Log Dump
2/6/2007
On entering the conservatory, Illyana breathes in deeply, curious about the scent of it. She takes only a few steps in at first, not straying from her guide, but the fountain intrigues her, and she goes to perch on the edge, and dabble her fingers in the water at the fish. "Very...pretty," she says, choosing her English adjective with great thought.
Emma holds back a little, allowing Illyana the freedom to choose her distance, while not tethering her away from the sights of the room. Outside the large glass walls, winter cold brightens the grounds into crystal clarity. Inside, however, heat and humidity curl wisps of fog against the panes. "Yes, it is pretty," Emma approves.
"Thanks," Adel says as he comes 'round a corner, moving through the unseasonal lushness with a smile for the two women, taking their comments as compliment of himself. Tuxedo shirt lacking a tuxedo, it's worn sloppy over jeans with an artful tousle to dark hair. His hands are hooked in his front pockets, thumbs in the beltloops, sharing space with a thin band of black.
Illyana stands quickly at the entrance of someone new, not frightened, just nervous. She goes immediately to stand new Emma, as if illustrating her right to be there. She looks from one to the other, waiting for an introduction.
Emma slips a hand around the younger woman's waist in reassurance, and smiles knowingly at her dark-eyed bishop. "Very pretty indeed. Good morning, Adel. Sleep well?" Without waiting for an answer that doesn't really matter, Emma tilts her head toward Illyana and offers, "Illyana, this is Adel Al-- Hm. Maybe she should just stick to Adel for the moment. Adel, meet Illyana Rasputin. She's a... /friend/."
Adel's gaze skims over Illyana, dark eyes sharper than the lazy curve of his smile would admit. Telepathy whispers over her mind, feelings for the cracks and crevices present in the usual flatscan's mind and finding something else entire. "Good morning, Emma." << What's this? >> he asks her silently, even as he speaks a, "Welcome," to Illyana, tone softly embracing. "Illyana. Lovely name. A friend of Emma is a friend of mine! How do you do?"
"Good," Illyana says carefully. Her smile is less hesitant than her words, but still shy. "Thank...you." She flushes. "Two years, I am forgetting my English, I am sorry." Her fingers end up tightly laced together with the concentration and frustration of the language barrier.
Emma squeezes. "You are doing just fine," she assures, slowing and enunciating her words more precisely than normal. << She's an astral plane teleporter, so I believe 'this' is some sort of natural defense. Not sure how it all works yet. Her control over her powers is understandably... inconsistent. >> "We should introduce her to Percy," she says brightly, releasing her hold and stepping sideways to stand between the two others, forming three sides of a box with them. "Then she could have someone other than her brother to converse easily with." << She disappeared nearly two years ago, and has presumably been wandering the telepathic planes ever since. >>
"That's all right. I lose words on occasion myself." Adel's accent is a slim and slight thing next to the thicker tangle Illyana's, his words faster, and his phrasing casual; still, a hint of the desert remains to the rise and fall of his voice. "You're welcome." He prickles predictably at Percy's name, no comment made. His smile briefly tightens before relaxing into something more natural. << Astral plane teleporter? Are you kidding me? Bizarre. Fascinating. Her whole body slips through? How? >>
Illyana glances back at Emma. "{Percy speaks Russian?}" she checks. "{That would be lovely}--nice," she carefully adds for the benefit of the nonspeaker present. A pause she searches for small-talk within her ability. "You are being from...?" she asks Adel politely.
<< Uncertain. I am not as well versed in the theories behind our powers as... perhaps Xavier may be. I simply know she woke me yesterday morning and she was definately on the astral plane before falling into the physical world through some sort of...hole. >> Emma tears her focus away from the conversation to concentrate on Illyana's words. Not quite enough comes through to allow her the details of her words, but the combination of 'Percy' and English 'nice' prompt a response of, "{Yes. Many languages.} Very nice."
"Bahrain." Adel lingers over the syllables, soft and throaty, and ends in a somewhat sheepish laugh. "Home, still, even after four -- five?" he wonders, stopping to second-guess himself, "--years." He turns his hands out in a shrug. << Fascinating. Who is she? You are familiar with her, obviously. >>
"Where is B--" Illyana shakes her head, and offers Adel a sheepish smile and a laugh instead. The more she successfully communicates, the more her hands relax. "You--" She struggles with a word she can't find, and changes instead to "You are going back? Home, still?"
Emma laughs and smiles her encouragement of Illyana's attempts at communication in English. << I knew her before her disappearance. She showed up then out of thin air, searching after her brother. >> Up until that point, no sign of communication other than what was passing through their smiling lips was evident. However, now Emma slides a sly glance sideways as she adds, << Her brother is a resident of Xavier's. >>
"One day." Adel's smile briefly widens, timed to the glance sideways. His focus remains on Illyana, however. "Where is that you're from? Do you have family in the area?" << Well, that's interesting! >>
"Siberia," Illyana says. "My brother is being here. At the school. Xaviers. I also, before I was being--" Another pause and then a truimphant smile as she pulls the word out of memory. "Lost."
"Except now her brother is staying with us. So he can be closer to Illyana while she adjusts to life here," Emma informs Adel under the guise of a perfectly contented little mother so proud of her brood.
"Siberia." Adel's lips twitch. << Sounds like a punchline, >> he doesn't /quite/ project, but the words float on the surface of his thoughts, there to be heard. "Interesting. My brother and I learned from Xavier, as well." Adel flicks a startled look back at Emma. << He's staying /with us/? So is she? >>
"Oh!" Illyana clearly matches her knowledge of the school with Adel's comment, and her eyes go a little wider. She nods to Emma's words. "I am being...scared." Her fierce frown indicates that's not actually the word she wants. She shakes her head. "Happy he is here."
"Yes." << I thought it better to keep things close at hand. Just in case something proves... valuable. >> Emma turns her head and adds her affirmation. "They did." << In any case, she is a sweet child. I miss having students. >> "And we are happy /you/ are here. /We/ won't lose you. You're safe."
When Illyana's eyes go wide, Adel nods. His smile brightens and he echoes Emma, "We are, as she said. But I need to get moving." He lifts his hand from his pocket to waggle it in a little wave, and then leans forward to offer it to Illyana to shake. "It's been nice chatting with you." << Should be interesting. I'd like to know more about her some time, hmm? Maybe when she's not around. >>
Illyana brightens at the idea people enjoy having her around, and takes Adel's hand without too much hesitation. "Goodbye," she says, smiling at him. "Nice, yes." The conversation has brought another thought to mind, and she turns back to Emma, slipping into her native language to make sure her point gets across. "{I'm glad that I can stay, but how long before I will have to go back to school? Will I?}"
<< Stop by tomorrow. We can talk while her brother is occupying her time, >> Emma replies, taking his hand in a quick embrace as soon as Illyana releases it. "What? I'm sorry, dear. {Slower. School?} What about the school, pet?"
Adel's hand is warm, and his clasp friendly, without pressuring. He drops Illyana's hand with a nod, stepping back again with a last, "Goodbye," for her, and a smile for Emma as he clasps her hand. He steals in to kiss her cheek chastely. << Can-do. >> Then he's out.
"When?" Illyana asks, looking hopeful that she won't have to translate it all. "I must be going?" She watches Adel go, and then look back to Emma for the answer to her question.
"Not if you don't wish to," Emma promises. "{You could stay here with me and take your classes by...} tutor" she finishes with the English word. "You can stay here with me as long as you like."
Illyana bites her lip, but shakes her head at the word. "Sorry. I am not knowing...tutor." She considers what she has of the idea. "I am not knowing...{yet}...now." She sighs, looking suddenly tired, and rubs her face. "Sorry."
Emma closes and lifts a hand to the girl's cheek. "It's no matter. {Stay with me forever, if you want}," she says, repeating the /important/ concept in the exchange. "Let's visit the library and see if we can find something quiet for you to read, hmm?"
Illyana leans her cheek into the hand for a moment before straightening and smiling at Emma more brightly. "Yes!" she endorses. "Please." She takes a few steps towards the exit, but then waits for Emma, since she has to lead.
2.6.07 - Illyana is so out-numbered.
2/15/2007
Lunch hour in the Financial District. Busy, important people running around doing busy, important things. Emma exits the lobby of Frost Enterprises just behind an assistant who steps to the edge of the curb and flags down a cab while she waits under the relatively sheltered entrance, pulling on gloves and shrugging deeper into her coat.
The Financial district is interesting. Lots of interesting people to watch, Kathryn muses as she weaves through the streets trying to avoid the various busy, important people all over the place. Out of the corner of her eye she catches sight of someone flagging down a cab up ahead, and pulls over into the next lane before stopping up against the curb. From her seat she peers curiously at the assistant standing on the sidewalk, the same sort of look she gives all of her passengers.
The assistant steps forward and grabs the handle of the back door, opening it wide while she hangs over the window to say "Time Warner Center" while Emma slides into the seat. The assistant closes the door, and steps back, scurrying for the warmth of the lobby the second the cab pulls away from the curb.
"You got it." Kathryn nods to the assistant, then she turns to watch the other woman hurry forward and slide into the seat. Kathryn's never sure about these sort of people. Does she chat with them? Or not? Or just act like a chauffer in a tux? She shrugs it off slightly as she glances over her shoulder, pulling away from the curb. "Heya. Good afternoon!" Kathryn finally offers with a quick glance and a bright smile over her shoulder.
Emma looks up from the arranging of coats and skirts and briefcases at the greeting, and returns it with a small smile of acknowledgement and a, "Good afternoon. I don't suppose you know if there is a place to get something to eat fairly quickly on the way?"
"Hmm." Kathryn draws out the sound as she muses. "Sure, there's always places to eat! Fast, I'd say either fast food or coffee shop kinda stuff." She watches the other woman for a moment in the rearview mirror. "Any kind of food in specific? If not I can find a drive-thru or something." Kathryn offers helpfully.
Emma's nose curls up at the mention of drive-thrus, but she shakes her head. "Anything to keep my stomach from growling for the next two hours. It would a be a trifle embarrassing to attempt to convince the board to do what I want when my stomach is making outlandish noises at them"
Kathryn catches the curl of her passenger’s nose and quickly moves on from the drive-thru idea, but the second comment causes her to grin. "Yeah, I hear you, wouldn't do a whole lot for a great impression! There's some pretty good coffee places and stuff around. I can pull into one and you can go get a muffin or something." She pauses at the thought of the assistant. "Or I can run in and get it for you."
"I would even brave a hot dog vendor at this point," Emma replies, leaning her head back and closing her eyes, though she does crack one open a bare slit at the driver's offer. "I would appreciate it, but whatever you see along the way. Do you often provide delivery service for your passengers?"
Kathryn's quick to shake her head. "Nah, not gonna have you go to your meeting after eating food poisoning on a bun." Her distain is rather obvious, while not picky about her food there's some things even Kathryn doesn't go for. As she drives she starts watching for someplace to stop and get decent food. "Um, not usually, but then again, most don't ask." She replies frankly as she continues her looking around.
Emma snorts lightly and lifts her head. Her attention shifts to leafing through various pieces of paper in her satchel. "Well, I do endeavor to be distinctive."
"Hey, that's cool though." Kathryn nods in agreement. She pulls quickly around another car and into a parking space in front of a series of buildings. "There's a place there." She gestures as she puts the car into park. "Okay, whatcha want?" Kathryn asks, leaning further over the seat.
Emma leans forward to peer out of the window at the indicated place, and makes a snap decision. She pulls a small compact from her satchel and retrieves a a folded $100 bill, which she hands over with her order.
Kathryn takes the bill, one brow raising just slightly. "'Kay, be right back then." She smiles quickly then gets out of the car, carefully avoiding getting her door ripped off by the oncoming traffic and hurries into the small place. Several minutes go past, before the short cabbie hurries back out again, getting back into her car. "There you go!" She hands the order, as well as the change, back to her passenger.
Emma takes the bag but waves off the change. Her "thank you" is prompt, if prim, as she opens the top and peers inside at the foil wrapped foodstuff.
Kathryn blinks at the generous tip before pocketing it. "Hey thanks!" She grins brightly again, before starting up the car again, pulling away from the curb, back into traffic. "Tried to go quickly, hopefully it won't make you late to your meeting?" Kathryn asks, ignoring the honk from someone she cut off pulling into traffic.
"Tardiness is far more forgivable than bodily noises," Emma answers slyly and unwraps her lunch. It doesn't take long for her to finish it off.
Kathryn laughs at this, stepping harder on the gas to clear an intersection before the light turns red. "True that." She agrees with a nod, falling silent for the moment to allow Emma to finish eating.
They aren't far from their destination when Emma crumples the foil wrapping up and drops it in the bag, following it with the napkin used to wipe her fingers and pat her lips dry. "You don't have something to dispose of this in?" she asks, holding the bag up slightly.
One hand comes off the wheel to reach backwards. "Here, I'll take it. I'll throw it away next time I stop." Kathryn offers.
The bag is duly plopped in Kathryn's hand.
In turn it's dropped onto the seat next to her as both hands return to the wheel. Just a few minutes later Kathryn slides to a stop at the required destination. Leaning over the seat again she quotes the fare. "Just take it out of the $100?" Kathryn asks. "Oh, and good luck with your board meeting." She adds with another grin.
Emma opens the door and pauses long enough say, "Yes, please." It still leaves a sizeable tip. "Thank you. I appreciated your assistance. Good afternoon." And then she's out in a flurry of white.
2.15.07 - Taxi-side delivery service
2/16/2007
Informality rules the day for William Richmond III, who is dressed a bit belatedly for the holiday in a pink button-down shirt, a pair of khakis, and a fuschia 10-gallon hat with a giant glittery pink heart on the front. His cowboy boots are black, worn, and propped up on a chair dragged from its proper place to serve as a footstool, and the corners of his eyes are crinkled with his deep amusement as he reads an actual hand-written letter.
Condensation beads on the glass windowpanes separating bright, brittle cold from the warmth and comfort of the inside. Dressed in concession to the temperature outside, Emma pushes in through the door leading to the gardens outside and exhales a last, steamy breath in the fluctuating air. She stamps the last remnants of snow from her boots, and holds the door open for the large Newfoundland snuffling behind her. She laughs and pulls the white fur hat from her head, releasing a tumble of blonde hair to fall and gleam gold against the white of her coat and frame blue eyes brightened by the outside exercise and cheeks pinked by the same. She kneels to release the leash from Sir Didymus' collar then stands, and only then realizes the room is occupied. Apparently. "Oh! Mr. Richmond. Good morning," she gasps, and recovers.
Richmond notices Emma before she notices him (apparently), and glances up from his letter, pushing his hat back a few degrees. His good humor carries from his reading to his sightseeing, and his eyes are for the dog as much as the woman holding his leash. Once Emma acknowledges him, he offers an easy grin and nod, briefly doffing his hat as part of the motion. "Miz Frost," he says cheerfully. "A pleasure." Sincerity laces behind the words, and the pleasure is, for today, completely devoid of any acknowledgment of sexuality: it is an innocent good humor, almost familial.
Both are fine specimens of their breed, are they not? The dog, tired out from the morning exercise lopes across the room to make friends with Trip in easy trust, while his owner ambles along behind him. Emma takes in his outfit in a quick, amused scan, and returns the nod as she gathers the links of the leash in one hand. "Trying to extend the spirit of the holiday?" she asks, /trying/ to hide the smile that comes at the prompting of the glittery heart.
Richmond reaches a hand out to the dog, leaning to scratch behind his ears with an easy confidence. "Hello, there, fella," he says, more than willing to bond with the random animal coming his way. To his owner, he notes, "M'granddaughter sent it up. Just made it here this morning. Seemed a shame to waste the goodwill." He grins up at the young woman, noting that, "She's got great taste, y'know." Clearly.
Emma nods and rounds her eyes, saying in all mock-sincerity, "Oh, yes. She certainly does. No doubt she'll set the fashion world on fire." Didymus just noses and wags his tail, encouraging more of the same, thnx.
Richmond is happy to oblige, his hand moving to under the dog's chin, scratching away merrily. "Surely," he agrees. "I can't even guess where she found the thing. M'daughter won't tell me, just reports that Ashley picked it out herself. Wants to avoid the blame, I think."
"I don't blame her," Emma confides, unbuttoning her coat and laughing down at the ritual playing between dog and man.
"Ha," Trip replies. "Too late for that. I have strong memories of all the gifts she gave me as a girl. This is nothing." He removes the hat, however, and drops it on the bench beside him, sitting up from his bonding with the canine. "That is a fine dog you've got there. What's his name?"
Emma reaches the last button and shrugs out of the overcoat, draping it across the arm of the chair in front of Trip before bending down to ruffle the dog's neck. The white planes of her slacks and sweater are already covered in dog hair. "Sir Didymus, and I can blame that name on someone else too. A couple of my students thought it would be amusing to give me a dog." She stops and slides a sly glance up at Trip. "Apparently, I have a reputation as being high maintenance."
"Nasty bit of slander, that," Trip says, all light-hearted teasing. He folds his letter up and slides it back into the envelope, asking, "He like the snow, then? Never had dogs up north."
"He likes any kind of activity, but yes, winter is his favorite. The heavy coat makes him rather miserable in summer. Did you have dogs in Vags, then?" she asks conversationally.
"Not since I was a boy in Texas, no," Trip answers. "Kinda miss 'em, sometimes -- lot of stuff I used to do as a boy that I haven't done in too long. Haven't been hunting in over a decade now, and I don't think I've been near enough to smell a horse since I was forty." There's no real regret behind the words, though, just a fuzzy nostalgia, tinged with an ironic understanding of his own indulgence of these thoughts.
Emma chooses not to hear the irony. "That is easily corrected," she exclaims, laying an earnest hand on his knee. "We will have to arrange a visit to one of our stables. Though it can't have been more than a few years since you rode," she compliments shamelessly, laughing to extend the awareness of the ritual.
Richmond meets the laugh with one of his own, dropping his hand to pat hers lightly. "That's quite all right," he says cheerfully. "I'll get to it at some point, but I don't much relish the thought of how I'd likely look out there today, out of practice as I am. Better to leave that in the past for now -- though I may need to see what hunting season looks like up here."
"I'm afraid I can't help you there, unless you are aiming for more... nebulous prey." The look she gives him from under her lashes is heavy with implications; no doubt a few others obscure the actually intended ones. The moment draws long before she demurely slides her hand free of his. "I'm afraid /my/ hunting season is winding down, though with all the recent turmoil, I've not yet found time to rest."
That, finally, penetrates Trip's haze of pleasant familial feelings; he would have to be substantial denser than he is to miss the implications of that comment. Although little changes on the surface, a deep awareness of Emma as a /woman/ filters behind his words and thoughts now. He meets that statement with a rueful grin, and the comment, "Maybe it's time to try my hand at tracking again. Hah. Speaking of nebulous prey, you hear anything about the reports that Tom Daley may be filing bankrupcy papers soon?"
"You are a tracker, then?" Emma looks suitably impressed. "That certainly must take a great deal of patience and commitment. Something I haven't the time for, I'm afraid. I leave that to my subordinates, who apparently aren't doing a very good job. I /hadn't/ heard." She settles to the floor on one hip, her arm draped over Didymus' thick neck.
Richmond gives a brief grimace at that, though there is little real discomfort behind it, just a lingering curiousity. "Have to look elsewhere, then." << If he doesn't need to sell something, can't go tipping my hand with asking. >> The something in question seems to be the controlling interest in a local construction company, midsized, which Trip has more confidence in than prevailing wisdom holds reliable. "I do like the tracking. Have a lot of people with eyes and ears open, of course, but I do like to think I've got a fair nose for this sort of thing."
Apparently convinced that Trip is unlikely to take him off on a romp, Didymus settles down and lays his head on his paws, lulled to complacency by Emma's steady, scratching fingers on his neck. "I'm sure you do," she says with a secretive smile tucked into the corner of her mouth. "Must be difficult, though, being so far from your familiar stomping grounds, trying to form a reliable network of information," she adds, turning her face and that knowing smile down on the pet at her knee.
"That's true enough," Trip agrees, genial. He doesn't volunteer any more, however; his interest is piqued, and he waits to see where this will develop.
"If you need any assistance in that area, I might be able to help you navigate until you develop your own," Emma offers airly, then turning her head to look up at him. Her hair slides in a golden waterfall behind her head and over the far shoulder. "I may not be a tracker, but I /am/ a fair enough guide."
Richmond watches the hair. Naturally. It is right there! "I may just take you up on that," he says with an easy grin. Behind the grin, however, suspicion is deep-seated, rendering him far more cautious than the surface reveals. He does not, it seem, fully trust Emma's motives, though he is willing to see where this path leads.
Emma's return expression is a study in guilelessness. "How old is your granddaughter?" she asks, carefully diverting thoughts from his suspicions.
While not entirely successful in pushing away doubts, this line of conversation at least tables them for the moment, as Trip loosens up a bit. "Seven," he answers that. "She's a darlin' little girl, looks just like her mother when she was that age."
"How sweet," Emma purrs, leaning on a locked-elbow straight arm pressed against the floor. "And she is the apple of your eye, I can tell."
Richmond's grin at this is entirely unfeigned. "It's a grandfather's job to spoil his grandkids, I always tell m'self. She's got two brothers, too -- nine and four -- but none of my boys has started a family yet."
"They're following in their father's footsteps, no doubt," Emma grins impishly, and yet somehow managing to saturate the comment in innuendo. She lifts off her hand and dusts them together before rolling to her knees and rising to her feet. Didymus, ever alert to opportunities to play, scrambles to his feet as well and wags an eager tail.
Richmond snorts a little laugh at that. "If only," he says ruefully. He watches Emma rise with mild curiousity, but does not comment.
"Then perhaps you should set them an example," she says evenly, smiling at him with a half-turned face. Pants are dusted off, and she gathers her coat and hat before speaking again. "Have a good day, Trip. Don't work too hard or I might have to come up with something to divert you. That /is/ what retirement is all about, isn't it?"
"Powerful incentive to work hard, that," Trip notes in ironic amusement. "Have a good day." He reclaims his hat from the bench, but dow not immediately replace it, waiting for Emma to depart first.
Which she does without a backwards glance after a slow, control smile of acknowledgement, and perhaps promise. Didymus trots along at her heels.
Richmond replaces his hat and watches after Emma for a long minute, his expression thoughtful.
2.16.07 - Emma and Richmond discuss politics, hunting, and grandchildren. Trip's, not Emma's.
2/16/2007
---
=NYC= Homicide - New York Police Department - Upper East Side
Brass letters on the squad room's smoked glass window labels this the home of Homicide. Painted in the dingy, puke-green of the hallway, the large room is broken up by battered square pillars and detective desks pressed back to back in paired islands. Walls are covered by pictures and memos, while one is almost entirely consumed by ancient file cabinets of steel grey. Wire-grated windows, crusted by dust, look out over the alleyway beside the precinct. At the far end of the room, a door leads to the Captain's office.
She doesn't /really/ have to stop at the desk to ask for him. She doesn't even /really/ have dress the way she does. She just does it because it is part of the little game, and even if the game is dull and petty, he /does/ make it fun. He has such lovely expressions, and raw, primal emotions. True, mostly rage and frustration, but there /is/ such a thin line, and underneath it all twines something he'd rather not acknowledge was there. And, well... Emma never could stand other people's self-delusions.
By the time she reaches his desk, there is a little crowd following. After all, it not every day that New York's favorite socialite comes to call on New York's finest. Or Christopher Rossi. Emma winks her escort away and perches on the edge of his desk, pushing files and coffee mugs out of the way so she can cross her legs--long, long legs in a skirt that probably should get her charged with exerting undue influence. "Hullo, darling."
Her arrival is a gossip that flies through the building, and so Rossi is mostly prepared -- mostly -- when Emma enters the squad room. The broad, scarred hands flatten on the table when the commotion pushes through the door; the harsh face, briefly stark, arranges itself in the unreadable neutrality only a veteran detective can muster. "Emma," he greets through stiff lips, and shows white, even teeth. "Turning yourself in?"
"Tch. You can only /hope/ to get me in handcuffs again," she murmurs in an undertone, glimmering a smile at him before it turns arch and she sweeps a glance around the room out of the corner of her eye with an imperceptible turn of her head. "No," she drawls, lifting her voice a little. "I just stumbled across something the other day, and I thought it must be yours." She holds her hand out, palm down, and dangles something small and shiny from a ribbon caught between her fingers.
The glitter of green eyes drops to the open hand, and recognition (irritation!) snipes across the mind behind it. "It figures," Rossi says, and reaches to claim the medal, deliberate enough to avoid skin contact. "Emma Frost, kleptomaniac. You don't got enough shiny shit to play with, you have to steal other people's?" Something murky moves across the forebrain, an echo of a voice that is swiftly stuffed back into hiding. A muscle jumps in his jaw.
Emma arches a brow. "Steal? That would imply I /kept/ things. It's not my fault you are so careless." Curious power brushes his thoughts, attracted by that splash in the dark, but the contact flits by too quickly for detection.
Ororo's face, sober, teases out at that summons, framed by a halo of hair and darkness, the smoky voice explaining. ("--trans...planted. Into each other's bodies.") Rossi's brow stitches into a frown, but his attention is elsewhere: in the small bit of metal and cloth caught in his palm. "Careless, my ass," he says bluntly, and leans to shove his prize into a pants pocket. Lips thin. "What the hell is your fascination with my brass, anyway? Go do something useful and earn your own."
Oooh. Understanding blooms into exasperation and irritation fragranced by dark amusement. Her lips twitch. She straightens and looks around, attention darting over hill and over dale to snag on the desk opposite Rossi's. "No thank you. I don't have the instinct for martyrdom that it requires. Where is your partner? /He/ knew how to be polite at least."
Rossi's mind snarls awake for that, << /Stay away from/-- >> it begins, a sentiment made of protective emotion rather than words. Aloud, he is more adroit; the barest stiffness in his shoulders and spine prove the lie to the civil, "He's at the DA's office. He's got some cases going to court tomorrow. If you want to leave him your love, I'll be sure to pass it on for you." Liar.
Emma startles, her attention returning completely to him at the ferocity of the response. << Restrain yourself, /Detective/, >> she snaps back, the command imperative. "No, I don't think that's necessary. /Thank you/."
The man's mind recoils, old scars blazing pink and red -- Valentine's Day colors -- at the contact. << Stay out of my fucking mind, >> he snaps back. "No problem," the baritone says, each word clipped and clean, shorn of any give or take. "Or I can lend you a post-it and a pencil, if you know how to write."
<< Then stop bleating so fucking /loud/ >>, she growls, eyes blazing cold fire over a control smile that drips honey into her reply. "I'll have an assistant do it for me."
A wall closes around the detective's thoughts: the last word, of a sort. Imperfect, permeable, it bears the signature of Xavier House work and training. It is the best a remedially-flatscan is capable of, albeit with a few ugly touches of Rossi's own experiences. Hints of crime scenes prickle on its perimeter, promising less savory imagery upon closer inspection. "Must be nice," Rossi says, rigid in his chair. "Lifestyles of the rich and lazy. And trouble-free. So sorry to hear about Shaw."
Emma snorts soundlessly and withdraws with a flourish not unlike the rustle of a cape in the wind, a tickling reminder that his shields hold at her whim, not his. "I'm sure you are. So unexpected," she mews, not able to keep the spite out of her voice.
Eyes narrow. Rossi sinks back into his seat, the rickety contraption squeaking a warning at the redistribution of weight. "Actually," he begins, and then stops to angle his mouth into something not quite a smile. Irritation is discarded; professional curiosity comes to bear. "Convenient for you."
Eyebrows twitch over eyes blanking into bland detachment; her expression shutters closed. "Not particularly. But then, I wouldn't expect you to understand the intricacies of the lifestyles of the rich and lazy. And illiterate."
"One threat down," Rossi points out. A hand flexes a fist on the edge of the desk, thumb sliding across a criss-cross lattice of scars. He smiles, close-mouthed, an expression that does not reach the watchful gaze. "One more to go. What are the chances Erik Lensherr will suddenly show up dead? A little difficult even for the rich and lazy to arrange."
"A little difficult for the government to arrange too," Emma points out dryly, leaning back and stretching her arms behind her for support. "I won't pretend that I wasn't afraid of Sebastian, nor that I don't catch your implications, Christopher. But do you /really/ think that the manner of his death was my /style/? Please. No subtlety about it."
Rossi snorts, and fingers drum a sharp rhythm on the battered desktop. "Wouldn't say subtlety is the first word to come to mind when I think about you, Princess Peacock," he says. "You catch up to Lensherr, give him my regards. From one guy you've fucked over to another." His eyes narrow, but they do not stray down. Been there. /Done/ that.
Emma's eyes narrow and she presses her lips into a thin, sharp smile. "No, I dare say it isn't," she purrs, razor blades in the sound. "And if /you/ bump into your megalomaniac admirer, leave me out of the conversation." She unfolds her leg and swings it around the corner of the desk, slinking off the desk and back onto her feet.
"I'll try," Rossi promises, and insincerity coasts free and easy in the lazy drawl. "Won't be easy. You know you're the only thing ever on any red-blooded guy's mind." An arm hooks behind his head, the pale blue dress shirt stretching with him. His collar, a button undone beneath the loosened tie, gapes to show the hollow of his throat. "Leaving already? Don't let the door hit you on the way out."
"Oh, I know darling. I know," she says with a smirk and shuffle-click of heel on tile as she turns and heads for the door.
Rossi looks after her -- what his thoughts are, he keeps safely locked away behind his guard -- and thins his mouth again. Back to work. Face set, shoulders stiff, he turns his attention to the case at hand.
2.16.07 - She knows.