Sabrielle, Michael
2/13/2008
=NYC= The White Room - Greenwich Village - Manhattan
A small, comfortable little place, this: a minuscule cafe of little fame and ridiculously good coffee. The main room is small and rather inordinately comfortable, prevented from being claustrophobic by a theme of whites in the decor and the fact that the regulars - a sundry bunch of academics, artists, lawyers, workpersons, and every other group New York has to offer - are generally quietly occupied with coffee and good, solid plates of food. There is no theme, no specialized and exotic varieties of coffee or tea; the atmosphere is thick with comfort, not desperate sophistication.
The sun deep past the horizon, the evening air carries with it the bite of winter, the wind brisk enough to nip at ears and redden noses. Michael has escaped the ceaselessly taunting winter's breath by ducking into the White Room, the warmth of the tucked away cafe welcoming. A backpack slung over a shoulder, he finds himself a place near a comfortable looking chair to set it down before wandering away to find a warm drink at the counter, eyes roaming over the menu.
Michael subliminates into a cool, misting fog of water vapor and disassociated molecules.
Frosty condensation gathers out of thin air and coalesces to reform the person of Michael.
Sabrielle subliminates into a cool, misting fog of water vapor and disassociated molecules.
A striking brunette already stands at the counter, leaning casually into it with the tilt of a hip as she waits for a refill on the coffee cup she holds in one hand. Her expression is, perhap, a touch impatient, and slender fingers tap at the counter's edge in hurrying rhythm. She glances sideways at Michael's approach, eyes resting on his features briefly before she allows an idle gaze to wander over backpack and clothing.
Not long after Michael slips in, the door is opened again, letting in a nip of winter's cold. Red hair windblown into her face, she's pushing it back tucking it behind her ears as she heads for the counter. A hot coffee and maybe a bite, and she'd feel right as rain. Gloves being peeled off and shoved into her jacket pocket, shifting her messenger bag against her hip.
It's hard to miss the brunette, blue-green eyes flickering in her direction as he approaches the counter. At the returned perusal his gaze shifts away and catches the arrival of the redhead, his attention turning to the fascinating composition of his shoes since there appears to be no safe place to look. He clears his throat before realizing that he'd come to order a drink, glancing back up to study the menu.
As Michael looks away, Elizabeth's lips curl upward in a smirk, clearly amused before she glances back to the barista presently occupied with getting her coffee. Somewhere. Perhaps they are brewing an entirely new pot. Aloud, she comments dryly, "Excellent service today."
Blue eyes were lifted, studying the menu, the empath fiddling wit hthe zipper on her coat. Eyes drawn to the brunette woman at her comment, smiling with a hint of a laugh escaping her throat. "Is it one of those days they're out pickin' tha coffee themselves, roastin' an' grindin' it in tha back before it gets out here?" She's a little more patient, not sounding at all put out about it.
As the words pass back and forth with Michael between them, he focuses on the pair as each speaks. "The drinks here are worth it, especially the chai." And that observance is all he needs to place his own order, glancing past Elizabeth to say to the server, "Can I get a large chai in a mug?" He steps to the side to allow Sabrielle her own opportunity to order.
"Such patient New York souls," Elizabeth mocks, and from her tone it's not entirely clear whether it's good-natured or otherwise, although the drift of emotion indicates a quiet mocking. Brown eyes linger for a moment on Michael before she turns forward again. She straightens, hip pulling away from the counter, and smooths a hand down the front of her neat cream sweater. Expensive, to match the tailored cut of her dark slacks. For the moment, she has no further comment on the matter. She does, however, have a flash of irritation for the barista who still has not arrived with her coffee.
"Well, Ah'm not a New Yorker at heart, so maybe that's it. " A smile for Elizabeth, even though she's being mocked. Fingers through her hair, jacket unzipped, before she's digging in her messenger bag, humming to hersel for a moment. "Heaven help me Ah evah act like a native."
"Patience is mine because I'm not originally a New Yorker." Michael's response is quick, the corner of his lips tugging up in a crooked grin. The challenge in Elizabeth's tone seems to have steadied him, his former hesitance at a pretty face evaporating from his emotional landscape. He pulls out a few dollars as his chai arrives, steam wafting above the brew as the grin returns at the redhead's own affirmation of being from elsewhere. "There you go, an answer to the uncharacteristic turn of our souls." An eyebrow is arched in Elizabeth's direction before he nods his thanks to the server and pays for his drink.
"Yes, heaven help you," Elizabeth murmurs, and if she were the sort to roll her eyes, she would. Fortunately she is not, and so she merely smiles a tight, polite smile and taps her fingers against the counter.
Hearing the guy in front of her talk about not being a native either makes her grin even more. Between that and meeting a fellow southerner the other day, she's in a good mood. Michael got a wrinkle of her nose in addtion, though Elizabeth got a look with an arched brow. "Well, heaven help me if Ah start actin' like some natives, anyhow." After all that cop guy hadn't been so bad. And once Michael gets his chai and she gets a chance, she'll step up an order a cafe au lait, wanting a sip of home.
The tight smile is noted, but Michael bites his tongue on a response, a sense of competition held in check by unfamiliar faces going unseen, outwardly. He sips from his chai with a shadow of a grin touching his lips before heading over to his chair. The crowded little cafe has few seats left, the only ones open near where he takes a seat.
Elizabeth already has a seat - it's strewn with papers and a legal tome, although she's without her laptop today. It's also next to the seat Michael's chosen, and brown eyes flicker back after him as she waits and he sits. There is a deep seated sense of resignation that lingers about her, and a very quiet sigh as she turns forward to look for the barista again. Ah! /There/ is her coffee. Freshly brewed.
Fingers through her hair, casual stance by the counter, fingers tugging the cash from her pocket to hand over when they're handing her her mug. Tip into the jar, a smile flashed to Elizabeth before she's turning to try and find a seat. Shoulders hunching a little bit, a glance at Michael, foot tapping the leg of an empty chair next to his. "Mind if Ah steal this seat here?"
The association between the explosion of documents and Elizabeth is not yet made as Michael settles himself, placing the chai down on a clear spot in the small table that is covered in documents. Glancing up, he shakes his head, not bothered at all by the request, "No, feel free." He reaches into the backpack at the side of his seat and pulls out a thick volumed physics text, placing it in his lap. Feeling obligated to carry on the coversation, he says, "So where is it you're from, anyway?"
Elizabeth glances briefly at first Sabrelle and then Michael, irritation simmering below the surface of a polite gaze that doesn't show it. She cradles her mug loose in her hand, inhaling the steam with a deep breath. Eventually she pulls out her chair to slide into it with a murmured, "Oh, come now. Guess. Surely it will be a fun game. What's her accent say?"
Bag slid down the redhead's arm to rest on the floor, before she's taking the seat. "Thanks. Pretty popular place here, huh? Oh, Ah'm from ..." Taking out her notebook and a abnormal psychology text. Fiddling with a pen, see-sawing it between her fingers. Blue eyes glancing at Elizabeth brows lifting. "All right then, miss, where am Ah from?" Since most Yanks don't know a Carolina accent from Georgia or a Texas twang." "
As Elizabeth establishes herself as the owner of the documents and law book, Michael gives her an appraising look, though it quickly dissipates in the face of her sarcasm. An eyebrow arching, he answers the question, while looking directly at Elizabeth, "Somewhere people are polite?" The unspoken superlative still present in his tone, if not his words. "Likely a place with fewer lawyers, too." His voice is low key, nearly a drawl, but his less obvious emotion signs speak of challenge as he takes another sip from his chai.
"Oh, very witty," Elizabeth mock-approves, brows lifting at Michael with clear disappointment. "I will never understand why people move to New York simply to complain about the company. You might as well whine about the prescence of mutants while you're at it."
Sabrielle bites her bottom lip, sipping at her coffee to cover her smile. "Oh, there's plenty of lawyers not far from where Ah grew up. About an hour or so away, but it's a big city. Ah grew up about an a hour from N'awlins. " A smile at Elizabeth, seeming perfectly pleasant on the surface. "Well, when Ah moved here ta get mah doctorate, Ah had no idea there were so many Yankees with so little tolerance. An' here Ah thought ya Yanks were always complainin' about us Southerners. " She ignores the mutant comment altogether.
"I'm full of wit and good humor, part of my charm." Michael's response is measured, though there is a hint of annoyance within him. "New York has more to offer than the company. Besides, mutants? Come on, I haven't even seen one except on the news. Nine million people means an unlikely chance of running in to one." His words are practiced, but exceptionally perceptive people might notice the hesitance behind them and for Sabrielle, likely the flutter of uncertainty that accompanies them.
Sabrielle smiles brightly at Elizabeth, amused. "Well, Ah recommend never venturing below tha mason dixon, if ya find men who think they're charmin' troublesome, ma'am." Because all Southern men seem to think they have charm. A glance at Michael, noting the flutter in his feelings at the talk of mutants, but it's not angled in an angry fashion. Hmm. "Ya know, Ah can't say Ah ever gave mutants much thought. Ah mean, it's not like Ah see 'em all over, with neon signs over their heads. Besides, Ah moved here ta get /away/ from close minded thinkin'."
Far from subdued, Michael shrugs, "You are in New York and, as I believe we've established, it isn't a pillar of magnanimity." Despite his attempts at a neutral demeanor, being called an asshole inside of five minutes isn't doing much for his evening. Sabrielle's comments garner a brief grin, though the return of conversation to mutants seems to once more make him uneasy.
"I wasn't speaking of New York men." Sabrielle gets an exceedingly irritated look from Elizabeth, and the DA's lips press into a thin line before she glances away once more.
"Of course, Ah'm sure maybe all tha men are jus' so intimidated by /your/ sparkling personality, sweet demeanor and rapier wit, they jus' end up looking like assholes who are tryin' too hard. " Sarcasm is ladled over those words heavily, though the tone is sweet. "Maybe ya should try decaf, if ya get so riled, so easy." A glance at Michael's textbook, attention switched. "So where ya studyin'?"
His text forgotten in his lap, Michael seems surprised when attention is brought to it, a slight wince at Sabrielle's words to Elizabeth. "I'm not studying anymore, really, just doing some post doc stuff at Columbia. Thought I'd find a quiet spot to read, but got a little more adventure than I was angling for, I think." He's discomforted, the obvious irritation of Elizabeth and the previous conversation not overly helpful.
"Ah, yes. It's New Yorkers alone who are rude," Elizabeth states, pausing to fix a sharp smile on Sabrielle before she turns entirely away from both of them, flips open her book, and reaches for her coffee.
Sabrielle shifts blue eyes to the brunette woman. "Never said that. But there's a difference between rude an' bein' a provoking bitch. Ah'm just bein' rude." Clearly insinuating the other woman is being the latter. A smile for Michael. "Physics was never my favorite science, bein' a Biology minor. Goin' for mah doctorate now in Psych."
The exchange between the two women has ramped up Michael's discomfort by several levels, his cool demeanor cracking a bit as Sabrielle goes on the offensive this time around. "Ah.. maybe..." He returns the text to his backpack and rises, leaving the chai in its place, still mostly full, "I think I'll just call this an evening." A flicker of his eyes Elizabeth's way before he offers to Sabrielle, "I'm sorry I couldn't stay longer." The lie is apparent on a lower level, residing with his discomfort.
"Such fine hairs we split," Elizabeth murmurs to her books. Her gaze sweeps past Michael, briefly, and then drops down again.
Sabrielle looks up at Michael, a smile. "Have a nice night. " Before she's glancing at Elizabeth. "Ah don't think havin' a sense of manners is splitting hairs. Because if it is, ya should be about bald, lady."
Elizabeth does not reply. She has work to do, after all.
Sabrielle snickers into her coffee, looking over her notebook. Woman was angry long before Sabrielle could have said anything to create that level. Let the brunette stew. The empath found it sort of amusing.
Mystique is kind to strangers.
=NYC= The White Room - Greenwich Village - Manhattan
A small, comfortable little place, this: a minuscule cafe of little fame and ridiculously good coffee. The main room is small and rather inordinately comfortable, prevented from being claustrophobic by a theme of whites in the decor and the fact that the regulars - a sundry bunch of academics, artists, lawyers, workpersons, and every other group New York has to offer - are generally quietly occupied with coffee and good, solid plates of food. There is no theme, no specialized and exotic varieties of coffee or tea; the atmosphere is thick with comfort, not desperate sophistication.
The sun deep past the horizon, the evening air carries with it the bite of winter, the wind brisk enough to nip at ears and redden noses. Michael has escaped the ceaselessly taunting winter's breath by ducking into the White Room, the warmth of the tucked away cafe welcoming. A backpack slung over a shoulder, he finds himself a place near a comfortable looking chair to set it down before wandering away to find a warm drink at the counter, eyes roaming over the menu.
Michael subliminates into a cool, misting fog of water vapor and disassociated molecules.
Frosty condensation gathers out of thin air and coalesces to reform the person of Michael.
Sabrielle subliminates into a cool, misting fog of water vapor and disassociated molecules.
A striking brunette already stands at the counter, leaning casually into it with the tilt of a hip as she waits for a refill on the coffee cup she holds in one hand. Her expression is, perhap, a touch impatient, and slender fingers tap at the counter's edge in hurrying rhythm. She glances sideways at Michael's approach, eyes resting on his features briefly before she allows an idle gaze to wander over backpack and clothing.
Not long after Michael slips in, the door is opened again, letting in a nip of winter's cold. Red hair windblown into her face, she's pushing it back tucking it behind her ears as she heads for the counter. A hot coffee and maybe a bite, and she'd feel right as rain. Gloves being peeled off and shoved into her jacket pocket, shifting her messenger bag against her hip.
It's hard to miss the brunette, blue-green eyes flickering in her direction as he approaches the counter. At the returned perusal his gaze shifts away and catches the arrival of the redhead, his attention turning to the fascinating composition of his shoes since there appears to be no safe place to look. He clears his throat before realizing that he'd come to order a drink, glancing back up to study the menu.
As Michael looks away, Elizabeth's lips curl upward in a smirk, clearly amused before she glances back to the barista presently occupied with getting her coffee. Somewhere. Perhaps they are brewing an entirely new pot. Aloud, she comments dryly, "Excellent service today."
Blue eyes were lifted, studying the menu, the empath fiddling wit hthe zipper on her coat. Eyes drawn to the brunette woman at her comment, smiling with a hint of a laugh escaping her throat. "Is it one of those days they're out pickin' tha coffee themselves, roastin' an' grindin' it in tha back before it gets out here?" She's a little more patient, not sounding at all put out about it.
As the words pass back and forth with Michael between them, he focuses on the pair as each speaks. "The drinks here are worth it, especially the chai." And that observance is all he needs to place his own order, glancing past Elizabeth to say to the server, "Can I get a large chai in a mug?" He steps to the side to allow Sabrielle her own opportunity to order.
"Such patient New York souls," Elizabeth mocks, and from her tone it's not entirely clear whether it's good-natured or otherwise, although the drift of emotion indicates a quiet mocking. Brown eyes linger for a moment on Michael before she turns forward again. She straightens, hip pulling away from the counter, and smooths a hand down the front of her neat cream sweater. Expensive, to match the tailored cut of her dark slacks. For the moment, she has no further comment on the matter. She does, however, have a flash of irritation for the barista who still has not arrived with her coffee.
"Well, Ah'm not a New Yorker at heart, so maybe that's it. " A smile for Elizabeth, even though she's being mocked. Fingers through her hair, jacket unzipped, before she's digging in her messenger bag, humming to hersel for a moment. "Heaven help me Ah evah act like a native."
"Patience is mine because I'm not originally a New Yorker." Michael's response is quick, the corner of his lips tugging up in a crooked grin. The challenge in Elizabeth's tone seems to have steadied him, his former hesitance at a pretty face evaporating from his emotional landscape. He pulls out a few dollars as his chai arrives, steam wafting above the brew as the grin returns at the redhead's own affirmation of being from elsewhere. "There you go, an answer to the uncharacteristic turn of our souls." An eyebrow is arched in Elizabeth's direction before he nods his thanks to the server and pays for his drink.
"Yes, heaven help you," Elizabeth murmurs, and if she were the sort to roll her eyes, she would. Fortunately she is not, and so she merely smiles a tight, polite smile and taps her fingers against the counter.
Hearing the guy in front of her talk about not being a native either makes her grin even more. Between that and meeting a fellow southerner the other day, she's in a good mood. Michael got a wrinkle of her nose in addtion, though Elizabeth got a look with an arched brow. "Well, heaven help me if Ah start actin' like some natives, anyhow." After all that cop guy hadn't been so bad. And once Michael gets his chai and she gets a chance, she'll step up an order a cafe au lait, wanting a sip of home.
The tight smile is noted, but Michael bites his tongue on a response, a sense of competition held in check by unfamiliar faces going unseen, outwardly. He sips from his chai with a shadow of a grin touching his lips before heading over to his chair. The crowded little cafe has few seats left, the only ones open near where he takes a seat.
Elizabeth already has a seat - it's strewn with papers and a legal tome, although she's without her laptop today. It's also next to the seat Michael's chosen, and brown eyes flicker back after him as she waits and he sits. There is a deep seated sense of resignation that lingers about her, and a very quiet sigh as she turns forward to look for the barista again. Ah! /There/ is her coffee. Freshly brewed.
Fingers through her hair, casual stance by the counter, fingers tugging the cash from her pocket to hand over when they're handing her her mug. Tip into the jar, a smile flashed to Elizabeth before she's turning to try and find a seat. Shoulders hunching a little bit, a glance at Michael, foot tapping the leg of an empty chair next to his. "Mind if Ah steal this seat here?"
The association between the explosion of documents and Elizabeth is not yet made as Michael settles himself, placing the chai down on a clear spot in the small table that is covered in documents. Glancing up, he shakes his head, not bothered at all by the request, "No, feel free." He reaches into the backpack at the side of his seat and pulls out a thick volumed physics text, placing it in his lap. Feeling obligated to carry on the coversation, he says, "So where is it you're from, anyway?"
Elizabeth glances briefly at first Sabrelle and then Michael, irritation simmering below the surface of a polite gaze that doesn't show it. She cradles her mug loose in her hand, inhaling the steam with a deep breath. Eventually she pulls out her chair to slide into it with a murmured, "Oh, come now. Guess. Surely it will be a fun game. What's her accent say?"
Bag slid down the redhead's arm to rest on the floor, before she's taking the seat. "Thanks. Pretty popular place here, huh? Oh, Ah'm from ..." Taking out her notebook and a abnormal psychology text. Fiddling with a pen, see-sawing it between her fingers. Blue eyes glancing at Elizabeth brows lifting. "All right then, miss, where am Ah from?" Since most Yanks don't know a Carolina accent from Georgia or a Texas twang." "
As Elizabeth establishes herself as the owner of the documents and law book, Michael gives her an appraising look, though it quickly dissipates in the face of her sarcasm. An eyebrow arching, he answers the question, while looking directly at Elizabeth, "Somewhere people are polite?" The unspoken superlative still present in his tone, if not his words. "Likely a place with fewer lawyers, too." His voice is low key, nearly a drawl, but his less obvious emotion signs speak of challenge as he takes another sip from his chai.
"Oh, very witty," Elizabeth mock-approves, brows lifting at Michael with clear disappointment. "I will never understand why people move to New York simply to complain about the company. You might as well whine about the prescence of mutants while you're at it."
Sabrielle bites her bottom lip, sipping at her coffee to cover her smile. "Oh, there's plenty of lawyers not far from where Ah grew up. About an hour or so away, but it's a big city. Ah grew up about an a hour from N'awlins. " A smile at Elizabeth, seeming perfectly pleasant on the surface. "Well, when Ah moved here ta get mah doctorate, Ah had no idea there were so many Yankees with so little tolerance. An' here Ah thought ya Yanks were always complainin' about us Southerners. " She ignores the mutant comment altogether.
"I'm full of wit and good humor, part of my charm." Michael's response is measured, though there is a hint of annoyance within him. "New York has more to offer than the company. Besides, mutants? Come on, I haven't even seen one except on the news. Nine million people means an unlikely chance of running in to one." His words are practiced, but exceptionally perceptive people might notice the hesitance behind them and for Sabrielle, likely the flutter of uncertainty that accompanies them.
Sabrielle smiles brightly at Elizabeth, amused. "Well, Ah recommend never venturing below tha mason dixon, if ya find men who think they're charmin' troublesome, ma'am." Because all Southern men seem to think they have charm. A glance at Michael, noting the flutter in his feelings at the talk of mutants, but it's not angled in an angry fashion. Hmm. "Ya know, Ah can't say Ah ever gave mutants much thought. Ah mean, it's not like Ah see 'em all over, with neon signs over their heads. Besides, Ah moved here ta get /away/ from close minded thinkin'."
Far from subdued, Michael shrugs, "You are in New York and, as I believe we've established, it isn't a pillar of magnanimity." Despite his attempts at a neutral demeanor, being called an asshole inside of five minutes isn't doing much for his evening. Sabrielle's comments garner a brief grin, though the return of conversation to mutants seems to once more make him uneasy.
"I wasn't speaking of New York men." Sabrielle gets an exceedingly irritated look from Elizabeth, and the DA's lips press into a thin line before she glances away once more.
"Of course, Ah'm sure maybe all tha men are jus' so intimidated by /your/ sparkling personality, sweet demeanor and rapier wit, they jus' end up looking like assholes who are tryin' too hard. " Sarcasm is ladled over those words heavily, though the tone is sweet. "Maybe ya should try decaf, if ya get so riled, so easy." A glance at Michael's textbook, attention switched. "So where ya studyin'?"
His text forgotten in his lap, Michael seems surprised when attention is brought to it, a slight wince at Sabrielle's words to Elizabeth. "I'm not studying anymore, really, just doing some post doc stuff at Columbia. Thought I'd find a quiet spot to read, but got a little more adventure than I was angling for, I think." He's discomforted, the obvious irritation of Elizabeth and the previous conversation not overly helpful.
"Ah, yes. It's New Yorkers alone who are rude," Elizabeth states, pausing to fix a sharp smile on Sabrielle before she turns entirely away from both of them, flips open her book, and reaches for her coffee.
Sabrielle shifts blue eyes to the brunette woman. "Never said that. But there's a difference between rude an' bein' a provoking bitch. Ah'm just bein' rude." Clearly insinuating the other woman is being the latter. A smile for Michael. "Physics was never my favorite science, bein' a Biology minor. Goin' for mah doctorate now in Psych."
The exchange between the two women has ramped up Michael's discomfort by several levels, his cool demeanor cracking a bit as Sabrielle goes on the offensive this time around. "Ah.. maybe..." He returns the text to his backpack and rises, leaving the chai in its place, still mostly full, "I think I'll just call this an evening." A flicker of his eyes Elizabeth's way before he offers to Sabrielle, "I'm sorry I couldn't stay longer." The lie is apparent on a lower level, residing with his discomfort.
"Such fine hairs we split," Elizabeth murmurs to her books. Her gaze sweeps past Michael, briefly, and then drops down again.
Sabrielle looks up at Michael, a smile. "Have a nice night. " Before she's glancing at Elizabeth. "Ah don't think havin' a sense of manners is splitting hairs. Because if it is, ya should be about bald, lady."
Elizabeth does not reply. She has work to do, after all.
Sabrielle snickers into her coffee, looking over her notebook. Woman was angry long before Sabrielle could have said anything to create that level. Let the brunette stew. The empath found it sort of amusing.
Mystique is kind to strangers.