→ take me to wonderland.

[thedominatrix]

Who: Irene & guests.
What: Birthday drinks.
Where: Syriac Well.
When: 24th Shadri.
Notes: An outfit.

Birthdays are busy when you maintain a variety of different social circles. There's the enormous, lavish, exclusive party she throws, where she stays stone cold sober and pushes drinks on everyone else, to fascinating results- there are numerous private one on one dinners for the people who all need to feel like they're her favourite, like they're getting the special treatment, poor things, and that's almost fun just because of how dishonest it is except the boredom tends to negate that. But then there's this, which is play and not work, Irene inviting people because she likes them rather than because they need to feel invited, and because when she likes people she has to insert herself into their lives and demand as much of their attention as possible.

The surroundings are incredibly sumptuous, of course, stirred by a slight breeze from the open balcony doors. The atmosphere is intimate, private, slightly heady and unreal, urged on by some excellent wine (far from the only thing on offer, of course, but particularly notable) and Irene's languid charm, her usual society persona toned down ever so slightly as if to say well, you all know the truth, which is a very insidious sort of lie that she can still have fun telling. She's being very attentive to her guests- an uncharitable observer might suggest, in fact, that she pounces on them as they arrive.

But they wouldn't get an invite.

Comments

[thedominatrix]

Irene watches them, reacts to them not just in words but with her whole body, like the conversational current is something she's quite literally being swept up in; when Mycroft stills, she raises her chin, eager, a soft smile on her face, and stills too. He looks stopped short, while she opts for satisfied, holding still simply to suggest that she can afford to sit back and enjoy the show.

Offhand to Alan as if they're best friends already, stage directions aside, she says quite calmly- as if there's no possible way Mycroft could overhear them, as if she's even lowering her voice at all, "You know, I don't think it did." Mycroft, of course, gets the full force of her predatory smile. "Are you going to make me deduce, Mr Holmes?" she asks, as if it's a euphemism.

[alan_shore]

Alan, of course, has his own reaction ready—a smirk spread out like a blanket awaiting the liberation of a midday feast from the depths of a picnic basket. Or perhaps it shares more in common with the inevitable parade of ants, sure and brazen, over the potato salad. Regardless, the delight he takes in confounding Mycroft is evident and unadulterated—save for a momentary qualm so fleeting he scarcely has time to blink before it's vanished, a mood alighting with such delicacy he gains little sense of it.

“I am wholly in favor of a spot of deduction,” he announces, as though somebody had asked. He smiles at each of his companions in turn—Irene first, then Mycroft. “So long, that is, as I'm permitted to watch.”