10/24/06 - Storm, Alyssa
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=WES= Apt 210 |Rossi| - Old Brownstone Apartments - Salem Center
An ancient, faded elegance sketches the boundaries of this apartment, hinted at in crown molding and worn, faded floors. High walls span to high ceilings, pale yellow with the barest of white trim; at one end, three high windows gape to let in day's light or night's dark with equal indifference. A small kitchen pocks a hollow in one wall, a doorless entry that offers glimpses of an metal-framed refrigerator and a cabinet-hung microwave. On the other side of the small living room, a short hallway offers entrances to bathroom and bedroom, both doors battered with the wear and tear of age.
In the living room are the basic accoutrements of comfort: sofas, chairs, table, television. Spartan accessories, betraying little of the owner; that task is left for the walls, hung with pictures of family and friends. Through them all runs the thread of blue, NYPD's uniform tailored to pride and vigor.
Though the hour is advanced, the door to Rossi's apartment is open, spilling golden light into the darkened hallway. Shadows sketch a play on the floor beyond: a body moves, turns, bears its burden out of sight. The puppet itself is more tangible, crossing the frame in activity. The apartment is crowded with boxes, battered cardboard gaping open to swallow the stink of permanent marker. Someone is packing. Someone is preparing to move.
Someone is listening to -- "Jesus. What is that racket?" -- Britney Spears. "Turn it /off/."
"Where is the off-button?" Ororo Munroe puzzles over dials and switches, mystified by technology. (Taste of poison paradise, etc.) She squints at the machine's underside. "Shall I electrocute it?"
"Christ, no--" A box thumps down, muffling a curse, and Chris vaults over the sofa with a swift, twisted grin sliding through his baritone. Stockinged feet, blue jeans, an NYPD t-shirt tucked into his pants: he skids to a stop beside Ororo and drops a protective hand over the radio. "Here. Try twiddling this one until something decent comes around. Jazz, blues ... something your students wouldn't listen to."
"Not all of us have bad taste in music," comes an answer from just outside the open door: Alyssa, fist raised to knock though her tongue has gotten away from her. Despite only being a floor away from home, she's got shoes on -- shoes, faded (and slightly battered otherwise) jeans, and a light green tank top. Her hair is in a ponytail, and the hand that is not knocking is holding a glass casserole dish. Fresh out of the oven from the look (and smell, and oven-mitt protecting the hand) of it. "Uh, hi."
Ororo does not electrocute the radio. She gives Chris a sidelong glance, the curve of her mouth twitching to a slightly broader smile. Her hair has been yanked back to a fully functional ponytail, white bound and shoved through the back of a New York Rangers ball-cap; she is dressed similarly unseasonable, close-fitting grey Xavier's School tank-top wholly inappropriate for the chill outside, same with the sandals on her feet. Her jeans are slightly more weather-appropriate, but this might as well have been by accident.
Alyssa's arrival earns her a blink and kind of a blank look from her former teacher; and then a smile, although it is the pleasant, schoolroom smile of a teacher out of the schoolroom. "Hello, Alyssa." Ororo toys with the dial. She finds jazz. There is a semi-local station whose selections are not too horrific.
"Something good," Chris clarifies, leaning into the back of the couch to glance over his shoulder at Alyssa. Newcomer. The knit of brow is, in and of itself, more expressive of perplexity than recognition; the smoothing of the forehead leaves his face blank. "Hey," he greets. "Alyssa. What's up?"
"I made lasagne," Alyssa offers in answer, holding the casserole dish up and out for inspection. "My mom sent me this receipe, only it made too much for one person, 'cause, um. It just does! And I thought, maybe -- you could tell me how it holds up." Her smile is small, hopeful -- she does not make eye contact with Storm.
"That was kind of you, Alyssa," Ororo murmurs. She abandons the radio; saxophone and piano play background to a "Satin Doll" duet. Her eyes are warm with laughter she does not voice. She stands upright while Rossi leans, the ease of her stance marked by the slight slump of her shoulders and the hook of her thumbs into the beltloops of her jeans.
Chris's eyebrow arches, curiosity touching the raptor face relaxed from its more customary harshness. "Made it yourself?" he quizzes, rounding the sofa in less high-flung fashion, both feet safe on the ground. "Thanks for the thought. Want to take it to the kitchen?" His head jerks towards that nearby room; a foot kicks a half-empty box out of the intervening path. "Don't mind the mess. The place is a bit trashed."
"From scratch," Aly chirrups as she tucks the dish back against herself and starts navigating her way to the kitchen. "And I thought that Chris is like -- the closest thing I've got to a foremost authority on lasagne 'cause of his mom, so I brought it here!" Halfway to the kitchen her expression falls and she turns, a slow pivot on the balls of her feet so she can blink worriedly at both Storm and Rossi. "I didn't bring plates," she explains, her face pinched. "Have you already packed yours?"
Ororo trails after him around the couch, her footsteps close together; she moves delicately, with precise grace. Her movements are fluid, almost feline. "I think most of the kitchen is still relatively intact," she says mildly. Even the gentle exoticism of her accent is ever-so-slightly exaggerated, which is to say, deliberate.
A hand gestures, dismissive in answer. "Bathroom and kitchen goes last," Chris supplies, stooping to pluck up a forlorn sock to drop it, willy-nilly, into a box packed high with books. "Otherwise you're screwed. Should've taken some time off to pack and move, but who the hell has the time? This rate, it'll take me another week. Unless you got some sort of tornado trick you can use on my stuff--?" Green eyes grin at Ororo, an arm reaching out to snag that trim waist.
"Didn't have a kitchen to pack, when I moved," Alyssa says, blinking again as Rossi reaches out to Storm. Her eyes move upward -- to his face, then to hers -- and then she turns around again and finishes the path to the kitchen. She is silent as she bustles there -- the sound of cabinets opening and dishes clattering all the noise she makes before she thinks to ask, "...does that mean you guys want some?"
Chris settles himself against the sofa's arm, a knee hooked up onto the faded leather of a cushion. "Already ate," he admits, tipping his head back towards the window, "but I'll try some if you want. Microwave still plugged in? --Shit. If it's full of socks, just toss them out here, will you? Dryer was broken last night."
There's another clatter, this one of silverware rattled out of a drawer. "It's still hot -- I mean, I made it and it looked okay and I was excited, and then I realized gosh, it's too much for me to eat! So I thought I'd bring some to you." She re-emerges from the kitchen with only one plate -- this is destined for Christopher Rossi, and she extends it (and the accompanying fork) out to him with wide-eyed solemnity.
Of Ororo there is no trace though the scent of her lingers in the air, warming the hard-edged face. His head tips, gesturing towards the back room without accompanying explanation. "Thanks," he drawls, accepting plate and fork with a hand before sliding backward into the cradle of the sofa. A leg remains slung over the sofa's arm, support for the drape of arm. "You expecting me to eat that entire thing? Because most of my meals I grab at the station."
Alyssa follows the tip, the cant of her head curious but not overly so. To her, Ororo is as the winds that she controls -- ever changing, not to be understood. "No, not all of it. It was a long shot you'd even be home, too -- I just thought I'd try." She wipes the palms of her hands against her jeans, then turns to fetch her own plate. Over her shoulder, avoiding actual eye contact, she offers, "I'm sorry I've disappointed you, Chris."
"Thing is," Rossi tells the back of his fork, setting his shoulders into the sofa's cushion, "doesn't matter worth a damn. You fuck up, you move on." Silverware bites into the lasagna, sections out a small wedge, and stops the possibility of further commentary. At least for the moment.
"Got the fucking up part down," Aly admits on her way back in, "and I'm working on the moving on -- I just wanted to say that. I don't know why. Guess that part doesn't really matter after all, either." She half-sits on the arm of the sofa, her plate balanced on one bent knee. She doesn't take her first bite yet, but watches for a reaction fron Chris.
Rossi chews. Rossi swallows. "Not bad," he congratulates, stretching his other leg long to wedge the foot against the base of the table. "Not Mom's cooking, but then again, nobody is. Pretty good." His attention shifts to Alyssa, and green eyes grin briefly. "For someone who's not Italian."
Alyssa's eyes light up at the compliment, and her grin to answer his is radiant. "Not everyone can be," she says, and takes her first bite. Her eyes widen just a little, and once she's chewed and swallowed, she laughs. "You're not just humoring me, either."
Shoulders hitch in a shrug, the fork scraping across the plate with a slice of tines through pasta. "All about the stomach says," he drawls, making short work of the remainder. His foot hooks around the table's leg, dragging it closer to the sofa and the chair. "There you go. Career as a chef ahead of you."
"I'll add it to the list," Aly decides, "Cop, artist, chef -- what is there that I can't do, really?" Sarcasm is not thick, but it is present -- the teenager frowns down at her plate, making slower work of it than Chris made of his. She lingers over the plate, then takes her next bite. She chews.
"All uphill from here," Rossi quips without reciprocal mockery, though something glitters behind the fan of dark lashes before he leans forward to drop the plate on the table. "Pick one that actually suits you and go for it."
Ororo drifts back out of the back room, serene and mild. She takes stock of both -- master of the house and guest -- with a flicker of her gaze. Smiling and silent, she pads lightly back across the room, picking her way through the boxes; she circles Rossi with a hand fallen on his shoulder as he sits at table, and slides with unapologetic fluidity into his lap: an armful of lean and supple woman, scented coolly in clouds and raindrops and air in direct contrast to the heat of her body. With light voice and mischief to the twitch of her smile, she says, "The sky's the limit."
Chris -- laughs, a rare sound of surprised pleasure from that unexpected presence in his lap, and loosely wraps arms around her hips to settle her close. "Christ, woman. No shame. 'The sky's the limit?' --Tell her she'd make a decent cook." Unspoken, the qualms that would divert her from the NYPD.
"You guys always need a good sketch artist, don't you?" Aly questions, sarcasm replaced by honesty -- that is, until he gets a lapful of Ororo. Her face twitches in indecision, a slight frown pulling down her brows for but an insant before she offers up a smile, instead. Rossi's laughter adds to this, and the expression grown from unsteady to genuine.
Ororo leans back against him, the curl of her smile sly; she shifts in his lap, slightly squirmy as she settles herself. She gets comfortable! "If I had shame you would like me less," she says, her voice low and draped in the rich velvet of mirth's touch, her head slanted to the side such that Rossi might catch the spark of deep blue eyes in profile. Blatant flirtation would be nothing short of ridiculous in front of a student. An alumnus is a different matter. "I'm sure you would make a decent cook," she tells Alyssa, mild with obedience.
Chris drops his brow onto Ororo's shoulder, amusement lit in the dark face and drifted through the stifled groan. "Stay still," he orders, tightening his arms around Storm. When he emerges for air again, it is with eyes brilliant with mirth, laughter lines etched deep. "Sketch artists, not so much. We got professionals. Forensic artists, and a lot of stations use computers. Digital age, chicken. Out with the old generation, in with the new."
"Well, there goes that career aspiration -- back to cop it is. I would not make a very good cook," Aly informs with the dignity of someone who is trying very, very hard to ignore somebody else ... who is being particularly difficult. To ignore. Her plate, forgotten, is finally settled on the table. "Ms. Munroe," she asks instead, "would you like some lasagne? Chris says it's not bad -- I can /cook/, I just wouldn't be good at it on a daily basis. My mom found out I was living off of mac and cheese. This is the result."
Ororo lifts her eyebrows. She does not squidge anymore, out of mercy, but instead stays still. She draws breath and tips her head. "Thank you, but I'm not hungry at the moment. Maybe later."
"Dinner," Chris tells Alyssa over Storm's shoulder, a hand brushing silvery hair away from the long, slender throat, "was Thai food. And pizza. Check me out. I'm a classy date." His mouth twists again, turned awry, and fingers slide across the dusky nape, tickling. Payback. "Still aiming to be a cop?"
Alyssa watches the exchange, but not closely. Her attention is for her hands, not for the way Chris moves his across Ororo's neck. "Oh, okay. I'll just -- I dunno. I'd put it in the fridge, but Chris probably wouldn't eat it." The pause in speech is breif, enough time for her to catch her bottom lip in her teeth. She worries at it for a moment, then brightens again and speaks. "You could take it back to the school. Give it to Jeremy. He's always nice to me."
Ororo's chuckle husks in her throat as she cants her head. With hair bound, it is easily pushed aside, leaving throat's curve bare and smooth and dark, naked under the play of fingers. She moistens her lips and smiles, her teeth pressing her lower lip in a firm catch between. "I've never known a man to turn down free food," she says after a moment's pause, lifting her gaze again.
"Eat at the precinct," Rossi reminds the curve of Ororo's jaw where it meets her ear. Fingertips caress lightly before he settles his chin on her shoulder to regard Alyssa, expression rueful. Humorous. "Get all three food groups on the job. Donuts, bagels, and little baggies. Don't think lasagna's got a row on the NYPD's food pyramid. -- You want to leave me some, though, I won't say no. Probably end up eating here again at least one night this coming week."
Alyssa is at best, uncomfortable. Her hands are getting more attention again, fidgety things that they are. First in her lap, then one draped across her knee while the other brushes at escaped strands of hair. "I could leave you some," she decides, "if you still have any tupperware left. Or a plate and some plastic wrap. Ask Beston what he wants that isn't one of those three, and I'll make sure it shows up at the precinct some time soon." Eventually her hands settle again, but she does not -- pushing up, out of her perch, to pace back toward the kitchen again.
"First sign of a good cook," Ororo says, "wanting to feed people." She turns her head, twisting to brush lips against Chris's temple, and then, with some reluctance to slow her movements, she scoots forward, legs spreading to drop sandaled feet to the floor and climb off him.
Chris leans forward with Ororo's dismount to catch at her arm, reluctance lingering in the separation of contact. "You made the chicken uncomfortable," he accuses, reproach utterly unsupported by the wicked hook of his mouth. "Teachers aren't supposed to have private lives. They're supposed to be boring and vaporize when the last student leaves class. --Try in the bottom drawer," he calls after Alyssa, voice lifting. "Under the microwave. Tell me if you find the spare handcuffs, will you? Damned if I know what Lensherr--"
Alyssa rattles around in the kitchen, making enough noise to suitably drown out anything that might be exchanged between Chris and Ororo. She is not loud /enough/, however -- already rummaging around in bottom drawer, it's with a sharp bark of surprise that she asks, "Lensherr? Magneto stole your handcuffs?" Her voice is higher than it is usually wont to be -- a thin thread of anxiety weaves through it, unbidden. She finds tupperware, but no missing handcuffs. "You gave a pair to Cassy for her birthday, too."
The look Ororo gives Chris: fine brows arching over a deep blue ocean of skepticism. Slightly, she shakes her head; then she turns and wafts after Alyssa into the kitchen, leaning a hip against the counter opposite the girl's rummage upon her arrival. "A gift appropriate for any occasion."
Chris's face drops into his hands, and scarred fingers, callused and worn by a life's hard labor, rub into the hollows of eyes. "Worse than that," he says, muffled through their barrier. "Gave her pepper spray. Figured it could come in handy. Like I have a clue what kids want these days. Like hell--" Hands drop away, baring the Brooklyn baritone as he rises, "--am I giving her any of this trash kids listen to these days. Kills off brain cells. Like anybody under 20 /needs/ to be dumber than they already are."
Alyssa sections the lasagne into neat squares -- generous helpings, scooped into waiting containers with the knife for leverage and a finger's press for balance. "She likes 'em both, far as I can tell. Had 'em on her when she came to visit Jackson in the city. Hell if I know what she thinks, now, me stayin' with them for a few days. More than a few, with the blackouts." The containers are closed, and divided up -- two into the fridge, two on the counter by Ororo, the rest left in the casserole dish so she can take it home.
Ororo studies the apportioned lasagna quietly for a moment, and then looks up again. "I have never been that good at presents either," she says, and there is a wry twist to her mouth to accompany the words. "And I think that generally Cassy is not afraid to say right out what she thinks on any given subject."
"Piotr said he hadn't heard of any accidents," Chris grants with a touch of rare optimism, shoving his hands in back pockets as he wanders to join the two in the kitchen. Crowded, with two already within; he balks at entrance, choosing instead to lean against the door's frame. "Figure it can't be all bad. Long as you're around to pick the lock -- or leave her in if she needs to stay put."
"She didn't. Say anything -- that's why it worries. Not that it should, 'cause I've done some stupid sh--" A look, up to Ororo, then back down. "Stuff." The knife that she appropriated to cut the meal now clatters into the sink, and she stands by it for a moment, uncertain. There's another look granted -- from Rossi to Munroe and back again before she squares her shoulders. "Don't forget -- to ask Beston. Okay?"
The barest flicker of humor dances in Ororo's eyes for the self-correction. She tucks a thumb down into her pocket, sliding the black flat velcro wallet hidden there just a little bit into view against the vivid blue of her jeans. Lockpicks. "Cassy has yet to do anything awful with her pepper spray and handcuffs. She is too busy with demagoguery to bother with coarse assault."
"Only a matter of time." Optimism, faced with Cassy, whimpers and dies. Chris's mouth twists afresh, his gaze skirting Ororo to acknowledge Alyssa's question -- "I'll ask," he promises. "What am I asking? ...Right. The man doesn't eat anything that hasn't been deep-fried or put on some CBC list of carcinogens, Alyssa. --Jesus, Cadbury. You got any idea how hot it is to know a woman who carries her own lockpicks?"
"He liked it when I brought cookies and hot chocolate, last time," Aly reminds. Her voice is tight with the effort of control, and strain shows in her eyes as she collects her casserole dish and moves toward the kitchen's exit. "It's going to suck, you not being around," she tells Chris once she's in the doorway. "I can probably leave the two of you to -- whatever it was you guys were doing before I showed up. Packing. Have fun!" She turns back to say something to Ororo, then thinks better of it.
Storm also keeps a paperclip in the lining of her underwear at all times for emergencies, although this is not information she elects to share at the moment. She blinks. "Is it?" Ororo is puzzled. "They're only lockpicks--" She breaks off and turns to follow Aly, shaking her head slightly as the careful grace of her steps draws her out of the kitchen after the girl; she doesn't say anything more, but rue touches her expression, turning the curve of her mouth to a slight grimace. She does add, "Good night, Alyssa," after a moment.
There's wrinkle furrowing Rossi's brow as he detaches himself from the wall to follow suit: gander, riding herd on a train of gosling and goose. "You ever feel like showing up with a chocolate pancake wrapped around a sausage," he tells Alyssa, holding the door open for the girl, "he'll love you until his next heart attack. You could even tie it with a bacon bow. --Later, kid. Thanks for the lasagna."
"I think I could maybe," Alyssa begins, then trails off once she reaches the door. There is a brief look back at Ororo, and a quiet, "Good night, Ms. Munroe." One foot exits, but the rest of her doesn't follow -- instead it retreats, /she/ retreats, to wrap her free arm around Rossi and bury her face against the front of his NYPD t-shirt. "Night, Chris," she mutters into it, "come see me before you move out completely, okay? An' I'll probably still see you around, I guess. In the city." She breaks off the embrace, and beats an unsteady (unhappy) path down the hall. From there, up the stairs, and eventually home.
Ororo rubs at her eyes with thumb and middle finger and sighs.
Chris endures the hug as he usually does, dropping a light arm around the girl's shoulders before she separates to leave. The door bumps shut behind her; a blank silence falls. "What," he demands after a moment, perplexed, "the fuck?"
Ororo whips off her cap and slides fingertips through her hair to the band holding her tail in place, pulling it off to encircle her wrist instead. Her hair falls loose and silver-white, released from its binding, and she rolls a wry look at him from amidst its unruly tumbling. With no modesty whatsoever, she points out, "If you are a teenaged girl with a crush, /I/ am not the competition you want to have."
"What?" Chris says again, and there's still that ring of bemusement to the word. Then, as understanding catches up, appallment. "/What/? Alyssa has a-- you're shitting me. Tell me you're shitting me." He pushes off from the wall to stalk Ororo, intent in pursuit. "She's, what. /Twelve/."
Ororo turns toward him with her hands at her hips; her left braces empty there, the other lets her cap flap against the tight press of denim. "Oh, please," she says. She rolls her eyes. "Chris."
Chris slides his arm around Ororo's ribs, drawing her into him. Eyes, stained glass-bright, gleam down at the woman. "I," he informs, "am not a pedophile. What the fuck. Whatever's up with your education system, you pumped out a kid with serious, but /serious/ confusion over appropriate relatoinships with men. Not to mention bad fucking taste."
"Bad taste," Ororo scoffs, tipping her head back. She smiles, and leeaans into him. "Terrible taste. Ridiculous." And then she twists away and jams her cap back on her head. "We are /packing/," she says firmly. Not kissing, groping, or otherwise acting like unchaperoned and horny teenagers in a boathouse. "It does not make you a pedophile," she adds gravely, bending down to right an overturned and empty cardboard box. "She is young. You are dreamy." This is hard to say with a straight face, but she has practice with deadpans; she glances over her shoulder at him. "You learn to deal with it."
"/Dreamy/--" Chris echoes with laughter glimmering through strands of outrage. He stalks past her towards the low casement of bookshelf; his hand, in passing, takes liberties with that bejeaned ass. A pat. Not at all /fond/. Something else. Something far less innocent. "Like hell am I /dreamy/. Packing. Right. You're a guardian angel, Cadbury, and I'll be done by Christmas."
His grin lances across the angle of an arm, and light winks across picture frames. Packing. Right. /Packing./
[Log ends]
Rossi packs in order to move, with a little help from a Storm and a neighborly Alyssa! ...except things go all weird. Females. Odd, odd ducks.
=WES= Apt 210 |Rossi| - Old Brownstone Apartments - Salem Center
An ancient, faded elegance sketches the boundaries of this apartment, hinted at in crown molding and worn, faded floors. High walls span to high ceilings, pale yellow with the barest of white trim; at one end, three high windows gape to let in day's light or night's dark with equal indifference. A small kitchen pocks a hollow in one wall, a doorless entry that offers glimpses of an metal-framed refrigerator and a cabinet-hung microwave. On the other side of the small living room, a short hallway offers entrances to bathroom and bedroom, both doors battered with the wear and tear of age.
In the living room are the basic accoutrements of comfort: sofas, chairs, table, television. Spartan accessories, betraying little of the owner; that task is left for the walls, hung with pictures of family and friends. Through them all runs the thread of blue, NYPD's uniform tailored to pride and vigor.
Though the hour is advanced, the door to Rossi's apartment is open, spilling golden light into the darkened hallway. Shadows sketch a play on the floor beyond: a body moves, turns, bears its burden out of sight. The puppet itself is more tangible, crossing the frame in activity. The apartment is crowded with boxes, battered cardboard gaping open to swallow the stink of permanent marker. Someone is packing. Someone is preparing to move.
Someone is listening to -- "Jesus. What is that racket?" -- Britney Spears. "Turn it /off/."
"Where is the off-button?" Ororo Munroe puzzles over dials and switches, mystified by technology. (Taste of poison paradise, etc.) She squints at the machine's underside. "Shall I electrocute it?"
"Christ, no--" A box thumps down, muffling a curse, and Chris vaults over the sofa with a swift, twisted grin sliding through his baritone. Stockinged feet, blue jeans, an NYPD t-shirt tucked into his pants: he skids to a stop beside Ororo and drops a protective hand over the radio. "Here. Try twiddling this one until something decent comes around. Jazz, blues ... something your students wouldn't listen to."
"Not all of us have bad taste in music," comes an answer from just outside the open door: Alyssa, fist raised to knock though her tongue has gotten away from her. Despite only being a floor away from home, she's got shoes on -- shoes, faded (and slightly battered otherwise) jeans, and a light green tank top. Her hair is in a ponytail, and the hand that is not knocking is holding a glass casserole dish. Fresh out of the oven from the look (and smell, and oven-mitt protecting the hand) of it. "Uh, hi."
Ororo does not electrocute the radio. She gives Chris a sidelong glance, the curve of her mouth twitching to a slightly broader smile. Her hair has been yanked back to a fully functional ponytail, white bound and shoved through the back of a New York Rangers ball-cap; she is dressed similarly unseasonable, close-fitting grey Xavier's School tank-top wholly inappropriate for the chill outside, same with the sandals on her feet. Her jeans are slightly more weather-appropriate, but this might as well have been by accident.
Alyssa's arrival earns her a blink and kind of a blank look from her former teacher; and then a smile, although it is the pleasant, schoolroom smile of a teacher out of the schoolroom. "Hello, Alyssa." Ororo toys with the dial. She finds jazz. There is a semi-local station whose selections are not too horrific.
"Something good," Chris clarifies, leaning into the back of the couch to glance over his shoulder at Alyssa. Newcomer. The knit of brow is, in and of itself, more expressive of perplexity than recognition; the smoothing of the forehead leaves his face blank. "Hey," he greets. "Alyssa. What's up?"
"I made lasagne," Alyssa offers in answer, holding the casserole dish up and out for inspection. "My mom sent me this receipe, only it made too much for one person, 'cause, um. It just does! And I thought, maybe -- you could tell me how it holds up." Her smile is small, hopeful -- she does not make eye contact with Storm.
"That was kind of you, Alyssa," Ororo murmurs. She abandons the radio; saxophone and piano play background to a "Satin Doll" duet. Her eyes are warm with laughter she does not voice. She stands upright while Rossi leans, the ease of her stance marked by the slight slump of her shoulders and the hook of her thumbs into the beltloops of her jeans.
Chris's eyebrow arches, curiosity touching the raptor face relaxed from its more customary harshness. "Made it yourself?" he quizzes, rounding the sofa in less high-flung fashion, both feet safe on the ground. "Thanks for the thought. Want to take it to the kitchen?" His head jerks towards that nearby room; a foot kicks a half-empty box out of the intervening path. "Don't mind the mess. The place is a bit trashed."
"From scratch," Aly chirrups as she tucks the dish back against herself and starts navigating her way to the kitchen. "And I thought that Chris is like -- the closest thing I've got to a foremost authority on lasagne 'cause of his mom, so I brought it here!" Halfway to the kitchen her expression falls and she turns, a slow pivot on the balls of her feet so she can blink worriedly at both Storm and Rossi. "I didn't bring plates," she explains, her face pinched. "Have you already packed yours?"
Ororo trails after him around the couch, her footsteps close together; she moves delicately, with precise grace. Her movements are fluid, almost feline. "I think most of the kitchen is still relatively intact," she says mildly. Even the gentle exoticism of her accent is ever-so-slightly exaggerated, which is to say, deliberate.
A hand gestures, dismissive in answer. "Bathroom and kitchen goes last," Chris supplies, stooping to pluck up a forlorn sock to drop it, willy-nilly, into a box packed high with books. "Otherwise you're screwed. Should've taken some time off to pack and move, but who the hell has the time? This rate, it'll take me another week. Unless you got some sort of tornado trick you can use on my stuff--?" Green eyes grin at Ororo, an arm reaching out to snag that trim waist.
"Didn't have a kitchen to pack, when I moved," Alyssa says, blinking again as Rossi reaches out to Storm. Her eyes move upward -- to his face, then to hers -- and then she turns around again and finishes the path to the kitchen. She is silent as she bustles there -- the sound of cabinets opening and dishes clattering all the noise she makes before she thinks to ask, "...does that mean you guys want some?"
Chris settles himself against the sofa's arm, a knee hooked up onto the faded leather of a cushion. "Already ate," he admits, tipping his head back towards the window, "but I'll try some if you want. Microwave still plugged in? --Shit. If it's full of socks, just toss them out here, will you? Dryer was broken last night."
There's another clatter, this one of silverware rattled out of a drawer. "It's still hot -- I mean, I made it and it looked okay and I was excited, and then I realized gosh, it's too much for me to eat! So I thought I'd bring some to you." She re-emerges from the kitchen with only one plate -- this is destined for Christopher Rossi, and she extends it (and the accompanying fork) out to him with wide-eyed solemnity.
Of Ororo there is no trace though the scent of her lingers in the air, warming the hard-edged face. His head tips, gesturing towards the back room without accompanying explanation. "Thanks," he drawls, accepting plate and fork with a hand before sliding backward into the cradle of the sofa. A leg remains slung over the sofa's arm, support for the drape of arm. "You expecting me to eat that entire thing? Because most of my meals I grab at the station."
Alyssa follows the tip, the cant of her head curious but not overly so. To her, Ororo is as the winds that she controls -- ever changing, not to be understood. "No, not all of it. It was a long shot you'd even be home, too -- I just thought I'd try." She wipes the palms of her hands against her jeans, then turns to fetch her own plate. Over her shoulder, avoiding actual eye contact, she offers, "I'm sorry I've disappointed you, Chris."
"Thing is," Rossi tells the back of his fork, setting his shoulders into the sofa's cushion, "doesn't matter worth a damn. You fuck up, you move on." Silverware bites into the lasagna, sections out a small wedge, and stops the possibility of further commentary. At least for the moment.
"Got the fucking up part down," Aly admits on her way back in, "and I'm working on the moving on -- I just wanted to say that. I don't know why. Guess that part doesn't really matter after all, either." She half-sits on the arm of the sofa, her plate balanced on one bent knee. She doesn't take her first bite yet, but watches for a reaction fron Chris.
Rossi chews. Rossi swallows. "Not bad," he congratulates, stretching his other leg long to wedge the foot against the base of the table. "Not Mom's cooking, but then again, nobody is. Pretty good." His attention shifts to Alyssa, and green eyes grin briefly. "For someone who's not Italian."
Alyssa's eyes light up at the compliment, and her grin to answer his is radiant. "Not everyone can be," she says, and takes her first bite. Her eyes widen just a little, and once she's chewed and swallowed, she laughs. "You're not just humoring me, either."
Shoulders hitch in a shrug, the fork scraping across the plate with a slice of tines through pasta. "All about the stomach says," he drawls, making short work of the remainder. His foot hooks around the table's leg, dragging it closer to the sofa and the chair. "There you go. Career as a chef ahead of you."
"I'll add it to the list," Aly decides, "Cop, artist, chef -- what is there that I can't do, really?" Sarcasm is not thick, but it is present -- the teenager frowns down at her plate, making slower work of it than Chris made of his. She lingers over the plate, then takes her next bite. She chews.
"All uphill from here," Rossi quips without reciprocal mockery, though something glitters behind the fan of dark lashes before he leans forward to drop the plate on the table. "Pick one that actually suits you and go for it."
Ororo drifts back out of the back room, serene and mild. She takes stock of both -- master of the house and guest -- with a flicker of her gaze. Smiling and silent, she pads lightly back across the room, picking her way through the boxes; she circles Rossi with a hand fallen on his shoulder as he sits at table, and slides with unapologetic fluidity into his lap: an armful of lean and supple woman, scented coolly in clouds and raindrops and air in direct contrast to the heat of her body. With light voice and mischief to the twitch of her smile, she says, "The sky's the limit."
Chris -- laughs, a rare sound of surprised pleasure from that unexpected presence in his lap, and loosely wraps arms around her hips to settle her close. "Christ, woman. No shame. 'The sky's the limit?' --Tell her she'd make a decent cook." Unspoken, the qualms that would divert her from the NYPD.
"You guys always need a good sketch artist, don't you?" Aly questions, sarcasm replaced by honesty -- that is, until he gets a lapful of Ororo. Her face twitches in indecision, a slight frown pulling down her brows for but an insant before she offers up a smile, instead. Rossi's laughter adds to this, and the expression grown from unsteady to genuine.
Ororo leans back against him, the curl of her smile sly; she shifts in his lap, slightly squirmy as she settles herself. She gets comfortable! "If I had shame you would like me less," she says, her voice low and draped in the rich velvet of mirth's touch, her head slanted to the side such that Rossi might catch the spark of deep blue eyes in profile. Blatant flirtation would be nothing short of ridiculous in front of a student. An alumnus is a different matter. "I'm sure you would make a decent cook," she tells Alyssa, mild with obedience.
Chris drops his brow onto Ororo's shoulder, amusement lit in the dark face and drifted through the stifled groan. "Stay still," he orders, tightening his arms around Storm. When he emerges for air again, it is with eyes brilliant with mirth, laughter lines etched deep. "Sketch artists, not so much. We got professionals. Forensic artists, and a lot of stations use computers. Digital age, chicken. Out with the old generation, in with the new."
"Well, there goes that career aspiration -- back to cop it is. I would not make a very good cook," Aly informs with the dignity of someone who is trying very, very hard to ignore somebody else ... who is being particularly difficult. To ignore. Her plate, forgotten, is finally settled on the table. "Ms. Munroe," she asks instead, "would you like some lasagne? Chris says it's not bad -- I can /cook/, I just wouldn't be good at it on a daily basis. My mom found out I was living off of mac and cheese. This is the result."
Ororo lifts her eyebrows. She does not squidge anymore, out of mercy, but instead stays still. She draws breath and tips her head. "Thank you, but I'm not hungry at the moment. Maybe later."
"Dinner," Chris tells Alyssa over Storm's shoulder, a hand brushing silvery hair away from the long, slender throat, "was Thai food. And pizza. Check me out. I'm a classy date." His mouth twists again, turned awry, and fingers slide across the dusky nape, tickling. Payback. "Still aiming to be a cop?"
Alyssa watches the exchange, but not closely. Her attention is for her hands, not for the way Chris moves his across Ororo's neck. "Oh, okay. I'll just -- I dunno. I'd put it in the fridge, but Chris probably wouldn't eat it." The pause in speech is breif, enough time for her to catch her bottom lip in her teeth. She worries at it for a moment, then brightens again and speaks. "You could take it back to the school. Give it to Jeremy. He's always nice to me."
Ororo's chuckle husks in her throat as she cants her head. With hair bound, it is easily pushed aside, leaving throat's curve bare and smooth and dark, naked under the play of fingers. She moistens her lips and smiles, her teeth pressing her lower lip in a firm catch between. "I've never known a man to turn down free food," she says after a moment's pause, lifting her gaze again.
"Eat at the precinct," Rossi reminds the curve of Ororo's jaw where it meets her ear. Fingertips caress lightly before he settles his chin on her shoulder to regard Alyssa, expression rueful. Humorous. "Get all three food groups on the job. Donuts, bagels, and little baggies. Don't think lasagna's got a row on the NYPD's food pyramid. -- You want to leave me some, though, I won't say no. Probably end up eating here again at least one night this coming week."
Alyssa is at best, uncomfortable. Her hands are getting more attention again, fidgety things that they are. First in her lap, then one draped across her knee while the other brushes at escaped strands of hair. "I could leave you some," she decides, "if you still have any tupperware left. Or a plate and some plastic wrap. Ask Beston what he wants that isn't one of those three, and I'll make sure it shows up at the precinct some time soon." Eventually her hands settle again, but she does not -- pushing up, out of her perch, to pace back toward the kitchen again.
"First sign of a good cook," Ororo says, "wanting to feed people." She turns her head, twisting to brush lips against Chris's temple, and then, with some reluctance to slow her movements, she scoots forward, legs spreading to drop sandaled feet to the floor and climb off him.
Chris leans forward with Ororo's dismount to catch at her arm, reluctance lingering in the separation of contact. "You made the chicken uncomfortable," he accuses, reproach utterly unsupported by the wicked hook of his mouth. "Teachers aren't supposed to have private lives. They're supposed to be boring and vaporize when the last student leaves class. --Try in the bottom drawer," he calls after Alyssa, voice lifting. "Under the microwave. Tell me if you find the spare handcuffs, will you? Damned if I know what Lensherr--"
Alyssa rattles around in the kitchen, making enough noise to suitably drown out anything that might be exchanged between Chris and Ororo. She is not loud /enough/, however -- already rummaging around in bottom drawer, it's with a sharp bark of surprise that she asks, "Lensherr? Magneto stole your handcuffs?" Her voice is higher than it is usually wont to be -- a thin thread of anxiety weaves through it, unbidden. She finds tupperware, but no missing handcuffs. "You gave a pair to Cassy for her birthday, too."
The look Ororo gives Chris: fine brows arching over a deep blue ocean of skepticism. Slightly, she shakes her head; then she turns and wafts after Alyssa into the kitchen, leaning a hip against the counter opposite the girl's rummage upon her arrival. "A gift appropriate for any occasion."
Chris's face drops into his hands, and scarred fingers, callused and worn by a life's hard labor, rub into the hollows of eyes. "Worse than that," he says, muffled through their barrier. "Gave her pepper spray. Figured it could come in handy. Like I have a clue what kids want these days. Like hell--" Hands drop away, baring the Brooklyn baritone as he rises, "--am I giving her any of this trash kids listen to these days. Kills off brain cells. Like anybody under 20 /needs/ to be dumber than they already are."
Alyssa sections the lasagne into neat squares -- generous helpings, scooped into waiting containers with the knife for leverage and a finger's press for balance. "She likes 'em both, far as I can tell. Had 'em on her when she came to visit Jackson in the city. Hell if I know what she thinks, now, me stayin' with them for a few days. More than a few, with the blackouts." The containers are closed, and divided up -- two into the fridge, two on the counter by Ororo, the rest left in the casserole dish so she can take it home.
Ororo studies the apportioned lasagna quietly for a moment, and then looks up again. "I have never been that good at presents either," she says, and there is a wry twist to her mouth to accompany the words. "And I think that generally Cassy is not afraid to say right out what she thinks on any given subject."
"Piotr said he hadn't heard of any accidents," Chris grants with a touch of rare optimism, shoving his hands in back pockets as he wanders to join the two in the kitchen. Crowded, with two already within; he balks at entrance, choosing instead to lean against the door's frame. "Figure it can't be all bad. Long as you're around to pick the lock -- or leave her in if she needs to stay put."
"She didn't. Say anything -- that's why it worries. Not that it should, 'cause I've done some stupid sh--" A look, up to Ororo, then back down. "Stuff." The knife that she appropriated to cut the meal now clatters into the sink, and she stands by it for a moment, uncertain. There's another look granted -- from Rossi to Munroe and back again before she squares her shoulders. "Don't forget -- to ask Beston. Okay?"
The barest flicker of humor dances in Ororo's eyes for the self-correction. She tucks a thumb down into her pocket, sliding the black flat velcro wallet hidden there just a little bit into view against the vivid blue of her jeans. Lockpicks. "Cassy has yet to do anything awful with her pepper spray and handcuffs. She is too busy with demagoguery to bother with coarse assault."
"Only a matter of time." Optimism, faced with Cassy, whimpers and dies. Chris's mouth twists afresh, his gaze skirting Ororo to acknowledge Alyssa's question -- "I'll ask," he promises. "What am I asking? ...Right. The man doesn't eat anything that hasn't been deep-fried or put on some CBC list of carcinogens, Alyssa. --Jesus, Cadbury. You got any idea how hot it is to know a woman who carries her own lockpicks?"
"He liked it when I brought cookies and hot chocolate, last time," Aly reminds. Her voice is tight with the effort of control, and strain shows in her eyes as she collects her casserole dish and moves toward the kitchen's exit. "It's going to suck, you not being around," she tells Chris once she's in the doorway. "I can probably leave the two of you to -- whatever it was you guys were doing before I showed up. Packing. Have fun!" She turns back to say something to Ororo, then thinks better of it.
Storm also keeps a paperclip in the lining of her underwear at all times for emergencies, although this is not information she elects to share at the moment. She blinks. "Is it?" Ororo is puzzled. "They're only lockpicks--" She breaks off and turns to follow Aly, shaking her head slightly as the careful grace of her steps draws her out of the kitchen after the girl; she doesn't say anything more, but rue touches her expression, turning the curve of her mouth to a slight grimace. She does add, "Good night, Alyssa," after a moment.
There's wrinkle furrowing Rossi's brow as he detaches himself from the wall to follow suit: gander, riding herd on a train of gosling and goose. "You ever feel like showing up with a chocolate pancake wrapped around a sausage," he tells Alyssa, holding the door open for the girl, "he'll love you until his next heart attack. You could even tie it with a bacon bow. --Later, kid. Thanks for the lasagna."
"I think I could maybe," Alyssa begins, then trails off once she reaches the door. There is a brief look back at Ororo, and a quiet, "Good night, Ms. Munroe." One foot exits, but the rest of her doesn't follow -- instead it retreats, /she/ retreats, to wrap her free arm around Rossi and bury her face against the front of his NYPD t-shirt. "Night, Chris," she mutters into it, "come see me before you move out completely, okay? An' I'll probably still see you around, I guess. In the city." She breaks off the embrace, and beats an unsteady (unhappy) path down the hall. From there, up the stairs, and eventually home.
Ororo rubs at her eyes with thumb and middle finger and sighs.
Chris endures the hug as he usually does, dropping a light arm around the girl's shoulders before she separates to leave. The door bumps shut behind her; a blank silence falls. "What," he demands after a moment, perplexed, "the fuck?"
Ororo whips off her cap and slides fingertips through her hair to the band holding her tail in place, pulling it off to encircle her wrist instead. Her hair falls loose and silver-white, released from its binding, and she rolls a wry look at him from amidst its unruly tumbling. With no modesty whatsoever, she points out, "If you are a teenaged girl with a crush, /I/ am not the competition you want to have."
"What?" Chris says again, and there's still that ring of bemusement to the word. Then, as understanding catches up, appallment. "/What/? Alyssa has a-- you're shitting me. Tell me you're shitting me." He pushes off from the wall to stalk Ororo, intent in pursuit. "She's, what. /Twelve/."
Ororo turns toward him with her hands at her hips; her left braces empty there, the other lets her cap flap against the tight press of denim. "Oh, please," she says. She rolls her eyes. "Chris."
Chris slides his arm around Ororo's ribs, drawing her into him. Eyes, stained glass-bright, gleam down at the woman. "I," he informs, "am not a pedophile. What the fuck. Whatever's up with your education system, you pumped out a kid with serious, but /serious/ confusion over appropriate relatoinships with men. Not to mention bad fucking taste."
"Bad taste," Ororo scoffs, tipping her head back. She smiles, and leeaans into him. "Terrible taste. Ridiculous." And then she twists away and jams her cap back on her head. "We are /packing/," she says firmly. Not kissing, groping, or otherwise acting like unchaperoned and horny teenagers in a boathouse. "It does not make you a pedophile," she adds gravely, bending down to right an overturned and empty cardboard box. "She is young. You are dreamy." This is hard to say with a straight face, but she has practice with deadpans; she glances over her shoulder at him. "You learn to deal with it."
"/Dreamy/--" Chris echoes with laughter glimmering through strands of outrage. He stalks past her towards the low casement of bookshelf; his hand, in passing, takes liberties with that bejeaned ass. A pat. Not at all /fond/. Something else. Something far less innocent. "Like hell am I /dreamy/. Packing. Right. You're a guardian angel, Cadbury, and I'll be done by Christmas."
His grin lances across the angle of an arm, and light winks across picture frames. Packing. Right. /Packing./
[Log ends]
Rossi packs in order to move, with a little help from a Storm and a neighborly Alyssa! ...except things go all weird. Females. Odd, odd ducks.