12/2/07 - Zenith, Addie, Vincent, Lark
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=NYC= The Bay Horse - Greenwich Village - Manhattan
A large room with a mixture of a modern bar and the pub environment present back in England. In the far corner from the door is a small stage with the PA system already set up and a lone mic standing there, ready for karaoke nights and visiting music alike. There's also a fireplace with a mantel with a couple of horsehoes like most English pubs have, along with older looking wooden tables with wooden seats surrounding them, of no particular pattern or style. A long bar stretches across an entire wall: behind it are many wierd and wonderful bottles of spirits and mixers and several large casks of import ale. Behind the bar is a door labeled 'Employees Only' and another opposite the entrance that indicates the beer garden.
It is early afternoon, and the chill in the air is palpable, a gnawing, aching, yawning thing that bites through layers of clothes to wrestle with the skin beneath. Brief, short flurries of snow hiccup across the streets, adding their mist to the fog of breath and exhaust; it is that ugly season of mid-transition, when fall and winter waver indecisively and stomp on lovers of both seasons without mercy.
Inside the Bay Horse, there is warmth and life, much of it surrounding the televisions broadcasting football: American style. Much of the patronage is masculine. No surprise there. In a more secluded booth near the back, conveniently situated next to the waiter's station, Chris Rossi stretches his long legs on the seat and surveys a menu. The evidence of his clothes and his drink suggest he has been there for some time, at least long enough to get comfortable. A beer sits at his elbow, and the leather overcoat is draped over a coathook, leaving him cozy in a wine-colored dress shirt and jeans.
Zenith wears her snow well, spangled light on her dark hair. Until it begins to melt in the heat, of course, and then it's just droplets that are displaced and run as she unwinds her scarf in the entrance area. When she spots Chris, she smiles, and weaves her way over. As she unbuttons her leather jacket, she exposes a top that laces up the front, exposing a blue bar of fabric beneath the cream. "Sorry I'm late."
"Fries," Chris says by way of reply, a smile lighting the green of his eyes and the hard, cynical face. He unravels himself from the booth's interior to stand to meet her (Mama Rossi has taught him some grace, after all). A hand squeezes gentle welcome on her upper arm; he drops a platonic kiss on her cheek. "Ordered some. I got some weight to put on, and you got some exercise program -- won't hurt, right? They got good soup, too, if you're cold. Split pea with ham."
Zenith sighs with anticipation. "God, that sounds good." She sets her hand over his on her arm, then slides into the booth. "When I was doing the show, I would out-eat some of my dates, sometimes. It just burns it up." She shrugs out of her coat. "How have you been doing?"
Chris says with dry satisfaction, "No on-the-job injuries in over four days. Last one was Tucci. He got decked by a crackhead and started a riot in the squad room. Would you believe it -- I didn't even bruise a hair." He lifts his hand for the waitress, settling back into his side of the table. Properly, this time, both feet on the floor, elbows on the table and hands loosely clasped around his half-empty beer. Amusement cuts behind his expression. "Luck's turning around. How about you? Doing okay?"
"I hate contracts." Zenith shakes her head and laughs, and does order the split pea, along with a beer. "I mean, I got friends checking it over, but I wanted to at least to try to read it myself. That's been the past couple days, just plowing through the fucking thing." She finally finishes arranging purse and all the possessions that come with winter.
"Contract for?" Chris watches the redistribution of self and accessories with the dispassionate interest of an unencumbered man. "You got a new show in mind?"
"Oh!" Zenith grins. "You missed that week, where I babbled about it to every stranger I met." She leans in, conspiratorially. "I'm going to be on /TV/."
Eyes flare slightly wider, green rimmed by black. "No shit?" Chris is entertained. And impressed. His mouth twitches, skidding towards that crooked smile that softens the harsher angles of his face. He leans forward to finish the tent of intimacy. "What kind of gig is it? You going to be the next Tyra Banks?"
"Kinda, yeah. It's called Reaching Zenith, and they're going to find a bunch of male dancers to see if they can cut it, dealing with powers to be my partner in the next show." Zenith looks up to recieve her beer, but after taking a drink, closes the distance again. "I eliminate them bachelorette style."
The laugh this prompts is a quick rip of a thing, but it is sincere amusement for all that. Chris's shoulders shake. "Holy fuck," he says, and adds more thoughtfully, "There's your female demographic between 10 and 80 right there. Dancing guys in tights? They'll be all over that. What's that mean, bachelorette style? They have to take you out on dates, too?"
"Nah. Just that we have to work on a specific routine together. To perform in front of an audience that comes to the stage part of it." Zenith's lips curl wickedly. "I'm pretty sure they /want/ me to sleep with some of them. To stir it up."
"Reality television's pretty nasty stuff," Chris allows, and reaches across the table to tap Zenith's wrist with a light fingertip. One eyebrow rises. "I had a case once. They've got some vicious operators running those things. You be careful, right? They'll dig up dirt and throw it in your face to screw you, too, if they think it'll raise ratings."
"I know. That's why I'm getting help with the contract." She looks over to his finger on her wrist. "My employers, the private security stuff, they want all of that kept totally quiet, so sometimes I wonder if it's a good idea, but it's just so much /exposure/. And publicity. I mean a /mutant/ reality show."
"Figures it would happen eventually -- and it might as well be you. I know shit-all about television. Almost never watch it. Seems like you'd draw in a big audience, though, based on that alone." Chris chuckles, the sound caught in the back of his throat, and lets his hand fall away to reclaim his beer. "You're a hell of a lot more personable than some of the ones I've met, that's for damn sure. Lazzaro -- one of the MA guys -- got assaulted by a guy with ten-foot slime tentacles the other day."
"Tentacles?" Zenith wrinkles her nose in disgust. "Man. I hope that one doesn't show up at Purgatory. The most I've ever seen is the DJ there, and she's pretty cool." She sips at her own beer. "I don't mind being the media face for some others."
There is a note in Chris's voice when he says her name, a tickle of discomfort and old chagrin that makes a lump under the smoother covers of his baritone. "Beckah. Kali, you mean?" He takes a drink, then glances up to watch as food arrives. "How's she been doing lately? Haven't talked to her in -- fuck. Ages."
"Her and her girlfriend are always making out in the back," Zenith says with smirk, and a hitch of her shoulder. "I don't really talk to her that much anymore, 'cause she's so busy. Seems really happy, though."
"Her girlfriend?" It is a question that is not, all things considered, as surprised as it could be. Chris's face shifts rapidly through interest, then realization, then cynical amusement again. "That explains that. I used to wonder. Poor bastard. --Glad to hear she's happy, anyway," he adds, picking out a fry from the steaming basket before pushing the heaping platter across the table at Zenith. "And besides the contract, how about you? I haven't seen you since--" The hospital.
Zenith would rather talk about Beckah, it seems. "Poor bastard?" she prompts. Still, she comes around slowly, looking into her beer. "I found out he got his. It didn't really feel like I hoped it would."
Her question, diversionary, meets with a dismissive shake of the head. It is the other subject that splices its way into a reply. "How did you think it'd make you feel?"
"Better. In control again." Zenith shrugs helplessly. Fries, though. She can concentrate on those instead. She eats a couple.
"Never seems to work out that way."
"Yeah?" Zenith asks, looking up, apparently assuming that he might be more experienced with such things. "Well. You can probably have I told you so rights."
Chris does not say I told you so. He props his chin on the backs of his fingers and regards her solemnly. "There was a guy I knew," he begins -- and then stops.
"Yeah?" Zenith eats while she prompts him to keep talking.
Cynicism slashes across Chris's expression, laced with a self-mockery that almost glitters before it disappears. "Long story," he says, picking out a fry. "He got into some trouble. Found out about some stuff that some pretty powerful people didn't want him to know. They wanted to know what he knew, and they did shit to him that -- anyway. The point being, there are some things that people can take from you, that they can't ever give it back. That's my fortune cookie wisdom for the day."
Zenith nods silently, pausing before licking off her fingers. "I don't really think about it all the time, like a used to. But there's been some fuckers in bars, hitting on me, I've had to be careful to not squish them like bugs. Jumpy."
"It takes a while." Chris's advice. He reaches for the ketchup, deposits a dollop on the side of the fry plate, and ends up having to wipe small spots of red castoff from the table. Oops. "Not squashing them's a good start. Give it a few months. After a while--" His mouth twitches to one side again, fishhooking towards a smile that does not quite reach his eyes. "Getting back on the horse is harder than falling off."
"Yeah." Zenith pulls up an approximation of a smile of her own. "There was this white-haired guy. Man. /Unbelievable/ asshole. Tried to 'save' me from something he caused with his own mutation. Asked if we could be friends at least, later."
White-haired asshole. Bemusement slips across Rossi's face. "This city," he says, mild. "Sounds like he's been reading too many comic books. Adolescent's daydream, saving some chick from some danger and then being the adored hero. I used to have those." He casts a nostalgic eye over the past, and crumples a napkin. "Kristen Mangetti. I used to imagine saving her from wild dogs with a baseball bat."
"Wild dogs, huh?" Zenith smirks. "What about dragons? When I was in the unicorn period, I used to imagine the knight on the horse--" She mimes leaning over to catch a hand on the run and then swing her up into the saddle. "Thing."
"Never was much into the fantasy thing," Chris admits, the swift leap of a smile darkening his gaze. He cants his head to consider Zenith, his mouth tugged askew. "I was what you could call reality-centered, barring a superhero phase when I was four. Always seemed like there were enough monsters to save people from in real life, without having to make new ones up."
"Well, it's a law, girls have to do unicorns or horses. I did ballet, so I went the froofy fantasy Swan Lake route." Zenith is smiling too, relaxed--without sex coming into it--in a way that her manner seems to suggest she rarely is around males lately. "I suppose I /could/ do the superhero thing, expect that I'd hate it."
"Gay," is Chris's verdict, delivered deadpan and with a shake of the head. "Forget about the capes. -- You ever see The Incredibles? -- The spandex alone could kill you. Basic black's your ticket there. You got no idea what colored spandex will do to a guy. Black doesn't show shadows as well. And then there're the heels...."
"Leather," Zenith says, munching a fry. "At least the heels wouldn't bother me. I wouldn't have to worry about losing my balance. Long jacket." She gestures down to her ankles, and then back, to show the sweep she's imagining.
"Check it out. Your new show." Chris grins crookedly. He has ketchup on his chin. Goober. "I get a percentage cut if you use my idea."
Zenith laughs. "Trade you for fifteen minutes of fame? All my friends, I need people to be out on the town with me for the filler segments of the show. You'd probably only be a face in the crowd, but hey. On TV!" She looks at him, and taps her own chin with mock seriousness.
Chris chuckles quietly, then lifts his brows and swipes haphazardly at his chin. He inspects the back of his hand with curiosity. No success. "Pass. I've had enough press to last me a lifetime. If I never hit the news again, I'll be a happy man. --Guy came up to me in the street the other day and wanted me to autograph that damn Newsweek article. People remember the damnedest shit."
"Yeah. It's not for everyone." Zenith has a sudden, visible thought, and then looks abruptly grateful her offer wasn't accepted. She laughs awkwardly. "They'd only try to dig up dirt about our past relationship, anyway."
Her companion looks amused. "Regretting it?" he asks -- but it is a rhetorical question, dismissed almost immediately by the cheerful, "Screw that. So. Tell me more about this show you're going to be doing. Any high wires involved?" And with that the conversation turns light and easy, coasting on friendly, casual waters far from the deep.
[Log ends]
Rossi has drinks with an old fling. Who is, yes, really kinky.
---
=NYC= The Bay Horse - Greenwich Village - Manhattan
A large room with a mixture of a modern bar and the pub environment present back in England. In the far corner from the door is a small stage with the PA system already set up and a lone mic standing there, ready for karaoke nights and visiting music alike. There's also a fireplace with a mantel with a couple of horsehoes like most English pubs have, along with older looking wooden tables with wooden seats surrounding them, of no particular pattern or style. A long bar stretches across an entire wall: behind it are many wierd and wonderful bottles of spirits and mixers and several large casks of import ale. Behind the bar is a door labeled 'Employees Only' and another opposite the entrance that indicates the beer garden.
It is mid-afternoon, and the wind has died down somewhat: enough that the snowfall (such as it is, sporadic and desultory) falls straight down rather than sideways and up. In the back of the Bay Horse, Chris Rossi rises to bid farewell to his female companion, a brief, friendly kiss dropped on her cheek before she fades away into the crowd. Her departure leaves him in sole possession of a booth, its table strewn with the debris of his encounter. Empty beer glasses, empty basket -- once housing fries -- a bowl that once contained soup. Comfortable in a wine-colored dress shirt and jeans, he sprawls lazily across the seat, nursing a fresh glass of beer and watching the nearby television under lazy eyelids.
Addie is meanwhile on the way into the bar with... well, apparently a friend. The other woman is shorter, and with short, spiked hair, somewhat thin, and a bit androgynous-looking. They say something to each other, and then the other woman heads to the bar, saying something to the bartender. And Addie? She goes hunting for a seat only to take notice of a now-lonely Rossi. "Rossi." She sounds just a tad uncomfortable, for that.
Rossi lifts his glass in a haphazard salute of sorts, his gaze flicking away from the television screen to mark Addie. And, past Addie, her companion. "Yo," he greets, dropping a pause after it to consider before taking on the requisite, "Wu. --What brought you in? Hot date?" His hand gestures, the beer in the glass splashing against its sloped sides; an invitation of sorts. Sit. If she wants.
Addie takes a seat, but sputters in denial when Rossi indicates an apparent date,"Wh-what? That's just... Um... my friend, Nikki, is all." Of course, it's exactly what Rossi thinks. Else she wouldn't be caught so surprised. "I just felt like... hanging out, is all."
"Smooth," Rossi congratulates, mockery springing to life in the hooded green eyes. His mouth twists askew into a crooked little smile; one leg, drawn up onto the seat beside him, serves to prop up his beer-holding hand and wrist. "Nobody'd ever suspect a thing. Lying 101, Wu. Stuttering and saying 'um' when you're thinking up a story? Does squat for credibility."
Addie grabs her drink as her 'friend' returns with a pair of beers, hiding her mouth behind it, as she murmurs sulkily,"Shut up. She wanted to see where I hung out is all. Keep it tight, okay?" She makes a zipper-motion near her mouth. "Besides, my partner usually does the interrogations. I do my best work with evidence." And the other woman? She's friendly enough, she raises her hand and wiggles her fingers at the guy,"Hey." And then she extends her hand to the man,"Nikki."
"Reality check, Wu. Nobody cares." Rossi regards Nikki's fingertips with desultory curiosity before stretching just far enough to touch them with his. Minimalist handshake. "Rossi," he introduces, dispensing with first names altogether. "Yo." The bar, though still far from the typical weekend night crowd, is still crowded with the obvious signs of a popular NYPD/FDNY hangout. Shield and Maltese cross shirts are much in evidence, and though Rossi himself wears nothing so obvious, the flame of a red and gold Academy ring on one hand is a badge of sorts.
Addie doesn't wear much more than a necklace with her badge on it under her shirt. "My parents might. You may not. My choice, okay?" she shifts uncomfortably, even while Nikki completes the minimalist greeting, then looks between the two briefly, before offering a curious shrug. She reaches over to ruffle Wu's hair. "Silly bean." Addie just blushes even more darkly,"So... um... how are things?"
Anyone sitting in the booth might just happen to notice a lonely dark red scarf, lost and bereft of the presence of its original owner. It's a little feminine to belong to Rossi, truth be told. But then its owner returns, click of her bootheels on the floor rapid and she hurries back to the booth, clearly expecting to find a stranger there and her scarf having walked away. She smiles in relief to see Rossi. "Scarf!"
"Woman!" says Rossi, glancing up at this entirely unfair identification. His face shifts with recognition, warming to an easy, lazy smile that relaxes the cynical cast of his face. He does not bother to stand this time, angling his elbow against the table to prop his temple up on fingertips. "Couldn't get enough of my company the first time? --Zoe McMillan," he tells to the other two women at the booth, pitching the name across at them in a laconic, one-sided introduction. "Things're fine. What things?"
Addie and the woman she's with both looke towards the apparent Zoe for a moment, then both also wave. Addie, meanwhile, shrugs,"Um... I don't know. I was trying to make small-talk. I'm not very good at the interpersonal thing. Suspects don't normally expect you to be nice to them, you know?"
Zenith's eyes widen a little in recognition of Addie. "Oh! You!" She frowns, searching for the name and not finding it. "Man," she says back to Rossi with the crook of an eyebrow. "I couldn't get enough of you so much that I even left my scarf as an excuse to come back."
"I've heard worse excuses," Rossi says, uncurling long enough to reach across and snag the scarf for Zenith. "Sit down and rap for a while longer, then. Weather's not getting any worse. --Remind me to be grateful I haven't been secondary on any of your cases," he adds across the table for Addie's benefit, his gaze lifting to search out the waitress. "You don't ever deal with witnesses? You got the personal charm of a tin can, Wu. It's amazing you close /anything/." There. Waitress. His hand lifts in summons.
Addie snorts at Rossi,"I'm always the one playing bad cop. Believe it or not, sometimes the evidence speaks for itself, even when the suspects don't. I deal with them. John just does a lot better getting stuff out of them." And to Zenith,"Oh! Me!" A deadpan voice indeed,"Wu. Ariadne Wu." Nikki, the androgynous woman beside her, meanwhile leans against her,"Amazing. Is the scarf magic like that? A +1 Scarf of Excusing?"
Zenith takes in the couplyness of the others with a bit of an eyebrow raise, and then slides in beside Chris, accepting the scarf gratefully. "That's right, Ariadne. Not a CSI at all." She smiles pleasantly at the woman.
"CSU," Rossi says into the innards of his glass, redistributing himself to make more room for Zenith beside him. "On TV it's CSI. In real life it's CSU. Or Forensics, whichever. Shit they don't tell you on television -- you know juries are getting dumber each day? I didn't realize it was possible. -- 75% of the time, you only got evidence for problems you already know the answer to."
In through the door, knit cap and overcoat liberally dusted with fuzzy white spots of snow about the back and shoulders, Vincent has a harried look about him that is only amplified by the cranky way in which he drags the cap off his bald head as he moves for Rossi's table. With little more than a cursory glance attributed to Abbie's friend, Vincent shrugs out of his overcoat and sort of shoulders in past her to drop down onto the bench next to Abbie, and across from Rossi and Zenith. "Sorry." The overcoat, hat, etc is folded down into his lap. "Phone keeps ringing."
Addie shakes her head at Zenith,"Examining processed evidence, and examining a crime scene for evidence are two different things. It's up to people like me and Rossi, for example, to put the case together. Something the DA can make stick. Knowing who it is, and proving it... two different things. And that doesn't always get a conviction."
"Oh." Zenith looks like she's slowly working her way through that, but then Vincent appears. It's been years, and so recognition is a little slow in coming, but then the quintessential 'oh shit' look crosses her face, followed by 'oh fuck!'. Being a touchy person, her first impulse is to grab for Rossi's hand, if she can out of sight between them, and then it's to look for an escape route.
"Finally, you fuck," is Rossi's version of greeting, a crude salutation that lacks heat. Green eyes grin over the rim of his glass. "You met Zoe, Lazzaro? --Vincent Lazzaro, Zoe McMillan." His introduction of the pair is more complete than the one he supplied for Addie and her friend. The cop tosses a request for something fried -- cheese sticks? That'll work -- to the waitress, and taps his ring against his glass to signal for another. Meanwhile, his other hand gets grabbed. Chris blinks. Weird.
"A beer, for me. Whatever he's having." Two years in New York are enough to have etched the lines around Vincent's face in a little deeper, and there is possibly, /possibly/ a hint of grey scattered in around the darker black of his stubble collection. He looks at Zenith with a similar, odd sort of hang before recognition filters in through a multitude of arrests. His brow knits. Oops. "I think we've met, yeah."
Zenith is squeezing Chris' hand without realizing, but she manages an approximation of an even tone, given time to pull it together by the distraction of the other girls leaving together for the bathroom. "Met. Yeah. Guess you could say that."
"Oh," Chris says, his frown stitching his brow as he casts back over history and snags on-- oops. His face clears, making way for an amused grimace. "I forgot. Lazzaro arrested you, didn't he? Wasn't anything personal, was it? He's a good guy. If you can get past his personality."
"/I/ didn't arrest her. Jim did. I was /there/..." A beer bottle is set down before Vincent, and he trails off to glance over at her as he snaps the cap off. "What, you think I'm going to take you in again for holding hands?"
Rossi says defensively, "We're not dating."
Zenith drops Chris' hand guiltily, only now realizing she's doing it. She flushes. Not dating! "My memories of the whole thing are a little confused," she admits. "But the first time I saw Chris, after, he really chewed me out." She nods to him. "You serious about that not personal thing?"
"That was for--" Chris begins, only to scratch at his cheek and consider. "Can't remember. I was pretty pissed, though."
"You put a guy through a window. How is that personal? And -- there's nothing wrong with my personality. Asshole." The last is muttered over a sip of beer, and Vincent draws in a long breath. He is here to relax. Not to bicker with goombahs.
"On accident," Zenith says, more than a little defensively, and looks down at the table. Why didn't she get another beer again? Dammit. "I can't say what you said wasn't /true/, but it wasn't really the time I was ready to hear it," she tells Chris.
Chris grins, perversely, a flash of white and bright green. "I got a gift of timing with you," he self-congratulates, adding in extravagant praise, "Lazzaro does all sorts of shit for the mutant community. He's a good cop. Lot of worse guys wandering around in the city." It is like a hint, except barn-sized.
"Are you two sure you aren't fucking?" This offered unhelpfully across the table from the good cop, Vincent knits his brows at Rossi when he expounds upon his good deeds to society, or whatever.
Zenith flicks a look to Chris, checking his reaction, and then smirks anyway. "Not at the moment." She props her chin, elbows on the table. See? Both hands visible!
Chris's reaction is amusement rather than chagrin. "Girlfriend," he reminds Lazzaro, taking up his beer once more. In more regretful accents, he tacks on, "Africa. Phone sex. Goddammit. I'm starting to really not give much of a fuck about the 3rd world. --Zoe's gonna be on television. You should have Lazzaro on," he tells her. "He could use some more publicity."
"Phone sex isn't a girlfriend. It's phone sex." The 'not at the moment' comment earns a glance back to Zenith, and her hands, and Vincent drums his fingers around the base of his beer. "What?"
"I'm single," Zenith says. In case anyone cares. She wrinkles her nose. "Sort of." She lifts her chin so she can gesture, excitement still simmering below this subject. "Reality show. Guys competing to be my partner for my new show."
"You two should hook up." Chris's contribution. He leaves out the why and wherefore.
"I don't know how to dance," Vincent is a little quick to defend.
Zenith looks a little dubious, but she smiles slightly in amusement, and looks at Vincent properly, giving him a chance to interest her. "Well, that's only for professional dancers, anyway. But there's some segments just being around the city. That's what I was talking to Chris about earlier."
"I didn't mean on the show," Chris clarifies, a bit belatedly. He scratches his cheek again, then hooks his forefingers together. See? Hook up. "You and Lazzaro. He's harmless. Texan," he tells Zenith with just a small touch of pity. The boy can't help it.
"I...wha..." Vincent is looking back at Zenith, performing the same sort of assessment halfway against his will, and more awkwardly than he would like. Perhaps fortunately, before he can hurt himself trying to think of something intellingent to say, there is a buzz from the overcoat folded around in his lap, and he looks down after it. The cellphone is withdrawn, and he mutters a curse. "Kurt broke up with her girlfriend and is going on a rampage through all of my case files. ...I'll be back in a few minutes."
Zenith sits back, hard to tell if she's disappointed or not. "So you guys--" She gestures between them. "Different departments, same department, what?"
Smooth. Very smooth. "You gaywad," Chris pitches after Vincent, eloquent in his disapproval. It is a resigned sample of it, at least. He toys with his beer, spinning it idly atop a coaster, and cradles his head in his hand to regard Zenith instead. "Different. Same. You know, that part time Mutant Affairs thing? He's in MA full-time. We've worked on a few cases together. He's primary on one, I'm primary on another-- it goes around. Some people tried to kill us a few years back, and we've been buds ever since. I piss him off."
"Kill you? Who? Does that happen often?" Zenith is enough a member of the general US TV-watching public that the exciting side of law enforcement snags her attention.
Chris opens his mouth to deny its frequency -- only to close it again. /There's/ the chagrin. "It's not supposed to happen that often," he says, temporizing. "Most cops manage to make it through to retirement without ever firing their guns."
Zenith sobers a little, playing with a handy coaster. "Is it MA, that does it?"
"Could be," Chris says, and then scrubs a little sheepishly at his face. "Then again, it could be just--"
"You two just a couple of dumbasses?" Zenith says it lightly, with a totally innocent expression.
Chris grins at this charitable assessment. "Me," he concludes. "People don't usually want to kill Lazzaro. He's not as irritating as I am, I guess. Mostly they want to do stuff to him with tentacles. Make sure to ask him about that when he gets back. --Whatever happened to respect for cops, goddammit?"
Zenith looks in the direction Vincent diappeared. "Tentacles." She smirks. "Check." After a moment, she looks back at Chris. "You seriously think he'd actually be interested, or you just baiting us because it's funny?"
"/He'd/ be-- you looked in a mirror lately?" Chris asks, more curious than sarcastic. His glance across her is masculine and appreciative, lit by humor. "Are you kidding me? --Would /you/ be interested, is the question. All kidding aside, he really is a good guy. He's had my back when I needed him. Don't tell him I said that and meant it. "
"Yeah, but these," Zenith puts a hand just below her bust, showcasing it, "Comes with this--" She floats the coaster, following it up with the flick of fingers from her other hand. "I've been trying to find nicer guys lately. Just can't do the bar pick-up thing anymore. Have to go by--" She smirks. "Word of mouth."
Chris watches the coaster-floating with an interested eye. He has come a long ways from the man who reacted so poorly to the discovery of her mutant status, years ago. "He's MA," he reminds, and clarifies with a further grimace, "I got no idea if it'd matter to him, come to think of it, but he's not going to freak out at it, anyhow. You can be guaranteed that, at least."
Vincent claps his phone shut and returns, only to look a little surprised to find that Addie and company is still missing. "Hey. Think they fell in? Maybe they're still trying to decide which bathroom to go into."
Zenith closes her hand around the floating coaster with a quick snap, faster than letting it fall. "Could be making out," she suggests, looking up at the returner.
There's a short cough of a laugh from Chris, who leans forward in time to accept his refill from the waitress. And cheese sticks. He spins the basket indiscriminately, offering the deep-fried wedges of fat to all parties. "Could be," he says agreeably. "Hope the girls' bathrooms aren't as disgusting as the men's. --You sort out Kurt?"
"I hear sometimes they have couches." Still settling in, Vincent does not reach for a cheese wedge, content with his beer for the time being, and eyeing Zenith again, master of subtlety that he is.
Eh. Why not. Zenith crosses her arms flat on the table and leans forward on them, before freeing one to go for a cheese stick. Her neckline is low, and a lock of hair slides slowly forward over her shoulder, dark waves. "Well, place like this, you never know. No couches. But they're much cleaner."
Chris may be taken, but he is not incapable of window shopping. His glance slips down, caught by friendly fire, and he thoughtlessly appreciates the view for a second before tearing his attention away. Cheese sticks. Dipping sauce. Hot, red, we-- "Ow," he says indistinctly, biting into one with haste. "Watch it. These are fresh. --You knew Wu was gay?" he asks Lazzaro. Cops. They gossip like ... cops.
"I surmised from the pod person she had with her," says Vincent to Zenith's boobs. His beer is lifted for a swallow, and he looks away again when Rossi does. It's a little scarily syncronized. "Do you just turn off your detective skills when you leave the precinct, or what?"
Zenith's boobs don't say anything back. Zenith might roll her eyes a little at the lack of attention on her face. But not much. She licks her fingers from eating the cheese stick a little more slowly than strictly necessary. "So where does she fit in, you guys all working with each other?"
"Shut up. I was asking for you, not asking for me." Chris crumples a napkin and sends it leaping across the table at Lazzaro before filching another from the overfilled dispenser by the wall. "She's in Homicide. Straight Homicide--" Hah, "--not this overlap shit that I do. Murders, suspicious deaths, high profile cases, some assaults--" His shoulders hunch. It is like a shrug. "You know. The fun stuff."
The napkin bounces off of Vincent's head, which provokes an annoyed look, if not a flinch. Apparently he is used to having things thrown at him. That or he's hard to shake after his recent tentacle molestation. "Straight Homicide. I'm going to assume that was too clever for you to have done on purpose," he comments finally, glancing, again, to Zenith. "All the fun really is in murder, you know. I'm very jealous."
Zenith attracts the thrown napkin back to her open hand, a little unecessarily casual. She hefts it like she's considering throwing it again, but she's really watching Vincent for reaction. "You could do some murder of your own."
"He wouldn't," Chris says into his beer. The Brooklyn-laced baritone bounces back, hollowed by the glass. "He loves me too much."
Vincent watches the napkin with brows tilted in a mild, 'You could have just grabbed it,' kind of look, but he does not seem bothered on any kind of deep level, and he doesn't say anything. "Most victims know their attackers."
That makes Zenith flinch, some of the amused spark going out of her flirting. She looks down and crushes the napkin up smaller instead.
"Statistically speaking," Chris says, and takes another cheese stick to dump it in marinara sauce. A warning glance flicks across the table towards Vincent, twitches askance to indicate Zoe, then returns to his beer. "Homicide really is where all the action's at. Tentacles and green slime guys aside. You ever see Top Gun? Homicide's like the Top Gun of the cop world."
Having already picked up on something askance in her reaction, Vincent looks to Rossi, catches the look, looks back to Zenith, and then...back to Rossi. 'Damaged goods?' says the look, with a hint of skepticism before he reaches for his beer. "Homicide is like the pooper scooper of the cop world. Scraping little bits of dried blood and cum off of dead bodies. That said, I never actually saw Top Gun, so."
Zenith pulls herself together, and flutters a hand against her heart. "Oh, the romance of it all."
"It's not like that," Chris tells Zenith, taking up the cudgels on behalf of his chosen profession. His glance back at Vincent is a wry, 'Who isn't?' that is followed up by a more acerbic, "You should tell her about the shit /you/ scrape up. Remember the Miller body? The /second/ time? Jesus. And then there was the green goop guy, not to mention -- tell her about your tentacle thing."
"Magneto killed Sabella Miller. Blood everywhere. Rib cage and lungs all ripped up. Cut her heart out and left it on the pavement. You were with me on most of the green goo thing, and then a couple of days ago some guy with tentacles tried to give me a hug when I went to ask him some questions. I need another beer." Vincent taps his empty bottle against the table, and looks back up to Zenith. "So. Tell us about dancing?"
"Tentacle guy thought he was hot," Chris tells Zenith.
Zenith wrinkles her nose at rib cages and lungs. Ew. She'd just as soon talk about dancing, yeah. "What do you want to know? It's the stage I really live for, TV aside, and I've done a couple of shows, now, using powers along with regular dance stuff. Ballet. Modern. Used to compete in waltz." She giggles at Rossi, then smirks at Vincent. "Well, if your tastes run to that..." She makes a mock moue of disappointment.
"Ten feet long, wasn't it?" Chris asks Vincent, helpfully. "Slimy. Prehensile. He was giving you the eye and you shot one off."
"I hate you so much," Vincent informs Rossi, with his face half-covered by the lift of his left hand. "That's good. About your powers," he says to Zenith on a short delay. "Productive."
Zenith chokes on laughter, but smothers it. "Well, the arrest--" She grimaces and tips her head to Vincent. "Kind of rock bottom. Picked myself up and went somewhere after that."
"You love me," Chris tells Vincent, his deep voice kindly. "You just can't express yourself like a metrosexual. Just as well. God knows you don't dress like one. --You did good, though," he adds towards Zenith, taking up the latest refill to sip cautiously at its froth-rimmed surface. "Not many people got the balls to turn shit around like that."
"Crappy as it sounds, an arrest can occasionally be good for that kind of thing. Anyway. It's good to see at least one success story, in the scheme of things." At the clothes comment, even as he twists off the cap of his next beer, Vincent gives Rossi a dirty look. "There's nothing wrong with the way I dress. Who buys /your/ clothes? Your sister?"
"Thanks," Zenith murmurs, grinning at Rossi. "I had help--have help, still." She nods a little more seriously to Vincent's comment. "Boys, boys," she says, smirking.
Rossi blinks, a little taken aback. "Sometimes. Mom buys the-- Why?" He glances down at his shirt front, a touch suspicious. It is a dark, deep red, a simple dress shirt, open at the collar. "What's wrong with my clothes?"
"Nothing. I hear fire engine red is big this year. Mostly for fire engines, though." Vincent smirks as well, because he thinks he is funny. "Did she pinch your cheeks when you tried it on?"
Zenith reaches out to pinch Rossi's cheek, perhaps a little unclear about who she's flirting with here for a moment. Equal opportunity! "You both look handsome."
Chris's face clouds. He protests. "I look good," he tells Vincent, his pride a bit injured. Ignore for a moment the slight uncertainty of the glance he skips towards Zenith. Hot, right?
More plebishly dressed in a leather jacket over a dark t-shirt and lighter jeans, Vincent is ill-convinced of this, and eyes both of them a little bit at the cheek-pinch. "You still have more hair than me."
Zenith elbows Rossi, more rough-housing than flirting this time. "'Course you do." Then she readjusts the target in her sights, and leans over to smile intimately at Vincent.
"Ow," says Chris, because he is a brave man. And a cop. Which means he scoffs at pain. Except when he doesn't. Beer in hand, he begins to nudge his way out of the booth, gently bumping Zenith to do so. "I see Tucci at the bar," he reports. "I'm gonna go talk to him about something. You two hold down the fort. I'll be back when I'm done." He's a good wing man, he is.
It is difficult to say whether Vincent is relieved or flustered by Rossi leaving him. It catches him off guard, at least, and there's a pause before he sort of collects himself and tries a simple, "So you've known Rossi for a while, then."
"Yeah." Zenith ducks her head, slight smile still curling her lips. "We only hooked up back before--" She gestures, 'the arrest' not voiced this time. "Lost track of each other for a long time, till a few months ago." She looks up, recrossing her legs under the table, should her foot happen to bump into anything. "You?"
"We crossed paths a few times in the precinct when I moved in a few years ago. Didn't really get along until we got through a few scrapes together. We're pretty cliche." His beer turned up and then set aside, empty much more quickly than the first, Vincent lifts his brows. "Want to ditch him and get some coffee?"
"I'd like that." Zenith brushes an errant lock of hair behind her ear, and starts gathering up her purse, remembering her scarf this time. She stands out of the booth, looking for Rossi to wave and give him a grin.
By the bar, Chris catches a glimpse of that waving arm, casts a quick glance towards Vincent, and grins. His arm lifts in a return salute, then drops. Tucci is yelling at him already. He's got other fish to fry.
Vincent takes the time to shuffle out his wallet in order to drop a few bills down onto the table before he pushes to stand and collect his coat. He got the tip. Apparently Rossi can get the rest, this time. This is conveyed in a manly sort of chin lift aimed in his direction as he walks to get the door for Zenith. "I think there's a coffee shop down the street..."
[Log ends]
Later in the day... Rossi is a good wing man and gets Zenith and Lazzaro into the saddle together.
---
It is evening, and the pub is filling up, for all it is a school night. The weekday-weekend rotation means different things to different people, and those that populate the Bay Horse on this night -- as on most -- have their own schedules to run by: cops and firemen, all hours, all days. The televisions blare with the aftermath of the day's games, here and there broadcasting commentary (or replay action, as suits the channel). By the bar, Chris Rossi leans in argument with a small, balding Italian man. He is more casually dressed than his companion, jeans and a dark red dress shirt opened at the collar and rolled up at the sleeves. "--is what I'm fucking telling you," he says in the face of obstinacy. "It was a /goddamn jaywalker/."
Musicians are another set not ruled by the usual schedule, and Lark has no notion of simply going home to bed after a concert. She has even bothered to change out of concert black tonight, and it is in jeans and pale blue blouse that she pushes he way into the bar. At her elbow is her usual escort of late, all six feet and change of him. Weaving her way through the crowd to the bar, she spots a familiar face and makes in his direction, raising her voice to call, "Chris!"
Tucci is busy stabbing a finger into Chris's chest when he turns, answering the salute of his name -- as does at least two other heads in the bar. His is a popular and common name. It is Rossi's attention that stays fixed, however, when the others lack recognition and return to their pursuits. He abandons his companion abruptly, without regret. "Lark!" A beer in hand, he strikes out to meet her approach, coming up short to squeeze her upper arm and drop a thoughtless kiss on her cheek. "How's it going? Hot date?"
Lark grins up at Chris, turning her cheek to accept the kiss. "No, sadly. Besides, I think Stephen could manage a hotter date than me." Laying a hand on Chris' upper arm she sidesteps and tugs her 'date' from behind her by one hand, dropping it again again so he can offer a handshake. Speaking for himself before Lark can do the honors, he introduces, "Stephen White. We play together sometimes."
Chris slides his free arm from behind Lark, moving the beer from one hand to the other to offer the appropriate member for Stephen. Scarred fingers grasp and shake briefly. "Nice to meet you. Chris Rossi," he introduces, his glance inquiring. "Friendly cop. Lark and me hang out together sometimes. --Didn't expect to see you here. Had the day off today. Just met some friends for drinks, earlier. What's up with you?"
"I'll leave you two to catch up then. Naomi and the others should be here any minute, anyway." Stephen nods politely to Chris, grins at Lark, and then pushes his way off through the crowd to secure a booth for the crowd of musicians expected. Lark steps back from her taller friend so she can drop her chin a bit as she answers. "Not much is up with me. Well, okay, that's a lie, but mostly just the usual stuff. Ridiculous amounts of music to learn and all that." A quick head to toe assessment comes up with no obvious injuries and she wonders, "And you? You seem remarkably whole and uninjured."
"Sad," Chris says, his mouth twisting askew, "when that's you have to check that every time you see me. For the record, I've been leading a pretty quiet life this last year or so. Comparatively speaking," he amends, with a tacit nod to honesty. He jerks his head towards the bar, making an invitation of the gesture; three stools are open at the far end, well out of the busiest of the traffic. "Just hooked up a couple of friends. Won't know until tomorrow, but I'm might have a roll on. See anyone around you like? I'm a good wing man."
"Then, whatever you do, please don't go back leading an exciting life," Lark laughs back at him, but there is a note of seriousness in it too. Taking him up on his invitation, she slips an arm through his before wending her way through the crowd to those open stools. "Matchmaking is fun, isn't it? Setting people up is almost good as finding someone yourself. My bubble of optimism has been rather burst for the moment though. My amazing couple, you know those people who are just--right? Turns out he was cheating."
"Your amazing couple?" It takes a few seconds for him to backtrack through old conversations. "Yeah? It happens. Perfect couples are--" Chris settles his beer on the counter, hooks himself over a stool, then lifts a hand to summon the bartender for Lark's benefit. "You'd be surprised how many times we show up at a homicide where the spouse did it, and get told 'they were the perfect couple' by the neighbors and friends. It's nuts. --How'd she find out?"
"She hasn't. And now I have to decide if I should tell her, or not. I know, because I know the girl he's cheating with. It's worse because we all know eachother." Lark grimaces, then clambers up onto a stool of her own and turns to order, going non-alcoholic with a ginger ale. "How's work? Low on the homicides I hope?"
Beyond a fleeting, sideways glance, Chris does not comment on the subject of the complicated menage-a-trois. "About the usual," he says, nursing his beer. THere is a bowl of peanuts on the counter. He hooks it with a finger and brings it spinning to heel. "Case load's a bit higher than usual, but I'm backed up with all the sick days I took. I'm primary on a few, but they're mostly John and the other guys, so it's mostly legwork. Work's work." Shoulders shift up in a shrug. "Same old, same old. Yours?"
"Crazy, crazy and a little insane too." Lark laughs and tosses her head, throwing her hair back off her shoulders. "I guess things are slowing down into a brief lull before the christmas season really picks up, but still. Oh, and I went and signed up for this medical drug trial thing, too. You know Natalie's research partner Bahir something? He's running it." Her gingerale arrives at her elbow and she throws the bartender a smile, but otherwise ignores it. "It's supposed to be something do to with mutants and such, so I'm figuring it won't affect me hardly at all."
Experimental drugs. Chris winces, a small twitch of a muscle in the corner of his eye. "It's not going to turn you into a mutant, is it?" he asks a touch warily, his elbows settling back on the counter to lean across the brace of his forearms. "You won't wake up one day and be all--" He sketches across her with a hand. "You know. /Green/."
"I /hope/ not." Lark grins and shakes her head, clearly discounting any such possibility. "If I read the science-ness right its supposed to suppress Telepathy. So, as I said, it should do nothing much at all to me." She shrugs and pulls over her ginger ale, inside the crook of an arm she leans on the bar. "Have you ever done one of these medical trials? I haven't, not really all that sure what to expect. I'm mostly doing it since it's connected to Natalie's research and all."
"What is that? Like, Ritalin?" Curiosity cuts askance. Chris picks out a peanut from the bowl, shelling it between his knuckles to flick the meat out with his thumbnail. "You could call it a medical trial, I guess. They experiment with all sorts of shit in MA. Don't have a big pool of volunteers, so half the time it's cops that try it out. Wouldn't say I've had to actually -- /swallow/ anything, though. Except that one time, with the gas. But that wasn't exactly experimental."
"Gas? That doesn't sound fun. Or to put it another way, that sounds awful." On an odd whim, Lark leans forward down the bar to Rossi, to steal herself a peanut from the bowl. "I don't actually know much of anything about what I'll be taking, but so be it. I certainly took weirder shit back in college, and that wasn't advancing science."
"You at least getting paid? --Christ. I can't believe you're doing this. Sounds like a bad idea." Chris is skeptical! He loosens another peanut from the bowl and cracks it between his fingers. The shells crackle, fragmenting into smaller pieces on the countertop. "You really want people to give you shit that might muck with your brain chemistry?"
"Sure. Why not. I do get paid, though I'm not doing it for that." Lark shrugs and dismembers her own peanut shell, pulling it apart easily with strong fingers. She doesn't eat the exposed nut though, just breaks the shell shards into smaller pieces. "Oh, how was your Thanksgiving? You have family in the city to celebrate, so it was probably at least traditional?"
"It was more than traditional," Chris says wryly, tossing some shells into an empty glass nearby before plucking several more peanuts out of the neighboring bowl. Theirs is emptying; he stretches over the counter to claim another one and draw it towards him. "It was classic Rossi. Julia got into a huge fight with Paul. Aunt Rosa almost set fire to the house. Matt and Vinny flooded the plumbing and shaved the neighbor's cat. The food wasn't half bad, though."
Lark says, "Sounds wonderful," Lark agrees on a laughing breath. "Based on the Rossi's I've met so far you must be a fascinating clan. For a while there I thought I'd end up doing Thanksgiving on my own, but then Stephen pulled through. Total opposite of traditional but still fun. We made Thai food, and discussed life philosophies, no arguing whatsoever." She lifts her glass for a sip of fizzy and murmurs to herself, "Sometimes I hate my rules." Pitched to Chris again she adds, "Don't you just love it when you discover someone you thought you already knew? He was so quiet that I feel I really just met him these last couple weeks."""
Chris's mouth quirks sideways, canting into a crooked, long slash. He sips beer, and on the other side of it, says, "Happens. Sorry to hear your Thanksgiving almost sucked. You should've said something." His eyebrow quirks upward, his glance touching on the young woman. "Would've invited you over. Always got room for more people at a Rossi holiday. Christ. We got half the neighborhood over, usually, if not more. Family owns most of the block. What you got planned for Christmas?"
"Thank you. That's really kind of you." With a smile more present in her eyes than on her lips, Lark reaches across to briefly cover his hand on the bar with her own, adding a non-verbal thanks as well. "I haven't really thought about Christmas itself yet. I'll be playing every night of the week leading up, doubling up concerts too, so I've been panicking about that mostly when I think about Christmas. That and all the presents I still have yet to buy. The trouble with having lots of friends is when it comes time for presents I have a list a mile long."
"Do what I do," Chris says, his glance down at the covering hand pitching back again to snag on Lark's gaze. A grin warms the pale green, darkening its color. "Delegate. Get a friend to do it for you. I got a buddy who does all this online buying and selling shit. I just give him a list and my credit card, and ten days later I got everything I need, delivered at my door. Internet," he says, with an air of triumph. More vaguely, he adds, "It's got something to do with tubes. I never really figured it out."
"But I pride myself on giving gifts hand-picked and perfect for each person. Whenever I'm talking to someone and they say, 'I've always wanted' whatever, I remember, write it down. Or I just know their taste really well, and when I find something that jumps out at me as perfect." Lark props an elbow on the bar, resting her chin on the heel of her hand as she regards Chris consideringly. "Some people are harder than others. You are definitely going to be a challenge." Then his comment goes through and she laughs suddenly, asking half confused, "Did you just say that the internet 'has something to do with tubes'? Or were you talking about what your friend does?"
Chris cracks more peanuts: one, two, three. "Internet," he says. "I hear it has something to do with tubes. Or something -- I read it on a newspaper. Or maybe I saw it on TV? Christ, I don't remember. Yamaguchi's the specialist when it comes to computer shit. We got entire departments for computer crime. I deal with, you know." A shell goes plink, diving behind the counter. "Other stuff. --You don't need to get me anything," he adds, backtracking with another quick drink. "I got everything I need. I appreciate the thought, though."
"Wow." Lark attempts to hide her laugh behind the back of her hand as she pulls her expression under control. Even after she does the persistent twitch at one corner of her mouth give her away. "It's hard to imagine. I suppose you could say I'm addicted to the internet. It's how I keep up with the world. With friends. I definitely go into withdrawal when I go camping or anything." She is only a touch more serious as she informs him, "You can't opt out of a gift. It doesn't work that way. Besides, it's not about what you /need/. Giving presents, even to a certain extent the work of finding them, is my favorite part of Christmas."
Chris looks quizzical. "You just said you were busy," he points out, sounding a bit aggrieved. He has /offered/ a /solution/. "I'm not big on ... stuff. I'm trying to get rid of most of the stuff I already own, to be honest. --Tell you what. Get me tickets to one of your concerts, if you want to get me something." The grin pinwheels behind his expression again, not quite reaching his mouth, but lively in his eyes and the rough-hewn baritone. "Force a little culture down my throat. What're /you/ in the market for?"
"Tickets are definitely easy," Lark agrees, not quite committing. She hmms over his question, sipping her drink and trying to come up with an answer that he might actually accept. "I'm not a stuff person either. I don't know, I never know what to ask for. Coming to my concert and then flattering me about it afterward would be wonderful." She grins at him, and leans over to scoop up another peanut to wantonly destroy.
There is a lack of efficiency about this entire process. Chris watches her break into her peanut, then overturns the entire bowl onto the counter and begins to smash indiscriminately with his fist. Thump thump thump crackle thump. Small, halved kernels roll everywhere. He is making an almighty and joyous mess. Thump crackle thump. "Stuff," he says, "accumulates. Got to admit, having cancer is kinda liberating. All the shit I used to think was important turns out to be total crap. Peanut?" He fishes one out of the chaos and offers it to her.
Lark can't restraint what is this time definitely a giggle. She hastily clears her drink from the zone in danger of shrapnel, then does her best to contain the mess to the bar, catching at least one kernel in a handy save just as it rolls over the edge. Then, she can't help but sober, however off-handly Chris mentions such a weighty subject. Waving away his offer, she asks quietly, "You don't mention it much. At least, not to me. But, it really made an impact on how you see things, then?"
"Considering how many times I've almost died," Chris says wryly, picking out another peanut to deposit in front of Lark. He begins to herd them out of the melee of shells and debris, piling them up in a little heap before her. "It's funny how dying in slow-motion can be different. Usually I don't have the time to think about it. Long-term's a little different. Peanuts're good for you. Protein." He makes another fist. Thump.
"I hadn't ever thought of it that way. I don't know, in a very weird way, I envy you that perspective. Something I won't ever get. At least hopefully, I guess." Pensively, Lark peels apart a piece of shell snitched from his pile, ignoring the peanut presented to her and his assertion as to its nutritional value.
Rejected. Sad. He plants it in the growing heap before her and picks out a few more morsels from the mess. "Hopefully," Chris says cheerfully enough. "There isn't all that much to be envious about. The rest of it sucks ass. If anybody tells you there's something rewarding about it, he's still on the medical pot they gave him for the pain. --Why the fuck are we talking about this? You seeing anyone?"
Following the subject change without protest, Lark shrugs and admits, "Nope. Unless you count Stephen, who doesn't count. I went on a date a few weeks ago, but she was mostly just curious, set up by her friends. And, actually no one-night stands either. Last was Julia I think. New York is just bad luck for me or something." She makes a half-hearted face and swallows another mouthful of carbonated sugar before returning the question. "You? How's Ororo?"
Chris's sister is named Julia. Fraternal wisdom deliberately blinds him to the connection. "Still in Africa," he reports, popping a few of the unwanted peanuts into his mouth to chew with mournful deliberation. "Probably would be smarter for us to just break up -- we're more friends than lovers, anyway -- but." His shoulders' hitch up is inelegant, and vague. "No idea when she'll be back. You sure you're lesbian? Bi would be easier." He glances over his shoulder at the distant Stephen.
"Bi probably would be easier. But no. I'm definitely lesbian." She follows his glance across the room to where Stephen is one of a laughing and chatting group of familiar people. "I can honestly say I am not in the least attracted to Stephen, or you, or--I don't know, Brad Pitt. I figured that out pretty early on too, thankfully. Only the one ex boyfriend I feel bad for leading on." She laughs softly and adds as an afterthought, "When guys don't get it, I generally say essentially, I'm no more attracted to Stephen than you are."
Chris's mouth twitches towards a smile, quickly repressed. He tips his glass up to his lips, pausing long enough to say, "I don't know. Guy's kinda hot." Gay. He swallows, choking on his own beginning chuckle, and hastily replaces his glass on the coaster. "Thanks for putting me between him and Brad Pitt, though. Appreciate it. That's an ascending ladder, right?"
"Definitely." Lark never was any good at straight-faced delivery and certainly isn't any better this time, ending up hiding her grin behind her hand as she recomposes her face. Shaking her head a little, she backtracks to ask more seriously, "But, you were saying about Ororo. Do you think you would break it off, or would you wait for her to do it?"
Again, he shrugs. "She might come back soon," Chris says, without any obvious signs of distress at the thought that she might not. "I got no idea. I'm in no rush, one way or another. It's not like I'm attracted to anyone else." His glance aside at her is curious, scythed across the rim of his glass. "Why do you ask?"
"Oh. Um." There is definitely a certain surprise in Lark's response, his question unexpected. "Because I'm interested in you, and what might happen to your relationship?" It's not really a question of course, more like a confirmation that that's a good enough answer. "I don't really know, I guess."
The detective looks amused. "Sorry. I don't usually get those kinds of questions about my personal life. Except from my sister," he amends thoughtfully. "And my mother. And my sister-in-law. And my-- well, family. And cops," he adds as an afterthought, with a disparaging note that indicates that they are much the same thing. "Just takes me by surprise. --So what're you going to do about those friends of yours?"
"I should probably go join them," Lark agrees to the reminder. She slides down off her stool and steps the small space over to him. This time it is she who presses a kiss to his cheek, saying, "It was good to run into you. Don't be surprised if I call you sometime soon. Good night, Chris." Then she steps away again, turning to find her away across the room to the crowd of people waiting for her.
[Log ends]
...and then later he runs into Lark.
He is yawning when he walks into his apartment. He has done it a hundred times before; without looking he can toss his keys into the waiting bowl by the door, toss his jacket over the sofa's arm, reach with his other hand to turn on the light--
--and then swear, jumping back a good foot to discover Julia seated on his sofa, arms folded, face knit in a scowl.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Julia--!"
He is not as good with his reactions as he used to be. He grips hard against the doorway's frame, feeling the small dizziness of adrenaline and rerouted blood. Julia rises while he steadies himself. She stalks with stiff legs towards him, leans in, and sniffs.
"Beer," she identifies, and then brightens a little. Hopefully. "You met up with some chicks?"
He debates smacking her upside the head. In a fraternal sort of way. "Saw Kant," he grants at last, grudgingly. "Had drinks with Zoe, hooked her up with Lazzaro, hopefully-- ran into Lark. There were some groupies. I didn't get laid," he adds hastily, spying the anticipatory glitter in her eyes.
Chris pushes past his sister, unbuttoning his shirt as he heads towards the bedroom. Julia closes the door and trails after him: she is immune to hints. "Zoe," she says thoughtfully, as he sheds his shirt and stoops to pull off his shoes. "Zoe the lawyer? Or Zoe the flight attendant?"
"Zoe the dancer," Chris says, tossing one shoe, then the next, into the corner of his closet. "McMillan. Zenith. I told you about her."
"Your first mutant poon!"
"Julia. Do you mind?"
"You should hook up with her again," Julia says, heedless. "Lazzaro won't mind. He's a sharing kinda guy." She leans in the doorway, watching as Chris deliberately begins to undo his pants. Hints. She does not do hints. She continues to watch with interest. Family aside, he cannot -- currently -- deal. With a sigh, he works on emptying his pockets instead, rising to toss each change, wallet, handcuffs, badge into the drawer of his nightstand.
"You forgetting the fact that I still have a girlfriend?"
"In Africa."
"You want me to cheat on her?" He spies, belatedly, the white envelope slit open on his bed, and picks it up. It is a routine letter from his doctor. Irritation spikes. "You been reading my mail?"
Julia, being Julia, ignores him. "She'd understand."
"I don't feel like having a one-night stand. Why the fuck should she?"
"Because you're--" she breaks off. To his surprise, he finds that she is suddenly clinging to his back, her arms wrapped tightly around his torso.
Julia is FDNY. Her deathgrip is not something to joke about. He is rendered breathless for a moment, his chest constricting, taken unawares. "What the fuck?"
"Get laid, Chris," she says into his back, her voice muffled in his skin. "Have some sex, or I swear to God, the next time I see Magneto, I'm jumping his old bones."
His sister is baffling. "What the--?" he begins, and then moves on to, "Why the--?" and finally, "How does that make any sense at all?"
"Sex, Chris," Julia says fiercely. She squeezes tighter. "You like sex, remember? It makes you feel alive."
There is a short silence while he works out what is happening behind him. "You're nuts," he says at last. "Are you crying? Why are you crying? Christ, you're such a girl."
At which point she punches him, hard, in the ribs. They spend the next hour fighting at the top of their lungs. It is a harmless way of venting emotion.
Rossi's of either gender can be maddening. Even to each other.
=NYC= The Bay Horse - Greenwich Village - Manhattan
A large room with a mixture of a modern bar and the pub environment present back in England. In the far corner from the door is a small stage with the PA system already set up and a lone mic standing there, ready for karaoke nights and visiting music alike. There's also a fireplace with a mantel with a couple of horsehoes like most English pubs have, along with older looking wooden tables with wooden seats surrounding them, of no particular pattern or style. A long bar stretches across an entire wall: behind it are many wierd and wonderful bottles of spirits and mixers and several large casks of import ale. Behind the bar is a door labeled 'Employees Only' and another opposite the entrance that indicates the beer garden.
It is early afternoon, and the chill in the air is palpable, a gnawing, aching, yawning thing that bites through layers of clothes to wrestle with the skin beneath. Brief, short flurries of snow hiccup across the streets, adding their mist to the fog of breath and exhaust; it is that ugly season of mid-transition, when fall and winter waver indecisively and stomp on lovers of both seasons without mercy.
Inside the Bay Horse, there is warmth and life, much of it surrounding the televisions broadcasting football: American style. Much of the patronage is masculine. No surprise there. In a more secluded booth near the back, conveniently situated next to the waiter's station, Chris Rossi stretches his long legs on the seat and surveys a menu. The evidence of his clothes and his drink suggest he has been there for some time, at least long enough to get comfortable. A beer sits at his elbow, and the leather overcoat is draped over a coathook, leaving him cozy in a wine-colored dress shirt and jeans.
Zenith wears her snow well, spangled light on her dark hair. Until it begins to melt in the heat, of course, and then it's just droplets that are displaced and run as she unwinds her scarf in the entrance area. When she spots Chris, she smiles, and weaves her way over. As she unbuttons her leather jacket, she exposes a top that laces up the front, exposing a blue bar of fabric beneath the cream. "Sorry I'm late."
"Fries," Chris says by way of reply, a smile lighting the green of his eyes and the hard, cynical face. He unravels himself from the booth's interior to stand to meet her (Mama Rossi has taught him some grace, after all). A hand squeezes gentle welcome on her upper arm; he drops a platonic kiss on her cheek. "Ordered some. I got some weight to put on, and you got some exercise program -- won't hurt, right? They got good soup, too, if you're cold. Split pea with ham."
Zenith sighs with anticipation. "God, that sounds good." She sets her hand over his on her arm, then slides into the booth. "When I was doing the show, I would out-eat some of my dates, sometimes. It just burns it up." She shrugs out of her coat. "How have you been doing?"
Chris says with dry satisfaction, "No on-the-job injuries in over four days. Last one was Tucci. He got decked by a crackhead and started a riot in the squad room. Would you believe it -- I didn't even bruise a hair." He lifts his hand for the waitress, settling back into his side of the table. Properly, this time, both feet on the floor, elbows on the table and hands loosely clasped around his half-empty beer. Amusement cuts behind his expression. "Luck's turning around. How about you? Doing okay?"
"I hate contracts." Zenith shakes her head and laughs, and does order the split pea, along with a beer. "I mean, I got friends checking it over, but I wanted to at least to try to read it myself. That's been the past couple days, just plowing through the fucking thing." She finally finishes arranging purse and all the possessions that come with winter.
"Contract for?" Chris watches the redistribution of self and accessories with the dispassionate interest of an unencumbered man. "You got a new show in mind?"
"Oh!" Zenith grins. "You missed that week, where I babbled about it to every stranger I met." She leans in, conspiratorially. "I'm going to be on /TV/."
Eyes flare slightly wider, green rimmed by black. "No shit?" Chris is entertained. And impressed. His mouth twitches, skidding towards that crooked smile that softens the harsher angles of his face. He leans forward to finish the tent of intimacy. "What kind of gig is it? You going to be the next Tyra Banks?"
"Kinda, yeah. It's called Reaching Zenith, and they're going to find a bunch of male dancers to see if they can cut it, dealing with powers to be my partner in the next show." Zenith looks up to recieve her beer, but after taking a drink, closes the distance again. "I eliminate them bachelorette style."
The laugh this prompts is a quick rip of a thing, but it is sincere amusement for all that. Chris's shoulders shake. "Holy fuck," he says, and adds more thoughtfully, "There's your female demographic between 10 and 80 right there. Dancing guys in tights? They'll be all over that. What's that mean, bachelorette style? They have to take you out on dates, too?"
"Nah. Just that we have to work on a specific routine together. To perform in front of an audience that comes to the stage part of it." Zenith's lips curl wickedly. "I'm pretty sure they /want/ me to sleep with some of them. To stir it up."
"Reality television's pretty nasty stuff," Chris allows, and reaches across the table to tap Zenith's wrist with a light fingertip. One eyebrow rises. "I had a case once. They've got some vicious operators running those things. You be careful, right? They'll dig up dirt and throw it in your face to screw you, too, if they think it'll raise ratings."
"I know. That's why I'm getting help with the contract." She looks over to his finger on her wrist. "My employers, the private security stuff, they want all of that kept totally quiet, so sometimes I wonder if it's a good idea, but it's just so much /exposure/. And publicity. I mean a /mutant/ reality show."
"Figures it would happen eventually -- and it might as well be you. I know shit-all about television. Almost never watch it. Seems like you'd draw in a big audience, though, based on that alone." Chris chuckles, the sound caught in the back of his throat, and lets his hand fall away to reclaim his beer. "You're a hell of a lot more personable than some of the ones I've met, that's for damn sure. Lazzaro -- one of the MA guys -- got assaulted by a guy with ten-foot slime tentacles the other day."
"Tentacles?" Zenith wrinkles her nose in disgust. "Man. I hope that one doesn't show up at Purgatory. The most I've ever seen is the DJ there, and she's pretty cool." She sips at her own beer. "I don't mind being the media face for some others."
There is a note in Chris's voice when he says her name, a tickle of discomfort and old chagrin that makes a lump under the smoother covers of his baritone. "Beckah. Kali, you mean?" He takes a drink, then glances up to watch as food arrives. "How's she been doing lately? Haven't talked to her in -- fuck. Ages."
"Her and her girlfriend are always making out in the back," Zenith says with smirk, and a hitch of her shoulder. "I don't really talk to her that much anymore, 'cause she's so busy. Seems really happy, though."
"Her girlfriend?" It is a question that is not, all things considered, as surprised as it could be. Chris's face shifts rapidly through interest, then realization, then cynical amusement again. "That explains that. I used to wonder. Poor bastard. --Glad to hear she's happy, anyway," he adds, picking out a fry from the steaming basket before pushing the heaping platter across the table at Zenith. "And besides the contract, how about you? I haven't seen you since--" The hospital.
Zenith would rather talk about Beckah, it seems. "Poor bastard?" she prompts. Still, she comes around slowly, looking into her beer. "I found out he got his. It didn't really feel like I hoped it would."
Her question, diversionary, meets with a dismissive shake of the head. It is the other subject that splices its way into a reply. "How did you think it'd make you feel?"
"Better. In control again." Zenith shrugs helplessly. Fries, though. She can concentrate on those instead. She eats a couple.
"Never seems to work out that way."
"Yeah?" Zenith asks, looking up, apparently assuming that he might be more experienced with such things. "Well. You can probably have I told you so rights."
Chris does not say I told you so. He props his chin on the backs of his fingers and regards her solemnly. "There was a guy I knew," he begins -- and then stops.
"Yeah?" Zenith eats while she prompts him to keep talking.
Cynicism slashes across Chris's expression, laced with a self-mockery that almost glitters before it disappears. "Long story," he says, picking out a fry. "He got into some trouble. Found out about some stuff that some pretty powerful people didn't want him to know. They wanted to know what he knew, and they did shit to him that -- anyway. The point being, there are some things that people can take from you, that they can't ever give it back. That's my fortune cookie wisdom for the day."
Zenith nods silently, pausing before licking off her fingers. "I don't really think about it all the time, like a used to. But there's been some fuckers in bars, hitting on me, I've had to be careful to not squish them like bugs. Jumpy."
"It takes a while." Chris's advice. He reaches for the ketchup, deposits a dollop on the side of the fry plate, and ends up having to wipe small spots of red castoff from the table. Oops. "Not squashing them's a good start. Give it a few months. After a while--" His mouth twitches to one side again, fishhooking towards a smile that does not quite reach his eyes. "Getting back on the horse is harder than falling off."
"Yeah." Zenith pulls up an approximation of a smile of her own. "There was this white-haired guy. Man. /Unbelievable/ asshole. Tried to 'save' me from something he caused with his own mutation. Asked if we could be friends at least, later."
White-haired asshole. Bemusement slips across Rossi's face. "This city," he says, mild. "Sounds like he's been reading too many comic books. Adolescent's daydream, saving some chick from some danger and then being the adored hero. I used to have those." He casts a nostalgic eye over the past, and crumples a napkin. "Kristen Mangetti. I used to imagine saving her from wild dogs with a baseball bat."
"Wild dogs, huh?" Zenith smirks. "What about dragons? When I was in the unicorn period, I used to imagine the knight on the horse--" She mimes leaning over to catch a hand on the run and then swing her up into the saddle. "Thing."
"Never was much into the fantasy thing," Chris admits, the swift leap of a smile darkening his gaze. He cants his head to consider Zenith, his mouth tugged askew. "I was what you could call reality-centered, barring a superhero phase when I was four. Always seemed like there were enough monsters to save people from in real life, without having to make new ones up."
"Well, it's a law, girls have to do unicorns or horses. I did ballet, so I went the froofy fantasy Swan Lake route." Zenith is smiling too, relaxed--without sex coming into it--in a way that her manner seems to suggest she rarely is around males lately. "I suppose I /could/ do the superhero thing, expect that I'd hate it."
"Gay," is Chris's verdict, delivered deadpan and with a shake of the head. "Forget about the capes. -- You ever see The Incredibles? -- The spandex alone could kill you. Basic black's your ticket there. You got no idea what colored spandex will do to a guy. Black doesn't show shadows as well. And then there're the heels...."
"Leather," Zenith says, munching a fry. "At least the heels wouldn't bother me. I wouldn't have to worry about losing my balance. Long jacket." She gestures down to her ankles, and then back, to show the sweep she's imagining.
"Check it out. Your new show." Chris grins crookedly. He has ketchup on his chin. Goober. "I get a percentage cut if you use my idea."
Zenith laughs. "Trade you for fifteen minutes of fame? All my friends, I need people to be out on the town with me for the filler segments of the show. You'd probably only be a face in the crowd, but hey. On TV!" She looks at him, and taps her own chin with mock seriousness.
Chris chuckles quietly, then lifts his brows and swipes haphazardly at his chin. He inspects the back of his hand with curiosity. No success. "Pass. I've had enough press to last me a lifetime. If I never hit the news again, I'll be a happy man. --Guy came up to me in the street the other day and wanted me to autograph that damn Newsweek article. People remember the damnedest shit."
"Yeah. It's not for everyone." Zenith has a sudden, visible thought, and then looks abruptly grateful her offer wasn't accepted. She laughs awkwardly. "They'd only try to dig up dirt about our past relationship, anyway."
Her companion looks amused. "Regretting it?" he asks -- but it is a rhetorical question, dismissed almost immediately by the cheerful, "Screw that. So. Tell me more about this show you're going to be doing. Any high wires involved?" And with that the conversation turns light and easy, coasting on friendly, casual waters far from the deep.
[Log ends]
Rossi has drinks with an old fling. Who is, yes, really kinky.
---
=NYC= The Bay Horse - Greenwich Village - Manhattan
A large room with a mixture of a modern bar and the pub environment present back in England. In the far corner from the door is a small stage with the PA system already set up and a lone mic standing there, ready for karaoke nights and visiting music alike. There's also a fireplace with a mantel with a couple of horsehoes like most English pubs have, along with older looking wooden tables with wooden seats surrounding them, of no particular pattern or style. A long bar stretches across an entire wall: behind it are many wierd and wonderful bottles of spirits and mixers and several large casks of import ale. Behind the bar is a door labeled 'Employees Only' and another opposite the entrance that indicates the beer garden.
It is mid-afternoon, and the wind has died down somewhat: enough that the snowfall (such as it is, sporadic and desultory) falls straight down rather than sideways and up. In the back of the Bay Horse, Chris Rossi rises to bid farewell to his female companion, a brief, friendly kiss dropped on her cheek before she fades away into the crowd. Her departure leaves him in sole possession of a booth, its table strewn with the debris of his encounter. Empty beer glasses, empty basket -- once housing fries -- a bowl that once contained soup. Comfortable in a wine-colored dress shirt and jeans, he sprawls lazily across the seat, nursing a fresh glass of beer and watching the nearby television under lazy eyelids.
Addie is meanwhile on the way into the bar with... well, apparently a friend. The other woman is shorter, and with short, spiked hair, somewhat thin, and a bit androgynous-looking. They say something to each other, and then the other woman heads to the bar, saying something to the bartender. And Addie? She goes hunting for a seat only to take notice of a now-lonely Rossi. "Rossi." She sounds just a tad uncomfortable, for that.
Rossi lifts his glass in a haphazard salute of sorts, his gaze flicking away from the television screen to mark Addie. And, past Addie, her companion. "Yo," he greets, dropping a pause after it to consider before taking on the requisite, "Wu. --What brought you in? Hot date?" His hand gestures, the beer in the glass splashing against its sloped sides; an invitation of sorts. Sit. If she wants.
Addie takes a seat, but sputters in denial when Rossi indicates an apparent date,"Wh-what? That's just... Um... my friend, Nikki, is all." Of course, it's exactly what Rossi thinks. Else she wouldn't be caught so surprised. "I just felt like... hanging out, is all."
"Smooth," Rossi congratulates, mockery springing to life in the hooded green eyes. His mouth twists askew into a crooked little smile; one leg, drawn up onto the seat beside him, serves to prop up his beer-holding hand and wrist. "Nobody'd ever suspect a thing. Lying 101, Wu. Stuttering and saying 'um' when you're thinking up a story? Does squat for credibility."
Addie grabs her drink as her 'friend' returns with a pair of beers, hiding her mouth behind it, as she murmurs sulkily,"Shut up. She wanted to see where I hung out is all. Keep it tight, okay?" She makes a zipper-motion near her mouth. "Besides, my partner usually does the interrogations. I do my best work with evidence." And the other woman? She's friendly enough, she raises her hand and wiggles her fingers at the guy,"Hey." And then she extends her hand to the man,"Nikki."
"Reality check, Wu. Nobody cares." Rossi regards Nikki's fingertips with desultory curiosity before stretching just far enough to touch them with his. Minimalist handshake. "Rossi," he introduces, dispensing with first names altogether. "Yo." The bar, though still far from the typical weekend night crowd, is still crowded with the obvious signs of a popular NYPD/FDNY hangout. Shield and Maltese cross shirts are much in evidence, and though Rossi himself wears nothing so obvious, the flame of a red and gold Academy ring on one hand is a badge of sorts.
Addie doesn't wear much more than a necklace with her badge on it under her shirt. "My parents might. You may not. My choice, okay?" she shifts uncomfortably, even while Nikki completes the minimalist greeting, then looks between the two briefly, before offering a curious shrug. She reaches over to ruffle Wu's hair. "Silly bean." Addie just blushes even more darkly,"So... um... how are things?"
Anyone sitting in the booth might just happen to notice a lonely dark red scarf, lost and bereft of the presence of its original owner. It's a little feminine to belong to Rossi, truth be told. But then its owner returns, click of her bootheels on the floor rapid and she hurries back to the booth, clearly expecting to find a stranger there and her scarf having walked away. She smiles in relief to see Rossi. "Scarf!"
"Woman!" says Rossi, glancing up at this entirely unfair identification. His face shifts with recognition, warming to an easy, lazy smile that relaxes the cynical cast of his face. He does not bother to stand this time, angling his elbow against the table to prop his temple up on fingertips. "Couldn't get enough of my company the first time? --Zoe McMillan," he tells to the other two women at the booth, pitching the name across at them in a laconic, one-sided introduction. "Things're fine. What things?"
Addie and the woman she's with both looke towards the apparent Zoe for a moment, then both also wave. Addie, meanwhile, shrugs,"Um... I don't know. I was trying to make small-talk. I'm not very good at the interpersonal thing. Suspects don't normally expect you to be nice to them, you know?"
Zenith's eyes widen a little in recognition of Addie. "Oh! You!" She frowns, searching for the name and not finding it. "Man," she says back to Rossi with the crook of an eyebrow. "I couldn't get enough of you so much that I even left my scarf as an excuse to come back."
"I've heard worse excuses," Rossi says, uncurling long enough to reach across and snag the scarf for Zenith. "Sit down and rap for a while longer, then. Weather's not getting any worse. --Remind me to be grateful I haven't been secondary on any of your cases," he adds across the table for Addie's benefit, his gaze lifting to search out the waitress. "You don't ever deal with witnesses? You got the personal charm of a tin can, Wu. It's amazing you close /anything/." There. Waitress. His hand lifts in summons.
Addie snorts at Rossi,"I'm always the one playing bad cop. Believe it or not, sometimes the evidence speaks for itself, even when the suspects don't. I deal with them. John just does a lot better getting stuff out of them." And to Zenith,"Oh! Me!" A deadpan voice indeed,"Wu. Ariadne Wu." Nikki, the androgynous woman beside her, meanwhile leans against her,"Amazing. Is the scarf magic like that? A +1 Scarf of Excusing?"
Zenith takes in the couplyness of the others with a bit of an eyebrow raise, and then slides in beside Chris, accepting the scarf gratefully. "That's right, Ariadne. Not a CSI at all." She smiles pleasantly at the woman.
"CSU," Rossi says into the innards of his glass, redistributing himself to make more room for Zenith beside him. "On TV it's CSI. In real life it's CSU. Or Forensics, whichever. Shit they don't tell you on television -- you know juries are getting dumber each day? I didn't realize it was possible. -- 75% of the time, you only got evidence for problems you already know the answer to."
In through the door, knit cap and overcoat liberally dusted with fuzzy white spots of snow about the back and shoulders, Vincent has a harried look about him that is only amplified by the cranky way in which he drags the cap off his bald head as he moves for Rossi's table. With little more than a cursory glance attributed to Abbie's friend, Vincent shrugs out of his overcoat and sort of shoulders in past her to drop down onto the bench next to Abbie, and across from Rossi and Zenith. "Sorry." The overcoat, hat, etc is folded down into his lap. "Phone keeps ringing."
Addie shakes her head at Zenith,"Examining processed evidence, and examining a crime scene for evidence are two different things. It's up to people like me and Rossi, for example, to put the case together. Something the DA can make stick. Knowing who it is, and proving it... two different things. And that doesn't always get a conviction."
"Oh." Zenith looks like she's slowly working her way through that, but then Vincent appears. It's been years, and so recognition is a little slow in coming, but then the quintessential 'oh shit' look crosses her face, followed by 'oh fuck!'. Being a touchy person, her first impulse is to grab for Rossi's hand, if she can out of sight between them, and then it's to look for an escape route.
"Finally, you fuck," is Rossi's version of greeting, a crude salutation that lacks heat. Green eyes grin over the rim of his glass. "You met Zoe, Lazzaro? --Vincent Lazzaro, Zoe McMillan." His introduction of the pair is more complete than the one he supplied for Addie and her friend. The cop tosses a request for something fried -- cheese sticks? That'll work -- to the waitress, and taps his ring against his glass to signal for another. Meanwhile, his other hand gets grabbed. Chris blinks. Weird.
"A beer, for me. Whatever he's having." Two years in New York are enough to have etched the lines around Vincent's face in a little deeper, and there is possibly, /possibly/ a hint of grey scattered in around the darker black of his stubble collection. He looks at Zenith with a similar, odd sort of hang before recognition filters in through a multitude of arrests. His brow knits. Oops. "I think we've met, yeah."
Zenith is squeezing Chris' hand without realizing, but she manages an approximation of an even tone, given time to pull it together by the distraction of the other girls leaving together for the bathroom. "Met. Yeah. Guess you could say that."
"Oh," Chris says, his frown stitching his brow as he casts back over history and snags on-- oops. His face clears, making way for an amused grimace. "I forgot. Lazzaro arrested you, didn't he? Wasn't anything personal, was it? He's a good guy. If you can get past his personality."
"/I/ didn't arrest her. Jim did. I was /there/..." A beer bottle is set down before Vincent, and he trails off to glance over at her as he snaps the cap off. "What, you think I'm going to take you in again for holding hands?"
Rossi says defensively, "We're not dating."
Zenith drops Chris' hand guiltily, only now realizing she's doing it. She flushes. Not dating! "My memories of the whole thing are a little confused," she admits. "But the first time I saw Chris, after, he really chewed me out." She nods to him. "You serious about that not personal thing?"
"That was for--" Chris begins, only to scratch at his cheek and consider. "Can't remember. I was pretty pissed, though."
"You put a guy through a window. How is that personal? And -- there's nothing wrong with my personality. Asshole." The last is muttered over a sip of beer, and Vincent draws in a long breath. He is here to relax. Not to bicker with goombahs.
"On accident," Zenith says, more than a little defensively, and looks down at the table. Why didn't she get another beer again? Dammit. "I can't say what you said wasn't /true/, but it wasn't really the time I was ready to hear it," she tells Chris.
Chris grins, perversely, a flash of white and bright green. "I got a gift of timing with you," he self-congratulates, adding in extravagant praise, "Lazzaro does all sorts of shit for the mutant community. He's a good cop. Lot of worse guys wandering around in the city." It is like a hint, except barn-sized.
"Are you two sure you aren't fucking?" This offered unhelpfully across the table from the good cop, Vincent knits his brows at Rossi when he expounds upon his good deeds to society, or whatever.
Zenith flicks a look to Chris, checking his reaction, and then smirks anyway. "Not at the moment." She props her chin, elbows on the table. See? Both hands visible!
Chris's reaction is amusement rather than chagrin. "Girlfriend," he reminds Lazzaro, taking up his beer once more. In more regretful accents, he tacks on, "Africa. Phone sex. Goddammit. I'm starting to really not give much of a fuck about the 3rd world. --Zoe's gonna be on television. You should have Lazzaro on," he tells her. "He could use some more publicity."
"Phone sex isn't a girlfriend. It's phone sex." The 'not at the moment' comment earns a glance back to Zenith, and her hands, and Vincent drums his fingers around the base of his beer. "What?"
"I'm single," Zenith says. In case anyone cares. She wrinkles her nose. "Sort of." She lifts her chin so she can gesture, excitement still simmering below this subject. "Reality show. Guys competing to be my partner for my new show."
"You two should hook up." Chris's contribution. He leaves out the why and wherefore.
"I don't know how to dance," Vincent is a little quick to defend.
Zenith looks a little dubious, but she smiles slightly in amusement, and looks at Vincent properly, giving him a chance to interest her. "Well, that's only for professional dancers, anyway. But there's some segments just being around the city. That's what I was talking to Chris about earlier."
"I didn't mean on the show," Chris clarifies, a bit belatedly. He scratches his cheek again, then hooks his forefingers together. See? Hook up. "You and Lazzaro. He's harmless. Texan," he tells Zenith with just a small touch of pity. The boy can't help it.
"I...wha..." Vincent is looking back at Zenith, performing the same sort of assessment halfway against his will, and more awkwardly than he would like. Perhaps fortunately, before he can hurt himself trying to think of something intellingent to say, there is a buzz from the overcoat folded around in his lap, and he looks down after it. The cellphone is withdrawn, and he mutters a curse. "Kurt broke up with her girlfriend and is going on a rampage through all of my case files. ...I'll be back in a few minutes."
Zenith sits back, hard to tell if she's disappointed or not. "So you guys--" She gestures between them. "Different departments, same department, what?"
Smooth. Very smooth. "You gaywad," Chris pitches after Vincent, eloquent in his disapproval. It is a resigned sample of it, at least. He toys with his beer, spinning it idly atop a coaster, and cradles his head in his hand to regard Zenith instead. "Different. Same. You know, that part time Mutant Affairs thing? He's in MA full-time. We've worked on a few cases together. He's primary on one, I'm primary on another-- it goes around. Some people tried to kill us a few years back, and we've been buds ever since. I piss him off."
"Kill you? Who? Does that happen often?" Zenith is enough a member of the general US TV-watching public that the exciting side of law enforcement snags her attention.
Chris opens his mouth to deny its frequency -- only to close it again. /There's/ the chagrin. "It's not supposed to happen that often," he says, temporizing. "Most cops manage to make it through to retirement without ever firing their guns."
Zenith sobers a little, playing with a handy coaster. "Is it MA, that does it?"
"Could be," Chris says, and then scrubs a little sheepishly at his face. "Then again, it could be just--"
"You two just a couple of dumbasses?" Zenith says it lightly, with a totally innocent expression.
Chris grins at this charitable assessment. "Me," he concludes. "People don't usually want to kill Lazzaro. He's not as irritating as I am, I guess. Mostly they want to do stuff to him with tentacles. Make sure to ask him about that when he gets back. --Whatever happened to respect for cops, goddammit?"
Zenith looks in the direction Vincent diappeared. "Tentacles." She smirks. "Check." After a moment, she looks back at Chris. "You seriously think he'd actually be interested, or you just baiting us because it's funny?"
"/He'd/ be-- you looked in a mirror lately?" Chris asks, more curious than sarcastic. His glance across her is masculine and appreciative, lit by humor. "Are you kidding me? --Would /you/ be interested, is the question. All kidding aside, he really is a good guy. He's had my back when I needed him. Don't tell him I said that and meant it. "
"Yeah, but these," Zenith puts a hand just below her bust, showcasing it, "Comes with this--" She floats the coaster, following it up with the flick of fingers from her other hand. "I've been trying to find nicer guys lately. Just can't do the bar pick-up thing anymore. Have to go by--" She smirks. "Word of mouth."
Chris watches the coaster-floating with an interested eye. He has come a long ways from the man who reacted so poorly to the discovery of her mutant status, years ago. "He's MA," he reminds, and clarifies with a further grimace, "I got no idea if it'd matter to him, come to think of it, but he's not going to freak out at it, anyhow. You can be guaranteed that, at least."
Vincent claps his phone shut and returns, only to look a little surprised to find that Addie and company is still missing. "Hey. Think they fell in? Maybe they're still trying to decide which bathroom to go into."
Zenith closes her hand around the floating coaster with a quick snap, faster than letting it fall. "Could be making out," she suggests, looking up at the returner.
There's a short cough of a laugh from Chris, who leans forward in time to accept his refill from the waitress. And cheese sticks. He spins the basket indiscriminately, offering the deep-fried wedges of fat to all parties. "Could be," he says agreeably. "Hope the girls' bathrooms aren't as disgusting as the men's. --You sort out Kurt?"
"I hear sometimes they have couches." Still settling in, Vincent does not reach for a cheese wedge, content with his beer for the time being, and eyeing Zenith again, master of subtlety that he is.
Eh. Why not. Zenith crosses her arms flat on the table and leans forward on them, before freeing one to go for a cheese stick. Her neckline is low, and a lock of hair slides slowly forward over her shoulder, dark waves. "Well, place like this, you never know. No couches. But they're much cleaner."
Chris may be taken, but he is not incapable of window shopping. His glance slips down, caught by friendly fire, and he thoughtlessly appreciates the view for a second before tearing his attention away. Cheese sticks. Dipping sauce. Hot, red, we-- "Ow," he says indistinctly, biting into one with haste. "Watch it. These are fresh. --You knew Wu was gay?" he asks Lazzaro. Cops. They gossip like ... cops.
"I surmised from the pod person she had with her," says Vincent to Zenith's boobs. His beer is lifted for a swallow, and he looks away again when Rossi does. It's a little scarily syncronized. "Do you just turn off your detective skills when you leave the precinct, or what?"
Zenith's boobs don't say anything back. Zenith might roll her eyes a little at the lack of attention on her face. But not much. She licks her fingers from eating the cheese stick a little more slowly than strictly necessary. "So where does she fit in, you guys all working with each other?"
"Shut up. I was asking for you, not asking for me." Chris crumples a napkin and sends it leaping across the table at Lazzaro before filching another from the overfilled dispenser by the wall. "She's in Homicide. Straight Homicide--" Hah, "--not this overlap shit that I do. Murders, suspicious deaths, high profile cases, some assaults--" His shoulders hunch. It is like a shrug. "You know. The fun stuff."
The napkin bounces off of Vincent's head, which provokes an annoyed look, if not a flinch. Apparently he is used to having things thrown at him. That or he's hard to shake after his recent tentacle molestation. "Straight Homicide. I'm going to assume that was too clever for you to have done on purpose," he comments finally, glancing, again, to Zenith. "All the fun really is in murder, you know. I'm very jealous."
Zenith attracts the thrown napkin back to her open hand, a little unecessarily casual. She hefts it like she's considering throwing it again, but she's really watching Vincent for reaction. "You could do some murder of your own."
"He wouldn't," Chris says into his beer. The Brooklyn-laced baritone bounces back, hollowed by the glass. "He loves me too much."
Vincent watches the napkin with brows tilted in a mild, 'You could have just grabbed it,' kind of look, but he does not seem bothered on any kind of deep level, and he doesn't say anything. "Most victims know their attackers."
That makes Zenith flinch, some of the amused spark going out of her flirting. She looks down and crushes the napkin up smaller instead.
"Statistically speaking," Chris says, and takes another cheese stick to dump it in marinara sauce. A warning glance flicks across the table towards Vincent, twitches askance to indicate Zoe, then returns to his beer. "Homicide really is where all the action's at. Tentacles and green slime guys aside. You ever see Top Gun? Homicide's like the Top Gun of the cop world."
Having already picked up on something askance in her reaction, Vincent looks to Rossi, catches the look, looks back to Zenith, and then...back to Rossi. 'Damaged goods?' says the look, with a hint of skepticism before he reaches for his beer. "Homicide is like the pooper scooper of the cop world. Scraping little bits of dried blood and cum off of dead bodies. That said, I never actually saw Top Gun, so."
Zenith pulls herself together, and flutters a hand against her heart. "Oh, the romance of it all."
"It's not like that," Chris tells Zenith, taking up the cudgels on behalf of his chosen profession. His glance back at Vincent is a wry, 'Who isn't?' that is followed up by a more acerbic, "You should tell her about the shit /you/ scrape up. Remember the Miller body? The /second/ time? Jesus. And then there was the green goop guy, not to mention -- tell her about your tentacle thing."
"Magneto killed Sabella Miller. Blood everywhere. Rib cage and lungs all ripped up. Cut her heart out and left it on the pavement. You were with me on most of the green goo thing, and then a couple of days ago some guy with tentacles tried to give me a hug when I went to ask him some questions. I need another beer." Vincent taps his empty bottle against the table, and looks back up to Zenith. "So. Tell us about dancing?"
"Tentacle guy thought he was hot," Chris tells Zenith.
Zenith wrinkles her nose at rib cages and lungs. Ew. She'd just as soon talk about dancing, yeah. "What do you want to know? It's the stage I really live for, TV aside, and I've done a couple of shows, now, using powers along with regular dance stuff. Ballet. Modern. Used to compete in waltz." She giggles at Rossi, then smirks at Vincent. "Well, if your tastes run to that..." She makes a mock moue of disappointment.
"Ten feet long, wasn't it?" Chris asks Vincent, helpfully. "Slimy. Prehensile. He was giving you the eye and you shot one off."
"I hate you so much," Vincent informs Rossi, with his face half-covered by the lift of his left hand. "That's good. About your powers," he says to Zenith on a short delay. "Productive."
Zenith chokes on laughter, but smothers it. "Well, the arrest--" She grimaces and tips her head to Vincent. "Kind of rock bottom. Picked myself up and went somewhere after that."
"You love me," Chris tells Vincent, his deep voice kindly. "You just can't express yourself like a metrosexual. Just as well. God knows you don't dress like one. --You did good, though," he adds towards Zenith, taking up the latest refill to sip cautiously at its froth-rimmed surface. "Not many people got the balls to turn shit around like that."
"Crappy as it sounds, an arrest can occasionally be good for that kind of thing. Anyway. It's good to see at least one success story, in the scheme of things." At the clothes comment, even as he twists off the cap of his next beer, Vincent gives Rossi a dirty look. "There's nothing wrong with the way I dress. Who buys /your/ clothes? Your sister?"
"Thanks," Zenith murmurs, grinning at Rossi. "I had help--have help, still." She nods a little more seriously to Vincent's comment. "Boys, boys," she says, smirking.
Rossi blinks, a little taken aback. "Sometimes. Mom buys the-- Why?" He glances down at his shirt front, a touch suspicious. It is a dark, deep red, a simple dress shirt, open at the collar. "What's wrong with my clothes?"
"Nothing. I hear fire engine red is big this year. Mostly for fire engines, though." Vincent smirks as well, because he thinks he is funny. "Did she pinch your cheeks when you tried it on?"
Zenith reaches out to pinch Rossi's cheek, perhaps a little unclear about who she's flirting with here for a moment. Equal opportunity! "You both look handsome."
Chris's face clouds. He protests. "I look good," he tells Vincent, his pride a bit injured. Ignore for a moment the slight uncertainty of the glance he skips towards Zenith. Hot, right?
More plebishly dressed in a leather jacket over a dark t-shirt and lighter jeans, Vincent is ill-convinced of this, and eyes both of them a little bit at the cheek-pinch. "You still have more hair than me."
Zenith elbows Rossi, more rough-housing than flirting this time. "'Course you do." Then she readjusts the target in her sights, and leans over to smile intimately at Vincent.
"Ow," says Chris, because he is a brave man. And a cop. Which means he scoffs at pain. Except when he doesn't. Beer in hand, he begins to nudge his way out of the booth, gently bumping Zenith to do so. "I see Tucci at the bar," he reports. "I'm gonna go talk to him about something. You two hold down the fort. I'll be back when I'm done." He's a good wing man, he is.
It is difficult to say whether Vincent is relieved or flustered by Rossi leaving him. It catches him off guard, at least, and there's a pause before he sort of collects himself and tries a simple, "So you've known Rossi for a while, then."
"Yeah." Zenith ducks her head, slight smile still curling her lips. "We only hooked up back before--" She gestures, 'the arrest' not voiced this time. "Lost track of each other for a long time, till a few months ago." She looks up, recrossing her legs under the table, should her foot happen to bump into anything. "You?"
"We crossed paths a few times in the precinct when I moved in a few years ago. Didn't really get along until we got through a few scrapes together. We're pretty cliche." His beer turned up and then set aside, empty much more quickly than the first, Vincent lifts his brows. "Want to ditch him and get some coffee?"
"I'd like that." Zenith brushes an errant lock of hair behind her ear, and starts gathering up her purse, remembering her scarf this time. She stands out of the booth, looking for Rossi to wave and give him a grin.
By the bar, Chris catches a glimpse of that waving arm, casts a quick glance towards Vincent, and grins. His arm lifts in a return salute, then drops. Tucci is yelling at him already. He's got other fish to fry.
Vincent takes the time to shuffle out his wallet in order to drop a few bills down onto the table before he pushes to stand and collect his coat. He got the tip. Apparently Rossi can get the rest, this time. This is conveyed in a manly sort of chin lift aimed in his direction as he walks to get the door for Zenith. "I think there's a coffee shop down the street..."
[Log ends]
Later in the day... Rossi is a good wing man and gets Zenith and Lazzaro into the saddle together.
---
It is evening, and the pub is filling up, for all it is a school night. The weekday-weekend rotation means different things to different people, and those that populate the Bay Horse on this night -- as on most -- have their own schedules to run by: cops and firemen, all hours, all days. The televisions blare with the aftermath of the day's games, here and there broadcasting commentary (or replay action, as suits the channel). By the bar, Chris Rossi leans in argument with a small, balding Italian man. He is more casually dressed than his companion, jeans and a dark red dress shirt opened at the collar and rolled up at the sleeves. "--is what I'm fucking telling you," he says in the face of obstinacy. "It was a /goddamn jaywalker/."
Musicians are another set not ruled by the usual schedule, and Lark has no notion of simply going home to bed after a concert. She has even bothered to change out of concert black tonight, and it is in jeans and pale blue blouse that she pushes he way into the bar. At her elbow is her usual escort of late, all six feet and change of him. Weaving her way through the crowd to the bar, she spots a familiar face and makes in his direction, raising her voice to call, "Chris!"
Tucci is busy stabbing a finger into Chris's chest when he turns, answering the salute of his name -- as does at least two other heads in the bar. His is a popular and common name. It is Rossi's attention that stays fixed, however, when the others lack recognition and return to their pursuits. He abandons his companion abruptly, without regret. "Lark!" A beer in hand, he strikes out to meet her approach, coming up short to squeeze her upper arm and drop a thoughtless kiss on her cheek. "How's it going? Hot date?"
Lark grins up at Chris, turning her cheek to accept the kiss. "No, sadly. Besides, I think Stephen could manage a hotter date than me." Laying a hand on Chris' upper arm she sidesteps and tugs her 'date' from behind her by one hand, dropping it again again so he can offer a handshake. Speaking for himself before Lark can do the honors, he introduces, "Stephen White. We play together sometimes."
Chris slides his free arm from behind Lark, moving the beer from one hand to the other to offer the appropriate member for Stephen. Scarred fingers grasp and shake briefly. "Nice to meet you. Chris Rossi," he introduces, his glance inquiring. "Friendly cop. Lark and me hang out together sometimes. --Didn't expect to see you here. Had the day off today. Just met some friends for drinks, earlier. What's up with you?"
"I'll leave you two to catch up then. Naomi and the others should be here any minute, anyway." Stephen nods politely to Chris, grins at Lark, and then pushes his way off through the crowd to secure a booth for the crowd of musicians expected. Lark steps back from her taller friend so she can drop her chin a bit as she answers. "Not much is up with me. Well, okay, that's a lie, but mostly just the usual stuff. Ridiculous amounts of music to learn and all that." A quick head to toe assessment comes up with no obvious injuries and she wonders, "And you? You seem remarkably whole and uninjured."
"Sad," Chris says, his mouth twisting askew, "when that's you have to check that every time you see me. For the record, I've been leading a pretty quiet life this last year or so. Comparatively speaking," he amends, with a tacit nod to honesty. He jerks his head towards the bar, making an invitation of the gesture; three stools are open at the far end, well out of the busiest of the traffic. "Just hooked up a couple of friends. Won't know until tomorrow, but I'm might have a roll on. See anyone around you like? I'm a good wing man."
"Then, whatever you do, please don't go back leading an exciting life," Lark laughs back at him, but there is a note of seriousness in it too. Taking him up on his invitation, she slips an arm through his before wending her way through the crowd to those open stools. "Matchmaking is fun, isn't it? Setting people up is almost good as finding someone yourself. My bubble of optimism has been rather burst for the moment though. My amazing couple, you know those people who are just--right? Turns out he was cheating."
"Your amazing couple?" It takes a few seconds for him to backtrack through old conversations. "Yeah? It happens. Perfect couples are--" Chris settles his beer on the counter, hooks himself over a stool, then lifts a hand to summon the bartender for Lark's benefit. "You'd be surprised how many times we show up at a homicide where the spouse did it, and get told 'they were the perfect couple' by the neighbors and friends. It's nuts. --How'd she find out?"
"She hasn't. And now I have to decide if I should tell her, or not. I know, because I know the girl he's cheating with. It's worse because we all know eachother." Lark grimaces, then clambers up onto a stool of her own and turns to order, going non-alcoholic with a ginger ale. "How's work? Low on the homicides I hope?"
Beyond a fleeting, sideways glance, Chris does not comment on the subject of the complicated menage-a-trois. "About the usual," he says, nursing his beer. THere is a bowl of peanuts on the counter. He hooks it with a finger and brings it spinning to heel. "Case load's a bit higher than usual, but I'm backed up with all the sick days I took. I'm primary on a few, but they're mostly John and the other guys, so it's mostly legwork. Work's work." Shoulders shift up in a shrug. "Same old, same old. Yours?"
"Crazy, crazy and a little insane too." Lark laughs and tosses her head, throwing her hair back off her shoulders. "I guess things are slowing down into a brief lull before the christmas season really picks up, but still. Oh, and I went and signed up for this medical drug trial thing, too. You know Natalie's research partner Bahir something? He's running it." Her gingerale arrives at her elbow and she throws the bartender a smile, but otherwise ignores it. "It's supposed to be something do to with mutants and such, so I'm figuring it won't affect me hardly at all."
Experimental drugs. Chris winces, a small twitch of a muscle in the corner of his eye. "It's not going to turn you into a mutant, is it?" he asks a touch warily, his elbows settling back on the counter to lean across the brace of his forearms. "You won't wake up one day and be all--" He sketches across her with a hand. "You know. /Green/."
"I /hope/ not." Lark grins and shakes her head, clearly discounting any such possibility. "If I read the science-ness right its supposed to suppress Telepathy. So, as I said, it should do nothing much at all to me." She shrugs and pulls over her ginger ale, inside the crook of an arm she leans on the bar. "Have you ever done one of these medical trials? I haven't, not really all that sure what to expect. I'm mostly doing it since it's connected to Natalie's research and all."
"What is that? Like, Ritalin?" Curiosity cuts askance. Chris picks out a peanut from the bowl, shelling it between his knuckles to flick the meat out with his thumbnail. "You could call it a medical trial, I guess. They experiment with all sorts of shit in MA. Don't have a big pool of volunteers, so half the time it's cops that try it out. Wouldn't say I've had to actually -- /swallow/ anything, though. Except that one time, with the gas. But that wasn't exactly experimental."
"Gas? That doesn't sound fun. Or to put it another way, that sounds awful." On an odd whim, Lark leans forward down the bar to Rossi, to steal herself a peanut from the bowl. "I don't actually know much of anything about what I'll be taking, but so be it. I certainly took weirder shit back in college, and that wasn't advancing science."
"You at least getting paid? --Christ. I can't believe you're doing this. Sounds like a bad idea." Chris is skeptical! He loosens another peanut from the bowl and cracks it between his fingers. The shells crackle, fragmenting into smaller pieces on the countertop. "You really want people to give you shit that might muck with your brain chemistry?"
"Sure. Why not. I do get paid, though I'm not doing it for that." Lark shrugs and dismembers her own peanut shell, pulling it apart easily with strong fingers. She doesn't eat the exposed nut though, just breaks the shell shards into smaller pieces. "Oh, how was your Thanksgiving? You have family in the city to celebrate, so it was probably at least traditional?"
"It was more than traditional," Chris says wryly, tossing some shells into an empty glass nearby before plucking several more peanuts out of the neighboring bowl. Theirs is emptying; he stretches over the counter to claim another one and draw it towards him. "It was classic Rossi. Julia got into a huge fight with Paul. Aunt Rosa almost set fire to the house. Matt and Vinny flooded the plumbing and shaved the neighbor's cat. The food wasn't half bad, though."
Lark says, "Sounds wonderful," Lark agrees on a laughing breath. "Based on the Rossi's I've met so far you must be a fascinating clan. For a while there I thought I'd end up doing Thanksgiving on my own, but then Stephen pulled through. Total opposite of traditional but still fun. We made Thai food, and discussed life philosophies, no arguing whatsoever." She lifts her glass for a sip of fizzy and murmurs to herself, "Sometimes I hate my rules." Pitched to Chris again she adds, "Don't you just love it when you discover someone you thought you already knew? He was so quiet that I feel I really just met him these last couple weeks."""
Chris's mouth quirks sideways, canting into a crooked, long slash. He sips beer, and on the other side of it, says, "Happens. Sorry to hear your Thanksgiving almost sucked. You should've said something." His eyebrow quirks upward, his glance touching on the young woman. "Would've invited you over. Always got room for more people at a Rossi holiday. Christ. We got half the neighborhood over, usually, if not more. Family owns most of the block. What you got planned for Christmas?"
"Thank you. That's really kind of you." With a smile more present in her eyes than on her lips, Lark reaches across to briefly cover his hand on the bar with her own, adding a non-verbal thanks as well. "I haven't really thought about Christmas itself yet. I'll be playing every night of the week leading up, doubling up concerts too, so I've been panicking about that mostly when I think about Christmas. That and all the presents I still have yet to buy. The trouble with having lots of friends is when it comes time for presents I have a list a mile long."
"Do what I do," Chris says, his glance down at the covering hand pitching back again to snag on Lark's gaze. A grin warms the pale green, darkening its color. "Delegate. Get a friend to do it for you. I got a buddy who does all this online buying and selling shit. I just give him a list and my credit card, and ten days later I got everything I need, delivered at my door. Internet," he says, with an air of triumph. More vaguely, he adds, "It's got something to do with tubes. I never really figured it out."
"But I pride myself on giving gifts hand-picked and perfect for each person. Whenever I'm talking to someone and they say, 'I've always wanted' whatever, I remember, write it down. Or I just know their taste really well, and when I find something that jumps out at me as perfect." Lark props an elbow on the bar, resting her chin on the heel of her hand as she regards Chris consideringly. "Some people are harder than others. You are definitely going to be a challenge." Then his comment goes through and she laughs suddenly, asking half confused, "Did you just say that the internet 'has something to do with tubes'? Or were you talking about what your friend does?"
Chris cracks more peanuts: one, two, three. "Internet," he says. "I hear it has something to do with tubes. Or something -- I read it on a newspaper. Or maybe I saw it on TV? Christ, I don't remember. Yamaguchi's the specialist when it comes to computer shit. We got entire departments for computer crime. I deal with, you know." A shell goes plink, diving behind the counter. "Other stuff. --You don't need to get me anything," he adds, backtracking with another quick drink. "I got everything I need. I appreciate the thought, though."
"Wow." Lark attempts to hide her laugh behind the back of her hand as she pulls her expression under control. Even after she does the persistent twitch at one corner of her mouth give her away. "It's hard to imagine. I suppose you could say I'm addicted to the internet. It's how I keep up with the world. With friends. I definitely go into withdrawal when I go camping or anything." She is only a touch more serious as she informs him, "You can't opt out of a gift. It doesn't work that way. Besides, it's not about what you /need/. Giving presents, even to a certain extent the work of finding them, is my favorite part of Christmas."
Chris looks quizzical. "You just said you were busy," he points out, sounding a bit aggrieved. He has /offered/ a /solution/. "I'm not big on ... stuff. I'm trying to get rid of most of the stuff I already own, to be honest. --Tell you what. Get me tickets to one of your concerts, if you want to get me something." The grin pinwheels behind his expression again, not quite reaching his mouth, but lively in his eyes and the rough-hewn baritone. "Force a little culture down my throat. What're /you/ in the market for?"
"Tickets are definitely easy," Lark agrees, not quite committing. She hmms over his question, sipping her drink and trying to come up with an answer that he might actually accept. "I'm not a stuff person either. I don't know, I never know what to ask for. Coming to my concert and then flattering me about it afterward would be wonderful." She grins at him, and leans over to scoop up another peanut to wantonly destroy.
There is a lack of efficiency about this entire process. Chris watches her break into her peanut, then overturns the entire bowl onto the counter and begins to smash indiscriminately with his fist. Thump thump thump crackle thump. Small, halved kernels roll everywhere. He is making an almighty and joyous mess. Thump crackle thump. "Stuff," he says, "accumulates. Got to admit, having cancer is kinda liberating. All the shit I used to think was important turns out to be total crap. Peanut?" He fishes one out of the chaos and offers it to her.
Lark can't restraint what is this time definitely a giggle. She hastily clears her drink from the zone in danger of shrapnel, then does her best to contain the mess to the bar, catching at least one kernel in a handy save just as it rolls over the edge. Then, she can't help but sober, however off-handly Chris mentions such a weighty subject. Waving away his offer, she asks quietly, "You don't mention it much. At least, not to me. But, it really made an impact on how you see things, then?"
"Considering how many times I've almost died," Chris says wryly, picking out another peanut to deposit in front of Lark. He begins to herd them out of the melee of shells and debris, piling them up in a little heap before her. "It's funny how dying in slow-motion can be different. Usually I don't have the time to think about it. Long-term's a little different. Peanuts're good for you. Protein." He makes another fist. Thump.
"I hadn't ever thought of it that way. I don't know, in a very weird way, I envy you that perspective. Something I won't ever get. At least hopefully, I guess." Pensively, Lark peels apart a piece of shell snitched from his pile, ignoring the peanut presented to her and his assertion as to its nutritional value.
Rejected. Sad. He plants it in the growing heap before her and picks out a few more morsels from the mess. "Hopefully," Chris says cheerfully enough. "There isn't all that much to be envious about. The rest of it sucks ass. If anybody tells you there's something rewarding about it, he's still on the medical pot they gave him for the pain. --Why the fuck are we talking about this? You seeing anyone?"
Following the subject change without protest, Lark shrugs and admits, "Nope. Unless you count Stephen, who doesn't count. I went on a date a few weeks ago, but she was mostly just curious, set up by her friends. And, actually no one-night stands either. Last was Julia I think. New York is just bad luck for me or something." She makes a half-hearted face and swallows another mouthful of carbonated sugar before returning the question. "You? How's Ororo?"
Chris's sister is named Julia. Fraternal wisdom deliberately blinds him to the connection. "Still in Africa," he reports, popping a few of the unwanted peanuts into his mouth to chew with mournful deliberation. "Probably would be smarter for us to just break up -- we're more friends than lovers, anyway -- but." His shoulders' hitch up is inelegant, and vague. "No idea when she'll be back. You sure you're lesbian? Bi would be easier." He glances over his shoulder at the distant Stephen.
"Bi probably would be easier. But no. I'm definitely lesbian." She follows his glance across the room to where Stephen is one of a laughing and chatting group of familiar people. "I can honestly say I am not in the least attracted to Stephen, or you, or--I don't know, Brad Pitt. I figured that out pretty early on too, thankfully. Only the one ex boyfriend I feel bad for leading on." She laughs softly and adds as an afterthought, "When guys don't get it, I generally say essentially, I'm no more attracted to Stephen than you are."
Chris's mouth twitches towards a smile, quickly repressed. He tips his glass up to his lips, pausing long enough to say, "I don't know. Guy's kinda hot." Gay. He swallows, choking on his own beginning chuckle, and hastily replaces his glass on the coaster. "Thanks for putting me between him and Brad Pitt, though. Appreciate it. That's an ascending ladder, right?"
"Definitely." Lark never was any good at straight-faced delivery and certainly isn't any better this time, ending up hiding her grin behind her hand as she recomposes her face. Shaking her head a little, she backtracks to ask more seriously, "But, you were saying about Ororo. Do you think you would break it off, or would you wait for her to do it?"
Again, he shrugs. "She might come back soon," Chris says, without any obvious signs of distress at the thought that she might not. "I got no idea. I'm in no rush, one way or another. It's not like I'm attracted to anyone else." His glance aside at her is curious, scythed across the rim of his glass. "Why do you ask?"
"Oh. Um." There is definitely a certain surprise in Lark's response, his question unexpected. "Because I'm interested in you, and what might happen to your relationship?" It's not really a question of course, more like a confirmation that that's a good enough answer. "I don't really know, I guess."
The detective looks amused. "Sorry. I don't usually get those kinds of questions about my personal life. Except from my sister," he amends thoughtfully. "And my mother. And my sister-in-law. And my-- well, family. And cops," he adds as an afterthought, with a disparaging note that indicates that they are much the same thing. "Just takes me by surprise. --So what're you going to do about those friends of yours?"
"I should probably go join them," Lark agrees to the reminder. She slides down off her stool and steps the small space over to him. This time it is she who presses a kiss to his cheek, saying, "It was good to run into you. Don't be surprised if I call you sometime soon. Good night, Chris." Then she steps away again, turning to find her away across the room to the crowd of people waiting for her.
[Log ends]
...and then later he runs into Lark.
He is yawning when he walks into his apartment. He has done it a hundred times before; without looking he can toss his keys into the waiting bowl by the door, toss his jacket over the sofa's arm, reach with his other hand to turn on the light--
--and then swear, jumping back a good foot to discover Julia seated on his sofa, arms folded, face knit in a scowl.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Julia--!"
He is not as good with his reactions as he used to be. He grips hard against the doorway's frame, feeling the small dizziness of adrenaline and rerouted blood. Julia rises while he steadies himself. She stalks with stiff legs towards him, leans in, and sniffs.
"Beer," she identifies, and then brightens a little. Hopefully. "You met up with some chicks?"
He debates smacking her upside the head. In a fraternal sort of way. "Saw Kant," he grants at last, grudgingly. "Had drinks with Zoe, hooked her up with Lazzaro, hopefully-- ran into Lark. There were some groupies. I didn't get laid," he adds hastily, spying the anticipatory glitter in her eyes.
Chris pushes past his sister, unbuttoning his shirt as he heads towards the bedroom. Julia closes the door and trails after him: she is immune to hints. "Zoe," she says thoughtfully, as he sheds his shirt and stoops to pull off his shoes. "Zoe the lawyer? Or Zoe the flight attendant?"
"Zoe the dancer," Chris says, tossing one shoe, then the next, into the corner of his closet. "McMillan. Zenith. I told you about her."
"Your first mutant poon!"
"Julia. Do you mind?"
"You should hook up with her again," Julia says, heedless. "Lazzaro won't mind. He's a sharing kinda guy." She leans in the doorway, watching as Chris deliberately begins to undo his pants. Hints. She does not do hints. She continues to watch with interest. Family aside, he cannot -- currently -- deal. With a sigh, he works on emptying his pockets instead, rising to toss each change, wallet, handcuffs, badge into the drawer of his nightstand.
"You forgetting the fact that I still have a girlfriend?"
"In Africa."
"You want me to cheat on her?" He spies, belatedly, the white envelope slit open on his bed, and picks it up. It is a routine letter from his doctor. Irritation spikes. "You been reading my mail?"
Julia, being Julia, ignores him. "She'd understand."
"I don't feel like having a one-night stand. Why the fuck should she?"
"Because you're--" she breaks off. To his surprise, he finds that she is suddenly clinging to his back, her arms wrapped tightly around his torso.
Julia is FDNY. Her deathgrip is not something to joke about. He is rendered breathless for a moment, his chest constricting, taken unawares. "What the fuck?"
"Get laid, Chris," she says into his back, her voice muffled in his skin. "Have some sex, or I swear to God, the next time I see Magneto, I'm jumping his old bones."
His sister is baffling. "What the--?" he begins, and then moves on to, "Why the--?" and finally, "How does that make any sense at all?"
"Sex, Chris," Julia says fiercely. She squeezes tighter. "You like sex, remember? It makes you feel alive."
There is a short silence while he works out what is happening behind him. "You're nuts," he says at last. "Are you crying? Why are you crying? Christ, you're such a girl."
At which point she punches him, hard, in the ribs. They spend the next hour fighting at the top of their lungs. It is a harmless way of venting emotion.
Rossi's of either gender can be maddening. Even to each other.