bakerstreet | ‧:❉:‧ winter meme

There's the key--

--and there's a woman with a kitchen knife in her hand, which inspires such an expression as can only be described 'Enfys thinks you've just told a really great joke'. The key she was given is presently attached to a key-chain featuring a selection of brightly colored and cheerful looking skulls, so there's that to say for her sense of humour.

“I'm meant to be here, which means you aren't, and I could cut glass with my tits right now so everybody'll be happier if we have this conversation inside?” ...it's a pretty good explanation, in her opinion. There's a reason Enfys doesn't work in a job that requires a lot of interpersonal interaction. Actually, there's lots of reasons. This is usually pretty clear upon meeting her. Other things that are clear: she hasn't got the faintest idea who Irene is, and is prioritizing finding out much lower than 'not freezing my tits off out here'. She has a smile like something that is not and has never been tame, which comes like reflex at being presented with this inconvenient stranger who is slowing down her progress to warmth, and that slap-dash air of 'oh God what now' narrows down to a fine point of unexpected competence. It's a gift.

(Her hat says 'WILDLIFE', and has a pom-pom.)

"Sounds useful, can't imagine why you're complaining," Irene remarks, managing to sound detached and dry even as she pointedly doesn't move. When in doubt, always act like you own the place.

Or maybe just always act like you own the place, no matter what the circumstances are.

She's doing a good job, actually, of looking like she hasn't the faintest idea of how to use that knife, which is surprisingly hard when she's actually very aware of how to use it most efficiently. But that's where drama school gets you (well, if your life is appropriately insane after drama school, that is).

"You're meant to be here, are you? Fabulous. Got any ID?" she says, bright and cheerful, smiling with too many teeth and thinking I am going to freeze, but not before I make her miss a beat.

“Yeah, it says 'Hello I'm kiss me, I'm Welsh',” Enfys says, more than a little bit dryly. “Look, sweetheart, I'm sure somebody cares who you are and why you're here, but I'm not getting paid enough to do things that aren't my job, and I have actually got shit to do, so that someone isn't me. Do you mind moving or what?”

The 'or what' probably involves 'taking the knife from Irene and handling this moving business herself', but Christ, she's had an arse of a time getting up here and it's still snowing. If they could skip the physical altercation part...

...not that she's not fond. At least that part makes sense.

It's with some slight astonishment and delight that Irene says:

"You really don't know who I am."

She could say 'what fun', and not have to change her tone of voice whatsoever.

She steps back, and gestures her inside- yes, with the knife- and tilts her head to one side. The expression on her face is one of slightly hungry interest, a now I wonder what I could do with you sort of look.

"Well, come in. Try not to drip on the carpet."

...well, that's comforting, Enfys doesn't think.

But, never passing up the opportunity to be flippant like a brick to the face, “Also? Don't care.”

As she does make her way in, it's perhaps increasingly obvious that she was more at home dealing with 'person wielding a knife' than 'person looking at her like she's candy' - that might have something to do with the machete strapped to her hip that becomes visible when she takes her coat off, peeling away with gloves and hat and revealing beneath someone misleadingly difficult to take seriously in an oversized sweater and leggings.

“Oh, it's all warm in here already, that's nice--”

"Yes, you do," Irene sing-songs beneath her breath, shutting the door behind her and staring at with that same thoughtful-slash-threatening expression because oh good; she can wield looks much better than knives and she can wield knives pretty well.

She's worked out that being sharp at her isn't going to work, but that's alright; Irene's well-versed in the fact that getting angry means losing control, and if you can't control yourself you certainly can't control the situation, can you?

"I didn't catch your name. Well, aside from kiss me, I'm Welsh, which- forgive me- doesn't roll off the tongue."

The ways of getting under Enfys's skin are-- well, easier, sometimes, than sharpness or threats. She knows where she stands with those, knows what she's doing, knows that that is her territory she's on. It's everything else that leaves her a bit unsure of what to do-- except that her response to uncertainty is recklessness, to pick a direction and run headfirst in it, full tilt, because that's the only way she knows how to do most things, really.

It makes things interesting. As a general rule.

“Enfys Llewelyn,” she says, which is and is not true but is the only name she's answered to for a long time now. It makes sense to her to be ... well, if not nice then personable, because she's not getting back down from this place until the snow's at least stopped falling, which means sticking around until then and sorting out needful needfuls when the time comes. “Wheeeeere might I find the kitchen in a place like this, d'you know?”

"Oh, staying for dinner, are you?"

Irene straightens up and clicks by her, beckoning her onwards. "This way. God knows it's well-stocked. Max is apparently preparing for a nuclear apocalypse."

Max being the man who owns this house, lovely chap with such a thing for leather and so trusting, mainly because Irene is one of his secrets, and he doesn't think of keeping things from her. He thinks of keeping her from other people.

She keeps her eyes on Enfys, knife drooping from her fingers and a dirty, gossipy smile on her face because tell me what the hell you're doing here just won't work.

And she's got to do something.

“Well, 2012.”

...is a misunderstanding about how calendars work and Enfys has had that argument about a half dozen times since that stupid movie with John Cusack came out because there's just something about her that can't pass up the opportunity to be more right than somebody else about apocalypse theories, but it's also an easy joke at Max's expense and consistency is for suckers. The defense of a small mind, she was once told.

In the kitchen, she pushes her sleeves to her elbows (skinny thing, all sharp edges, but not gangly, aware of her body, moves like something animal in that natural predator way, uninterested in becoming housebroken) and starts getting herself acquainted because apparently she's also making dinner, probably something obnoxiously hearty because she's not exactly a sophisticated gourmet, here.

“He's a nice bloke, that one,” she says, conversationally, not unbiased by what she's getting paid for this job - she's not posh or pretending to be, but parts of that outfit were not cheap, she's not doing half-bad for herself, with whatever it is she does. “Polite.”

‧:❉:‧ winter meme

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