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→ sweet dreams are made of this.

Who: Irene Adler and YOU YES YOU
What: Uh- work, shopping, drinking, seeing the sights, picking up chicks, going to dinner, anything you like.
Where: The Vault, various boutiques, restaurants, gay clubs, out on the street, anywhere at all. If you can think of somewhere to be, Irene is quite possibly there.
When: Here all week, baby.
Notes: Just pick where you're setting it and say when/where they are in the header. It needn't be somewhere mentioned here! If you think they could run into each other elsewhere, then go ahead- and if you think it ought to be an arranged meeting rather than a chance one, then that's probably fine too.
Warnings: Sex, drinking, kink, the Vault...and Irene.

Irene's life has changed since coming to Baedal.

Technically, superficially, her life has improved, which she doubts happens to many people once are magically transported against their will to a place where you oughtn't to look too closely at, say, shadows, because there's almost always something that's going to lurk there- but since when was back home safe, exactly?

Here, at least, she can work properly. She likes the Vault, even if she's used to being her own boss. It's enormous and extravagant, dirty and debauched and full of people she likes, whether they're her coworkers or her clients- it feels like a home away from home.

Her job, of course, doesn't stop and start with brandishing a whip. No, she'd get bored too easily that way. It's fun, but it's only what happens on the surface. What she does is single out people who interest her, who can give her something- whether that's money or influence or just fun. She knows how to spot public figures afraid of being noticed, tugging at their suits and sweating- she knows which people don't want her and which want her so much they have to pretend that she's the last thing on their minds. She knows whose CiD she wants to look through while they're distracted (panting, eyes closed, unconscious, sobbing, drugged, drunk- whatever, as long as they trust her and she trusts herself). She enjoys her time at the Vault, and watches a number of acts between working, but never forgets that she's there to do her job.

When she's free in the evenings she can go out, a strange feeling for someone who is so used to being on the run. There is, of course, Mycroft Holmes to contend with, but she really can't imagine him sampling the nightlife. She's careful not to become a regular anywhere just in case, though more often than not she's found in gay clubs. She doesn't often go home alone; in the mornings, she's polite and kind but ensures that the women in her bed aren't in her bed for too long, and doesn't make use of any CiD numbers they might leave.

And then there's money, fashion, food, exploration, a whole new world. Irene loves to travel, and it's not really travelling when you're running. Baedal changes daily and she's barely seen half of the city, or that's what it feels like. She dines out often, alone or with some of the connections (friends?) she's made, and she thanks her stars that her job pays well, because she has a whole new wardrobe to build up.

Irene Adler, therefore, is living again. And if she sometimes finds herself alone, with no distractions, and feels claustrophobic, knowing that she is in the middle of the city and there is no world outside of it, knowing that she can't hop on a plane with a faked passport and be someone else somewhere else, knowing that she is trapped-

-then that is a very minor detail.

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There's no way she wouldn't notice that look, and her own expression tightens, her lips briefly pressing together in a thin line, but she regains her composure quickly. Her smile is easy, if a little embarrassed, as though she's just someone who is quickly realizing this whole tailing her father's mistress was a bit of a ridiculous idea. What she's really hoping is that she hasn't accidentally run into someone involved with the militia.

"One whiskey sour coming up," it takes her a moment to get the attention of the bartender, but she manges to buy Irene's drink and a glass of wine for herself - sticking with a rose because of the low alcohol content. She slides the whiskey sour to Irene and takes a sip of her wine before saying, "I'm Sarah, by the way."

A fairly common name, but not so common as to be glaringly fake. At least thats what she was aiming for when she picked it.

Edited (left a lil bit out ) 2012-02-07 06:02 (UTC)

Hook. Line. Sinker. "Odessa Wander." Her full name (or how she's currently choosing to identify herself) given obediently and without reservation.

The temptation exists to let her eye roam Irene's form once more, but it's reined in. Their dance has begun, and Odessa's determined not to miss a step, if only out of a desire to impress. "What else do you need to know about me, Miss Adler?"

Irene probably first notices Helena when she's walking down the street. There's nothing particular noteworthy about her at first. She's just another lady in a sea of people, puttering about Baedal in the afternoon... but there's something about the way she moves. It's in the way she carries her head, the way she holds herself. Something about her posture screams danger, and it almost succeeds in making her seem powerful. Almost.

There's something unfinished about her. Maybe it's the anger (she walks like she's carrying a chip on her shoulder about the size of London, and her expression is set into a frown), maybe it's her youth, maybe it's something else completely. Either way, right now she's a diamond in the rough -- in need of a good polish and then some before she really shines.

Ana watched Irene for a moment, and nodded deciding that velvet, indeed suited the woman more than leather did. It was a little like putting a glove on a gauntlet. Ana's own power tended to come in a more brutal and boot-to-the-face method.

"In my world, subtle tends to get you about as far as I could throw a school bus." Which is why when in doubt you should walk up to your ex and remind him who you are with a lovely kick.

"Unusual," Irene says, rather briefly- before she realises she's cutting herself short and being obviously paranoid. There's nothing wrong with caution, but when you start letting people know you're worried, that's when you have a problem.

"Exciting, honestly," she elaborates, and adds with a sad half smile- untrue, but perfectly acted; "Very far from everything at home. Well, you know that, of course. I'm sure everyone has their good days and their bad days."

False. Aside from the discomfort of being trapped, Irene knows this: that Baedal is no utopia, but she can and will make it work for her. Other people can bemoan their fates; Irene's going to do something about hers.

"In mine, I subtly get other people to throw said school bus for me." She gives a wolfish grin, her teeth flashing white and predatory. "Metaphorically."

Irene doesn't miss a single person. Some, she ignores after barely a second of watching; in other cases, it takes barely a second to catch her interest and propel her into curiosity.

When Irene gets curious, it's a hungry, demanding curiosity that doesn't let her sleep at night- and she has enough trouble sleeping in this closed-in city anyway.

So when her attention is taken by a young woman walking towards her who moves like anger alone is propelling her onwards because she can't think what else to do with it-

Irene darts to the side to avoid the voluminous shopping bag of another strange woman, deliberately overdoes it and collides neatly with Helena. Some kind of high-speed collision is always a good way to start things, she thinks- physical or metaphorical.

Why? Because she's bored, because she's a people addict who is jonesing something terrible, because for God's sake she doesn't think she can stand a moment more with her own thoughts and at least angry people are fun. Angry women, especially. She used to be one; now she's learnt how to make other people angry instead.

Anyway, life is too short not to talk to strangers.

Martha doesn't blink about the shortness of the response; she gets those on a fairly regular basis even before her arrival in the city. The acting is good, and Martha's a trusting sort of person who tends to believe most things at face value.

There's a quick reassuring smile at the comment, and Martha reaches over and gives Irene's hand a quick pat; it's not patronizing, but entirely genuine. The good doctor has a thing about touching people and the restorative powers that genuine human contact could provide.

"It gets easier, I've found. Eventually the completely maddening unexpectedness becomes the mundane. Then you're more likely to throw yourself in with abandon." Like when a bloke shows up in a box and tells you can travel in time.

Oh, that grin. It seemed like a like time since she'd been around people who'd worn a grin like that with such a fierce ownership of it. Ana grinned in return and the expression was one that was full of amusement.

"Sometimes there's a certain pleasure in being the one who actually does it though. It's so nice to see the expression on their little faces just before the impact."

"You're welcome," he answers, "I try my best."

He waits a moment or two so he's merely following her inside and not following her inside (he's a charmer, not a creeper). There's a brief wait at the hostess' station for seating. "Pardon me for intruding," he says, addressing her again, trying to make polite conversation. "Have you been here before? Can you recommend anything?"

Irene stays silent for a moment, but keeps that smile on her face- the one that suggests she knows everything.

"What do you do, Ms Lewis, apart from hurl vehicles at people?" she inquires, voice rich with amusement and interest.

Irene smiles again- and this time, her eyes are in on it as well as her mouth. That doesn't mean it's particularly pleasant, of course.

"Pleasure," she says easily, all that hardness and coldness completely gone from her eyes; it may as well never have been there. She's friendly and responsive now. "I'm Irene." She holds out a hand. "Don't worry."

Don't worry about what is the question. Honestly, Irene knows less than she's letting on. The facts are these; 'Sarah' has been tracking someone, and could get in trouble for it, judging on her split second reaction. But that's all.

So, her plan is to bluff until she knows precisely who and what she's dealing with.

"It's nice to meet you, even if the circumstances leave a little to be desired," Her handshake isn't as firm as it would normally be, but the callouses on Steph's hands are hard to miss, and if Irene is paying attention, she'll notice fading bruises on her knuckles.

At the don't worry, Steph smiles, "So you're not gonna turn me in for stalking?" She's pretty sure that's not what Irene meant, but playing dumb has advantages sometimes.

"A bit of this, and a bit of that I suppose. A bit more boring since I've come here though." Ana says the word 'boring' as if it's the worst of sins, and she was taking the fact that it was as a person insult and intended to make it right.

A girl can't depend on anybody but herself- Irene looks approving. Those words could have come from her own mouth.

"Oh?" Irene replies to her advice. "Thanks for the tip-off." It feels strange, having to worry about budgeting- not much, seeing as her occupation can be practiced just about everywhere and she charges high rates for it, but much more than she's previously been accustomed to.

She throws a smile at the attendant at the till, utterly unrepentant, and moves closer to Cindy, inspecting a sheer black dress as she does so. She murmurs, "Poor girl looks like she might cry if we keep this up," referencing the shopgirl and sounding utterly unfazed- even amused.

"Oh, a publicist," she says, sounding amused, resting her chin on her hand, one elbow on the bar with her wine glass set down. She's tired herself, in a curiously restless way- exhausted, but not sleepy, and repelled by the idea of sitting in silence at home, gloomily perusing the network.

She holds out her free hand for one of the posters. "Convince me," she suggests. Distract me.

Irene raises her eyebrows slightly, smiling in a knowing way she has which manages to combine a smirk and a pout and an I know everything about you and find it amusing attitude.

"Depends what you like," she replies. She says it like an innuendo; she says everything like an innuendo. "I've never been before, but I can pass on a secondhand recommendation. A friend of mine claims they do the best steak in Baedal--" she smiles wider "--but I wouldn't blame you for not trusting her."

Rough hands. Slight bruising. (Irene is always paying attention). But that doesn't get her any answers, not just yet. Now's when she misses Sherlock, really, which gives an inkling of how her mind works; never mind whether she's in love with him or not, at least he's useful...

"Not at all," Irene says, looking highly amused at the notion. "Really, it's...an inventive way of getting around the issue." She sips her whiskey sour. "What on earth gave you the idea to do it?"

What Irene says makes Steph relax, not the reassurance that she won't turn her in, but the fact she mentions Earth. It's not a phrase someone born in Baedal is likely to say, which means that a) Irene is probably not militia and b) she might even be in Steph's cohort. That all gets filed away as Steph outwardly reacts to the question by ducking her head and smiling with a hint of embarrassment.

"Have you heard of the Johnny Gossamer books? They're these silly detective novels, I think I read too many of them when I was a kid." It's a pretty good explanation, Steph thinks. Her persona romanticized the idea of sleuthing around and solving mysteries.

He is pretty decent at keeping his expression schooled, his countenance and bearing professional and polite; but he's also a young man, and the hint of innuendo in her words registers, making him blink a few extra blinks as he looks at her again, making the corners of his mouth twitch ever so slightly. Then he breaks into another smile, this one a touch wistful.

"It feels like it's been a million years since I last had a decent steak," he says. "It can't hurt to try."

And then he extends a hand. "I'm Jim. Jim Kirk. Thank you."

There is something very, very satisfying about this sort of victory- though it does make Irene pine, somewhat, for her old way of doing business. At home, she could stage interviews, quiz people, sort out safewords and limits and kinks and expectations and have everything neatly arranged in her mind before ever making her entrance and starting a scene.

Here, however, there's a degree of staying in character necessary, and Irene feels that to ask questions outright would be clumsy and unprofessional, immature, like a teenager muttering I dunno, what do you like--

"Everything," she says simply, eyes not straying from Odessa's and her voice not missing a beat. "Which you're going to tell me, of course." She smirks at her, brushing a strand of hair from Odessa's face. "I don't think you're really a stranger to this. But the question's not so much what do you like-" she wraps her hand around the leather of her crop, gripping it tight and sliding her hand down it, a gesture that's a promise and a threat "-so much as what can you take?"

Irene's first language is innuendo. She's not flirting, exactly- she does prefer women- rather, she does it to provoke a reaction, because when she's the one acting rather than reacting she's the one in charge.

Which is always nice.

She takes his hand, smile still in place, and gives him a firm handshake. "Irene Adler. No trouble, I like talking to strangers." There's a quirk in her smile. "Mainly because I was told not to as a child."

"Oh?" Irene purrs, swishing the drink in her glass thoughtfully. "I like detective stories too. Never come across any Johnny Gossamer- my favourite was a man called Sherlock Holmes. A real detective. We were friends."

She sips her drink again, glances off into the crowds, scanning for people, cross-referencing, remembering Sherlock now, remembering him telling her to think, charming as ever...she's looking for any of the people she thinks Steph (or Sarah) could have been tailing.

Her eyes snap quickly back to hers. Suddenly, her voice is a little more brisk, though her smile is in place nonetheless. "Anyway, as it so happens, I might be some use to you."

"You know a real detective?" She feels so ridiculous pretending to be impressed by that. She thinks Bruce would laugh if she told him about this. Well, he'd scold her for being sloppy and then he might laugh.

She blinks a little at the briskness, like she's surprised; inwardly she's tensing slightly, "How could you help?" She sounds genuine, keeping a little awe in her voice and adding a bit of confusion. She's wondering if she can get Irene to reveal a little more this way, by getting it to seem like Sarah wants her help.

"Oh, shame," Irene says, voice full of mock-sympathy- not mocking Ana, but rather the rest of the world, inviting Ana in on the joke. "I suppose I can say the same- but I like Baedal. Plenty of opportunities for a girl with a decent head on her shoulders."

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→ sweet dreams are made of this.

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I should have said; do tell me if Irene's working out too much, I'll rewrite.

It's cool so far! But I'll let you know if there's a problem.

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