Trick, no treat
Definitely shit-faced. Skip the beer, go straight to the whiskey. Did I get another bottle? Great, I can't remember now.
Why did I say that, about the case? And the dreams? And why did I-
If I drink enough, it'll all go away. Yes. Until morning, when the good father can wave his magic Latin wand and ego te absolvo me. Thank God. Praise God.
Back to avoiding him for a while. Way to go, Leah. You bitch.
10/31/2005
Logfile from Leah.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Salem Center
A small little escape from the hustle and bustle of the inner city whose skyline looms in the distance, Salem Center is a relatively small Westchester community that retains some illusion of colonial charm, about it. The stores and restaurants and small apartment buildings here are, for the most part, brick and wood with barely a steel-and-glass skyscraper in sight. The atmosphere is generally pleasant, if humble, and most mutants feel far more comfortable on these much more liberal sidewalks than they do in the depths of the city. Quaint little bistros, boutiques, and any number of alluring spots to explore are all packed closely against one another with few narrow alleys in sight. It's less crowded than the city, to boot, and on most days not much more than a few handfuls of people roam the sidewalks down the line of glass store-windows and colored awnings overlooking the Main Street.
--
Cold, cloudy night: all hail All Hallows' Eve. Leah trudges up the street from the train station, wrapped in a sturdy coat and the pensive silence of her own thoughts. Streetlamps slide cone after cone of light up and over and past her, and cast coins of ephemeral effulgence through her spiky bronze hair, onto her downcast eyes, like Charon's fee in an older tradition than any on display this holiday.
For the man stepping out into the autumn's chill, the approach of the grim ferrier is no less welcome than Leah, the two mingling in a cacotechny of season and shadow. He pauses on the bottom step, his own lean frame wrapped in a faded leather overcoat well-worn and well-loved; breath weaves white and ghastly around his head, a less mythical halo than hers. "Yo, Canto."
Leah looks up wearily at the voice, the name. Her short and steady strides slow and then resume. They bring her up to the steps, and there she stops, still looking up, still looking tired, and not at all bothering to put on a pretty facade. "Rossi. You getting off-shift or going on?"
"Losing track," says Rossi, raising hands gloved in black leather to rearrange the scarf that loops around his throat. The collar flares, propped up against the bite of wind. "Who pays attention anymore? Getting back from a party?"
"Hospital."
Black brows lift. "Grossman? How's he doing?"
Leah creases a smile. "Awake. You may now dance for joy."
He may, in the privacy of his own apartment. In the public streets, he simply peels a grin of his own, matching Leah's smile with sympathy's pleasure. "Hey! Great news. Garbage guys. Heads like bowling balls."
"Apparently so." Leah tips her head back, breathes soft white vapor, studies the building behind him. "I told him it was 2007," she says brightly.
"Asshat," says Rossi, still on the edge of that grin. Amusement tips to meet it, turning eyes and voice to a different sort of warmth. "Messing with a sick man."
Leah demurs, "It was funny. It made him laugh. Then he hit me with a pillow. I suck, I know."
Says Rossi, wisely, "Laughter's good medicine. Tucci swears by the love of a good woman, but that's why he's divorced. --Happy?" he asks, stretching an arm for Leah's shoulders.
"Tired," Leah says quietly. She doesn't move for the arm, but doesn't move from it, either. She studies the asphalt beneath her boots. "It was a long day. And then the train in, the train back..." She sighs and looks up. "I'm going to get shitfaced," she declares almost cheerfully. "I earned it. And then I'll go to confession tomorrow and make it all good again."
Confession. Rossi marvels. "/You're/ going to Church?" The leather-bound arm molds around Leah's shoulders, sharing scarce heat; more of that in the body that meets hers perforce, ribs and chest pillowing against her side. "Thought you were out of the religion business."
"I got sins that need absolving, what can I say?" She stiffens, just a little.
"Leading an upright man of the people into temptation," mourns Chris. "I was freaking virginal until I met you."
Leah tells the night, "And this would be why I didn't want to tell you. Exactly why."
The man is squished. "Sorry," he says meekly.
"Asshole," she mutters. "Honest to God, Rossi. I'm going to beat you. Tie you up and /beat/ you."
"Not into the rough stuff," says Rossi, because he can, because he cannot help himself -- and then closes his lips around a mouthful of worse. "Sorry," he says again. Honest curiosity pokes, "You really heading back to the Church?"
Leah sighs. "Yes," she says and twists a hard look up at him. "What're you gonna do about it? Go ahead, mock away. I am clad in the shining armor of my righteousness, you prick."
Rossi says, humble as the very Lamb, "Not mocking. Just surprised, is all. Thought you were done with the whole thing." A hand gestures, aimlessly plotting her course away from the See. "Misogynistic."
"Sins," Leah repeats and looks away again. "Got a lot on my mind, and the parish priest here, well, he seems like a decent guy. Nothing wrong with talking, right? I imagine the misogyny will come later, with plenty of warning signs for me to get out quick. You know, before I'm given over to a man as his handmaid and all."
One green eye splinters palely at Leah, fascinated behind the crest of falling hair. "Not seeing it," Rossi informs. "Maybe if you got hit over the head and lost your memory somehow -- you'd make a pretty crappy handmaid, Canto. Always arguing with the Lord and Master--"
A sharp elbow. "Fuck you. Like you wouldn't like yourself a cute little Ofchris to lord over around the house."
"Ow," says Chris, and: "Like hell. Prefer living alone. I strike you as a family type?"
"And you've been /alone/ how often lately?" Leah wants to know.
The grin that replies is a lazy, sybarite thing, hollowed though it is by residual fatigue. "It's been a busy few days," Chris concedes. "Been spending most of my time at the precinct, anyway."
Leah grunts and leans into him. It's cold; he's warm; she's tired. "Blue flu?"
"Actual flu," says Rossi, appreciation opening his coat to wrap it around her as well. The other arm wraps to clasp hands loosely with the first. "Going around. Should've seen Kant; she was out for almost a week. Lazzaro's got MA Lysoled within an inch of sterility."
A snigger. "Poor Vincent. I'll get him a surgical mask and gloves. Leave 'em at the door, knock, and run away." Leah sniffs against the cold. Damn drippy nose. "I'll presume that you aren't contagious and likely to get me sick, or else I'm making you wait on me hand and foot."
Chris's breath fogs the both of them, a pallid mist that dissipates almost before it is done forming. "Never get sick. Figure you need kids to do that. Damn things are like petri dishes. If you get that dickhead presents, make sure they're the type that'll boil well, because you know that's what he'll do with them."
"Yes, Detective," Leah exaggerates patiently. "Just don't fucking sneeze on me or anything. Not even as a joke. Last thing I need."
The arms tighten around Leah. Rossi sniffles, experimentally.
Leah growls.
Rossi gravely kisses that bronze-cast head. "You're a terror."
Leah sniffles woefully. "I'm a bitch."
"2007," says Chris, and -- abruptly -- laughs.
Leah just sighs. "And I told him the Devil Rays won the Series in 2005."
The laugh chokes. "Holy /shit/," Chris manages through the tightening of throat, baritone rich. "How the hell did you keep a straight face?"
Leah might smile. She's keeping her head down, though. "I'm on TV, you know. It's good for more things than a paycheck."
"Bullshit artist?" The aftershocks of mirth tremor through the broad, warm frame. "How'd he take it?"
"He pillowed me, like I told you. But he did laugh. I don't think he gets angry often," she muses, relaxing into warmth, into conversation. "It's nice. Weird, but nice."
Says Chris with an attempt at gravity, "Never trust a guy you can't piss off. Maybe his sister got all the testosterone in the family."
Leah sniffs: aggrieved, not drippy. "I could piss him off. I just don't want to."
Chris pushes himself back slightly, tilting his head to inspect Leah with judicious interest. "Yeah, you probably could. /I/ could," he adds with reprehensible satisfaction. "I can piss off pretty much anybody."
Leah cocks him a cynical look right back. "Yeah, I've noticed. Mr. Talented, you are."
"Everyone's special," Rossi advises with pious sanctimony. "It's what makes me /unique/. Mrs. Richards taught me that."
Leah makes a strangled noise. "What, in the back of her '57 Chevy?"
The detective blinks. "She was my third grade teacher," he informs. "And it was a '64 Mustang."
Leah marvels, "You did start young."
Rossi considers. "She wasn't my third grade teacher by /that/ point."
"I'm so desperately lucky to have you," is Leah's dry response. "I will say hosannas."
"Hail Mary," reminds Chris kindly, and grins into her hair. "Why? Who was your first?"
Leah's rolled eyes come through quite clearly in her sparking alto. "It sure wasn't my third-grade teacher, count on it."
Chris says apologetically, "She was hot."
"And you," says Leah kindly, "are not overly discriminating."
"Teenage boys." The man grins over Leah's head at the street lamp, and a small group of party-goers attired in costumes better suited to warmer climes. "Not so big on the making smart choices. So who /was/ your first?"
Leah answers, "Billy Martin. And not /that/ one."
Baritone chuckles around Leah, wrapping her in amusement. "I was going to say-- how old were you?"
Leah thinks a minute. "Seventeen? Yeah, I guess, since it was summer. Better than this shit," she mutters, staring at the night balefully. "He was eighteen, just outta school, off to CCNY or something, I forget. Tall, knobby knees, crooked front tooth -- oh, and one of his eyes, I think it was the left, had this speck of gold in it, right in the blue. Funny what you remember, huh?"
Cold. It /is/, though Rossi heats it as best he can. A gloved hand untangles his scarf, looping it in a companionable black cashmere chain around Leah's throat as well. "Your boyfriend?"
Leah sniffs and presses into him, head tipped to shoulder, jessed and tamed (well, for now). "Nah, just a guy. We hung out for a few weeks, then he went off with -- oh, hell. Sally something. Sandy? Beats me. Doesn't matter. I've never been good with the boyfriend thing, /you/ know that."
"Bad taste in men," he intones with sepulchral solemnity. Back on the easier lope of Brooklyn's timbres, Rossi amends, "--until now, anyway. Then again, I got some fantastic bad taste in women, so we're probably made for each other. Our mothers would die happy women if we hooked up for real."
"I'd have to check with Aaron on that," Leah says, paused.
"--Forgot," admits Rossi, with a touchstone of apology and not an ounce of chagrin. The grin flares bright, white, and brilliant. "He going to claim you, Canto?"
Leah growls again, but softly, and with a smile. "Are you?"
Trick question? Chris answers it with a crooked twist to his lips. "You'd kick my ass if I tried."
"Would I?" Leah lofts into the night, the cloudy, cold night.
The crimp of mouth fades into caution, eyes shiny, oh so very shiny in their bruised hollows. "Thought you weren't good at the relationship thing."
"I'm even worse," Leah reminds him, "at the kicking-ass thing. Although I sure scratched up your pretty face somethin' good."
"Don't call me pretty."
"Pretty," Leah croons and turns into him, wrapping her arms around his waist and snuggling close. "My own pretty boy."
One hand knots into a fist, and begins applying the time-honored tradition of a noogie on the back of Leah's head. "Canto. I'm /not pretty/."
Leah laughs and ducks away. "You are. You're fucking adorable. You're gorgeous. I could eat you up. Or pimp your fine ass out. If ever I need the money, man..."
"Bitch," announces Chris, crushing her close with in strong, not-pretty arms. The fist scrubs a second longer, harassing that bronze crown, then flattens itself to shape around her skull's arch. "The Captain's trying to get me to do that fundraiser she pitches in on every year. Cystic fibrosis. Christ. Stuff us in our dress blues, parade us up and down like ... what're those birds? I'm losing the word. Ducks?"
"Peacocks," Leah says, a bit breathless from the squeeze. "Or maybe just cocks."
"/Penguins/. Are the males called cocks?" Inquiring minds.
Leah blinks up at him blankly. "Hell should I know? I'm not an ornithologist."
Illogical reason points out, "You study men."
Leah's hand slips down for a squeeze of her own. "And cocks?"
Rossi jerks, and swears, and squashes fiercely again. "You'd better check with Aaron," he advises.
"Why?" Leah asks innocently. Her hand, mind, is not keeping up with this act. Goodness, those fingers-- "Last I saw, he was dead asleep. Not getting out of the hospital for a week, either."
Another oath from Rossi, who -- alas, his male dignity! -- squirms. "Christ, Canto," he manages, a bit breathlessly. "You gonna bring this up in confession?"
Leah hums consideringly. "What's one more in the sin pile? Unlawful carnal knowledge -- church hates that, you know. They might make me marry you first."
"It'd have to be a shotgun wedding," Rossi says, donning prim offence. "I've got my reputation to think of. --Crap. Think I'm pregnant?"
Leah punches his gut. "Let's see."
Chris folds just a little before straightening with a small hiccup. He is a Man. "/Christ/--" Back to squashing it is, then. He wrestles with that lean body in his arms, seeking to manacle wrists with his hands. "You're learning some bad habits from Julia, woman."
Leah doesn't resist, doesn't fight. She is, after all, tired. Said so herself! "That reminds me: I need to call her. When's this fundraiser? We'll bid on you. Together. That'll be fun, right?"
"Except I think she might actually be doing the auction. And I'm /not/." There. Safety is to be found in straightjackets, manhandled or no. Rossi rests his chin on her head, letting his breath stir a veil over her eyes. "She's trying to get Yamaguchi to do it, too. You see the calendar?"
"No, I don't think so. I'm woefully out of touch with the naked and half-naked servicemen of our fine city." Leah sniffles. Drippy. Rests even as he does, her head bowed bronze-bright, and she hugs him. "Did Vincent pose? With a hat. A strategically placed hat. Or holster!"
The solid body quivers around a soundless laugh. Not so soundless, once the deep baritone scores into speech. "Melcross tell you about that? Or did I? --Nah. Chickenshit," Rossi says with cheerful treachery. "Would've paid not to see him naked in a calendar. Moroni ended up doing August, though."
Leah mutters, "Which one is -- oh, God. He /hit/ on me. Once. I think. Asshole."
"Horschach says he's hot," Rossi advises gravely. "And she's a lesbian."
"Man smells like feet. And not in a good way."
"Hot men don't need to smell good."
Leah straightens up, steps back, stares at him. "Which is why you don't sleep with 'em, I'm guessing. Jesus, Rossi. Smell is everything."
"Never had a thing for men," Rossi admits, peering down between their bodies before slanting a wicked, decidedly masculine look up through his lashes. "Always preferred the gentler sex, myself."
Leah punches him again.
Rossi takes it. Because he is manly. "False advertising," he muses, eyeing Leah's fists warily. "Should probably talk to someone about that. You know the Department of Agriculture actually did a report on what the ideal female figure should be?"
Leah stops. Eyes him. Warily.
Chris stops talking. Eyes Leah back. Seraphically.
"So," Leah says, "how's the kid case going?"
Not too seraphic now. Rossi deflates, humor dissipating into a swift and sudden frown. "Urf," he says, eloquent man. "I've been on better. Half the squad's put time in on it. This rate, we'll be pulling in MA, too."
Leah's eyes glitter bitter, petty triumph before gentling into proper sympathy. "Are you having the dreams again?"
A low blow indeed, far below the belt. Rossi's face tightens, then eases into remote pleasantry. "Who has time to sleep?" he asks, mildly. "Beston should be along any minute. You must be freezing."
A silence. A stilling. Leah doesn't physically move, but she matches that emotional removal with ease, all the same. "Oh, I'll be okay. Hot shower, a dozen beers or so, and a nice snuggling into my roasty toasty bed. Thanks for the concern, though. Have a good shift?"
"Thanks," says Chris, and arches a brow at Leah, amused. (Bemused.) "Happy Halloween."
"Sure," says Leah and does extricate herself then. She moves around him, up the steps and to the building's door without another word, another look.
Alone in the cold, Chris Rossi bundles himself up in leather armor, fending off chill and fatigue, and sets himself to wait for his laggard partner.
[Log ends.]
Why did I say that, about the case? And the dreams? And why did I-
If I drink enough, it'll all go away. Yes. Until morning, when the good father can wave his magic Latin wand and ego te absolvo me. Thank God. Praise God.
Back to avoiding him for a while. Way to go, Leah. You bitch.
10/31/2005
Logfile from Leah.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Salem Center
A small little escape from the hustle and bustle of the inner city whose skyline looms in the distance, Salem Center is a relatively small Westchester community that retains some illusion of colonial charm, about it. The stores and restaurants and small apartment buildings here are, for the most part, brick and wood with barely a steel-and-glass skyscraper in sight. The atmosphere is generally pleasant, if humble, and most mutants feel far more comfortable on these much more liberal sidewalks than they do in the depths of the city. Quaint little bistros, boutiques, and any number of alluring spots to explore are all packed closely against one another with few narrow alleys in sight. It's less crowded than the city, to boot, and on most days not much more than a few handfuls of people roam the sidewalks down the line of glass store-windows and colored awnings overlooking the Main Street.
--
Cold, cloudy night: all hail All Hallows' Eve. Leah trudges up the street from the train station, wrapped in a sturdy coat and the pensive silence of her own thoughts. Streetlamps slide cone after cone of light up and over and past her, and cast coins of ephemeral effulgence through her spiky bronze hair, onto her downcast eyes, like Charon's fee in an older tradition than any on display this holiday.
For the man stepping out into the autumn's chill, the approach of the grim ferrier is no less welcome than Leah, the two mingling in a cacotechny of season and shadow. He pauses on the bottom step, his own lean frame wrapped in a faded leather overcoat well-worn and well-loved; breath weaves white and ghastly around his head, a less mythical halo than hers. "Yo, Canto."
Leah looks up wearily at the voice, the name. Her short and steady strides slow and then resume. They bring her up to the steps, and there she stops, still looking up, still looking tired, and not at all bothering to put on a pretty facade. "Rossi. You getting off-shift or going on?"
"Losing track," says Rossi, raising hands gloved in black leather to rearrange the scarf that loops around his throat. The collar flares, propped up against the bite of wind. "Who pays attention anymore? Getting back from a party?"
"Hospital."
Black brows lift. "Grossman? How's he doing?"
Leah creases a smile. "Awake. You may now dance for joy."
He may, in the privacy of his own apartment. In the public streets, he simply peels a grin of his own, matching Leah's smile with sympathy's pleasure. "Hey! Great news. Garbage guys. Heads like bowling balls."
"Apparently so." Leah tips her head back, breathes soft white vapor, studies the building behind him. "I told him it was 2007," she says brightly.
"Asshat," says Rossi, still on the edge of that grin. Amusement tips to meet it, turning eyes and voice to a different sort of warmth. "Messing with a sick man."
Leah demurs, "It was funny. It made him laugh. Then he hit me with a pillow. I suck, I know."
Says Rossi, wisely, "Laughter's good medicine. Tucci swears by the love of a good woman, but that's why he's divorced. --Happy?" he asks, stretching an arm for Leah's shoulders.
"Tired," Leah says quietly. She doesn't move for the arm, but doesn't move from it, either. She studies the asphalt beneath her boots. "It was a long day. And then the train in, the train back..." She sighs and looks up. "I'm going to get shitfaced," she declares almost cheerfully. "I earned it. And then I'll go to confession tomorrow and make it all good again."
Confession. Rossi marvels. "/You're/ going to Church?" The leather-bound arm molds around Leah's shoulders, sharing scarce heat; more of that in the body that meets hers perforce, ribs and chest pillowing against her side. "Thought you were out of the religion business."
"I got sins that need absolving, what can I say?" She stiffens, just a little.
"Leading an upright man of the people into temptation," mourns Chris. "I was freaking virginal until I met you."
Leah tells the night, "And this would be why I didn't want to tell you. Exactly why."
The man is squished. "Sorry," he says meekly.
"Asshole," she mutters. "Honest to God, Rossi. I'm going to beat you. Tie you up and /beat/ you."
"Not into the rough stuff," says Rossi, because he can, because he cannot help himself -- and then closes his lips around a mouthful of worse. "Sorry," he says again. Honest curiosity pokes, "You really heading back to the Church?"
Leah sighs. "Yes," she says and twists a hard look up at him. "What're you gonna do about it? Go ahead, mock away. I am clad in the shining armor of my righteousness, you prick."
Rossi says, humble as the very Lamb, "Not mocking. Just surprised, is all. Thought you were done with the whole thing." A hand gestures, aimlessly plotting her course away from the See. "Misogynistic."
"Sins," Leah repeats and looks away again. "Got a lot on my mind, and the parish priest here, well, he seems like a decent guy. Nothing wrong with talking, right? I imagine the misogyny will come later, with plenty of warning signs for me to get out quick. You know, before I'm given over to a man as his handmaid and all."
One green eye splinters palely at Leah, fascinated behind the crest of falling hair. "Not seeing it," Rossi informs. "Maybe if you got hit over the head and lost your memory somehow -- you'd make a pretty crappy handmaid, Canto. Always arguing with the Lord and Master--"
A sharp elbow. "Fuck you. Like you wouldn't like yourself a cute little Ofchris to lord over around the house."
"Ow," says Chris, and: "Like hell. Prefer living alone. I strike you as a family type?"
"And you've been /alone/ how often lately?" Leah wants to know.
The grin that replies is a lazy, sybarite thing, hollowed though it is by residual fatigue. "It's been a busy few days," Chris concedes. "Been spending most of my time at the precinct, anyway."
Leah grunts and leans into him. It's cold; he's warm; she's tired. "Blue flu?"
"Actual flu," says Rossi, appreciation opening his coat to wrap it around her as well. The other arm wraps to clasp hands loosely with the first. "Going around. Should've seen Kant; she was out for almost a week. Lazzaro's got MA Lysoled within an inch of sterility."
A snigger. "Poor Vincent. I'll get him a surgical mask and gloves. Leave 'em at the door, knock, and run away." Leah sniffs against the cold. Damn drippy nose. "I'll presume that you aren't contagious and likely to get me sick, or else I'm making you wait on me hand and foot."
Chris's breath fogs the both of them, a pallid mist that dissipates almost before it is done forming. "Never get sick. Figure you need kids to do that. Damn things are like petri dishes. If you get that dickhead presents, make sure they're the type that'll boil well, because you know that's what he'll do with them."
"Yes, Detective," Leah exaggerates patiently. "Just don't fucking sneeze on me or anything. Not even as a joke. Last thing I need."
The arms tighten around Leah. Rossi sniffles, experimentally.
Leah growls.
Rossi gravely kisses that bronze-cast head. "You're a terror."
Leah sniffles woefully. "I'm a bitch."
"2007," says Chris, and -- abruptly -- laughs.
Leah just sighs. "And I told him the Devil Rays won the Series in 2005."
The laugh chokes. "Holy /shit/," Chris manages through the tightening of throat, baritone rich. "How the hell did you keep a straight face?"
Leah might smile. She's keeping her head down, though. "I'm on TV, you know. It's good for more things than a paycheck."
"Bullshit artist?" The aftershocks of mirth tremor through the broad, warm frame. "How'd he take it?"
"He pillowed me, like I told you. But he did laugh. I don't think he gets angry often," she muses, relaxing into warmth, into conversation. "It's nice. Weird, but nice."
Says Chris with an attempt at gravity, "Never trust a guy you can't piss off. Maybe his sister got all the testosterone in the family."
Leah sniffs: aggrieved, not drippy. "I could piss him off. I just don't want to."
Chris pushes himself back slightly, tilting his head to inspect Leah with judicious interest. "Yeah, you probably could. /I/ could," he adds with reprehensible satisfaction. "I can piss off pretty much anybody."
Leah cocks him a cynical look right back. "Yeah, I've noticed. Mr. Talented, you are."
"Everyone's special," Rossi advises with pious sanctimony. "It's what makes me /unique/. Mrs. Richards taught me that."
Leah makes a strangled noise. "What, in the back of her '57 Chevy?"
The detective blinks. "She was my third grade teacher," he informs. "And it was a '64 Mustang."
Leah marvels, "You did start young."
Rossi considers. "She wasn't my third grade teacher by /that/ point."
"I'm so desperately lucky to have you," is Leah's dry response. "I will say hosannas."
"Hail Mary," reminds Chris kindly, and grins into her hair. "Why? Who was your first?"
Leah's rolled eyes come through quite clearly in her sparking alto. "It sure wasn't my third-grade teacher, count on it."
Chris says apologetically, "She was hot."
"And you," says Leah kindly, "are not overly discriminating."
"Teenage boys." The man grins over Leah's head at the street lamp, and a small group of party-goers attired in costumes better suited to warmer climes. "Not so big on the making smart choices. So who /was/ your first?"
Leah answers, "Billy Martin. And not /that/ one."
Baritone chuckles around Leah, wrapping her in amusement. "I was going to say-- how old were you?"
Leah thinks a minute. "Seventeen? Yeah, I guess, since it was summer. Better than this shit," she mutters, staring at the night balefully. "He was eighteen, just outta school, off to CCNY or something, I forget. Tall, knobby knees, crooked front tooth -- oh, and one of his eyes, I think it was the left, had this speck of gold in it, right in the blue. Funny what you remember, huh?"
Cold. It /is/, though Rossi heats it as best he can. A gloved hand untangles his scarf, looping it in a companionable black cashmere chain around Leah's throat as well. "Your boyfriend?"
Leah sniffs and presses into him, head tipped to shoulder, jessed and tamed (well, for now). "Nah, just a guy. We hung out for a few weeks, then he went off with -- oh, hell. Sally something. Sandy? Beats me. Doesn't matter. I've never been good with the boyfriend thing, /you/ know that."
"Bad taste in men," he intones with sepulchral solemnity. Back on the easier lope of Brooklyn's timbres, Rossi amends, "--until now, anyway. Then again, I got some fantastic bad taste in women, so we're probably made for each other. Our mothers would die happy women if we hooked up for real."
"I'd have to check with Aaron on that," Leah says, paused.
"--Forgot," admits Rossi, with a touchstone of apology and not an ounce of chagrin. The grin flares bright, white, and brilliant. "He going to claim you, Canto?"
Leah growls again, but softly, and with a smile. "Are you?"
Trick question? Chris answers it with a crooked twist to his lips. "You'd kick my ass if I tried."
"Would I?" Leah lofts into the night, the cloudy, cold night.
The crimp of mouth fades into caution, eyes shiny, oh so very shiny in their bruised hollows. "Thought you weren't good at the relationship thing."
"I'm even worse," Leah reminds him, "at the kicking-ass thing. Although I sure scratched up your pretty face somethin' good."
"Don't call me pretty."
"Pretty," Leah croons and turns into him, wrapping her arms around his waist and snuggling close. "My own pretty boy."
One hand knots into a fist, and begins applying the time-honored tradition of a noogie on the back of Leah's head. "Canto. I'm /not pretty/."
Leah laughs and ducks away. "You are. You're fucking adorable. You're gorgeous. I could eat you up. Or pimp your fine ass out. If ever I need the money, man..."
"Bitch," announces Chris, crushing her close with in strong, not-pretty arms. The fist scrubs a second longer, harassing that bronze crown, then flattens itself to shape around her skull's arch. "The Captain's trying to get me to do that fundraiser she pitches in on every year. Cystic fibrosis. Christ. Stuff us in our dress blues, parade us up and down like ... what're those birds? I'm losing the word. Ducks?"
"Peacocks," Leah says, a bit breathless from the squeeze. "Or maybe just cocks."
"/Penguins/. Are the males called cocks?" Inquiring minds.
Leah blinks up at him blankly. "Hell should I know? I'm not an ornithologist."
Illogical reason points out, "You study men."
Leah's hand slips down for a squeeze of her own. "And cocks?"
Rossi jerks, and swears, and squashes fiercely again. "You'd better check with Aaron," he advises.
"Why?" Leah asks innocently. Her hand, mind, is not keeping up with this act. Goodness, those fingers-- "Last I saw, he was dead asleep. Not getting out of the hospital for a week, either."
Another oath from Rossi, who -- alas, his male dignity! -- squirms. "Christ, Canto," he manages, a bit breathlessly. "You gonna bring this up in confession?"
Leah hums consideringly. "What's one more in the sin pile? Unlawful carnal knowledge -- church hates that, you know. They might make me marry you first."
"It'd have to be a shotgun wedding," Rossi says, donning prim offence. "I've got my reputation to think of. --Crap. Think I'm pregnant?"
Leah punches his gut. "Let's see."
Chris folds just a little before straightening with a small hiccup. He is a Man. "/Christ/--" Back to squashing it is, then. He wrestles with that lean body in his arms, seeking to manacle wrists with his hands. "You're learning some bad habits from Julia, woman."
Leah doesn't resist, doesn't fight. She is, after all, tired. Said so herself! "That reminds me: I need to call her. When's this fundraiser? We'll bid on you. Together. That'll be fun, right?"
"Except I think she might actually be doing the auction. And I'm /not/." There. Safety is to be found in straightjackets, manhandled or no. Rossi rests his chin on her head, letting his breath stir a veil over her eyes. "She's trying to get Yamaguchi to do it, too. You see the calendar?"
"No, I don't think so. I'm woefully out of touch with the naked and half-naked servicemen of our fine city." Leah sniffles. Drippy. Rests even as he does, her head bowed bronze-bright, and she hugs him. "Did Vincent pose? With a hat. A strategically placed hat. Or holster!"
The solid body quivers around a soundless laugh. Not so soundless, once the deep baritone scores into speech. "Melcross tell you about that? Or did I? --Nah. Chickenshit," Rossi says with cheerful treachery. "Would've paid not to see him naked in a calendar. Moroni ended up doing August, though."
Leah mutters, "Which one is -- oh, God. He /hit/ on me. Once. I think. Asshole."
"Horschach says he's hot," Rossi advises gravely. "And she's a lesbian."
"Man smells like feet. And not in a good way."
"Hot men don't need to smell good."
Leah straightens up, steps back, stares at him. "Which is why you don't sleep with 'em, I'm guessing. Jesus, Rossi. Smell is everything."
"Never had a thing for men," Rossi admits, peering down between their bodies before slanting a wicked, decidedly masculine look up through his lashes. "Always preferred the gentler sex, myself."
Leah punches him again.
Rossi takes it. Because he is manly. "False advertising," he muses, eyeing Leah's fists warily. "Should probably talk to someone about that. You know the Department of Agriculture actually did a report on what the ideal female figure should be?"
Leah stops. Eyes him. Warily.
Chris stops talking. Eyes Leah back. Seraphically.
"So," Leah says, "how's the kid case going?"
Not too seraphic now. Rossi deflates, humor dissipating into a swift and sudden frown. "Urf," he says, eloquent man. "I've been on better. Half the squad's put time in on it. This rate, we'll be pulling in MA, too."
Leah's eyes glitter bitter, petty triumph before gentling into proper sympathy. "Are you having the dreams again?"
A low blow indeed, far below the belt. Rossi's face tightens, then eases into remote pleasantry. "Who has time to sleep?" he asks, mildly. "Beston should be along any minute. You must be freezing."
A silence. A stilling. Leah doesn't physically move, but she matches that emotional removal with ease, all the same. "Oh, I'll be okay. Hot shower, a dozen beers or so, and a nice snuggling into my roasty toasty bed. Thanks for the concern, though. Have a good shift?"
"Thanks," says Chris, and arches a brow at Leah, amused. (Bemused.) "Happy Halloween."
"Sure," says Leah and does extricate herself then. She moves around him, up the steps and to the building's door without another word, another look.
Alone in the cold, Chris Rossi bundles himself up in leather armor, fending off chill and fatigue, and sets himself to wait for his laggard partner.
[Log ends.]