White Russian


trask_icon.gif isis_icon.gif

Scene Title <White Russian>
Synopsis <Trask spills beer in Isis's face, it apparently works as a pick up line.>
Date <June, 9, 2009>

Old Lucy's

Description of location, if any.

It is a very busy day at old Lucy's and Trask had decided to pop down for a drink now that he is off house arrest. He still stays out of the lime light, trying not to make too much notice, he heads to the bar, a fiver in hand and orders a bar sandwich to go, and a pint for here.

Isis slips into the unfamiliar pub, turning her dark gaze over the interior with an appreciative smile. She idly lifts a gloved hand, prodding at the back of her head and giving a slight wince before the pain convinces her to leave the wound alone. There's only one thing to cure that. She hops forward with an eager little skip to her fist step before smoothing onto a barstool before the counter.

It is amazing how much beauty one can fit in a meager five feet and four inches. And the focal point of this beauty is her eyes - Dark pits of thoughts, memories, and emotions hidden deep within; eyes so dark they seem capable of swallowing anyone who looked into them. The pools of chocolate hue are set within a face of gently rounded features, an Irish heritage giving her a doll-like quality flecked with a spatter of freckles like a sift of cinnamon across her otherwise ivory complexion. Her lips are a pale, ripe peach of small, pouty tiers. And it is all framed within the fall of long curls, colored with streaks of copper among the more overpowering crimson. Her frame is slender, befitting her height.. A hint of tonality and sinew can be glimpsed if the situation permits it, denoting some work or other that keeps a carefully accounted muscularity hidden beneath her otherwise delicate flesh. The only hint of roughness is at her hands - palms and knuckles rough and scratchy with calluses. Though, admittedly, this fact is often hidden beneath a pair of gloves.

At the moment she is garbed in a simple, but flattering attire. A halter hugs her torso, black and designed with a hint of male attire in mind. The pinstriped top ends just above her navel and leaves a wide stretch of her upper back bared to all - the canvas of which is decorated with permanent, ebon ink in the form of a tribal ankh framed with gothic wings. Further markings can be found at her neck - a stretch of little four-leafed clovers beginning under her ear and growing in size where they come to a rest near her collar bone. In the way of piercings, her ears wink and glimmer with a few studs and loops of golden and garnet. Ultimately, her attire is completed with a pair of black slacks fitted low around her hips, only to flare out in airy waves around her feet, enough so to almost consume the pair of broad, flat-heeled, black leather boots tucked around her dainty feet. The low line of this particular get up reveals a hint of a tattoo over the right cheek of her backside, giving the vague hint of a graffiti-style design without revealing enough to expose the entire nature of this last tattoo. Lastly, and a bit out of place it would appear, the woman's delicate hands are fit into a pair of onyx gloves that reach mid way up her forearms before halting with a little cutout of thorned roses.

Norton is drinking his pint near Isis, waiting quietly for the sandwich he is supposed to be taking back to his prisoner. He turns to watch the bar crowd some. Meanwhile chaos theory takes a moment to play out. At the end of the bar a man hits on another man's woman. Neither men know anything of Trask or really care about anyone in the bar, they get into a bried yelling match that turns into a shoving match. Romeo gets pushed into Trask, commiting alchol abuse and causing Trask's arm to jog, forcing the liquid in his glass into the air, and right into the face/chest of the woman sitting next to him.

"Mother Fu-!" Isis barely manages to bit her tongue as she lifts her arms and wipes the dripping beer from her face, looking down upon the mess made of her beer-polished skin and sodden clothes. "Aw damnit!" She wrinkles her tiny, button nose, pulls herself up onto her knees atop the barstool, and leans over the counter, directing glare down the other end of the bar. "Hey assholes! Break it up, or I'll break it up for ya!" She tips her head and lofts a brow, daring the rabble-rousers to debate her threat, before tipping back and letting her attention wander over of the man beside her. "Jerks," she mumbles, and flashes a devilishly sweet smile, pushing back her curls from where they stick to her soft, wet features.

Norton actually grabs a towel and begins dabbing at the spilled beer before it sets into her top, his hand resting without though on her arm, skin to skin contact. "Are you ok…I'm sorry…they…"

Isis's eyes grow wide as she tries to back away from the man's outreaching touch. She nearly falls of her seat - had it not been for the man's palm finding a good grip on her shoulder. "NO!" She shouts, only to look quiet the fool when she's gawking at the man and not a damned thing has changed. "What?" She instantly reaches out and grabs a hold of the gentleman's wrist, beginning to feel up his arm with growing astonishment. "Oh my god…"

Norton lets her go when she screams, letting her hand explore his arm he says, "Sorry…I…didn't mean anything…just trying to help…not copping a feel or anything." He smiles disarmingly.

Isis blushes - the warm rose hue claiming a quick pass across her pale cheeks. "I'm sorry…" she begins a bit quietly now that her shouting has drawn a few curious glances from teh surrounding crowd. "I didn't mean anything by it. I, uh, I was attacked in the park last night - it's made me a little edgy." Her lie, being a half truth, is less easier to spot, though obviously a bit awkward. She finally stops groping around the man's forearm and looks up with a bright smile that seems to light her dark, chocolate gaze from withing. "Nothing's happening…" Way to act insane.

Norton blinks, and grins, "Sorry…I…guess I can't make every womans earth move on first sight…..it's too bad too, because your kinda cute."

Isis fails to let go of the man's warm skin beneath her fingertips, looking up abruptly. "I -" She chuckles, the warm laughter tickling across her alto vocals and lighting up her pale features with a warm grin. "Oh. You're doin' plenty in that department, handsome. I'm sorry for acting so weird…" She pulls back her hand and tugs off her gloves, laying them to the counter and offering her small grip forward. "I'm Isis."

Norton smiles and takes the hand in a good solid grip, he doesn't release it quickly either. There is no juxtaposition of souls, no weird queasy feeling of displacement, just a hand shake. Totally normal and friendly. He smiles tenderly, "Norton, pleased to meet you Miss Isis." He gets little dimples when he smiles.

A soft moment of silence lingers as Isis shakes the man's hand - a rather firm and solid grip, slightly unlady-like in truth, and makes no effort to removes her smaller hand. "The pleasures all mine, I assure you." Her smile seems stuck to her softly rounded features, pulling up the corners of her peachy lips.

Norton looks her deep in the eyes for several seconds, not breaking the glance if she doesn't, his hand in yours, "Ummm I guess I need another beer…what do you want?" He nods toward the bartender.

Isis chuckles lightheartedly, though the sound seems directed upon herself and her own reaction to this unique man, than to the comment he offers. She nods slowly and wiggles her fingers within his grip - not an effort to be free of his touch, but a stolen moment to enjoy the feel of his skin beneath her fingertips. "A White Russian, please," she replies without looking away, her soft smile and dark gaze absorbed in the man before her.

Norton chuckles softly, "Da we can do that…" he tries in a rather good though atrociously thick Russian accent "Another pint for me and a White Russian for the lady please?"

Isis chuckles at the slight jest. "An accent like that, it's a wonder I'm not swooning," she teases as the bartender fixes the drinks and sets them before the duo. Isis finally manages to turn her attentions away, with some reluctancy and obvious effort on her part, and reach for her drink. Her free hand moves to settle casually on the man's forearm as if fearful of breaking the warm contact of her slight touch for too long.

Norton Traskovich says, "The accent I'm afraid is my moms, I kinda borrowed it. She grew up in Russian." He pauses a moment for some reason, then returns, "So what brought you down to Old Lucy's today?"

Isis lofts a brow over the brim of her glass as she lifts the little container to sip at the sweet mixture inside. "Russia? Wow. And, what about you? Where did you grow up?" She asks with a not of curiosity brightening her honey-smooth alto voice. "Oh. Just wandering. Still trying to get my wits about the city, and I wasn't lying about last night…" She sets down her glass rather than break contact with the man, using her newly freed hand to poke at the bump and gash on the back of her noggin. "Could use a drink after that little mess."

Norton blinks and frowns, "MAy I?" He moves to examine the wound, prodding it carefully with professional skill. "Well I grew up right here in New York actually."

Isis lofts a brow at the man's inquery, but tips her head forward to reveal the little slit beneath her hair and the tender, black and blue egg around it. She gives a soft, but not unpleasant little hiss as the probing runs a quick shiver up her spine. "So hobo jumped out at me," she mumbles in explanation. "Right here? What was that like? Sometimes I'm afraid I'll never get used to this city - I love it and hate it all at once."

Norton asks the bartender for a clean rag with a little achohol on it, and begind cleaning the wound, to make sure it doesn't get infected. "It was pretty bad…my dad left us when I was 2 or 3, my brother got into drugs and gangs, he died before he turned 18, my mom, well she worked hard cleaning houses…she was down town when….by then I was over seas fighting the war on terror and all."

Isis's soft, youthful features darken with a delicate frown. "Oh," she begins, a note of uncertainty lingering beneath the quiet tones of her voice. "I'm very soory…" The burn of the alcohol nips at her senses quickly, though. She closes her eyes behind the curtain of crimson curls formed by her bowed head, a subtle moaning grunt filtering past her lips despite her best efforts to bite back the sound, pinching her lower lip beneath her teeth. "How bad does it look?" she asks in hopes of having her intial reaction go unnoticed.

Norton tries to be gentle, he lets one arm move around her tenderly, his hand finding her to let her grip it as he works. "Not to bad I think, I had some basic medical training in the army, and this looks like it shouldn't be to serius."

Isis breathes a gentle sigh of relief, smiling as the man's hand moves into her line of sight. She reaches out, wrapping her fingers around his and pulling his touch to the bare plane of her stomach. "The Army," she says with a note of appreciation for the man's duties. "That's quite a resume your racking up," she teases.

He says, "You need to have this looked at, and cleaned regularly." His hand tightens around your belly, palm resting against the bare warm flesh. "The Army…the Neqw York Police Force…yeah a bit of a resume I guess." He chuckles softly, "I think if you keep it clean it should be too much brain damage.""

"Brain damage?" Isis glances abruptly over her shoulder, fixing you with a wide-eyed gaze and a lofted brow. She frowns and reaches back, cupping her free hand tenderly over the wound. "You should have seen the other guy by the time everything was said and done," she mumbles, trading her scowl in for a brighter smile.

Trask says, "It's ok…your pretty enough you don't need to be smart, right?" The twinkle in his eye shows he is totally joking, not serious about the comment at all."

Isis's features light up in a playfully affronted manner. She turns on the barstool, her flesh sliding smoothly beneath the man's hand till she rest facing him with his touch at the small of her back. "Watch it, mister, I'm tougher than I look." She reaches up and bops him on the nose, barely managing to contain her laughter when no ill mix-ups are caused by the touch.

Trask hmmmms, "So beautiful…tough…and brain damaged….sounds like the perfect woman if you ask me…" He grins back at her after she bops the nose and makes a faint fake nip attempt at the escaping fingers."

"Fiesty," she adds, as if they were keeping tallies on each others admirable traits. Not that being brain-damaged is true, or admirable in any fashion, thank you! Isis laughs softly. "So, Mr. Ex-Army Cop," she lifts her arms and rests them lazily over Norton's shoulders, still thrilling in the slightest of touches. "There's something special about you, isn't there?" Her curiosity is unerring, apparently, as she tips her head like a pup and fixes her gaze with the man's own.

Norton Considers, "Special? I guess…though it is more Excop to be honest….there is something Special about everyone, isn't there? I'm sure the is quite a bit special about you." One hand still resting on your back, his other hand brushes some hair from your eyes in a soft tender caressing brush."

Isis chuckles and allows the intentions of her question to slide away. "You have no idea," she replies, shuffling her knees on the barstool and rolling back her shoulders to present herself more eye-level. "What do you do now then?" She asks, reaching forward and dancing her fingertips over the line of Norton's jaw.

"Private security mostly. Consulting…" He looks you over for several seconds, waiting then hmmms softly, "You were asking if I was evolved…weren't you?""

Isis grins - the sweetly impish arrangment of blended innocence and hidden thoughts, left to be interrpretted by her current company. "Do you think I would pry like that?" She asks with a soft lilt to her voice.

Norton shakes his head, "Evolved really has become a hot button issue these days, I'm glad I usually don't have to worry about it. If you want to pry…pry…just know the answer might cost you.

Isis leans back at the little challegen, her weight a slight pressure within your hand. She tips her head, a few fiery curls dancing across her dark gaze, as if to observe you from a new angle might reveal something more. "What sort of cost?" Her curiosity leaves her hanging by a thread, her attention once more absorbed in the man.

Norton watches you closely, holding you suppoertively with the hand at the small of your back, "What are you willing to offer me?"

Isis chuckles and straightens anew in your touch. "What would you say if I told you I already know the answer?" she replies. "You don't have much leverage then, hm?" She sticks out her tongue in a childish playfulness, making sure to lighten the tone of a dangerous subject with her impish, teasing ways.

Norton leans forward and lets his breath brush your cheek, "I guess I don't…I should just go…since I have no leverage…."

Isis stills completely in your arm - a combination of fear that you'll indeed leave her, and the more overpowering essense of being nearly hypnotized by the closeness of your form. She closes her eyes, shutting out the world around her and giving herself more completely to her other senses - namely that of her nerves strummed by the rarity of human contact. "You seem a smart fellow, I'm sure you can think of something else I might be after," she replies.

Norton smiles and kisses your ear, "So ask me….and tell me what it is worth to you?" He smiles softly, still holding you close enough to hear your heart beat.

Isis shivers, her fingers currling into a tight grip at Norton's shoulders as the soft brush of your lip passes across the sensative little lobe of her ear. She melts, giving the slight weight of her body against your chest, keeping the world shut out from her closed eyes. He remains silent a moment, your words belatedly reaching her ears through the haze of her wandering thoughts. "Hm? Oh. A phone number in exchange for telling me if you're Evolved, and in what way…"

Norton whispers softly, "Tier 0…I…rob others of thier powers, I can't turn it off…and when they leave my presence the powers come back…but as long as they are near me..thier powers just turn off."

Isis's eyes open wide, turning to look upon you as if you were some priceless gem found abadonned in the most unlikely of places. "Don't tease me," she murmurs firstly, tipping her head forward to rest her forehead on the bridge of your nose. "That's amazing," she offers more quietly afterward, running her hand over the broad base of your shoulders and down your arms.

Norton blinks and shakes his head, "Nope no joke…and I didn't think it was that amazing…just…seems to happen." He grins and kisses your nose since it is right there, "What about you?"

Isis chuckles, nudging her nose against the bow of your lips only to lean back and give the little button-like feature a few thoughtful twitches. She wathces you speculatively before her lips tilt up in a playful smirk. "Ah-ha. What do I get in return?"

Norton raises an eyebrow and hmmmms softly, "What do you want? If you had any one wish?"

Isis chuckles. "Honestly? You've already made it come true without even realizing it…" She replies, lifting a hand and wiggling her fingers before tracing them over the side of your throat in a quick, airy waltz.

Norton looks down at the hand a second, "And if you had 3 wishes then?"

Isis chuckles. "Good question. With two wishes left I'd probably snag your phone number and a promise from you to take me out some time."

Norton smiles softly, "Deal…but since you get two wishes…I get two…lets see…your power…and you have to agree to do anything i say for an hour…sometime in the future.

Isis lofts a dark brow, tipping her head back to look playfully down the bridge of her demure nose at the gentleman. "Those are quite some demands, you know…" Her little button nose gives a quick fidget back and forth before she gives a quick nod. "Fine, but only if I can have some say on -when- you get to establish your hour of terror, hm?"

Trask smiles softly, "Your afraid I might take advantage of you?"

Isis chuckles. "It's a common theme among men - no offense." She flashes a taunting little smirk that arranges her features with an impish playfulness and a little twinkle in her dark gaze.

Trask smiles softly, "This isn't going to work well, unless you trust me."

That devilishly sweet smile falters for a moment, the carefully arranged mask shattering under the weight of such a dangerous word. "Trust…" Isis repeats softly, a tentative tone underlying in those honey-alto vocals. She gently tips her head forward again, looking at where her hand rests upon Trask's bicep with no ill, body-swapping effect. She sighs. "Alright…"

Trask nods softly, "Then I will make you a deal…you don't have to tell me your power if you don't want to. I will trust you, if you are willing to trust yourself to me."

Isis shakes her head slowly. "Telling you my ability is the lesser of two evils," she says, her smile slowly returning as the mood lightens up with the man's comforting presence and the feel of his flesh beneath her fingertips - a touch which she starts to shift again, drawing lazy spirals with the tip of her digits. "I'll trust you… But, I swear to the Gods, Mr. ExCop - you break my trust…" Her dark gaze flicks up beneath the fan of her lashes - the depth of hidden hardships daring him to question the unfinished possibilities of her comment before she looks back to where her hand dances across his skin. "It's a deal. My ability is to Swap Bodies. I can't control it - the slightest touch to bare skin and I'm usually stuck in someone else's form. It's not a comfortable or nice process either," she says with a little grimace.

Trask nods, "Which is why you see me as a god send?" He hmmms softly, "I am betting your not registered either? Because they would have you locked in a test tube the rest of your life if you did.

Isis smiles softly at her new friend's first remark, only to look up sharply, golden-garnet curls bobbing aginst her soft cheek and shoulders as her eyes relay a sparkle of uncertainty and perhaps even a pinch of panic. "… They would?" She grunts and curls her slight fingers around Trask's wrist. "You said I could trust you," she begins with a slight reminder. "I've heard of some people being locked up. But, me? You think they would?"

He replies, "They would….they have some …ideas about powers they consider dangerous. but your right, I said you could trust me, and you can…I am not going to tattle." He reaches with his free hand to stroke your cheek, "I'm not a cop anymore remember?""

Isis nods slowly, but certainly not convincingly. She watches her companion apprehensively - at least until the warm touch moves to find the sound feature of her delicate cheek. She closes her eyes and gives herself back to the world of sightless sensations, a subtle smile tugging up a single corner of her pale lips. "I'll have to take your word for that, I suppose," she mummbles with a bit of jest beneath the tickle of anxiety. "I've put a lot of trust in you - the least you can do is tell me a bit more about yourself…" She opens a single eye, her smile blooming more fully and warming her countenance.

Trask hmmmms softly, "What do you want to know, ask and it will be granted." His finger tips caress down your throat.

Isis nods slowly. "Only because now it's rather important to me - What did you do for the police?" She tips her head to the side, exposing the elegant little crescent of her slender throat to the exploration of your touch, watching you from beneath a few intruding coils of garnet hair.

Trask smiles softly, "Beat cop, general field work, got shot running presedential security once. For Rickham not Petrelli. Occasionally they would bring me in for my talents, to help with particularly unruly evolved, but mostly just the grunt work of every day serve and protecting."

"Unruly Evolved? Like… Moab?" Isis lofts a brow, a certain weight in her question despite the stillness of her body still given towards the gentily of the man's touch.

Trask shakes his head, "I never worked with Moab, it is in New Mexico not here. I also didn't agree with what they did there. It is one of the reasons I am not a cop any more.

Isis watches her friend a moment longer, searching his visage for any signs of untruth in his words. Ultimately she resigns herself back to trust which he had promised him moments before, allowing a smile to take back to the soft tiers of her little tips as she nods. "Good." She tips her head further to the side so as not to discourage his touch, her own fingertips spidering up to the broad form of his shoulder.

He frowns, "Why do you ask about Moab?" He lets his hands explore the bare shoulders, then slide down to the bare middriff."

A little shiver ripples out from the epicenter of touch danced along the sinew of her smooth abdomen, kissing her flesh with little goosebumps and setting her to roll back her shoulders and try and collect her thoughts anew before facing the question posed to her. "Hm? Oh. Those reasons are not mine to tell. I only wanted to make sure you had no involvement, really."

Trask pauses and nods slowly, he chews his lip a second and hmmms softly, "So now what? You have a promise of my phone number and a date…I have yours…and…trust some time in the future. Where does that leave us?" His hand continues to caress her abdomen given the reaction, his nails scraping lightly.

That subtle little nip of nails toying at her senses conducts Isis's limbs like a masterful pupeteer over it's doll. She releases one hand from Trask's arm, arching her limber back to press her soft flesh more eagerly towards that undeniable, exotic little sensation. her free hand claps loudly against the edge of the bar counter behind her, the sound of which snaps the fiery little Irish woman back to attention. She shivers quickly and frees up her other grip, using a small, calloused palm to push the man's touch away from her. "Oh, no. I'm sorry. I can't." She glances over her shoulder to catch the eye of a few nosey patrons watching the entangled duo, and clears her throat. "I have to go." She passes her fingertips over the back of Trask's hand a last time before snatching her gloves. She exchanges them for a little piece of paper with her name and number jotted down, flashes a hurried smile, and nearly jogs to the door before the thrill strumming through her body has her changing her mind.

Trask takes out his phone and dials the number immediately. He waits patiently to see if she will pick up, or her answering machine will.

Her voicemail picks up - sadly she's yet to pick up a new cell since her other was destoryed in last night's attack. It's on the To-Do List.

Trask leaves her his number, since she forgot to ask, along with a message to call him whenever she wants to.

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