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Still a woman, and Loki was doing his best not to worry about it. It certainly did offer an interesting spin on things, though, especially when it came to him going out and about in the hotel. When it came to attractiveness Loki had very little opinion, one way or another, regarding his own face. But as a woman he could easily see that he was attractive, at least to a certain type of person, that person being himself. It brought a strange sort of confidence to someone who was already confident, but not in the ways he was aware of.

So in that regard, he had decided, for a moment, to flaunt it. The dress he wore was a weave of green and black, off one shoulder and cut just above the knee, revealing more pale, creamy skin than he ever had as a man. A good section of calves was revealed, as well, topped in heeled, laced ankle boots. Style from different worlds was never something he had much difficulty in grasping, though certainly he had a tendency to stop once he had found something suitable and wearable. This had a distinct brush of Ruby's influence, though mostly he had simply followed the direction she had pointed him in.

While some of his peers from Asgard were more interested in keeping their body tuned, Loki preferred to keep his mind sharp first of all. He was sitting on a bench in one of the hotel's gardens, which he understood had an 'oriental' theme according to Midgard, and beside him there was a stack of books. The topics were all in relation to one another - they were extensive histories of different continents on a certain planet, covering everything from its societies to geological movements from fresh Stone Age to dirty, polluted end. One, however, described the pattern of movement of that planet within a certain solar system. Whoever could have written these documents, he did not know, for it was information that could be compiled only by a strange, vast mind. Yet Loki had read it all, and now he was translating it.

The original text was a very dead language, and he was carefully and calmly inscribing it using pen and notebook into the alphabet of Midgard. He didn't know of anyone who would like to read it, but it was something to do, kept his mind active. Translations were always interesting - though Loki read, wrote and spoke many languages, there were always words that fell into and out of use, or had no counterpart. In that he was entertained.

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For all his movement, Moriarty can hold himself incredibly still, so much so that it's as though he's coiling all his energy up to save for the moment when he needs to strike. That question, that very question without any fear lurking on her face, makes Moriarty suspicious doubly so, and he lets out a quiet, "ah," while he stands there, still unmoving as he debates what he would like to do to her, were this to be Irene Adler. "I see you've grown something of a backbone, even without your precious USB," he says, eyes scanning her face for every minute reaction, every small detail.

When he catalogues the rest of her body like that, little things begin to pile up. Odd. Not quite odd enough to do anything about, though. He's patient.

Loki was aware his artifice would crumble soon - that was always inevitable - but he was enjoying it while it lasted. "Maybe," he said, glancing away, across the garden, a tiny smile flitting at the corners of his face. "It startled you enough to not give me an answer, in any case. Or do you not have one?"

He's got a very charming smile.

People have always said that to him, said 'Jim, you look like you could light up the room', but that's true of many people and Moriarty can do that with more than just a smile (gasoline and a match work so much better). He's wearing that pleased smile now as he regards the woman, tutting her with a cluck of his tongue. "I'm very upset that you don't remember all the nasty things I can do to you," he chides. "Tear apart your world until you don't know what's real, take everything you ever loved from me, and make you beg for it back. And then, maybe," he says, already bored, "I might kill you. If I've got nothing else on the docket. You should never overbook."

At that threat, Loki looked up, sensing the shift in their discourse. He saw that now the better way would be to go a different tack; instead of letting this man draw his conclusions, wiggle his way through the conversation like an eel among reeds, Loki was simply going to thrust part of the solution at him, boldly, mockingly. Not out of ill will - how could he be offended or angered by a threat that was not really meant for him? - but because it would amuse him.

He was not the woman this man thought he was. Loki was, perhaps, not anybody worth knowing, but he sensed exposed armour when it flitted before him. The smile he turned on the man had entirely too much teeth, nowhere near the friendliness of the grin that had been given to him, despite being accompanied by threats. He wavedd his hand, manicured, graceful, invitingly. "You're a funny man," he said. "Do sit."

He does, with the ease and grace of someone who has made a career out of fitting into places that might not necessarily have molded to him. "Good hosts offer tea," he says, bored already, as if he's moved past the cold burning rage and into the monotony of what passes for common decency. "And proper introductions do help to make a good impression," he says evenly, his eyes scanning over the woman.

"You have the distinct pleasure of seeing me for me," he says pleasantly. "Jim Moriarty. Hello."

"Do you see a teapot anywhere?" Loki asked, amused. "If I wanted to make a good impression, well - who knows. Maybe I already have. Beside, I don't know about you, but I wouldn't consider this hosting. This isn't my bench. Nor my hotel." He tipped his head to the side, smiling, and extended his hand, delicate, ladylike, for a handshake, or a kiss, or to be snubbed - whatever Jim preferred. "Charmed."

Moriarty lets his gaze fall to the hand, studying it for a long moment before he picks it up with his own, his eyes dead as he stares up at the woman, lifting the knuckles up to his cool lips where he brushes his lips barely over the skin, no more than a breath away but without making actual contact. "Half as charming as you actually think," he says, releasing the hand when he's through, never taking his eyes off of her.

"And yet, intriguing," he admits. "Certainly intriguing, which is charming to some."

"I can't tell if you're talking about me or you," Loki said, smiling still. "I suppose that must be the point. Unless you have an unconscious habit of obscurity?"

He took his hand back, and moved to set aside his notes, stacking them atop his books, pen laid down at a sharp angle. "This woman you know," he said. "Does she usually engage in such heavy reading, or was that a detail you missed?" It was a truly curious question; he wondered how distracting the familiarity of his face had been.

"It depends on the subject. She's not a dim woman, by any means, but her focus has always been narrow. She misses the broad scope of things." And in her thinking that brainy is the new sexy, she's let her gaze narrow, and narrow, and narrow down until it's so easy to pick her off that it takes a quick meet with Sherlock Holmes and off they go. "I don't miss details," Moriarty says coolly. "But you're better than most. Who are you? Really?"

"Would me telling you who I am have any point?" Loki asked. "Truth is a difficult concept to navigate in this conversation. But you may call me Loki. I wonder what a man like yourself may be doing to divert himself here, but then again, I highly doubt you'll tell me. I hope it has kept you entertained, though."

"Endlessly," Moriarty promises, his laugh a high bubble as he repeats the word again, reaching forward to clasp her cheeks. "Endlessly, my dear, you are endlessly entertaining. And here I thought I had run through the gamut of potential out there," he says, eyes wide and containing all the thoughts of a madman, a mastermind, and a man, contained in one vast universe within his skin. "I hope I've managed to do the same, in turn."

Loki raised his eyebrows at the man who seemed to think he could take whatever lead her wanted in a conversation, such as grasping a strange woman's cheeks. Still, he didn't pull away - that would suggest discomfort. "Well, I am curious about a man so used to deference he threatens murder at the faintest sign of disrespect," he replied, with a faint grin. He both was, and wasn't, in both positive and negative ways; but he was interested enough to let Jim carry the conversation in whatever way he liked, for the time being.

Moriarty shrugs casually, as if anyone does that in normal society. "Normal people just don't have the guts and the gall, otherwise they'd do it all the time. They'd make it like ordering a pizza. Hello, yes, I'll have a hanging with a side of garroting and a hint of a shot to the head," he drones evenly. "What do you do when disrespected, then? What do ordinary people do?"

"When I'm disrespected?" Loki asked, raising his eyebrows, and then laughing. He never really considered it that way; he mostly concerned himself with whether someone did or didn't annoy him. What an odd man, this Jim was; his views of people so distant, as if he were staring down at an anthill, watching their behaviour. Loki was fine with being thought of as possibly an ant; other people's opinions of him mattered less and less in daily matters. "I don't know. Lay back and let it happen, I'm sure."

It's a curious reaction, not to control the chaos. True, Moriarty never likes to get his hands dirty, but he likes to think he can conduct it like a great symphony from far away. "What's that like?" he asks, because this is the best way to learn and he's not bored (not yet), so he might as well learn whatever he can. "Letting control slip away from you so readily."

"I don't care enough to control that kind of thing," Loki replied, amused at his curiosity. "To try to direct those who are directionless? A waste of energy. I concern myself only with that which interferes with my own actions, and my own plans."

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