2009-11-07: Fire Breathing Bastard



Date: November 7, 2009


Hallis mourns a good pair of shoes while George breaks some news to her gently.

"Fire Breathing Bastard"

Hallis' Apartment

It's been more than a day since their tryst, the time in between filled with retail and adventure for the young socialite. She barely had time to miss the man after he left in the morning while she was still sleeping soundly in the 700 thread count sheets. When she finally woke up, he was gone as expected. They never stayed until it was time for decent people to rise, that time would be somewhere around 2-3pm.

On Saturday night the life that started Thursday at dusk continues, there are parties to make an appearance at. Most of those are filled with more alcohol and drugs that the jet set can shovel into their systems before the sun rises in the morning. It is one of these that Hallis is preparing for right now. Padding around in her apartment in a short robe and marabou slippers, you know the kind soap opera starlets wear on set because they are completely useless for anything but making a foot look good. Her phone is in the other room, being ignored for the time being.

Meanwhile, the young pol has continued to keep busy as his current sojourn back to his home district continues. He hasn't had time yet to make much of a name for himself writing headline-grabbing legislation - remembering all too well one of his experiences behind the scenes as part of then-Senator Petrelli's staff - instead, most of his time this year has been spent attending to the needs of his district. His district is most of New York City; its needs are numerous and belligerent.

Besides adding to the lingering warmth of Hallis's bed, he did leave her one other sign: a scrap of paper on the nightstand with his apartment number written on it. Tonight - having finally cleared through his daily quota of meetings with business owners and union reps and community organizers - he knocks on her apartment door, carrying a bag of takeout food from that fusion place that they never made it to.

The knock is quite unexpected, was someone supposed to stop by to pick her up? "Just a minute!" she calls out, heading to the bathroom to do a makeup check. She peers into the mirror and tilts her face this way and that. Good. Perfect. A small smile is given to the reflection and then she blows herself a kiss before tearing herself away. As she makes her way to the door, she unties and then re-ties the thin robe that barely covers her form. It'll do.

She doesn't even look through the peephole before unbolting all of the locks and unfastening the chain. When the door is finally opened, she gives the man on the other side a somewhat confused glance. "George… hi!" it is quite obvious that he isn't the one she was anticipating to be there. And, he's carrying something that looks an awful lot like… ugh… food. Regardless, she pastes on a smile, after all, she is pleased to see him there. "I wasn't expecting you, come in."

George returns the smile in kind, but he's spent enough time reading people that Hallis's momentary look of - dismay? disgust? - doesn't escape his notice. What's that all about? Not him, surely. Well, something to try to figure out as the evening continues to run its course.

"I had a feeling I might catch you here," he replies, nodding and stepping inside, "the good parties never get started before nine or so. Let me know if I'm keeping you from something?" Yeah, right, unless some ambitious new hangout is paying her to grace it with her presence. The food is deposited atop the nearest flat surface that presents itself.

The smile widens as he puts the food down and Hallis turns her back on it to face him. Out of sight, out of mind. "The really good parties don't get started before midnight, George." She teases, moving toward him to lace her fingers with his. When she has a hold of him, she guides him toward the chaise lounge in the middle of the room and pushes him down into it. "So, how was your night last night?"

After he is settled, she slides in beside him. The small piece of furniture is just large enough to hold the two of them, though it's really meant for one to lounge on. Regardless, from that point, she leans back against the arm, turning just enough to face him and dazzle him with a smile. Because she really is pleased to see him, just him, and not the food.

Caught off guard by the shove, George nevertheless recovers quickly enough, his arms slipping naturally around the young woman's waist. "Not as much fun as the one before it," he murmurs into her hair. "Not as busy either, but I still ended up crashing early. What about you, what've you been up to? And you never did tell me how the photo shoot went."

"Oh.. He took a few rolls of shots, but there was another model there, so my shots are going to be judged against hers. I think I got it though… she had a big gap in her teeth." Hallis smiles a little as the man buries his face into her hair, then winds her arms around his neck. The question of how the previous night went earns a very sad sigh. "I lost a pair of brand new shoes…" The young woman laments. "They were Prada. I don't know if I'll ever recover." The last bit is a bit melodramatic, and rightfully so. "Did you read the Times yesterday? About the robbery near SoHo? That fire breathing bastard burned up my new shoes." And then she draws her head back to look him in the eyes, her lover lip jutting out slightly in a pout.

George nods absently at all the right times, even taking the gaptooth comment in stride - this is modeling they're talking about, after all, it's a totally legitimate concern - but the next part of the story is what really catches his interest. "I didn't, but I heard a couple people mention it in passing."

"Fire-breathing, you say?" He meets her gaze - and, for some reason, appears to be taking her entirely seriously. Does he know about her substance habits, and just have enough tact not to bring them up? Or, despite the lack of scandal in his career thus far, does he indulge himself?

What actually concerns him is that she's exactly right, which would present him with two problems. First, there's a fire-breathing bastard tear-assing around his city. Second, if his fling saw that and believed her eyes… and she was already spooked about his and Felix's shared history of danger and/or just plain weirdness… Well. He might have to worry about her a lot more seriously.

"Well okay, he wasn't exactly fire breathing but he didn't need a lighter. It just came from his hands." Hallis is quite serious as she talks about it, though strangely unphased. One of her hands slides down to his shoulder and comes to rest on his chest. "I thought maybe he just had a torch or something hidden up his sleeve, you know? But I didn't get a good look. At first I thought it was just some kind of reality show." Her lids lower to half and she looks down between them, growing silent and quite sober.

"You believe me, don't you?" Comes the question, almost out of the blue. It is then that she looks up, her blue eyes peering deeply into his. Hallis doesn't get serious very often, maybe once a year if we're lucky, but she is this time. "Soleil asked if I was high, and I wasn't. I mean, I've been taking diet pills, but that's not really a big deal. Everybody knows that it's not addiction if it's prescription."

It'd be so simple for him to end it right here. Shove her away, call her a crazy lying bitch. Neither of them was looking for anything long-term anyway.

But when was the last time his life was simple?

"I do," he replies, one hand coming up to her shoulder. Back to her neck, where they got started during her weekly visit with her grandmother. "There are people who can… do things, things that aren't normally possible. I've seen a couple myself." A few more than even he realizes, in fact. "Throwing fire around… that's a new one, but it would fit."

Hallis stares directly into his eyes, almost disbelieving that he actually believed what she had said. Her entire demeanor softens toward him, it's been quite a while since someone has actually taken what she's said seriously. "So I wasn't just… really?"

It is then that the reality of the situation hits her and her slight figure begins to tremble.

"I could have DIED!!" Hallis exclaims. She begins to take deep gulping breaths as though unable to get enough air to sustain her. "That man could have killed me!!" And she grips George even tighter with her shaking hands. "I mean.. I mean… he could have killed me before… but he didn't even have to use a gun… or touch me… or… or… or…"

George shakes his head, moving once again and taking hold of her wrists, guiding them slowly away from pressing her fingerprints into his skin. Of course it would be intense to be on the receiving end of an ability and know it.

"He could have," he replies quickly, "but he didn't. That's the important thing. Any number of people could have used a gun, or a knife, or their bare ha—" Well, maybe those aren't the best examples to be bringing up right now. "But they didn't, either. You're fine, okay?"

"Why don't they … What about… Jail!" Hallis says still a little bit hysterical, okay, more than a little bit. Apparently, there won't be any party for her tonight, at least not outside of her apartment. "Is that where he came from? Jail? Can't they build stronger ones?" Her weak attempts to wrestle her wrists free from George's grip are in vain. In the end, she just lets her arms go limp and rests her head against his chest. "I can't deal with this, George," she utters quietly as she slowly calms, "I think I need a drink."

George shrugs. "There's probably someone working on it." He happens to be right, but it's just a guess, really… if only he knew what the rest of the Petrellis have been up to over the years.

"Well, let's see what you've got," he offers, finally rising to his feet and letting her have the seat to herself for a bit as he goes to check out her fridge. "And have you eaten yet? There's still some appetizers on the side table." In fact, by this point, the paper bag has gotten damp and started to come apart.

Looking at the bag, Hallis wrinkles her nose slightly and shakes her head. "I'm on a diet, but thank you." she murmurs as she turns her head to follow him with her eyes. As he makes his way to the refrigerator, she smiles a little and pushes herself up off the chaise to guide him to where the stash is. The cabinet on the side of the room looks like a feature armoire, quite grand and quite old. When she pulls open the door it's like an alcoholic's heaven in there, the most expensive of every kind of stock liquor in the store. From the rack she pulls a bottle of vodka and two glasses. "There should be some ice in the mini fridge." She says to him with a small smile. Her hand is still noticeably trembling as she pours a few ounces into each glass and then recaps the bottle only to replace it. "Do you need mix? I don't know if I have any… there might be a diet sprite in the fridge too."

The sour face might be a clue that there's more to it than that, but with his back turned, George only gets the tone of voice and takes it at face value. "You have good taste," he says, turning to face her again as his fingers brush against the neck of a bottle of cognac. If she's in a vodka mood, though, then he'll go with that, withdrawing a handful of cubes and splitting them between the glasses. "Straight's fine, there's some orange juice with the bag but I don't know yet if I trust it."

Hallis graces the congressman with a Mona Lisa smile as she raises her glass, touching it lightly to his. "If you can't drink the best, then what's the point, right?" Another glance is given toward the cursed bag of food, and the look of distaste returns to face. "We could put it in the fridge?" She offers, though the bag is quite large and might not fit in the tiny thing.

Once the crystal clinks, the young blonde tosses back a large swig and closes her eyes, relaxing as the smooth liquor heats her throat. She ends the little ritual by licking her lips before she opens her eyes again to look at him. "I needed that," she admits lowly, "I'll probably need a few more too…"

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