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@moriartymused
James allowed himself to smile in a way that came more naturally. It failed to reach the eyes, and it certainly did not exude warmth - not like the practiced, stolen smile he used when he wanted to charm someone. It was a knowing expression instead, one that said I know the answer, I know, and you don't, so there...
"Cosmic good luck... I'll have to use that one." James murmured, allowing the glint of amusement to return. He had a read on Victor. It was all in that little sigh, the knowing smile - as if he was doing something he ought not. It was in the way his gaze had lingered on the card, and the fleeting expression that hinted at smugness. Information - that was what Victor wanted, and James was happy to indulge, though the calibre of information he intended to provide would be as useful as a screen door on a submarine.
Just how stupid do I look?
Straightening up, James took a half step back, giving the impression of easing away. "Funny, isn't it? Luck. It has a way of leading you to precisely what you were looking for." Through the shelves, he had spotted his undergrad student - she won merit for excellent dramatic timing. James allowed his attention to wane, gaze drifting as he backed out of the aisle with a two fingered salute of farewell. "Let's say, seven - I'll be in the lab."
Victor could see the difference in that smile; less exuberant, and perhaps, he thought, more genuine for it. It meant something rather more than the bright, charming one, Victor thought, conveyed something Victor thought bordered on prideful. Victor, in return, is bright, glad at the specifics of the invitation, which he acknowledges with a nod.
"I'll find you," he promised, and hefted his book higher on his hip as he watched James retreat. He ought to be playing this one cool, he thought, but... well, it was realistic for Victor himself to be a little overenthusiastic when faced with a charming boy like James. It wasn't much of a stretch.
When Victor arrived at the lab some hours later, it was sans unwieldy objects, but with a coat slung across his shoulders in deference to the cold, and a slight weariness to him that hadn't been there before. His afternoon had been... not exactly eventful, but taxing in some way or other. Not something he was intending to discuss, but visible enough to the careful observer. He was also carrying two paper cups of coffee, still just about hot enough to be steaming, as a gesture of... something.
Victor hovered in the doorway for a moment with the sudden realisation that he probably wasn't supposed to bring food or drinks in here in the first place, but it was late, and he wasn't certain that James would care. Nonetheless he paused, hesitated, said, "I realise this may have been a bad idea."
Still have some replies to put out but I have Covid and can’t think straight! Coming soon.
Elio Perlman
Plotted starter for @moriartymused
Out of all the targets he had been asked to survey, a student studying physics at university was one of the last people he would have thought would be on his list, especially considering there hadn't been anything already discovered about the young man. At first, he had thought the assignment was ridiculous and asked for MI6 to stop wasting his time and allow him to survey a ‘real’ threat, not someone who spent their days studying. Yet with time, he could see why they wanted surveillance on such an individual, it was clear he was more than just smart, he was a genius and with rumours about him being involved in some illicit schemes, it was something the secret service did not want to risk developing into something bigger, yet there hadn't been any solid clean evidence of this James being involved in such things, it made Ethan’s head spin.
Pretending to be interested in physics or even being in the same room for more than an hour a day would not work, Ethan found science interesting but he knew how obvious his presence would be and besides, the paperwork was enough to deter anyone from going undercover for a lifetime. Especially his, he would have an extra two files to complete, telling him how they would cut him lose and how he would be imprisoned for the rest of his existence, he understood how careful they had to be due to his past, but he highly doubted he was going to become a killing machine again by survey and possibly talking to a physicist, even if he turned out not to be what he seemed. It left him with few options, instead, he took a job in garden maintenance as well as general maintenance of the building, the building was good but he had good skills in these areas from being self-sufficient for years. Having just finished fixing a light switch he sighed as he moved to the next one, it was a start at least.
James did not believe in coincidences. He had noticed the maintenance man who had an uncanny ability to appear in the periphery of his life, fixing switches and tending to the convenient quirks of every building James so happened to occupy.
They could expect to cross paths once, certainly. Twice, just as likely. But seven times in the space of a week, on a sizeable campus with more corridors than Hampton Court, and James' skepticism kicked into overdrive. He had learned long ago that patterns were never happenstance; they were threads just begging to be pulled.
Outside the library, James had been quietly observing Ethan at work. He had gone unnoticed in the quiet hum of lunchtime activity, left to observe the solitary figure until he nudged his tools along the floor, all set to start on the next light switch. It was at that moment that they seemed to lock eyes, and James smiled as if sheepish to have been caught staring.
With an air of nonchalance, he strolled forward, taking the opportune moment for a tête-à-tête."I've always wanted to meet the man behind the curtain - you know, the guy with the tools. Making all the problems disappear. You never usually notice stuff like that, do you?"
James came to a stop a foot away, cocking his head to one side as he feigned an interest in the tools in his hands. "Do they train you to be stealthy, or do you think the overalls are designed to be so unremarkable they render you invisible?"
A secret language. Now, there's something that the doctor is quite familiar with. Ciphers. Codes. Vocal puzzles spoken in hushed tones betwixt individuals wishing to keep their collaborations a secret from everyone else around them. It brings a smile to his face. Not the kind of lip splitting grin that would tip his hand, but a subtle thing. Small, knowing, charming in its own way.
For a moment, Isaac considers actually speaking another language. Something obscure, maybe ancient and hidden away from the modern world. It would stroke the absolute Hell out of his ego to best someone he can clearly tell is an intellectual peer, but, again, that would reveal entirely too much about himself. Allowing himself to be so visibly stumped about the subject at hand would, as well.
Hm. What to do, what to do..
In the end, Isaac finds himself doing what he does best. Improvising, bullshitting, doing his very best to be a pain in the ass.
"All this talk of secret languages, why- Mister Moriarty, if I didn't know better I'd say you were flirting with me!"
He's teasing, of course, and the hearty chuckle that follows as he shakes the other's hand confirms it.
"Doctor Doyle, at your service."
"Am I so transparent?" James asked, matching his teasing tone. Isaac had a knack for deflection, a quality James found simultaneously infuriating and intriguing. What a worthy adversary.
There was a certain tension, an electricity in the air, an unspoken acknowledgement that boundaries were to be tested. Faux admiration of the art around them allowed James to steer the conversation ever so subtly towards the clandestine world he suspected Isaac truly inhabited.
"It's funny how collaborations might extend beyond the canvas." James murmured, gaze sliding back to the artwork. "Have you ever found yourself part of such a collaboration, Doctor Doyle? An endeavour where skill and creativity intertwine for a common purpose?"
James paused a beat. God, he was that transparent. To hell with it, then.
He turned, and allowed his voice to dip an octave, low enough that a passer by would have to strain to hear him. "I hear there is a profit to made here. What's more, I hear that I ought to enquire with you should I be interested in turning such a profit, Doctor. What is it that you are a doctor of, in any case?"
Cross watched him only in glances and the background. They always kept him within view, not turning so far as to put him in their blind spot unless they couldn't avoid it, and they didn't turn their back for no reason. These weren't even things they thought about; it was years upon years of living in a very strict pattern that did it.
The same could be said for their routine: it was specific, extremely familiar, and Cross didn't at all care that she was doing it in someone else's space. It wasn't something negotiable. A lot of her life fell under the same proviso. Cross barely paused after the stretching, but moved on to her first set of push-ups. They answered James while they did, hardly even breathless. "I get told that a lot."
She didn't really get why. People had tried to explain. They had all been unsuccessful.
The tin got a glance from Cross as she switched position to alternate sit-ups, and an unceremonious, "No," to go with it. There was no judgement in it, only an answer to the silent question. They sat, crossed their arms, and paused for a second to give him an answer. "I have to take a call at eight." That one was even less negotiable; not self-imposed but a rigid requirement of her... well, whatever Gabriel was to her these days, which seemed to get increasingly more complicated.
They lay back, gaze briefly taking in his ceiling. "After that I'll know if I'm free," she catches his expression on the next up, one which makes her head throb in a way she very deliberately ignores, "To do something fun."
James raised an eyebrow at the firm 'no'. He was entertained by the predicability of her routine. It was a fascinating dance, a performance of habits that seemed ingrained into muscle memory. Cross was an intriguing subject.
"Now, I'm curious." James murmured, tossing the tin unceremoniously onto his desk. "Who has the audacity to call at such an ungodly hour? Surely not every morning?"
It must be an element of the routine; Cross was expecting the call and they certainly hadn't been in a fit state to schedule it last night. They spoke in absolutes, as if it were to be expected that a call would come, and of course, that would determine their day. As if James was foolish for thinking otherwise - after all, how else would anyone make a decision?
"You know," James leaned forward, a mischievous glint in his eye. "When I was a kid, I had this neighbour. She was the religious type, she thought God was the answer to everything. She used to say it - he always protects me. Always. As if she was so special he had nothing else to do but watch over her, right? Except, one week, she came knocking on our door. It had been raining all weekend, and the riverbank had just burst - her son hadn't come home, and he wasn't late, he was always on time. But she didn't want to use our phone. No, she wanted us to pray with her, because it worked. Always. Didn't it? Reliable thing, her God. Anyway - they found him a mile down the river. Car upturned. Dead."
James had always relished in that story. He shifted forwards in his seat, elbows coming to rest on his knees as he watched her work. The art of provocation was exhilarating and he was eager to see results.
"What if no one calls, Cross?" The question hung in the air, a subtle challenge.
continued from for @moriartymused
It wasn't true to say Cee hated nights like this. In fact, if she was in the mood, she very much enjoyed them. The ritual of getting dressed up, the opportunity to perform for strangers and practise small talk. If she was lucky, one of the wives would get drunk and tell her secrets about her terrible sex life. Or she would meet a single man who was vapid and stupid enough to think he had a chance. If she only knew one or two people at the party, which was becoming less often as she got older (London society; the set is getting smaller) she could come up with terrific backstories for lives she didn't live. A husband working in Botswana, while she, a corporate lawyer, was thinking of giving it all up in search of country air and a house full of children. It was so far from her reality she wondered how her face fitted that life, but it was all swallowed up by a lovely couple who felt the exact same way about London traffic. Often she wonders if they did in fact make their escape to the country and if they look for her at village fetes.
She, on the other hand, escapes only for cigarettes. What was very cool in 98' was now making her an outcast among her own peers. Only last week, while fingerpainting with a goddaughter, her friend of fifteen years chastised her for keeping up the dirty habit. This was strong criticism coming from the girl who used to snort coke off of club toilets.
"Sorry," Cee says, not sounding very sorry at all. "But I doubt the 'burbs of Islington have much on the skyscrapers in the City Of--" she vaguely gestured in the wrong direction, pulling her wrap more tightly around her. She'll very soon need to make the switch between autumn and winter wardrobe. Gone were the days you could lump those two styles together. A September jacket was a whole different ballgame from a December coat. She lights up and immediately relaxes. Fuck these damn things. "Did you know that Saint Petersburg is eight-point-one times brighter compared to the global urban average? And Mecca, in Saudi Arabia, is seven-point-four. Meca?! Weird."
James cared little for sincerity in an apology providing he got what he wanted - and the door did shut. No demerit points for Cee thus far. As the artificial glow diminished, his eyes adjusted, allowing James to return to his solitary stargazing.
It had always brought him a shiver of satisfaction to hear the phrase did you know... in any given sentence. Wasn't it an invitation to show off? To prove that he very much did know, and then some? To verbally spar until his partner simply didn't know anymore, and walked away a little perturbed?
His gaze shifted to Cee, studying her as one might appraise a particularly expensive purchase, scanning for scuffs. James was willing to bet that she was an old hand on the party scene, valuable in the sense that she might know things, know people.
Charm it was, then.
"Mm... the arrogance of the urban planner is universal. From Islington to Mecca, we've all been robbed." James remarked with a wry smile, working his very hardest to stifle any indication he was harbouring a superiority complex. He shifted his weight, and angled himself to lean against the railings, half facing Cee. "Our own galaxy is now hidden from a third of humanity. Ninety-nine percent of those in the US and Europe. Not one of them knows what they're missing. Your cigarette breaks would be awfully scenic if not for the urban sprawl."
"That's what I hoped." Poetic. Victor always hoped for poetry in the world. It was something about spending a lifetime trying to make poetry out of something horrible; he learned to look for the shape of it, as if that would create sense out of chaos. He learned that the worst things could be spun into something worthwhile, if you knew the trick of it.
It was something like that, anyway.
At this distance, Victor could see James' eyes in exquisite detail. He could see, when his gaze flicked downward, the way his mouth creased as he spoke. Much as Victor prided himself on being a professional he was, at the end of the day, only a man. It took a great effort to remind himself that James was someone he needed to be on his guard around.
"Well," Victor said, words accompanied by a sighing little out-breath, "I would say that if anyone could decipher that language, you stand a good chance. And," here, the smile returned, that teasing insinuation accompanying it, "If you do, I'll lend a hand. Help you sort out the idioms."
Victor took the card with the hand that was still freer than the other, slipped it between pages like a bookmark after a cursory glance. Convenient. Tempting. "I'll see how the schedule looks," he said, in the full intention of making time even if there wasn't any, "But I'm sure it'll turn out in your favour. There's probably some kind of cosmic good luck on your side."
Or, more accurately, Victor's orders combined with a soft heart, which seemed to produce the same effect.
James allowed himself to smile in a way that came more naturally. It failed to reach the eyes, and it certainly did not exude warmth - not like the practiced, stolen smile he used when he wanted to charm someone. It was a knowing expression instead, one that said I know the answer, I know, and you don't, so there...
"Cosmic good luck... I'll have to use that one." James murmured, allowing the glint of amusement to return. He had a read on Victor. It was all in that little sigh, the knowing smile - as if he was doing something he ought not. It was in the way his gaze had lingered on the card, and the fleeting expression that hinted at smugness. Information - that was what Victor wanted, and James was happy to indulge, though the calibre of information he intended to provide would be as useful as a screen door on a submarine.
Just how stupid do I look?
Straightening up, James took a half step back, giving the impression of easing away. "Funny, isn't it? Luck. It has a way of leading you to precisely what you were looking for." Through the shelves, he had spotted his undergrad student - she won merit for excellent dramatic timing. James allowed his attention to wane, gaze drifting as he backed out of the aisle with a two fingered salute of farewell. "Let's say, seven - I'll be in the lab."
Thoughts on litphoria?
I have no idea what that is sorry!
timothée chalamet as KYLE SCHEIBLE in lady bird (2018)
Cross considered it. Organised, put together, confident. They could be all of those things, they thought, but it depended on the context; some things they were far more confident in than others. Social, casual situations weren't something they were particularly confident in, so she decided that his assessment made sense. "Fair enough."
He indicated the direction and she nodded, then headed to the other room, steps near-silent as always. It wasn't too much of a struggle to find a glass, fill it from the tap, and drain it. They filled it again before coming back, bringing it with them.
"I was nearby." They shrugged, glanced around for somewhere to set the glass of water down. "I didn't want to walk very far, and I didn't want to take public transport." Not that they couldn't have; even late at night, it wasn't something that held any fear from Cross. Of course, with them, that didn't necessarily mean a lot. "You have a sofa. And I didn't think you'd tell me to go away." It was a simple equation, in her head. Of course, it helped that she didn't think of James as any kind of threat; she was certain that even drunk, even waking from sleep, she could take him.
"I wouldn't have brought a girl here," she added after a second. They gave him a brief glance before they started, in a methodical, well-practised sort of way, to stretch. It was practically a lesson in anatomy; muscle bunched beneath skin, defined, relaxing again as she stretched each part in turn. They were flexible, too, past most people's limits. "That would be weird."
"It would be weird, yes." James agreed quietly.
Whether James liked it or not, he was observant by nature. He knew things; those more intellectually challenged often mistook him for an empath. But an empath would modify their approach to someone with unusual mannerisms out of concern for their feelings. James modified his approach out of convenience; better results came when he modified his approach to Cross and he selfishly wanted to know things. It mattered far less to him how Cross felt.
There was something odd about this practiced morning routine. Cross woke without an alarm. Wasted little time nursing their hangover, seemed hellbent on stretching. What next? And... what if James were to interrupt? Would she cope with a disturbance to the routine? Would it upset them? Invoke a rage?
"You know," James started conversationally, tucking a hand into his pocket to rummage for his coke tin. "lots of things you do are pretty weird." He was silent as he scooped a minuscule amount of powder into the crevice between bones on the back of his hand, leaning to sharply inhale - his own practiced routine. If Cross could subvert the norm, James felt no desire to keep up appearances. It was over in a matter of seconds and he settled, head tilted back until the initial rush faded into a warm and pleasant glow.
James let his gaze drop, finding Cross, still engrossed in her routine. He smiled, offering out the tin. "The way I see it, your day is a write off. Let's do something fun instead."
Victor's enthusiasm for his subject was entirely genuine; it was one of the reasons he had been suitable for this posting in the first place. He really could talk for hours on the virtues of certain translators and their methods, on the difficulties of certain languages versus others, on the shift in language between now and some hundred years ago. And the thing was, at the heart of it, it was always about people. There, he supposed, lay the overlap.
His eyes met James' in that conspiratorial moment, briefly serious before creasing back into light amusement, warmth, perhaps a little of the pleasure that came from approval. He liked to be interesting. Who didn't?
"I do enjoy the challenge," Victor admitted. "Though, of course, I wouldn't be able to promise anything. Physics isn't a subject I have a very deep understanding of, I'm afraid." He wasn't terrible. He had been decent across the board in school, despite all the weight that his home life had put on him at the time, and could wrap his head around most things if given time and patient explanation, but it didn't come naturally. Not in the same way words always had.
"I do adore the concept, though. Understanding the universe, down to the very ways it fits together? Nothing could be more poetic." His smile widened a touch, almost teasing. "Is that ironic or fitting, do you think?"
James arched a brow, a half-smile playing about his lips as he considered Victor's words. There was a certain charm in the way Victor spoke about his craft, a genuine passion that left James recalculating his motive. "Poetic, indeed." he mused, a glint of something unreadable in his eye.
Threat? Unlikely - yet to be determined. Object of temporary intrigue? Perhaps.
Leaning in a fraction closer, arguably too close for an amicable and above board chat between colleagues, James continued in a conspiratorial tone. "While physics may seem like an entirely different language, there's a certain rhythm to the cosmos that mirrors the cadence of a well-crafted sentence. My job is to decipher the language of the universe, and if I fail to do so in my lifetime then - "
Enough. There was little point in admitting that he often thought he could hear the universe pulsing in his ears. He knew, of course, that sound could not travel through the vacuum that was space, but James had long been tormented by a distant sound he had yet to place. His mind rarely stilled, plagued by the sound - sometimes a quiet pulse, sometimes a roar, sometimes a relentless high pitched whine. Fucking deranged was how his father had described it. James knew he ought to keep mentions of those sounds to himself.
He smiled wryly, sliding a hand into his jacket pocket to retrieve his card. It was simple print, name, title, contact. James offered it out between thumb and forefinger. "I've found that a fresh perspective is often useful. You'll be compensated for your time."
Beneath an placid exterior, a feeling of near overwhelming excitement dwells within Isaac. It's cliche to describe it as electric, but it's too apt of a descriptor to ignore. He can feel it coursing through his limbs, jabbing at his heart. God, he'd love to yell. Not a shrill screech of anger, but a joyous bellow to tell the world that he's going to have a fucking field day ruining this place.
But, as previously stated, the doctor remains calm. He's done this enough times to know how to bottle up that energy, save it for when he really needs it. Breathe in. Breathe out. Say 'hello'. and 'how do you do?' Make small talk. Pretend to be any other old sod, just here to look at the pretty pictures and smile.
It's easy, so long as it's surface level. When it gets bit deeper, well.
Fuck. That's when Isaac falters. 'line and form, attention to detail'
You see, truth be told, Isaac Doyle does not know a goddamn thing about art. Nothing that really matters, anyway. Despite living and breathing for the subject, he's fucking clueless when it comes to any sort of proper analysis. Things like color theory and composition are so far beyond him it's frustrating.
And if he weren't so goddamn good at what he does, Isaac may have shown his cluelessness on his face. But he is that goddamn good, and he knows it.
So, with smile that borders on smug crossing his face, Isaac turns to the other man and nods his head.
"It's marvelous, isn't it? His contributions, anyway. If you pay attention you can quite easily tell where work was delegated to Botticelli's assistants. Common practice at the time, you know."
Thank you, tour guide.
Still feigning a profound interest in the masterpiece, James nodded his agreement. "Absolutely," he agreed, tone carrying the weight of practiced appreciation. "Fascinating how subtle shifts in the composition reveal the work of an assistant, although I imagine it would take a well trained eye to discern the exact moment a brush passed hands."
James allowed himself one more moment of reverent inspection before his gaze slipped sideways, studying the figure beside him instead. Isaac seemed composed, the perfect facade of an art connoisseur firmly intact. James admired his ability to play into the charade; pretence was his speciality and for once in his life he felt as if he was sparring with an equal. There was no way of knowing what was going on behind the eyes; could Isaac sense the ulterior motive? The thrill of an impending confrontation electrified James, and he found himself leaning in, determined to maintain the upper hand.
"I've always found the dynamics of artistic collaboration to be intriguing. It's like a secret language embedded in the canvas." James murmured, searching Isaac's expression for any flicker of annoyance, any hint that he was growing tired of this silent dance.
Who could out-bullshit who?
James extended a hand. "James Moriarty. And you are?"
"Another lover hits the universe. The circle is broken. But with death comes rebirth. And like all lovers and sad people, I am a poet."
- Allen Ginsberg
PSA for former Omegle roleplayers
Just off work and I'm beat so I won't be working on tumblr replies tonight but I did just want to post the good news for former Omegle roleplayers - rolechat.org is very active for Sherlock roleplayers and according to my partners many people have migrated over. That roulette style roleplay seems to live on!
Victor does have to shift the weight of the book to his hip, but he manages that with significantly more grace than the last time. He shakes the offered hand, firm, but not like he's trying to prove anything.
"I find it's the distraction more than anything. Too many interesting things in this place." He smiles a little, trying to remember, somewhere beneath it, if this is something he has any point of reference for. Something about a Nobel prize, wasn't there? Electronics? "Now, I'm sure there's an excellent version of those. I find that scientific subjects tend to be translated with painstaking accuracy, though not often with particular elegance."
Victor is one for feeling, impression, metaphor. He enjoys trying to translate not just the words but some of the context, finding the words that evoke the same feeling as the original text. He doesn't like literature to lose anything in translation.
"But you're a real intellectual. Theoretical physics is about as intimidating as it gets, I think." It's a... very particular field, and very particular people are often attracted to such things. Especially to get to the level of a Doctorate. "Victor. I'm doing some translation for the Literature department. Nothing so grand."
"Easy to lose oneself when all the world's knowledge is contained in one room, yes." James agreed quietly, though he had the distinct feeling that his undergrad had slipped off for a cigarette. A far less noble pursuit.
There was a certain knack to charming James, and quite by chance, Victor had stumbled upon it. It was embarrassingly simple, really - a shared intellect, and a touch of admiration for his field would do it. And quietly, James found himself agreeing; translators were often painstakingly accurate. While most people marvelled at precision, they failed to grasp the nuances lost in translation, the individual voice, the elegance of it all - James had grimaced his way through more than his fair share of papers that were missing a soul. What an astute observation on Victor's part.
Wasn't he something? Something to keep a very close eye on.
"Intimidating, perhaps." James agreed carefully, shifting his weight on one foot to bring himself a little closer, lowering his voice as if letting Victor in on a secret. "But the beauty lies in the challenge, doesn't it? What better challenge than coming to understand the universe itself? I wouldn't sell yourself short, Victor. If you ever find yourself tired of literature, I would be interested to see your take on some of our journals."
