6/16/07 - Lark, Magneto, Sabrina
Message left on Storm's answering machine late Saturday night.
"Hey, Cadbury. It's me. I just got a call from that fucker Magneto. He's drunk and wants a ride home. I'm headed out to meet him in Central Park somewhere. He's probably messing with me, but it doesn't hurt to give it a shot. If he's drunk enough, we might be able to bring him in. Beston's got backup coming, but I figured I'd call, just in case. It'll probably be fine. I'll spend an hour wandering around in the middle of the goddamned park while he laughs it up somewhere. Prick." Silence. "Uh, that's all. I'll talk to you later."
---
=NYC= Central Park South - Manhattan
Deviating from the slightly more.../lonely/ feel of the northern sections of the park, Central Park South is no less appealing to the eye, regardless. In the distance through the thick treelines of maple and oak looms the skyline of New York. Smaller bodies of water than the Reservoir dot the green, as do bronze statues placed seemingly at random. The Shakespeare Garden, Tavern on the Green, Strawberry Fields, and the like of more popular 'hotspots' of the park flank to all sides.
It is a dark, humid night in Central Park, and Magneto sloshes with every weaving step. The bottle at his side sloshes, anyway -- amberish liquid too far gone to be at risk of spilling. Heat lightening ripples occasionally across the pollution-purpled sky overhead, bringint with it a low, dull rumble that hints at a thunderstorm on the approach. Erik notices none of this. He is inebriated, and there is little the staunch ashen grey of his three piece suit can do to dignify the faint look of homelessness about the rumple of his hair and the open flare of his collar and suit coat.
Lark is perched on a park bench, head tilted back to watch the lighting flicker overhead. Her hair and makeup suggest an expensive evening out, but her flip-flops and tank top suggest an evening at home with a movie. As the thunder rumbles again a slight shiver runs down her back and she smiles delightedly. The drunk man stumbling up the path toward her receives a worried glance, but no more for the moment.
Sabrina is strolling quietly through the park. At this late hour, she really shouldn't be in the park, but she's restless. Worn out to the point where she knows she's not going to sleep, so there's no point even trying. For once, Max isn't with her. He'd be more liability than help, anyway, the big chickenshit. She's almost even with the park bench before she recognizes its inhabitant. "Lark! Fancy finding you here." She says with a grin, then glances in the direction Lark does, frowning slightly at the sight of the drunk. Poor fellow.
An octave beneath the latest rumble of thunder, /something/ prompts a nearby lamp post to groan and flicker, yellow light dimmed nearly to orange before it flares white again, and Magneto meanders past. Oddly enough, some steps later, the phenomena repeats itself. And then again, at the next lamp, all the way along the path that leads to Sabrina and Lark.
Lark glances down again, startled to be greeted. "Sabrina?" A smile of recognition blooms. "What're you doing out here? How are you?" Her eyebrows draw together in a small frown as over Sabrina's shoulder she notices the flickering lamps. The phenomenon is quickly dismissed though and her attention brought back to Sabrina's face.
"Yeah, it's me. I usually come here after work most days. Tonight ... I just can't sleep. Been on the run all day and am at that point where sleeping just isn't going to happen for a while." Sabrina says. She too notices the flickering lights, but she doesn't ignore it, glancing over her shoulder at the drunk again. The fact that the flickers happen as he walks past the lamps is duly noted, and Sabrina's suspicions are aroused. Is that drunk a mutant? She debates the wisdom of approaching the man.
Lamp post. Lamp post. Lamp post. Bench. The wood and wrought iron beneath Lark's seat buzzes on the leading edge of a resonant thrum while magnetism seeks to gain a foothold and compensate for balance lost to whiskey. Meanwhile, Erik /nearly/ moves on without glancing aside, only to pause when snatches of conversation begin to sink in through the steel of his skull. Cold eyes lifted from the path, he looks slowly up to squint at Lark and Sabrina in turn.
Lark stares down at the bench beneath her in a sort of frightened confusion. Palms are placed carefully down on the bench to verify the sensation. "Crisse. What /is/ that?" She looks back up to Sabrina, wide eyed. "Do you feel that?" For some reason the lamps and bench don't connect in her mind and she doesn't spare another glance for the man beyond Sabrina.
Sabrina, standing on her own two feet and not touching anything metal (though she does have metal on her) doesn't feel the thrum, but she's fast realizing something very weird ... and potentially very bad ... is going on here. "I have no idea." She says, while at the same time looking intently at Lark, then glancing sideways at the drunk, trying to clue Lark in to what she's pretty sure is the source of the problem, even if she hasn't identified the man yet in the gloom. Unfortunately, as she glances the drunk's way, she catches him looking her way, and has to supress a shiver. Something /definitely/ not right here.
The forces acting upon the bench fluctuate in and out, often coinciding with the unsteady rock of Erik's shoulders before his boots can edge far enough apart to give him some semblance of sturdiness while he continues to eye both young women. Specutively. In the sort of way that young women probably do not want to be eyed in the middle of Central Park in the dark. "Feel what?"
"I don't know." Lark pushes herself to her feet, away from the weird swooping buzzing. She looks over at the man finally, taking in his expression, and takes a step close to Sabrina. Her bare arms are crossed tightly across her chest, and her shoulders tense up. "The bench was..shaking?..or something."
Sabrina eyes the older man off, backing towards Lark so that they nearly end up touching when Lark steps towards her. She glances at Lark when she answers the drunk's question, then frowns slightly, glancing at the lampposts and then at the bench, trying to figure out what flickering lights and benches have in common for a mutant to be able to affect both. "It's probably just old." She says. "And not put together well." No, Mr. Drunk Man, Sabrina has /not/ clued in to the fact you might be a mutant. Nothing more to see here, move along.
There is a distant shout, somewhere in the park; the strident, sharp-edged call of a man calling a name. Probably a lost dog, somewhere.
"Shaking," says Erik, voice hoarse over the hum of the bench, which he opts to eye next, until it seems to have silenced itself, and he turns his head after that lost call. The nearest lamp post sputters once more, and he lifts his uncapped bottle for a long swallow before he turns his glare back upon Lark and Sabrina. "You shouldn't be here."
Lark doesn't bother to step away from Sabrina to a more normal distance, just holding her defensive posture. Her tone is still relatively relaxed though, as she points out. "It's just the Park. Do you want the bench or something?" As she watches his face, a mildly puzzled look crosses her face. Something familiar...but not quite remembered.
"--!" rings that same, summoning voice from closer still, the word ill-defined, but the deep exasperation behind it clear enough. A man's voice, accustomed to being heard across noise and distance. "--cker!"
Sabrina glances in the direction of the second voice, for a moment worried this is backup for Mr. Drunk. "We're doing nothing wrong." She says. It is, at best, a mild protest. She's clearly got no problem with moving on. Something about this guy creeps her out.
"It is very late." Brows knit and expression quite serious, Erik manages an air of erudite superiority despite his blood alcohol content, and the bottle still gripped by the neck in his right hand. "All manner of unsavory characters lurk here in the deep and in the dark, and you are very attractive."
Metal, bits of moving metal cased in a fleshy -- but fit! Really fit! -- body stalks long-legged down the nearby path, several yards away around the bend, lost in night and trees. "Hey! /ERIK!/ Old buddy, old pal! Come to daddy, Erik baby! Yo!" Speaking of unsavory.
Lark raises an eyebrow at Erik's dubious complement and opens her mouth to answer, but is distracted by the shout. Slightly relaxed shoulders tense up again and she throws a worried glance toward the general direction of its source. She turns back to Eric to say a strongly sarcastic "Thank you. But I think we're fine."
Sabrina tenses up the more the drunk talks, increasingly uneasy about his intentions after that earlier cold-eyed appraisal. What she can do about it, she's none too sure, but ... she's not happy. Then the second male voice becomes clearer, and she relaxes. She's heard that voice often enough to recognize it. Rossi. The cavalry is within earshot. One good scream and they'll be in the clear, if the drunk gets ideas. She actually has to fight to keep a smirk off her face at the way Rossi's calling that dog, though.
"Are you?" A slow step is taken towards the girls and further into the light, casting the hard angles of Erik's high cheek bones and low-pressed brows into sharp relief. And then there is Rossi, and the old mutant straightens and turns his scruffy head to squint down the path at him. He frowns.
It rounds the curve of the road, bundled up against the cold -- shoulders hunched high, collar flipped up, a windbreaker of some dark color blurring his silhouette against the shadows beyond him. Lamp posts? Bah. The stark, strong face is hewn out of shadows and sharp lights. "/Eri--!/" Oh. He pauses, frowning down the path, and diverts his path to head towards them. "I'll be fucked." Hello, Rossi!
The additional light allows familiarity to crystalize into recognition and Lark takes an involuntary step back. Her eyes widen and enough blood drains from her face that she is noticeably paler. She spares a quick glance toward the other voice, then lets out a shaky breath of relief. Not another threat, but a friend. "Detective?"
Sabrina's just a second or two behind Lark in recognizing who they're facing. Her reaction is just about identical to Lark's ... sudden, white-faced, wide-eyed terror. Oh /shit/. Oh shitohshitohshit. She glances around, as if she's considering escape routes, but then the sheer amount of metal around them registers, and she looks again at ... ohshit, they're going to DIE ... Magneto. If he decides to get nasty, no amount of running is going to get her and Lark far enough away fast enough to avoid getting hurt. Shit.
Cold eyes turned back to the girls just in time to take in their bloodless faces and apparent considerings of retreat, Erik chuckles low and rough at their expense. He takes another step, the lights flicker, Rossi is rather pointedly ignored.
Recognition hardens Rossi's face, already stiff with an irritation that borders on actual annoyance. "Hey," he greets Lark and Sabrina, his baritone neutral. "What're you two doing out here at this hour. Are you idiots? What did I tell you about going out at night in this city?" he demands of the former, his pace quickening slightly as he approaches Erik. "Go home, for Chrissake."
Lark shoots Erik a panicked look, then turns to Rossi as though ignoring Magneto will make him stop existing. In a shaky voice she replies to the demand, "I..don't remember?"
Sabrina doesn't move an inch as Magneto approaches. It's not an attempt at bravado on her part. Her legs simply refuse to cooperate with her demands that they /do/ something. She is not, however, terrified to the point where she can't come up with some acidic thoughts for Rossi, though she does not voice them. At any rate, escape is not possible right now anyway, not with Magneto focused on them. "I /was/ trying to wind down from work." She manages to say. Her voice, given how scared she is, is remarkably steady, with only the slightest betraying quiver.
Blue grey eyes flickered aside in thought, Erik turns again to focus upon Rossi -- an indelicate tug upon the metal in his body confirming identity where his squint fails to do so. "There are four of us," he states, glancing back to the girls to amend with, "three of us," a second later. "I have missed you, Christopher."
The cop's stride hiccups a little, staggering at that little hum. A flinch spits across Rossi's face. "That hurts," he grits through his teeth, coming up short to make the fourth leg of the small gathering. Hands, shoved in his pockets, stir restlessly to poke bulges in the cloth; the metallic lick of the guns at hip and ankle is a sulky afterthought, compared to the brighter, lighter pins in legs and arm. Green eyes level on Erik, flattened by lamplight. "You're drunk. --I told you it's dangerous out at night. You meet bad people. It's not safe."
Lark uncrossed her arms to push a strand of hair out of her eyes with one shaking hand. "Heh. I think /I/ was a little drunk for that conversation." She attempts the steady tone of the other three, but only manages something a little giddy, edging toward hysteria. Under her breath, a though spoken aloud, she adds, "I wish I was drunk /now/"
Sabrina is fighting a case of the giggles now, that's threatening to burst out and get /way/ out of hand. But the way Magneto and Rossi are talking is ... funny. At least right now it is. They sound like an old married couple. Seriously. And Magento calls Rossi /Christopher/ ? Whoa. But then again, he /is/ Magneto. He can call people whatever he wants. Now that Magneto is focused on Rossi, at least for the moment, Sabrina manages to convince her legs to move, and she edges a step to one side ... away from Magneto.
"You've never said that," Magneto sees fit to argue after a moment's bleary thought. "Not that you need worry. I am Magneto. Magnus, Master of Magnetism." His very nearly empty bottle of whiskey is offered to Lark, and he rolls his head back over his shoulders to peer sidelong at Sabrina when she moves. Yes. Yes, he is drunk.
Rossi focuses on the bottle. "Is that /my/--" he begins with suspicion, his baritone sliding past harshness towards the melodic. He breaks off, and firms his mouth again to breathe through his nose. Inhale, exhale. "You did it to me right after it happened, and it hurt like hell then," he reminds Magneto, Master of Magnetism. "Don't drink that, La-- girl. You don't know where he's been."
Lark's gaze lingers on the bottle a long moment, sorely tempted. She lifts a hand in polite refusal though, murmuring to Erik "Thanks, but I shouldn't." Arms instinctively cross again and she shifts her weight nervously. Searching for something neutral to say, she asks Rossi "What is he doing?"
So much for wanting to laugh. Sabrina sobers up faster than ... well ... than a drunk who quits cold turkey. She freezes in place again at the look from Magneto. She seems to be quite content to let the other three carry the bulk of the conversation at the moment. She's not too keen on risking Magento's inebriated wrath.
A half-circle turned slowly away from the conversation before he's drawn back into it with lifted brows, Erik inquires a distracted, "Did what?" while he reaches for Rossi's shoulder (and less tangibly for the bench, which shivers once again) to brace himself. "Who?"
The shoulder stiffens, squared against Erik's reaching hand. "Lifted me with the damned pins," Rossi says through his teeth, definitely melodic now. "He's drunk. He does that sometimes. I'll try to arrest him, he'll kick my ass and then we'll all go home. It's a thing. He likes adding complication to my life. -- I was asleep when you called me, for the record."
"A thing." Lark repeats in a steady but stunned tone. "Magneto...called you." The back of one hand is pressed against the bridge of her nose as she closes her eyes and forces out a breath. "So where do we fit into this dance?" She turns the hand over and scrubs at her eyes. This can't be real. It isn't happening.
Sabrina glances around at Lark, equally stunned. "Magneto calls you." It's said in the same sort of tone a psych ward nurse might use when agreeing with a delusional patient. Magneto, the biggest terrorist threat since god only knows what calls /Rossi/ when he's drunk. This is the sort of thing you expect to see in the tabloids. "Right. So. We'll leave you two to your ... thing, and just get out of your way. Right Lark?"
Rossi's interior briefly rattles in tune with the bench. These ones? "Yes, probably," muttered to himself, Magneto blinks unevenly between all gathered parties and sags a little more of his weight into Rossi for the taller man to take. His breath is foul enough to border upon the draconic. "I didn't," he says. "He is a human. Lying -- inferior. I do not think he can dance, but he does sing."
"/Fuck/," says the inferior human. "That /hurts/." And then begins in a full-throated baritone, "'Anything you can be / I can be greater. / Sooner or later / I'm greater than you.'" The logical next step is to make a fist out of one hand and punch at Magneto's upper arm.
At Rossi's expression of pain Lark automatically reaches out to lay a comforting hand on his arm. She nearly jerks away though, when he starts singing. "Fuck. /What/?" is surprised out of her. "/Am/ I drunk?"
"If you are, then so am I." Sabrina points out. "'cause I'm hearing and seeing the same things you are." Hello Sabrina, Lark. Welcome to the Twilight Zone. She looks from Magneto to Rossi and back again, expression bewildered and more than slightly bemused. No one is EVER going to believe this ... provided she lives to tell about it. "This is just too surreal for words."
"Ngh," says Erik unhappily against the swat, the hand he has upon Rossi's stretching out to loop around both shoulders, rather than just the one. "Manners. Would you like to come home with us?"
Rossi's shoulders twitch at that embrace, so -- friendly. So kindly. So paternal. The detective looks quite simply and positively harassed. The melody changes, forced out through teeth clenched tight behind a snarl. "'There's no sun up in the sky / And the bird's forgot to sing--'" A hand gestures, waving good-bye to a whine of an exhalation. "Don't mind me," he says a bit wildly. "I have some kind of brain tumor or something. Spontaneous manifestation of Broadway. Don't come with us."
Lark snatches her hand back as Erik slings his arm about Rossi's shoulders. She watches them, frozen, until Rossi's specific 'don't' penetrates. She reaches out to Sabrina without really looking and grabs her hand. Tugging her along, eyes still glued to the two men, she takes a few steps down the path in the opposite direction. "No. No. We'll just--walk this way."
Sabrina stumbles a bit at the first unexpected tug, but then her legs get with the program and she catches up to Lark. "Good luck, Rossi." She says. Then, in a tone only Lark can hear. "You're gonna need it."
"They're leaving." Ever vigilent and now somewhat crestfallen, Erik leans even more of his weight into Rossi as he watches Lark and Sabrina move away. "You frightened them off." The singing does not seem to faze him anymore. Go figure.
Rossi shifts, bracing himself against that heavier weight, and coughs into the back of his hand. "Jesus," he chokes. "How much did you /drink/? They're not scared of /me/, you --Get out of here. Take a cab, and don't stop until you get home," he orders the two women, only the faintest trace of some other Broadway song twisting his voice askew. "I swear to God, they invented the Darwin Awards right here in New York City."
"Right." Lark agrees, in an undertone and turns away down the path. Still holding tight to Sabrina's hand she picks up her pace, just barely keeping from breaking into a run.
Sabrina nods, not at all inclined to argue with Rossi. Stay? And ... uh, no. No thank you. She hurries along after Lark. "You got money on you? If not, I do."
"Not enough," growls Erik somewhat uncomfortably into Rossi's ear. "You are warm. But I was thinking and I decided -- it would probably be unwise to have you drive me, seeing as you will likely be hard-pressed to forget the location of my current...residence."
Rossi, watching the two women make their escape with clear, hard eyes that suggest he might prefer to join them, locks his jaw. The pulse in his throat, bared by the open collar of his windbreaker, leaps with the hasty skip of his heartbeat. "You're the one who dragged me out here. What're you going to do? Call a cab?"
Magneto had not really thought much further past the potential for his untimely demise, and so he is forced to consider this question now, with his chin and jaw bristling into Rossi's neck and shoulder and his center of gravity shifting irregularly up and down, left to right. "This was poorly planned."
Too close. Rossi makes a stifled sound of discomfort, lips parting to breathe through his mouth instead of his nose. He cranes his neck to shift his face further away. "You could say that again," he says, accent tight. He limps forward towards the bench, willfully dragging Magneto's weight with him. "You're under arrest. Goddammit. I'm aching now. Take a seat."
Magneto is reluctant to be disengaged, sloth-like in his attempt to hold on through the dragging before he is deposited down onto the bench. "Aching loins? No, probably not. Mine are, I think." Vital information, to be certain. Posture adjusted into a semi-slouch, Erik knits his brow and sets to examining the ridges of his knuckles. "I do not wish to be arrested."
"Legs," Rossi says shortly, dropping down beside Magneto to drop his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. "Arm. You know. The bones that asshole shattered back when, that some nice doc put metal pins in to hold together, which you keep messing with. You prick. I don't want to hear about your loins," he adds, only to turn his head to eye Magneto askance and demand with a fine inconsistency, "You got some sort of STD?"
"Not unless God has chosen to bestow one upon me as he sometimes bestows things that would normally require intercourse to have." Now that he is seated, it is easier to drink, and he finishes off his bottle in a lazy swing before dropping it aside into the grass. Thunk.
Rossi pauses to work through his way through this, eventually coming up with a straightforward, "If you're the Virgin Mary, I'm the King of Spain." He yawns into the heel of his palm and straightens, slowly, painfully, a wince thinning his eyes and mouth as joints protest and muscles complain. "Haven't seen you in a while. Not that I'm complaining. What've you been up to lately?"
"I am not a virgin." Once more, Erik slumps into Rossi, if somewhat less oppressively, this time. "I have been up to nothing."
The cop endures. It is apparently his calling. "The whole thing with you having kids sort of gave that away," Rossi says dryly. He examines his hands, then shoves one into his windbreaker pocket. "Unless you were into some sort of weird ... mutanty osmosis sex. Don't even want to imagine. Why're you drunk?"
"Most of the sex I have been involved in has been reasonably straightforward." Thunder rumbles again overhead for the first time in a long time. It is accompanied by a warning breeze, and then a spatter of scattered drops that Magneto does not seem to notice. He does not answer Rossi's question, opting instead to frown at his hands.
"And that's why you're drunk?" If the mocking note in Rossi's voice is not strong enough to cut through the alcoholic haze, well. That's not Rossi's fault. His hand emerges from his pocket, fingers looped around with a thin band of white, ridged plastic. "Gimme your wrist."
Magneto does not give Rossi his wrist. He continues to watch his hands for several seconds, and then he looks up to eye the detective just a little sideways, scruff-guarded features too slack to get a decent read on. Meanwhile, one breeze is followed by a second, and then a third.
Fine. Be that way. Rossi reaches for one of those bony wrists. "It's Father's Day tomorrow. Got my dad some golf lessons. He's always talked about learning."
There is no /real/ resistence, but there is tension building tangible in the tendons strapped down around rigid bone, and Erik has not blinked recently. Theeen he attempts a slight tug away from Rossi's grasp. He cannot feel the handcuffs. This probably bodes ill.
Not handcuffs. A zip tie. Plastic, see? "You got any plans tomorrow--" Rossi begins, and slips a loop around Erik's wrist. He reaches for the other one.
In the early stages of a slow motion balk, Erik pulls his wrist back into himself semi-successfully, brows knit and mouth turned down hard into a look of mildly offended distaste and frustration. "I've already said I am not interested in being arrested."
"Sorry," Rossi says, lying, inferior human that he is. He isn't really. His brow lowers to shutter the slivered glint of eyes. "You think you'll feel up to it anytime soon?" He glances at that other, tempting wrist, face blank.
"Not really." Erik has the good matters to look somewhat apologetic about this.
Rossi grits his teeth. "Don't suppose you'd try the handcuffs on? Just for fun." His smile is entirely insincere. "As a fashion statement."
One breeze more, and it is officially raining. Erik leans back off of Rossi's shoulder to sit up straight, one wrist plastic tied, and glowers out at the park.
"Fuck," Rossi says, and sets his back against the bench's back, eyes half-closing so he can tip his face up to the fall. Eyes glitter behind the lattice of lashes. "I'm wet," he says, wearily. "And now I'm just sad."
"Yes," says Erik, left wrist lifted and examined, plastic tie and all while the ashen grey of his expensive suit is spotted into darker charcoal. "Well." Join the club.
Rossi points out with dragging whimsy, "You're drunk and wet. I'm just wet. At least you got an alcoholic umbrella." He stretches his arms across the back of the bench, elbows hooking across the slats. Growing heavy with the burden of moisture, his hair slicks itself to his brow, framing the bones of the skull under the skin. "Why did you call me?"
"I am in no state to drive. Or fly." Why is flight even an option? Because he is Magneto, that's why. "It seemed like a fair idea at the time. There are those who are better off not knowing about certain things." Silver and white follows a similar pattern, limping down into the line of Erik's vision until he combs his fingers back through it. At least the rain is warm.
"And you decided to call the cop you know to give you a ride home." Rossi shakes his head, sending a spray of drops out to sprinkle new spatter across Erik's shoulder. "Put the fucking handcuffs on and I'll bring you in, Lensherr. You can spend Father's Day all warm and cozy in a cell somewhere. Sleep it off."
To give Rossi due credit, in his inebriated state, Erik considers it, cold eyes scanning blearily over their rain-sheeted surroundings. Then he starts pushing up onto his feet slowly enough that the drama of the action is someone lost in his need to hold onto the bench for balance.
Rossi does not move. He watches Erik make his way to his feet, his own expression unreadable, then rakes a hand through his hair to strip it of extraneous water. "How're you gonna get home?"
"I don't know." This is not entirely truthful, but altogether easier than attempting to explain. Hands lifted to rub over his face, he turns his head and attempts to get his bearings, no longer terribly interested in Christopher Rossi.
"You can't take a taxi."
"No."
There is nothing more to say to that, then. Except: "Don't kill anyone." Rossi rises at last, hands shoving into his pockets again. Fingers move against the cloth; he has more in there than just one set of plastic handuffs. Shoulders hunched against the rain, he hesitates, then grimaces. "I'll go with you until you figure out how you're getting where you're going. You're too drunk to walk."
"Alright." Too busy attempting to focus on keeping unsteadiness from becoming dizziness (which is altogether far more dangerous in terms of its association with nausea), Erik shakes some of the water out of his sleeves only to have it replaced immediately by the rain. He will start walking. Any minute now, really.
Rossi hesitates, unpockets a hand, and drops it on Erik's shoulder from behind. He pushes gently. Lay on, MacDuff. A captain and his pretty cabin boy, finding adventure and love in the alien groves of Central Park -- or a boy and his terrorist, learning what it means to be a man.
Summer movies suck. Bring on the sequels.
[Log ends]
Rossi finds Magneto in the Park. He is the Designated Driver, lucky guy. Lark and Sabrina are treated to the Singing Detective. Everything's all jolly fun in this best of all bestest worlds.
Message left with a student for Storm at Xavier Mansion, early Sunday morning.
"Hey. I want to leave a message for Cadbu-- Miss Munroe. This is Detective Rossi, with the NY-- yeah yeah, her boyfriend. No, don't write that down. Detective Rossi. Got that? R-o-s-- Smart-ass. Tell her I'm fine. I need a damn shower and I smell like -- no, don't write that down either. Look. Tell her I'm fine and I'll call her back later. Everything's fine, got that? Okay. Thanks."
Message on slip of paper that gets taped onto Miss Munroe's door, early Sunday morning.
"Detective Rossi called from the Love Police! He smells fiiiiiiiiiiiiiine."
"Hey, Cadbury. It's me. I just got a call from that fucker Magneto. He's drunk and wants a ride home. I'm headed out to meet him in Central Park somewhere. He's probably messing with me, but it doesn't hurt to give it a shot. If he's drunk enough, we might be able to bring him in. Beston's got backup coming, but I figured I'd call, just in case. It'll probably be fine. I'll spend an hour wandering around in the middle of the goddamned park while he laughs it up somewhere. Prick." Silence. "Uh, that's all. I'll talk to you later."
---
=NYC= Central Park South - Manhattan
Deviating from the slightly more.../lonely/ feel of the northern sections of the park, Central Park South is no less appealing to the eye, regardless. In the distance through the thick treelines of maple and oak looms the skyline of New York. Smaller bodies of water than the Reservoir dot the green, as do bronze statues placed seemingly at random. The Shakespeare Garden, Tavern on the Green, Strawberry Fields, and the like of more popular 'hotspots' of the park flank to all sides.
It is a dark, humid night in Central Park, and Magneto sloshes with every weaving step. The bottle at his side sloshes, anyway -- amberish liquid too far gone to be at risk of spilling. Heat lightening ripples occasionally across the pollution-purpled sky overhead, bringint with it a low, dull rumble that hints at a thunderstorm on the approach. Erik notices none of this. He is inebriated, and there is little the staunch ashen grey of his three piece suit can do to dignify the faint look of homelessness about the rumple of his hair and the open flare of his collar and suit coat.
Lark is perched on a park bench, head tilted back to watch the lighting flicker overhead. Her hair and makeup suggest an expensive evening out, but her flip-flops and tank top suggest an evening at home with a movie. As the thunder rumbles again a slight shiver runs down her back and she smiles delightedly. The drunk man stumbling up the path toward her receives a worried glance, but no more for the moment.
Sabrina is strolling quietly through the park. At this late hour, she really shouldn't be in the park, but she's restless. Worn out to the point where she knows she's not going to sleep, so there's no point even trying. For once, Max isn't with her. He'd be more liability than help, anyway, the big chickenshit. She's almost even with the park bench before she recognizes its inhabitant. "Lark! Fancy finding you here." She says with a grin, then glances in the direction Lark does, frowning slightly at the sight of the drunk. Poor fellow.
An octave beneath the latest rumble of thunder, /something/ prompts a nearby lamp post to groan and flicker, yellow light dimmed nearly to orange before it flares white again, and Magneto meanders past. Oddly enough, some steps later, the phenomena repeats itself. And then again, at the next lamp, all the way along the path that leads to Sabrina and Lark.
Lark glances down again, startled to be greeted. "Sabrina?" A smile of recognition blooms. "What're you doing out here? How are you?" Her eyebrows draw together in a small frown as over Sabrina's shoulder she notices the flickering lamps. The phenomenon is quickly dismissed though and her attention brought back to Sabrina's face.
"Yeah, it's me. I usually come here after work most days. Tonight ... I just can't sleep. Been on the run all day and am at that point where sleeping just isn't going to happen for a while." Sabrina says. She too notices the flickering lights, but she doesn't ignore it, glancing over her shoulder at the drunk again. The fact that the flickers happen as he walks past the lamps is duly noted, and Sabrina's suspicions are aroused. Is that drunk a mutant? She debates the wisdom of approaching the man.
Lamp post. Lamp post. Lamp post. Bench. The wood and wrought iron beneath Lark's seat buzzes on the leading edge of a resonant thrum while magnetism seeks to gain a foothold and compensate for balance lost to whiskey. Meanwhile, Erik /nearly/ moves on without glancing aside, only to pause when snatches of conversation begin to sink in through the steel of his skull. Cold eyes lifted from the path, he looks slowly up to squint at Lark and Sabrina in turn.
Lark stares down at the bench beneath her in a sort of frightened confusion. Palms are placed carefully down on the bench to verify the sensation. "Crisse. What /is/ that?" She looks back up to Sabrina, wide eyed. "Do you feel that?" For some reason the lamps and bench don't connect in her mind and she doesn't spare another glance for the man beyond Sabrina.
Sabrina, standing on her own two feet and not touching anything metal (though she does have metal on her) doesn't feel the thrum, but she's fast realizing something very weird ... and potentially very bad ... is going on here. "I have no idea." She says, while at the same time looking intently at Lark, then glancing sideways at the drunk, trying to clue Lark in to what she's pretty sure is the source of the problem, even if she hasn't identified the man yet in the gloom. Unfortunately, as she glances the drunk's way, she catches him looking her way, and has to supress a shiver. Something /definitely/ not right here.
The forces acting upon the bench fluctuate in and out, often coinciding with the unsteady rock of Erik's shoulders before his boots can edge far enough apart to give him some semblance of sturdiness while he continues to eye both young women. Specutively. In the sort of way that young women probably do not want to be eyed in the middle of Central Park in the dark. "Feel what?"
"I don't know." Lark pushes herself to her feet, away from the weird swooping buzzing. She looks over at the man finally, taking in his expression, and takes a step close to Sabrina. Her bare arms are crossed tightly across her chest, and her shoulders tense up. "The bench was..shaking?..or something."
Sabrina eyes the older man off, backing towards Lark so that they nearly end up touching when Lark steps towards her. She glances at Lark when she answers the drunk's question, then frowns slightly, glancing at the lampposts and then at the bench, trying to figure out what flickering lights and benches have in common for a mutant to be able to affect both. "It's probably just old." She says. "And not put together well." No, Mr. Drunk Man, Sabrina has /not/ clued in to the fact you might be a mutant. Nothing more to see here, move along.
There is a distant shout, somewhere in the park; the strident, sharp-edged call of a man calling a name. Probably a lost dog, somewhere.
"Shaking," says Erik, voice hoarse over the hum of the bench, which he opts to eye next, until it seems to have silenced itself, and he turns his head after that lost call. The nearest lamp post sputters once more, and he lifts his uncapped bottle for a long swallow before he turns his glare back upon Lark and Sabrina. "You shouldn't be here."
Lark doesn't bother to step away from Sabrina to a more normal distance, just holding her defensive posture. Her tone is still relatively relaxed though, as she points out. "It's just the Park. Do you want the bench or something?" As she watches his face, a mildly puzzled look crosses her face. Something familiar...but not quite remembered.
"--!" rings that same, summoning voice from closer still, the word ill-defined, but the deep exasperation behind it clear enough. A man's voice, accustomed to being heard across noise and distance. "--cker!"
Sabrina glances in the direction of the second voice, for a moment worried this is backup for Mr. Drunk. "We're doing nothing wrong." She says. It is, at best, a mild protest. She's clearly got no problem with moving on. Something about this guy creeps her out.
"It is very late." Brows knit and expression quite serious, Erik manages an air of erudite superiority despite his blood alcohol content, and the bottle still gripped by the neck in his right hand. "All manner of unsavory characters lurk here in the deep and in the dark, and you are very attractive."
Metal, bits of moving metal cased in a fleshy -- but fit! Really fit! -- body stalks long-legged down the nearby path, several yards away around the bend, lost in night and trees. "Hey! /ERIK!/ Old buddy, old pal! Come to daddy, Erik baby! Yo!" Speaking of unsavory.
Lark raises an eyebrow at Erik's dubious complement and opens her mouth to answer, but is distracted by the shout. Slightly relaxed shoulders tense up again and she throws a worried glance toward the general direction of its source. She turns back to Eric to say a strongly sarcastic "Thank you. But I think we're fine."
Sabrina tenses up the more the drunk talks, increasingly uneasy about his intentions after that earlier cold-eyed appraisal. What she can do about it, she's none too sure, but ... she's not happy. Then the second male voice becomes clearer, and she relaxes. She's heard that voice often enough to recognize it. Rossi. The cavalry is within earshot. One good scream and they'll be in the clear, if the drunk gets ideas. She actually has to fight to keep a smirk off her face at the way Rossi's calling that dog, though.
"Are you?" A slow step is taken towards the girls and further into the light, casting the hard angles of Erik's high cheek bones and low-pressed brows into sharp relief. And then there is Rossi, and the old mutant straightens and turns his scruffy head to squint down the path at him. He frowns.
It rounds the curve of the road, bundled up against the cold -- shoulders hunched high, collar flipped up, a windbreaker of some dark color blurring his silhouette against the shadows beyond him. Lamp posts? Bah. The stark, strong face is hewn out of shadows and sharp lights. "/Eri--!/" Oh. He pauses, frowning down the path, and diverts his path to head towards them. "I'll be fucked." Hello, Rossi!
The additional light allows familiarity to crystalize into recognition and Lark takes an involuntary step back. Her eyes widen and enough blood drains from her face that she is noticeably paler. She spares a quick glance toward the other voice, then lets out a shaky breath of relief. Not another threat, but a friend. "Detective?"
Sabrina's just a second or two behind Lark in recognizing who they're facing. Her reaction is just about identical to Lark's ... sudden, white-faced, wide-eyed terror. Oh /shit/. Oh shitohshitohshit. She glances around, as if she's considering escape routes, but then the sheer amount of metal around them registers, and she looks again at ... ohshit, they're going to DIE ... Magneto. If he decides to get nasty, no amount of running is going to get her and Lark far enough away fast enough to avoid getting hurt. Shit.
Cold eyes turned back to the girls just in time to take in their bloodless faces and apparent considerings of retreat, Erik chuckles low and rough at their expense. He takes another step, the lights flicker, Rossi is rather pointedly ignored.
Recognition hardens Rossi's face, already stiff with an irritation that borders on actual annoyance. "Hey," he greets Lark and Sabrina, his baritone neutral. "What're you two doing out here at this hour. Are you idiots? What did I tell you about going out at night in this city?" he demands of the former, his pace quickening slightly as he approaches Erik. "Go home, for Chrissake."
Lark shoots Erik a panicked look, then turns to Rossi as though ignoring Magneto will make him stop existing. In a shaky voice she replies to the demand, "I..don't remember?"
Sabrina doesn't move an inch as Magneto approaches. It's not an attempt at bravado on her part. Her legs simply refuse to cooperate with her demands that they /do/ something. She is not, however, terrified to the point where she can't come up with some acidic thoughts for Rossi, though she does not voice them. At any rate, escape is not possible right now anyway, not with Magneto focused on them. "I /was/ trying to wind down from work." She manages to say. Her voice, given how scared she is, is remarkably steady, with only the slightest betraying quiver.
Blue grey eyes flickered aside in thought, Erik turns again to focus upon Rossi -- an indelicate tug upon the metal in his body confirming identity where his squint fails to do so. "There are four of us," he states, glancing back to the girls to amend with, "three of us," a second later. "I have missed you, Christopher."
The cop's stride hiccups a little, staggering at that little hum. A flinch spits across Rossi's face. "That hurts," he grits through his teeth, coming up short to make the fourth leg of the small gathering. Hands, shoved in his pockets, stir restlessly to poke bulges in the cloth; the metallic lick of the guns at hip and ankle is a sulky afterthought, compared to the brighter, lighter pins in legs and arm. Green eyes level on Erik, flattened by lamplight. "You're drunk. --I told you it's dangerous out at night. You meet bad people. It's not safe."
Lark uncrossed her arms to push a strand of hair out of her eyes with one shaking hand. "Heh. I think /I/ was a little drunk for that conversation." She attempts the steady tone of the other three, but only manages something a little giddy, edging toward hysteria. Under her breath, a though spoken aloud, she adds, "I wish I was drunk /now/"
Sabrina is fighting a case of the giggles now, that's threatening to burst out and get /way/ out of hand. But the way Magneto and Rossi are talking is ... funny. At least right now it is. They sound like an old married couple. Seriously. And Magento calls Rossi /Christopher/ ? Whoa. But then again, he /is/ Magneto. He can call people whatever he wants. Now that Magneto is focused on Rossi, at least for the moment, Sabrina manages to convince her legs to move, and she edges a step to one side ... away from Magneto.
"You've never said that," Magneto sees fit to argue after a moment's bleary thought. "Not that you need worry. I am Magneto. Magnus, Master of Magnetism." His very nearly empty bottle of whiskey is offered to Lark, and he rolls his head back over his shoulders to peer sidelong at Sabrina when she moves. Yes. Yes, he is drunk.
Rossi focuses on the bottle. "Is that /my/--" he begins with suspicion, his baritone sliding past harshness towards the melodic. He breaks off, and firms his mouth again to breathe through his nose. Inhale, exhale. "You did it to me right after it happened, and it hurt like hell then," he reminds Magneto, Master of Magnetism. "Don't drink that, La-- girl. You don't know where he's been."
Lark's gaze lingers on the bottle a long moment, sorely tempted. She lifts a hand in polite refusal though, murmuring to Erik "Thanks, but I shouldn't." Arms instinctively cross again and she shifts her weight nervously. Searching for something neutral to say, she asks Rossi "What is he doing?"
So much for wanting to laugh. Sabrina sobers up faster than ... well ... than a drunk who quits cold turkey. She freezes in place again at the look from Magneto. She seems to be quite content to let the other three carry the bulk of the conversation at the moment. She's not too keen on risking Magento's inebriated wrath.
A half-circle turned slowly away from the conversation before he's drawn back into it with lifted brows, Erik inquires a distracted, "Did what?" while he reaches for Rossi's shoulder (and less tangibly for the bench, which shivers once again) to brace himself. "Who?"
The shoulder stiffens, squared against Erik's reaching hand. "Lifted me with the damned pins," Rossi says through his teeth, definitely melodic now. "He's drunk. He does that sometimes. I'll try to arrest him, he'll kick my ass and then we'll all go home. It's a thing. He likes adding complication to my life. -- I was asleep when you called me, for the record."
"A thing." Lark repeats in a steady but stunned tone. "Magneto...called you." The back of one hand is pressed against the bridge of her nose as she closes her eyes and forces out a breath. "So where do we fit into this dance?" She turns the hand over and scrubs at her eyes. This can't be real. It isn't happening.
Sabrina glances around at Lark, equally stunned. "Magneto calls you." It's said in the same sort of tone a psych ward nurse might use when agreeing with a delusional patient. Magneto, the biggest terrorist threat since god only knows what calls /Rossi/ when he's drunk. This is the sort of thing you expect to see in the tabloids. "Right. So. We'll leave you two to your ... thing, and just get out of your way. Right Lark?"
Rossi's interior briefly rattles in tune with the bench. These ones? "Yes, probably," muttered to himself, Magneto blinks unevenly between all gathered parties and sags a little more of his weight into Rossi for the taller man to take. His breath is foul enough to border upon the draconic. "I didn't," he says. "He is a human. Lying -- inferior. I do not think he can dance, but he does sing."
"/Fuck/," says the inferior human. "That /hurts/." And then begins in a full-throated baritone, "'Anything you can be / I can be greater. / Sooner or later / I'm greater than you.'" The logical next step is to make a fist out of one hand and punch at Magneto's upper arm.
At Rossi's expression of pain Lark automatically reaches out to lay a comforting hand on his arm. She nearly jerks away though, when he starts singing. "Fuck. /What/?" is surprised out of her. "/Am/ I drunk?"
"If you are, then so am I." Sabrina points out. "'cause I'm hearing and seeing the same things you are." Hello Sabrina, Lark. Welcome to the Twilight Zone. She looks from Magneto to Rossi and back again, expression bewildered and more than slightly bemused. No one is EVER going to believe this ... provided she lives to tell about it. "This is just too surreal for words."
"Ngh," says Erik unhappily against the swat, the hand he has upon Rossi's stretching out to loop around both shoulders, rather than just the one. "Manners. Would you like to come home with us?"
Rossi's shoulders twitch at that embrace, so -- friendly. So kindly. So paternal. The detective looks quite simply and positively harassed. The melody changes, forced out through teeth clenched tight behind a snarl. "'There's no sun up in the sky / And the bird's forgot to sing--'" A hand gestures, waving good-bye to a whine of an exhalation. "Don't mind me," he says a bit wildly. "I have some kind of brain tumor or something. Spontaneous manifestation of Broadway. Don't come with us."
Lark snatches her hand back as Erik slings his arm about Rossi's shoulders. She watches them, frozen, until Rossi's specific 'don't' penetrates. She reaches out to Sabrina without really looking and grabs her hand. Tugging her along, eyes still glued to the two men, she takes a few steps down the path in the opposite direction. "No. No. We'll just--walk this way."
Sabrina stumbles a bit at the first unexpected tug, but then her legs get with the program and she catches up to Lark. "Good luck, Rossi." She says. Then, in a tone only Lark can hear. "You're gonna need it."
"They're leaving." Ever vigilent and now somewhat crestfallen, Erik leans even more of his weight into Rossi as he watches Lark and Sabrina move away. "You frightened them off." The singing does not seem to faze him anymore. Go figure.
Rossi shifts, bracing himself against that heavier weight, and coughs into the back of his hand. "Jesus," he chokes. "How much did you /drink/? They're not scared of /me/, you --Get out of here. Take a cab, and don't stop until you get home," he orders the two women, only the faintest trace of some other Broadway song twisting his voice askew. "I swear to God, they invented the Darwin Awards right here in New York City."
"Right." Lark agrees, in an undertone and turns away down the path. Still holding tight to Sabrina's hand she picks up her pace, just barely keeping from breaking into a run.
Sabrina nods, not at all inclined to argue with Rossi. Stay? And ... uh, no. No thank you. She hurries along after Lark. "You got money on you? If not, I do."
"Not enough," growls Erik somewhat uncomfortably into Rossi's ear. "You are warm. But I was thinking and I decided -- it would probably be unwise to have you drive me, seeing as you will likely be hard-pressed to forget the location of my current...residence."
Rossi, watching the two women make their escape with clear, hard eyes that suggest he might prefer to join them, locks his jaw. The pulse in his throat, bared by the open collar of his windbreaker, leaps with the hasty skip of his heartbeat. "You're the one who dragged me out here. What're you going to do? Call a cab?"
Magneto had not really thought much further past the potential for his untimely demise, and so he is forced to consider this question now, with his chin and jaw bristling into Rossi's neck and shoulder and his center of gravity shifting irregularly up and down, left to right. "This was poorly planned."
Too close. Rossi makes a stifled sound of discomfort, lips parting to breathe through his mouth instead of his nose. He cranes his neck to shift his face further away. "You could say that again," he says, accent tight. He limps forward towards the bench, willfully dragging Magneto's weight with him. "You're under arrest. Goddammit. I'm aching now. Take a seat."
Magneto is reluctant to be disengaged, sloth-like in his attempt to hold on through the dragging before he is deposited down onto the bench. "Aching loins? No, probably not. Mine are, I think." Vital information, to be certain. Posture adjusted into a semi-slouch, Erik knits his brow and sets to examining the ridges of his knuckles. "I do not wish to be arrested."
"Legs," Rossi says shortly, dropping down beside Magneto to drop his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. "Arm. You know. The bones that asshole shattered back when, that some nice doc put metal pins in to hold together, which you keep messing with. You prick. I don't want to hear about your loins," he adds, only to turn his head to eye Magneto askance and demand with a fine inconsistency, "You got some sort of STD?"
"Not unless God has chosen to bestow one upon me as he sometimes bestows things that would normally require intercourse to have." Now that he is seated, it is easier to drink, and he finishes off his bottle in a lazy swing before dropping it aside into the grass. Thunk.
Rossi pauses to work through his way through this, eventually coming up with a straightforward, "If you're the Virgin Mary, I'm the King of Spain." He yawns into the heel of his palm and straightens, slowly, painfully, a wince thinning his eyes and mouth as joints protest and muscles complain. "Haven't seen you in a while. Not that I'm complaining. What've you been up to lately?"
"I am not a virgin." Once more, Erik slumps into Rossi, if somewhat less oppressively, this time. "I have been up to nothing."
The cop endures. It is apparently his calling. "The whole thing with you having kids sort of gave that away," Rossi says dryly. He examines his hands, then shoves one into his windbreaker pocket. "Unless you were into some sort of weird ... mutanty osmosis sex. Don't even want to imagine. Why're you drunk?"
"Most of the sex I have been involved in has been reasonably straightforward." Thunder rumbles again overhead for the first time in a long time. It is accompanied by a warning breeze, and then a spatter of scattered drops that Magneto does not seem to notice. He does not answer Rossi's question, opting instead to frown at his hands.
"And that's why you're drunk?" If the mocking note in Rossi's voice is not strong enough to cut through the alcoholic haze, well. That's not Rossi's fault. His hand emerges from his pocket, fingers looped around with a thin band of white, ridged plastic. "Gimme your wrist."
Magneto does not give Rossi his wrist. He continues to watch his hands for several seconds, and then he looks up to eye the detective just a little sideways, scruff-guarded features too slack to get a decent read on. Meanwhile, one breeze is followed by a second, and then a third.
Fine. Be that way. Rossi reaches for one of those bony wrists. "It's Father's Day tomorrow. Got my dad some golf lessons. He's always talked about learning."
There is no /real/ resistence, but there is tension building tangible in the tendons strapped down around rigid bone, and Erik has not blinked recently. Theeen he attempts a slight tug away from Rossi's grasp. He cannot feel the handcuffs. This probably bodes ill.
Not handcuffs. A zip tie. Plastic, see? "You got any plans tomorrow--" Rossi begins, and slips a loop around Erik's wrist. He reaches for the other one.
In the early stages of a slow motion balk, Erik pulls his wrist back into himself semi-successfully, brows knit and mouth turned down hard into a look of mildly offended distaste and frustration. "I've already said I am not interested in being arrested."
"Sorry," Rossi says, lying, inferior human that he is. He isn't really. His brow lowers to shutter the slivered glint of eyes. "You think you'll feel up to it anytime soon?" He glances at that other, tempting wrist, face blank.
"Not really." Erik has the good matters to look somewhat apologetic about this.
Rossi grits his teeth. "Don't suppose you'd try the handcuffs on? Just for fun." His smile is entirely insincere. "As a fashion statement."
One breeze more, and it is officially raining. Erik leans back off of Rossi's shoulder to sit up straight, one wrist plastic tied, and glowers out at the park.
"Fuck," Rossi says, and sets his back against the bench's back, eyes half-closing so he can tip his face up to the fall. Eyes glitter behind the lattice of lashes. "I'm wet," he says, wearily. "And now I'm just sad."
"Yes," says Erik, left wrist lifted and examined, plastic tie and all while the ashen grey of his expensive suit is spotted into darker charcoal. "Well." Join the club.
Rossi points out with dragging whimsy, "You're drunk and wet. I'm just wet. At least you got an alcoholic umbrella." He stretches his arms across the back of the bench, elbows hooking across the slats. Growing heavy with the burden of moisture, his hair slicks itself to his brow, framing the bones of the skull under the skin. "Why did you call me?"
"I am in no state to drive. Or fly." Why is flight even an option? Because he is Magneto, that's why. "It seemed like a fair idea at the time. There are those who are better off not knowing about certain things." Silver and white follows a similar pattern, limping down into the line of Erik's vision until he combs his fingers back through it. At least the rain is warm.
"And you decided to call the cop you know to give you a ride home." Rossi shakes his head, sending a spray of drops out to sprinkle new spatter across Erik's shoulder. "Put the fucking handcuffs on and I'll bring you in, Lensherr. You can spend Father's Day all warm and cozy in a cell somewhere. Sleep it off."
To give Rossi due credit, in his inebriated state, Erik considers it, cold eyes scanning blearily over their rain-sheeted surroundings. Then he starts pushing up onto his feet slowly enough that the drama of the action is someone lost in his need to hold onto the bench for balance.
Rossi does not move. He watches Erik make his way to his feet, his own expression unreadable, then rakes a hand through his hair to strip it of extraneous water. "How're you gonna get home?"
"I don't know." This is not entirely truthful, but altogether easier than attempting to explain. Hands lifted to rub over his face, he turns his head and attempts to get his bearings, no longer terribly interested in Christopher Rossi.
"You can't take a taxi."
"No."
There is nothing more to say to that, then. Except: "Don't kill anyone." Rossi rises at last, hands shoving into his pockets again. Fingers move against the cloth; he has more in there than just one set of plastic handuffs. Shoulders hunched against the rain, he hesitates, then grimaces. "I'll go with you until you figure out how you're getting where you're going. You're too drunk to walk."
"Alright." Too busy attempting to focus on keeping unsteadiness from becoming dizziness (which is altogether far more dangerous in terms of its association with nausea), Erik shakes some of the water out of his sleeves only to have it replaced immediately by the rain. He will start walking. Any minute now, really.
Rossi hesitates, unpockets a hand, and drops it on Erik's shoulder from behind. He pushes gently. Lay on, MacDuff. A captain and his pretty cabin boy, finding adventure and love in the alien groves of Central Park -- or a boy and his terrorist, learning what it means to be a man.
Summer movies suck. Bring on the sequels.
[Log ends]
Rossi finds Magneto in the Park. He is the Designated Driver, lucky guy. Lark and Sabrina are treated to the Singing Detective. Everything's all jolly fun in this best of all bestest worlds.
Message left with a student for Storm at Xavier Mansion, early Sunday morning.
"Hey. I want to leave a message for Cadbu-- Miss Munroe. This is Detective Rossi, with the NY-- yeah yeah, her boyfriend. No, don't write that down. Detective Rossi. Got that? R-o-s-- Smart-ass. Tell her I'm fine. I need a damn shower and I smell like -- no, don't write that down either. Look. Tell her I'm fine and I'll call her back later. Everything's fine, got that? Okay. Thanks."
Message on slip of paper that gets taped onto Miss Munroe's door, early Sunday morning.
"Detective Rossi called from the Love Police! He smells fiiiiiiiiiiiiiine."