the inestimable irene adler . iris thorpe (nightmrholmes) wrote in bellumlogs, @ 2010-04-19 01:06:00 |
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Entry tags: | dr. watson, irene adler |
Who: Iris & Micah
What: Reassurance, conversation, discussion.
Where: #206
When: Immediately after this. Daniel said that she was practicing getting out of the handcuffs at 4 AM that morning, which was after the post with Eliot. The time of this one would be whenever that post went up, which would be, I imagine, 1 or 2 AM the following morning.
Warnings: Language. Some mature topics in mild terms. Nothing alarming.
Micah was worried.
He trusted the man on the roof (any man that could get that much play and still be defended by his women deserved respect), and if he said Iris had been tearing her apartment apart at four in the morning, Micah took it as fact. It meshed with what he already knew about Iris, with the fragility he was now certain lived beneath the exceptionally competent exterior. And what he had told R1 was true; Micah wanted Iris, and Iris wanted someone else. In Micah's world, that translated to friendship, because in Micah's mind, men and women were created to be sexual creatures with one another, and wanting someone didn't mean you always got them.
He slipped a shirt on over his track pants, and he grabbed his keys. He looked at the front door, then he remembered Iris' worry about the cameras, and he opted for the window and the fire escapes instead. He was in front of Iris' window within minutes, under the safe cover of dark, and he rapped his knuckles against the glass, and he wondered about handcuffs.
Iris was outraged when she'd seen R1's casual airing of her private business on the forum; she knew exactly why he was doing it, just to prove that what he said was true, and damned if she was going to confirm it, but he was an arrogant bastard for doing it anyway. That didn't surprise her. Iris knew exactly how much he must be paying for that rooftop apartment, and if he was a recluse she doubted he was pulling in even a quarter of that much a month, no matter what he was doing. That left a rich, bored, frightened man who just got a nice spy package from the building, and Iris wanted to murder him.
She thought there must have been something in the apartment she missed. She didn't have that much furniture, and none of it had been first-hand or bought with any particular pattern or intent. She had no reason to inspect the apartment that closely, she bought it for price, not for the water pressure. Now she was correcting that oversight.
She had the shade drawn over the window, so within there was only shapes, but even from there, the shadows were wrong. Movement from the hallway indicated Iris as she entered the room, clearly in response to the knock, and a second one corrected her path to the door for one that led to the window. She yanked the shade aside immediately rather than messing around with peering through, though at least she chose an angle that would prevent anyone from shooting her if they were armed. Her eyes blazed when she recognized Micah on the fire-escape, and though the flicker of concern and fear had been quickly snuffed, she was tense as a steel wire, and it went all the way from her back over her shoulders and bare arms. The splash of layers and colors were replaced by calm loose blue pants that she must wear to bed, and a thin strapped shirt of a darker, intermediate color. It made her eyes look dark and unyielding. Pulling the window up, she glared out at him. "What the hell are you doing?"
Behind her, the living room was in shambles. Iris had been systematic. The couch was tipped on its back, the cushions scattered. The table had been upturned, too, but hastily replaced; all the books that had been on the shelves were on the floor. The computer glowed from the kitchen counter, and behind it the refrigerator door hung open and all the cupboards stood ajar.
Micah glanced over her shoulder at the shambles that was the apartment, and then he ducked and climbed in the window wordlessly. She could try to stop him if she wished, of course, and she (hopefully) knew him well enough to realize he would heed her halting of him, but until she actually did something, he was going to climb right in her window, a smile on his face as his mind finally wrapped around the handcuff mystery, his shoulders relaxing slightly in a very visible way.
Iris hesitated, clearly considering a struggle to retain her privacy, but then she realized she didn't have any fucking privacy, so what was the point. She pulled back a little and surrendered the shade. It's not like he could stay out on the fire escape without attracting attention, even if the camera had a decent blind spot on the window of 206. ...After she'd moved it a centimeter or two.
Micah walked to the center of the wrecked living room, and he calmly tipped the couch back to its regular position. He gave Iris a look, and he let the look linger. She was tense; that much was painfully evident. Tense and rigid, despite the soft sleep apparel she wore. Her dark, unyielding eyes look more scared to him than they did closed off, but that was based on his interpretation of events, more than on how they actually looked. The muscle tone on her arms and torso, in the thin clothing, bared the fact that this was not a woman who spent her days shopping and chattering, and he wondered if she wore the jewel tones she favored to deceive the eye into not noticing what she truly was beneath them.
Finally, after the long perusal, he sat on the couch he'd righted, legs spread comfortably, leaning back as if he had entered the apartment announced, for a social visit.
"Did you manage it?" he asked, his eyes clapping on her in a way that was knowing and understanding combined.
Iris watched the proceedings with narrowed eyes, so utterly frustrated with her situation, she didn't bother trying to hide it. He just came to gloat. Or pry. She didn't know which one would be more positive. "Manage what?" She wasn't playing, she was clarifying. She was not in the mood to cross swords with him.
He watched her as she watched him, and he took note her mood, her added tenseness in the responses. He clasped his hands between his spread knees and leaned forward. "We aren't going to handcuff Adler," he said. "And the man on the roof promised he wouldn't watch you again. The apartment isn't bugged, and there isn't a camera. Now come over here and sit down, before you go off like a bomb."
"Oh, well, if he promised, then I'll just stop worrying." Iris flicked her eyes up once toward the ceiling in a gesture of total disgust for R1's trustworthiness. "And don't tell me to sit down in my own apartment." She went back over to where the shelves were and started picking up books. She'd already shaken and flipped through them all, so she just closed them and put them back, one by one.
He watched her a moment, trying to decide if going over to her would make her calmer or more frenetic, and he finally decide to stand and close the space between them. He took a book from her hand, and he put it on the shelf. "He doesn't see you through the books, Iris," he told her, looking down at her and watching her with a calm air that very much said he would be patient with her for as long as he needed to be.
"I don't know what he sees me through," Iris said, gritting her teeth as she reached for another book. She stopped with it in her hand and stared at him for a hard moment. "Do you?"
"No, but I can find out," he told her, his gaze clear and direct. "Can I borrow your computer?" he asked calmly, trying to get his calm to make her feel calm in return. He stood his ground, and he took that book from her hand as well, and put it on the shelf. "You know I'm not going to let anything happen to you, don't you? Not from the man on the roof, not from Holmes, not from anyone."
That he meant it was obvious in his eyes, in the serious tone of his words. It was a promise and a vow, and it wasn't lightly made.
Iris gave a frustrated sigh and reached down for another book, and by God she was going to put it on the damn shelf. "What, you're just going to ask him? And believe whatever he tells you?" Then, a sharp beat later, "I am not your responsibility, Micah! I can take care of myself, I think I've earned it." She shoved a book into place.
He watched the placement of the book, but he didn't reach for it. Instead, he turned his head to look at her. "I'm going to ask him, and if I need to threaten him again, I will, and if I need to verify whatever he tells me, I'll do that too," he said with quiet determination. "You're going to have to learn to deal with me worrying about you. It comes with me caring about you, and there's not a damn thing we can do about it."
She laughed at him, a low, rippling, bitter sound. "I guess not. You're just going to have to learn on your own." She turned away, moving another couple steps to pick up the books that had gone farther astray. No librarian would have thrown books around in such a manner, she mused. So much for that persona at home.
He grinned, and he leaned against the back of the couch, arms crossed over his chest. "You can't teach old dogs new tricks, Iris. Now put down the books, which you don't care about, and let's talk about Irene and the man on the roof, and why you tore this place to hell, and handcuffs," he said, his expressions extremely determined. He uncrossed his arms, reached out a hand, and he tugged her toward him. "I was fucking worried, Iris."
The books were all back on the shelf any way. "I don't want to talk about it." She let herself be pulled, unresisting, but she was anything but responsive and still taut. "I want to put my place back in order. I have no idea what you're worried about." She tested the grip.
His grip was tight, and he didn't let her go. "Don't panic," he told her, then he pulled her closer and into a very loose hug. He rested his chin on her hair, and he waited to see if she panicked, in which case he would, immediately, let go.
The stiffening was immediate, but, as was quickly becoming obvious, she always did in that first moment. This time, like when he had first held her, she seemed to relax slightly, even melt a little into the embrace. She sighed a little into his chest. "I don't like people spying on me." The admission was muffled but intelligible, and it was hard to discern her tone.
He held her through the initial reaction, and he caught the meaning behind the muffled admission, even if he didn't understand the tone; he didn't think he needed to understand it. He'd known as soon as the man on the roof had made the admission of watching her that she was going to react badly. Iris was exceptionally paranoid, probably rightly so. She lived in fear of being caught, and he suspected she wasn't living up to the letter of whatever her parole agreement was - she acted too guiltily for that. All of that didn't even take into consideration whoever had physically and sexually attacked her. It all spoke to a fear that she couched with a need for secrecy and transiency, and he suspected that developing relationships ( with himself and Eliot) wasn't helping her feel any more at ease.
"He just said what he did to protect the woman," Micah explained, because the man on the roof's motivation was plain. "He's been able to do this for awhile, and he's never used it against anyone. We don't have powers, but other stories in the building do, and I don't blame him for defending her. If someone had jumped on you like that, I would have admitted anything to get them off your case. Hell, I told him I was going to beat the shit out of him, and I meant it. If I thought he was going to spy on you again, I'd be up there breaking his jaw, not here hugging you."
She had to laugh again, but it was more tired than bitter. With the last one she had tried to drive him away, but with this one, she was just letting go of some tension. There was no real amusement there, and at the moment she wasn't taking the trouble to hide anything. "You're telling me that just makes it okay," she observed. "You don't know what he has and hasn't done with whatever information he has. Just because he's an idiot about a woman does not make him trustworthy. Take you." She lifted her chin and smiled up at him.
He smiled over her head. "I am the most trustworthy, stupid man that you will ever find," he said truthfully, and he rubbed his chin against her hair.
"Trustworthy men don't lie as well as you do." Her hair smelled as sweet as she always did, that low thick musky smell that was like the smell of every woman, only magnified. Femininity in aroma.
"You know I'm trustworthy, Thorpe," he said with a low chuckle, and he leaned against the back of the couch with her still in his arms, pulling her between his spread thighs and not letting her free of the hug yet. "Admit it. Just like I know you are," he said. "Maybe not around everyone, but you aren't going to screw me over, and I'm not going to screw you over."
Her tone grew serious, and some of the guard came back up as some of those muscles that had just managed to unwind tensed up again. "I would if I had to, Micah. Just ask Eliot." Funny how she never called him Warren except to his face.
"Eliot couldn't change my opinion, and neither can you," he said, and he didn't move when she tensed. He just waited, his arms loose around her waist, waiting for her to relax against him again. He wondered how someone got to where she was, how she was, but he didn't ask. He knew better. Instead, he rubbed his cheek against her temple lightly, distractingly. "My mami used to tell me that men always told the truth. That the truth was all they had. Everything could be taken away, but that would always stay. I remember wondering why girls got to lie when we didn't," he said. The tone of his voice clearly said it was a memory, and he knew she was going to catch onto his tactic of confessions when he wanted her to relax for him. He expected her to. If she thought she was smarter than he was, it would make her smug, which would make her happy. He could live with being considered a stupid idiot for that.
It worked. She smiled again, not obvious unless you recognized the intentional tilt of her head that told when she was amused. Her back, the most telling and, when she was in her daily wardrobe, the most easily concealed tell, relaxed again. She even seemed to sink an inch or so in height. "My mami told me men lie." She used the same inflection he did, precisely mimicking the Cuban style of the endearment, not mockingly, but to match it, even if her tone was dry.
"I know a Cuban barber," he explained, his grin audible even in the words, as his explanation for the Cuban endearment. "And your mami didn't know me," he added. He wanted to ask about her family, and he hesitated as he tried to think of a way. "Where I grew up, dinner was for fifty people every night, and grandparents sat on rocking chairs on porches, and ten women spent the day in the kitchen cooking, while the men smoked cigars outside and pretended they ran the world, when everyone knew the women inside did," he said, and his voice turned thick as he spoke, and he forgot that it was a tactic, the telling.
Iris decided she wanted to know more, and she melted a little more into his chest, turning her head to let it lie on his collarbone. "You must be lonely, if you grew up with that many people," she said, quietly.
He let his fingers drag through the ends of her hair, and was quiet and let himself enjoy the feel of her against his chest, her cheek against his collarbone. Every little moment like this with Iris was like an overwhelming accomplishment. He knew she trusted nothing and no one, and it made him feel powerful, that she trusted him. "I am most days," he admitted. "But it's safer here, this way," he said, voice going raw deep.
"For them, or for you?"
He hesitated, tried to decide whether or not to even answer her. "For everyone," he finally said, and he rubbed his cheek against her hair. "You aren't the only one who worries about people watching."
"I'm sorry. That can't be easy." It was honest, at least, though she herself avoided such attachments to keep things as simple as possible. "Did you patch up the wrong person, or something?"
He laughed at her question, and the sound was a warm rumbling in his chest. "I did, and I'm a wanted man now," he said in jest. "Did you throw your books at the wrong person?" he asked, letting her know he hadn't done anything of the sort, because she hadn't done anything of the sort.
He waited, considered, then asked simply, "did you have to serve any time?" His jaw tightened at the thought, and he tried not to associate it with Eliot, if she replied affirmatively.
"Not very much," she said. Then, smiling, "Not as long as Eliot would have liked." She managed to make the smile a vocal addition, because she knew he couldn't see it. Maybe it didn't have to do with being a doctor, then. Maybe that meant it had to do with the gun. Did the doctor come first, or the gun?
He knew she could handle jail; he didn't doubt it for even a second. Still, the thought of her behind bars made his hands fist at the small of her back and his shoulders tense. How Eliot could have gotten to know her and still want her locked up, he didn't understand. He'd only known her a month, and he already knew she had a thousand-and-one vulnerabilities. It made him think of how the building went after people like they were judge and jury, and he remembered how Eliot made immediate judgments of people based on second-hand accounts, and it made his stomach turn. He didn't, however, tell her that he thought Eliot was a dick, because he knew she wouldn't like it. "Why do you defend him?"
She looked up, the edge of her jaw sliding up his chest against his shirt. "Eliot? I don't defend. I don't say anything that's not true. You think I should take it more personally? It's our job. My job was to get away. His job was to catch me. He won." Iris had not been so vulnerable before. Not where Eliot could see. Not for the first time, she wondered if Micah realized that.
He reached down, and he let his knuckles run against the underside of her jaw. "I think he's an idiot," he admitted, unable to keep it to himself any longer. "Don't get me wrong. I like him. He's still an idiot," he said, and he looked down into her eyes. "What do you see in him?"
"I don't think you really want to talk about this," she said, looking up into his eyes and allowing hers to shadow a little with concern.
"I don't?" he asked, and he tucked a loose tendril behind her ear.
She shrugged a little into his hand. "You think differently than he does. You think with your feelings. Eliot thinks only with his mind, and nothing else. Naturally, you would think him an idiot. Just as he does you, I'm sure." She chuckled through her nose, a soft, wordless sound of amusement.
"If I'd seen any indication of him thinking with his mind, I'd be impressed, Iris. I see a tired, washed up detective, who used to be amazing, but who has gotten sloppy. He's broken; some case fucked him up along the line, and he's just making time right now, from day to day," he said, and his opinion was fervent and honest. "He's a mess."
Iris was silent. She stopped moving, she even stopped breathing deeply. She stopped paying attention to what her body was doing. "Why does that make him an idiot?"
"Because he makes mistakes a detective of his caliber shouldn't make," Micah replied, "and because a job isn't black and white, and you don't belong in jail," he added after a moment of hesitation, and he ran his thumbs over her cheeks softly. "I'm a doctor, and I shoot things. Sometimes life doesn't come in nice compartments. Eliot thinks it does. He won't ever be great unless he realizes that."
She took in a deep, slow breath of Cuban tobacco and soap. "What kind of mistakes?" She didn't concentrate on his comment about shooting things. What could she say?
He dragged his thumbs down to her neck, and he watched to see if there was any panic rising in her eyes. "Giving away the fact that we have inside information on the murderers in the building on the anonymous post. We haven't had a repeat crime since, not here, not with the right MO. Making rash decisions about people based on a minutes worth of information from unreliable sources, while getting drunk. Giving too much away, and not catching enough."
There was no panic. The dark eyes were still shadowed, and she was thinking about what he said. "He doesn't make rash decisions. He makes judgments, but they're not rash. You are right about the case. There is something that happened. He never would have closed the agency." He was different too, she realized. She wondered why. "Something that was not white collar." She chewed on her lower lip.
He could agree with that. "Something with a murder, possibly," he mused. "He's adamant about not wanting anything to do with the building homicides. I almost thought he'd never been in a morgue before, but maybe it was something else. Maybe I misread it." He ran his thumb over her lower lip when she bit it, and he watched the progress of his thumb against that softness. "He's clinging to the building mystery like he's a drowning man, and like it's a life vest, but I have to push him to have any interest in legitimate crimes of any kind," he said, thinking aloud at this point. He looked from her lips to her eyes. "He makes rash judgments, Iris, at least lately. Maybe not before, but he does now."
It was the touch to her lips that woke her up. Her lashes fluttered with surprise, a flash of recognition. Sex was a complication, one of those complications to avoid, but she hadn't come across it as a problem in a long time. She blinked again. "He must have a reason."
"I'll find out eventually. We bicker, but we like each other, the idiot and I," he said truthfully, because he did like Eliot. He didn't know if it was because of Watson, but he wanted to help the bastard. He slid his fingers from her lips to her chin and under, then he wrapped his arms back around her waist again. Simple, casual, the move said. No pushing, no demanding. He'd seen the flash of surprise and recognition in her eyes, and he didn't want to push her. He'd gotten her to stand still in his arms for a conversation; that was enough for now.
"Good. If you can get him to talk to you, that would be better. He does not confide, he does not pause. He just goes, until he can't." This embrace had stopped being about strength, needing it or having it. It was something else, now. She pulled back, pressing her palms against the inside of his arms, retreating, but not with the haste of panic.
He let her go, and he didn't pursue. He did look at her, long and hard, for a few silent minutes. Then he nodded his agreement. "What are we going to do for the full moon?" he asked, as if she hadn't been in his arms just a moment earlier, as if there was nothing between them but so much space and the man on the seventh floor.
The gratitude made her eyes shine, so brief, but absolutely authentic in a way that Iris never was. It was quickly gone, and did not linger. She drifted over and picked up the thin computer chair, righting it. "I don't know. I tried to think of something, but there's nothing I can devise that she can't unravel." She shrugged helplessly.
"Maybe we go somewhere public?" Micah suggested. "If the concern is that something will happen, which seems to be what Eliot is worried about - doing something to you that you'll regret - then being in public should cancel that out," he explained. "There's also the fact that we know it's going to happen now, which might give us more control," he suggested, following her example and starting to right the living room furniture and clear the mess.
"That's only going to work for a little while. Eliot is worried Holmes will take advantage of Irene, but that is only because he does not know Irene. She will string him along a while, even if she is interested. It's just her way. She knows how I feel about it, she probably won't... let it get too far."
"Then you aren't worried?" he asked, looking up from what he was straightening.
"Yes, I'm worried," she said, expression tightening as she pushed cans back into the cupboard. There were only six. "I'm worried she's going to tell him things I don't want him to know, just to keep him interested. I'm worried Holmes will find out those things based on Irene. He's Sherlock Holmes."
He looked at her, surprise printed clearly on his features. "You think they know things about us? Like we know about them?" he asked, because he hadn't thought of that. Admittedly, he'd tried not to think of Watson much at all, but if what she was saying was true... "You make them sound real, Iris. I don't mean real like things that live in our heads on occasion, or archetypal characters we embody, or even storylines that we somehow host. You're saying they are living, knowing things?"
He didn't sound like he approved of that idea.
"I have her memories, she has mine. She's... she's there. She doesn't have my control, she doesn't have my concerns. The things she wants are different because she hasn't lived what I've lived. She knows she's me, though." She turned to look at him. "You don't remember Watson? Him being you?"
He gave up on the cleaning, and he sat on the couch again, his elbow on the arm, his fingers rubbing at his eyes, "I remember everything about him, but I don't think he knew anything about me. He was himself," he said, even though that sounded simplistic, not complex at all. "He took a licence exam for me, and he didn't bat an eye about it, so maybe I'm wrong, but I don't remember having any conciousness when this change happened - none."
"Irene knew she wasn't herself," Iris said, moving back into the living room and hugging herself as if she was cold. "I wasn't there, but she knew. Just like she's not here, but I know. It's the most fucking disturbing thing." She dipped her chin, shook her head.
"This is starting to feel like a bad horror movie," he told her, and he patted the couch beside himself. "The only thing I know about Watson, is that he wanted things that I don't think exist, and I'm not looking forward to that man running around my head hurting and looking for a wife he doesn't have," he admitted, rubbing his eyes again. "This isn't science, Iris. I know science. I don't get this shit."
Iris looked grave. She was sympathetic for Watson, and Irene's affection for the man she barely knew still managed to touch her. She sat down next to him. "I don't like it either." Then, after a moment, she said, "Maybe she is around, somewhere."
Micah chuckled, and he looked over at her. The curiosity that lit up his eyes was honest, scientific. It was something he'd been wanting to talk about, but that Eliot had never seemed opened to discussing, his hatred of being Sherlock Holmes. Micah had his guesses as to why, but they were only that - guesses. "Do you think that's the case? Do you have any reason for thinking that?" he asked, his body turning toward hers as he spoke. "Has this always been inside us? Or is it in relation to being in proximity with other tales? Why are certain tales selected, while others ignored? I can't pretend this isn't something tangible, because I have a promotion and a license to practice I couldn't get on my own steam," he admitted. "That means this, whatever it is, is real. I didn't take my medical exam and pass it; Watson did."
His voice rose as he spoke, his words rolling faster and starting to run together in a way that was very Cuban, and he was harder to understand, harder to follow, despite the rise of volume. It was the voice of a man who had a natural obsession with figuring out things scientifically; the voice of a man who hadn't found the secret to a particularly challenging problem.
Iris was careful to hide her surprise at this immediate change in him the moment she became aware of it. Up until now, she'd never seen Micah be truly passionate about anything, and it was that sudden lack of almost effortless control that surprised her. "I don't have a special reason, no. I don't have any theories on the why or the how, either." She hesitated for a moment, trying to decide how much to say, until finally, she ventured, in a tongue that was far more cautious than his own, "Maybe one day I woke up as Irene, but she was like me far before that. Or... or I was like her." She disliked the last possibility intensely. "To me, that says that there is some pre-existing element to ourselves..." she trailed off. "I don't know."
The theory she posited was one of the many on his list of unproven possibilities. "Yo pense eso tambien," he admitted, not even realizing he had switched to Spanish. "What this says about the universe is amazing, Iris, about the nature of it. These are stories - written, verbal - stories. We credit men with their creation, but if what men put to paper takes life, then who's to say it isn't some sort of divine intervention?" he asked, his hands moving inadvertently with the words. It was easy for him, the slip to religion as a potential scientific reason; it came from his strong Santeria background, which trusted, even as as it questioned. "Are we hosts? Have we always been hosts? Are these eternal stories for some reason we aren't aware of?"
If they'd been in his apartment, he would have showed her charts and lists of the earliest derivative form of each tale that he'd been working on in the early morning hours. As it was, he tried to explain it as best he could. "The stories, they all go back to folk tales in one way or another - spoken narratives by indigenousness peoples. Different names and places, but the themes, they don't change."
Religion made Iris uncomfortable. She looked away, trusting that he was too distracted to pay too close attention to body language. "This is definitely Irene. And I can't find the dress," she said, as if the firm tangibility of the results would interrupt any wild talk about divine anything.
Oh, he could tell it made her uncomfortable, but he couldn't quite figure out why. It was strange for Micah, who has having more and more luck understanding things and people lately than he should, but there it was. "I can't find the cane either," he admitted with a shake of his head. "But I don't mean it that literally. I mean Watson, por ejemplo, is a sidekick. At the end of the day, that's what he is. Maybe those things need to exist somehow, maybe this happens over and over in stories we recognize for a reason."
Her jaw settled over her teeth. "Such as?"
"I don't have all the answers," he said, giving her an easy, dimpled grin. "I'm just the sidekick, Iris, not the hero of the story."
She raised one eyebrow at him in a show of disbelief for that little act. He used that particular grin when he was being cheeky and trying to get away with something. She let out a huff of air through her nose. "Well, there's no point theorizing, then." She just needed to get Irene to shut up. She wasn't sure she would; Irene liked being in the spotlight, talking to people, and hearing the buzz of conversation. Holmes absolutely fascinated her, and she'd tell him all manner of things just to keep him involved.
Any other time, she would have just put herself on a plane to Australia. It would have limited Irene's influence, at least. Damn.
He watched her with great care, and he tipped his head a moment later. "You aren't worried she'll sleep with him. You're worried about something else," he said, his voice thoughtful, as if he was unsure of the statement itself. He spent so much time trying to read Iris that when things about her came to him naturally, he questioned them in a way he didn't with anyone else.
"I don't think she will," Iris said, repeating herself. "Because..." She hated this conversation. "Because of what it will do to me, or us. I think she knows. I hope." She frowned, looking off past the coffee table, which was still askew.
"Then what are you worried about, mamita?" he asked, reaching his hand out and touching her cheek, her chin, wanting her attention back on him and on the conversation. He thought he understood what she meant about Irene. Iris would panic, so Irene wouldn't let things get far enough sexually to hurt Iris. It was comforting somehow, the symbiosis that presented. Maybe Watson intentionally passed the exam for him, because he knew Micah wouldn't be able to do it himself.
She jerked at the touch she didn't see coming, a hard clench of her stomach muscles and a pull of her head away from his hand as if the touch burned. There was the shadow of the hunted in her eyes for a brief flash of a moment, before she clamped down on it. She disliked the brief loss of control, and hastened to answer the question. "I don't need Irene and Holmes to have an in depth, analytical conversation about my life. Or Eliot's. He'll never talk to me again." She hadn't meant to say the last sentence, and pressed her lips together.
Micah went silent, and he looked at her. He'd assumed Eliot already knew everything there was to know about Iris - an incorrect assumption, it would seem. He let his hand fall when she jerked back, but he didn't break eye contact with her. He lifted his fingers slowly, carefully, letting her see them. "Not going to hurt you," he said, even though he knew it had been a reaction to the speed and lack of warning of the touch, and not because it was from him specifically. He moved that same hand forward, well within her range of vision, and he pushed a lock of hair off her shoulder. "Somewhere public in a group then," he said, immediately trying to think of who else they could involve, running through the small list of people he trusted in the building in his mind.
"I know you're not," she said, frustrated. "I didn't do it on purpose." It was unspeakably infuriating to have reactions she could not control, and not for the first time she considered more aggressive action to prevent it from happening. Avoiding speech, she just nodded faintly. She couldn't restrain Irene, she couldn't restrain Holmes, and the two of them needed to be a lot more stupid for her to even begin outwitting either.
"I know you didn't," he said, the small smile on his lips a genuine one. He pushed another lock of her hair back as he thought, and the fact that he was growing accustomed to intimacies with her didn't slip his notice. He touched her cheek lightly. "I don't trust anyone else with you. How fucked up is that?" he asked, taking a deep breath. "Aiden will be useless; he's obsessed with Vlad even when he isn't Helsing. Marion will be a wolf, and having already patched up his damage, I'm not letting him near you."
"These are people you want to have a Victorian social outing with?" she asked, staring at him.
"They're the only people I trust," he clarified. "I never said they'd be good options for the theater," he said, laughing a little at her reaction. "If Watson had a wife, we'd be all set, wouldn't we?" he asked, looking at her carefully as he said it.
Her expression visibly softened. "She might still come." It was Watson, really. Any time any one mentioned Watson, anywhere, she went all vague and soft like that. "You never know."
"Careful, I'll start thinking you like the old, limping man better than you like me, mamita," he said, his voice jesting, but his eyes warm.
She smiled and pushed his arm as if he was teasing her. "He isn't old. He's sweet."
Micah couldn't refrain from rolling his eyes at her statement. "I'm fucking doomed. My story has no game, and I'm doomed to be an old, sweet man who gets no play for eternity." He sounded completely depressed at the possibility.
That made her laugh, and Iris' natural laugh, like Irene's, turned out to be a truly musical thing, high in tone and almost throaty in the best way. "You're not him all the time. You have enough play the other 28 days of the month," she said, suppressing more mirth.
He slipped from the depressed tone to a smile easily enough, laughing as he did so. Micah was naturally light-hearted, and sulking wasn't something he did very often. "True," he said, then grinned at her. "Any chance that makes you jealous?" he asked, his expression clearly indicating he was joking, but a clarity in his eyes saying that maybe, just maybe, there was some truth behind the question.
The smile became fond. "Sorry. I don't recall ever being jealous of anyone." She patted his elbow.
"You haven't met the right man," he said, leaning back against the couch with an air of utter masculine certainty. He glanced down at her hand on his elbow, and he quirked a brow. "I'm not the doddering old man, Iris," he said, sounding somewhat entertained at the thought.
"I've met a lot of men," Iris said, losing the smile but not the general light tone of jest. She patted his arm again, this time with an intent to patronize. "Yes dear."
"Careful," he told her, and the glint in his eye said he might advance on her slowly, so she didn't panic, but he would advance. Male pride and king of the jungle, you see.
She laughed at him again, and took her hand back to scooch to the other end of the couch. "You should help me clean the apartment to prove your manhood," she said, eyes dancing.
"You should cook me dinner to prove your womanhood," he returned, and he scooted toward her, intention not at all hidden.
Iris escaped off the edge of the couch, forgetting she was in pajamas and that she'd been angry an hour ago. "I don't have to prove anything," she said, lifting her chin in a very intentional challenge.
He laughed as he watched her go, but he didn't pursue until the chin tilt and the intentional challenge it brought with it. He walked toward her slowly, slowly, his gaze hazel-green and made of trouble. He held out a hand as he neared her, letting her see it, then he slid it around her waist and dragged her close. "No panicking," he said, even though he expected her to tense at first, even with all the advance warning.
She did, but she managed to subdue the reaction soon after, and smiled. It had been a long time since she'd joked with anyone--the last time had been with Russell, poor boy. Her mood of anger and paranoia almost dispelled, she said, "Is it that you don't trust me with these people, or you don't trust them with me?" Her intonation emphasized the variation.
"I don't trust them with you," he said without a hint of hesitation. He didn't tell her that he thought she was fragile, because he suspected she would react very poorly to that. "How badly am I going to have to apologize for kissing you?"
She frowned at the first reply, and frowned deeper at the question, fighting alarm. She pulled away. Bad, a bad idea. She didn't want to, because it would make her think about things she didn't want to think about, and she didn't want to. She pulled back.
He let her pull back, but he reached out for her wrist and held it between his fingers. "Don't run," he said, and there was a request in the command; something warm and safe that said he wouldn't mention it again.
No, she didn't want to be restrained either. It wasn't being held any more, now it was something else. She yanked her wrist back. "Back off, Micah." She said it without aggression, even, but uncontrolled. She was going to control this but she needed space to do it in.
He considered letting go completely - well, no, first he considered doing exactly the opposite of what she demanded, proving to her that it was going to be okay and that there wasn't a reason to be afraid. Then he considered letting go completely. In the end, he opted for something in the middle; he slid his fingers down and wound them with hers, until he was holding her hand, their bodies two-arms length apart.
She got her breath back, and her heartbeat went back to the rhythm it was meant to have. The adrenaline stopped making her ears ring, but at least she hadn't gotten to the point where she was seeing and feeling things that weren't there. Gently, she tried to disentangle her fingers. "You're going to have to let this go. I don't know how many times we've had this conversation. Do you just like seeing me squirm?" It was a cruel thing to say, but she didn't wince.
"Mamita," he cautioned, and he tugged a little. "That isn't going to work conmigo," he said, the only indication that he was nervous the way he slipped from one language to another without realizing it. "Ven aqui," he asked. It was important. "Por favor."
"No. It doesn't turn off." She didn't tug, she pulled, consistent pressure. It was better to avoid the whole situation, and then she wouldn't need to push the memories and their fear.
He held tight while she pulled, and knew she'd have to deal with this eventually. He'd seen enough trauma to know that immediate counseling was the key to a decent recovery, and he knew she hadn't had that. It was in every action and reaction she made and had. She was going to have to deal with it, rail against it, shake and scream her way through it. But he was willing to let it go for now, for today.
He let go of her fingers, and he walked to her kitchen without saying another word, and he started to make two cups of her terrible instant coffee. (He would buy her a cafetera in the morning.)
Iris didn't much care about that. There had been therapy, but at a certain point, there was never going to be enough therapy, and that was what she'd determined at the end of a few weeks. It was not in Iris' nature to confide in other people. She went into the bedroom and righted furniture and straightened her bed while he heated the water. She reappeared a little while later. She had put a shirt on over the thin one, a button up that went halfway down her thighs, over the pajama bottoms. If he said a word about needing more clothes as if they were armor, she was going to throw him out. Wordlessly, she climbed up on the cheap stool at the counter, folded her hands in front of her, and waited.
He put the coffee in front of her, and he barely looked at the layers she'd added on for protection. He'd doctored the drink up as best he could, and he leaned on the counter and sipped at his own mug in silence. He didn't say a word. He just waited.
"Gracias." She pulled the mug toward her, and sipped without making a face. It tasted terrible. "So how many of the building females have you conquered so far?" She was looking at the mug, not at him. Iris was quickly learning that the less energy she put into her typical control, the more she had to deal with the rest of it, which tended to come up dependably around Micah. He was from a culture that had no elbow room, and he couldn't be more male. He was the kind of man that Iris would have enjoyed in her downtime. Before.
He smiled at the question. "Iris, if I slept with the women in the building, I couldn't live here anymore," he said, and it was an honest statement from a man who knew women. The stereotype of the Latin spitfire was very apropos, and Micah had gotten himself caught between two women more than once in his life on the island. He'd learned quick that women were always wily, that they never trusted each other, and they were always suspicious. They'd catch you every damn time, without doubt. Only a fool would sleep with multiple women in the same building. "Now, ask me about the county, and you'll get a different answer."
"From the sound of it, not everyone is so choosy." She lifted her mug to her lips again.
He watched her over his own mug. "Me? Or them?" he asked, and his smile was entertained. He had a different response, depending on who she meant, and he had no intention of giving her more than she asked for. Clarification was needed.
"As you," she said, smiling at the tactic, a small one at the edge of her mouth.
"You're assuming not sleeping with women in the building means I'm picky?" he teased, "Or are you making a thinly veiled comment about our neighbors?" he asked with a low chuckle. "There are women you sleep women, and women you keep. To sleep with someone here, it would have to be someone I wanted to keep," he said honestly, giving her a clear hazel-eyed look. "I'm very picky about what keeps me interested out of bed and off the dance floor," he said truthfully. He didn't add that he wouldn't be stupid enough to keep anyone right now, not while it was still dangerous.
She nodded with a new respect. "Did you learn this the hard way?" She put both elbows on the counter and let the mug hang between her fingers, close to her chest. Her expression was interested, polite but not distant. Micah was as much of a puzzle as ever, and she forgot to remind herself not to care.
"I wouldn't call it the hard way," he said with a grin that said he was no stranger to women. "It was enjoyable, until I realized a woman could look great with me on top of her, and still be boring as hell in the morning." That he wasn't trying to impress her was obvious; it was the truth, plain and simple. "Now, I'm upfront about what I want. But someplace like this? Even being upfront wouldn't be enough. Too much forced, continued contact," he said with a grin.
She tipped her chin to one side. "That's real classy, Micah." It was a tease. She shook her head and let a breath go over her coffee.
He winked, and that same sense of accomplishment filled him that always did when he managed to make her drop some of those walls around him. It was a tease, yes, but it was a far cry from the panic of a few moments earlier. "What do you suggest?" he asked with a laugh.
"Find a nice girl coming out of a bad relationship that gets real lonely but real guilty when she realizes that she used you to make herself feel better after her jerk boyfriend left her." Iris smiled smoothly. "I'll help you if you need a set up."
"How about an amazing woman who keeps me on my toes and never, ever lets me win," he suggested instead. "One who's fantastic in bed, and who has delicious legs. Can you help me with that set up?" he asked.
"Men never know what they need," Iris said, despairing.
"What do I need?" he asked, tone sliding from teasing to true interest.
"What I just said. You need a nice physical relationship with a normal woman about your age so you can relax. Speak Spanish to her in bed and she'll forgive you anything." Iris said this all with a very clinical, even tone, probably to be as infuriating as possible. "Then be very understanding when she kicks you to the curb to get back with her ex."
He stared at her in silence, giving her a look that was unimpressed. It was a look that said he'd expected a serious answer from her, that he was honestly interested in her opinion. Well, curious, was more like it. Admittedly, it would give him a good idea of how well she knew him, assuming she told him the truth.
They waited for a little while in silence until she appeared to give in. "A woman you can tell the truth, then. Good luck finding one that matches the rest of your fantasy." It was a little cruel, but he wanted the truth, so she gave him her opinion.
"How about if I settle for one who keeps me on my toes and never lets me win, and I make the legs optional?" he asked, his tone jesting, but his gaze letting her know that he honestly did consider the former much more important than the latter.
"Then," she said, flashing a grin, "you'd be settling."
He grinned. "No I wouldn't. I'd be getting the thing that matters. You always start bargaining higher than you really want," he told her, and he grabbed her empty mug, and he took it to the sink, along with his own. "I want a partner, Iris. Not a lap dog."
"You're in the right country for that," she said, finding nothing to do with her hands and lacing her fingers together. "But only if you want to stay." She slid easily into Spanish, soft and musical. It hinted at melody she wasn't using. "Can you ever go home?"
"This is home," he said stubbornly, washing the mugs and then wiping his hands on a washcloth as he looked back at her. The look he gave her was completely challenging; it said he would argue tooth and nail about home and not home, and she wasn't going to lull him with the familiar language that he so longed to hear, that he so missed.
She stayed with it anyway, trying to catch his eye. "This is no more your home than mine."
He stubbornly refused to switch to Spanish. "Yeah, well, neither is there."
"Tu familia?"
"I don't have any," he said, and he threw the washcloth in the sink angrily.
By the time the washcloth landed, he was already out of the kitchen and on the way to the window, to the fire escape. Conversation done. The set of his shoulders said this was all too close to home, too raw, too everything. He was done with this conversation.
Oh... oh shit. Iris realized she'd stumbled over something she hadn't intended to. She'd forgotten how good he was at hiding, and she'd hurt him because she'd forgotten there was not always armor where he pretended there was. She slid off the stool and pursued him across the room, not too quickly, stopping a few feet away as he started out the window. "I'm sorry," she said, in English. It had a little bit of a lilt to it that didn't belong in New York. It was not a condolence. She was apologizing.
He stepped out onto the fire escape, but instead of stomping down it (as he wanted to do), he braced his hands on the metal railing and bowed his head. It was only a second, hardly that, but he got his emotions reigned in enough to turn and look at her. "You don't need to apologize, mamita," he said, and he meant it. "I'll make sure the man on the roof keeps his eyes to himself," he said, and he meant that too; his tone was protective, and his gaze was clear, intent. "Go to sleep."
She wasn't going to sleep, but she didn't argue with him. "Thank you for coming." He didn't have to, and she'd certainly given him hell for it.
He hesitated, as if he wanted to say something more, but he didn't in the end. He nodded at her, and he closed her window securely, and he left, climbing back to his own fire escape and into his own apartment in minutes.