likes to hear. She grins, and there's a hint of wickedness, a brief glimpse of the wild party girl she was not all that long ago, as she leads him onto the dance floor. "I was hoping you'd say that."
The music catches them up in a swift, stealthy net of bass lines lying shadowy-dark under the brighter threads of guitar licks and electronic harmonics. Shaw lets himself be led into the dancing, but once there, he shifts their roles, if only because he must, and because it suits him so very well. The man leads, and whatever his humble protests, he does keep up, he does move with the music and with her, and it's not bad -- a delighted grin as he spins her out in an old-fashioned move, to tuck her in on the return against his body -- it's not bad at all. ". . . So? Having fun yet?"
Sabitha is more than willing to let Shaw set the pace, so long as she gets to bask in the mindless glow of a throbbing base. A man who knows what he's doing doesn't hurt, either. Sabby, for her part, looks positively in heaven. A club such as this is as close to nirvana as she gets. She grins up at him in response as he tucks her close, and she raises on her tiptoes to speak to him, though in the heels, she only gains another half inch or so. "No broken toes yet," she answers. "Absolutely."
Shaw bows his head like a gentleman to bridge the gap, arm still around her waist, and then he laughs. "No mocking yet, then, either," he reminds her. The song shifts into a deeper, steadier pace, the musical net loosening to let the dancers catch their breaths with milder, subtler moves, though no less satisfying. This, /this/ is better for Sebastian, too, and he positively glows back to her. On their next mutual inbound, he comments, "Worth the hassle, huh? Work, traffic, high heels--"
Sabitha adjust easily to both music and Sebastian's lead, and she merely grins at his question, twirling briefly away. She's nearly caught up in the press of the Friday night crowd before she slides back in to murmur loudly - murmuring is all in the tone of voice, after all - "Quite worth it. Hell, you've no idea how much I needed this this week." She stays close for a minute. "And you're a more than adequette partner. You'll have to watch to be sure I don't make a habit out of taking advantage of you."
"If you think you can," Shaw teases back, sliding his hands down around her waist to match their steps for a few measures. "Like to see you try, anyway."
"Is that a challenge I hear, Mr. Shaw?" Sabby teases, letting one arm drape easily across his shoulder as they dance in time before she spins away again. And so the dancing goes, in and out, song after song, with a gentle tease or joke offered when opportunity presents itself. Finally, the driving beat shifts a step lower, and Sabitha pulls herself into Shaw again. She tiptoes up to share, "I think my feet are beginning to protest my fabulous shoes."
Shaw makes a rude noise. "Impertinent. Well, then there's nothing for it, I guess--" he loops his arm comfortably around her, to guide them over and off the dance floor "--but to get you seated. Or maybe home? I can have my driver drop you off on our way back uptown."
Sabitha gives Sebastian a grateful smile. "Oh, would you? I always hate catching a cab alone at this time of night. I find that the thought wipes any shame at taking advantage clean away." She doesn't move away from his arm, but neither does she return the gesture. Maybe she'll get to dial down the guilt a few points later on that count.
Maybe Shaw isn't counting coup, or guilt points, but only offering a casual kindness. It could be; his demeanor, pleasantly tired and just plain pleasant, suggests it. "Let's get some air, then, and I'll pray for decent reception down here for my cell." He's already pulling out the little silver toy from his pocket on their way to the door and back out onto the sidewalk, in the cooling rush of the city at night.
Whether Shaw is counting or not will have little effect on Sabby's frustration and guilt later on. She's quite aware that they'll come - she's simply choosing to ignore them in the face of an enjoyable evening out. Sabitha drags in a deep breath as they step into the night air. "It's cooled down since we went in," she remarks.
"Yeah, and you can smell the river behind it, or what I /hope/ is the river," Shaw says, distracted while he's futzing with the phone. There: a quick call, a few quiet words, and he can stuff it away and face her. "So."
Sabitha remains quietly standing while Shaw places his call, and her mind has wandered far enough that when he faces her again, she turns to him in surprise. It takes a moment to pull herself back, and she gives him a quiet smile, tinged with tired satisfaction. "So," she echoes, and then adds, "Thank you for risking the dancing, Sebastian. It was just what I needed to take the edge off the week."
Shaw's eyes flicker off her surprise, but he remains genial and doesn't speak to it. Only: "Me, too, Sabby. Thanks for pushing me to it . . . and trusting me not to stomp your lovely toes too badly." He peeks down at them, then angles a wry glance back up. "See, this /is/ why you won't get me into high heels. Well, among other reasons, I suppose."
Sabitha wiggles her toes happily, following his gaze, and then grins back up at him. "I still think you'd look smashing," she returns. "You should really think about it for the ball. It'd make quite the entrance."
Shaw stretches a grin into a chuckle. "No. I did have an idea for our costumes, if you want to hear it . . . ?" The car's probably still a few blocks away, after all, negotiating clubbing traffic from whatever safe corner its master had it tucked into while he was off and away.
Sabitha's brows shoot up, and anticipation lights her face as she watches him. "Oh, you'd /better/ share! Is there a theme, then?"
His hands sliding into slacks' pockets for balance, Shaw swings forward, closer, just a tad to add to the conspiracy of it all. "There is, of sorts. There'll always be the iconoclasts and the idiots who break from it for their own reasons." He dismisses them with a shrugged shoulder, all the better to share this moment alone with her. "It's literary, which is pretty broad, and so I thought that with your theatre experience, it'd be perfect. You know Marlowe's _Faustus_, I'm assuming?"
Sabitha gives him an easy nod. "Of course. I read it in a literature course, actually. And who doesn't love a good Faustian bargain?" she questions with a broad wink. She settles back, and then queries in sudden glee, "Oh! Do you have in mind Faust, or the devil?"
Shaw's grins gleams smugly in the gaudy splashes of neon from overhead. "What, me sign away my soul? Never! The devil, naturally, Mephistopheles himself, and I thought you--" he inclines a slight bow "--would be the one and only choice for Helen of Troy. 'Is this the face that launched a thousand ships, / And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?'" He reads the quote with deliberately bombastic emphasis, and completes it with a wicked gleam to black eyes: "'Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss--' Would you, d'you think?"
Sabitha laughs in obvious delight, and her hands come together in one brief clap before she brings them to smother another burst of laughter. "Oh, that's delightful. I'll feel horribly inadequette. But then, I suppose that's what the costume is for, isn't it?" The quote, and anything that comes after, is brushed aside in an excess of gushing, which may or may not be designed to do just that. "I have to admit, I'm looking forward to it."
"Good," declares Shaw and leans in for a kiss, indeed: not immortalizing, but brief and briefly hot to her cheek. "Now, you let me know if you do want to use my tailor. It's really no trouble, and he's well equipped to handle these requests. I've already started him on my part."
Sabitha is not surprised in the least by the kiss, and she turns her head just slightly to return it, though her lips are cooler and briefer against his skin. "Oh, don't worry," she answers with a slow smile. "I know someone who can do wonders for me. Besides, it's more fun if it's a bit of a surprise, don't you think?" she questions.
Shaw eases out, "Ye-es," as the long, sleek black Lincoln Towncar ghosts to the curb several feet up the walk. He flicks it a look, bends attention back to her. A smile, tired and true. "You're nothing but surprises, I think, whatever either of us might expect. Well enough. Your chariot awaits, fair Helen. May I escort you?" He turns and sticks out his arm for her arm's slip-through, waggling the elbow for comical effect.
Sabitha gives another laugh, light-hearted and easy. There's that to take from this evening with Sebastian Shaw, anyway. "I do it to keep you on your toes," she returns as she steps forward to take his arm. "Helen of Troy." She gives a short shake of her head. "What an entrance we'll make, hm?"
"That's the idea," Shaw observes her with the least bit of gloating, and into the car, and then into the traffic, the spangled streets of their city, they go.
[Log ends.]