multiversallogs | → i've lived a lot of different lives, been different people many times

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→ i've lived a lot of different lives, been different people many times

Who: Irene Adler & Sebastian LeMat.
What: 'Have you graduated to stealing towns yet?' and other vital existential questions.
Where: Irene's apartment, Syriac Well.
When: Not too long after this.
Warnings: None.

For all the outward shimmer, Irene Adler is an intensely scheduled person. Her work, her play- it's all carefully organised so as to maximise her efficiency and minimise her chances of ever waking up to the sound of Militia boots on her floorboards, or worse. And Baedal can always offer worse, no matter what rock bottom one tries to imagine. It's all stored in her phone. She wasn't lying when she called it her life- she meant it in a rather more dramatic sense, of course, but there was always the simple matter of convenience.

Sebastian isn't named in the virtual diary- no one is- but he's there, his visit expected and arranged for and privately extremely welcome for reasons which go beyond simple curiosity as to what leaving and returning was like. He's odd, is the slightly petulant but exceedingly fond description of him Irene has settled upon; it's meant to be a temporary description only. She'll find something more fitting later. In the mean time, it's a compliment. Odd is interesting. She's missed him. After all, in her dizzying serious-unserious world, she's often surrounded by people who haven't even stolen a street.

She answers the door in clothes casual enough to just pass for I threw this on unthinkingly, which is flattering nonsense. The very first thing he gets is a kiss on the cheek. "Look at you, dear. I stand by previous comments. Do come in."

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After a moment's surprise at having someone so close into his personal space, he returns the gesture and enters with Alley at his heels.

"It's so strange, I want to ask everyone about what they've been doing or what half-mad falsehoods they'd prefer tell me, but then I remember it's only been a month here." That Sebastian has aged is most apparent in his posture and body language; he's more at ease with both himself and his surroundings. "Which for you, I'm sure, is more than enough time to cause a least a little coup or two."

"I'm flattered," Irene chuckles. She could tell him about how precarious her current standing with Baedal's gangs is, how one wrong move right now is going to lead to a massacre, how nervous currents of change have started to shudder through the criminal underworld and how exciting she finds it all- but she doesn't. That's not why she talks to him. "Don't believe everything you hear," she warns, ushering him into the sitting room, where a tea set is already laid out- with Beatrice beside it in her glass home. She's recovered some of her light, sparkling even brighter when Sebastian draws closer.

"Sycophant," Irene tuts and accuses her off-handedly, sitting down and inviting Sebastian to do the same.

Before taking his place, Sebastian smiles at Beatrice's display and is pleased to see that she's survived as well as she did. Over the years, he's worked on adjusting the charm he used to create her and has made some rather creative adjustments.

"Where are my manners. Ms. Adler, this is Alley." The dog in question is some sort of larger lurcher breed and, somewhat unusually, is entirely grey. He has a blue grey coat, with large, luminous grey eyes, and while she can't see them at the moment, his teeth are a dull, metallic grey as well. A wizarding breed, perhaps?

"Pleasure," Irene says, having already noticed Velcro's absence- she's prone to paying a nervous attention towards most animals, though she's well-aware that Sebastian's not likely to let Alley out of control. She shakes her head, raises her eyebrows at him slightly; "Five years," she murmurs- yes, she's followed his other public conversations on the network. "What coups have you brought off, then?"

While Alley accepts the introduction and promptly lays down at his owner's feet, Sebastian takes a moment to try and arrange his words. "Only one, but it was a rather good one, I feel. I helped start up a school, which doesn't sound like much, I know, but before this we'd only had the one."

There's no guarantee that it will work, but it's a start. The Hogwarts system worked well for a time, but society has changed somewhat in the last few hundred years and it's time wizards accepted that.

Irene's eyebrows go up as she pours tea, taking that in; interesting. She's played enough politics to know the possible impact of these things, even if it's never quite been her area. (Or never been her area at all, really- but she likes being able to hold her own). "Teaching...?" She taps the rim of the glass that Beatrice lives in; teaching this?

"Primarily, but we'd had a lot of pushback about bringing in maths, some basic science, history, and English." While working through what he'd like to say, Sebastian looks from Irene to the tea and then back up at her. "It used to be that you went to school to learn practical, magical skills and nothing else. Which, well, that's a bit of a problem."

He knows he doesn't need to explain why that's an issue to her, but there's a hint of exasperation to his voice as if he'd had to fight with others about it.

Irene raises her eyebrows in response to the tone he takes, and thinks about the average politician's resistance to change- but she can imagine it's more than that. She's occasionally surprised when she remembers the gaps between what she knows and what her friends (her friends now) have lived. "Generations of highly-trained magicians without a clue about the world around them. Sounds explosive."

And as if to ward off any accusations of excessive seriousness, she moves, poised to stand, gesturing to a liquor cabinet. "Is this going to require something stronger?"

"Not if you'd like me to strengthen Beatrice's spell." The intervening years have been good for his magical ability and control, but if he's going to do a charm that require a bit of finesse, he ought not have a drink just yet. "And, yes, to answer your question, it was. Both literally and figuratively."

Irene relaxes bck down into her seat again and gestures expansively; "I suppose I don't want to see what drunk magic looks like- although I suppose I'm not planning on living here much longer." Things right now are in a state of flux- just like Irene likes them, really. The gangs, the Militia; everything shifting, and Irene's playing a careful game to stay on top of things.

(Not many people would follow this train of thought to 'I should therefore move house', but Irene finds herself feeling more secure when she's on the move, and in Baedal there are limited ways of producing even a ghost of that feeling). "Still, I'm quite proud of the coffee table for surviving this long. Sober it is."

"It's a lovely home and you've done well to make it yours. My old flat went to a new tenant, so I'm looking for something myself." Sebastian opens and unpacks the kit he'd brought with him: grease pencil, nibbed pen, a little bottle of something dark blue and inky, a feather, and his knife. When he gestures towards Beatrice she hisses and leaves her glass to drape around Sebastian's shoulders. "Back home, I'd just gotten the estate half-tamed when, well, what can you do?"

"This will take a few minutes and we can still chat while I get this in order."

"You've got a bed to sleep in until then, I assume," she says, following Beatrice's movements before her eyes flick back to Sebastian- her tone of voice is surprisingly frank, offering assistance she doubts he needs (he is curiously well-connected, in that people in the cohort know him as being around, not instantly remarkable but nonetheless present) without actually putting it into words. Her eyebrows go higher. "What with you being used to an estate," she adds more wryly, interest clear.

"I've a spot at the guild hall and, well, it's less that I'm used to the estate and more it'd grown accustomed enough to me to stop slipping paralytics into my tea." Sebastian has had years to get used to the various joys of semi-sentient housing: regular poisonings did make up for Grimmauld's very enthusiastic defence against reporters.

"I've modified the charm a bit and if you're willing to suffer a pinprick, it will go a long way to stabilizing her." Among his little kit of materials, Sebastian pulls out and prepares a single use diabetic lancet. "I'd need just a drop and it's entirely optional."

With a deft hand, he swirls the bottle and checks it up against the light before uncorking it and letting it breathe.

In a smooth, society-surprise motion, Irene's eyebrows go up, and she extends a hand gracefully; "Very Witchfinder General," she says, with utmost solemnity, not a beat missed at the mention of his house trying to poison him. "I'm yours to prick. Sebastian, dear, do ever you say things just to try and make me gape at you? Because I think you should know I'm working hard not to let it work."

"Just a little, but I try not to," he says before triggering the lancet and pricking the skin just below the base of her thumb. By selecting an area that will bleed freely, but is less painful than the fingertips it suggests he's done this before. From there it's relatively simple to hold a drop on the tip of the needle and let it fall into the little bottle. With the addition of the blood, the liquid shifts from clear to a muddy, opaque blue-grey.

Sebastian swaps out the used lancet, placing the used needle back in its cap and offering it to Irene. He doesn't feel the need to explain how keeping someone else's magically sensitive ingredients and implements is a major faux pas. "For you."

When he repeats the procedure and adds in a bit of his own blood, the liquid swirls again and settles into a deep, iron grey. It looks as if it ought to just run off Beatrice's jar like water, but as Sebastian dips the nib pen in it and begins to write on the glass, it stays in place.

"I'll treasure it always," she murmurs.

She watches, frowning- giving up on working hard to let her real interest show on her face. She has, she thinks, adapted well to this. She likes Beatrice for a number of reasons- because she was a gift, because she sleeps better for her, because she looks wonderful. She also considers the little construct something of an emblem; look how well I'm fitting in. As good as a neon sign saying that magic can't scare her.

It's not true- the incident with the towers proves it's not true- but the reality is always less important than the image, insofar as there's such a straightforward separation.

The writing is messy, but still legible: 'Behold, I am BEATRICE. All those who threaten my keeper BEWARE for my sting is a fierce as I am swift!'

Once he's pleased with the inscription, Sebastian puts aside the pen and with a hiss coaxes the little creature back into her home. As Irene is no wizard, there's no need bother with the pretence of using his wand - a skill that never fully returned to him - rather, he holds the glass in his hands and with a bit of power and recitation, sets the charm. For a moment, both the ink and Beatrice flare a bright blue-white that throw his profile into stark relief.

"There. She should be stable enough to hold."

"Marvellous," Irene says, very genuinely, extending a hand for the glass- there's a bead of blood on her skin which she ignores.

She catches his eye, and raises her eyebrows; "And stable enough to sting?"

"No promises, but she'll do what she can for you." When Sebastian hands the glass over, Beatrice slithers up and out to curl around Irene's wrist and seems almost smug. Yes, she really is the most gorgeous piece of living jewellery and everyone should be suitably impressed. "And, failing that, she can go for help."

"Certain wizards of my sort can create a guardian that functions just about the same. They're the only real defence against a particularly unpleasant creature, so it's a great problem for those - often children - that can't manifest a patronus themselves." It's not a perfect solution, but it's a step in the right direction. "I'd worked out a sort of single-use version that could be hidden within a reinforced sparrow's egg, but it's still in development. For some reason, the creatures I can set into the spell aren't popular."

Edited 2012-09-27 20:46 (UTC)

Irene seems similarly pleased, stretching out her hand to admire Beatrice's best imitation of a bracelet. "Not since Eden, I hear." She lowers her hand to smile at him; "I'm a reptile sort of person, myself. And my God, if you want your magical defences against unpleasant creatures to be sweet, I'd hate to see the rest of your priorities."

Sebastian smiles, but there's an sense of long held frustration behind it. "I happen to think Beatrice is perfect sweet and charming, but I know that's not the prevailing opinion back home. It's a, well, it's not so much a faux pas to have a patronus that's not a cuddly animal, but there's always the sense that if it's not a gentle creature, it's a spell left uncast."

Which is, of course, utter nonsense.

Irene arches an eyebrow as Beatrice winds up and down her arm. "No wonder you were so cheerful in the arrival room," she says dryly, then sighs and settles back. "So." That sounds a little ominous. "Did you remember us all? While you were at home. Different people say different things, from what I hear."

"Even you, Tinman." In this metaphor, he's stuck somewhere between Dorothy and the Cowardly Lion, which leaves either the Scarecrow or the Tin Woodsman for Irene. "I actually looked to see in case you or your alternate might be in my world, but I didn't have any joy there."

Irene decides she's probably more lacking in heart than brain and decides to accept the title without squabbling. Despite that, she's surprised into a very real smile. "It gets worse by the second, the way you tell it."

When the mechanics of Baedal are brought more clearly into focus like this, she's never sure what to think. Somewhere, out there, are universes she's never going to see. It's terrifying, but above all it's tantalising, to know but never experience. "If only we could do daytrips," she muses. "I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours, that sort of thing."

"There's a lot of rubbish in my world, but there's really so much that's worth it." He's utterly unable to hide how much he cares about his home. "Dragons, for one. They're just brilliant and, admittedly, will try to eat you, but still pretty fine."

As he cleans away the little bottle and pen, Sebastian pauses before addressing Irene, "May I ask a personal question? You're welcome to tell me to hush and drink my tea instead."

She chuckles at dragons- but that's just the problem, hearing all these stories but never getting to live them. She feels nostalgic for something she's never had.

(And let's face it, the reality of seeing the dragons he's talking about would probably be much less enjoyable than wanting to see them; an idle daydream can't eat you alive, or not literally).

She raises her eyebrows at his questions, taking a thoughtful sip of tea. "Ask away." No promises on how she'll answer.

"If, suddenly, you found out you could to magic, what would you want to do with it? How do you think it would change your life, for good, ill, whatever?" Sebastian remembers how he felt when he learned, but as an adult now, a little more perspective on the situation would be good.

"I'd do what I do right now," she says, sounding almost surprised and answering immediately, "just with different methods."

Maybe it shows a lack of imagination- or maybe it's just that Irene knows who she is and what she wants, and is at heart intensely practical. Magic is magic; as beautiful and terrifying as she finds it, she's sure that if she had it, she'd put it to work like any other skill with a supreme lack of romanticism.

"That's it, right there. That's the biggest and most difficult problem I keep coming up against - the non-magical world has so many options for what you can do or who you want to be, and in the wizarding world, your choices are strictly limited." Muggle children are taught that they can grow up and be anything if they work at it, while wizarding children know they'll run a shop or push useless paper for the Ministry.

"When did you stop falling for it?" she asks. (The idea of asking before posing personal questions has occurred to her at some point in her life, but it's never really been her).

"I think I was about seventeen? It was a very late night and I asked my then-girlfriend what she planned to do when the war was won." It's unsaid, but unconsciously there's something to the way he speaks that suggests he'd never felt the need to answer that question for himself. "And she laughed as if it was the funniest thing she'd ever heard."

Irene's lashes lower- the expression that passes across her face is the sort that she doesn't usually show when she's as perfectly coiffed as this, because it works best when she looks more human. As it is, it's gentle enough to jar with the rest of her.

"I think they try to do that here," she says suddenly, smiling like she's joking despite what she's saying and admitting. She returns to the subject at hand immediately and smoothly. "So. You want to open doors to doors to doors where previously there have only been -- or people have only been aware of -- walls." A beat, and, "You love it, don't you." She sounds openly fascinated, because she'll never experience that devotion to home or any concept of it.

"I do." When he speaks, there's a hint of fear but no uncertainty. "If it works, and it must, it'll be a revolution."

"There's a long history of infighting, wars, dictators, and the like, but everyone who made a bid for power did it on an individual basis - more control for them and their followers. No one's done it to give away power." Sebastian truly believes that it's possible and he'll push for it, but he won't go to war to bring it about. With the sorry state of the wizarding world as it stands, he's well aware that he doesn't need to.

Irene has known politicians, activists, soldiers and leaders. She’s played their game, or played a game which has run parallel to theirs, but her rebellions have always been for herself and no one else.

"That's rare enough, no matter what the universe du jour is. Would you accept a vote of confidence?" Her tone is anything but confessional. She sets her teacup down, perfectly calm. "If we shared a world, I think you'd be my plan A."

I think you can do it would sound insincere.

"I'd accept and appreciate it." Knowing that he can set it in motion is vast gulf away from knowing that a thing will work. Along with being a damn fool endeavour, it's the right thing to do and he can't help but try. "And, on the upside, no matter how poorly it goes, it can't be worse than the last go-round."

Ha, ha. Your 'humour', such as it is, isn't funny, Sebastian.

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→ i've lived a lot of different lives, been different people many times

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