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Old Brownstone Apts #210 - Rossi
An ancient, faded elegance sketches the boundaries of this apartment, hinted at in crown molding and worn, faded floors. High walls span to high ceilings, pale yellow with the barest of white trim; at one end, three high windows gape to let in day's light or night's dark with equal indifference. A small kitchen pocks a hollow in one wall, a doorless entry that offers glimpses of an metal-framed refrigerator and a cabinet-hung microwave. On the other side of the small living room, a short hallway offers entrances to bathroom and bedroom, both doors battered with the wear and tear of age.
In the living room are the basic accoutrements of comfort: sofas, chairs, table, television. Spartan accessories, betraying little of the owner; that task is left for the walls, hung with pictures of family and friends. Through them all runs the thread of blue, NYPD's uniform tailored to pride and vigor.
Pacing. Leah's pacing. She can do that; she's apparently quite good at it. Practiced, even. Polished! And pacing, in old Rangers jersey and darker blue sweats, up and down the beautifully clean hardwood floor of her living room. Her cordless phone's going along for the ride, which stops long enough for her to punch in a number, and then baaaaack to pacing. And ringing.
And ringing. And ringing. And ... answering, at the end of a stretched, bronzed arm -- who knows from what sun -- and a drowsy, reluctant stir of voice. "Yo," it says, (Greeting! Greeting!) and succumbs so far to courtesy as to add: "Rossi."
"Detective," comes Leah's voice after a breath's caesura. "Ah, hell. I got you up."
"Wasn't sleeping," informs the furry baritone, pitched in darkness, like the room. Rossi cracks open an eye, exploring the living room with a bemused roll. Sofa. Beer. Television, painting reflected color like parchment illumination across his stretch. "I was--" What? "--thinking."
Leah draws long and fine, Brooklyn's best alto taffy, "About--?"
Its echoes drape sugary tendrils around Chris's fuzzy head, stretching a line for him to follow: back to the waking world, and the enticements of forgotten beer. "Stuff," he answers, after thought. Elucidates, a moment later, with a dignified, "Important stuff. --What's up?"
A tired chuckle rewards him with a shiny candy all his own. "Nothing. Not you, apparently. Look, I can call back. No big deal." Happy, fluffy Leah. Still pacing, but slower.
"Nah," says the man, dispensing reply to all (or nothing) in one generous swoop. Cushions rustle under his hitch up, a heel plowing him back to settle his head on the sofa's arm. "I'm awake. Listen. This is me, being awake. What time is it? --I was going over some case notes. Boring shit."
"Do you ever leave work /at/ work?" Leah has to wonder. Her happy loses a little fluffy: settling into business, now.
"Sure. Beston's not here," says Chris, a grin meandering across the lazy baritone. A yawn, too, swallowed with a crackle and hiccup. Rossi tips his gaze to the television, marvels at its midget inhabitants, and advises, "I can have him here in two shakes of a dog's tail if you want him. Hot stuff."
Leah makes a low noise. "I don't know if I could handle both of you at once. Goodness. I'm getting the vapors; let me sit down." Which she does do, perching on the back of the couch and rubbing a hand over her eyes. Fingers stay tented there; under them, she blinks at the floor and her bare feet. Hi, toes. "Think I'll stick with one hot stuff at a time. Which is why I called."
Hi, WB. Curiosity knits Rossi's brow as the television betrays his masculine sensitivities; he gropes for the remote, a flail of an arm that nets case notes and photographs and sends them sprawling. "Shit. --You need me for something?" There. The background buzz clicks off. Chris drops his head on his shoulder, face half-buried in cushions. Mmf. "Got some furniture you need moved?"
A laugh that jangles before silence swallows it. "Mmm. No," says Leah. "I ... actually wanted to apologize. For the whole me-on-you-on-the-couch thing. Sorry."
Apologize. Chris opens his eyes wide at the darkness, drowsiness banished. "Yeah?" he says, interested. Oh, so interested. (And oh, so wary, though only the cushions get to see it.) "What about it?"
Leah manages to transmit a shrug over the line. "Wasn't my finest moment," she answers dryly. Brittle, in fact. "God knows I was upset about Aaron, but ... probably better ways to show it, huh?"
"Jumping me?" asks Rossi, pulling up his knee to scratch at his calf. The errant gaze turns to the ceiling, as though to winkle out Leah's position through the plaster. "I guess. Probably shouldn't tell him about it when he wakes up. --How's he doing, anyway?"
Silence. Then, heartfelt: "Shit. I never even thought about if he -- well, damn." Leah pinches the bridge of her nose, hard. Another laugh, this one choked with rue like a weedy gutter. "I'll have to have the 'seeing other people' talk with him. You know, after he wakes up. If he does. I don't know how he's doing. Shit. The same, I guess."
"It's early days anyway." The free forearm crosses the broad brow, fingers loosened to curl around splayed hair and padded upholstery. "Even if he was conscious. Then again, I don't know how you are with relationships. If it bothers you, though -- not that /I/ mind," Chris notes, husking amused heat across the aether. "Open door policy on me, you know that."
"I know." Soft, not hot. Thoughtful, say. Leah sighs. "I know that. No, it doesn't bother me. I just hadn't thought -- I don't know. I'm rambling. God. Someone smack me."
There's the vibration of a chuckle ruffling the reply. "Can't reach. Get down here and I will." Obliging Chris.
"Bastard." Fondly.
"Asshole," he corrects. "Or if you're feeling good, asshat."
"Asshaberdashery," Leah concludes with rolling satisfaction. "You /would/ whack me one, wouldn't you? That's what I like best about you, Rossi. Always know how to treat a lady."
Says the gentleman, gravely, "All I know're /women/. You find a lady, point her out to me. None coming out of Brooklyn."
"Can't wait to tell your mother that. Who'll she find to hook up with you, make a proper man outta you?"
"You got doubts I'm a proper man, Canto, get your ass down here and I'll prove it."
Leah's hand slides down to cover her mouth for a moment of half-lidded eyes and stilled breath. "To my ass?" she rallies. "My ass is a little sore, sorry. Had a tumble in the park the other night. I'm all kinds of bruised and battered."
In his apartment, Chris lazes a crooked smile for the edification of his television, his flat beer, and his inquisitive ceiling. "What happened? You trip over that chip on your shoulder? Should get you one of those alert gizmos. 'Help, I've fallen and I can't get up!' Patch it into dispatch. Beston and me'll come running."
"Asshole," Leah spits out with feline disdain (and feminine dismay). "That's not funny, come on. You should see my legs. I've got bandages and everything."
"What happened?" Chris repeats, chivying curiosity out of its slumber to arch its back across his tongue. It bats at Leah with a soft paw, picking its delicate way across: "How badly'd you hurt yourself?"
"I was attacked," Leah says quietly.
Silence. Green eyes open to luminous black. "Yeah?"
Native alto drops further. Thickens. Shakes. "By -- oh, God -- by /bushes./ Right there in the park, Chris!"
The curse that answers is a less wholesome thing, ripped and shredded into bloody tatters from exasperation. "Goddammit, Canto," Chris snaps -- but there's laughter behind it, squashed flat by determination. (Relief wheels away, unacknowledged.) "That's not funny."
"Yes," Leah says serenely while her face contorts and eyes flood, "it is. It's incredibly funny, and I got you good. Not bad, huh? Old girl's still got it."
"/I'm/ funny," Chris informs, the words moody over a grin's alleviating color. "I fucking kill. Nobody'll will believe me. Sucks. --C'mon down anyway, kid, and I'll take care of those scratched up legs."
Leah wipes at her face. "Yeah, right. You got a masseuse hiding in the closet?"
"Homegrown skill. One time offer, tonight only. Or tomorrow." Hospitable man. He pauses, reconsiders, then tacks on with placid honesty, "--or the day after. Pretty much anytime. I'm good with my hands."
A hasty thumb gets the mute button, and Leah draws in a long, sniffling breath. Pushes a fresh one out again. There. Unmuted, she says cheerfully, "Sure, why not? But no jumping. I have my virtue to think of. Or yours. What /would/ your mother say--"
"You really want to know?" There's throat-tickling mirth in there, pulled from the bell of chest. "Julia told Mom we were sleeping together."
Leah whimpers. "And?"
Chris grins at the night. Grins at the phone and its small sounds: like stomped mice. "She said it was about time, apparently."
"Oh, God. She's ordering the wedding china. I can hear it from here."
"Likes you better than the last few chicks she knew about," Chris says, stretching -- arching, arcing, flexing -- the long frame across the sofa. Muscles elongate, reveling in ache; the baritone attenuates in sympathy, pressed taut over a yawn. "Think she's pretty much given up on me getting married, though. Hasn't said a word about it in a few months."
Leah goes back to pacing. And frowning. "Huh. Haven't gotten it from my mom, either. Must be something in the wa--why am I still talking? I'll be down in a sec. Get out the heated oil, loverboy. My legs hurt like hell." Click.
The furred baritone chuckles again, quiet in triumph, and Rossi rolls off the sofa to pad towards the kitchen. By the time Leah arrives, there are candles to break the darkness, fat-bottomed flames on counter and television to steal shadow from night-loving eyes. Clad in T-shirt and sweats, Chris occupies himself with clean-up. No more case files. Fresh beer to replace the flat.
A quick, soft knock heralds her arrival. Leah didn't bother to freshen up anything about her person, so the candles' flickering light will have to provide cover for wanly circled eyes, slightly hesitant steps, once she's in. She does run a hand through her hair, starfished distraction. Then knocks again.
It's open. Of course it's open. Rossi pops it open anyway, a chilled beer in one hand already readied for Leah. He extends it in lieu of greeting, eyes' smile sleepy -- deceptively so -- in the light-limned face. "I was expecting a black eye, at least. Maybe a missing tooth. They don't grow bushes like they used to."
Leah takes the beer with queenly grace, but it's a tart's lazy greed that oozes her up against him to take something else. Kiss. Now. "That," she tells him, wide-eyed, "doesn't count as jumping. I need to sit down. Move."
Rossi moves, obedient in deed if not in execution; the flagrant arrogance, the heavy-eyed self-satisfaction belies it. "Take the couch," he invites, nudging the door shut to gutter flames in its draft. "How bad d'you hurt yourself, anyway?"
"Oh, not that badly, I guess. Tore through my jeans, anyway. Cheap shit; teach me to shop at outlet malls, huh?" Leah swigs beer, swings it around to clink onto the coffee table. Falls onto the couch, with leg hitched up to let her pull up the blue sweats. Bandages wrap thin gauze around high ankle and calf; faint shadows under the white, even in the candlelight, suggest multiple wounds. She cocks her head back at him. "Nurse said that it would've been better if the foliage weren't already falling off. All branches, baby, all poking into me."
A sympathetic hiss snakes between tongue and teeth at the sight of the bandages. Chris drowns ophidian commentary in his own beer, planting it on the coffee table like a giddy fern before seating himself on the table's ledge. Elbows on knees, hands loosely clasped between, he leans to inspect injury with a professional eye. "That's some mess," he judges. "What'd you do, frolic in it?"
Leah aims a cuff his way. "You ever get tangled up in those monsters? They need to slash and burn the fucking underbrush. I tripped, I tried to get out, I ended up getting eaten alive in the damn bushes. Didn't even get the chance to see Aaron," she notes after a slender moment. "Went to the ER before I bled all over the train. I'll have to see him tomorrow or something."
"I tell you I went to visit?" asks Chris, ducking handily out of her reach like the practiced brother of Julia Rossi that he is. Bob and weave and /dance/-- "Met his sister. E...den. No, wait. Eve. Throws me that he's named Aaron," complaint adds. One arm stretches toward the injured leg, wide palm opened for a tentative exploration. "You want some ice for that?"
Leah's hand folds around his, puts it firmly on her leg. "I do not, contrary to evidence before your wondering eyes, Rossi, /break./ And no, the swelling's pretty much gone down by now. This happened Sunday. I'll be all good in a week or so, huh?" She sinks back into the cushions then. Rolls her head, rolls her eyelids to half-mast. "Eve. Yeah. She's fun, in that manic, ball-busting kind of way I know you love so well."
"It's hot," Rossi says gravely. "Turns me on like a Christmas tree. What can I say? I've been ruined by Brooklyn women. --Take it you two get along?" The hand under hers stirs, retreating from that authoritative clasp; it turns instead to the plane of her cheek, the backs of fingers tracing the delicate line of temple to chin.
Soft, neat, nibbly teeth sink into his thumb, and Leah smiles. "Mm." Releasing caught flesh, she stretches out that leg and then the other one along the couch. "Yeah, I guess. We're both worried about her brother and pissed at the docs. That'll do it every time."
Muses Chris, reclaiming his hand, "I should meet more women that way. In hospitals." Fingers tangle, clasping between the cradle of knees. Shoulders and spine curl into the collapsing haven of warmth, heart-heat, stomach-heat, so the upturned head can study Leah from darkness. Light behind him; shadow before him: "She seemed pretty mellow, all things considered. Reminds me. Beston says he owes you a beer?"
"Wasn't there something about making my poor legs feel better?" Leah inquires of the ceiling, the shadows, the light. "I seem to recall.... Oh! He did?" Real pleasure shies through her voice. "That's sweet of him. I'll give him a call sometime. Tell him for me?"
"/Why/ does he owe you a beer?" asks the trusting partner, suspicion a deep-dug landmine in his face. "What'd you two do behind my back?"
Leah widens her eyes again. "Nothing."
Rossi's eyes narrow.
Leah insists, "Nothing. When the hell do I get the leg thing out of you?"
"Tell me," insists Rossi. "Then you get legs."
Drama flings Leah's head back into the giving cushions. "God. /Nothing./ I'm serious, Chris. I bought him one last time we got together, and he's a fucking stickler for that kind of thing. With me, anyway. The courtly-gentleman schtick he likes to pull to make me feel nice. And /speaking/ of making me feel nice, get the fuck to work on my legs. Now."
Amusement snorts -- "Bossy bitch," -- but Chris complies, nonetheless. He shifts to the couch, perching a hip on its edge; strong hands press warmth into her thigh, cajoling heat between them before probing for an easy massage. "Never figured what he saw in you. Beston's got some crappy taste in women."
Leah sighs into relaxation, still pettish, but easing. "We like each other. Sometimes, idiot, it's as simple as that."
"He's still got crappy taste in women," Rossi notes. "He's dating again. You believe that? I'm starting to lose track which wife he'd be on if he got married again."
"Five," Leah says dreamily. "Keep doing that. I'm never going to move again."
Chris chuckles, and presses an idle kiss on the knee before coaxing it up so thumbs can work on the thigh's back. His chin rests gently on that new-formed pedestal. "You seen Alyssa lately?"
Leah half-twists around him, presses thigh into him, runs an idle hand up his shirt. "No," she says, quietly sober again. "Kinda been busy, what with the falling into bushes and all. You?"
"She dropped by the precinct this afternoon." A smile peels itself out of shadow, half-lit in a phantom mask. "Brought John cookies and hot chocolate. I missed her. She's been doing ridealongs with Horschach."
Acerbically, Leah hopes, "And learning something about the real world."
Lips twist askew. "A little more than I was figuring on," Chris admits. "She's changed some, if you haven't seen her in a while."
The hand works its way up under the shirt. Cool fingers; warm muscles. Leah makes her words light: "Still a mutant, though, I imagine."
"Yeah." The word is agreement (puzzled) and question (also puzzled) through the arch of brows. Chris's hands pause, bleeding heat through sweats and into skin and bone.
Leah shakes her head a little; she's not quite looking at him. Her knee is a convenient resting point instead. "Just a joke. Don't get your panties in a bunch."
One hand slaps, a sharp little bite more token than meant. "I got no grief," Chris notes, that bemused note tripping through the baritone. The massage returns to its purpose, roving further down avenues explored before. "Hey. Tucci said you had some pieces lately."
Slowly Leah sits up. "Yeah? When did he learn how to read?"
"I think he might've tripped over a dictionary on Sunday," Chris grins into the knee's press. "You should've told me you were getting work. I would've taken you out to dinner to celebrate."
Leah presses into him in turn, and her answer comes out accordingly muffled. "It's no big deal, really. A piece here, a piece there. On TV last week. They want me back next week. It's not worth dinner. Believe me," she insists, softly, softly, her mouth pressing against the fabric of his shirt, breathing the words through breathing cotton.
Admits Chris, apologetic, "Didn't see it. I'll keep an eye out if you have more pieces." Loyal friend. Haphazard reader. His hands slide up, up, capturing arms and molding to the curve of muscle there, fine-grained and sinuous. "It's been a rough few weeks. Flu's got half the squadroom down, and we picked up this case from Kant-- anyway."
"I don't mind talking about work," Leah tells him, mouth crooked down. "Not as blue as some people in the room, but when you gotta talk, you gotta talk, right? Bad case?"
"Six year old girl," says Chris by way of answer, his face shuttering into shadow. "Beston's primary. Doesn't matter. What about your deal? Business picking up? This a trend, or a fluke?"
Leah tosses off, "We'll see, won't we?" as she slides around into kissing him again: light, slow strokes up his jawline to the pendulous warmth of earlobe. "Trend. I hope. I think. Stuff goes in cycles. Cycling around for me now. But ... we'll see. --God, you smell good."
Chris's eyes lid, half hooding at the caress, the jesses of reserve leaving his hands in safety's aerie: thighs, knees, bandaged calves. "I showered," he informs on a solemn cadence, turning his own face into move lips against skin. The clean line of jaw; the soft sensitivity of throat. "I used soap and everything. Squeaky clean. --Was it good stuff? The work, I mean."
"Better than a six-year-old," Leah answers when she has the breath (caught, hot--) for it. "I approve of soap. You need to try it more often."
"Goes in cycles," murmurs Chris, venturing back to explore with lips, with hands, with the press of body. Green smiles through lashes as brow touches brow, pressed the one to the other in intimacy. "Cycling around for me now. I even shampoo, these days."
Leah tells him smugly, "Well, I'll have to see that for myself," and then she rises up against him, sudden and capturing with arms and those pale-bandaged legs. She kisses. She grins. "Later."
His couch. His turn. Grin meets grin and Chris leans to meet her, couching -- bedding -- with rising hunger. "Much later," he agrees, baritone a furred thing, alive and lucid. "Staying the night?"
"If you don't mind," comes modest reply and then immodest hedonist's delight. His couch, his turn -- doesn't count? Leah nips lips urgently at his, still smiling (though eyes, eyes bruised by candlelight), and sets them off on the pursuit of that 'later.'
[Log ends]
Old Brownstone Apts #210 - Rossi
An ancient, faded elegance sketches the boundaries of this apartment, hinted at in crown molding and worn, faded floors. High walls span to high ceilings, pale yellow with the barest of white trim; at one end, three high windows gape to let in day's light or night's dark with equal indifference. A small kitchen pocks a hollow in one wall, a doorless entry that offers glimpses of an metal-framed refrigerator and a cabinet-hung microwave. On the other side of the small living room, a short hallway offers entrances to bathroom and bedroom, both doors battered with the wear and tear of age.
In the living room are the basic accoutrements of comfort: sofas, chairs, table, television. Spartan accessories, betraying little of the owner; that task is left for the walls, hung with pictures of family and friends. Through them all runs the thread of blue, NYPD's uniform tailored to pride and vigor.
Pacing. Leah's pacing. She can do that; she's apparently quite good at it. Practiced, even. Polished! And pacing, in old Rangers jersey and darker blue sweats, up and down the beautifully clean hardwood floor of her living room. Her cordless phone's going along for the ride, which stops long enough for her to punch in a number, and then baaaaack to pacing. And ringing.
And ringing. And ringing. And ... answering, at the end of a stretched, bronzed arm -- who knows from what sun -- and a drowsy, reluctant stir of voice. "Yo," it says, (Greeting! Greeting!) and succumbs so far to courtesy as to add: "Rossi."
"Detective," comes Leah's voice after a breath's caesura. "Ah, hell. I got you up."
"Wasn't sleeping," informs the furry baritone, pitched in darkness, like the room. Rossi cracks open an eye, exploring the living room with a bemused roll. Sofa. Beer. Television, painting reflected color like parchment illumination across his stretch. "I was--" What? "--thinking."
Leah draws long and fine, Brooklyn's best alto taffy, "About--?"
Its echoes drape sugary tendrils around Chris's fuzzy head, stretching a line for him to follow: back to the waking world, and the enticements of forgotten beer. "Stuff," he answers, after thought. Elucidates, a moment later, with a dignified, "Important stuff. --What's up?"
A tired chuckle rewards him with a shiny candy all his own. "Nothing. Not you, apparently. Look, I can call back. No big deal." Happy, fluffy Leah. Still pacing, but slower.
"Nah," says the man, dispensing reply to all (or nothing) in one generous swoop. Cushions rustle under his hitch up, a heel plowing him back to settle his head on the sofa's arm. "I'm awake. Listen. This is me, being awake. What time is it? --I was going over some case notes. Boring shit."
"Do you ever leave work /at/ work?" Leah has to wonder. Her happy loses a little fluffy: settling into business, now.
"Sure. Beston's not here," says Chris, a grin meandering across the lazy baritone. A yawn, too, swallowed with a crackle and hiccup. Rossi tips his gaze to the television, marvels at its midget inhabitants, and advises, "I can have him here in two shakes of a dog's tail if you want him. Hot stuff."
Leah makes a low noise. "I don't know if I could handle both of you at once. Goodness. I'm getting the vapors; let me sit down." Which she does do, perching on the back of the couch and rubbing a hand over her eyes. Fingers stay tented there; under them, she blinks at the floor and her bare feet. Hi, toes. "Think I'll stick with one hot stuff at a time. Which is why I called."
Hi, WB. Curiosity knits Rossi's brow as the television betrays his masculine sensitivities; he gropes for the remote, a flail of an arm that nets case notes and photographs and sends them sprawling. "Shit. --You need me for something?" There. The background buzz clicks off. Chris drops his head on his shoulder, face half-buried in cushions. Mmf. "Got some furniture you need moved?"
A laugh that jangles before silence swallows it. "Mmm. No," says Leah. "I ... actually wanted to apologize. For the whole me-on-you-on-the-couch thing. Sorry."
Apologize. Chris opens his eyes wide at the darkness, drowsiness banished. "Yeah?" he says, interested. Oh, so interested. (And oh, so wary, though only the cushions get to see it.) "What about it?"
Leah manages to transmit a shrug over the line. "Wasn't my finest moment," she answers dryly. Brittle, in fact. "God knows I was upset about Aaron, but ... probably better ways to show it, huh?"
"Jumping me?" asks Rossi, pulling up his knee to scratch at his calf. The errant gaze turns to the ceiling, as though to winkle out Leah's position through the plaster. "I guess. Probably shouldn't tell him about it when he wakes up. --How's he doing, anyway?"
Silence. Then, heartfelt: "Shit. I never even thought about if he -- well, damn." Leah pinches the bridge of her nose, hard. Another laugh, this one choked with rue like a weedy gutter. "I'll have to have the 'seeing other people' talk with him. You know, after he wakes up. If he does. I don't know how he's doing. Shit. The same, I guess."
"It's early days anyway." The free forearm crosses the broad brow, fingers loosened to curl around splayed hair and padded upholstery. "Even if he was conscious. Then again, I don't know how you are with relationships. If it bothers you, though -- not that /I/ mind," Chris notes, husking amused heat across the aether. "Open door policy on me, you know that."
"I know." Soft, not hot. Thoughtful, say. Leah sighs. "I know that. No, it doesn't bother me. I just hadn't thought -- I don't know. I'm rambling. God. Someone smack me."
There's the vibration of a chuckle ruffling the reply. "Can't reach. Get down here and I will." Obliging Chris.
"Bastard." Fondly.
"Asshole," he corrects. "Or if you're feeling good, asshat."
"Asshaberdashery," Leah concludes with rolling satisfaction. "You /would/ whack me one, wouldn't you? That's what I like best about you, Rossi. Always know how to treat a lady."
Says the gentleman, gravely, "All I know're /women/. You find a lady, point her out to me. None coming out of Brooklyn."
"Can't wait to tell your mother that. Who'll she find to hook up with you, make a proper man outta you?"
"You got doubts I'm a proper man, Canto, get your ass down here and I'll prove it."
Leah's hand slides down to cover her mouth for a moment of half-lidded eyes and stilled breath. "To my ass?" she rallies. "My ass is a little sore, sorry. Had a tumble in the park the other night. I'm all kinds of bruised and battered."
In his apartment, Chris lazes a crooked smile for the edification of his television, his flat beer, and his inquisitive ceiling. "What happened? You trip over that chip on your shoulder? Should get you one of those alert gizmos. 'Help, I've fallen and I can't get up!' Patch it into dispatch. Beston and me'll come running."
"Asshole," Leah spits out with feline disdain (and feminine dismay). "That's not funny, come on. You should see my legs. I've got bandages and everything."
"What happened?" Chris repeats, chivying curiosity out of its slumber to arch its back across his tongue. It bats at Leah with a soft paw, picking its delicate way across: "How badly'd you hurt yourself?"
"I was attacked," Leah says quietly.
Silence. Green eyes open to luminous black. "Yeah?"
Native alto drops further. Thickens. Shakes. "By -- oh, God -- by /bushes./ Right there in the park, Chris!"
The curse that answers is a less wholesome thing, ripped and shredded into bloody tatters from exasperation. "Goddammit, Canto," Chris snaps -- but there's laughter behind it, squashed flat by determination. (Relief wheels away, unacknowledged.) "That's not funny."
"Yes," Leah says serenely while her face contorts and eyes flood, "it is. It's incredibly funny, and I got you good. Not bad, huh? Old girl's still got it."
"/I'm/ funny," Chris informs, the words moody over a grin's alleviating color. "I fucking kill. Nobody'll will believe me. Sucks. --C'mon down anyway, kid, and I'll take care of those scratched up legs."
Leah wipes at her face. "Yeah, right. You got a masseuse hiding in the closet?"
"Homegrown skill. One time offer, tonight only. Or tomorrow." Hospitable man. He pauses, reconsiders, then tacks on with placid honesty, "--or the day after. Pretty much anytime. I'm good with my hands."
A hasty thumb gets the mute button, and Leah draws in a long, sniffling breath. Pushes a fresh one out again. There. Unmuted, she says cheerfully, "Sure, why not? But no jumping. I have my virtue to think of. Or yours. What /would/ your mother say--"
"You really want to know?" There's throat-tickling mirth in there, pulled from the bell of chest. "Julia told Mom we were sleeping together."
Leah whimpers. "And?"
Chris grins at the night. Grins at the phone and its small sounds: like stomped mice. "She said it was about time, apparently."
"Oh, God. She's ordering the wedding china. I can hear it from here."
"Likes you better than the last few chicks she knew about," Chris says, stretching -- arching, arcing, flexing -- the long frame across the sofa. Muscles elongate, reveling in ache; the baritone attenuates in sympathy, pressed taut over a yawn. "Think she's pretty much given up on me getting married, though. Hasn't said a word about it in a few months."
Leah goes back to pacing. And frowning. "Huh. Haven't gotten it from my mom, either. Must be something in the wa--why am I still talking? I'll be down in a sec. Get out the heated oil, loverboy. My legs hurt like hell." Click.
The furred baritone chuckles again, quiet in triumph, and Rossi rolls off the sofa to pad towards the kitchen. By the time Leah arrives, there are candles to break the darkness, fat-bottomed flames on counter and television to steal shadow from night-loving eyes. Clad in T-shirt and sweats, Chris occupies himself with clean-up. No more case files. Fresh beer to replace the flat.
A quick, soft knock heralds her arrival. Leah didn't bother to freshen up anything about her person, so the candles' flickering light will have to provide cover for wanly circled eyes, slightly hesitant steps, once she's in. She does run a hand through her hair, starfished distraction. Then knocks again.
It's open. Of course it's open. Rossi pops it open anyway, a chilled beer in one hand already readied for Leah. He extends it in lieu of greeting, eyes' smile sleepy -- deceptively so -- in the light-limned face. "I was expecting a black eye, at least. Maybe a missing tooth. They don't grow bushes like they used to."
Leah takes the beer with queenly grace, but it's a tart's lazy greed that oozes her up against him to take something else. Kiss. Now. "That," she tells him, wide-eyed, "doesn't count as jumping. I need to sit down. Move."
Rossi moves, obedient in deed if not in execution; the flagrant arrogance, the heavy-eyed self-satisfaction belies it. "Take the couch," he invites, nudging the door shut to gutter flames in its draft. "How bad d'you hurt yourself, anyway?"
"Oh, not that badly, I guess. Tore through my jeans, anyway. Cheap shit; teach me to shop at outlet malls, huh?" Leah swigs beer, swings it around to clink onto the coffee table. Falls onto the couch, with leg hitched up to let her pull up the blue sweats. Bandages wrap thin gauze around high ankle and calf; faint shadows under the white, even in the candlelight, suggest multiple wounds. She cocks her head back at him. "Nurse said that it would've been better if the foliage weren't already falling off. All branches, baby, all poking into me."
A sympathetic hiss snakes between tongue and teeth at the sight of the bandages. Chris drowns ophidian commentary in his own beer, planting it on the coffee table like a giddy fern before seating himself on the table's ledge. Elbows on knees, hands loosely clasped between, he leans to inspect injury with a professional eye. "That's some mess," he judges. "What'd you do, frolic in it?"
Leah aims a cuff his way. "You ever get tangled up in those monsters? They need to slash and burn the fucking underbrush. I tripped, I tried to get out, I ended up getting eaten alive in the damn bushes. Didn't even get the chance to see Aaron," she notes after a slender moment. "Went to the ER before I bled all over the train. I'll have to see him tomorrow or something."
"I tell you I went to visit?" asks Chris, ducking handily out of her reach like the practiced brother of Julia Rossi that he is. Bob and weave and /dance/-- "Met his sister. E...den. No, wait. Eve. Throws me that he's named Aaron," complaint adds. One arm stretches toward the injured leg, wide palm opened for a tentative exploration. "You want some ice for that?"
Leah's hand folds around his, puts it firmly on her leg. "I do not, contrary to evidence before your wondering eyes, Rossi, /break./ And no, the swelling's pretty much gone down by now. This happened Sunday. I'll be all good in a week or so, huh?" She sinks back into the cushions then. Rolls her head, rolls her eyelids to half-mast. "Eve. Yeah. She's fun, in that manic, ball-busting kind of way I know you love so well."
"It's hot," Rossi says gravely. "Turns me on like a Christmas tree. What can I say? I've been ruined by Brooklyn women. --Take it you two get along?" The hand under hers stirs, retreating from that authoritative clasp; it turns instead to the plane of her cheek, the backs of fingers tracing the delicate line of temple to chin.
Soft, neat, nibbly teeth sink into his thumb, and Leah smiles. "Mm." Releasing caught flesh, she stretches out that leg and then the other one along the couch. "Yeah, I guess. We're both worried about her brother and pissed at the docs. That'll do it every time."
Muses Chris, reclaiming his hand, "I should meet more women that way. In hospitals." Fingers tangle, clasping between the cradle of knees. Shoulders and spine curl into the collapsing haven of warmth, heart-heat, stomach-heat, so the upturned head can study Leah from darkness. Light behind him; shadow before him: "She seemed pretty mellow, all things considered. Reminds me. Beston says he owes you a beer?"
"Wasn't there something about making my poor legs feel better?" Leah inquires of the ceiling, the shadows, the light. "I seem to recall.... Oh! He did?" Real pleasure shies through her voice. "That's sweet of him. I'll give him a call sometime. Tell him for me?"
"/Why/ does he owe you a beer?" asks the trusting partner, suspicion a deep-dug landmine in his face. "What'd you two do behind my back?"
Leah widens her eyes again. "Nothing."
Rossi's eyes narrow.
Leah insists, "Nothing. When the hell do I get the leg thing out of you?"
"Tell me," insists Rossi. "Then you get legs."
Drama flings Leah's head back into the giving cushions. "God. /Nothing./ I'm serious, Chris. I bought him one last time we got together, and he's a fucking stickler for that kind of thing. With me, anyway. The courtly-gentleman schtick he likes to pull to make me feel nice. And /speaking/ of making me feel nice, get the fuck to work on my legs. Now."
Amusement snorts -- "Bossy bitch," -- but Chris complies, nonetheless. He shifts to the couch, perching a hip on its edge; strong hands press warmth into her thigh, cajoling heat between them before probing for an easy massage. "Never figured what he saw in you. Beston's got some crappy taste in women."
Leah sighs into relaxation, still pettish, but easing. "We like each other. Sometimes, idiot, it's as simple as that."
"He's still got crappy taste in women," Rossi notes. "He's dating again. You believe that? I'm starting to lose track which wife he'd be on if he got married again."
"Five," Leah says dreamily. "Keep doing that. I'm never going to move again."
Chris chuckles, and presses an idle kiss on the knee before coaxing it up so thumbs can work on the thigh's back. His chin rests gently on that new-formed pedestal. "You seen Alyssa lately?"
Leah half-twists around him, presses thigh into him, runs an idle hand up his shirt. "No," she says, quietly sober again. "Kinda been busy, what with the falling into bushes and all. You?"
"She dropped by the precinct this afternoon." A smile peels itself out of shadow, half-lit in a phantom mask. "Brought John cookies and hot chocolate. I missed her. She's been doing ridealongs with Horschach."
Acerbically, Leah hopes, "And learning something about the real world."
Lips twist askew. "A little more than I was figuring on," Chris admits. "She's changed some, if you haven't seen her in a while."
The hand works its way up under the shirt. Cool fingers; warm muscles. Leah makes her words light: "Still a mutant, though, I imagine."
"Yeah." The word is agreement (puzzled) and question (also puzzled) through the arch of brows. Chris's hands pause, bleeding heat through sweats and into skin and bone.
Leah shakes her head a little; she's not quite looking at him. Her knee is a convenient resting point instead. "Just a joke. Don't get your panties in a bunch."
One hand slaps, a sharp little bite more token than meant. "I got no grief," Chris notes, that bemused note tripping through the baritone. The massage returns to its purpose, roving further down avenues explored before. "Hey. Tucci said you had some pieces lately."
Slowly Leah sits up. "Yeah? When did he learn how to read?"
"I think he might've tripped over a dictionary on Sunday," Chris grins into the knee's press. "You should've told me you were getting work. I would've taken you out to dinner to celebrate."
Leah presses into him in turn, and her answer comes out accordingly muffled. "It's no big deal, really. A piece here, a piece there. On TV last week. They want me back next week. It's not worth dinner. Believe me," she insists, softly, softly, her mouth pressing against the fabric of his shirt, breathing the words through breathing cotton.
Admits Chris, apologetic, "Didn't see it. I'll keep an eye out if you have more pieces." Loyal friend. Haphazard reader. His hands slide up, up, capturing arms and molding to the curve of muscle there, fine-grained and sinuous. "It's been a rough few weeks. Flu's got half the squadroom down, and we picked up this case from Kant-- anyway."
"I don't mind talking about work," Leah tells him, mouth crooked down. "Not as blue as some people in the room, but when you gotta talk, you gotta talk, right? Bad case?"
"Six year old girl," says Chris by way of answer, his face shuttering into shadow. "Beston's primary. Doesn't matter. What about your deal? Business picking up? This a trend, or a fluke?"
Leah tosses off, "We'll see, won't we?" as she slides around into kissing him again: light, slow strokes up his jawline to the pendulous warmth of earlobe. "Trend. I hope. I think. Stuff goes in cycles. Cycling around for me now. But ... we'll see. --God, you smell good."
Chris's eyes lid, half hooding at the caress, the jesses of reserve leaving his hands in safety's aerie: thighs, knees, bandaged calves. "I showered," he informs on a solemn cadence, turning his own face into move lips against skin. The clean line of jaw; the soft sensitivity of throat. "I used soap and everything. Squeaky clean. --Was it good stuff? The work, I mean."
"Better than a six-year-old," Leah answers when she has the breath (caught, hot--) for it. "I approve of soap. You need to try it more often."
"Goes in cycles," murmurs Chris, venturing back to explore with lips, with hands, with the press of body. Green smiles through lashes as brow touches brow, pressed the one to the other in intimacy. "Cycling around for me now. I even shampoo, these days."
Leah tells him smugly, "Well, I'll have to see that for myself," and then she rises up against him, sudden and capturing with arms and those pale-bandaged legs. She kisses. She grins. "Later."
His couch. His turn. Grin meets grin and Chris leans to meet her, couching -- bedding -- with rising hunger. "Much later," he agrees, baritone a furred thing, alive and lucid. "Staying the night?"
"If you don't mind," comes modest reply and then immodest hedonist's delight. His couch, his turn -- doesn't count? Leah nips lips urgently at his, still smiling (though eyes, eyes bruised by candlelight), and sets them off on the pursuit of that 'later.'
[Log ends]