multiversallogs | (no subject)

Who: Irene Adler and Charles Xavier
What: Two cheats play a guessing game.
Where: Queequeg's, Mog Hill.
When: Misdi evening.
Warnings: TBA. Irene's existence, maybe?

Irene Adler loves to play games. It's a fact of her existence. Without games, things get boring and people get lax; she likes to keep herself sharp at all times.

Of course, that doesn't mean she can't cheat. Not that she views searching out information on the mystery man (not such a mystery anymore) she's promised to meet as cheating, because that would imply there are actually any rules. He seemed confident, anyway, which to Irene suggests that he knows something she doesn't. In a way, looking him up is only leveling the playing field.

His name is Charles Xavier and he has been known to wear a fetching (read: eyebrow-raising) Kevlar get-up. He spends a lot of time chatting to one particular friend, can give first aid advice and is apparently active in the xenian community- curious, because he looks human. (This isn't something she's ever had to take into account before, she has to admit). Perhaps it's to do with his job and his interests, or perhaps he's one of their number. Right now, it's impossible to tell. She knows that he's clever and wants to challenge her, and that she's taken a shine to him. It's enough.

She arrives at Queequeg's reasonably early, all in black- black pencil dress with capped sleeves, black coat that conceals all but an inch of the dress in question, spiky black heels, sheer black seamed stockings (it is cold outside), black leather gloves- she looks, as ever, predatory. Her make up is precise and dramatic and her hair is twisted into an elegant updo, and she's apparently checking her lipstick in a compact- while actually using it to search the faces for the one that she wants without anybody wondering what she's staring out. Without, in short, giving herself away.

It's packed enough to slow her down; she doesn't see him just yet. Still, that's fine. She's confident. Heaven knows what he's got up his sleeve- but it's not enough to beat the fact that she has, essentially, already tied him to his face. Already won, really.

In her opinion, at least.

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"Really," she says, sounding thoughtful and surprised. "Lucky." She had been considering that particular issue- best not to press him, though, lest it become too clear that she'd rather a few people from back home not follow her here.

"Working with people's nice," she purrs idly, shifting in her seat. "Always something new. They add an unpredictable element- I'd get bored flicking through papers all day, no matter how interested I was in their contents. And job satisfaction is too mild a term, of course; you don't get Christmas cards from a PhD."

Yes, she has been known to get Christmas cards from some of her repeat clients, the ones who are useful enough or fun enough to at least be made to feel as if they've accessed a closer, more personal social circle.

"Very," he says, and his eyes brighten a little as he smiles, before giving a small half shrug (he wouldn't want to appear as though he's gloating, especially when that's not the case). "And it's someone to split the rent with."

"Extremely unpredictable --Baedal's genetic mix is much more interesting than anywhere else back home. And the Glory Shada is an interesting place to work at." There is perhaps the briefest hesitation before he settles on the word 'interesting,' although it definitely applies.

"You can think of other words for it," she says, in a tone which is highly amused and perhaps slightly encouraging.

What? He seems so nice. He can afford to speak his mind a little, surely?

"Not polite ones," he finally concedes, with a boyish if mischievous smile. "Nor impolite, not exactly. 'Interesting' is a very neutral word for dealing with our patron goddess."

So nice. And only saying that much because he knows Irene won't be scandalised, but not more because it would seem too forward, given the circumstances.

Irene doesn't get it for a split second as she rifles through her memories, trying to remember what she knows about Shada; there had been information on the pamphlet and in various other informational pamphlets (propaganda).

And then she remembers, properly, what Shada stands for and why she'd liked her so much.

"Oh," she says, highly amused- interesting, really, that's funny- "I bet. Careful, though. 'Interesting' could mean absolutely anything." A beat, and she finishes, deadpan: "Less virtuous people than I might assume the worst."

"It could," he says, in reference to 'mean anything.' And his eyebrows rise in mock surprise, which is promptly ruined by, "Either way, I'm fairly certain a chair at Oxford wouldn't have been quite so entertaining."

Why yes, he can be slightly impudent when it pleases him and he's in the right company.

Irene's laugh is throaty and far from clean; it's with deep satisfaction that she remarks, "Don't be so quick to assume- there are stories I could tell you about an Oxford professor I knew which could curl your hair."

She dangles the prospect for a second with a smile which could be considered flirtatious, though she's not flirting as most people do- it's simply how she relates to the rest of the world, really.

"Though I shouldn't. Confidentiality and so on."

...says the woman who nearly extorted millions from the British government by using her clients' secrets as leverage.

But then again, that makes sense. Secrets are valuable- no one wants to pay money for something everyone knows. Not that this is relevant in Baedal, but it's a habit she's picked up.

Charles is practically one step away from gritting his teeth in an attempt to hold off from reading Irene's mine. But he knows that if it is as bad as she's is making it out to be, he won't be able to hide the reaction on his face. What do.

"A secret that's worlds away, now. Please, go on. I think I could do with some hair curling." Nevermind that he's practically fidgeting in impatience.

"Nonsense, it's too nice as is," Irene says, leaning back.

The Oxford professor in question had been, at home, one of her old favourites- he'd been coming to her for years. She smiles slowly and glances upwards, looking thoughtful. "And I'm not sure he deserves it."

Look, she's nice! ...and alright, fine, Charles is practically vibrating in his seat with curiosity. It's endearing. She wants to draw it out.

The stories- should he snap- are certainly entertaining, coloured by Irene's genuine fondness for her client and her work; they are also far from safe for work.

To be very blunt, he had a particular interest in leather boots and erotic humiliation; it- and Irene- destroyed his marriage, though he always said that the end of his marriage was the beginning of his career. More free time, he'd said, no obligation to go home at any particular hour...

(She has always suspected him of putting a brave face on it- but he had certainly achieved a successful career no matter what).