awesome_binomial_theorems | [OOM] Oswin, Moriarty and Poker.

[OOM] Oswin, Moriarty and Poker.

Moriarty's room is - much as someone would expect. There's a bed, a desk with an array of soil samples and various examining equipment (as well as a pile of unmarked papers) and a few large armchairs and a leather sofa set around a coffee table.

Moriarty holds open the door for Oswin, before setting the bottles on the coffee table and taking off his coat, hanging it up by the door. His boots are deposited beneath it. After all, it's rude to wear a coat and boots inside.

"I hope you don't mind losing too much," he says cheerily.

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"Mmm-hmmm." She hums knowingly around the bottle, grimacing at the burn as she scoops her cards back into her hand. "Discarding... three."

"And your bet, baking girl?" Moriarty asks, glancing at his cards.

"I am doomed to forever be known for my pastries." She sighs, because really, twice in a row. That's tragic, that is. "I'll raise you another article."

Moriarty looks a little unsure at that. He gives his cards an ever-so-slightly wary glance.

"As you will," he says eventually. "I'll call."

He drops his cards onto the table. "Straight."

Oswin wrinkles her nose at her cards, and drops them on the table. Two queens and a pair of threes fail to do anything spectacular with the six they've been dumped in with.
"Two pair. Maybe it won't just be for my pastries." She allows, making a mental note to stop playing the odds - though she'd be sure that, most likely, a pair of queens would help her stand her ground at a showdown. She is, however, good at her word - after dropping her cards, she stands and shimmies out of her stockings, and pulls her sweater off.

Moriarty does try not to stare. His success is limited - the result is some very poorly concealed, lingering glances, blushing fiercely, looking away at anything else, then before long his gaze being drawn back.

Eventually, he occupies himself by drawing the deck over, shuffling the cards back into it, and dealing.

That makes it entirely worth losing, and she politely takes a drink to avoid telling him how adorable it all is.

Never mind that she's rapidly approaching her tolerance levels. Tolerance, smolerance. She's fine.

"Oooooh... one article."

"Call," Moriarty says immediately, and downs a large gulp of rotgut. "And I discard four cards."

He tosses four onto the table, and draws four more, frowning at them.

"One." She declares, then frowns, eyes the cards, opens her mouth to change her mind, frowns more, and shakes her head. "Just one." She switches out cards, and leans back. "What say you, maths-boy?"

Moriarty furrows his brow. "I'll fo - ..."

Pause.

Folding would be admitting defeat.

"I'll raise you one," he says.

"Calling your raise." She suddenly grins, and drops her cards face-up on the table. "Jack-ten flush."

Moriarty bites his lip, putting down his cards. "Three card."

He reaches down, tugging off his socks before standing up to remove his waistcoat. When that's done, and set aside, he settles down again, peering at Oswin.

"I think I'm going to have to take up Victorian fashion, if this becomes a thing." She notes while proving that she can watch him strip off clothing and shuffle at the same time without flipping cards off to all corners of the room. The hand is dealt, and she greets her hand with a liberal dose of alcohol. Hmmm.

Moriarty grins a little. "I'm sure you'd be, er, very fetching in my world's fashions."

He plucks up his hand. "I'll raise. By two."

She chews her lip, eyeing her cards.
"I'll... call, discarding two." She picks up the new cards, and though that doesn't seem to have reassured her, she adds: "I'd be amazing in your world's fashions, and the deerstalker. You should get one now, to be fashion-forward."

"I'll discard one," Moriarty says smoothly. "And - well, if you want to fold, I'll understand."

Breezily, if with a slightly diabolical glint in his eye: "I was thinking of ignoring the two-article limit and raising by another one."

Oooh, dilemma. Is he playing the odds with a rubbish hand, knowing she has a very finite amount of clothing to be going on with? Or has he really managed to come up with something brilliant.

"Were you now?" She retorts, quirking up an eyebrow. "Feeling the room's a bit warm?"

"Perfect temperature," Moriarty replies.

Grin growing a little: "I'll raise by one."

This, right here, is why Oswin sucks so much at poker.

(So much)

Like most things in her life, she really never did learn when to back away from a challenge.

"Call." She declares, chin high in defiance. "Three of a kind."

Moriarty's face falls.

"I was bluffing," he says, mournfully, dropping his cards on the table. "Nothing."

Beat.

Moriarty is going bright, neon red right about now. "So, er. Three items of clothing."

"Whoo-hoo! Tell me I'm clever, maths-boy." Oswin crows, even though it was pure dumb luck that saw her through.

"You're clever," Moriarty says, standing up.

The cravat comes off first, set on the back of his chair. Then, a little more shyly, he unbuttons and strips off his shirt. Last go his trousers, dropped to his ankles and stepped out of while Moriarty looks like he might just about explode into a cloud of embarrassment on the spot.

In defiance of all logic, he looks down to check that his underwear hasn't vanished into the night when he wasn't looking.

She'd wolf-whistle, she really would, but he really does look quite near to exploding and/or hiding behind the couch, and that just seems anti-productive. She is, however, somewhat shameless failing to hide the fact that she believes the view is good, ogling openly while helping herself to more of the rotgut.

"I'm going to start a new anti-cravat club." She announces, cheerfully.

"Er," Moriarty is momentarily distracted from his near-explosion experience by being confused, "why?"

"'Cause then you wouldn't have one." She replies. "So, feeling lucky? Maybe I should give you a chance to win some clothes back."

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