mapsincolor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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bakerstreet2013-12-07 05:37 pm
mapsincolor) wrote in bakerstreet2013-12-07 05:37 pm
Entry tags:
The Mistletoe Meme
Oh no, mistletoe!
SHOOT. Who put that there?! Well, you’re caught - pucker up!
How to Play
- Post your character and canon in the subject line
- Next person who responds is the one you’re caught under the mistletoe with!
- Go as awkward, sweet, or embarrassing as you like! (Quick cheek peck? Full French? Sure! But you have to kiss or the Nargles will get you!)
- Comment, Tag, and catch others under the mistletoe. Have fun!
no subject
Major, remember your blood pressure. Breathe in very slowly -
And calmly remind Dorian to do the same.
For few and far between come the opportunities when labour marries leisure, and Eroica is hard pressed not to milk them for their last drop of narrative convenience: a timely assignment involving a Viennese aristocrat's Christmas fête? Splendid! White tie affair, grossly overpriced spiced wine? By all (decadent) means! The good Major as a grudging escort? Oh, Santa, Dorian has been good.
Why, to top everything, he only took within an hour of their arrival to spot the much sought after little beads containing a novel explosive prohibited worldwide. Dare Dorian say it? Bravo, self.
Sadly, his good luck streak honours its reputation as a tease and abandons Dorian here and now: recovering a pack of beads from where they're strategically placed among the regular fruit of a mistletoe bundle is a manageable annoyance. Accomplishing that feat when the particular mistletoe is happily perched on the high ceiling of a crowded ballroom? Not so much. Dorian admires the logistics, really - a member of the hired 'event management personnel' plants the beads, someone in 'custodian services' recovers them, the twain never seen to meet, and poor Baron Lamberg hasn't the faintest that his family's 600 year-old home has briefly hosted nuclear weapon transactions. But damn it all to hell, this means Dorian actually has to use his brain cells.
The first steps, at least, are very simple: one drags one [1] piece of Major below the offending mistletoe. One elbows Uncle NATO until he's amenable to such fine activities as, say, looking up. And then, if one is very foppish, one whispers with a sigh - ]
Thus dies romance, doesn't it, darling?
[ A pause, as the crowd coughs expectantly. ]
...I don't suppose your training included 'strategic acts of ravishing in the line of duty,' did it, Major?
kjsasdhs DORIAN hello
But work is work - duty, duty. And Eroica is a part of that, at least - a piece of the plan that's going to get him the hell out of here with the goods in hand and his sanity more or less unscathed. But he knows how to be a goddamn trial while he does it, as usual, and by the time Klaus has been dragged to the middle of the ballroom his plaster smile is flaking, his party posture threatening to revert to military. But he looks up, taking a drag off his champagne flute as a pretense for tipping his face to the ceiling before he realizes he really doesn't need one.
There's a blank expression he's cultivated for occasions just such as these. It wouldn't do to treat everyone to the glare that signifies his truly profound lack of amusement. All he sees is mistletoe, and, perhaps unfairly considering Eroica's record, he sees no reason to look further. ]
Not ravishing, no.
[ His smile is tight, his words are low. He slings his arm around Eroica's shoulders, one hand resting - light and friendly - on his shoulder blade. Maybe it's not too late to play this off. He doesn't grab him by the collar and usher him to the coat room, because - appearances, appearances. ]
Nor strategic ass-kickings for contractors who think they're fucking funny, but - I think I could improvise.
why, hello c:
He hisses, protesting the brutality and Klaus' unfortunate blindness (very sad, Major, do expect a fruit basket). ]
I bill by the bruise, dear boy, bill by the bruise.
[ And this is the sort of bland, nonchalant stare that says, And you're about to be charged five times the going rate.
But see here, Eberbach, this is work rather than play, and an Eroica unequipped to handle a professional puzzle sees him both immensely frustrated and oddly entertained. He nods to the mistletoe again, careful to stare at the nearby chandelier after in a show of interest in the household's interior decorations. ]
Now, let Daddy Dorian improve your education: you're looking at what's there, aren't you? Tsk. Amateur's folly. Mind, completely excusable until your... third? Third job. [ Ahem. Hint, Major: this is far past your third job. ] Follow the light play until it finally occurs to your beastly head that drupes are neither transparent, nor particularly reflective.
no subject
You could try saying what you mean, every once in a while. [ But the cold force behind his complaints is gone; he sees it, now. The glow, too bright, too conductive, of one of the clusters of berries (drupes, Jesus, fine) catches his attention and leaves little room in his mind for exasperation. He mutters: ] Good.
[ But now they have to get the damned things down. An plan occurs to him immediately - to be honest, it occurred to him the moment he walked in, quite unconnected to the task at hand - but it's not as could be called subtle, and Eroica will probably have some kind of ridiculous qualms about starting fires in the vicinity of so much 16th century crap. ]
Ideas, Lord Gloria? [ Klaus meets his gaze; his cold sliver of a smile and the unpleasant glint in his eye suggests he might just have one. ]
no subject
The world's end will be occurring within approximately 0.29 seconds, and they will all salute their armed tank overlords. Nothing short of sadism and an unfortunate fixation with shiny metal things explains why Major Klaus von dem Eberbach is currently - God help them all - amused.
Fortunately, Dorian's own obsessive streak keeps his eyes firmly trained on the mistletoe that is very much not at hand. ]
Don't smile, Major. It's very frightening.
[ But their prize, their prize, their prize... the height's the problem, far more so than the crowd. A distraction of sorts can always be arranged, but covertly introducing a ladder into the equation is a hopeless affair. No, it's to be force, or deceit. No way around it.
Finally, he turns to search the good Major's expression - because what use is trust between allies, after all - and almost sacrifices the playful edge: ]
My creative spirit relies entirely on how many men you have on watch other than the ones you've told me about. And on how well they're armed.
no subject
Twelve, total. Of course they're armed, idiot. [ He's told Eroica about eight of them - the four on the roof are on Eroica duty. This is not, as they say, his first rodeo. But now that he has the information, at least, that he needs, he's a bit more willing to share. ] They don't help you get up there. You'd make a hell of a scene swinging from the chandelier, anyway.
[ But they might just need a scene, at the end of the day. He can take it through the ceiling if he has to - hell, he could shoot it down if he had to, assuming Eroica can catch anything that isn't a cold - but all of these people are a problem. ] You're a very expensive show.
no subject
[ In fact - and he very much catches a champagne flute off a tray on its merry way to God knows where - he'll need to start early on that. The sooner he's far too inebriated to be held accountable before the execution firing squad Klaus will commission for the occasion, the better. ]
Now, my love, I know your Teutonic pride simply calls for a little bit of satisfaction - [ A grimace over the first sip of his drink. ] Perrier-Jouët, really?
[ The new Baroness' touch, no doubt. Sigh. Oh, to be young and nouveau riche. Back to the greenery. ]
...but may I suggest a cold shower instead, and leaving the plot and plunder for a time when it doesn't pose direct and imminent danger to my hair? [ His curls just can't survive a shooting and hold their bounce, it's terrible. Just terrible. ] Be a good boy and drink up, and tell your fellows to be ready to play escort in twenty.
no subject
[ The way Klaus is gripping the stem of his glass, it's a wonder it doesn't shatter - but he has to reserve that energy for later, of course. He can't give Eroica the what-for he'd like to in public. And then, there's a certain quantity of trust here; just as he knows the man never says what he means, he knows he never shows his cards until he finds his perfect moment. It's stupid, infuriating, irresponsible, but it's what he always does and they keep cutting him a fucking check for it, don't they?
He drinks, more because he needs to than because he's been asked. Champagne is champagne - it doesn't do a damn thing. ] Twenty minutes we can do. Not much longer. I'll have them on the exits.
[ He touches his glass to Eroica's as though they're crossing swords. ]
And if you get me out of here sooner, maybe I won't even make you turn out your pockets. [ He's vaguely aware that he's been too close to him for too long, conversing too intently, but he is past giving a fuck. It's one of those nights - all you want is to go blow off some steam, but someone's decided to violate a nonproliferation treaty. ]
no subject
Now, now, dear boy, if body searching is your fetish, you need only ask.
[ He wastes an incredulous glance Klaus' way, half-waiting to see him pass instruction to his cronies from this distance. What will it be? Bird whistles? Fire signals? Well, he supposes gentlemen never build espionage empires and tell.
Besides, he has his target, and it's moving, closer and closer, he only needs to wait a few seconds more... ]
Major...? Before I embark on this — operation, I'd appreciate an official guarantee that you will take every precaution at your disposal to see me survive it.
[ And slower - ]
Every precaution.
no subject
Don't be disgusting.
[ The watch makes another move. But then Eroica's throwing a hell of a red flag, and for a split second Klaus stops again. If they had the luxury of precautions, they wouldn't get into half the scrapes they wind up in. But he knows what it means - and he responds with a terse nod, all business, meeting Eroica's eyes again for half a second. It's not the most reassuring comment Eroica has made all night, but Klaus doesn't mind hauling out deadly force when he has to - that's the first precaution that leaps to mind, of course - and he does mind losing men. Which Eroica is, loathe as he is to admit it. ]
Consider it official. [ He downs the rest of his champagne, mutters into his watch under pretense of wiping his mouth on his sleeve - at the ready, stand by, twenty minutes or at my signal - and, finally, drops his hand from Eroica's shoulder blade and half turns toward the side of the room where the champagne lives. ] I think I'll have another. [ Or get near enough to the window to confirm an all-clear with A, but there's no need to get into details, really. ] You want to tell me what the fuck you're thinking?
no subject
No. Don't you be disgusting.
[ Delivered, maybe, with the righteous indignation of any master thief, whose professionalism can't possibly abide him to ruin a respectable conman record with the stain of a full disclosure collaboration with government service. Dear him, next the Major will be wanting him to honestly fill out his taxes.
Thankfully, his mark finally parades in view, and he takes the diversion, fluffing up his precious, precious hair with the flip of a hand, before launching suicide plan #4 of the evening - ]
Be sure you include yourself on the list of available threats to my extended health.
[ Step one: casually inch a little to the side, entirely in the way of the passing by waiter and his giant tray of emptied champagne flutes.
Step two: extend leg.
Step three: briefly experience a moment's regret at the wasted view, when the waiter trips and turns out to have a delectable derriere.
Step four: sigh deeply over step three.
Step five: allow exactly 1.5 seconds for all of the waiter's collected flutes to meet the floor in a resounding crash of broken glass, thus drawing the eye of the entire room to the poor chap, Dorian and the Major behind him, and the mistletoe above.
Step six: sigh deeply over the inevitable broken ribs that will result from step seven, in spite of Eberbach's sworn oath, because you never< i>can trust the government.
Step seven: thank God for an altogether minor height difference, before clinging to Klaus like an army of mistresses to a diamond ring, and presenting the Major with what is possibly the world's most public and half-hearted kiss - look, this isn't Dorian's choice of a romantic intervention - of all time. ]
no subject
And the sharp onset of dread it evokes is immediately vindicated - always reliable, Eroica.
He freezes; his spine snaps even straighter, he goes rigid; and his hand flies immediately to Eroica's lapel, gathering his shirtfront and jacket together in a vice-like grip entirely devoid of consideration for the tensile strength of his shirt buttons. It's only the weight of his fury that keeps him immobile for the two seconds he tolerates Eroica's lips on his. Then he jerks his face back - utterly red - and his eyes narrow violently.
There's silence - murmuring - someone's fucking clapping - and that's it. Klaus is through. Something in his throat clicks. He growls:]
Come on.
[ He makes a savage about-face (but there's no turning away from all the eyes in the room, is there), hauling Eroica behind him and toward the door. He hasn't yet formed a thought as coherent as an accusation, but he knows he didn't sign up for this shit. And he knows if he doesn't put a stop to it right fucking now he's going to be hearing about it until he dies, or Eroica does. ]
no subject
Of course a man of the Major's standing has a silent duty to make a pain of himself on every given operation, and having successfully identified just the 0.3 seconds when Dorian was otherwise engaged in an apologetic grimace to the anguished waiter, Eberbach had decided to honour his commitment with the NATO brand of "CRUSH. KILL. DESTROY" subtlety.
Sadly, on this particular occasion, Dorian must insist on putting his foot down - quite literally, as he tries to oppose physical resistance to the drag-the-flailing-weakling-turned-potato-sack sequence of their evening. Sinners and saints, but he needs an extra few pounds. And muscle. And a large bat.
He'll settle for muttering (and the bat). ]
Wrong - way. Go back. You - [ Incomprehensible idiot. ] - go back!
[ He takes a moment to survey the crowd, exercising his best smile to compensate for the Major's regularly scheduled absence of charm. But acting is secondary right now - he has to talk (while the Major still leaves him working teeth) - and talk fast. ]
Ask our host to purchase the mistletoe. Say it's a present for your new lover: a token to remember our first kiss by. For God's sake, they've - everyone's just seen it.
[ Damn everything to hell, but he's never given an untrained conman instruction before. ]
If Lamberg fusses, say you want that particular weed, because I'll just know otherwise, and you're hoping to end up in my, ah - graces, and doesn't Lamberg understand? Didn't he just get himself a fickle new wife? Of course, of course, and you're such an admirer of his, too.
[ There's an "And run off with the swag" in there, somewhere, but if Klaus is ever to become a respectable member of the criminal society, Dorian has to start believing in his instincts for flight, rather than fight at some point. ]
This way takes less than twenty minutes.
no subject
You want me to go tell that man that you are - [ God, he can't even say it without the words sticking in his throat like fish bones -] my new lover.
[ He considers enumerating the reasons why he absolutely will do no such thing: (1) he will literally die, (2) no one would ever believe him, (3) his visceral reaction to even thinking about it will, once again, cause him literally to die. But he knows there's no chance in hell he'll get through all of that without making an even bigger scene than they already have, so he refrains. ]
I will not. [ Everyone has just seen it, though, and it might be even worse to suffer through that for nothing. If this is what he's stuck with (oh God, the debriefing, oh God) he should make it worth his while. ] You do it. [ Except that will just compound the problem, because he can only imagine the kind of shit Eroica will say about him if left unsupervised and given free creative license. ] - No. [ Fuck fuck fuck. He smooths down the front of his shirt, forces his hands to come out of fists, and looks vaguely ill. ] Go get a goddamned drink and stay fucking still and don't talk to anybody.
no subject
A crowded room, yes, but Iron Klaus's hawk eyes are the only ones to fear, and they'll be conveniently distracted for the five minutes required for Dorian's disappearance act. ]
Why, darling. I can't for the world of me think of a more splendid idea.
[ ...than evacuating the premise via ballroom door #9. Bless Northernmost exits and humanity's subconscious tendency to avoid their vicinity because of the occasional chill. Yes, door #4 will do nicely. ]
I'll just have a little sit and rest my wretchedly oppressed feet -
[ By inflicting a casual gait on them, versus a full on mother-of-pearls-the-German-git's-brought-the-bloody-tank-out-for-a-stroll-again gallop. Making him trot by twelve NATO goons in these shoes, Klaus, really? By Jove, Eberbach, that's cruel an unusual and a mighty shame: everyone knows effort is for people who aren't wearing Italian leather. ]
And you can run along now and play with all the other homicidal children and their gunpowder, treason and plot until this nasty saving the world business has been sorted.
[ Easily sorted, much like Dorian's smuggling arrangements after he Cinderellas out of this castle with half the new Baroness' jewels. Turn Eroica's pockets out, the nerve of the man - as if all of Dorian's loot could possibly fit in that cramped space. ]
I'll wait for you peacefully. [ Possibly, in Paris. ] Really.