ICly Xavier's folks only
This may be a very difficult time for all of us. Please, everyone, take as much care as you can, be sensible and stay away from trouble.
A message is delivered to Jean's desk in Detective Rossi's handwriting. It has a name and a location on it. No, I don't know what it means either.
16 October 2006
Jackson's apartment
Jackson has exited the buildings of the Pratt Institute many times, but the doors closing behind him never felt quite this final. For a moment he pauses on the front steps -- but only for a moment, and it is a testament to something he is feeling (though he is entirely unsure /what/) that he does not turn and look back. He does not pause again until he gets to the entrance to the subway station, and there it is only to retrieve a cellphone from the pocket of his corduroys and dial, biting his lip uncertainly and praying silently for an answer.
On hearing his phone ring, Piotr conscientiously pulls over to the side of the road, stopping the car then turning the radio off as he reaches into his pocket for the small device. A little smile creeps to his face as he sees the number on the screen, and it remains there as he hits the button to pick up and raising the phone to his ear. "Hallo?"
"Pete, hey!" Relief threads its way through Jackson's tone at the familiar voice. Despite the morning he's had, he smiles as he leans back against the rail of the stairwell down into the train station. Relief gives way quickly to uncertainty once more, though, and he hesitates a moment before asking, "Where you at, man? Did I catch you before you left the city?"
"Jackson, hallo," Piotr replies, edging an elbow onto the narrow, plastic lip of the window, the glass pressing cold against the skin of his arm. "I am on my way back to the school, though not far from the city at all. Are you needing something?" A thread of concerned seriousness edges its way into his voice. "I could be with you in fifteen minutes."
"Oh." The short syllable is flat; against the railing, Jackson slumps a little while he considers this. "Are you -- are you sure? I mean, if you're headed back already, I don't want to bother you. I just wanted to talk, I guess. It's not a big deal."
"It is not a problem," comes the answer, smooth, low and reassuring. "I did not have anything planned for this afternoon, and I do not see you nearly enough anyway. I will be there." Piotr's attention is drawn away from the call for a moment as a car full of teenage girls speeds past, music blaring, and the girl in the passenger seat offers him a coquettish wave. "Ah, would you like me to bring anything?"
"Just yourself, honey," Jackson says, more cheerfully than he feels. Then, apologetic, as he straightens from the railing and turns to head down the steps, "I'm just leaving school right now -- you may get back before I do. I shouldn't be long, though, but if you get there first, I'm /really/ sorry."
A touch of fond humour comes to Piotr's voice at Jackson's apology. "It is fine, truly," he says with fond fervency. "I believe I have the patience to wait a little while for you. Take care now, and I will be with you shortly."
"Okay," Jackson says dubiously, a trace of apology still lingering in his tone. It clears soon enough, though, and bright once more, he chirps, "See you soon, then!" before disconnecting and heading into the subway.
Returning his phone to his pocket, Piotr starts the car again, turning and driving back the way he had come towards Jackson's apartment. He reaches the building a little shy of his predicted fifteen minutes, giving him enough time to park and get back to the door without being horrifically late, at least. He heads for the buzzer, but an old lady reaches the door before he can press it and, helping her lift her wheeled bag of groceries over the lip of the door, he gains entrance without waiting around. He sees her safely to her door, only five down from Jackson, before returning to his friend's apartment and knocking firmly.
The knock isn't answered; it's a good ten minutes yet before Jackson appears, slightly flushed, entering the hallway from the stairwell. "Sorry!" he offers again to his waiting friend as he hurries towards his door, keys jangling as he pulls them from his pocket. "I tried to run but that didn't work /so/ well with broken ribs." Unlocking the door, he pushes it open and holds it for Piotr. "I hope you weren't waiting too long?"
"Jackson!" Piotr's call is half glad, half admonishing of the state his friend has allowed himself to get into. "I was not waiting too long at /all/," he insists, "and nor should you have been even /trying/ to run." He cannot, however, remain stern for long, and he smiles at his friend as he ducks through the door of the apartment. "But how are you?"
"I'm -- okay," Jackson says uncertainly, as he crouches to untie and remove his shoes by the front door. "I'm just kind of --" He breaks off, wrinkling his nose, and is quiet a moment. Shaking his head slightly, he looks up at Piotr. "How's things at the school? I mean, after being open about things. How're the students taking it? S'it gotten crazy there yet?"
His expression mellowing to solemnity, Piotr tips his head a little to the side as he slips his shoes off, a hand reaching to the wall to aid his balance. "Things are tense, it must be said. We are having to use the hidden entrances to avoid the reporters, and such things have the children in truth more than a little on edge. Cassy, Walter and Nisa all left the school before the announcement was made, although we know now where they are. I think, though," he begins with unusual insight, watching his friend's face closely, "that you did not answer my question completely."
Jackson's lips quirk as he stands back up. "Yeah," he says wryly. "I guess I didn't. D'you want anything to drink, hon?" Padding across the wood floor in socked feet, he crosses to the kitchen. "Or eat? -- I can understand why the kids would be tense, but it's probably for the best. I mean, it certainly wasn't gonna stay a secret forever. And hopefully this way there are so many more kids now who will know where they can go for help."
"A drink of water would be most welcome, thank you," Piotr says quietly, making his quiet way to the couch. "This is my hope also," he continues. "We can do more good, I think, when we are known, and the reporters will get bored of the school before too much time has passed. And, in the end, it is better that the world should hear this from us rather than from anyone else."
"That's for sure." For a moment Jackson falls silent, occupying himself with retrieving two glasses from the cabinets and filling them from the pitcher of filtered water in the fridge. "At least," he says then as he crosses over to the couch, "this makes it harder for them to spin it and say we are some sort of terrorism training grounds." Piotr's glass is set down on a coaster on the coffee table in front of the couch, and Jackson sinks down on the cushions beside the larger man with a slight sigh.
Gentle politeness brings a small smile to Piotr's face as he thanks his friend, reaching forward to take the glass a moment after it is set down. "Indeed," he says softly, further words on that line of thought cut off as he takes a sip of his water.
Jackson does not drink his water. He holds the glass cradled between long fingers, chrome-painted nails tapping nervously against the side. He stares into it, though, truth be told, the water is not all that fascinating. He glances up from it to let his gaze drift over to his canvas, his painting still half-finished, its progress frozen until his arm is once more usable. "Do you like Emerson?" he asks then, suddenly, still looking not at Piotr but at the unfinished painting.
The non-sequitur draws a faint frown of concern across Piotr's brow as he watches Jackson's distracted body language, and he lowers his arm to rest his elbow on the arm of the couch, his glass hovering above his lap. "I do," he replies. "It is a pleasant place, and I have friends there. Their teaching of physics is not so good, but I enjoy studying art. Why do you ask?" The mild tone of voice in his query is countered by a searching intensity in his gaze.
"It is," Piotr confirms, his look of worry not diminishing. He reaches out his free hand to his friend, large fingers resting gently on the young man's arm in a gesture of comfort and support. "But, Jackson, please, tell me what is wrong," he asks quietly.
The touch soothes jangling nerves somewhat; Jackson's fingers and the tongue ring both cease their restless clicking. He turns a slight smile of thanks to his friend, finally looking over at Piotr, and shrugs one shoulder. "Maybe I'll apply there." His brow furrows slightly. "Pete, you -- you're registered, aren't you?"
"Apply there?" Piotr repeats, confusion deepening worry and the lines on his forehead with it. "There is something wrong at your college?" Quiet urgency overcomes his normal politeness and Jackson's question goes remarkably unheeded.
"Next year, I guess. S'too late this year." Jackson's jaw tightens, teeth clenching slightly, and he breathes deep and slightly shaky before answering. "I -- they're -- kind of kicking me out."
Jackson nods, once, and then, immediately after, shakes his head, exhaling a quiet breath that does not quite make it to being laughter. "No. I asked to take the rest of the semester off so my arm can heal and I can paint again, and they won't let me. They told me to find a school better /suited/ to my /unique situation/." His head drops, forefinger and thumb pressing into the hollows of his eyes. "Technically, I'm not being kicked out. It would be easier almost if they'd just come out and say they don't want mutants there. But the school went public Friday night, and Saturday morning they called to say I had to come talk with them, and it was my Xavier's transcript they were looking at when they told me I should finish school somewhere else, and --" His words break off into an actual laugh this time, strained and without humour.
"Oh, Jackson," Piotr mutters, his hand sliding up on Jackson's shoulder to encompass it in a gentle press of comfort. "I-" He closes his eyes slowly, then shakes his head grimly in front of him, pursing his lips before he looks up to his friend once again, stern seriousness in his eyes. "Have you told anyone at the school?"
"I'm telling you!" Jackson says promptly, looking up with a smile whose brightness serves only to augment the contrasting sadness in his eyes. "I haven't even told my /parents/, yet. It only happened this morning. They're going to be so disappointed. I'm the first person in my family ever to go to college and I get into one of the best art schools in the country and --" Shrug. "And now, who knows."
"Oh Jackson," Piotr repeats again, extreme sympathy creasing the soft skin around his eyes. He leans sideways and places his glass, still almost full, on the table then brings his newly-empty hand to Jackson's other shoulder, a tender gesture shy of a hug for the sake of his friend's bruised ribs. "Perhaps you should talk to Jean or the Professor before you tell your parents. They may be able to help you. I am sure what your college has done cannot be lawful."
Bruised ribs or no, the contact is welcomed; Jackson shifts carefully on the couch to move closer to Piotr, leaning (albeit stiffly) up slightly against his friend. A brief, grateful sigh escapes him, and his eyes close, pensive. "S'legal to discriminate against mutants, though, so I ain't sure how much I can argue with it." After a pause, he adds, quieter, "'Sides, I'm not sure I /want/ to go to a school where they don't want me."
It is Jackson's second argument rather than his first that draws an acceding nod from Piotr, the sombre movement coupled with another slow closing of his eyes as the full force of his fraternal instincts comes to bear on his younger friend. "There have been rather a few mutants at Emerson in my time there, including some good friends," he says, a little tangentially. "Though there are students there who dislike mutants. In all, it balances. If you were to come there, I would be glad to help you find your feet. I would," he adds, "be glad to see you there."
Jackson's lips curl in a wry grin. "Perhaps," he says thoughtfully, "if I go to a /real/ school I will make my pa happy and study something /real/. Something sensible. Like..." His brow furrows a moment as he tries unsuccessfully to imagine himself doing /anything/ besides art. "Math!" He declares at length, triumphantly, and immediately shudders slightly at Piotr's side. Math. Jackson is allergic to even the thought.
"I would not go so far as to study math," Piotr agrees with a slight tilt of his head, his concern diminishing slightly as Jackson begins to return to something ressembling good humour. "Perhaps..." he considers, "English literature? This would not be such a large step from art, but it is still a respected subject."
Piotr mirrors Jackson's movement, drawing away and reaching for his drink from the table. His head turns towards his companion half way through the motion, his hand just clasped around the cool glass. "No, not so far as I know," he replies, glad to see his friend cheering. "You would like some company?"
"I figure now I've been kicked out of school I can go be horribly irresponsible and do all those things I never had time to do otherwise," Jackson answers brightly. "You know, like /actually/ spend some time seeing what the city is like when I'm /not/ looking to sketch it for homework. Maybe get food. Wander a little. And /forget/ about this horrible morning. I sure'd be glad of your company, if you're not busy."
"It is an excellent idea," Piotr agrees with a nod. "The city is a truly fascinating place, and it would be a shame if you did not see what it has to offer. And truly, I could hardly call myself a friend to you if I allowed you to explore it alone when you are injured, yes?" A conspirital raising of his eyebrows hints to Jackson that this is an attempt at humour. It is probably a good thing he saw fit to give this hint.
Jackson's nose wrinkles as his grin stretches wider; briefly, the air around him glimmers with dancing light, a visual reflection of the soft laughter that escapes him now. "Hardly," he agrees with Piotr, "but you ain't never been anything but a great friend, so I guess you're stuck with me this evening if you want to keep that record."
Flattered and touched by the comment, Piotr smiles and bows his head. "It will not be a chore," he admits, burying his smile in another drink from his glass, deeper this time. "Is there anywhere in particular you would like to visit?" he asks, turning a curious gaze upon Jackson.
"Toys," Jackson says seriously. "Visits to toy stores were always good for cheering up when I was a kid, at least. And now I'm living with the biggest toy store in the world right in Times Square and I /guess/ we are too old for toy stores, but then, I'm being irresponsible, right?" The exuberance which carries him to his feet now is checked by a slight wince of pain as he stands too quickly, but his smile falters only a moment. "Toys!" he declares, again, cheerful.
A deep smile of fondness settles about Piotr's stern features and he nods, lips pressing close as he attempts to regain seriousness in the face of such good cheer. He fails. "Toys," he agrees. "I admit, I am not an expert on toys. I was rather old for such things when I came to America, and we do not have all the same things at home. You will have to teach me."
Jackson reaches out to slip one hand into Piotr's, laughing as he tugs gently at the bigger man's hand. "You're never too old for toys," he insists. "C'mon. I'll teach you."
Leaving his glass on the table still half full (ever the optimist!), Piotr gets to his feet and allows himself to be pulled forwards after his friend, out into the toy-filled wilds of New York.
Jackson calls Piotr with sad news. Piotr tries to cheer him up. Toys are involved. (Backdated to before the blackout party)
24 October 2006
Natural History Museum
Tuesday afternoon finds the museum filled with visitors, the riff-raff of public and private schools bumping elbows as they flock in packs after teachers and guides. Bored, most of them; their attention waxes and wanes, pitching high-voiced chatter through the echoing vastness of the display rooms.
In the food court at least, there is peace -- of a relative sort. Sunk in low-browed meditation, Det. Rossi stretches long-limbed and lazy across a chair, the remains of lunch sordid on the tray by his elbow. Head supported by a hand, the leather drape of an overcoat opened over his suit, he reads traffic with an inattentive eye. Body present. Mind unaccountable.
There in neither his capacity as a student or a teacher, Piotr is in fact examining the even the dull exhibits with genuine interest, a tall presence moving slowly through the crowds hurrying onwards to more interesting things. Eventually, though, the human needs that drive the less attentive of his fellow visitors to hurry towards the food court past skeletons and animatronics make their presence felt in him too, and he joins the tide of bodies moving towards the promise of processed foods. Taco, pizza, or burger? He looks around as he tries to decide.
Inattention drifts across passersby, marking faces and motives through habit. Past Piotr, once -- then back again, vague recognition niggling enough to draw furrows in the wide brow. Det. Rossi straightens; his arm drops, blunted fingers hanging over the metal rim of table. Green eyes sharpen, considering.
A burger, it would seem, is Piotr's decision, and he heads towards the tiny counter in a long line of tiny counters that proudly displays its pair of golden arches. The people waiting to be served form not so much a line as a mass, but he joins the back of it nonetheless, careful not to place himself in front of anyone who was there before him.
Fingers drum on the underside of the table. Rossi rises in a sudden tide, leather hissing across the rickety plastic of the chair. A hand shoves into a pocket -- the tray and its contents, discarded in passing, add to the heap atop the trash area -- and he joins the line behind Piotr. "Coffee," he tells the back of that clean-cut head, "is what keeps America going. Even if it's crap. Yo, Ruski."
The words indeed meet the back of Piotr's head, as it is not until the greeting that he turns around, eyebrows forming curious peaks at the insightful statement, wondering why such wisdom is being imparted to him. The expression dulls to a polite smile of greeting as recognition tugs, though he is unable to match a name to the face and settles for, "Good afternoon, sir," in reply.
"Rossi," the older man provides, as much in correction as in clarification. His head jerks, silver winking at his temples, to indicate the flick of finger against the badge at his belt. The hand in his pocket pushes back the overcoat, baring gold and the sullen sway of holster and gun. "Don't think I ever caught your name. Something crazy, wasn't it? That Russian guy who got clobbered and kept on going--"
"Peter," that Russian guy supplies, cutting off Rossi's description with a mildly embarrassed half smile. "Or Piotr, in truth," he adds, since his companion is clearly aware of his less pronouncable real name, "though Peter is just fine." As politely as possible, he offers no reply to the description.
"--Tsar Nicholas," Rossi completes inaccurately, and then finishes the thought with: "Rasputin. That's who I'm thinking of. Piotr." Americanized though the Brooklyn accent is, the cop's mutilation of the name is only a little egregious. His chin lifts in lazy acknowledgment. "You were at that thing. Cassy's party at Professor Chuck's place."
With a half chuckle and a mild interjection of, "He is no relation," Piotr edges forwards as a group of a dozen or so small children run off to find a table and the crowd of people ahead disperses a little. Dawning realisation brings his head back round to look at Rossi again. "You gave Cassy a pair of handcuffs and put Rogue in the swimming pool," he says flatly, trying hard to remain unamused, although in hindsight even he can see the funny side.
A hand rakes through hair, pausing halfway to provide Piotr with an edifying spectacle of porcupined Rossi. "Pop tart," the deep baritone corrects, mouth slanting towards rue. "The other one. Fizzy. Jubilee. Threw her in the pool. Rogue said it wouldn't short her out -- and damn, I really did give Cassy a pair of handcuffs, didn't I? Probably not the best choice of gift. What the hell do I know about what thirteen year old girls like?"
"Ah yes," Piotr amends with a nod. "It was Jubilee who pulled Rogue into the pool afterwards. Ah, I believe." The memory, if furrowed eyebrows are any idication to go by, is hazy, possibly with the effort of pretending he wasn't there when it happened. "It is probably a good thing that there are people at the school who can pick locks," he says, avoiding the truth with uncommon dexterity.
"Munroe, you mean," Rossi says, and the harsh cynicism of his face softens slightly for that name. Something like a smile lightens the hard eyes. "Something to be said for having her around. So what's the story? You a student there? Look too young to be a teacher."
Piotr gives a small, open-handed shrug, a diplomatic 'no comment' that bears no relation whatsoever to the slight look of guilt and a reddening of his cheeks that he fails to hide. He siezes upon the question quickly in an attempt to recover. "I am the boys' RA," he answers. "Helping at the school while I study at Emerson."
An eyebrow arches, noting the betraying flush, and amusement darts quicksilver behind the eyes. However. "What's your major?" A harmless enough question. Rossi's other hand finds its way to a second pocket and he sinks his weight into his heels: the pose of a man accustomed to waiting, entrenching himself in comfort while he must.
"Art," Piotr responds, looking away for a moment under the cover of scanning the menu boards while he manages to marshal his expression back to neutrality. "With a minor in physics," he continues, his head shooting back to Rossi to face the detective while he speaks before returning to his contemplation of lunch.
The other eyebrow arches. "Interesting choice," Rossi tells the younger man, and the humor is rich in his voice, back-lit and wry. "Usually it's the other way around. Do the thing that'll get you a job first, and then do the fun thing as a minor. Then again, I'm one to talk. Religious anthropology." A hand gestures, sketching impartially around the museum's sweep before flicking again at the badge. Clink.
A smile of mild yet genuine interest meets the information of Rossi's choice of degree, diminishing in a shake of Piotr's head at his own imprudence. "I must confess, it is a thought I have had myself many times. I simply have no great love for physics, and I enjoy art very much, but even so I often feel I should attempt to do something more..." he searches for a word, "useful."
"Go blue," Rossi suggests. The crimp of mouth slants awry. "Join the NYPD. Always looking for a few good--" He breaks off. Considers. Finishes, with a bitter twist of self-mockery, "--targets."
"It is not something I had considered," Piotr admits, head canting to the side as he rectifies this situation right there and then, albeit briefly. "I am not certain I would make a very good police officer," he concludes, almost apologetically.
The detective's grin is a thing of black-edged humor; the lift of chin in droll, crooked mimicry is quizzical. "You bad at dodging?" Rossi wants to know, and his mouth thins over a fleeting thought. "Or you just not good with authority? Working at that nuthouse -- boy's R.A.? Christ. Barring the gun, what's the difference?"
"The students," Piotr informs him, grave tone lending weight to the phenomenal naivete that is the more accurate answer to the detective's question, "never truly mean anyone any harm. I think that I am not," he attempts to find the word 'astute', or perhaps 'guileful', but fails, and instead settles for, "questionning enough."
Indication enough, that first sentence, and Rossi slants a blank-eyed look of disbelief at Piotr before rocking back a little on his heels. "Christ," he says again, chagrin supplanting amusement. "Don't mean anyone any harm. Seriously? You know about that whole good intentions, road to hell thing, right?"
A slightly glossy-eyed confusion somewhat counteracts the nod Piotr gives in response. "It is true, there are sometimes regrettable accidents," he admits, "but did we not all make these mistakes when we were younger? I do not think any of them would deliberately do anything another." There is a moment's pause before he adds a significant confirmation. "Even Cassy."
"--And I gave her pepper spray," Rossi realizes, too late for second thoughts. Once more the hand rakes through hair, rumpling and ordering it in one swift sweep, and a certain distant sympathy curls into the glance he gives Piotr. "R.A. mean you have to deal with the girls as well? Jesus, kid. You realize she's probably evil, right?"
"Hardly evil!" Piotr protests with a vehemence that surprises even himself somewhat. "She is a little odd," he permits. "Her sense of humour in particular. And her taste in music. And sometimes it can be challenging to learn the truth from her, or even to understand what she is saying..." His conviction fades in the face of his own list of Cassy's little quirks, rallying with the one point on which he is certain, "But she is not evil."
Rossi says, nicely, "Man, I'm a lapsed Catholic. We know from evil. Three things we know. Guilt, the value of a good costume, and evil. She's like a fucking two year old french fry recycled for the school picnic. Not saying she's not a hoot," he adds, easing a shoulder into the base of a large stone pillar, frame for a sign forbidding smoking and dogs. "I like the kid, don't get me wrong."
Having reached the front of the line at last, Piotr is in the process of ordering a quarter-pounder and large fries when Rossi's words elicit a confused double take and a frown as he contemplates the inherent evil in the potato-containing portion of his lunch. It is too late now, however, as it looks as though a change in order would confuse the young server's limited repertoire of English. Thus, Piotr lets that part of the discussion slide, offering instead, "Sometimes she has an insight that suprises me."
"Women," Rossi quips, canting a resigned eye up to the ranks of signs before dropping his attention to scuffed shoes. "They don't see things the same. Even the young ones." A mumble behind him straightens him off the pillar to shorten the distance between self and counter. The line reshuffles after him. "She even hit puberty yet? Don't answer that."
Piotr dutifully does not answer. There is an element of relief in his silence. His burger is placed on a tray on the counter, followed quickly by his fries. Would he like anything else? No? A bill changes hands, then some coins. "She sometimes seems older than she is," he allows, lifting his tray and standing aside to allow Rossi to take his place at the counter.
"Women," Rossi says to Piotr again. "Even the young ones. --Coffee," he adds to the cashier. The latter is well within the register's capacities; a button is pressed, a bill exchanges hands, and change makes its way back into the open palm. "One minute they're 3 years old, and the next minute they're 103."
Head tilting to the side in the silent suggestion that they should seek out a table, Piotr answers with a little chuckle as he sets off on just such a search. Though the very height of the dinner rush has passed, there is still a lot of pressure for space and he conscientiously heads for a table for two that is just being cleared nearby. With a smile of thanks to the woman as she heads off with her spray and cloth, he slides his tray onto the table and folds himself onto the chair. Fixed to the floor as it is, there is not a great deal of room to accomodate a fairly large amount of Russian.
Coffee. Lid. Cream and sugar? No. Rossi makes room for the next customer in line and prowls after Piotr, restless in motion. "Tell me she's not handcuffing people to cars and that she hasn't been spraying that stuff in people's faces."
"Not that I have heard of," Piotr replies with a reassuring shake of his head that stops abruptly, then resumes as he adds, for his own benefit as much as Rossi's, "I feel sure I would have heard. Things such as that do not stay quiet for long in the school."
"Does anything keep quiet for long in the school?" Rossi asks, eyes hooded and deceptively sleepy. He closes a hand over the back of an empty chair and leans on it, eschewing a seat for physical freedom. "What happened when the press came down? Any trouble?"
A rueful, if amused grimace is clear in its expression of the fact that there is very little privacy to be found in Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, but the traces of amusement vanish at the further question. "It was difficult," Piotr informs the decective soberly. "The students were understandably worried. Several of them ran away - Cassy included - although they are back now, and safe. Even the staff are uncertain. But, on the whole, things have been peaceful."
Rossi's expression during the reply is muted, lost somewhat behind the styrofoam and cardboard of his coffeecup. "Didn't hear about that," he notes, and the note in his voice is a complicated, untuned thing: offense? relief? "What, all's well that ends well? Should've asked Cadbury," he sighs, rolling his shoulders under the coat. "You heading back to there after this?"
Verbal inquiry into the identity of Cadbury precluded by a mouthful of burger, a small, questioning smile forms instead on Piotr's brow that diminishes as he chews and swallows to answer the question. "There are still some things I would like to see here," he offers a gesture to the general area, presumably not meaning the food court, "but I think I will not be long. Then, yes, I am returning to the school."
"Do me a favor, then." Coffee settles onto the table, and Rossi -- a glance spared for the watch that bands his wrist -- fishes out a small wire memo book and flips quickly through it. Paper hisses, skidding under that efficient thumb; one page, paused at, rips out and is folded over to be dropped onto Piotr's tray. "That's for Grey, or Summers, or Chuck, or Cadbury -- Munroe. Whichever." The detective claims his cup again, already turning away in unceremonious farewell. "Gotta go check in. It was nice meeting you, Piotr."
Piotr watches the flipping through the notebook with mild curiosity, nodding in understanding as Rossi's intention becomes clear. "Certainly," he replies, rubbing a napkin between his thumb and first two fingers before picking up the note and sliding it carefully, unread, into a pocket. "I will see that it is delivered. It was good to meet you also." He keeps himself from adding 'sir' in a not at all pointed acknowledgement of the detective's preferred of address.
A hand lifts, waving scarred fingers in a backhanded salute. Rossi disappears out a corridor, trailing the smell of bad coffee behind him. NYPD's perfume.
Piotr and Rossi are both in the Natural History Museum. Who can say why? They discuss Cassy.
A message is delivered to Jean's desk in Detective Rossi's handwriting. It has a name and a location on it. No, I don't know what it means either.
16 October 2006
Jackson's apartment
Jackson has exited the buildings of the Pratt Institute many times, but the doors closing behind him never felt quite this final. For a moment he pauses on the front steps -- but only for a moment, and it is a testament to something he is feeling (though he is entirely unsure /what/) that he does not turn and look back. He does not pause again until he gets to the entrance to the subway station, and there it is only to retrieve a cellphone from the pocket of his corduroys and dial, biting his lip uncertainly and praying silently for an answer.
On hearing his phone ring, Piotr conscientiously pulls over to the side of the road, stopping the car then turning the radio off as he reaches into his pocket for the small device. A little smile creeps to his face as he sees the number on the screen, and it remains there as he hits the button to pick up and raising the phone to his ear. "Hallo?"
"Pete, hey!" Relief threads its way through Jackson's tone at the familiar voice. Despite the morning he's had, he smiles as he leans back against the rail of the stairwell down into the train station. Relief gives way quickly to uncertainty once more, though, and he hesitates a moment before asking, "Where you at, man? Did I catch you before you left the city?"
"Jackson, hallo," Piotr replies, edging an elbow onto the narrow, plastic lip of the window, the glass pressing cold against the skin of his arm. "I am on my way back to the school, though not far from the city at all. Are you needing something?" A thread of concerned seriousness edges its way into his voice. "I could be with you in fifteen minutes."
"Oh." The short syllable is flat; against the railing, Jackson slumps a little while he considers this. "Are you -- are you sure? I mean, if you're headed back already, I don't want to bother you. I just wanted to talk, I guess. It's not a big deal."
"It is not a problem," comes the answer, smooth, low and reassuring. "I did not have anything planned for this afternoon, and I do not see you nearly enough anyway. I will be there." Piotr's attention is drawn away from the call for a moment as a car full of teenage girls speeds past, music blaring, and the girl in the passenger seat offers him a coquettish wave. "Ah, would you like me to bring anything?"
"Just yourself, honey," Jackson says, more cheerfully than he feels. Then, apologetic, as he straightens from the railing and turns to head down the steps, "I'm just leaving school right now -- you may get back before I do. I shouldn't be long, though, but if you get there first, I'm /really/ sorry."
A touch of fond humour comes to Piotr's voice at Jackson's apology. "It is fine, truly," he says with fond fervency. "I believe I have the patience to wait a little while for you. Take care now, and I will be with you shortly."
"Okay," Jackson says dubiously, a trace of apology still lingering in his tone. It clears soon enough, though, and bright once more, he chirps, "See you soon, then!" before disconnecting and heading into the subway.
Returning his phone to his pocket, Piotr starts the car again, turning and driving back the way he had come towards Jackson's apartment. He reaches the building a little shy of his predicted fifteen minutes, giving him enough time to park and get back to the door without being horrifically late, at least. He heads for the buzzer, but an old lady reaches the door before he can press it and, helping her lift her wheeled bag of groceries over the lip of the door, he gains entrance without waiting around. He sees her safely to her door, only five down from Jackson, before returning to his friend's apartment and knocking firmly.
The knock isn't answered; it's a good ten minutes yet before Jackson appears, slightly flushed, entering the hallway from the stairwell. "Sorry!" he offers again to his waiting friend as he hurries towards his door, keys jangling as he pulls them from his pocket. "I tried to run but that didn't work /so/ well with broken ribs." Unlocking the door, he pushes it open and holds it for Piotr. "I hope you weren't waiting too long?"
"Jackson!" Piotr's call is half glad, half admonishing of the state his friend has allowed himself to get into. "I was not waiting too long at /all/," he insists, "and nor should you have been even /trying/ to run." He cannot, however, remain stern for long, and he smiles at his friend as he ducks through the door of the apartment. "But how are you?"
"I'm -- okay," Jackson says uncertainly, as he crouches to untie and remove his shoes by the front door. "I'm just kind of --" He breaks off, wrinkling his nose, and is quiet a moment. Shaking his head slightly, he looks up at Piotr. "How's things at the school? I mean, after being open about things. How're the students taking it? S'it gotten crazy there yet?"
His expression mellowing to solemnity, Piotr tips his head a little to the side as he slips his shoes off, a hand reaching to the wall to aid his balance. "Things are tense, it must be said. We are having to use the hidden entrances to avoid the reporters, and such things have the children in truth more than a little on edge. Cassy, Walter and Nisa all left the school before the announcement was made, although we know now where they are. I think, though," he begins with unusual insight, watching his friend's face closely, "that you did not answer my question completely."
Jackson's lips quirk as he stands back up. "Yeah," he says wryly. "I guess I didn't. D'you want anything to drink, hon?" Padding across the wood floor in socked feet, he crosses to the kitchen. "Or eat? -- I can understand why the kids would be tense, but it's probably for the best. I mean, it certainly wasn't gonna stay a secret forever. And hopefully this way there are so many more kids now who will know where they can go for help."
"A drink of water would be most welcome, thank you," Piotr says quietly, making his quiet way to the couch. "This is my hope also," he continues. "We can do more good, I think, when we are known, and the reporters will get bored of the school before too much time has passed. And, in the end, it is better that the world should hear this from us rather than from anyone else."
"That's for sure." For a moment Jackson falls silent, occupying himself with retrieving two glasses from the cabinets and filling them from the pitcher of filtered water in the fridge. "At least," he says then as he crosses over to the couch, "this makes it harder for them to spin it and say we are some sort of terrorism training grounds." Piotr's glass is set down on a coaster on the coffee table in front of the couch, and Jackson sinks down on the cushions beside the larger man with a slight sigh.
Gentle politeness brings a small smile to Piotr's face as he thanks his friend, reaching forward to take the glass a moment after it is set down. "Indeed," he says softly, further words on that line of thought cut off as he takes a sip of his water.
Jackson does not drink his water. He holds the glass cradled between long fingers, chrome-painted nails tapping nervously against the side. He stares into it, though, truth be told, the water is not all that fascinating. He glances up from it to let his gaze drift over to his canvas, his painting still half-finished, its progress frozen until his arm is once more usable. "Do you like Emerson?" he asks then, suddenly, still looking not at Piotr but at the unfinished painting.
The non-sequitur draws a faint frown of concern across Piotr's brow as he watches Jackson's distracted body language, and he lowers his arm to rest his elbow on the arm of the couch, his glass hovering above his lap. "I do," he replies. "It is a pleasant place, and I have friends there. Their teaching of physics is not so good, but I enjoy studying art. Why do you ask?" The mild tone of voice in his query is countered by a searching intensity in his gaze.
"It is," Piotr confirms, his look of worry not diminishing. He reaches out his free hand to his friend, large fingers resting gently on the young man's arm in a gesture of comfort and support. "But, Jackson, please, tell me what is wrong," he asks quietly.
The touch soothes jangling nerves somewhat; Jackson's fingers and the tongue ring both cease their restless clicking. He turns a slight smile of thanks to his friend, finally looking over at Piotr, and shrugs one shoulder. "Maybe I'll apply there." His brow furrows slightly. "Pete, you -- you're registered, aren't you?"
"Apply there?" Piotr repeats, confusion deepening worry and the lines on his forehead with it. "There is something wrong at your college?" Quiet urgency overcomes his normal politeness and Jackson's question goes remarkably unheeded.
"Next year, I guess. S'too late this year." Jackson's jaw tightens, teeth clenching slightly, and he breathes deep and slightly shaky before answering. "I -- they're -- kind of kicking me out."
Jackson nods, once, and then, immediately after, shakes his head, exhaling a quiet breath that does not quite make it to being laughter. "No. I asked to take the rest of the semester off so my arm can heal and I can paint again, and they won't let me. They told me to find a school better /suited/ to my /unique situation/." His head drops, forefinger and thumb pressing into the hollows of his eyes. "Technically, I'm not being kicked out. It would be easier almost if they'd just come out and say they don't want mutants there. But the school went public Friday night, and Saturday morning they called to say I had to come talk with them, and it was my Xavier's transcript they were looking at when they told me I should finish school somewhere else, and --" His words break off into an actual laugh this time, strained and without humour.
"Oh, Jackson," Piotr mutters, his hand sliding up on Jackson's shoulder to encompass it in a gentle press of comfort. "I-" He closes his eyes slowly, then shakes his head grimly in front of him, pursing his lips before he looks up to his friend once again, stern seriousness in his eyes. "Have you told anyone at the school?"
"I'm telling you!" Jackson says promptly, looking up with a smile whose brightness serves only to augment the contrasting sadness in his eyes. "I haven't even told my /parents/, yet. It only happened this morning. They're going to be so disappointed. I'm the first person in my family ever to go to college and I get into one of the best art schools in the country and --" Shrug. "And now, who knows."
"Oh Jackson," Piotr repeats again, extreme sympathy creasing the soft skin around his eyes. He leans sideways and places his glass, still almost full, on the table then brings his newly-empty hand to Jackson's other shoulder, a tender gesture shy of a hug for the sake of his friend's bruised ribs. "Perhaps you should talk to Jean or the Professor before you tell your parents. They may be able to help you. I am sure what your college has done cannot be lawful."
Bruised ribs or no, the contact is welcomed; Jackson shifts carefully on the couch to move closer to Piotr, leaning (albeit stiffly) up slightly against his friend. A brief, grateful sigh escapes him, and his eyes close, pensive. "S'legal to discriminate against mutants, though, so I ain't sure how much I can argue with it." After a pause, he adds, quieter, "'Sides, I'm not sure I /want/ to go to a school where they don't want me."
It is Jackson's second argument rather than his first that draws an acceding nod from Piotr, the sombre movement coupled with another slow closing of his eyes as the full force of his fraternal instincts comes to bear on his younger friend. "There have been rather a few mutants at Emerson in my time there, including some good friends," he says, a little tangentially. "Though there are students there who dislike mutants. In all, it balances. If you were to come there, I would be glad to help you find your feet. I would," he adds, "be glad to see you there."
Jackson's lips curl in a wry grin. "Perhaps," he says thoughtfully, "if I go to a /real/ school I will make my pa happy and study something /real/. Something sensible. Like..." His brow furrows a moment as he tries unsuccessfully to imagine himself doing /anything/ besides art. "Math!" He declares at length, triumphantly, and immediately shudders slightly at Piotr's side. Math. Jackson is allergic to even the thought.
"I would not go so far as to study math," Piotr agrees with a slight tilt of his head, his concern diminishing slightly as Jackson begins to return to something ressembling good humour. "Perhaps..." he considers, "English literature? This would not be such a large step from art, but it is still a respected subject."
Piotr mirrors Jackson's movement, drawing away and reaching for his drink from the table. His head turns towards his companion half way through the motion, his hand just clasped around the cool glass. "No, not so far as I know," he replies, glad to see his friend cheering. "You would like some company?"
"I figure now I've been kicked out of school I can go be horribly irresponsible and do all those things I never had time to do otherwise," Jackson answers brightly. "You know, like /actually/ spend some time seeing what the city is like when I'm /not/ looking to sketch it for homework. Maybe get food. Wander a little. And /forget/ about this horrible morning. I sure'd be glad of your company, if you're not busy."
"It is an excellent idea," Piotr agrees with a nod. "The city is a truly fascinating place, and it would be a shame if you did not see what it has to offer. And truly, I could hardly call myself a friend to you if I allowed you to explore it alone when you are injured, yes?" A conspirital raising of his eyebrows hints to Jackson that this is an attempt at humour. It is probably a good thing he saw fit to give this hint.
Jackson's nose wrinkles as his grin stretches wider; briefly, the air around him glimmers with dancing light, a visual reflection of the soft laughter that escapes him now. "Hardly," he agrees with Piotr, "but you ain't never been anything but a great friend, so I guess you're stuck with me this evening if you want to keep that record."
Flattered and touched by the comment, Piotr smiles and bows his head. "It will not be a chore," he admits, burying his smile in another drink from his glass, deeper this time. "Is there anywhere in particular you would like to visit?" he asks, turning a curious gaze upon Jackson.
"Toys," Jackson says seriously. "Visits to toy stores were always good for cheering up when I was a kid, at least. And now I'm living with the biggest toy store in the world right in Times Square and I /guess/ we are too old for toy stores, but then, I'm being irresponsible, right?" The exuberance which carries him to his feet now is checked by a slight wince of pain as he stands too quickly, but his smile falters only a moment. "Toys!" he declares, again, cheerful.
A deep smile of fondness settles about Piotr's stern features and he nods, lips pressing close as he attempts to regain seriousness in the face of such good cheer. He fails. "Toys," he agrees. "I admit, I am not an expert on toys. I was rather old for such things when I came to America, and we do not have all the same things at home. You will have to teach me."
Jackson reaches out to slip one hand into Piotr's, laughing as he tugs gently at the bigger man's hand. "You're never too old for toys," he insists. "C'mon. I'll teach you."
Leaving his glass on the table still half full (ever the optimist!), Piotr gets to his feet and allows himself to be pulled forwards after his friend, out into the toy-filled wilds of New York.
Jackson calls Piotr with sad news. Piotr tries to cheer him up. Toys are involved. (Backdated to before the blackout party)
24 October 2006
Natural History Museum
Tuesday afternoon finds the museum filled with visitors, the riff-raff of public and private schools bumping elbows as they flock in packs after teachers and guides. Bored, most of them; their attention waxes and wanes, pitching high-voiced chatter through the echoing vastness of the display rooms.
In the food court at least, there is peace -- of a relative sort. Sunk in low-browed meditation, Det. Rossi stretches long-limbed and lazy across a chair, the remains of lunch sordid on the tray by his elbow. Head supported by a hand, the leather drape of an overcoat opened over his suit, he reads traffic with an inattentive eye. Body present. Mind unaccountable.
There in neither his capacity as a student or a teacher, Piotr is in fact examining the even the dull exhibits with genuine interest, a tall presence moving slowly through the crowds hurrying onwards to more interesting things. Eventually, though, the human needs that drive the less attentive of his fellow visitors to hurry towards the food court past skeletons and animatronics make their presence felt in him too, and he joins the tide of bodies moving towards the promise of processed foods. Taco, pizza, or burger? He looks around as he tries to decide.
Inattention drifts across passersby, marking faces and motives through habit. Past Piotr, once -- then back again, vague recognition niggling enough to draw furrows in the wide brow. Det. Rossi straightens; his arm drops, blunted fingers hanging over the metal rim of table. Green eyes sharpen, considering.
A burger, it would seem, is Piotr's decision, and he heads towards the tiny counter in a long line of tiny counters that proudly displays its pair of golden arches. The people waiting to be served form not so much a line as a mass, but he joins the back of it nonetheless, careful not to place himself in front of anyone who was there before him.
Fingers drum on the underside of the table. Rossi rises in a sudden tide, leather hissing across the rickety plastic of the chair. A hand shoves into a pocket -- the tray and its contents, discarded in passing, add to the heap atop the trash area -- and he joins the line behind Piotr. "Coffee," he tells the back of that clean-cut head, "is what keeps America going. Even if it's crap. Yo, Ruski."
The words indeed meet the back of Piotr's head, as it is not until the greeting that he turns around, eyebrows forming curious peaks at the insightful statement, wondering why such wisdom is being imparted to him. The expression dulls to a polite smile of greeting as recognition tugs, though he is unable to match a name to the face and settles for, "Good afternoon, sir," in reply.
"Rossi," the older man provides, as much in correction as in clarification. His head jerks, silver winking at his temples, to indicate the flick of finger against the badge at his belt. The hand in his pocket pushes back the overcoat, baring gold and the sullen sway of holster and gun. "Don't think I ever caught your name. Something crazy, wasn't it? That Russian guy who got clobbered and kept on going--"
"Peter," that Russian guy supplies, cutting off Rossi's description with a mildly embarrassed half smile. "Or Piotr, in truth," he adds, since his companion is clearly aware of his less pronouncable real name, "though Peter is just fine." As politely as possible, he offers no reply to the description.
"--Tsar Nicholas," Rossi completes inaccurately, and then finishes the thought with: "Rasputin. That's who I'm thinking of. Piotr." Americanized though the Brooklyn accent is, the cop's mutilation of the name is only a little egregious. His chin lifts in lazy acknowledgment. "You were at that thing. Cassy's party at Professor Chuck's place."
With a half chuckle and a mild interjection of, "He is no relation," Piotr edges forwards as a group of a dozen or so small children run off to find a table and the crowd of people ahead disperses a little. Dawning realisation brings his head back round to look at Rossi again. "You gave Cassy a pair of handcuffs and put Rogue in the swimming pool," he says flatly, trying hard to remain unamused, although in hindsight even he can see the funny side.
A hand rakes through hair, pausing halfway to provide Piotr with an edifying spectacle of porcupined Rossi. "Pop tart," the deep baritone corrects, mouth slanting towards rue. "The other one. Fizzy. Jubilee. Threw her in the pool. Rogue said it wouldn't short her out -- and damn, I really did give Cassy a pair of handcuffs, didn't I? Probably not the best choice of gift. What the hell do I know about what thirteen year old girls like?"
"Ah yes," Piotr amends with a nod. "It was Jubilee who pulled Rogue into the pool afterwards. Ah, I believe." The memory, if furrowed eyebrows are any idication to go by, is hazy, possibly with the effort of pretending he wasn't there when it happened. "It is probably a good thing that there are people at the school who can pick locks," he says, avoiding the truth with uncommon dexterity.
"Munroe, you mean," Rossi says, and the harsh cynicism of his face softens slightly for that name. Something like a smile lightens the hard eyes. "Something to be said for having her around. So what's the story? You a student there? Look too young to be a teacher."
Piotr gives a small, open-handed shrug, a diplomatic 'no comment' that bears no relation whatsoever to the slight look of guilt and a reddening of his cheeks that he fails to hide. He siezes upon the question quickly in an attempt to recover. "I am the boys' RA," he answers. "Helping at the school while I study at Emerson."
An eyebrow arches, noting the betraying flush, and amusement darts quicksilver behind the eyes. However. "What's your major?" A harmless enough question. Rossi's other hand finds its way to a second pocket and he sinks his weight into his heels: the pose of a man accustomed to waiting, entrenching himself in comfort while he must.
"Art," Piotr responds, looking away for a moment under the cover of scanning the menu boards while he manages to marshal his expression back to neutrality. "With a minor in physics," he continues, his head shooting back to Rossi to face the detective while he speaks before returning to his contemplation of lunch.
The other eyebrow arches. "Interesting choice," Rossi tells the younger man, and the humor is rich in his voice, back-lit and wry. "Usually it's the other way around. Do the thing that'll get you a job first, and then do the fun thing as a minor. Then again, I'm one to talk. Religious anthropology." A hand gestures, sketching impartially around the museum's sweep before flicking again at the badge. Clink.
A smile of mild yet genuine interest meets the information of Rossi's choice of degree, diminishing in a shake of Piotr's head at his own imprudence. "I must confess, it is a thought I have had myself many times. I simply have no great love for physics, and I enjoy art very much, but even so I often feel I should attempt to do something more..." he searches for a word, "useful."
"Go blue," Rossi suggests. The crimp of mouth slants awry. "Join the NYPD. Always looking for a few good--" He breaks off. Considers. Finishes, with a bitter twist of self-mockery, "--targets."
"It is not something I had considered," Piotr admits, head canting to the side as he rectifies this situation right there and then, albeit briefly. "I am not certain I would make a very good police officer," he concludes, almost apologetically.
The detective's grin is a thing of black-edged humor; the lift of chin in droll, crooked mimicry is quizzical. "You bad at dodging?" Rossi wants to know, and his mouth thins over a fleeting thought. "Or you just not good with authority? Working at that nuthouse -- boy's R.A.? Christ. Barring the gun, what's the difference?"
"The students," Piotr informs him, grave tone lending weight to the phenomenal naivete that is the more accurate answer to the detective's question, "never truly mean anyone any harm. I think that I am not," he attempts to find the word 'astute', or perhaps 'guileful', but fails, and instead settles for, "questionning enough."
Indication enough, that first sentence, and Rossi slants a blank-eyed look of disbelief at Piotr before rocking back a little on his heels. "Christ," he says again, chagrin supplanting amusement. "Don't mean anyone any harm. Seriously? You know about that whole good intentions, road to hell thing, right?"
A slightly glossy-eyed confusion somewhat counteracts the nod Piotr gives in response. "It is true, there are sometimes regrettable accidents," he admits, "but did we not all make these mistakes when we were younger? I do not think any of them would deliberately do anything another." There is a moment's pause before he adds a significant confirmation. "Even Cassy."
"--And I gave her pepper spray," Rossi realizes, too late for second thoughts. Once more the hand rakes through hair, rumpling and ordering it in one swift sweep, and a certain distant sympathy curls into the glance he gives Piotr. "R.A. mean you have to deal with the girls as well? Jesus, kid. You realize she's probably evil, right?"
"Hardly evil!" Piotr protests with a vehemence that surprises even himself somewhat. "She is a little odd," he permits. "Her sense of humour in particular. And her taste in music. And sometimes it can be challenging to learn the truth from her, or even to understand what she is saying..." His conviction fades in the face of his own list of Cassy's little quirks, rallying with the one point on which he is certain, "But she is not evil."
Rossi says, nicely, "Man, I'm a lapsed Catholic. We know from evil. Three things we know. Guilt, the value of a good costume, and evil. She's like a fucking two year old french fry recycled for the school picnic. Not saying she's not a hoot," he adds, easing a shoulder into the base of a large stone pillar, frame for a sign forbidding smoking and dogs. "I like the kid, don't get me wrong."
Having reached the front of the line at last, Piotr is in the process of ordering a quarter-pounder and large fries when Rossi's words elicit a confused double take and a frown as he contemplates the inherent evil in the potato-containing portion of his lunch. It is too late now, however, as it looks as though a change in order would confuse the young server's limited repertoire of English. Thus, Piotr lets that part of the discussion slide, offering instead, "Sometimes she has an insight that suprises me."
"Women," Rossi quips, canting a resigned eye up to the ranks of signs before dropping his attention to scuffed shoes. "They don't see things the same. Even the young ones." A mumble behind him straightens him off the pillar to shorten the distance between self and counter. The line reshuffles after him. "She even hit puberty yet? Don't answer that."
Piotr dutifully does not answer. There is an element of relief in his silence. His burger is placed on a tray on the counter, followed quickly by his fries. Would he like anything else? No? A bill changes hands, then some coins. "She sometimes seems older than she is," he allows, lifting his tray and standing aside to allow Rossi to take his place at the counter.
"Women," Rossi says to Piotr again. "Even the young ones. --Coffee," he adds to the cashier. The latter is well within the register's capacities; a button is pressed, a bill exchanges hands, and change makes its way back into the open palm. "One minute they're 3 years old, and the next minute they're 103."
Head tilting to the side in the silent suggestion that they should seek out a table, Piotr answers with a little chuckle as he sets off on just such a search. Though the very height of the dinner rush has passed, there is still a lot of pressure for space and he conscientiously heads for a table for two that is just being cleared nearby. With a smile of thanks to the woman as she heads off with her spray and cloth, he slides his tray onto the table and folds himself onto the chair. Fixed to the floor as it is, there is not a great deal of room to accomodate a fairly large amount of Russian.
Coffee. Lid. Cream and sugar? No. Rossi makes room for the next customer in line and prowls after Piotr, restless in motion. "Tell me she's not handcuffing people to cars and that she hasn't been spraying that stuff in people's faces."
"Not that I have heard of," Piotr replies with a reassuring shake of his head that stops abruptly, then resumes as he adds, for his own benefit as much as Rossi's, "I feel sure I would have heard. Things such as that do not stay quiet for long in the school."
"Does anything keep quiet for long in the school?" Rossi asks, eyes hooded and deceptively sleepy. He closes a hand over the back of an empty chair and leans on it, eschewing a seat for physical freedom. "What happened when the press came down? Any trouble?"
A rueful, if amused grimace is clear in its expression of the fact that there is very little privacy to be found in Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, but the traces of amusement vanish at the further question. "It was difficult," Piotr informs the decective soberly. "The students were understandably worried. Several of them ran away - Cassy included - although they are back now, and safe. Even the staff are uncertain. But, on the whole, things have been peaceful."
Rossi's expression during the reply is muted, lost somewhat behind the styrofoam and cardboard of his coffeecup. "Didn't hear about that," he notes, and the note in his voice is a complicated, untuned thing: offense? relief? "What, all's well that ends well? Should've asked Cadbury," he sighs, rolling his shoulders under the coat. "You heading back to there after this?"
Verbal inquiry into the identity of Cadbury precluded by a mouthful of burger, a small, questioning smile forms instead on Piotr's brow that diminishes as he chews and swallows to answer the question. "There are still some things I would like to see here," he offers a gesture to the general area, presumably not meaning the food court, "but I think I will not be long. Then, yes, I am returning to the school."
"Do me a favor, then." Coffee settles onto the table, and Rossi -- a glance spared for the watch that bands his wrist -- fishes out a small wire memo book and flips quickly through it. Paper hisses, skidding under that efficient thumb; one page, paused at, rips out and is folded over to be dropped onto Piotr's tray. "That's for Grey, or Summers, or Chuck, or Cadbury -- Munroe. Whichever." The detective claims his cup again, already turning away in unceremonious farewell. "Gotta go check in. It was nice meeting you, Piotr."
Piotr watches the flipping through the notebook with mild curiosity, nodding in understanding as Rossi's intention becomes clear. "Certainly," he replies, rubbing a napkin between his thumb and first two fingers before picking up the note and sliding it carefully, unread, into a pocket. "I will see that it is delivered. It was good to meet you also." He keeps himself from adding 'sir' in a not at all pointed acknowledgement of the detective's preferred of address.
A hand lifts, waving scarred fingers in a backhanded salute. Rossi disappears out a corridor, trailing the smell of bad coffee behind him. NYPD's perfume.
Piotr and Rossi are both in the Natural History Museum. Who can say why? They discuss Cassy.