Generic female director OC wearing "A Study in Scarlet"

Hunt leaned against the bar and slipped the stiff navy mask over his face. While the outside was silken and shiny, the seams and edges of the silver braid on the inside were immediately irritating. Unfortunately, he would have to keep the damned thing on. At least no one would recognize him; maybe he could avoid any conversation the entire evening.

He settled back onto the barstool, picking up his glass and sipping at the peaty scotch. Laphroaig, he thought. It carried a strong, distinctive flavor, just edging on unpleasant. He took a larger draught and allowed the heavy taste to burn down his throat. As he put the glass to his lips for another long drink, he nearly choked when he saw the figure at the top of the stairs.

It was M/C, that much was certain. The strapless red dress she wore was exquisite in and of itself, and the person inside it only made it more so. It was bold and daring, yet startlingly feminine, paired with impressive black heels and a scarlet and gold mask. She looked around the ball like she was queen of it, sweeping the swirling jewel-toned dancers with her gaze before apparently making up her mind and stepping down the stairs.

Straight towards him.

Hunt hunched back over his drink, hoping he had not been recognized. Leaving the tickets out in plain sight had been a mistake, he thought, before correcting himself. What were the chances she was here because of him? One of her many admirers had probably invited her. Chris Winters, perhaps, or that over-eager Ethan kid who paid so little attention in his class.

"You look like you could use some company," a clear voice said.

He looked up to see M/C standing directly in front of him. Her date was nowhere to be seen, but a crystal champagne flute hung delicately from her fingers. "Depends on whose company it is," he said pointedly and tried to conceal a swallow. His mood was poor enough already, and he didn't need his most promising student flaunting herself in front of him for her own entertainment. If it wasn't for the crowd of Hollywood stars stifling them, he might have snapped at her.

M/C and her games. If there was one thing he wished he could teach her, it was that her career was not a game—and neither were relationships. Apparently she wasn't interested in hearing either from him.

She smiled a little half-smile, an expression she had never directed at him before. "You're in luck. It's mine." Usually her face showed annoyance or even outrage when he was around. This new emotion, this playful confidence, made him long to pretend he didn't recognize her and just have fun at one of these damned things for once.

Good Lord, he realized with a start. She thinks I don't recognize her. Without stopping too long to question precisely why she thought that a slip of fabric across the eyes would conceal her face, voice, and mannerisms, he snapped out a few terse words: "I have no interest in socializing with a complete stranger."

Her grin faltered and she shifted her drink to her other hand. "You don't mince words, do you?" Now a hint of her characteristic defensiveness rose to the surface, her chin jutting out and a raised eyebrow certainly concealed behind the elaborate gold embroidery on her mask.

"I prefer to be honest." Now they were back on familiar territory. He tipped his glass to the sky, draining it. He could almost pretend that he had brought her here as an assignment and was criticizing her outfit or her choice of dance partner.

"I like that." That brash hardness which always served her so well was gone once more to be replaced with soft flattery.

For the second time that evening, Hunt made a small choking noise in the back of his throat. He disguised it with a slightly more dignified cough. "Are you sure?" This was it. The tipping point in the conversation. Whatever he said next would determine how the whole evening would go, how far he would go for M/C with the understanding that she was probably just enjoying watching him flounder. "Because I can be very honest," he blurted with a neutral expression before these thoughts had even materialized properly. He cursed himself silently as M/C effortlessly picked up the conversation where he had so awkwardly dropped it.

"Honesty's refreshing. One thing I've learned since I've been here…" Her fingers played with the stem of her glass and he realized that her nails were the same gold as the detailing on her mask and studded with silver flecks like the bubbles in the champagne. "Too many people are willing to lie to your face or cheat to get ahead."

"And you're not one of them?" Hunt asked sarcastically, trying to recover what little grasp he had on the conversation.

"No, not yet at least." That smile again. He suddenly recognized where he had seen it: on M/C's face as she stood beside the cast of Clash at Sunset in that farce of a press release, clearly hating Bianca Stone and run ragged from trying to get the movie together on schedule. That smile was beautiful and a little bit terrifying because it meant that she knew exactly what she wanted and was well on her way to getting it.

"So, you do want to get ahead?" It wasn't really a question, but he might as well keep up the charade of not knowing her.

"I want to be a household name—to be a famous director!"

"Here's some more truth for you," Hunt began, still trying to find the familiar rhythm of their usual spiteful interactions. "Everyone wants to be something. But not everyone here is going to succeed."

"I will." And just for a brief moment, he knew that he had ceased to exist. She was seeing it, actually seeingher brilliant career, and it made her face light up like the sunrise. Damn her.

"You're brash, naïve, and overly confident. I used to be that way, before…"Before I got involved with Priya Singh, before I trainwrecked my own career, before I got roped into teaching, before reality caught up with me. There was one reason he and M/C shouldn't be talking—flirting—like this, as though the list wasn't long enough already: his career was effectively over. She was a rising star. The rising sun. As superior as he liked to act, he knew there was no way he could keep up with her. "Ahem. Excuse me. I'm Thomas. And you are?"

M/C's lips opened for a fraction of a second, closed, and then smiled widely. "Someone who doesn't like to reveal all her secrets. It's a masquerade ball, after all."

"You don't have to be so coy," Hunt bristled. "I don't need a name to figure out who you are. Or anyone in this room, for that matter."

"But they're all wearing masks. How do you know who anyone is?" M/C asked, obviously trying to call his bluff.

"Years spent analyzing the nuances of physicality and behavior," he said smoothly. It was only half a lie—why should he reveal that he had once auditioned for the role of Sherlock Holmes and spent a month beforehand learning how to actually perform incredible deductions, only to be turned down for his robotic acting and lackluster accent? "For example, that woman over there in the pink dress is Paris Hilton."

M/C gaped, even though he had offered up no proof whatsoever. "How-"

"Her distinctive laugh," Hunt interrupted impatiently, thinking that this much at least would be obvious. "And the man next to her is Daniel Craig. He has a slight limp from his injury on the set of Spectre."

"Those are easy," M/C said, turning back to him after a moment of observing the dancers in question. He could hear her taking mental notes as clearly as the scratch of her pen in his class. "Let's give you a harder challenge…"

"I'm up for it," he said, beginning to enjoy this game in spite of himself. If all went well, he and M/C would continue this odd discussion for a while longer—the end of the dance itself would provide a last-resort escape—without her ever "revealing" herself to him, and they could both resume their lives as usual come Monday morning classes.

"Do you know who I am?"

Hunt started, thinking that she had picked up on his ruse, but no. She only wanted another deduction. "I've been wondering that the moment you arrived," he said, fighting to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "Something about you is familiar, almost loathsome, yet at the same time, forgive me, attractive." That sentence had not gone at all where he had intended.

"'Cause that was the insulting part…" M/C muttered to herself, still clearly pleased with his evaluation. She had a touch of arrogance, he had to admit, not that he himself could claim exemption from that flaw.

"You're not going to tell me who you are, are you?" Hunt asked, not quite sure which answer he was looking for.

M/C grinned and took a first sip of her champagne. "Maybe at the end of the night. Unless you're planning on leaving early…?"

"No," he found himself promising rashly. "No, I'm not."