multiversallogs | → sweet dreams are made of this.

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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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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."

"Ms. Adler. Thank you." Jim doesn't know how not to react, even when he thinks he's doing a pretty good job of not reacting.

He raises his eyebrows, still smiling as he releases her hand. "Ah. Was yours a household that subscribed to that whole 'children should be seen, not heard' thing? My stepdad tried it." His voice drops a little, mock conspiratorially. "It didn't stick."

"You're joking," Irene drawls, a lopsided grin on her face and her voice thick with sarcasm- not intending to mock him, though. "I'd never have noticed. My family told me to be good and stay safe- I think they thought one would lead to the other- but I've never managed either, really."

"Funny. I was never much of one for either of those, myself. Life's more interesting that way."

There still seems to be a bit of a wait for tables. After a quick glance at the seating area past the hostess' station, Jim turns his attention back to Irene. "I'm also not that great at doing things on my own," he says. "Forgive me if this is forward and you're under no obligation to even consider the idea, let alone accept; I'd enjoy some company with dinner, if you're willing."

Irene has been waiting for that. Her smile may well communicate as much.

"Well, now," she murmurs, glancing over, as he did, to the seating area. "That's unorthodox."

But despite that ambiguous response, as a waitress comes forward, all big smiles, asking about seating, Irene instantly replies with, "Table for two, please."

(People are not toys. People are not toys. ...No, she still doesn't believe it.)

That's unorthodox.

His first impulse is to say so am I, but his good grasp of tactics overrides his bravado; he's just taken care to make it clear he wasn't trying to force his company on her, it wouldn't do to push after that. He's the spirit of a mature, honorable officer in the body of an impetuous, still rather young man, and this skirmish goes to the former.

This one.

"Thank you, Irene," he says as the hostess leads them into the dining room, and it's not at all triumphant--it's earnest, honest. He's pleased with the result, but this wasn't a prize to be won, not some conquest.

They reach the table. "Please, may I?" He moves to pull out a chair for her, smiling.

"You've done it now," Irene notes, pouring herself into the offered chair. Again, it's a matter of enjoying someone else doing things for her. (If he hadn't pulled out her chair, however, she would have pulled out his, just to see his reaction).

"Thank you. Are you sure you rebelled against your upbringing that much? Someone taught you to behave."

He smiles at her as he takes his seat, head canting slightly to one side, shoulders raising in a little shrug that says you've caught me.

"Enlistment and a stint at the Academy. They trained me well, I guess. Impressed upon me the need for decent manners lest I cause an interstellar incident. They'd be pleased to know their lessons took."

"Interstellar," Irene repeats, her eyebrows raised up high. Good; she'd made a decent call on deciding he was interesting.

"My my. So when all the other children wanted to be astronauts...you really meant it." Her smile widens. "Of course, I'm basing everything on what I know from my world. Are interstellar incidents common where you're from?"

"Less and less so, but they do still crop up the further out in space we explore." He shrugs. "I guess there's always the possibility, when cultures meet each other for the first time, that there will be misunderstandings and misinterpretations. We try to avoid that, as much as we can."

His smile widens too, and he offers this information not to correct her, or show her up in any way, but more as a means of understanding each other. "It's been a while since there were really astronauts." He's guessing at a time difference between their worlds, based on her frame of reference.

"Where I'm from most people go off-world at some point in their lives. I tend to stay out there for long stretches, since I'm in Starfleet. It's an exploratory and peacekeeping force, with emphasis on scientific investigation and expanding our knowledge of what's out there."

She's happy to be corrected in this case, viewing it as a chance to learn a little more. (And entertain herself). The interest on her face is genuine- well, naturally. If she weren't interested, in this case she probably wouldn't pretend. She knows the value of feigning fascination when it might further her own causes, but right now there really wouldn't be a point.

"I see," she says thoughtfully- and then, because she can't go for too long without pushing and prodding people to see how they react, adds with a kind of sharp smile, "and are you good at your job?"

It's not a terribly normal question, but the smile suggests she knows that. Anyway, she's not a terribly normal person.

"Yes," he says, without missing a beat or even shifting his expression. It's a bit of a boast, sure, but it's also the truth. Modesty's never really been his strong suit--

No, scratch that, modesty is never even a suit that hung in any closet of his in his life.

"I'm captain of the Federation's flagship, the Enterprise," he adds, by way of explanation. He's sure it's enough; look at him. Twenty-five--and it shows, his youth, and yet the Federation's entrusted him with their pride and joy. "I was promoted to command about six months ago."

"Get you," she says, smile widening. The sharp response he gives is promising; people who know what they're good at tend to interest and entertain her more than people who play down their abilities.

She leans back, gives him a considering look, and suggests, "You must miss it." It doesn't sound like she expects to be contradicted- of course it doesn't, it never does.

His reaction is another one of those moments where who he was and who he's becoming meet in the middle; he's professional and polished enough to say, "Thank you," to drop his gaze modestly and accept her compliment with grace. But the color rises a few degrees in his cheeks, and his smile is a hint too bright, a hint too pleased--he's still a young man, still tickled by praise from an attractive woman.

He looks up again at her declaration, meeting her gaze. He reads her certainty that she won't be contradicted as deep insight, as understanding, and it makes his professional self slip just a little in favor of his youth, his heart.

"I do miss it," he confesses. "I'd finally found my place. Where I was meant to be, where I belonged. I thought I'd get more time than I did."

Irene draws a conclusion then, and it is as follows: he's sort of sweet, isn't he?

She likes watching the battle of youth vs something more dignified, doubtless the air of command and early success, though he doesn't sound smug about his career- slightly boastful, yes, but in a way that suggests he's proud of himself and wants other people to feel the same way, rather than an attempt to rub people's noses in his own ability.

What he says hits something of a chord, making her think of the success she'd enjoyed before Sherlock bloody Holmes- but at the same time, when has she ever been able to settle?

If Sherlock Holmes hadn't caused her to abandon ship and jump country and start again elsewhere, something or someone else would have done the same thing very quickly. It's not hard to make Irene run for freedom- which is the worst thing about Baedal. Being trapped. That's what she misses; not a place to belong, but a place to reinvent herself.

"People go home," she points out, her tone surprisingly gentle nonetheless. He's adopted her as a confidante, so she may as well play along. "But I won't patronise you- that's no guarantee." She lifts her eyebrows slightly, and asks, "Are you making do?"

Somewhere in the reasonably light tone of her voice is concern. It's hard to say whether that's genuine or not. On the one hand, Irene's primary interest is herself, and largely she's carrying on this conversation for the sake of idle entertainment. On the other, she has a marvelous ability to connect with just about anyone should she care to make the effort.

Irene is entirely right about Jim.

There's definitely pride there, but it's look what I did, not look who I am; a subtle difference for him to show, let alone for another to pick up on. He's proud to be a captain, to command the Federation's finest ship, because he genuinely understands, respects, and loves what it means. He can carry that kind of authority and responsibility even if he looks like he barely started shaving because despite his youth and the occasional missteps that entails, deep down inside, he's a Starfleet officer, born and then trained.

...And it's true. It's not a word he'd use himself, likely he doesn't even realize he possesses the right qualities, but Jim is also a sweet kid. A good-hearted young man, almost too honest and forthright for his own good, at times.

"People do go home," he agrees, smiling. "They even, unfortunately--and not to put a damper on your suggestion--come back. That happened to someone close to me." There is the barest pause before he adds, "My friend and colleague, who also ended up here. The Chief Medical Officer from my ship and my good friend."

It's funny, sometimes, how the tiniest things give so much away. Most people might not find the order of words, the information offered first, the tiny hesitation before more explanation is added at all significant. But some people are incredibly perceptive, some people just know how to read another person, and Irene is likely sharp enough to catch that, while everything he said is true, genuine, honest, it's also just possible that someone close to me is a very honest wish, too, and my friend, my colleague and so on are justifications for both why he feels that way and, perhaps, also why it's just a wish.

"But even him coming back," Jim carries on, because they're confidants now, he's comfortable with this, "tells me it's possible. That he left at all means we might one day leave for good."

His smile shifts slightly into the sort one wears when one feels like maybe they're talking too much, inadvertently dominating the conversation when they'd like to know more. "And I am doing all right, thank you for asking. I work as a consultant at Hellsing, and I teach self-defense lessons here and there. And I spend a lot of time learning about this city, as much as I can."

Jim settles back in his seat, regarding her across the table. "Now tell me about you, Irene. What do you do here? How long have you been here?" The and are you also all right goes unspoken but is probably plain from the way he studies her face.

And now she can add a few things to her mental file on him.

Firstly; he is a Good Person. Secondly; he's affiliated with Hellsing. Thirdly; he wants to impress her, which, when taken in context with the above facts, could be very useful indeed. Fourthly; his 'friend and colleague'? Really.

She listens intently, because everyone likes to be listened to, and sometimes if you listen hard enough people feel prompted to fill in the gaps because they don't want to show themselves up as lacking. Sometimes they make the mistake of being honest. But she isn't reticent when it comes to information about herself, either- well, she's as human as anyone. Who doesn't like to talk about themselves?

Anyway, people like to feel like she trusts them.

"I..." She trails off in a way that suggests knowing amusement rather than shame or hesitancy, a grin on her face. It's friendly rather than predatory, as if she's decided to consider him an equal and a co-conspirator. "Misbehave. I make my way in the world, no matter where or what that world might be."

This is a script, a tag line, or a mantra; I misbehave. I make my way in the world. She almost sounds like she's advertising herself. How many times has she used that line, she wonders? She says it to all the men who think they want to know about her, because in her experience they don't ever really want the truth. They just want to feel let in on the secret. Best to give them a bit of catchy mystery and remain an attractive enigma.

After all, the real Irene Adler- if such a woman exists beneath all the disguises and self-portraits- is frightening.

"Luckily for me, my particular skills are transferable. Do you know the Vault?" She almost wants to ask if he's old enough, but that's a little too mean. Anyway, he's clearly intelligent beyond his years, even if the urge to treat him like a puppy is rising in her- best not to underestimate anyone, not after the Sherlock debacle.

His eyebrows raise in anticipation at that pause; he knows there must be something unexpected and/or impressive about to follow, he expects no less by this point. And she delivers. He grins, clearly pleased, because how could he not approve of someone who makes their way in the world by misbehaving? He tried that once, with far less class and success.

"I do know the Vault," he says, and the smile doesn't fade, nor does anything about his attitude or his gaze on her shift. He's not scandalized, not titillated, not passing any judgment at all. He works for Hellsing, she works at the Vault, each of them in their own way meeting some need in their community.

"A good friend of mine also works there," he goes on. There's a slight tug at the corners of his mouth, a brief flutter of his gaze. This friend is someone he's clearly fond of, someone he's attracted to, but it's obvious it doesn't run as deep or feel as desperate and hopeless as that friend and colleague from before. "Do you know Hasi? I met her not long after I arrived in the city."

"So did I," Irene says, answering his question. He might not be analysing his movements quite so much as she's analysing his, but her response to Hasibe's name being up is really rather similar.

Hasi being Hasi and so on.

"I think she lies in wait to make new friends." It's fond, not cruel. "She's a magnificent dancer- she rather recruited me, actually- well, at the very least she pointed me in the right direction. I'd have probably come across the place sooner or later regardless, admittedly. I do tend to." She raises her eyebrows at him. The guesture's mock-embarrassed, as if to say, well, whoops, and the smile she's still wearing declares it to be completely sarcastic- but he's invited in on the sarcasm, so that's alright.

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→ sweet dreams are made of this.

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