The best thing about Milliways is the time difference. After getting stitched up -- again -- Bryce took a room upstairs to recuperate for a day or two. She hurts physically, and she's not sure she wants to face the ruins of Wayne Manor just yet.
Which is why she's coming downstairs in sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt, in search of some food and maybe a nightcap.
. . . That young redhead's legs in that dress are kind of distracting.
(A man wearing an expensive and immaculately tailored suit comes in through the Door. His eyes zero in instantly on Ivy and her books. Then he slides his hands into his pockets and makes his unhurried way to the stairs.)
Ten minutes later, he comes back down in a much cheaper and less flattering suit. He's carrying a briefcase.
He hasn't slipped into character per se, but his body language as he crosses to Ivy's table is ambiguous, in a liminal space that could become inhabited by himself or by someone else at a second's notice. Less than a second.
He slides into a chair at Ivy's table, placing the briefcase next to the books.
"Evening, darling." The words are ones Jimmy O'Malley might choose, but the voice and accent are entirely Jim Moriarty. He looks at Ivy as he speaks, but his attention is focused in narrowly on that pile of books.
"I'm myself at the moment," he says, "though Mr O'Malley mmmight put in an appearance. He's made a connection or two that I don't care to spoil for the time being."
The most important information about that is, of course, a little something he's saving for later. If he decides she should be told.
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Which is why she's coming downstairs in sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt, in search of some food and maybe a nightcap.
. . . That young redhead's legs in that dress are kind of distracting.
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But a billionaire playgirl is, in her own way, a substitute of equal or greater value.
Ivy smiles up at Bryce for a moment, a smile that is nearly a grin, before she dips her head back towards the book.
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Maybe this is a bad idea.
(God, those legs.)
She goes to the bar first and gets a smoothie -- lots of protein, lots of iron -- before wandering back over towards Pamela.
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"Ms. Wayne."
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Ten minutes later, he comes back down in a much cheaper and less flattering suit. He's carrying a briefcase.
He hasn't slipped into character per se, but his body language as he crosses to Ivy's table is ambiguous, in a liminal space that could become inhabited by himself or by someone else at a second's notice. Less than a second.
He slides into a chair at Ivy's table, placing the briefcase next to the books.
"Evening, darling." The words are ones Jimmy O'Malley might choose, but the voice and accent are entirely Jim Moriarty. He looks at Ivy as he speaks, but his attention is focused in narrowly on that pile of books.
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"Good evening yourself."
She looks him over, though she doesn't yet close her book.
(She's earned it, after all.)
"Who are we tonight?"
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The most important information about that is, of course, a little something he's saving for later. If he decides she should be told.
He flashes her a brief smile.
"I see your trip to the library was successful."
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Ivy shrugs, giving a luxuriant stretch.
"I was all kinds of successful."
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When he sees Ivy, he smiles and raises his glass, she's beautiful, "Did you recently discover Conan Doyle?"
It's hard not to peek into her mind but he's learned to be cautious here.
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