When The Night Has Come
/Dangerous/ woman. She's playing a game - against me. Does she want me dead again? Is that her plan - to supplant me, replace me with someone of her making? Is this to repeat the dance we've done before.
Can't trust her. Can't trust any of them, the bitches, but particularly can't trust her. She's Eve, and her "gift" means the apple is always within reach.
OOC: This comes immediately after the Inner Circle meeting.
As pieces file out, Shaw just /waits/ - intending on seeing just how wounded the White Queen is. "Well," he remarks quietly as the two are left alone. "That went well enough."
Emma dismisses those that would wait on her, including the one who assisted her downstairs earlier. With a soothing empathic touch to ruffled feathers, she silently assures of her capabilities, then turns to the Court's Black King. "Yes." She leverages herself against the throne's arms and pushes up.
Shaw just sits there, watching the woman strain, and the stands fluidly. "Do you need a hand, dear?" he asks quietly, and his mind reflects only a little sarcasm - concern, for the moment, far the weightier sentiment. "You pushed yourself to be here." A pause. "Still - it's my judgment that some unity is wise for us now."
Emma gains her feet, and maintains her dignity long enough to glance aside and down at the offered hand in frigid disdain. Her eyes sweep up. "And your judgment is sound?" she asks, tone and expression inviting answer and promising more temperate reception than his 'concern' had recieved.
"Yes," Shaw says quietly. "The Queen is returned to the castle, Emma - our family, such as it is, is at least a little bit more whole." He folds his arms over his chest, watching her. "Besides - everyone is spooked right now. We need to give them something to focus on."
"Yes," Emma echoes, a smile sliding smoothly into place. "I am returned, whole and hale, and there is no more need of displays of irrational temper." She stops and places her hand on top of his folded arms, mirth weaving into her expression. "Or concern. Help me upstairs, Good King Shaw?"
Shaw's arms unfold, and he takes a step closer to Emma, settling his hands on either of her shoulders. "I don't display concern often," he remarks, "when others are around. It somehow crimps my style." His mind flip-flops back and forth between conflicted feelings, and his fingers tighten just a little on Emma. "I had the Black Queen's suite prepared for you."
"So I've been told," she replies dryly, transferring just a little of her weight into the hands crinkling the sleeves of oversized shirt she's wearing. "Chased the bats and spiders out? How sweet..."
"Here," Shaw says, and hands move to physically pick Emma Frost up - her weight largely nothing to the Black King. "Used plenty of disinfectant," he says with a little smile. "And I had the maids spray plenty of air freshener - escape the odor of its last occupant."
In a swift contortion, Emma allows the supporting arm under hers, but evades the one that would land a damaging blow to her independence. She quirks an oddly challenging smile at him, eyes bright against a complexion still too pale for her claims of health and fitness to be entirely true. "There are some claims of solidarity that may be premature, darling."
"There are some claims of solidarity that will never happen again, Emma," Shaw says with a flat smile - his tone still friendly, but his mind most definately not. "Bridges that can't be uncrossed, my dear. Orders that can't be ungiven." He shrugs. "But we survive." He begins to help the White Queen walk towards the elevator, adding mentally, << I do, at least. >>
"You give me such comfort, Sebastian," Emma purls, the lean into his support heavier than intended. << There is surviving, and there is conquering, >> she whispers in a echoing mental answer to his thought.
<< I intend on both. >> Shaw's smile has a measure of triumphant, though there's a note of worry sounding somewhere in his mind at Emma's need for support. << You've been spoils of war before, Emma dear, >> he thinks, and his mind echoes with the brief vision of tangled bodies. He reaches out to the thumb the control on the elevator, letting it slide open.
Emma jerks at that invasion, but does not gather enough strength break away, and so settles for stiff, marble-faced composure and a hissing retort. << But now /I/ rule the battlefield, and I'm no pawn to be plundered or sacrificed. >>
Shaw steps inside the elevator. << You do not rule alone. >> His hand tightens a little on Emma's back and then relaxes as the door closes. "I've no desire to threaten you, Emma," he says. << Not now. >> A little smile. "You're far too beautiful." His mind overlays his words: << Far too useful - far too powerful. >>
Emma's anger is coated in thick sheets of ice, wrapped in control that is both practiced and powerful. "Nor I you, Sebastian," she murmurs sweetly, looking up at him with false devotion. "Just remember that some of the most beautiful of Nature's creations are also the most deadly."
"/I/," Sebastian Shaw says in a velvet voice, "will never forget." A beat. "/You/ should know me better than that." His smile is rictus-tight. "But until you strike again, Emma dear, I can surely enjoy the view, can I not?" Tilt of head, a little leer mirrored in the Black King's mind, and then he watches the elevator doors open in the pantry.
<< Look all you like, my King. You've already paid for the view, >> she answers, undercurrents suggesting the old refrain of 'look, but don't touch'. She turns forward and pastes a genial smile on her lips for whoever they might encounter on the public levels of the Clubhouse, moving away from the close contact and taking some of her weight off his support.
Shaw smiles. "Well," he says, moderating his tone but keeping a concerned eye on the White Queen. "I think we should have an event soon - a 'the building's on fire' party, perhaps. Something flashy, just to show society we're not taking all this lying down." His words are distant fancies as his mind echoes blackly in the previous conversation: << I rather think I've paid for more than just a view, darling Queen. >>
"Why don't we burn the North Wing for it?" Emma laughs mirthlessly. << And I rather think you've received your payment's worth, and then some. >>
"It would be amusing," Shaw acknowledges. "But perhaps we should use fake flames." He smiles. << As cheap as your favors seem to be, >> comes the cutting thought, << I'd think it would be hard to run out of credit. >> A beat, and then a momentary mental flash of regret. "That was," he murmurs quietly, "a little uncalled for."
"I suppose our insurance agents would agree with you," she concedes grudgingly. Equally grudgingly is the acknowledgement of his subsequent apology. << Are you unsatisfied, Sebastian? >>
Shaw doesn't respond for a long time to that, walking through the mansion until he pauses before the Black Queen's quarters. A key is produced - the door is unlocked - and then the key is offered to the White Queen. "You're different than other people," he says, and it's only the echo of Emma's question in Shaw's mind that indicates his statement is at all related to it. "Better." His thoughts veer close to extending to the White Queen grudging equality - a place on the pedastel Shaw reserves for himself - and while he shies away, the marks of the impulse remain like trails in his mind. "Rest. We'll speak of Lowe and the best ways to make inroads within the next few days."
Emma watches, watches his face and his mind, sharp eyes both physical and mental noting the progress of his thoughts. Her hand curls around the key and her brow lifts, but she grants him his reticence and merely nods at his spoken words. "Good evening, Sebastian." She transfers her weight from him to the door knob, turning it and slipping inside.
Can't trust her. Can't trust any of them, the bitches, but particularly can't trust her. She's Eve, and her "gift" means the apple is always within reach.
OOC: This comes immediately after the Inner Circle meeting.
As pieces file out, Shaw just /waits/ - intending on seeing just how wounded the White Queen is. "Well," he remarks quietly as the two are left alone. "That went well enough."
Emma dismisses those that would wait on her, including the one who assisted her downstairs earlier. With a soothing empathic touch to ruffled feathers, she silently assures of her capabilities, then turns to the Court's Black King. "Yes." She leverages herself against the throne's arms and pushes up.
Shaw just sits there, watching the woman strain, and the stands fluidly. "Do you need a hand, dear?" he asks quietly, and his mind reflects only a little sarcasm - concern, for the moment, far the weightier sentiment. "You pushed yourself to be here." A pause. "Still - it's my judgment that some unity is wise for us now."
Emma gains her feet, and maintains her dignity long enough to glance aside and down at the offered hand in frigid disdain. Her eyes sweep up. "And your judgment is sound?" she asks, tone and expression inviting answer and promising more temperate reception than his 'concern' had recieved.
"Yes," Shaw says quietly. "The Queen is returned to the castle, Emma - our family, such as it is, is at least a little bit more whole." He folds his arms over his chest, watching her. "Besides - everyone is spooked right now. We need to give them something to focus on."
"Yes," Emma echoes, a smile sliding smoothly into place. "I am returned, whole and hale, and there is no more need of displays of irrational temper." She stops and places her hand on top of his folded arms, mirth weaving into her expression. "Or concern. Help me upstairs, Good King Shaw?"
Shaw's arms unfold, and he takes a step closer to Emma, settling his hands on either of her shoulders. "I don't display concern often," he remarks, "when others are around. It somehow crimps my style." His mind flip-flops back and forth between conflicted feelings, and his fingers tighten just a little on Emma. "I had the Black Queen's suite prepared for you."
"So I've been told," she replies dryly, transferring just a little of her weight into the hands crinkling the sleeves of oversized shirt she's wearing. "Chased the bats and spiders out? How sweet..."
"Here," Shaw says, and hands move to physically pick Emma Frost up - her weight largely nothing to the Black King. "Used plenty of disinfectant," he says with a little smile. "And I had the maids spray plenty of air freshener - escape the odor of its last occupant."
In a swift contortion, Emma allows the supporting arm under hers, but evades the one that would land a damaging blow to her independence. She quirks an oddly challenging smile at him, eyes bright against a complexion still too pale for her claims of health and fitness to be entirely true. "There are some claims of solidarity that may be premature, darling."
"There are some claims of solidarity that will never happen again, Emma," Shaw says with a flat smile - his tone still friendly, but his mind most definately not. "Bridges that can't be uncrossed, my dear. Orders that can't be ungiven." He shrugs. "But we survive." He begins to help the White Queen walk towards the elevator, adding mentally, << I do, at least. >>
"You give me such comfort, Sebastian," Emma purls, the lean into his support heavier than intended. << There is surviving, and there is conquering, >> she whispers in a echoing mental answer to his thought.
<< I intend on both. >> Shaw's smile has a measure of triumphant, though there's a note of worry sounding somewhere in his mind at Emma's need for support. << You've been spoils of war before, Emma dear, >> he thinks, and his mind echoes with the brief vision of tangled bodies. He reaches out to the thumb the control on the elevator, letting it slide open.
Emma jerks at that invasion, but does not gather enough strength break away, and so settles for stiff, marble-faced composure and a hissing retort. << But now /I/ rule the battlefield, and I'm no pawn to be plundered or sacrificed. >>
Shaw steps inside the elevator. << You do not rule alone. >> His hand tightens a little on Emma's back and then relaxes as the door closes. "I've no desire to threaten you, Emma," he says. << Not now. >> A little smile. "You're far too beautiful." His mind overlays his words: << Far too useful - far too powerful. >>
Emma's anger is coated in thick sheets of ice, wrapped in control that is both practiced and powerful. "Nor I you, Sebastian," she murmurs sweetly, looking up at him with false devotion. "Just remember that some of the most beautiful of Nature's creations are also the most deadly."
"/I/," Sebastian Shaw says in a velvet voice, "will never forget." A beat. "/You/ should know me better than that." His smile is rictus-tight. "But until you strike again, Emma dear, I can surely enjoy the view, can I not?" Tilt of head, a little leer mirrored in the Black King's mind, and then he watches the elevator doors open in the pantry.
<< Look all you like, my King. You've already paid for the view, >> she answers, undercurrents suggesting the old refrain of 'look, but don't touch'. She turns forward and pastes a genial smile on her lips for whoever they might encounter on the public levels of the Clubhouse, moving away from the close contact and taking some of her weight off his support.
Shaw smiles. "Well," he says, moderating his tone but keeping a concerned eye on the White Queen. "I think we should have an event soon - a 'the building's on fire' party, perhaps. Something flashy, just to show society we're not taking all this lying down." His words are distant fancies as his mind echoes blackly in the previous conversation: << I rather think I've paid for more than just a view, darling Queen. >>
"Why don't we burn the North Wing for it?" Emma laughs mirthlessly. << And I rather think you've received your payment's worth, and then some. >>
"It would be amusing," Shaw acknowledges. "But perhaps we should use fake flames." He smiles. << As cheap as your favors seem to be, >> comes the cutting thought, << I'd think it would be hard to run out of credit. >> A beat, and then a momentary mental flash of regret. "That was," he murmurs quietly, "a little uncalled for."
"I suppose our insurance agents would agree with you," she concedes grudgingly. Equally grudgingly is the acknowledgement of his subsequent apology. << Are you unsatisfied, Sebastian? >>
Shaw doesn't respond for a long time to that, walking through the mansion until he pauses before the Black Queen's quarters. A key is produced - the door is unlocked - and then the key is offered to the White Queen. "You're different than other people," he says, and it's only the echo of Emma's question in Shaw's mind that indicates his statement is at all related to it. "Better." His thoughts veer close to extending to the White Queen grudging equality - a place on the pedastel Shaw reserves for himself - and while he shies away, the marks of the impulse remain like trails in his mind. "Rest. We'll speak of Lowe and the best ways to make inroads within the next few days."
Emma watches, watches his face and his mind, sharp eyes both physical and mental noting the progress of his thoughts. Her hand curls around the key and her brow lifts, but she grants him his reticence and merely nods at his spoken words. "Good evening, Sebastian." She transfers her weight from him to the door knob, turning it and slipping inside.