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=NYC= Bad Ass Coffee - East Village - Manhattan
The decor is one of tropical paradise. There are potted ferns and mini-palms in every nook and cranny, while the walls are painted a cheerful yellow and as much green or wooden decorations as possible have been added. Opposite the door is the counter where you order, a long line of giant cookie jars leading you to the register. Behind the counter are a plethora of tea leaves and coffee grounds, purchaseable brewed by the cup of packaged by the pound! You can get just about any kind of herbal tea, coffee, cinnamon bun, muffin, cookie, cake, pie, soup, chili, or sandwich here. They serve the works, all at really cheap prices. All around the open area are tall wooden tables with wooden barstools set around them, and off in each corner is a green couch and two matching armchairs. Up on a raised dias to the left is the smoking area, sealed off into it's own room with plexiglass windows and filled with similar tables and barstools. This place is the hangout of the altervative crowd -- artists, goths, punks, and the like. The people are friendly and the music is good -- enjoy!
It's late enough that most of the patrons of Bad Ass are college students or businessfolk who've claimed a table for purposes of work rather than consumption. The caffiene and pastries are simply an added benefit. Natalie is one such, with a long sheet of problems spread before her and something that was once steaming and is now tepid at her elbow. Her lower lip is caught up between her teeth in deep concentration as she works, squinting at the paper below through her glasses.
Travis stands at the counter, radiating the cold from outdoors as he waits for his drink. Once received, he makes his way to find a table. And destination selected immediately on seeing a vaguely familiar face. "We meet again, Say-it-like-it-is girl," Travis greets, setting his drink on the table beside her as he unbuttons his longcoat. "Natalie, was it?"
Natalie glances up in startled surprise, and it takes a moment for her brain to shift from mathematical proofs to-- "Travis." Lashes bat rapidly as Natalie blinks at him and she shifts back. "Hi."
"Ah," Travis says, with a brief nod, as he hangs his coat over the back of a chair and settles into place. "At least it's not 'Oh, you again.'"
"I'd think that'd be your line," Natalie answers with a dry half-twist of her lips. "Aren't you the cynical one?"
"That would be a fairly accurate representation," Travis agrees, reaching for his drink as he sits sidewards in his chair to face her. "So is this part of your top-secret profession?" he asks, glancing at the papers in front of her.
"My top-secret--" Natalie blinks again and shifts slightly to tap her pencil against the paper in front of her. "Schoolwork, yeah. What're you doing?"
"Ah, a student," Travis says. "No nothing of the undercover government agent I began to speculate. Me, I'm just getting my caffiene shot before the night's work begins." He takes a long draught from his drink, before setting it back on the table.
Natalie snorts a brief laugh and tips her head back to regard Travis. "What?" she asks dryly. "You think I was a Secret Agent or something?"
"Well, you did so neatly evade my questions about what you did," Travis shrugs. "Then again, I seem to remember most of the conversation focusing around me anyways. So perhaps I'm at fault."
"Did it?" Natalie lifts one hand to push her glasses back on the bridge of her nose and hitches her shoulders up in easy dismissal. "How'd your party go?"
"Amusing as hell," Travis comments, one hand circling around his mug and pulling it closer. "I'd forgotten about that. Watching rich people try to impress each other is always good entertainment."
"Really?" Natalie's question is mildly disbelieving and dry. "How's that?"
"It's hard to believe they don't see through the thin manners," Travis explains, picking a few of the finer observations to note. "Or how well they pretend not to notice, at least. 'How's your wife, your daughter, your dog, your mistress, oh, was that my outside voice?'"
"I doubt they're stupid enough to think it's all real," Natalie points out. Her pencil tap-tap-taps against the paper. "Most people aren't. Social niceities. Keeps our world going round."
"The sad truth of it," Travis nods, lifting his drink to sip at it, then glances across the way at her papers. "So...numbers?"
Natalie lifts her paper just enough for Travis to take a peek at it. It's the sort of math that looks like Greek to anyone who doesn't know - a long and complicated proof.
Travis glances over the numbers with interest. Greek indeed, though he doesn't comment as to the content. "Who do you study under?"
Natalie snorts disbelief at the question and responds with a silent lift of her brows.
"Your mentor? Or university, if you'd rather," Travis explains. "High end mathematics, so I'd assume PhD work. Dissertation work?"
"I knew what you meant," Natalie explains patiently. "I just doubt you'd know who I was talking about if I told you Dr. Knott." She pauses for a moment, watching him for any flicker of recognition.
Travis glances at the ceiling, as if searching his memory. "Might be familiar. He's not at NYU, though, am I right? And I doubt Emerson has what you need, so...Columbia?"
Natalie looks briefly impressed before she settles into a laugh and wonders, "Process of elimination?'"
"Is that a polite way of saying I don't give off the math connoisseur vibe?" Travis says, allowing a brief chuckle. "Fast on my feet, I guess."
"Uh huh," Natalie answers, and her tone is perhaps a /tad/ bit patronizing before she takes pity and shares, "Columbia. I'll be ABD next year."
"Congratulations," Travis lifts his mug her way. "And then full time Secret Service work? Not sure how you fit that in amidst dissertation preparation, but more power to you."
"You got me," Natalie answers easily. "Secret code. All that. I'd tell you more, but then I'd have to kill you."
"Yeah, well, if they're ever hiring, hit me up," Travis smirks a bit. "Always thought I'd be really good at that sort of thing."
"Secret codes?" Natalie's pencil doubletaps, pauses, and then quickly scribbles a series of numbers and symbols across the page before she turns her notebook and pushes it across the table at Travis.
"It says, 'You're interupting my studies and I'm not really sure I like you but I don't dislike you enough to tell you to go away, so I'll just keep playing along," Travis 'reads' off the paper, then looks up at her. "It's a highly efficient code."
"I think you're used to different code," Natalie answers, although there's a smile teased out from all that. "It's actually a number." She spends a moment considering Travis and then swiftly tears the corner from her notebook and slides it across the table. "Take it home. Take your time."
"Second time we've met, and you're already giving me your number," Travis says, an amused smile of his own at the code, which he folds and slips into the coat pocket behind him.
"A," Natalie corrects with a dry smile, "number."
"If it has ten digits, I'm calling it anyways," Travis quips in return.
Natalie's brows shoot up and she laughs abruptly. The sound is delighted - and surprised in it - as she pulls her notebook back in. "Second time we've met, and already--" she returns.
"And already," Travis concludes, tipping back the last of his coffee. "Well, Natalie," he says, standing and reaching for his coat. "It was...rather less awkward than last time, I think. But I have work, and I'm sure I've been keeping you from something."
"Proofs," Natalie answers, tipping back in her chair. "Heaven save me, really. Enjoy your coffee." She smirks. "Good luck with the code."
"I have friends in hexidecimal places," Travis concludes, as he finishes his last button. "Until next time, then."
"Heaven save me," Natalie repeats with mild amusement, "From math humor. Later."
Travis and Natalie meet up again. Travis isn't as much of an ass this time.
=NYC= White Queen's Quarters - Second Floor - Hellfire Clubhouse
White claims this simple suite with a regal decisiveness softened by fine fabrics, lush carpeting, and the suffusion of well-bred taste. The bed stands sleek with satins and down-plumped pillows, its ash-blond frame matching the wood of its paired nightstands and the long, low-slung bureau against one silk-papered wall. Across the room, layers of gauze curtain shield tall windows; a high-backed armchair reigns in a corner there, attended by wide ottoman and neat reading lamp.
One door leads out to the office, another into a large walk-in closet filled with a complete wardrobe, and yet another opens in on a bathroom of echoing design and decor. White marble lies cool and waiting in tub and sinks; the white tile of floor and walls hoards dull reflections. Fixtures gleam silver, like the vanity mirror's frame, and support a ranked rack of towels by the shower stall, the white cloths perfectly monogrammed, fluffed, and arranged for their mistress.
Another day, another manila envelope. Travis should probably invest in stock. Or at least add them to his expenditures report. Box of ammo. Silencer. Plane ticket to Nashville. 100 count envelopes. He raps on Emma door, hovering in the hall, awaiting her response.
It's not long in coming. The mental communication is simple and hollow, bereft of the normal warmth and draw that accompany it. << Come in, Travis. >> The door is unlocked, and inside the spacious office, Emma has tucked herself into a corner chair, knees crossed, hands in her lap, dressed professionally in tailored lines, and her face guarded as it watches the flames dance in the fireplace.
Travis crosses the room, depositing the envelope on the desk before making his way to her corner. "That should keep Wheeler from being a problem," he states, pausing to the side of the chair. "The fire does add something to the room."
Emma shudders and looks away. "I think Sebastian deliberately had them make it larger to taunt me," she replies, unfolding and standing. She tugs the line of her skirt straight with a discrete twitch of her fingers and steps past him to head to the desk and pick up the envelope. "Good. What about his partner? Will he go along as well?"
"He's been...told to play nicely," Travis chooses his words carefully. "He has less to lose, though, so we need to keep a close watch. One misstep... East River's pretty cold this time of year."
"Not cold enough," Emma mutters, thinking back to another November swim. She dumps the contents of the envelope out and begins to rifle through papers, photos, a colorful assortment of slips of paper. "Use whatever resources you need. Your attention may be needed elsewhere."
Travis crosses the room, back to the edge of the desk, carefully balancing his weight on the edge. "Elsewhere?"
"You need to contact Adel. He may have an assignment for you," Emma says simply, avoiding eye contact.
"He /may/," Travis repeats slowly, providing eye contact enough for both of them as he carefuly watches her movements. "How...intruiging."
She taps a stack of papers together and begins to insert them back into the envelope. "Yes. We've taken the Black Court. I bought Percy from Sebastian, and his Rook, Sal, has defected. Between those two, we have influence over most of his pawns, and your counterpart is on the verge of seeking sanctuary outside the Court." She stops and finally looks up with a wolfish smile. "You might be of help there. Do you still maintain avenues of communication with Jean Grey?"
"We have occasionally crossed paths, though not in recent months," Travis says, a slight shake of his head. "Although when last we spoke, there was an opening for...potental tutelage. Do you have /need/ for avenues of communication to be there?"
Emma's smile turns pointed. "Coordinate with Adel. I'm sure he will find that information useful." The last of the envelope's contents are returned to their place.
"I'm certain something can be arranged," Travis nods, pushing off the desk. "Between the two of us, no connection's too preposterous."
"Of course not," Emma laughs, sliding the envelope along the edge of the desk as she moves behind it and to a picture hung on hinges. Behind it is a small wall safe.
"I have been avoiding him of late," Travis comments, trailing back to her earlier comment. "Other than the obvious, specific concerns?"
"The specific concerns /should/ be rather obvious," Emma notes dryly, punching in a combination and stepping back as the door swings open. The packet is deposited inside and the door shut, the lock making a series of beeps as she turns around. "He's been avoiding us too. Being on the descent is not an enjoyable position to be in, though I have tried to make it more palatable."
Travis mouth twitches at the last bit, though he refrains from laughing aloud. "I'm sure he's most appreciative of your attention to the matter." He pauses a moment. "A far cry from where we were a year ago."
"But not from where we will be a year hence. I do /not/ intend on /ever/ being there again," she mutters darkly, though a glimmer of suggestion winks at him from the depths of bright blue eyes for that silent laugh.
"Wherever you lead, oh Queen," Travis says, flourishing his hand in one mock bow.
"Wherever?" she queries lightly.
"Well, assuming it's someplace I've an interest in seeing."
Emma lifts a brow and turns to head into the bedroom without a word.
Travis' interest is captured. He follows.
It better be. Good boy.
Travis and Emma. Pretty much the usual work and play.