Boredom's Lethal Cure [for Lightman]

[HotWheels]

Brigitte Hargrove drifted through the ballroom like a shadow in violet silk, the sleek purple dress clinging to every curve as if it resented sharing her with the room. The fabric whispered against her thighs with each languid step, the off-shoulder jacket draped loosely over her arms the only concession to the evening chill. In one gloved hand she nursed a crystal tumbler of something amber and expensive - barely touched, mostly for show. The ice had long since melted; she hadn’t bothered to refresh it. What was the point, she thought, exhaling a soft, theatrical sigh that parted her painted lips, when everything here was already so... diluted? Why, she also mulled, had she even bothered coming?

To keep up appearances, she supposed. One only kept power by flaunting.

Another sigh left her chest, deeper this time, as she paused beside a marble column and surveyed the crowd with half-lidded blue eyes. Laughter tinkled like cheap crystal. Men in tailored suits postured and preened. Women fluttered fans or eyelashes with equal desperation. All of it so predictably dull. A silver-haired financier approached - third this hour - his gaze lingering far too long on the plunge of her neckline.

“Miss Hargrove, you look-”

“Utterly unoccupied, yes, I know,” she cut in smoothly, voice cool and plainly disinterested. She didn’t even turn fully, merely tilted her head enough to fix him with a stare that could freeze champagne. “Run along. I’m not in the mood to be collected tonight.”

He faltered, muttered something about catching her later, and retreated. Brigitte’s lips curved in the barest hint of a smirk as she watched him go. Pathetic. He’d crumple in seconds if she wrapped her legs around that thick neck, face turning that lovely shade of purple before he tapped like a good boy. The thought sent a faint, pleasant shiver through her thighs; she shifted her weight, crossing one ankle over the other, imagining the same for half the room. The ambassador with the broad shoulders. The young heiress who kept staring. Even the waitress who’d nearly spilled wine on her earlier - all of them so fragile when the blood stopped flowing upward.

She took a slow sip of the watered-down scotch, tongue tracing the rim of the glass in idle boredom once her imagination grew stale. No one here worth the effort of a proper hunt. Just peacocks and prey dressed as predators. Another sigh - this one genuine, weary - escaped as she turned away from the dance floor.

But across the room, a flash of movement caught her eye. A profile. Familiar angles. Something in the way the woman held herself - poise that bordered on lethal.

Brigitte’s pulse quickened, just a fraction - some positive, or perhaps satisfyingly negative, association with the figure she still couldn't place. She straightened imperceptibly, setting the tumbler on a passing tray without looking. With deliberate grace she began to circle the edge of the crowd, heels clicking softly on the marble, angling herself toward a better vantage near the grand staircase. There she paused, one hand resting lightly on the banister, body turned just enough to present her own striking silhouette in the chandelier light - hips cocked, jacket slipping further off one shoulder - as she tried to study the face and waited for the woman to notice her in return.

Spoiler

[Lightman]

Madeline Christiansen had learned long ago that a ballroom could be both cradle and coffin. Tonight it leaned closer to the latter. She slipped through the gilded hall with the ease of someone who once belonged to this sort of world and had since outgrown it, her wine-red gown a deliberate whisper of remembrance rather than allegiance. The silk skimmed her hips as she moved, pooling around her feet in a soft, dark spill that caught the chandelier light like old blood. A thin velvet ribbon circled her throat, its knot tucked neatly beneath the curve of her hair. A keepsake. A warning. A joke she never bothered explaining.

She kept to the perimeter, fingers gliding along the cool marble rail as if reacquainting herself with an old lover she had forgotten the name of. Somewhere nearby, a quartet attempted a waltz that was meant to sound effortless. It did not. She smiled into her glass, a tall flute of something red and dry, and let the music wash over her without ever reaching her. She had danced at finer parties. She had ruined finer parties too.

A pair of diplomats glanced at her way as though unsure whether to attempt another approach. One had leaned in with a pompous sort of eagerness. “Miss Christiansen, you simply must tell us what you think of the new trade initiative. Fascinating, is it not?”

Madeline had taken a slow sip of her drink, eyes cool above the rim. “Fascinating is one word. Ill-advised is another. You strike me as the sort who prefers the first because it sounds cleverer at parties.”

The second diplomat had spluttered. “Are you saying we do not understand our own work?”

“I would never accuse you of that.” she had replied, tapping her glass lightly against his in a mock toast. “Ignorance is so often innocent. It would be cruel to spoil the effect.”

Their expressions had been priceless, a perfect blend of offence and confusion. She had slipped away before they recovered.

She was not here for the people. That much she knew. She was not even here for the nostalgia. But the ballroom’s shine had drawn her in regardless, like a magpie’s impulse she had never quite outgrown. She sank into the background again, watching the crowd swirl in predictable little patterns while she enjoyed the detached pleasure of observing them all unravel in their own small, silly ways.

It was only when a faint shift in the air brushed along her spine that she turned her head. She sensed it before she saw it, a subtle shift in the atmosphere that drew that spine into a straighter line. Something in the crowd had turned its gaze toward her, focused and deliberate, like a hand brushing lightly along the back of her neck. She followed the sensation with a slow turn of her head, eyes narrowing with polite curiosity.

A woman stood near the grand staircase, half draped in chandelier light. Elegant. Intentional. Watching. Madeline did not recognise her, not truly, yet a faint prickle of almost-memory flickered beneath her ribs. Familiar angles without a name attached. Familiar poise without a story to anchor it. She could not have said where or when she might have seen her, only that the sight tugged at some half-forgotten corner of her mind.

The woman adjusted her stance, hips shifting in a way that looked rehearsed but effective, almost as if arranging herself to be admired. It drew an amused breath from Madeline. Ah. So that was the game tonight.

Without letting her gaze linger, she returned her attention to the hall as if nothing had caught her interest at all. Her hand lifted lazily, one finger curling in a subtle beckoning gesture. A quiet, commanding invitation.

Come here. If you dare.

Her lips twitched with the ghost of a private smile. If the woman was hunting for attention, she had just been given the perfect excuse to approach and claim it.

[HotWheels]

Brigitte tasted the name once, silently - Christiansen, she thought - and let it ghost over her tongue and her lips with the recognition. She had seen the face before - some promotional still, a brief few clips of a match. The realization gave reason to the initial string that had pulled her attention, and she noted the woman not only noting her but, even as she feigned indifference, gesturing to her. Not one to be beckoned but willing to acquiesce with the one person of interest in the room, Brigitte noted it with lidded eyes and took her time.

She finished the scotch without haste, the ice shifting once against the glass before she placed it on a waiter’s tray. Then she simply strolled, letting the seconds accumulate. She was in no hurry to discover what this woman wanted, or what she herself might want in return. Conversation, perhaps, or something quieter, two bodies stepping out of the light. She wasn’t certain. The uncertainty itself was pleasant compared to all the scripted games played across a room full of the rich and infamous.

When she had lingered long enough, she adjusted the jacket where it had slipped from one shoulder, drew a slow breath that lifted the violet silk across her breasts, and began to walk.

The path she took was indirect, a slow, narrowing spiral that let her study the woman from every angle without ever appearing to stare. First from behind, then from the side, and finally from the front, close enough now to see the faint sheen of light on the silk, the way the fabric clung and released with each breath. Brigitte stopped far enough away that anyone else would have trouble noticing they resided in the same sphere, but shoulder aligned with shoulder, facing the ballroom as though it were scenery while she placed herself in the woman's periphery.

She considered the possibilities again, unhurried. Words first, probably - something cool, precise, edged. Then, depending on the reply, either polite distance or the slow escalation toward privacy. She pictured a hallway beyond the ballroom, a closed door, the muffled music fading behind them. She pictured the red gown sliding down shoulders, the violet dress pooling at her own feet, the moment when composure cracked and breath became a bargaining chip. Or she pictured nothing of the sort - just two women trading barbed pleasantries until one of them walked away, back to the monotony of the night. Both outcomes interested her equally at the moment.

Her pulse stayed slow, almost lazy. She shifted her weight, letting the silk ride a fraction higher on her thigh, and settled into the silence she had manufactured. Whatever happened next, she decided, would begin only when the other woman chose to break it. For now she was content to stand in the small, charged space across from this near-stranger and wait to learn which of them would speak first.

[Lightman]

The delay became apparent very quickly. Driven by intention, not by what’s missing. Someone had understood the invitation and chosen to answer it on their own terms, stretching the moment thin simply because they could. That alone sharpened the air, coaxing a private amusement into being as Madeline remained outwardly indifferent to everything and everyone around her.

The brunette did not turn to look. That would have spoiled it. Instead, she shifted her weight slightly and rested a gloved hand against the balustrade, posture open, unguarded, as though she had nothing to prove and nowhere else to be. If Madeline was being watched, and she suspected she was, the message was clear enough.

Time lengthened. Madeline allowed it to. She had learned long ago how waiting unsettled people, how silence pressed harder than questions ever could. The music rose and fell behind her, polished and impersonal. Glassware chimed softly. Somewhere close by, a breath slowed to match her own. She imagined the woman lingering over her drink, savouring the pause, choosing not to rush what so few others were patient enough to cultivate.

Then movement began again, indirect and deliberate. Not an approach, not quite. A slow orbit. Madeline felt it at her back, the careful assessment that never quite crossed into staring. The English Rose kept her gaze trained loosely on the ballroom, as though the swirl of bodies and light were endlessly fascinating, though she registered every small shift at her side.

Silk whispered nearby. Weight settled, adjusted, settled again. The other woman was choosing her angles with care. All the while, Madeline did nothing at all. She let her shoulders ease, her breathing deepen, offering no reaction to be mirrored or exploited.

When the presence finally came to rest within her periphery, the brunette permitted herself the barest acknowledgement. Her eyes slid sideways for a heartbeat, enough to recognise shared space, then drifted away once more. No greeting. No smile. Just understanding.

Madeline smoothed her wine-red gown over her hip, fingers tracing the fabric in an idle, precise gesture. The silk caught the light, then fell back into place. She shifted her stance, so they stood nearly shoulder to shoulder, both facing the room as if the other were merely part of the décor.

The silence between them thickened, intentional and unbroken. Madeline had no desire to disturb it. This was not a moment for words. It was a test of patience, and she was content to let it run.

After a while, she lifted two fingers slightly, not looking away as a waiter drifted close. A low murmur followed, nothing more. Moments later, a crystal tumbler was placed neatly into her hand, amber liquid catching the chandelier glow. Madeline did not drink straight away. She simply held it, elbow relaxed at her side, as though the night itself had paused to watch.

If conversation came, it would arrive in its own time. For now, Madeline remained exactly where she was, sharing the charged stillness with a near stranger who had chosen restraint over impulse. And that choice alone kept her attention.

[HotWheels]

Brigitte let the silence stretch, allowing them to simply linger in the charged atmosphere of one another’s near space. She did not look at the woman, but she didn't need to stare to know the other woman did not ignore her. She caught the weight of the other woman’s gaze in her periphery, a tangible touch against her skin, and only then did Brigitte even partially return the glance.

And the woman did not leave. She gave no attention to the droll parade of socialites around them; she lingered, clearly interested, anchoring herself with a fresh drink as if bracing for an event. Brigitte felt the gentlest buzz from her own scotch humming in her veins, a warmth that suggested they were both perfectly suited and open to exploring exactly where this tension might lead. Yet, that same buzz urged her not to capitulate just yet. Why end the tension when she could pull it taut? The thrill of a spy-like chase was far more appealing than a simple introduction.

Brigitte unmoored herself from the spot, drifting silently until she wandered the space behind Christiansen. She found a low marble plinth to lean against with her back arched, situating herself close enough to intrude on the woman's personal sphere, yet distant enough that to an observer, they remained strangers. From this vantage, she indulged. Brigitte took a long, healthy look, her blue eyes tracing the slope of the woman’s back, lingering shamelessly on the curve of her ass, and assessing the power in her legs beneath the gown.

Only once she satisfied herself with the view did she let her voice ghost forward, cool and amused.

"It is rather amusing, don't you think?" she murmured to the back of the woman’s head. "That the two most fetching people in the room have managed to successfully ward off every bore in sight... only to find that we are left with the sole responsibility of entertaining one another."

Her eyes flicked to the glass in Madeline’s hand.

"And even then," she added, a touch of dryness coloring her tone, "we both require a drink to tolerate the prospect."

[Lightman]

The proximity registered before the voice did. A shift of air at her back, the subtle claim of space that was neither accidental nor apologetic. It was an old tactic. One that works well. Madeline remained, unflinching and unfazed. She let the moment settle, let the awareness of being studied trace its slow, deliberate path along her spine without offering the satisfaction of a reaction.

And then the voice came, low and amused, directed not at her eyes but at her nape. Madeline’s mouth curved faintly around the rim of her glass. So. That was how this woman chose to step into the open.

The brunette took a measured sip before answering, the amber warmth grounding rather than dulling her focus. Only after swallowing did she turn her head just enough to acknowledge the speaker, not fully facing her, but granting her a profile and a cool glance, assessing, and unapologetically curious.

“Fetching.” she echoed lightly, as though testing the word for balance. “That is generous. Most people here mistake loud confidence for charm and hope no one notices the difference.” Her eyes flicked briefly over Brigitte now, unhurried, precise. “But you are correct about one thing. The room does empty rather quickly once one stops pretending to be impressed. Bores tend to wilt when they realise they are neither wanted nor winning.”

She lifted her glass a fraction, a quiet salute that acknowledged the shared deflection of the crowd. “As for the drink, I find it less of a necessity and more of a courtesy. To myself, mostly. One should arrive prepared when anticipating poor company.”

Her gaze lingered a moment longer than strictly polite, then she turned back toward the ballroom, leaving the space between them intact but undeniably claimed. “Entertaining one another, though…” she added, tone smooth and faintly barbed. “…implies obligation. I prefer to think of this as a mutual indulgence. Entirely optional.”

She shifted her stance at last, angling herself just enough that the invitation, if it was one, could be answered. Or ignored. “Still…” Madeline continued, voice softer now, threaded with challenge. “…since you have already taken the trouble to announce yourself, it would be rude of me not to respond. Madeline Christiansen.”

A pause. Measured. Intentional.

“And you are?”

[HotWheels]

Brigitte did not blink. As the woman turned, offering a profile somehow more intriguing than the back she had been admiring, Brigitte's casual, passive assessment shifted instantly. She ended the passive appreciation of the stranger's silhouette; in its place came a sharp, predatory focus. Brigitte peeled her shoulder from the marble plinth and leaned in, invading the air between them, her blue eyes locking onto Madeline’s face with unabashed scrutiny. She mapped the soft features, the prominent eyes, searching for nothing in particular but everything at once.

Through that intense stare, she spoke. "Generous, perhaps," Brigitte conceded, her voice dropping to a murmur that felt like a secret shared in the dark. "But accurate. You have a face that tells me you're used to being the only young curiosity in a room of old money."

She tilted her head, watching the way Madeline held her glass.

"But it begs a question - if one arrives so thoroughly prepared for disappointment, armed with courtesy drinks and a shield of indifference... why arrive at all?" Brigitte’s eyes narrowed slightly, a glimmer of amusement dancing in the blue depths. "Is it a form of social masochism? Or is it a gambler's hope? That perhaps, among the chaff, you might find someone actually... worth meeting? Or do you simply enjoy toying with the expectations of fools?"

She let her gaze sweep the room once more, a dismissive huff of breath escaping her lips as she took in the tuxedoed monotony, before her eyes snapped back to the woman in red.

"As for obligation..." Brigitte hummed, stepping away from her pillar to close the final distance. "I have been accused, on occasion, of viewing others as having obligations to me. I tend to expect entertainment as a right, not a privilege." She paused, letting a small, dangerous smile touch her lips. "Though, I suppose in this dull of a venue, one must temper one's demands."

She moved then, sliding into the space right beside Madeline. She stood shoulder-to-shoulder, but she did not stop at the polite distance strangers kept. She pressed into the woman’s personal gravity, uncomfortably close, intimate enough that the heat of their bodies could mingle. As she settled, she let her posture relax, allowing the violet silk jacket to slip further down her arm, exposing the creamy skin of her shoulder in a calculated display of disarray.

"Right. Madeline," Brigitte tasted the name aloud, confirming the recognition that had drawn her here in the first place. A wrestler indeed. "Brigitte Hargrove."

[Lightman]

Madeline did not retreat when the distance vanished. If anything, she settled into it, spine easy, chin lifting a fraction as Brigitte’s focus sharpened into something far more intent. The scrutiny did not unsettle her. She had lived under harder stares than this, had learned when to absorb attention and when to turn it back like a blade. Her eyes met that blue without flinching, steady and appraising in return.

“Perceptive one, aren’t you?” She replied quietly, voice smooth but unyielding. “Though being a curiosity loses its novelty rather quickly. One learns to be selective about who is allowed to linger.” Her gaze traced Brigitte’s face in the same unhurried way, not mirror to mirror, but challenge to challenge. “Rooms like this are not built for people who still surprise themselves. They tend to prefer certainty. Age does that to money. Old money, new money, borrowed money. It all looks rather the same once you stop bowing to it.”

She considered the question that followed, not because it demanded careful thought, but because she enjoyed making silence work for her. Her glass turned slowly between her fingers, catching the light. “Why, indeed?” Madeline echoed. “Because sometimes disappointment is instructive. And sometimes it is interrupted. It’s only unpleasant if one arrives unarmed.” Her eyes flicked briefly to Brigitte’s, sharp with implication. “I would hardly call that masochism. Calculated patience, perhaps.”

The dismissive sweep of Brigitte’s gaze across the room earned a faint, knowing smile. “As for fools…” Madeline continued, “…they tend to toy with themselves. I simply allow them the space to do so.”

When Brigitte closed the last of the distance, Madeline neither shifted away nor leaned in. She held her ground, shoulder brushing shoulder, heat registering without comment. The intimacy was noted. Filed. She glanced sideways at the slippage of violet silk, the exposed line of shoulder, and hummed softly in acknowledgement. “Expecting entertainment as a right is a bold philosophy.” said Madeline. “Dangerous, too. Rights have a way of being challenged. But this suggests confidence. Or experience. Possibly both. I suspect you are accustomed to rooms giving way when you decide to occupy them.”

She turned then, just enough to face Brigitte properly, their proximity unchanged. “Although I do admire the honesty.” She added, eyes bright with something competitive and amused. “It saves time.”

At the sound of her own name spoken back to her, Madeline inclined her head slightly, a courteous gesture that did not soften her expression. “Brigitte Hargrove.” she repeated, letting it settle. “A pleasure. And a rather bold introduction, I must say.”

She took a final, unhurried sip of her drink, then lowered the glass. “Now then…” Madeline continued, tone cordial but edged with challenge. “…the question becomes whether you intend to keep me entertained, or whether this was merely a demonstration of capability. Either way, you have my attention.”

[HotWheels]

If only the woman knew. If only any of them knew. Brigitte maintained her small, knowing smile, offering a low, appreciative hum in response to Madeline’s assessment of the room, while her mind drifted briefly to the absent Charles Hargrove. Her marriage offered nothing but a sham of affection, yes, but it also offered utility. It had purchased her immunity. She no longer existed in limbo as a "young, pretty thing" to be ogled and claimed by the bloated aristocracy; she could claim her last name. She wielded her husband's name and wealth like a cudgel, shutting down unwanted advances with the same efficiency she used to shut down a body. She could threaten these men and women with financial ruin just as easily as she could threaten to crush the air from their lungs with her thighs. She chose her company because she had the power to discard everyone else.

But she kept that satisfaction to herself.

"You are far too generous with them, I think," Brigitte tutted, her smile sharpening as she addressed Madeline's comment on patience. "I have found that I possess a certain... character flaw. I am entirely self-interested. I have no desire to watch fools toy with themselves when I could be deriving benefit from them - or from something or someone far more interesting - directly." Her eyes glittered. "I find that people learn much faster when the lesson involves a degree of discomfort, too - physical discomfort. Not only embarrassment. They can brush that off too easily."

She let the shoulder-to-shoulder contact linger, enjoying the heat radiating between them, and when Madeline noted her confidence and control of a room, Brigitte did not demur. "I am," she confirmed smoothly. "Whether it is achieved through looks, a carefully applied word, or... the application of my physical talents, the result are all... well, largely the same. I get what I want."

Brigitte turned then, mirroring Madeline’s shift so they were finally face-to-face, effectively shutting out the rest of the gala. She reached up with a slow, deliberate hand, tucking a lock of raven hair behind her ear to expose the full curve of her jaw and neck to the other woman’s scrutiny.

"Yes. Why be timid?" Brigitte countered softly. "Timidity is a survival tactic, and I prefer to thrive. Neither of us has the disposition for playing defense, do we? And exactly as you said, it saves time."

She glanced down at the glass in Madeline's hand. Brigitte reached out, her manicured nail tapping the crystal rim right where Madeline’s lips had just rested as her eyes remained locked on the woman, seemingly forming their own gravity.

"However, you mistake the dynamic," she murmured, her gaze lifting back to Madeline's eyes. "If we are dispensing with polite fiction, then you should know: I fully expect you to keep me entertained. But we can call it whatever suits our respective egos."

Brigitte’s expression cooled slightly as she cast one final, disdainful look at the crowded ballroom over Madeline’s shoulder.

"But not here, hmm?"

She leaned back just enough to break the intimate seal of their proximity, inclining her head and sliding her gaze meaningfully toward the arched passage that led away from the main hall - toward the quiet, the shadows, and privacy.

[Lightman]

Madeline listened without interruption, her expression composed as Brigitte spoke of patience, of discomfort, of self-interest sharpened into doctrine. There was a clarity to it that she respected, even if she did not mirror it outright. She turned the words over slowly, as though weighing their edges, and found that none of them rang false. Some people survived by blending in. Others by being untouchable. Brigitte, she suspected, belonged firmly in the latter camp.

“Being generous differs from being indulgent.” Madeline replied at last, tone even but not soft. “I allow fools their space because they are predictable there. Pull them too close, and they become tedious. Or messy.” Her eyes flicked briefly to Brigitte’s smile. “I prefer to choose my inconveniences.”

She did not shy away from the contact as it lingered. If anything, she seemed to settle into it, her posture relaxed, her presence unyielding. She recognised the truth in what Brigitte said about control, about methods differing only in presentation. Madeline had built her own reputation on a similar understanding, though she wore it differently. Where Brigitte pressed, Madeline endured. Where Brigitte dominated, Madeline outlasted.

“That much is obvious.” She said, when Brigitte spoke of getting what she wanted. “And I imagine very few people are foolish enough to stand in your way once they realise what sort of leverage you favour.” Her gaze sharpened slightly, appraising rather than admiring. “Still, confidence has a habit of inviting challenge. You must find that part of the appeal.”

When Brigitte turned fully to face her, closing the world down to the space between them, Madeline allowed herself a more open look. She noted the exposed line of throat, the deliberate vulnerability masquerading as confidence. It was well executed. She did not reach out. She did not need to.

“Timidity and defence are not the same thing.” Madeline countered calmly. “Some of us simply know when to advance.” Her lips curved, faint but unmistakable. “But you are right about one thing. Neither of us is here to wait for permission.”

The tap against her glass drew her attention downward for a brief moment before her eyes lifted again, steady and unperturbed. She did not pull the drink away. She did not lean in either. “You expect to be entertained…” she repeated lightly. “…and that is a dangerous expectation. It tends to end poorly for people who assume they are the only ones with standards.” She followed Brigitte’s glance toward the crowd, the sea of polished faces and hollow conversations. Her agreement was immediate, though she did not rush to voice it. When she did, it was with a decisive nod.

“No. Not here.”

Madeline turned at last, angling her body toward the arched passage without yet stepping into it. She took a final sip from her glass, then set it aside on a passing tray with deliberate care. “If we are to, as you say, dispense with polite fiction…” she added, eyes returning to Brigitte with quiet challenge, “…then let us do so somewhere the walls are not listening.”

She gestured subtly toward the shadows beyond the hall, not as an invitation but as a statement of intent. “After all…” she continued, voice low and composed, “…entertainment is rarely improved by an audience.” And with that, she waited, neither leading nor retreating, perfectly content to see whether Brigitte would follow or force the issue.