(no subject)
Tavern on the Green
The dinner hour reigns supreme at Tavern on the Green, wining and dining all the rich and lovely folk of the city (and the lucky lesser ones, too) on their way between day and night, business and pleasure. In the Park room, Shaw is wining and dining alone, still dressed for the day's business in a muted olive suit, but enjoying evident pleasure in the middle of his meal. Juicy steak, steaming vegetables, a glass of ruby-red wine, and contented solitude amid the other tables' low babble -- ahhh, the high life.
Travis hasn't progressed to dining yet. And the drink he's been nursing at the bar for some time can hardly be called wining either. But the object of his observation has just vacated the premises, so Travis calls for a refill, slips the bartender enough for a generous, though not absurd tip, and stands, taking the tumbler with him. Keep the locals happy, and you reap all sorts of rewards. With a confident stride, he rounds the corner for the other room, stopping only when he reaches the table of destination. "Pardon the intrusion, Mr. Shaw," he says, "But I thought the opportunity to introduce myself was too good to let slip past. Travis Reed," he says with a nod. "I believe we have several mutual acquaintences."
Shaw finishes his bite, unhurrying and calm, as he contemplates the other man. "Do we." He puts the fork down (thin clatter of silver on china), dabs his napkin at his mouth, and then sits back a little. Lifts his chin a little, but the stare stays steady. "And what of it, Mr. Reed? Do I owe someone money, and you've come to collect it?"
Travis lets his eyes roll slightly with that, either not taking or more likely not letting himself appear to take insult. "There are better ways of collecting money than spoiling a good strip steak," he says, shaking his head with the next thought. "And I believe if Ms. Frost was intending to collect on outstanding debt, she would come acalling herself. No, merely a brief personal visit for my part."
"I see." Shaw reaches for his wine and a slow sip. Then he nods. "Well, might as well join me, then. Have you eaten? --Unless you do intend the visit to be brief." He passes out a small, flat smile to go with low, flat voice. "I'm not in any hurry this evening, myself. I'm entirely at your disposal."
At the invitation, Travis bows his head slightly then slides the chair out to settle in, setting the glass on the table between them. "Just a few minutes then. I believe you also know Sabitha Melcross?" Jumping right into the fire, skip the frying pan.
Shaw's smile twitches wider in obvious appreciation, and his manner relaxes somewhat from cool, hard aloofness. "I know her, yes. One of our mutual acquaintances, along with Ms. Frost."
"She speaks well of you," Travis says, not elaborating which 'she' he refers to. "They say something like each person is connected to everyone in the world through 6 or 7 connections. It's just good when statistics work in your own favor."
"And deliver you to my table," agrees Shaw after another sip. He rests the glass, still half-full, on the table in a loose grip. "Six degrees of separation -- good movie, that, too. I wonder if that saying is really true, though. It seems a little pat, doesn't it? Not sure I /want/ to be that closely knitted into the fabric of society. More fun--" black eyes gleam "--to be a little outside. A free agent."
"I fully agree, Mr. Shaw," Travis says, lifting his glass in a mock salute before sipping at it and returning it to the table. "Freedom suits me well, although it is always good to maintain good connections. They provide broader opporunities at least."
Shaw smiles. "And so here you are with me, and there you are with Emma. How's that working out for you?"
"A broad opportunity, point in case," Travis says, letting himself relax back into his chair. "Power, Money, Influence. Although I have to say, it's the intruigue that has captured my attention most of all. I've been treated very well, though, if that is answer to your question."
"I'm sure you have," Shaw says politely to that last, not without an edge of merriment far sharper than the smile he lets fade into thoughtful consideration. "Opportunities, and intrigue. Well. Probably what got me on board, too, years and years ago, but it was a different time, of course. A different set of players at the board."
Travis nods. "I expect there is some change-over in that over time," he says, his gaze taking on a harder edge. "Though despite the sacrificial position of my namesake, I fully intend to be the one /watching/ the turnover."
Shaw makes a low noise and has another drink. "Well, good for you. Just watching? Not doing anything about it?"
"Well, Mr. Shaw," Travis says, letting a smirk creep across his face, "I can hardly reveal my entire strategy in our first meeting." He tips back the rest of his drink, before letting the glass wobble slightly as it is put back to the table, slightly on edge. It settles after a moment, thn Travis continues. "I've always found it fascinating to observe the strategy of masters. A balance of action and deliberation."
"Oh, yes, we're regular Sun Tzus, believe me," Shaw replies with heavy sarcasm. "You obviously haven't been to one of the meetings yet, and listened to the bitching and moaning, and that's just over who gets to sit where and talk first or last or even next, for God's sake. There's no strategy here, Mr. Reed. Just herding cats and trying not to be herded."
"Oh, I find that hard to believe," Travis shrugs. "Moaning is a strategy unto itself--not one that I employ, mind you. The squeaky wheel, as they say."
Shaw grants the point with a tilted nod. "And what strategy suits you better? --Watching, I suppose."
"When people grow accustomed to you as a mere observer," Travis says, traces of defiance tinging the edges, "even the smallest actions can carry weight. But yes, I pride myself on knowing everything about everyone, most of it gleaned through /watching/. Makes for interesting conversation if nothing else."
Shaw chuckles softly and crooks a gesture at the nearest waiter to refill his glass. While wine loops careful and gleaming red into crystal, he favors his guest with a pleased smile, and when the waiter's gone again, he says, "Nothing wrong with watching, my fine fellow. It'll keep you alive if nothing else, and make you successful if you're good or lucky or both. I'm just curious. Do you expect me to rail against you? Huff and puff in indignation that you even dare address me? I like interesting conversation. She should've told you that." And now he doesn't specify which 'she' he means, but only sips his wine and keeps smiling his smile.
"Well, good to know then," Travis says, forcing his tone back to normal. Add one more to the list that can break Travis' cool exterior. "Part of not underestimating someone is not presuming to know their every response. But yes, there are more things I'm sure I should be told, so I must admit some naiveté as of yet." Which may be truth, may be a façade or very likely some combination of the two.
"Ignorance isn't a sin, and Ms. Frost wouldn't have selected you if you were stupid, so don't worry about it." Reassuring, the words; amiable, the tone. But Shaw is looking thoughtful again. Pensive. Hooded eyes and guarded mouth, and his fingers are not as loose around the glass's stem as before. "I will do what I can not to underestimate you, Mr. Reed. I suppose you're returning the favor, given our respective positions."
"Underestimation is the only move for which there is no recovery," Travis says, by way of answer. He fingers his own glass, tracing the side of the base facing him.
Another soft noise. Shaw says, "Tell me about it," as softly. "Well, we'll both be cautious, won't we? But not enemies, I think. There's no need for that."
"Not for my part," Travis says, pushing his chair back in motion to go. "Well, Mr. Shaw, thank you for pardoning the intrusion. It was good to see there is a man behind the myth."
Shaw tips his head to follow his movements. "It was no trouble, Mr. Reed. And there's no myth, either." He bares a smile. "There's just me, and I /am/ just a man. Ask Emma. Or Sabby, for that matter. Have you seen her lately?"
"Only briefly," Travis replies, not standing just yet. "Facscinating woman. Sharp as nails and hot as hell. Deadly combination. Though I don't think she'd consider it a compliment, so I'd rather you not pass that bit along."
"I remember," Shaw muses softly, and lazes his eyes from wineglass to White Knight. "I won't tell her, don't worry. Just between us, isn't it? I value confidences."
"There's only so many secrets a sane man can hold within himself," Travis says, to the benefit or detriment of that last exchange, listener take what you will. "Which is to say, I value them as well." With that, he does push off from the table, pausing to offer his hand before departing. "It was good to make your official acquaintence."
Shaw's chair scoots back on his rise to meet the hand, shake it, accord him that polite regard between equals. "And yours, Mr. Reed. Perhaps I'll see you around, but ... perhaps not, given your role. I know you'll be watching, however. I'll remember that. Good evening." He inclines his head on the way back into his seat and then, simple as that, dismisses him from attention already returning to his cooling food.
Hellfire Clubhouse - Lounge (#2931RC)
Dirt dump the second -- complete. That is, Travis is returning down the stairs, one manila envelope lighter, on his way back home. Though this time of day, the subway's likely to be packed full of the now-returned college students on their way out for a mid-week whatever it is they call it these days. So he hesitates at the bottom of the stairs, pondering whether to take off just yet or find something else to busy himself with.
Laptop full of information she wouldn't be worried about losing if some sort of unethical technopath is in residence, Jean is comfortably ensconced in one of the leather chairs with a cup of tea at her elbow. Tappity-tap, and a few more lines of a paper bound for the American Journal of X-Factor Genetics spring into being. The feel of an oddly familiar mind wandering down the stairs catches her mental eye, however, and she turns in her seat to venture a dry "The elusive Travis, moved up in the world?" in greeting and inquiry wrapped in a single neat package.
The greeting catches his attention, and Travis shifts to find its source, one eye lifting as he catches sight of Jean. He crosses the room in unhurried stride, pausing just short of her chair. "Well, well. Jean Grey," he says after a moment's hesitation at the name, 'Elaine' running unspoken through his thoughts. "Pleasure to see you again. Quite a surprise."
<< My middle name. I've always been lousy at coming up with aliases. >> The unspoken thought is remarked upon, Jean choosing a mild breach of telepathic etiquette over letting Travis continue on without knowing he's broadcasting. The lady Frost lurks aloft, after all. She gestures for him to take a seat, setting her laptop on the coffee table in front of her after a save, and picking up her cup of tea. "It's been about six months since the presidential ball," she agrees, pleasantly enough. "As for a surprise, well, now that I'm on sabbatical in the city, I thought I might take advantage of the membership that's been handed along down my family tree. My grandfather was quite a regular, although he's a bit too frail now."
"Quite the inheritance," Travis says, stepping around the table to settle into the cushy chair opposite her. "Has it really been six months already? Time just creeps on by." And here lies a weakness. He doesn't start at the mental note, at least visibly. That's easy enough to school into nonchalant submission with time and practice. But there is a brief internal jolt, followed by a number of unbidden memories floating around. "You've been keeping busy as well, then, I take it?"
"Not really," Jean grants, green eyes twinkling and light and her tone frank. "While there's pretension everywhere you turn here, a membership at the Hellfire Club really offers nothing more than a few points of social prestige, and the points are only important to people who already have them. I really much prefer my grandmother's bone china as far as inheritances go. But busy enough, I'm sure you read the papers," she waves off her activites, turningtan interested look on Travis instead. "I'm curious as to what's caught -your- eye here."
Travis's fingers run along the chair's arm as he watches Jean's movements. "I suppose I'd have to give all the credit to mutual acquaintances," he says after a moment. "I believe you know Sabitha Melcross. She mentioned my name to Ms. Frost, who after our first meeting" -read: interrogation, here a slight smirk escapes- "she decided she could use someone with my background. We've exchanged services ever since." Which is entirely true, however amusing and elaborating the undercurrents might be.
"Well, I'm glad to see that your knack for landing on your feet continues," Jean replies, smiling over her teacup and setting it back in its' saucer with a demure clink. "Of course, she'll probably task you to investigate -me- any day now, so maybe I should be cursing it instead."
"I just have that knack for survival, I guess," Travis says. "Although I suppose that /would/ put me in a bit of an awkward position. I hear the Grey family has quite a dreaded spoken curse."
"Ah, met my grandmother, have you?" Jean quips, still eyeing Travis consideringly although her hands ar enow folded neatly in her lap. Eventually, once a few more people have wandered out to see about an early dinner, she notes that "You might want to watch what thoughts spring to mind, if you're going to be working for Emma while I'm under the same roof. Out of concern for your survival instinct."
Travis actually chuckles aloud with that. "People in my line of work should never work with telepaths," he comments, then leans forward letting his gaze fall on her. "I believe Gumshoe was the title she attributed to you," he says, letting the words fall slowly and rhythmically. "Although I'd guess that that wasn't the first time you'd crossed...paths. Still, I'd rather put the entire situation behind me. Case closed, as you will."
"It just adds a bit of a challenge," is Jean's opinion, delivered with a twinkle in her eye and the brief veering off topic of "Have you abused the club for free food and drink yet? They've got a chef in the basement that I'm pretty sure has to have mutant cooking powers." Or perhaps that's where the other half of Mimi and Ismena's dream-hamsters went. More seriously, she returns to the topic to allow, casually, that "There are ways that even a flatscan can keep some thoughts to themselves. You seem like you're together enough to pull them off."
"Can't say as I have," Travis replies, settling back into his chair. "At least for the meal part, although with that recommendation I'm sure I'll need to rectify that soon enough." He trails off a moment. "I suppose then, I'd be grateful if you might point me in the direction to begin some... research in that area. As I freely admit, I am quite new to it."
"It's a rather new discipline, you have to admit," Jean replies, as if discussing some interesting new recreational sport. "There's really not a lot of guides out on it yet, and word of mouth is the primary way of hearing about it -- Bob, how's Winnifred doing after her surgery?" she interjects, giving a nod and a gentle smile to an elderly fellow doddering in and looking for gin. "But I could drop you an email with what I've got, if you like. Is the address I have for you still live?"
"I think not," Travis says, reaching into his pocket for a scrap of paper and scribbling down a new address, watching the man out of the corner of his eye. He slides the paper across the table to her. "I'm always interested in new ideas. Personal enrichment, I suppose."
Jean neatly palms the paper and tucks it into a pocket of the neat black business blazer she's wearing, out of sight but certainly not out of mind as she takes a few minutes to have a conversation with retired financier of her grandfather's era Robert Alsington Jr, known expansively as 'Bob' to redhaired young lady doctors and other pretty things. "I'll have that to you within the day," she promises to Travis, once he's wandered off to find a retainer and that gin. "Personal enrichment that doesn't involve the bank account is something lost on a lot of the people here, unfortunately."
"Oh, but it /always/ involves the bank account eventually," Travis smirks with the qualification. "Although the perks of simply breathing and being the next morning to play the game tend to outweigh that in importance, at least for this one."
"Ah yes, you're the shades of grey pragmatism to my pure idealistic light, I remember now," Jean quips with a quick grin. "But as a doctor, it's my medical opinion that death is bad for your health, and should be avoided as long as possible. Let me know if any of the literature is confusing or vague. Like I said, there's not really a large market for it at this point."
"Guess it's my nature," Travis says, shifting forward to stand, but pausing just before he does. "I'm sure I'll be in contact, but thank you for letting me glean from your research. Much appreciated. And... I suppose I also should thank you for introducing me to this in the first place. Just goes to show you never know how things will turn out."
"Yes indeed." Jean agrees, picking up her tea again and frowning thoughtfully at a phrase of her paper that doesn't please her. Ah, the painful joy of writing 150 word abstracts. Poke, poke, poke, and a sentance is highlighted, chopped to bits, and then reordered. Eventually, she looks up with her eyes intent again, belying the casual tone she uses to suggest that "You're no longer the blind pawn caught between opposing queens on this particular chessboard, hrm?"
"Hmm, no, I guess I'm not. It seems this Alice made his way to the 8th square and got himself a set of shining armor." Travis lets the words settle as he finds his feet. "And now, I'm afraid I must beg your pardon to take my leave. Off to save a damsel in distress, of course."
"If you slay any dragons along the way, do get me a DNA sample," Jean requests, allowing Travis to take his leave with a nod of both parting and enlightenment, and a graceful lift of a hand. "Good to see you again, Travis, whose last name I'll actually get around to looking up one of these days."
"Sir Travis Reed, at your service," Travis offers, accompanied with a mock bow, before concluding with a "Always a pleasure," as he exits the building.