Pictures' Worth
I'm still mad -- I can't believe how pissed -- but it's better than it was. Almost the same kind of pissed I got when Julia went down on that three alarm. Hadn't realized Alyssa had squirmed her way in so far and so fast.
Kids. They're like fucking weeds. Give them a chance and they'll dig themselves in so deep you can't get the damn things out.
Should've shown her the pictures earlier. Wonder if it would've made a difference. May be better this way. Gives her a taste of what might have been, lets her see what this ex she's been holding on to has turned into. Gave her a couple of cards for the VA shrink, Samantha. One for her, one for her friend Jubilee. Sam's good with vics. Either of them go to her, she'll help sort them out.
Need to ask one of the poodles if they got therapy or something for their kids.
Least she didn't puke.
---
School is out for the day, and despite awkward silences with a certain auto shop teacher and hasty exits from a former cop's classroom, there are some things that Alyssa is unwilling to shirk. And thus, she pushes in through the lobby doors, eyes downcast and shoulders stooped. Into the chaos that is the precinct at almost any hour, assailed by the sights and sounds of New York city's boys in blue and the people they police, Alyssa steps. And stops. Squares her shoulders. Stays stopped.
She has had enough face time in the precinct that more than one of New York's Finest spares her a grin, or a wave, or -- in most cases -- a swift glance of concern. The desk sergeant, brushing aside the demands of a stentorian citizen and his stolen car, leans across the counter to greet, "Hey, kid. Rossi told me to grab you when you came in and send you back to Homicide. How you doing?"
The greetings are matched with little of her usual spark -- it is there, but hidden 'neath a layer of skittish concern. These, however, are the police -- if not her friends, then, at least people that she trusts. Safety, in the sea of blue. "Hey," is greeted with a little more enthusiasm, and she slips closer to the desk, movements small and quick. Hands, they twitch, one reaching back to brush shaggy hair out of her eyes, the other brushing at her skirt. "I've been better. Still kinda shaken up. S'Rossi looking for me?" Concern flashes through her expression, though without eyes' teltale betrayal. She's been working harder at that.
"He was pretty pissed, earlier," Sergeant Johnson admits, leaning over the fold of his arms to offer Alyssa a touch of paternal concern. "Then again, Ricochet's always pretty ticked off. Don't let his bark scare you, kid. Go ahead and head on back. Just saw him get in a few minutes ago with Beston." One broad, blunt-fingered hand waves towards the rear hallway, comfortably indifferent to the chaos building against his bailwick.
Quickly, the gaze drops, as fear flicks icy fingers down Alyssa's back. A moment passes, then another, and she softly whispers, "/Shit/," before looking back up, once again in control of emotion's tattle-tale eyes. "Thank you, Seargeant," is slightly more sure, and she flashes him a nervous, gut-wrenched smile before skittering off down the hallway towards Homicide.
The hallway beyond is relatively quiet, when compared to the crash of voices and bodies in the lobby. A pair of teenagers handcuffed to a bench exchange glares under a uniform's beady eye; in the Homicide squadroom, phones rattle off their bases, to be snatched up by harassed detectives. Rossi and Beston are arguing. "--no fucking /way/ he didn't know," the former says, half risen out of his chair to stab a finger at his partner. "And anybody who thinks nobody would get /hurt/--"
Rossi /already/ yelling is not something Alyssa is entirely prepared for -- and she looks about ready to bolt right back down the hall within seconds of materializing somewhere close to the desk inhabited by the irate detective. Shoulders do not square, chin does not come up, and in fact she cringes away from the sound as if dealt a physical blow. But, she holds her ground and does /not/ leave.
It is Beston's slap of hand on a file that halts the flight of temper, and the turn of lazy brown eyes (unmoved by Rossi's battering ram) that crinkles warm welcome to Alyssa. "Hey there, kid," the older man greets, leaning back into the creak of his chair. "How you doing? Heard you had a bad weekend. Ignore Chris. He's having PMS. --Say hi, Chris. Don't /scare/ the kid."
Hot green eyes swerve: from Beston to Alyssa. Pause to consider her over the thin line of mouth. "Alyssa," Rossi says, anger easing and lifting. "Hey."
Alyssa warms to Beston with nervous grace, a hasty smile and another run of anxious fingers through hair -- which doesn't do the hair in question much good. "It was not one of my best, no." And then, responses key to Rossi's voice, and she shies again -- but more slightly this time -- before green eyes focus on his face. "Johnson said you were pissed."
The reminder draws the swift, heated flame back to Rossi's face; Beston, chuckling, observes, "He's always pissed. Part of the package for Chris. Go ahead." He gestures towards the far hallway, answering his partner's open mouth before the necessity of speech. "I'll make the calls for the warrant. You take care of business. --Later, kid."
Chris's mouth snaps shut, and a foot sends his chair crashing drunkenly into the back wall of filing cabinets. "C'mon," he tells Alyssa, baritone grim. "We need to talk." A hand flushes a file from his desk, setting it slapping against his thigh, and the long stride heads purposefully for the hall.
"Later, Best--" Farewell is cut short (oh, the tragedy!) at the crash of Rossi's chair, and Alyssa jumps, mouth snapping shut and eyes focusing glitteringly on Rossi's exiting form. Hands ball into white-knuckled fists, and she waits long enough before she follows that she has to run to catch up.
Down the hall and through another door -- 'Mutant Affairs' reads the already peeling lettering on the glass -- and through another squadroom (glances touch on them in passing, recognize the leader, and turn away without question) to a small room on the far side. Rossi straight-arms the door, sending it crashing into the wall; he pauses against its frame, waiting for Alyssa to catch up and pass. "How's your friend doing?" he asks politely, over eyes' glitter.
Alyssa passes, shrinking against the door's frame to avoid contact with Rossi -- as if through tactile contact, his anger can somehow scorch her the way the fires that incited this incident did not. "She's okay. Burns'll heal." Gaze flickers briefly back to his face, skitters away, settles on a point within the room itself. One arm straight by her side, the other rubbing at her upper arm in a pointless gesture, she stands. And waits.
The door closes after Rossi's step in, wood silent, feet quiet for all the pending violence of energy reined beneath the skin. It is a war room of sorts: the walls hang with maps and pictures, whiteboards inked and scrawled with lists and dispassionate conjecture. "Grab a seat," says Chris, tossing his file to the conference table's top. "You and me, we got to talk."
The hand continues to rub at her arm, then reaches out -- a hasty step, then another taken to the nearest chair, and her hand clamps down on the back of it. Pulls, with acompanying screech and skitter of metal legs on floor. Alyssa doesn't say anything, but hesitates a moment to look up at Rossi again. She swallows, then seats herself with a complete absence of usual grace. Even manages to catch her shin against the table's leg, though she doesn't cry out. Just keeps those eyes, those oh so expressive eyes, fixed on Rossi's face.
A chair for Rossi, dragged out to a squeak of metal on tile. He manages to sit in it for all of a second, before its ephemeral restraint proves too much for brooding temper. Up and out, then, and a quick stride around the room: too small, too crowded. "You have /any/ idea how fucking /stupid/--" He breaks off with a savage twist to his baritone; green flashes back at Alyssa, brilliant and blazing. "You realize you and your friend could be dead right now."
"/Fuck/ you, Rossi!" is spat out on the edge of a sob, fear loosening her tongue with anger's unintentional edge. Aly's tears are held at bay, though hands ball once more into ineffectual fists. "I /know/, okay? Goddamnit, I /know/!" voice, ragged with emotion, lashes out. "She /wanted/ to go by /herself/, goddamnit. What the fuck was I going to do, let her? At least I /ran/, Chris! At least I ran the fuck away and got /help/!"
Anger frets, sharp-toothed and demanding release. One broad hand slams on the tabletop, jerking even that heavy-set piece into vibrating sympathy. "You shouldn't have gone at /all/," Rossi rasps, white-hot, black-threaded, immaculate and incandescent. "You should have called someone. Called Summers. Called Cassidy. Said, 'Hey there, a /known terrorist/ is thinking of coming back to the fold. I need backup.' What were you /thinking/?!"
Alyssa jumps back at the impact of hand upon table, and one of /her/ fists opens to slap the same surface in counterpointed anger. anger keeps the fear at bay, anger keeps the tears away. "He /said/ they were watching the school. Would kill him if they caught Summers or the Professor or /anyone/ leaving." The voice is still ragged, little-girl alto catching in soaring swoops and dips. Hand scrabbles, looks for a projectile -- anything to throw at Rossi's /head/. And another catch, the voice twisting upward. "I /trusted/ him, the goddamn fucking /asshole/!" She slams back into the chair, search fruitless, and finally, "I wish I'd never fucking /met/ him, I'm fucking /sorry/, okay?!"
"Did you stop to think about that?" Rossi demands, wheeling another swift circuit around the room before tossing himself into his chair, an arm thrown wide across the table. Eyes glow at Alyssa: human ire, supple and sentient. "That make any sense to you at all? They'll let him leave the Brotherhood, but only if Summers doesn't leave the building. What did you do to keep Summers or the Professor from leaving? Lock down the school?"
"No," climbs the register, despair over her own stupidity drawing the simple negative out into multisyllabled distress. "We didn't /do/ anything, we just left, we just fucking /left/." Tears finally break the barrier of Alyssa's stubborn grasp for control, burning hotly down her cheeks. "fuck, /FUCK/," is wailed, and she turns away, surging out of her chair to pace away from the table, turing her back to Rossi and her face to the wall.
Violence knots and entices under the skin, in the strain of muscles and heated race of blood. Rossi presses his face into his hand, fingertips whitened, palm gouging into the hollows of eyes. Brittle silence dampens the room, strained to breaking by tension and throttled temper. "Well, shit," Chris says at last to the sear of fireworks in the dark. "Honest to God, kid. Thinking about what might have happened pisses me off so much I can't see straight."
"Fuck you," Alyssa spits out again, though the words are tangled in earnest sobs. She still does not turn, though hands work up to cover her eyes. "I'm so fucking scared, Chris." The voice edges upwards, will working to clamp down hysteria's edge. "I'm so /fucking/ /scared/!"
Anger, frustration notwithstanding; it is not in Rossi's nature to ignore terror. The chair skids against his push up, and a moment later strong arms wrap around Alyssa in restricting bands: of comfort, of security, of safety. Intimacy, wound through a heartbeat's steady throb and the dark head bowed over hers. "Hey." A quiet word, dropped into her shaking crown. "It's okay, Alyssa."
A fist strikes out in desperation, pounding once against Rossi's chest before she curls herself into the embrace, terrified sobs still wracking her slender form. "What the fuck kind of world /is/ this, Chris?" is muffled by sobs and the press of ehr face against his chest, "That people you trust can fucking /do/ this kind of shit?"
There is ire still in the tight-wound body, the frame of torso and arms around hers: temper's passion, but empathy's charity as well. The sybarite mouth presses into hair, breath stealing and giving heat; green eyes slant up to a wall, reading its bloody, black-and-white adornment with the cut of a grimace. "You have to pick the right people, kid. You just made a mistake with this one. It's not your fault. Happens to everyone at least once."
Cynicism twists unaccustomed through her words, and Alyssa's form shakes with a sob-caught snort. "Yeah, but how many /other/ people's mistakes can come back and /kill/ them just by /thinking/ about it?" She pulls back, scrubbing hard at her eyes before trying to focus on Rossi; hero, savior, friend. "I'm trying to make better choices, Chris!" An attempt at even delivery, spoiled by voice's betraying upward spiral on the last word before his name.
"Join the club," says Rossi, voice dry -- and there it begins to fade, that fire that brightens the pale gaze and licks at baritone. His embrace loosens, giving her rein to escape the illusion of safety; the set jaw eases in tandem, chased by flourescent light and the tuck of shadow. "You did the right thing, running. And calling. Even if everything else up to that was -- the last part, you did right."
Alyssa's illusions are precious, for what they are worth -- though she does not cling so tightly, there is still a reluctance to leave the safety of arms' loosened cage. "It was the only thing I could think of to do. I couldn't even /think/, I just...." She trails off, lip caught in teeth's anxious grasp. "I'm sorry. I told you I wouldn't make you come save my sorry ass...."
Chris points out, "I didn't do any saving. Got there just in time to pick up the pieces." And, oh, there is bitterness in that, conscious or no, bloody-fanged and dripping under the dark, smoothing accent. Green flashes down, studying that pale face. "You did the right thing, in the end," he says again, more gently. "It could've been worse."
And within that cage, she still manages to withdraw inward -- arms wrap around herself, and her tone is flat. "Yeah," spill the words, "Jubilee could be dead." Clawing, clutching fear rears its head again, revealed by eyes' betrayal rather than voice's, this time.
"She could be," says Chris, and there is no hesitation, no doubt for that affirmation, no room for excuse or wavering. The man lifts his chin, gesturing with a nod to the table's abandoned file. Manila. And in between the demure, closed wings: a photograph's edge, bordered and glossy. "You should see," he says. "Your friend wasn't the first one he's used it on."
Alyssa follows Chris' gesture, drawing away from the table and instinctively closer to the representative of New York's law enforcement department. Head shakes briefly, and arms tighten around herself. "No." It's whispered -- tone more of disbelief than of genuine protest.
The warmth around Alyssa stiffens for a moment, offering that one, last pretense of shelter before falling away to a step. Hands clasp her upper arms, fever through the fabric. "Luckier than you know," says Chris, bleakly. "The last guy's dead. He would've died eventually anyway, if someone hadn't shot him. Doubt they meant it as a mercy killing, but that's what it ended up being."
Denial, desperation make an appearance, another 'no' choked back before her chin comes up, and under the clasp of Rossi's hands, Alyssa straightens. Her whole body is the betrayor, this time, as she shakes -- but her tone is as close to dead, as close to even as she can pull off. "... Show me, Chris." That is, if he can actually hear the words.
Soundless, wordless, even that last bone-heating warmth falls away for Chris's pad back to the table. The folder flips open, innocuous veil, and bares horror in black and white. A mockery of beauty, this, taken by a photographer's eye (for evidence, for art) and the pitiless lens. Burnt death, bubbling flesh, crisped and charred into a grotesque mimicry of humanity. Rossi drops a hand to the pictures to splay them wide, and looks back. At Alyssa.
Horror that over-keen eyes pick up in sharp detail. Alyssa doesn't react, at first, eyes skimming and scanning and suddenly /focusing/ on the images displayed before her. And then it sinks in -- the moment it does is clear, because the color drains from an already pale face, little-noticed freckles standing out in stark contrast. She drops her hand, one wiping against her skirt while the other rises, rises to her mouth.
"You should've seen them earlier, I suppose," Rossi says through the ashes of the earlier anger, burnt out entirely to replace light with grey-tinted weariness. He herds the pictures with his fingers, stirring them to false breath. "Too late now. Your boy's past the point of no return. Even if he did turn, eventually--"
Hand remains firmly pressed against lips as throat works to swallow, as Aly works to keep her cool. "He would go to prison," is finally whispered once she trusts herself, the words brushing past guarding fingers. Still, despite the horror, she cannot pull her eyes away -- images burning themselves into her brain with every pass, every detail filed away to haunt her dreams. "Oh, God." And the hand presses harder.
A swift glance from Rossi gauges that transfixed horror, and his hand sweeps to stuff the drowsing folder full again. Harmless paper, filed nightmares; the last white-bordered corner disappears, and Chris drags out a chair, an arm stretching to catch and steer Alyssa. "Sit down," he orders. "Breathe."
Green tinges the pale, human response to inhuman cruelty breaking cold and clammy 'cross Alyssa's brow. Steered, she sits -- and her breath is ragged, fingers' fragile cage still pressed against lips that have not yet betrayed her. Her other hand creeps to cradle rebellious stomach, and she doesn't dare meet Rossi's eyes. Not yet.
Shadow spills across Rossi's stride: around the corner for another chair's recruitment, spun around the table to face Alyssa's, knee to knee. He sinks into it with straddled legs, elbows pinning on knees, and settles a contemplative gaze on his fingers' nails. Grit under one. He picks at it, mute.
"That," is whispered through ragged breaths, "used to be a /person/." Whether she speaks of the charred corpse in the photographs or the man behind the carnage is irrelevant -- what is, however, is the slow steadying of her breathing. In and out, in and out, and her fingers' frantic press slowly loosens. "How long have you known that those were...." But she can't bring herself to complete the question.
"Since you told me about Allerdyce," Rossi says quietly, looking up from his inconsequential manicure. Fingers still, blunt-tipped and callused, shaping an oracle's eyes with their tangle. "After. A little. The Feds brought pictures of the breakout with them, and the forensic reports -- I knew."
Eyes finally raise, and anger flashes briefly through her gaze, accompanied by the spit of, "You /knew/, and you didn't tell m--" But then the images surface again, and the hand presses back against lips. Moments pass, time ticking away slowly until she once again can speak without fear, to whisper with a sick smile's wry twist, "You knew. No wonder you didn't think I could make it as a cop."
One hand gestures, dismissing. "That had nothing to do with it. --Well. Not that much." Honesty feathers the amendment, canting the accent thicker, deeper. Rossi straightens, spine uncurling and leaning into the table's check, where an arm flexes and balances over Pandora's secrets. Green eyes level, opaque behind their rims of black. "Why did you need to know? Why would you need to know? That your ex-boyfriend became a terrorist -- you /knew/ that. What did you think would happen?"
THe hand wipes roughly across ehr eyes, and anger heats her gaze again -- though, from her tone, it is head directed at herself more than at him. "Because I /didn't/ know. It's one thing to think... that he'd been seduced by the promise of /action/, of /doing things/ with his powers. It's another to know," she waves at the folder, referring to its contents in all their horrifying glory, "that he's done /that/." Eyes harden, and disgust tinges her words, "I could still believe he /might/ come back, before...."
"He's a terrorist. That's what they do. They kill people. Whether they think they're doing the right thing or not, for some grand cause or not--" Eyes close, hollowed into the pinch of forefinger and thumb, and Rossi hoods the rearing head of temper behind them: out of sight, out of mind, out of sound. "You know, now. So what next?"
"He's a terrorist," is repeated with a sense of finality, followed by, "I know. It... makes me sick." Humor, wry, twists again into existance, "I thought I was going to make a mess of your breifing room." But the question is considered, and it's a more weary Alyssa that answers, "I don't really know... what next." She watches him for clues, finally suppliying, "I guess... I go to school. I live my life. And stop giving a damn about John Allerdyce."
The hand falls away. Eyes open, dilated -- black for a second's clarity -- before color sweeps in to paint them again. "That's a start, anyway," Rossi says mildly, rocking out of his seat. A hand drops on her shoulder in his passage, paused there in his glance down, at her, across her, for the folder's mute serenity and the girl's profile. "The world isn't safe, kid. You need to start thinking with your brain, not your emotions."
Alyssa tilts her head against his arm, smooth cheek pressed against the fabric of his suit. Hand raises, fingers curling 'round his, pulling what comfort she can from the gesture. "I need to figure out how to stay safe before I can make it safe for other people, don't I?"
"Yeah," says wry Rossi, (hypocritical Rossi) who admits his own failures in that regard with a humor in the quiet voice. "--says the guy who mouths off and shoots himself with his own ricochet. Ignore that for a second. You got to learn, kid. Summers and Cassidy -- they can teach you stuff."
"That wasn't exactly your fault," supplies the loyal Alyssa, "but you have a point. I ... I /am/ learning. Just ... slowly." A shadow passes over her expression, clouding it briefly. "I never had reason to /not/ trust people, before. I guess I've just gotten lucky up until now."
Chris's other hand drops to Alyssa's other shoulder, and he rests where he is, a strong, solid warmth at her back. "Luckier than most," he admits. "You've sort of had a charmed life, kid. Don't knock it. There're people who would give anything for what you had."
Weary, then, /her/ other hand raises, curls against his. "I don't know what else to do, Chris. I don't ... know." She twists around to face him, eyes wide and open and calm, though her words are a little bit bitter as she says, "Thank you for being around to save me from the cats, Chris."
"We'll get you there," Rossi promises recklessly, stooping to drop a brotherly kiss on that pale and delicate brow. "Don't sweat it. I got a friend in VA you should talk to. And so should your friend. It's tough, after you've been attacked. I don't know if that school of yours has something for that. I'll ask Doc Grey."
Alyssa wraps arms 'round his neck at the kiss, hugging tight and hard. "I'll talk. Thank you." She lets go, sheepish, and subsides back into her chair, pale once again. "I should probably... go, though. It's been... I still kinda feel sick." Disappointment in the voice, over her own psyche's failings.
Lips twist wry, and a glance speeds towards the garbage can and its innocuous baggage. "Few guys puked at the prison," Rossi grants, collecting the file and striding wide to throw open the door. Stale air, fresh by comparison, floods the room with its touch of chill. Autumn cometh. "You wouldn't be the first. C'mon, kid. Let's get out of here." Dampened by tears, jogged by wrath, the conference room flicks to darkness at the toss of a switch, and broods over mutants and men.
[Log ends]
Kids. They're like fucking weeds. Give them a chance and they'll dig themselves in so deep you can't get the damn things out.
Should've shown her the pictures earlier. Wonder if it would've made a difference. May be better this way. Gives her a taste of what might have been, lets her see what this ex she's been holding on to has turned into. Gave her a couple of cards for the VA shrink, Samantha. One for her, one for her friend Jubilee. Sam's good with vics. Either of them go to her, she'll help sort them out.
Need to ask one of the poodles if they got therapy or something for their kids.
Least she didn't puke.
---
School is out for the day, and despite awkward silences with a certain auto shop teacher and hasty exits from a former cop's classroom, there are some things that Alyssa is unwilling to shirk. And thus, she pushes in through the lobby doors, eyes downcast and shoulders stooped. Into the chaos that is the precinct at almost any hour, assailed by the sights and sounds of New York city's boys in blue and the people they police, Alyssa steps. And stops. Squares her shoulders. Stays stopped.
She has had enough face time in the precinct that more than one of New York's Finest spares her a grin, or a wave, or -- in most cases -- a swift glance of concern. The desk sergeant, brushing aside the demands of a stentorian citizen and his stolen car, leans across the counter to greet, "Hey, kid. Rossi told me to grab you when you came in and send you back to Homicide. How you doing?"
The greetings are matched with little of her usual spark -- it is there, but hidden 'neath a layer of skittish concern. These, however, are the police -- if not her friends, then, at least people that she trusts. Safety, in the sea of blue. "Hey," is greeted with a little more enthusiasm, and she slips closer to the desk, movements small and quick. Hands, they twitch, one reaching back to brush shaggy hair out of her eyes, the other brushing at her skirt. "I've been better. Still kinda shaken up. S'Rossi looking for me?" Concern flashes through her expression, though without eyes' teltale betrayal. She's been working harder at that.
"He was pretty pissed, earlier," Sergeant Johnson admits, leaning over the fold of his arms to offer Alyssa a touch of paternal concern. "Then again, Ricochet's always pretty ticked off. Don't let his bark scare you, kid. Go ahead and head on back. Just saw him get in a few minutes ago with Beston." One broad, blunt-fingered hand waves towards the rear hallway, comfortably indifferent to the chaos building against his bailwick.
Quickly, the gaze drops, as fear flicks icy fingers down Alyssa's back. A moment passes, then another, and she softly whispers, "/Shit/," before looking back up, once again in control of emotion's tattle-tale eyes. "Thank you, Seargeant," is slightly more sure, and she flashes him a nervous, gut-wrenched smile before skittering off down the hallway towards Homicide.
The hallway beyond is relatively quiet, when compared to the crash of voices and bodies in the lobby. A pair of teenagers handcuffed to a bench exchange glares under a uniform's beady eye; in the Homicide squadroom, phones rattle off their bases, to be snatched up by harassed detectives. Rossi and Beston are arguing. "--no fucking /way/ he didn't know," the former says, half risen out of his chair to stab a finger at his partner. "And anybody who thinks nobody would get /hurt/--"
Rossi /already/ yelling is not something Alyssa is entirely prepared for -- and she looks about ready to bolt right back down the hall within seconds of materializing somewhere close to the desk inhabited by the irate detective. Shoulders do not square, chin does not come up, and in fact she cringes away from the sound as if dealt a physical blow. But, she holds her ground and does /not/ leave.
It is Beston's slap of hand on a file that halts the flight of temper, and the turn of lazy brown eyes (unmoved by Rossi's battering ram) that crinkles warm welcome to Alyssa. "Hey there, kid," the older man greets, leaning back into the creak of his chair. "How you doing? Heard you had a bad weekend. Ignore Chris. He's having PMS. --Say hi, Chris. Don't /scare/ the kid."
Hot green eyes swerve: from Beston to Alyssa. Pause to consider her over the thin line of mouth. "Alyssa," Rossi says, anger easing and lifting. "Hey."
Alyssa warms to Beston with nervous grace, a hasty smile and another run of anxious fingers through hair -- which doesn't do the hair in question much good. "It was not one of my best, no." And then, responses key to Rossi's voice, and she shies again -- but more slightly this time -- before green eyes focus on his face. "Johnson said you were pissed."
The reminder draws the swift, heated flame back to Rossi's face; Beston, chuckling, observes, "He's always pissed. Part of the package for Chris. Go ahead." He gestures towards the far hallway, answering his partner's open mouth before the necessity of speech. "I'll make the calls for the warrant. You take care of business. --Later, kid."
Chris's mouth snaps shut, and a foot sends his chair crashing drunkenly into the back wall of filing cabinets. "C'mon," he tells Alyssa, baritone grim. "We need to talk." A hand flushes a file from his desk, setting it slapping against his thigh, and the long stride heads purposefully for the hall.
"Later, Best--" Farewell is cut short (oh, the tragedy!) at the crash of Rossi's chair, and Alyssa jumps, mouth snapping shut and eyes focusing glitteringly on Rossi's exiting form. Hands ball into white-knuckled fists, and she waits long enough before she follows that she has to run to catch up.
Down the hall and through another door -- 'Mutant Affairs' reads the already peeling lettering on the glass -- and through another squadroom (glances touch on them in passing, recognize the leader, and turn away without question) to a small room on the far side. Rossi straight-arms the door, sending it crashing into the wall; he pauses against its frame, waiting for Alyssa to catch up and pass. "How's your friend doing?" he asks politely, over eyes' glitter.
Alyssa passes, shrinking against the door's frame to avoid contact with Rossi -- as if through tactile contact, his anger can somehow scorch her the way the fires that incited this incident did not. "She's okay. Burns'll heal." Gaze flickers briefly back to his face, skitters away, settles on a point within the room itself. One arm straight by her side, the other rubbing at her upper arm in a pointless gesture, she stands. And waits.
The door closes after Rossi's step in, wood silent, feet quiet for all the pending violence of energy reined beneath the skin. It is a war room of sorts: the walls hang with maps and pictures, whiteboards inked and scrawled with lists and dispassionate conjecture. "Grab a seat," says Chris, tossing his file to the conference table's top. "You and me, we got to talk."
The hand continues to rub at her arm, then reaches out -- a hasty step, then another taken to the nearest chair, and her hand clamps down on the back of it. Pulls, with acompanying screech and skitter of metal legs on floor. Alyssa doesn't say anything, but hesitates a moment to look up at Rossi again. She swallows, then seats herself with a complete absence of usual grace. Even manages to catch her shin against the table's leg, though she doesn't cry out. Just keeps those eyes, those oh so expressive eyes, fixed on Rossi's face.
A chair for Rossi, dragged out to a squeak of metal on tile. He manages to sit in it for all of a second, before its ephemeral restraint proves too much for brooding temper. Up and out, then, and a quick stride around the room: too small, too crowded. "You have /any/ idea how fucking /stupid/--" He breaks off with a savage twist to his baritone; green flashes back at Alyssa, brilliant and blazing. "You realize you and your friend could be dead right now."
"/Fuck/ you, Rossi!" is spat out on the edge of a sob, fear loosening her tongue with anger's unintentional edge. Aly's tears are held at bay, though hands ball once more into ineffectual fists. "I /know/, okay? Goddamnit, I /know/!" voice, ragged with emotion, lashes out. "She /wanted/ to go by /herself/, goddamnit. What the fuck was I going to do, let her? At least I /ran/, Chris! At least I ran the fuck away and got /help/!"
Anger frets, sharp-toothed and demanding release. One broad hand slams on the tabletop, jerking even that heavy-set piece into vibrating sympathy. "You shouldn't have gone at /all/," Rossi rasps, white-hot, black-threaded, immaculate and incandescent. "You should have called someone. Called Summers. Called Cassidy. Said, 'Hey there, a /known terrorist/ is thinking of coming back to the fold. I need backup.' What were you /thinking/?!"
Alyssa jumps back at the impact of hand upon table, and one of /her/ fists opens to slap the same surface in counterpointed anger. anger keeps the fear at bay, anger keeps the tears away. "He /said/ they were watching the school. Would kill him if they caught Summers or the Professor or /anyone/ leaving." The voice is still ragged, little-girl alto catching in soaring swoops and dips. Hand scrabbles, looks for a projectile -- anything to throw at Rossi's /head/. And another catch, the voice twisting upward. "I /trusted/ him, the goddamn fucking /asshole/!" She slams back into the chair, search fruitless, and finally, "I wish I'd never fucking /met/ him, I'm fucking /sorry/, okay?!"
"Did you stop to think about that?" Rossi demands, wheeling another swift circuit around the room before tossing himself into his chair, an arm thrown wide across the table. Eyes glow at Alyssa: human ire, supple and sentient. "That make any sense to you at all? They'll let him leave the Brotherhood, but only if Summers doesn't leave the building. What did you do to keep Summers or the Professor from leaving? Lock down the school?"
"No," climbs the register, despair over her own stupidity drawing the simple negative out into multisyllabled distress. "We didn't /do/ anything, we just left, we just fucking /left/." Tears finally break the barrier of Alyssa's stubborn grasp for control, burning hotly down her cheeks. "fuck, /FUCK/," is wailed, and she turns away, surging out of her chair to pace away from the table, turing her back to Rossi and her face to the wall.
Violence knots and entices under the skin, in the strain of muscles and heated race of blood. Rossi presses his face into his hand, fingertips whitened, palm gouging into the hollows of eyes. Brittle silence dampens the room, strained to breaking by tension and throttled temper. "Well, shit," Chris says at last to the sear of fireworks in the dark. "Honest to God, kid. Thinking about what might have happened pisses me off so much I can't see straight."
"Fuck you," Alyssa spits out again, though the words are tangled in earnest sobs. She still does not turn, though hands work up to cover her eyes. "I'm so fucking scared, Chris." The voice edges upwards, will working to clamp down hysteria's edge. "I'm so /fucking/ /scared/!"
Anger, frustration notwithstanding; it is not in Rossi's nature to ignore terror. The chair skids against his push up, and a moment later strong arms wrap around Alyssa in restricting bands: of comfort, of security, of safety. Intimacy, wound through a heartbeat's steady throb and the dark head bowed over hers. "Hey." A quiet word, dropped into her shaking crown. "It's okay, Alyssa."
A fist strikes out in desperation, pounding once against Rossi's chest before she curls herself into the embrace, terrified sobs still wracking her slender form. "What the fuck kind of world /is/ this, Chris?" is muffled by sobs and the press of ehr face against his chest, "That people you trust can fucking /do/ this kind of shit?"
There is ire still in the tight-wound body, the frame of torso and arms around hers: temper's passion, but empathy's charity as well. The sybarite mouth presses into hair, breath stealing and giving heat; green eyes slant up to a wall, reading its bloody, black-and-white adornment with the cut of a grimace. "You have to pick the right people, kid. You just made a mistake with this one. It's not your fault. Happens to everyone at least once."
Cynicism twists unaccustomed through her words, and Alyssa's form shakes with a sob-caught snort. "Yeah, but how many /other/ people's mistakes can come back and /kill/ them just by /thinking/ about it?" She pulls back, scrubbing hard at her eyes before trying to focus on Rossi; hero, savior, friend. "I'm trying to make better choices, Chris!" An attempt at even delivery, spoiled by voice's betraying upward spiral on the last word before his name.
"Join the club," says Rossi, voice dry -- and there it begins to fade, that fire that brightens the pale gaze and licks at baritone. His embrace loosens, giving her rein to escape the illusion of safety; the set jaw eases in tandem, chased by flourescent light and the tuck of shadow. "You did the right thing, running. And calling. Even if everything else up to that was -- the last part, you did right."
Alyssa's illusions are precious, for what they are worth -- though she does not cling so tightly, there is still a reluctance to leave the safety of arms' loosened cage. "It was the only thing I could think of to do. I couldn't even /think/, I just...." She trails off, lip caught in teeth's anxious grasp. "I'm sorry. I told you I wouldn't make you come save my sorry ass...."
Chris points out, "I didn't do any saving. Got there just in time to pick up the pieces." And, oh, there is bitterness in that, conscious or no, bloody-fanged and dripping under the dark, smoothing accent. Green flashes down, studying that pale face. "You did the right thing, in the end," he says again, more gently. "It could've been worse."
And within that cage, she still manages to withdraw inward -- arms wrap around herself, and her tone is flat. "Yeah," spill the words, "Jubilee could be dead." Clawing, clutching fear rears its head again, revealed by eyes' betrayal rather than voice's, this time.
"She could be," says Chris, and there is no hesitation, no doubt for that affirmation, no room for excuse or wavering. The man lifts his chin, gesturing with a nod to the table's abandoned file. Manila. And in between the demure, closed wings: a photograph's edge, bordered and glossy. "You should see," he says. "Your friend wasn't the first one he's used it on."
Alyssa follows Chris' gesture, drawing away from the table and instinctively closer to the representative of New York's law enforcement department. Head shakes briefly, and arms tighten around herself. "No." It's whispered -- tone more of disbelief than of genuine protest.
The warmth around Alyssa stiffens for a moment, offering that one, last pretense of shelter before falling away to a step. Hands clasp her upper arms, fever through the fabric. "Luckier than you know," says Chris, bleakly. "The last guy's dead. He would've died eventually anyway, if someone hadn't shot him. Doubt they meant it as a mercy killing, but that's what it ended up being."
Denial, desperation make an appearance, another 'no' choked back before her chin comes up, and under the clasp of Rossi's hands, Alyssa straightens. Her whole body is the betrayor, this time, as she shakes -- but her tone is as close to dead, as close to even as she can pull off. "... Show me, Chris." That is, if he can actually hear the words.
Soundless, wordless, even that last bone-heating warmth falls away for Chris's pad back to the table. The folder flips open, innocuous veil, and bares horror in black and white. A mockery of beauty, this, taken by a photographer's eye (for evidence, for art) and the pitiless lens. Burnt death, bubbling flesh, crisped and charred into a grotesque mimicry of humanity. Rossi drops a hand to the pictures to splay them wide, and looks back. At Alyssa.
Horror that over-keen eyes pick up in sharp detail. Alyssa doesn't react, at first, eyes skimming and scanning and suddenly /focusing/ on the images displayed before her. And then it sinks in -- the moment it does is clear, because the color drains from an already pale face, little-noticed freckles standing out in stark contrast. She drops her hand, one wiping against her skirt while the other rises, rises to her mouth.
"You should've seen them earlier, I suppose," Rossi says through the ashes of the earlier anger, burnt out entirely to replace light with grey-tinted weariness. He herds the pictures with his fingers, stirring them to false breath. "Too late now. Your boy's past the point of no return. Even if he did turn, eventually--"
Hand remains firmly pressed against lips as throat works to swallow, as Aly works to keep her cool. "He would go to prison," is finally whispered once she trusts herself, the words brushing past guarding fingers. Still, despite the horror, she cannot pull her eyes away -- images burning themselves into her brain with every pass, every detail filed away to haunt her dreams. "Oh, God." And the hand presses harder.
A swift glance from Rossi gauges that transfixed horror, and his hand sweeps to stuff the drowsing folder full again. Harmless paper, filed nightmares; the last white-bordered corner disappears, and Chris drags out a chair, an arm stretching to catch and steer Alyssa. "Sit down," he orders. "Breathe."
Green tinges the pale, human response to inhuman cruelty breaking cold and clammy 'cross Alyssa's brow. Steered, she sits -- and her breath is ragged, fingers' fragile cage still pressed against lips that have not yet betrayed her. Her other hand creeps to cradle rebellious stomach, and she doesn't dare meet Rossi's eyes. Not yet.
Shadow spills across Rossi's stride: around the corner for another chair's recruitment, spun around the table to face Alyssa's, knee to knee. He sinks into it with straddled legs, elbows pinning on knees, and settles a contemplative gaze on his fingers' nails. Grit under one. He picks at it, mute.
"That," is whispered through ragged breaths, "used to be a /person/." Whether she speaks of the charred corpse in the photographs or the man behind the carnage is irrelevant -- what is, however, is the slow steadying of her breathing. In and out, in and out, and her fingers' frantic press slowly loosens. "How long have you known that those were...." But she can't bring herself to complete the question.
"Since you told me about Allerdyce," Rossi says quietly, looking up from his inconsequential manicure. Fingers still, blunt-tipped and callused, shaping an oracle's eyes with their tangle. "After. A little. The Feds brought pictures of the breakout with them, and the forensic reports -- I knew."
Eyes finally raise, and anger flashes briefly through her gaze, accompanied by the spit of, "You /knew/, and you didn't tell m--" But then the images surface again, and the hand presses back against lips. Moments pass, time ticking away slowly until she once again can speak without fear, to whisper with a sick smile's wry twist, "You knew. No wonder you didn't think I could make it as a cop."
One hand gestures, dismissing. "That had nothing to do with it. --Well. Not that much." Honesty feathers the amendment, canting the accent thicker, deeper. Rossi straightens, spine uncurling and leaning into the table's check, where an arm flexes and balances over Pandora's secrets. Green eyes level, opaque behind their rims of black. "Why did you need to know? Why would you need to know? That your ex-boyfriend became a terrorist -- you /knew/ that. What did you think would happen?"
THe hand wipes roughly across ehr eyes, and anger heats her gaze again -- though, from her tone, it is head directed at herself more than at him. "Because I /didn't/ know. It's one thing to think... that he'd been seduced by the promise of /action/, of /doing things/ with his powers. It's another to know," she waves at the folder, referring to its contents in all their horrifying glory, "that he's done /that/." Eyes harden, and disgust tinges her words, "I could still believe he /might/ come back, before...."
"He's a terrorist. That's what they do. They kill people. Whether they think they're doing the right thing or not, for some grand cause or not--" Eyes close, hollowed into the pinch of forefinger and thumb, and Rossi hoods the rearing head of temper behind them: out of sight, out of mind, out of sound. "You know, now. So what next?"
"He's a terrorist," is repeated with a sense of finality, followed by, "I know. It... makes me sick." Humor, wry, twists again into existance, "I thought I was going to make a mess of your breifing room." But the question is considered, and it's a more weary Alyssa that answers, "I don't really know... what next." She watches him for clues, finally suppliying, "I guess... I go to school. I live my life. And stop giving a damn about John Allerdyce."
The hand falls away. Eyes open, dilated -- black for a second's clarity -- before color sweeps in to paint them again. "That's a start, anyway," Rossi says mildly, rocking out of his seat. A hand drops on her shoulder in his passage, paused there in his glance down, at her, across her, for the folder's mute serenity and the girl's profile. "The world isn't safe, kid. You need to start thinking with your brain, not your emotions."
Alyssa tilts her head against his arm, smooth cheek pressed against the fabric of his suit. Hand raises, fingers curling 'round his, pulling what comfort she can from the gesture. "I need to figure out how to stay safe before I can make it safe for other people, don't I?"
"Yeah," says wry Rossi, (hypocritical Rossi) who admits his own failures in that regard with a humor in the quiet voice. "--says the guy who mouths off and shoots himself with his own ricochet. Ignore that for a second. You got to learn, kid. Summers and Cassidy -- they can teach you stuff."
"That wasn't exactly your fault," supplies the loyal Alyssa, "but you have a point. I ... I /am/ learning. Just ... slowly." A shadow passes over her expression, clouding it briefly. "I never had reason to /not/ trust people, before. I guess I've just gotten lucky up until now."
Chris's other hand drops to Alyssa's other shoulder, and he rests where he is, a strong, solid warmth at her back. "Luckier than most," he admits. "You've sort of had a charmed life, kid. Don't knock it. There're people who would give anything for what you had."
Weary, then, /her/ other hand raises, curls against his. "I don't know what else to do, Chris. I don't ... know." She twists around to face him, eyes wide and open and calm, though her words are a little bit bitter as she says, "Thank you for being around to save me from the cats, Chris."
"We'll get you there," Rossi promises recklessly, stooping to drop a brotherly kiss on that pale and delicate brow. "Don't sweat it. I got a friend in VA you should talk to. And so should your friend. It's tough, after you've been attacked. I don't know if that school of yours has something for that. I'll ask Doc Grey."
Alyssa wraps arms 'round his neck at the kiss, hugging tight and hard. "I'll talk. Thank you." She lets go, sheepish, and subsides back into her chair, pale once again. "I should probably... go, though. It's been... I still kinda feel sick." Disappointment in the voice, over her own psyche's failings.
Lips twist wry, and a glance speeds towards the garbage can and its innocuous baggage. "Few guys puked at the prison," Rossi grants, collecting the file and striding wide to throw open the door. Stale air, fresh by comparison, floods the room with its touch of chill. Autumn cometh. "You wouldn't be the first. C'mon, kid. Let's get out of here." Dampened by tears, jogged by wrath, the conference room flicks to darkness at the toss of a switch, and broods over mutants and men.
[Log ends]