2012-09-30 This Could Be...

It's a nice day to take in lunch at a rooftop garden restaurant. The sun is shining, the first whispers of fall are moving in to keep the temperature comfortable, the breeze is light, and the view of Manhattan is lovely. For such an expensive and exclusive restaurant, it's actually somewhat busy today...
...which just means that, when Shinobi Shaw invites himself to a chair at Emma Frost's table, the waitress chasing after him is even less inclined to cause a scene than she might otherwise be. Before she can voice any protest, Shinobi just says "Hot tea, please," and settles in to wait.
Emma was enjoying a light lunch and an old leatherbound copy of /The Prince/ when Shinobi arrived with a waitress that is trying very hard not to be flustered. She's well paid and experienced, but a Shaw invading Ms. Frost's table is a bit much. Emma doesn't so much as look up, at least not right away. "It's all right, Margaret," she assures the poor waitress, and sips her martini. "Hello, Shinobi. If I didn't know better, I might think you were following me," she teases, while she finishes her page.
"Not on purpose," Shinobi promises, cracking a smile. Whether it's in response to Emma or the way Margaret whisks back off to get him his tea is hard to tell. It's a bit of both. "They asked me where I'd like to sit, and I noticed you. You do stand out," he notes, clasping his hands on the table. "I hope you don't mind."
Emma finishes her page, then loops the cloth bookmark into place, closes the book, and sets it aside. Shinobi gets favored with a pleasant enough smile, which as everyone knows doesn't necessarily mean a damn thing. "Of course not." She doesn't ask what brings him here, because that much is patently obvious-- it's a restaurant, after all. "How does the search for gainful and acceptable forms of employment go?" she asks instead. She's well aware of his circumstances, of course. Telepath or not, people in their positions keep abreast of what's going on with their peers.
"I've an interview tomorrow morning, bright and early," Shinobi replies with a smile. Yes, the interview is with his father's company. Yes, he thinks it's a little ridiculous that he has to work his way in. No, he isn't surprised that his father is insisting on it. "Hopefully it will go well. I'm not terribly excited by most of my other prospects."
Emma can't say she's surprised, either. or that she precisely disagrees with it, for that matter. "I'm sure you'll do fine. On the other hand, if it doesn't work out, give me a call. I may have an interesting opportunity available in the near future," she muses, idly tracing the rim of her glass with a thoughtful fingertip.
That piques Shinobi's interest far more than the tea and menu that get set down in front of him. "May I ask? I do like knowing my options," he notes, reaching for the menu first. No sense in making poor Margaret hover around any longer than necessary. Once he's ordered his sandwich and soup, he passes the menu back up and returns his attention to Emma, where it belongs.
Emma does not order. They know what she wants here. Or to be more accurate, she always insists that the chef work his magic in a nicely-paced meal in whatever fashion he cares to. Of such stuff are amazing meals made. She settles back in place, lacing her fingers together in her lap, and crosses her legs at the knees. "I have a new venture that might benefit from a talented business manager. I myself will be somewhat busy with the work itself, so I would prefer not to do it myself." Yes, she is blatently stringing his interest along. He can probably tell. She really doesn't care, either.
That's okay. Shinobi doesn't care, either. He can appreciate the tactic. "Branching out beyond Frost International, then," he muses with an approving tone of voice, scooping up his tea. "Now I'm definitely curious."
Emma chuckles. "That would be a neat trick, considering we're a holding company, officially. It is quite difficult to branch out from the business of owning businesses." She shrugs a shoulder. "But I take what you mean. We are discussing a private school. In Metropolis."
"If it were just another company under the umbrella, I'd think it would hardly be worth mentioning," Shinobi replies brightly, bringing his tea up for a sip. Ah, good. Not too hot. He makes a surprised, interested noise around his drink, quirking a brow as he lowers the cup. "I see. What kind of school?"
"A school for the gifted," Emma says promptly, perhaps a little surprised he feels the need to ask. "To cultivate people like us. And similar to us. A school for the mutants and geniuses and metas and prodigies." That more or less encompasses the breadth. "A place they can learn, grow... and not be hiding away their potential just because some so-called normal people don't care for their own inadequacies."
Not only does Shinobi quite like the sound of that, but given who the school would be geared towards... yes. Father would approve. "I think I could help you regardless of how my interview goes, if you'll have me," he says with a smile, inclining his head.
Emma smiles, and nods. She of course is casually surface-scanning him to make sure his interest in genuine... on the other hand, it also is. "Of course. I would not make the offer otherwise. We've quite a way to go on laying groundwork yet. But to be quite open about it, it's very exciting." A pause, and she eyes her glass, fiddling with the stem. "I have always wanted to teach."
Shinobi /was/ about to fish out a business card to give Emma his contact information, but considering the way she starts fiddling with the glass... it will wait. "It's a good time for it," he notes approvingly, propping his chin up in a hand. "I don't think I have enough patience with people to teach. You'd be much better at it," he muses, gesturing at her with a finger. "You put up with me."
Emma glances up at that and smirks, though her fingers don't leave the glass. "I don't find it that hard to do so," she says, amused. "Though I do have some advantages." A pause, and a wry smile. "*And* a teaching credential."
Shinobi makes a there-you-go gesture with his hand, straightening up to make room for his soup. Yay, lunch. Now that he's in a better mood, he actually favors the server with a warm smile and polite 'thank you' instead of ignoring them. "See, I have none of those things. I'd just be the pretty face," he says with a wistful sigh, scooping up his spoon. "And you, the brains."
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