Settlement/Unsettlement
She shouldn't have hit me. She shouldn't have attacked me. She shouldn't of. She's not supposed to, it's not her place.
=NYC= White Queen's Quarters - Second Floor - Hellfire Clubhouse
Emma sleeps alone, her companion of the evening before having been sent off in a fit of craving for mint icecream, leaving doors unlocked and the White Queen's safety to the watchful eyes of pawns. Silk tents over her frame, caught up to mid-back where silk of another texture and hue slides up in loose straps and sheets. She's spread out on her stomach with a pillow caught close under one arm, and another under her head. One leg escapes the covers, winding over top at the knee.
Shaw enters on quiet feet: dressed, improbably, still in coat and shirt, though whatever tie he once wore is long since discarded. His coat is rumpled, his shirt almost untucked, and his hair has a tangled quality that suggests a measure of sweat and then hair tied quickly and uncarefully back. Eyes look around the room, and - as he approaches the side of Emma's bed - he picks up a fallen pillow from the floor, holding crisp white linen in both hands as he moves to loom above the White Queen.
Loom, smoom. The drama of the pose is lost when the only observer is asleep, drugged into somnolence in an attempt to fight off the remains of the headache from a few nights before.
Hesitation, black mood palpable as Shaw stares down at the sleeping Emma. He almost bends over - his hands move, the pillow descends a little, it comes close to brushing the back of Emma's head - and then it's withdrawn. A breath from Shaw, and then he releases one half of the pillow, holding it one hand as he goes to settle on the corner of the bed. Still no words, but the Black King's free hand reaches out to touch Emma's hair. He's not really trying to wake her - he's just touching, lightly, feeling golden silk.
Consciousness rises before awareness, muddled, yet unfrightened by the familiar presence at her side, on her bed. Her hand moves to his thigh, and her face turns away as she shifts and stretches away from the contact.
One more brief touch - a slide of a single finger along a lock of gold - and then Shaw withdraws his hand from Emma's head, moving it to cover her own upon his thigh. "Emma," he says, voice low - still pitched to somnulent, night-time tones. His hand squeezes hers in a genuinely tender gesture, one mirrored in a brief flash of rose from his psyche. "I could have just smothered you," he says in that same gentle voice. "I could have snuffed that beautiful, golden candle. I could have, dear, had I wanted to."
Emma pulls her hand from his and tucks it under her pillow while the other hand pulls it down and wraps around it. "What are you babbling about, Sebastian?" she murmurs drowsily, refusing to give up the appearance of sleep.
A flash of pique, like a sudden eclipse. Shaw reaches for Emma's hand again, more forcefully, to tug it back to his lap. "I could have killed you," he repeats, and now there's a darker, more fervent note in his voice. "I have a pillow - your pillow - and I could have taken your life."
A grimace of discomfort as her arm is bent back to his will, and she pushes up on her elbow and faces him, finally opening shadow-circled eyes. "So why didn't you?" she asks around a yawn.
"Why," Shaw says with a smile. "You're Emma Frost." It's a pause. "You shouldn't have hit me," he continues - his voice still unsettled. "You shouldn't have attacked me back in the Park like you did." There - the coiling knot of obsession, wrapped up tight in the front of his mind.
She closes her eyes and settles back down on the pillow again, tugging on her hand and murmuring unfocused agreement to his response. And then he continues. She cracks her eye back open and looks up at him with a frown. "What?"
"In the Park," Shaw insists. "You shouldn't have struck me - not like you did, not with your mind." He pauses. "I should have smothered you," he murmurs, continuing on - clarifying. "I should have smothered you, because you shouldn't have attacked me."
"You struck me first," Emma retorts like a petulant child, grumpily growing more awake. She rolls to her side facing him and starts to pull on her hand with more determination
Shaw does not release Emma's hand - his grip just tightens, even with every pull Emma makes, and the rush of energy suggests his powers are charged and activated. "It was for your own good," he explains to Emma. "You needed it." He shakes his head and makes a shushing sound. "Shh..." he says. "Don't worry about it. I'm not going to smother you," he informs her. "You're Emma Frost."
Emma stops pulling as soon as the effect becomes clear, but she is not soothed by his words. Instead, she sits up, struggling against the mattress to the position. Her hair tangles in messy waves to her shoulders, and her nightgown dips deep between her breasts. "What /are/ you going to do then?" she asks in a low-voiced growl.
Shaw's eyes focus on Emma. "Nothing." The word hangs, flat and metallic and empty in the air.
"Then let me go."
"I should have," Shaw repeats. "But I won't." That's it - the last word, and then the Black King releases the White Queen's hand, letting her withdraw it. His stare remains, black and absolutely unblinking.
Emma pulls her hand back slowly and eyes the Black King in confusion for a moment before letting her powers expand to brush cautiously up against his mind.
Shaw's mind roils: anger, impotence, frustration - obsession with Emma, fixation on the few moments in the Park, tangled up the white shocks of energy from his powers' charge, from sleep deprivation and too many hours spent thinking on the future. He still stares at her.
Emma blinks and swallows a dry lump away. "Sebastian, when was the last time you slept?"
"Last night," Shaw responds, and then he amends: "Tuesday." A beat, a correction. "Two nights."
"Go to bed, Sebastian."
Shaw nods silently to this, mirroring some measure of assent in his gaze. He blinks, at last, and then looks away, eyes breaking from Emma. Still wordless, he reaches for her hand again - just a brief squeeze, a flash of something - and then he releases her and rises from the bedside.
Emma watches him silently, crawling out of bed after him, but staying just out of arm's reach.
He starts for the door, but at Emma's movements he stops, half-turning as a confusion crosses his face and the low hum of his thoughts are unsettled by turbid puzzlement.
Emma holds up her hands in a gesture of innocence.
"I..." Shaw comes close to finishing the statement - 'I should have' echoes in his mind - but he stops himself, closing his mouth. "Goodnight," he whispers, and then he turns to go again.
"Goodnight." Emma waits until she hears the office door close as well before moving to the nearest phone. Some pawn is going to get their ear chewed off, and others are going to be set at their King's heels.
=NYC= White Queen's Quarters - Second Floor - Hellfire Clubhouse
Emma sleeps alone, her companion of the evening before having been sent off in a fit of craving for mint icecream, leaving doors unlocked and the White Queen's safety to the watchful eyes of pawns. Silk tents over her frame, caught up to mid-back where silk of another texture and hue slides up in loose straps and sheets. She's spread out on her stomach with a pillow caught close under one arm, and another under her head. One leg escapes the covers, winding over top at the knee.
Shaw enters on quiet feet: dressed, improbably, still in coat and shirt, though whatever tie he once wore is long since discarded. His coat is rumpled, his shirt almost untucked, and his hair has a tangled quality that suggests a measure of sweat and then hair tied quickly and uncarefully back. Eyes look around the room, and - as he approaches the side of Emma's bed - he picks up a fallen pillow from the floor, holding crisp white linen in both hands as he moves to loom above the White Queen.
Loom, smoom. The drama of the pose is lost when the only observer is asleep, drugged into somnolence in an attempt to fight off the remains of the headache from a few nights before.
Hesitation, black mood palpable as Shaw stares down at the sleeping Emma. He almost bends over - his hands move, the pillow descends a little, it comes close to brushing the back of Emma's head - and then it's withdrawn. A breath from Shaw, and then he releases one half of the pillow, holding it one hand as he goes to settle on the corner of the bed. Still no words, but the Black King's free hand reaches out to touch Emma's hair. He's not really trying to wake her - he's just touching, lightly, feeling golden silk.
Consciousness rises before awareness, muddled, yet unfrightened by the familiar presence at her side, on her bed. Her hand moves to his thigh, and her face turns away as she shifts and stretches away from the contact.
One more brief touch - a slide of a single finger along a lock of gold - and then Shaw withdraws his hand from Emma's head, moving it to cover her own upon his thigh. "Emma," he says, voice low - still pitched to somnulent, night-time tones. His hand squeezes hers in a genuinely tender gesture, one mirrored in a brief flash of rose from his psyche. "I could have just smothered you," he says in that same gentle voice. "I could have snuffed that beautiful, golden candle. I could have, dear, had I wanted to."
Emma pulls her hand from his and tucks it under her pillow while the other hand pulls it down and wraps around it. "What are you babbling about, Sebastian?" she murmurs drowsily, refusing to give up the appearance of sleep.
A flash of pique, like a sudden eclipse. Shaw reaches for Emma's hand again, more forcefully, to tug it back to his lap. "I could have killed you," he repeats, and now there's a darker, more fervent note in his voice. "I have a pillow - your pillow - and I could have taken your life."
A grimace of discomfort as her arm is bent back to his will, and she pushes up on her elbow and faces him, finally opening shadow-circled eyes. "So why didn't you?" she asks around a yawn.
"Why," Shaw says with a smile. "You're Emma Frost." It's a pause. "You shouldn't have hit me," he continues - his voice still unsettled. "You shouldn't have attacked me back in the Park like you did." There - the coiling knot of obsession, wrapped up tight in the front of his mind.
She closes her eyes and settles back down on the pillow again, tugging on her hand and murmuring unfocused agreement to his response. And then he continues. She cracks her eye back open and looks up at him with a frown. "What?"
"In the Park," Shaw insists. "You shouldn't have struck me - not like you did, not with your mind." He pauses. "I should have smothered you," he murmurs, continuing on - clarifying. "I should have smothered you, because you shouldn't have attacked me."
"You struck me first," Emma retorts like a petulant child, grumpily growing more awake. She rolls to her side facing him and starts to pull on her hand with more determination
Shaw does not release Emma's hand - his grip just tightens, even with every pull Emma makes, and the rush of energy suggests his powers are charged and activated. "It was for your own good," he explains to Emma. "You needed it." He shakes his head and makes a shushing sound. "Shh..." he says. "Don't worry about it. I'm not going to smother you," he informs her. "You're Emma Frost."
Emma stops pulling as soon as the effect becomes clear, but she is not soothed by his words. Instead, she sits up, struggling against the mattress to the position. Her hair tangles in messy waves to her shoulders, and her nightgown dips deep between her breasts. "What /are/ you going to do then?" she asks in a low-voiced growl.
Shaw's eyes focus on Emma. "Nothing." The word hangs, flat and metallic and empty in the air.
"Then let me go."
"I should have," Shaw repeats. "But I won't." That's it - the last word, and then the Black King releases the White Queen's hand, letting her withdraw it. His stare remains, black and absolutely unblinking.
Emma pulls her hand back slowly and eyes the Black King in confusion for a moment before letting her powers expand to brush cautiously up against his mind.
Shaw's mind roils: anger, impotence, frustration - obsession with Emma, fixation on the few moments in the Park, tangled up the white shocks of energy from his powers' charge, from sleep deprivation and too many hours spent thinking on the future. He still stares at her.
Emma blinks and swallows a dry lump away. "Sebastian, when was the last time you slept?"
"Last night," Shaw responds, and then he amends: "Tuesday." A beat, a correction. "Two nights."
"Go to bed, Sebastian."
Shaw nods silently to this, mirroring some measure of assent in his gaze. He blinks, at last, and then looks away, eyes breaking from Emma. Still wordless, he reaches for her hand again - just a brief squeeze, a flash of something - and then he releases her and rises from the bedside.
Emma watches him silently, crawling out of bed after him, but staying just out of arm's reach.
He starts for the door, but at Emma's movements he stops, half-turning as a confusion crosses his face and the low hum of his thoughts are unsettled by turbid puzzlement.
Emma holds up her hands in a gesture of innocence.
"I..." Shaw comes close to finishing the statement - 'I should have' echoes in his mind - but he stops himself, closing his mouth. "Goodnight," he whispers, and then he turns to go again.
"Goodnight." Emma waits until she hears the office door close as well before moving to the nearest phone. Some pawn is going to get their ear chewed off, and others are going to be set at their King's heels.