multiversallogs | → 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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"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.

"Copywriter," he corrects, dryly authoritative, as if describing a self-inflicted injury. "A copywriter with very sore feet."

He looks first to the outstretched hand, then at her. Differently than before, intently. He passes a second in indecision, whiskey placid in his glass, an idea trembling in his head.

Almost as if to take her hand he reaches over. His fingers wrap into a fist; he knocks his knuckles three times against the countertop. Measured, sharp. "Know what that is?"

Edited 2012-02-16 06:17 (UTC)

She curls her fingers, lowering her hand slightly and straightening up, watching him knock on the bar with a thoughtful, serious expression.

"Not yet," she says simply, for once prepared to sit back and let someone else drive the conversation, if only out of curiosity as to where it's going.

Don smiles. Genuine or not: it doesn't matter. It's a way of marking time.

"That sound," he says, shaping his words delicately as you might blow smoke rings, "is the one thing everyone in this city fears." His posture shifts, shoulders turning toward her, hand falling away from his glass. He leans forward, his gaze probing and at the same time receptive, inviting.

"You have it—somewhere in the back of your mind, the moment where it's them on one side of the door and you on the other." He looks at her—transparently appraising, and yet there's something disarming in that transparency—then sits back, shrugs. Smiles again, an almost helpless quirk of the lips. "What if I told you you didn't have to worry about the other side of the door?"

She folds one arm across her body and brings her other hand to her mouth, tapping a knuckle against her lower lip. She doesn't blink, which, combined with the pose (and it is a pose, calculated and careful) makes her seem slightly unreal, uncanny- though it's hard to quantify why.

She's thinking.

It's true. And it's been that way for a long, long time.

And this man is a very, very clever actor. She likes him.

"I'd want to believe you," she offers, the traces of a smile hanging around her mouth. "And I wouldn't."

As she adopts her pose he looks on, surveying the landscape for the impact of his words. The puff of dust sent up where something's hit.

He does blink. After she stares him in the eye and says no.

"Really," he breathes. A nudge, a veiled challenge. His eyebrows arch; his smile's held in check.

Really. She likes getting that sort of response- surprise, astonishment, you can't be serious, as if she's not quite of this earth.

(Modesty is, as ever, not her strong point).

"Really," she says, voice deadly serious though her eyebrows imply that she's playing a game. "I'm a cynic." A wry glance at her wine. "Especially when I'm drunk." She's not- just hazy enough and tired enough to wax lyrical, but she barely needs an excuse. "But you've said it yourself. It's what everyone in this city fears. You can't sell an antidote to that. And if you did, you wouldn't need a pitch- or you wouldn't need to be quite so good at it." She gives him a smile. "Not that you overacted. It was all very subtle and tempting and clever. I almost said yes, which is why I decided to say no. No one who performs like that has a product that requires that level of performance."

Something had definitely hit, in other words- but she's suspicious even of her own thought processes, watching how she thinks as closely as she watches other people.

He'd like to match her stare for stare, hold her gaze all the way through, but it's impossible: he bows his head a moment to hide a spreading smile. "Too good to be true," he says. Crisply, in command of himself. His fingers close around the rim of his glass, sweep it to his lips. His smile takes on a knowing edge; something faintly mocking gleams in his eye. "This is the wondrous city of Baedal. There's no such thing."

He toys with his drink--he's about due for another--before addressing her again, tone softer. "I won't ask you to trust me," he says, "but can't you trust what you want?"

Her eyes flicker briefly to the other patrons of the bar, but she judges them incapable of hearing their conversation- and the barman's trustworthy. Everyone knows his poor sister was caught in the crossfire of a Militia raid and hasn't been seen since. He's got a reasonably anti-authoritarian streak.

Business taken care of- the business of staying free and intact- she moves onto pleasure, and leans in, her voice low but animated; "Oh, darling, we're professionals. Let's not pretend what people want is something incorruptible. What people want is very easy to use against them." Again- is she serious or not? It's very hard to tell. She leans back out again somewhat, smiling wickedly. "Anyway. I know what I want. Generally, I get it for myself."

He gives a stifled laugh, scarcely audible. Looks at her like she won't quite resolve, like he's looking at a blur or a shadow. "This time, allow me." He drains the last watery mouthful from his glass, lifts a finger to point at her wine. "Ready for another?"

(Don't think that momentary flicker escaped his notice.)

And that was smooth. Not for the first time in this conversation, she rather wants to applaud.

"Close enough," she says, finishing her wine. It tends to make her dreamy and philosophical, she has to admit, but that's no bad thing. "I suppose I'll let you treat me."

Don's eyebrows arch as if dancing clear of the amusement that washes over his face. He inclines his head, wryly deferential, and snags the bartender with a glance.

“I'm Don,” he says, the man gone to refresh their drinks. Though only a hint of expectation slips into his voice his eyes don't leave her.

"It's a pleasure," she says, meaning it for once, which she often doesn't. "I'm Irene."

She crosses her legs and casts him a smile- almost as if they're just getting down to business. "Well, now," she murmurs, "are you going to give up? I told you to convince me."

After all, he's good at his job, and she's enjoying being the one people are trying to sell to for once. Normally, she's playing his role- if, perhaps, in a more subtle way.

→ sweet dreams are made of this.

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