Warren Eliot (deductively) wrote in bellumlogs, @ 2010-05-07 01:16:00 |
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Entry tags: | irene adler, sherlock holmes |
Who: Eliot and Iris
What: Eliot gets ready for a blind date, Iris pops in to say hi.
Where: 706
When: Early evening on Wednesday, May 5.
Warnings: Eliot == R for language. XXX for shirtless wet men (I wish).
NOTE: 10 points to whoever spots the line from Chuck!
Eliot shut the laptop lid and pushed himself away from the table. He didn't go very far, as the wheels ran into a stack of books before it had even moved two feet. Everything was useless. The internet was useless. It could help him track down clients, turn up background information on suspects, and even follow them remotely, but it had nothing, absolutely nothing to help him get ready for the date he was supposed to go on that night.
The ridiculous date he was supposed to go on. How the hell had he been talked into this anyway? One second, his mother had been talking about how glad she was that he was taking some time to himself, and the next she had somehow roped him into going out with one of the instructor's who worked under her at the drama program. He should have known better than to tune her out for that long. This was exactly how he had accidentally gotten signed up to sell tickets at her winter showcase.
There was no use trying to talk himself out of it, not this time. Work was no longer an excuse, and it wasn't as though he could pretend he had prior social engagements. Plus if he tried, his mother would just get sad and pout at him. And no matter how old Warren Eliot got, he would never develop defenses against that.
So there he was, on a Tuesday night, preparing for his first real date in four years. Eliot had been out with women more recently, but that had always been under cover, for a job. This time was the real deal. And as luck would have it, he had nothing to wear.
Iris, as always, had been working. She worked most of her waking hours, and when she was not working and sleeping, she found very little to occupy her. Micah's questions about Eliot tended to flow along the same vein, and it brought the problem (and the man) to her mind more often. She would very much have preferred to keep her head down, unnoticed, for however long it was necessary, but then he had to show up. That evening, she had taken a last-minute shift at the coffee shop, and it looked like she was going to squeeze into rent that month without leaving the electricity unpaid. She was in a good mood, and she felt, for once, in a proper state, in control of herself, and it gave her a certain confidence. Almost like her old self.
She tapped on his door with one casual knuckle.
Eliot stared confusedly at the door. Nobody came by and knocked. He had been here at Bellum Letale for a little over two months, and he had yet to have a visitor show up and knock. Micah found him online before dropping by, and he had given his parents vagues directions to his place for a reason. He got to his feet as a leisurely pace; people who dropped by unannounced would have to get used to waiting.
"Yeah?" he asked grumpily, as he pulled the door open. "Oh." It was Iris. What was she doing here at this hour?
She didn't move from her spot on the threshold. Instead, she held out the paper cup of very hot, extremely black (leftover, thick, bottom of the pot) coffee. "Enabling," she said, putting on a smile for him. She dropped her eyes past him, carefully, at the room beyond, and then refocused on his face. That night she wore greens, rippling forest greens with threads of sapphire running across the seams of the fitted dress. She smelled like herself, and of coffee and cream.
Eliot blinked at the coffee for a second, before accepting it. "As long as I don't have to hear a lecture about it after." His tone was lighter than it had been a second before; coffee had that effect on him. He noticed her eyes go past him, and impulsively pushed the door open wider. "You want to come in?" He doubted she'd want to come in, but it was the socially acceptable thing to do.
Iris, who had broken into Eliot's various abodes and offices more than once, smiled at the invitation, and stepped in because she felt his doubt was more of a challenge than anything else. She had to put quite a lot of effort into keeping her posture appropriately casual and her expression fixed until she moved past him and inside. "You haven't had a good lecture in a while," she said, sweetly.
"Not so," Eliot grumbled as he shut the door, "I spoke with my mother today." He followed her further into the apartment, kicking a folder out of the way as he moved. "Good coffee," he said approvingly, once he had taken a sip. It was exactly the way he liked it, and he had a feeling Iris knew that. "I definitely needed it for tonight." His eyes flicked past her to the bedroom, where a mess of clothes could be seen spread out on the bed. "That, or a couple of shots of something really strong."
Wait. Why was he talking to Iris about this? She was the last person who needed to hear about his 'dismal social life', as his mother called it. Not only had he just given her more ammunition for her to mock him with, he had handed it to her on a silver platter.
Eliot had never spoken to her of his mother before, and the woman had sort of an angelic status, which is why she taunted him with a London accent so much. She had forgone that pleasure today, however, and she bent to pick up yet another file he'd left strewn on the floor. Rather than opening it, she shuffled the contents so they would settle properly, and then put it down on an overflowing desk. "What's happening tonight?" she asked, not hiding her curiosity. With her usual lack of respect for his space, she wandered into the bedroom to look at the whirlwind of discarded clothing. "A tornado?"
"I wish." He shook his head and followed her into his room, too distracted to be annoyed by the intrusion of his personal space. "I got talked into going to a stupid dinner, and well," he tipped his head forward to indicate the pile on his bed, "that's what my clean laundry looks like." This shouldn't have been a problem. Warren Eliot wore what he wanted and gave a rat's ass about what anyone else thought of him, and that's always the way it had been. But he knew that if he even thought of showing up to this date less than impeccably dressed, word would get back to his mother, and she would take it as a personal affront. Now matter how silly it made him look, running around like a teenage girl getting ready for her first date was much preferable an option than calming his mother down when she was upset.
Iris made a soft 'mmm' noise in the back of her throat, successfully hiding her amusement at his agitation--for the present, at any rate. Still without much trace of a hurry, she dropped her bag (loose, canvas, closed) at the foot of the bed and started sorting through various garments. "I hope you have an iron and board," she said, distractedly, as she extracted a pair of khaki slacks and shook them out. "Your mother is concerned at her lack of progeny?" Iris found this absolutely hilarious.
Eliot looked genuinely puzzled. He was a man with perfect recall, yet he had no earthly idea as to whether or not there was an iron and board in the house. "Had one at my last place," he shrugged, running a hand through his hair. "Haven't seen it since I got here. Might still be in a box somewhere." He could detect the amusement in her voice, but chose to ignore it. "Probably. I'm 'not a young man' anymore, according to her." Leaning against the door frame, he slipped is coffee and watched her rummage through the clothing. "Anything salvageable in there?" As unlikely a person she was to go to, Eliot knew that Iris's taste was impeccable. And if their recent meetings were anything to go by, there was a solid chance that she wouldn't intentionally steer him in the wrong direction.
Iris had plenty of reasons to sabotage poor Eliot's date, but she didn't think it was necessary. He'd manage that very well on his own, she suspected. Meanwhile, she wasn't going to let him out looking like a bum. On principle. Or something. She shook out another pair of slacks, these gray with barely perceptible stripes in a slightly paler color. She put those aside, and started sorting through shirts. "Go find me that iron," she said, not looking up. "And go take a shower." Straightening, she snapped a shirt into shape. "Young men can get away with being horribly rumpled and unshaven. You can't." She smirked.
Eliot opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it. She was a professional at getting under his skin at this point, and doing what she said would only save him frustration at the end. "Christ. You make me sound like I'm sixty." He slipped out of the door with a curt nod, and when he returned five minutes later, he was carrying a small white box in his hand. The label identified the package as a standard multi-heat iron, and from the looks of it, the box had never been opened. "Here," he held out the iron for Iris. "Now shower, I guess. God I hate shaving." Indiscernible mutters could be heard as he went into the bathroom, but he refrained from complaining outright.
It was almost as though he was behaving.
Iris, who was enjoying herself thoroughly, turned her attention to unpacking the iron and finding a surface that would substitute for an ironing board. Humming to herself over the patter of the shower water, she sorted through the laundry, folded what she didn't think would be of use, and picked three or four shirts that would go with the gray slacks. Eventually she was saved from having to create a makeshift ironing board by finding a folding one in a side closet, almost behind the kitchen, the sort that stretched out from the wall. She pressed the shirts, found hangers, and then pressed the slacks, not feeling at all domestic, but rather like a squire sending a knight out into battle. The metaphor amused her further.
After that she made herself tea, because Holmes had made Irene tea, and now the thick dark smell of Earl Gray bergamot made her heart feel warm at the back of her chest. She'd just tell Eliot she got thirsty.
It took Eliot fifteen minutes to get out of the shower, a majority of which spent shaving. A cloud of steam and moisture followed him as he stepped out into the bedroom, clad in nothing but a simple blue towel. He was surprised to see Iris was no longer in the bedroom, and went into the living room to look for her. He showed no annoyance or confusion upon discovering that Iris had made herself tea. If anything, her action reminded him a bit of the old days, when she had insisted on making herself... comfortable just to ensure that he would be anything but.
"So what's next?" Eliot asked with a sigh, resigned to his fate.
In the process of extracting some loose leaf out of a container, Iris looked up--and about swallowed her tongue. Just because she couldn't (to her mind) enjoy sex anymore, that did not mean she couldn't be attracted to someone, and Eliot was quite enough of a physical catch to arrest her attention. As with all major emotional reactions, however, Iris had trained herself to assert immediate control and prevent anything blatantly obvious from showing through. The stare quickly turned intentionally admiring, and she smiled a cat's smile as she dropped her eyes down and then up. "You could just go in that, and I'm not sure she'd complain."
Eliot quirked a brow. Iris's exaggerated leering would have bothered him all the way up to a few weeks ago, but for some reason, now he just found it amusing. The benefits of retiring early, he mused, an all-around better mood. "Show me a place with a dress code lax enough, and I just might do it," he deadpanned. He put on the neutral expression that Iris would know too well; the one that made it almost impossible to tell if he was being serious or not. His mouth curled up into a lopsided grin when he spotted the clothes on the hangers. "Is that my gown for the ball?" Might as well try to make the best of the situation.
Iris was surprised by this response, it was clear. She didn't bother hiding that surprise, and something like speculation colored her eyes under the vivid green from her clothing. Iris turned her shoulders to look at the clothes, and then back at him. "Near enough. You have a white undershirt, I hope. And something to replace that towel?" She smiled, but it was not as lascivious as before. Before had been a show. Now she was just smiling. Holmes would be able to tell the difference where Eliot might not.
"Lucky for you, I do," he said with a nod, heading back into the room for a few minutes. Eliot re-emerged clad in a pair of dark blue boxer-briefs, and a close-fitting white undershirt. His hair was standing up at all angles around is head, as was prone to happen to hair of a certain length when dried in a hurry with a towel. Absentmindedly scratching the tattoo on his left shoulder, he looked at Iris expectantly. "Is this what thirteen year-olds feel like when they get make overs? Or is this more what they call being queer-eyed?" Eliot might be several years behind the times, but apparently he did pay attention to pop culture every now and then.
Iris stared. "Are you making a joke?"
Eliot looked incredulous. "I have a sense of humor!" A beat. "What? I wasn't hatched!"
She remembered what she was doing and dropped the tea bag into the cup. "Since when did you get a sense of humor? Put those pants on before you catch cold." She averted her eyes downward.
Eliot grumbled and did as he was told. "Alright then, no more jokes from this side of the room," he muttered, as he pulled on the slacks. "Which one of these shirts should I wear?" He caught sight of his garbled reflection in window and remembered his hair. Running his fingers quickly through the mostly-dry strands, he arranged them blindly and haphazardly. Eliot's everyday appearance was probably making a lot more sense to Iris at this point.
"What are you--" she looked up and her eyes widened as she saw what he was doing. "Stop stop!" Alarmed, she dropped her cup and went around the edge of the counter toward him. "Just--leave your hair alone. What is the matter with you? Now... here, try this one." She held out the first shirt. It was a darker, charcoal button up.
The alarm in her voice froze him in place. He couldn't see how he could have fucked up already; he hadn't even left home yet. Eliot spread his fingers and brought his hands down slowly, trying desperately not to do anything else that would make her freak out at him again. Better to keep his head down and do what he was told. And right now, that meant putting on the dark grey shirt she was holding out for him.
Eliot's fingers flew down the buttons and a split-second later, the shirt was tucked in. He had been getting dressed in a hurry for so long that it had become second nature to him. "Good enough?" he asked, hesitant to read her face for an answer. He really didn't want to have to try on a bunch of different clothes for a date. He was a thirty-four year old man, for fuck's sake!
"No," she said, slowly, tipping her head to view him from the proper distance. "No," she repeated, more solidly. "Take it off and try this one." She turned around and reached for a paler color, sort of a sky blue that she thought might bring out his eyes.
Eliot sighed and unbuttoned the shirt, trading it for the lighter one. He turned to Iris once it was fully buttoned, his raised eyebrows asking the silent question.
Unfortunately, while his eyes were bluer (she stared for a moment), the rest of him washed out. She shook her head again. "No. Try the white one." She held it out, and then her other hand palm up for the discarded blue.
A curt nod, followed by the light swish of fabric as one piece was discarded for another. The white would work, hopefully. "Better?"
Iris smiled. "Much. You look mature, but not old, capable but not overbearing, clean but not too fashionable. You look very nice." She took a step closer, the metallic blue threads sewn into the edge of her skirt catching the light as the material shifted over her knees, and then stopped. "Just... don't move, alright?" She waited for his assent before she--almost too cautiously, it seemed--moved closer, and frowned in concentration as she looked over his brow and at his hair.
Eliot blinked. Was she complimenting him? It sounded like she was complimenting him. He had no idea how to react. "Thanks," he said softly, uncertainly. He watched her come closer once he had given her the nod, and realized that he had been holding his breath for some reason. Exhaling slowly, he kept very still as she peered as the mess of brown hair on his head. "Do you want me to sit down?" Even without shoes on, Eliot clocked in at an even six feet. Giving her a better angle for her survey would be the sensible thing to do.
Iris blinked, as if startled by his voice. This close, the scent uniquely hers was very strong, and she smelled him, too. She'd forgotten how tall he was, though not so broad. "No. Just don't move." Carefully, she put her hands up, and slid her fingers into his hair, pushing one way, then another.
He was holding his breath again, and he didn't even know why. It was as though he was afraid that even the smallest movement on his part might spook her, as ridiculous as the idea was. So he waited patiently, alternating between watching her and trying to catch a glimpse of what she was doing to his hair. But Eliot could only hold his breath for so long, and eventually he had to inhale again. One whiff of Iris's scent, and it was as though she had not just invaded all of his senses, but also somehow sharpened them. Her eyes seemed to take on a color he couldn't describe, and as a part of his brain tried to figure out the proper name for the hue, another, much larger part was suddenly very aware of the soft fingers running through his hair.
Iris, for her part, had reached a kind of truce with herself about Eliot. Did she like him, yes; love him, probably; but she didn't plan on doing anything about it--especially since her last job had left her without much ability to deal with men at all. At the moment, there was no safer man than Eliot, who she was sure had no desire for her in any capacity. Their past interactions had made her certain.
She was concentrating on his hair, not his eyes, and she was doing her best to avoid touching him more than she had to, because she thought that soon he would pull away. "There," she said, after what seemed like an age. Her fingers slid away, over his temples, and she dropped her hands and smiled up into his face. "Better."
Eliot resisted the urge to touch his hair when she was done. He'd seen enough divas throw fits backstage as a kid to know not touch a woman's handiwork when it was complete. No amount of curiosity could make it worth the price. He chose to channel his nervous energy elsewhere, tugging on the cuffs of his shirt, making sure they were done up right. "So am I done then?," a pause, accompanied by a small smile, "I'm not going to send any wide-eyed young drama instructors running away screaming?"
The moment he reached for his cuffs and the movement of his arms registered in the edge of her vision, Iris retreated backward. Three steps, in all, and with enough haste that she couldn't manage her usual grace. She put a smile on, but it was not the soft, unplanned one. "You're done. Unless you need a jacket, but I've seen you in that black coat of yours--the wool one. Use that." She turned her head toward the door. "I have to go. Plans." She smiled again, to make the lie stick.
Eliot wondered what made Iris remember to leave so suddenly, but didn't push it. He was past that stage in his life; the woman would live her life the way she chose, and he was going to have to learn to just accept it. "Alright, I should head out too." He moved backwards towards his desk chair, where his coat had been the last time he had seen it. "And hey, Iris?" He paused to catch her eye, deliberately using her first name to make sure she was paying attention. A small smile appeared on his face as he shrugged. "Thank you."
Iris fetched her bag--she was never anywhere without it--and seemed to forget entirely about her tea. "Don't break the woman's heart, Warren." And she was out the door, and gone.