[ she wishes he would leave the room. his sleeping quarters are too far away for her to steal into unawares. but what man in his right mind would leave a woman like her alone in his flat? of course he wouldn't. he might even suspect her of a desire for theft.
it isn't as though he's made it hard to steal from him... ]
[Honestly, what could she steal that he’d miss or could not eventually replace with ambivalence? His violin, maybe — but that would require her to sneak out into public, something she’s afraid of doing. No, he doesn’t think her a thief.]
Herlock Sholmes, at your service.
[No proud attachment of profession to that name, though.]
[ only his name alone. sets her thumb between her front teeth and bites down lightly, that little divot in the nail which never heals from this habit. ]
[Hm. It feels, somehow, like another dangling piece of a connection that he merely needs to find the other end of, but for now, he fusses with getting the tea ready. It's more trouble than it needs to be, especially with how efficient she'll remember Iris being, but eventually... with some clinking and seeking and making sure certain cups are clean enough, the scent of tea seeping begins to overtake the tobacco scent of the room.]
I assure you that my age has no relation to my ability to help you find where you need to go. However, that does rely upon some amount of trust on your part.
[ every clink and rattle of china feels like a needle in her back.
beginning to think... that this was terribly unwise of her. to come here, with him, and expose herself to the lightning mind that lives beneath. of course he would not leave things be without unraveling them. it would have been easier to find an icy river and jump in. but Sprezzatura Vaux would never do such a thing, only think about it when the anger and fear smothers in.
she opens her eyes again and turns to watch him work. his lithe frame, now that he's shed of his coat, is particularly easy to watch, even now. ]
Nothing I say will mean anything to you. I sound like raving woman.
[The tea steeps and Sholmes wastes no time in seeking out his pipe in the meanwhile. It's resting atop the fireplace, easily picked up and put between his lips as he finds a match next.]
Ms Sapione, should I present the current situation to you once again? You are a blue-skinned, horned, tailed woman with a Russian accent seated in my flat as a guest. Someone who I assume has some measure of belonging in this world, dare I say this city, but is for some reason hesitant to provide more detail. At this rate, I am eager to hear more from you, whether or not it sounds delusional.
What might you plan on doing otherwise? Sit here and hope a solution falls into your lap?
[ oh, yes, he can list the facts off very well, knowing that should all else be shorn away, what remains before him—no matter how otherworldly—must be the truth. he can't argue her away, because she is here. ]
[And it’s a look that cuts right through him in the best way possible — warm, belonging, loved. There’s a smile on his face as he meets her gaze, but one glinting in his eyes, too. And I love you dearly.
But what is unspoken can be made clarion clear through music itself. He intends to play exquisitely for two of the most important people in his life, and so, putting bow to string, a melody (skip to simple chanson, I can’t timestamp in mobile cry) is gladly woven into being.
Iris is happy to hear it, but as instructed, she waits for Sprezzatura’s lead.]
[Maybe he shouldn’t loom. Will that ease her nerves a little?
So, he… plunks down on the chaise next to her.]
So, you may hail from Toril, but you have enough familiarity with London itself to know that you cannot even be glimpsed at, looking as you do, for fear of facing immediate bodily harm. You’ve stayed some measure of time here before, somewhere, surely — I just cannot understand why you choose not to tell me. Are you trying to protect something?
[ aaaa. the scent of him so close again... it nearly brings frustrated tears to her eyes.
he won't give up. he's a dog with a bone—or a hound with a throat. her only recourse as the abysmal liar she is is to lie by technicality. something with more truth than falsity. ]
You can list all you like. I am trying to protect you.
[This is the most interesting thing that’s happened to him in ages! Why would he give up? And there’s something missing in this tale, something he feels is critical, and it bothers him to no end.
Leans forward, brow furrowed and pipe eking smoke.]
Protect me? From what, the truth? There is nothing more compelling to me than that, Ms Sapione. I can take care of myself, as I have been.
[so says the young man living in disordered chaos]
[ it would be so narratively satisfying for her to finally, finally admit that living like this is not emblematic of a healthy mind. but the reality is, she's not going to. she doesn't self-reflect like that. to her, he has taken care of himself as well as she has taken care of herself. this is not the part of his argument she means to refute.
for an instant. her eyes flit down to the pipe in his mouth. ]
And what if I do not wish to speak of it? What if truth pains me?
[Oh, there’s nothing wrong with living like this. Best for the mind to redirect to more important things than spatial organization. Probably!!
He catches the glance at his pipe. As always, such looks give little secrets away, but this one does baffle him. Is it familiar to her? Is… more of this familiar to her than she’s letting on?
He offers the pipe to her.]
And do you believe that just because the truth is painful that it must never be brought to light?
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