Dr. Pamela Isley (poisonisley) wrote in gotham_lights,
Dr. Pamela Isley
poisonisley
gotham_lights

  • Mood:
  • Music:

Pamela's flat - Late afternoon - November 29th

A cacophony of colour litters the floor of Pamela Isley's smallish bedroom. Every once in a while a bright blur of green or red will come flying backward out of the closet, having not met the requirements. She now exits the small alcove, hands on her hips, brow pinched in indecision. A glance to the clock -- three thirty-three. If she were a superstitious woman (she isn't) Pamela would think that the coincidental alignment of digits actually meant something. But a scientific mind has no room for folklore or mythology, so she takes the time at face value: she had approximately twenty-seven minutes to find a suitable outfit for her dinner date, or else she wasn't going.

Well, that might be too hasty.

She glances back at her closet, hangers cast to and fro, various boxes tumbling over one another like bricks in a yard. Only one garment has escaped her desultory examination: a knee-length hunter-green cocktail dress that she'd bought to wear to the examination of her doctoral thesis. It was modest only in length, making up for it in the v-neck swoop that was showcase enough. She'd worn it to dinner with Jason after she'd been granted her PhD., and the memory tugs on something primal. Forget it, Pam. She strides over to the closet and tugs the dress off of the hanger, the green silk cool between her fingers. She wasn't sure if it was entirely appropriate for the motorcycle ride, but couldn't you sit sidesaddle on those things anyway?

She steps into the dress and zips it up, arms strained at the sockets from the effort. Her hair and make-up were already accounted for: a natural dashing of rouge and mascara (she was never one for gaudy appearances.) She examines her reflection in the vanity mirror. Frowns. Something's missing. An epiphany seizes her and she roots around in the junk drawer of her bureau, drawing out a velvet box. Inside is a delicate brooch done to look like a thicket of ivy leaves, garnet stones interwoven with the gold filigree. She pins the bauble to the shoulder of her dress and aims another glance in the mirror.

Perfect.

She has a few moments to spare, so she darts into the makeshift laboratory off the bedroom and checks on her samples. The tissue from Woodrue's body is still running that infernal scan, but she's made progress. By the morning she'd be able to isolate the sequence caps and figure out just what was the concoction Woodrue'd lauded her with. And to carry on where he failed, she thinks with a small smirk. The window of the laboratory, muffled with thick crepe, nevertheless broadcasts a singular headlight. She peels back the tape and looks down into the street, spying an idling motorcycle amongst the foot traffic. She smiles.

Grabbing the small clutch from the table she locks the door and palms her keys, descending the twisting flight of stairs to the street below.

(Open to grayson_redbird)
Subscribe
  • Post a new comment

    Error

    default userpic
    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.
  • 7 comments
Despite the fact that it'd taken him nearly twice as long as he'd expected to pick out what he was currently wearing - a red sweater with a barely visible phoenix design on it and pre-faded black jeans - he was early. Not too early, he realized, as he glanced down at the clock embedded in the dashboard of the cherry red Harley he'd borrowed from Bruce's garage. But still, it meant he'd have to wait, and that meant two things in his mind, neither of them pleasant. Firstly, it meant that he might just freeze to death - because although the engine was warm between his legs, it was still late fall. And secondly, if Pam caught him lingering, she might think he was over-eager or some kind of weird stalker type or something.

Fortunately, however, he didn't have much time to think about it, because much to his pleasant surprise, the doors that lead in and up opened and there was Pam. And damn did she look good. True, the lighting maybe wasn't the best - sun dying coldly behind the gray horizion, only to be replaced by darkness and headlights - but he could see enough. Curves, hair, clothes.

Damn.

Flashing an appreciative grin, he waved her over, fighting off the quick, almost under-dressed feeling that siezed him. He looked fine, robin-emblazon helmet and all. She looked fine. Tonight was not the night for being self-conscious, and that thought alone made it evaporate like frost on the morning sun.

"Hey," he managed finally, still grinning.
"Hey yourself," she replied breezily, stepping down off of the jagged curb and to the side of his impressive motorbike. She reached out a splay of fingers, brushing the rumbly cherry-red surface. "Nice ride." The sudden upward tick of her eyes was playful; almost as playful as the accompanying smile.

He tossed her the spare helmet and Pam fitted it carefuly over her titian curls, though she erred on the side of rebellion and neglected to fasten the chin strap. Clutch purse tucked beneath a slender arm, she climbed onto the back of the motorbike and slid her arms around Dick's middle, linking her fingers just beneath his sternum. An advantageous position to be sure, for her chin now rested intimately upon his shoulder, as if she were about to confide some secret.

"Ready to fly?"
Grin still plastered firmly on his face, he revved the engine by way of response, letting it purr beneathe them for a brief moment in a way that was ultimately satisfying. Then, lifting the kickstand out of place with a deft roll of his ankle, he guided them carefully out into the flow of traffic. And briefly, as he guided them through the streets at a speed that was considered sane by his standards, he considered telling her a few things about riding a bike. Like the whole leaning into a turn thing. He thought better of it, however, as considering the way she was clinging to him - not that he minded - if he leaned, then so would she, so there was no real point.

And so, for once in his life, Dick opted to say nothing, simply enjoying the feel of the wind on his face and her arms around his waist.
As they insinuated themselves into the flow of evening traffic, Pamela felt an unmitigated flurry of excitement. This was exciting. This was dangerous. If she'd been told a week ago that she'd be clinging to a virile youth while straddling a hundred-odd horsepower motorbike, well, Pam would have checked her vital signs and signed up for a good old CATSCAN. So many things had changed within the past seven days: Woodrue's non-presence had set off a chain of reactants that, if chemically classifiable, Pamela would bottle and sell.

They rounded a particularly tricky dogleg street and the motorbike listed perilously to one side, its occupants teetering on a textbook forty-five degree angle. It was easy to negotiate the movement, and Pamela laughed from sheer excitement. Gotham City flew by in a blur of colour and sound, the steam from streetside vents reaching up to tease the backs of her ankles. She had no idea where the rake was taking her, but did it really matter? Half the fun is in the journey, as they say.

So her surprise is noticible when they sidle easily alongside the curb of a posh restaurant caddycorner to Robinson Park, its facade resplendent with cheery (albeit expensive) decor. She waited until Dick's geared down and turned off the engine before she removed her helmet, giving a cursory pat to her coif. The engine's roar was still broad in her ears, and she overcompensated the volume of her voice on account:

"Dick, this looks fantastic. Don't the mayor and half the city's go-to-guys have reserved tables here?"
Still grinning, he shrugs, his own voice loud in order to be heard over growl of the engine that still buzzes in his ears. "Yeah, well ... "

Another shrug, and he's not really thinking about it anymore. His thoughts are on the bike now - he's always loved Harleys, but they're so damned loud. That's why Robin's bike isn't a Harley, because he can't afford the volume, and that thought leads him into another. One of his alter ego.

He casts a quick, almost apprehensive glance at the sky - just to make sure there's no signal there - and when he finds nothing, the vague apprehension melts. He doesn't want to think about being Robin right now, not when that thought opens a whole nother can of worms - how will Pam get home if he needs to jet? - and without the signal, he doesn't have to.

That in mind, he pulls off his own stencilled helmet, setting it aside so he can slide off the bike. And once he's off, he moves to help her onto the street with all the care of a professional dancer helping his partner into a particularly hard step.

"Glad you like it," he manages finally, once he's helped her onto the curb. And really he is.

When he'd asked Alfred to make reservations to 'somewhere nice' earlier, he hadn't been expecting this. Oh, sure he knew it was on the edge of Robinson Park, but this was more than he'd been expecting. And he bets their food is more than he'd been expecting, too - in price as well as taste.

Somewhere between totally content and a little out of place - as he's never had the money or the influence to dine in a place like this before - he leads them inside. A moment later, he's giving the host their reservation - Grayson, party of two - and another after that, they're being seated at a table near the back.
Threading their way through the throng of tables and dining elite, Pamela has an ample opportunity to study the decor of the place. It was elegant, almost impossibly so, with rich tapestries flanking toffee-coloured walls. Crown moulding nibbled at the edge of the ceiling, occasionally dripping down into a Corinthian column leaded in dark wood. The din of conversation was minimal, as if the entire establishment were involved in some conspiratorial secret.

She lowers herself into a gilt chair (courteously removed from the table for her by Dick Grayson's charming touch) and rests her clutch on the ivory linen. Was that--? Oh my god, it was. James Henry Whitmore: the GCPS' mover-and-shaker. Pam had liasioned with him a few months back to discuss the Harbor Project. It was from that scattered intelligence that she learned the comings-and-goings of Heights Harbor, intelligence that -- like it or not -- had come in quite handy.

Momentarily awed by the sumptuous surroundings, she blushes hotly and turns her eyes back to her dinner companion.

"Dick, I have to tell you. I'm really glad that you asked me out tonight." She eases backward as a bustling steward sweeps down to offer the house wine selections, which she passes on in favour of a glass of water. Once the gnat of a man moves on she turns the full effect of her smile upon Dick once more.

"I think I really needed a break. A couple more hours at the microscope and I would have gone bug-eyed."
Not old enough to drink, he orders himself a cup of coffee before shooing the steward away with a look. True, he's not much of a coffee drinker, but it's been a long day and it's pratically the only thing keeping him going. Especially considering the fact that he was blasted out of bed just as the sun was rising.

Robin business this morning or not, however, he thinks nothing of her statement, instead flashing her a little sympathetic look. "Long day, huh?" he ventures, skipping a beat before continuing honestly. "To tell you the truth though, I was kinda afraid you'd say no. I mean ... "

He shrugs, painfully aware of the age difference between them and his own usual social ineptitude. He's not as bad as Bruce, he knows that, but still. Living in a circus all his life has made it hard for him to get the hang of this whole dating thing. And the possible rejection that might come with it.