When Pamela Isley only narrowly escaped death in the terrible, horrible lab accident that mysteriously took the life of her dear mentor Jason Woodrue ... well, let's just say a few crocodile tears were shed. Academic politics more or less demanded that she exhibit some grief.
Rumors can be so toxic.
Now she's got bigger fish to fry, however, which doesn't preclude her slipping off occasionally to this charming interdimensional getaway.
"There's been some scientific skepticism about the supposed benefits of green tea."
The idea seems to be that sentimentality is more important than figuring out whether your choices will matter. Who they'll destroy. And it makes Ivy angry.
So much for meeting somebody she doesn't want to mulch.
It's fine.
I can take care of this myself.
Ivy murmurs, lingering on the n's and crisp on c's and t's, "It's an interesting distinction."
Bryce inhales, a little sharply, surprised by the move.
There's something about the other woman that's -- dizzying. She'd put it down to tiredness from her building-jumping hijinks earlier, but that wouldn't explain the way her eyes are drawn to the swing of Pamela's hips as she walks away.
Not entirely, anyway.
(They're very nice hips.)
Bryce shakes her head hard and wonders how long it takes Tylenol to kick in.
Rumors can be so toxic.
Now she's got bigger fish to fry, however, which doesn't preclude her slipping off occasionally to this charming interdimensional getaway.
"There's been some scientific skepticism about the supposed benefits of green tea."
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Ivy's tone is cool, almost imperious, but there's something unsteady underneath it.
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(For the moment.)
"That's not the same thing."
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Her fingertips tap the table, (and delicate twists of vine reticulate from where they touch).
"Then you're proud of the man."
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Bryce's stillness suggests that Pamela should watch what she says next carefully.
"Yes."
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So much for meeting somebody she doesn't want to mulch.
It's fine.
I can take care of this myself.
Ivy murmurs, lingering on the n's and crisp on c's and t's, "It's an interesting distinction."
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"I don't know." Ivy's tone is aloof, carefully so. She puts it on like makeup now; before, she had never cultivated the talent.
She was clueless back then.
"I just want somebody to care."
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And that's a rarer quality than you might think, among the idle and the not-so-idle rich.
Deliberately, she leans in and blows Bryce a kiss, all soft hot breath. She has found that when she does this, she gets very good results.
At the very least it should keep her puzzled.
"Maybe," she murmurs, "I'll tell you next time, Ms. Wayne. In the meantime I'm late."
Ivy gets up. Her own urge is to power-walk back through the door, but it's more in keeping with the general tone to go out with a devil-may-care sway.
When she gets back to Gotham, she's going to think about saving the planet.
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There's something about the other woman that's -- dizzying. She'd put it down to tiredness from her building-jumping hijinks earlier, but that wouldn't explain the way her eyes are drawn to the swing of Pamela's hips as she walks away.
Not entirely, anyway.
(They're very nice hips.)
Bryce shakes her head hard and wonders how long it takes Tylenol to kick in.
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