Errands
Fucker Tucci. Goofing off on the way to check out the Protective Services people, and he's taking my car to pieces. Popped off the damn radio dial and put it in his mouth. Had to slam on the brakes for some suicidal tourist, asshole swallows it. Perfect. Son of a bitch promised to replace it, and in the meantime I've got teeny-bopper music coming out of my radio. Can't even turn the damned thing off. Asshole's so cheap, I don't put it past him to wait until the damn dial makes its way through to the toilet and just wash it off....
Stopped by Xavier to check up on the exploding kid. Who the hell names their kid 'Xavier,' anyway? Asking to get his ass kicked. Suppose it's different for rich kids. In that income bracket, the schoolyard bully's probably named Percy. Should ask Talhurst if he was the big cock on the walk when he was growing up.
More tired than I thought. Can't keep my brain together. Going all over the place. Jeremy seemed pretty happy. Good kid. Already being fed cookies by Alyssa, not that this is a surprise. Count on her to make friends with the new boy.
Amati. Need to remember to cross-check those phone numbers. Email. Get Yamaguchi on that, maybe try to pull Rickard from that cybercrimes group. Shouldn't have pushed that pediatrician angle, but I swear there's something there. Physical evidence, my ass.
Need to grab some sleep before I head back to the precinct. Who's afraid of the dark?
---
<> Main Entrance - Lv1
The foyer entrance preceding the Great Hall is elegant, like the rest of the mansion. Dark-colored wood-panel walls are lined with sconces and a particularly long array of hat and coat pegs for students and staff alike to hang their garments on as they seek safety from the elements, outside. In front of the grand-doors, a rubber mat is layed out for feet to be wiped upon, but it's a rather pathetic attempt in the springtime, when rambunctious students track in mud from one corner of the estate to the other.
Sunday afternoon, and a weekday at a boarding school makes for quiet: amusements are to be had elsewhere, in the city, in the stables, in playrooms and rec rooms. In the great hall of Xavier school, peace holds sway, draped in swathes rich, autumnal light. For the visitor who idles beside one of them, it is the tranquility of the gardens outside that attract interest, more seductive than the elegance within. Fatigue wears Chris Rossi like a well-loved coat, shrugged on with the comfort of familiarity; he props his shoulder against a wall and waits in patience, drowsing behind open, shadow-painted eyes.
The hurried patter of sneakers across the floor heralds the youthful energy of Jeremy's approach. He moves into view at a swift bob, brown curls bouncing as he careens to a halt. Hazel eyes round in pleased surprise as he recognizes the visitor, and the round face lights with a bright grin. "Oh -- hallo!"
"Hey there, kid." Rough baritone smooths over the Brooklyn accent, familiar and easy. Rossi straightens from his wall-pinned lean, hands in suit coat pockets; the twitch of an answering grin warms that remote face. "How's it going? --Hope you don't mind. Thought I'd pop in and see how you were doing."
"I don't mind!" Jeremy hastens to assure, bouncing forward on his toes as he beams up at Chris. "I don't get visitors 'cause my mom's in Oregon! It's going good! I'm still a little behind in like all my classes but the professors are gonna help me be caught up soon."
The light of amusement pales Rossi's gaze, and a hand removes itself from its pocket to reach for Jeremy's head: inarguable, that urge to rumple that curly head. "Yeah? She make it back okay? You seem pretty happy," he observes, inspecting Jeremy with a hard, thoughtful attention that eases as it skims. "Making friends?"
Jeremy suffers the ruffling of his hair with the cheerful good humor of a boy who's really quite used to this kind of thing. "Oh, she got home fine, I'll tell her you asked," he bobs. "I'm getting along with people all right, yeah. Especially when I don't blow them up at all." The boyish face crinkles into rueful, self-aimed disgruntlement for a moment, before cheery distraction seizes his brain for another tangential piece of information to burble out. "But Alyssa gave me some cookies! She says she knows you."
"Alyssa?" echoes Rossi, retrieving his hand with a look of bemused apology: sorry, mate. He tucks it safely in his pocket, and finishes: "Yeah, I know her. Bakes a mean cookie," he'll grant that absent and troublesome girl, with a crooked smile for the memory. "She's working on training to become a cop, eventually. I know a few people around here. Cassidy, Summers-- mostly the professors, I suppose. Good people."
"Really?" Hazel eyes go wide and round. "Gosh, I didn't know that." Jeremy stills for a moment, the pause for a brief, brain-halting mental image of his newfound friend blue-uniformed and toting a gun -- before attention is jerked to matters at hand. "I guess it would make more sense that you'd know the, like, grown-ups," he pipes, grinning. "It's cool you came to see me, though!" he brights happily. "I'd share my cookies but I ate them all."
Baritone tugs into quiet humor, dragging lazy-tongued over the ramps and drops of the urban landscape. "There're always more cookies," Rossi consoles. "Appreciate the thought, though. I just came by to-- well." A hand rakes through hair, hedgehogging it into wild spikes between the fingers as he trails off. Green eyes blink at Jeremy, pensive. "Just checking on you. You sure you're doing okay?"
"Yeah," answers the boy in bright youth's voice-changing crackle. He clears his throat, the hyperactive edge bleeding off a little into something more somber as he earnestly informs, "I've hardly boomed anything in days now, I'm really settling in I think." Jeremy peers up at him in puzzlement. "Are you okay?"
Rossi scrubs at his face with his free hand, scouring at the betraying marks of weariness. "Stopped by on my way home from work." Muffled, that explanation. It rouses itself more clearly, more articulate, around a rueful, "Tucci broke my car radio. An hour and a half of -- I think it was Disney channel or something. Any second now I'm going to turn into some bouncy blonde chick with big brea--" Wait. "Er," he says lamely. "Long day."
Jeremy's face scrunches in complete sympathy. "That /completely/ sucks," he announces. "Cora went through a bubblegum phase. Now she does country, I think Montana has something in the water or something. Do you want to borrow my IPod?"
This is cause for a chuckle, and so Rossi offers one, warmth again animating the shadowed face. "Appreciate the thought, but I'll be fine. Julia -- my sister -- she's good with cars. She'll fix it. That's good, though," he observes, tracking back through the conversational threads. "About the boo-- about the explosions, I mean. The ... booms. Considering you're in a new place and all; it was probably pretty scary being left on your own."
"It was kind of bad at first. I accidentally exploded Professor Logan when I first got here." Jeremy looks down.
"You--" The word twangs, ill-tuned, exhaled more sharply than Rossi intends. With better care he echoes, "Exploded Professor Logan? Is he--?"
"Oh! No!" yelps Jeremy hurriedly, looking up with round eyes. "He's fine, he's totally fine. He healed up quick."
The broad shoulders relax, betraying by that very droop that they had tensed at all. "That's good," supposes Rossi, blinking quickly. "Healed up quick. The name sounds -- I haven't met Logan."
"He's Dr. Grey's boyfriend," provides Jeremy helpfully.
"Canadian," ventures Rossi.
Jeremy looks puzzled. "I don't know. Is there a way to check?"
Rossi abruptly looks very solemn. "They have it tattooed on them at birth," he informs. "On the backs of their thighs. A great big red maple leaf."
Jeremy laughs. "I don't think I want to ask to see," he decides, because he does have slightly more self-preservatory instinct than a deranged gnat.
"Easier just to ask," agrees the detective, kindly. His gaze casts around the room, as though expecting the imminent appearance of that formidable and elusive boyfriend-of-Jean-Grey. No show. "Drinks good beer, I think. But other than that -- no booms?"
Jeremy reaches up to scratch his head, grimacing. "A couple," he allows. "But no real damage or anything. I kind of scared Alyssa with one that was just air. Oh, and I totally killed my roommate's pillow and had to get him a new one, but he didn't mind."
Rossi asks with interest, "Was it attacking you?"
Jeremy grins sheepishly up at him. "It was sitting there minding its own business," he confessed. "But I haven't done any since then."
The older man grins back, a curiously boyish expression absent its usual cynicism. "Pillows are devious that way," he informs. "It was probably hatching some kind of plot. Good move, taking it out before it took you out. --Guess that means you're settling in fine. That's all I needed to know."
Jeremy laughs again, sheer delight over nefarious pillow schemes. "Okay, cool," he nods amiably. "Thanks for checking up on me!"
"Anytime," says Rossi, blinking sleepily at the boy. A nod bids him farewell, turning him towards the door -- and then he pauses to wheel back on a foot. "Hey, before I forget--" White flicks out from the depths of his suit, filched between fingers and stretched in offering. Business card. 'NYPD,' it reads. "--in case you ever need me--"
Jeremy takes the business card and regards it with round eyes for a moment before his fingers close tightly arounds it and he nods briskly. "Hey, thanks," he says. Gosh.
Gosh, indeed. "Call me if you need--" What, exactly? Rossi's brow folds over that selfsame question. In the end he leaves it unfinished, batting it away with a hand. Whatever. "Later, Jeremy. Take care of yourself."
"Later, Detective Rossi!" Jeremy waves with his left hand, his right closed firmly over the business-card. He beams. "Hope your radio gets fixed!"
One last glance, a crimp, a gleam of a smile, and then Rossi is gone, closing the door behind him. To home. To sleep, perchance -- most definitely -- to dream. Aye, there's the rub.
Rossi checks in on Jeremy, the boy who goes boom and the newest little student at Xavier School.
---
The Rowdy Wrangler
The smell of sandlewood and beer is the first things to strike the senses as you mowsy on into this bar. The next is the sounds of enjoyment coming from all around you, from the drunken cowboys on the second level of the bar, or the cheers and jeers of the customers watching as a patron tries to break a new record on the mechanical bull. The bar is long, stretching across the back wall with a picture of John Wayne in the center and horseshoes decorating the area around it. The air is filled with the sounds of Country music and more than one cowboy hat can be seen bobbing around in the place. There's plenty of room to sit, or if you fancy a line dance, the large dancefloor is off to the right.
[Exits : [O]ut ]
[Players : Blythe ]
It is a strange place to find sane men on a Sunday night, and yet there they are, suited and shod, ties loosened, fatigue riding their shoulders at the end of a long day. Weekend notwithstanding -- but there have never been any claims of /sanity/ for the NYPD. Four men sprawl around a wall-hugging table, the arrogance of authority marking them as police: black-haired Italian, greying Irishman, bald jester, somber Asian. Four men, four beers, and less visible, four tempers. Not that the noise of the Rowdy Wrangler cares.
Lost? One might ask of the dark clad asian woman who enters the bar. Its an understatement to say she seems simply out of place. Her garb is suited for the matrix, not for the tanned suede party that a place like this one promotes. Her blue hued hair hangs just above her shoulders with a shock of silver white hair in the front, pushed behind her ear. She shrugs her shoulders beneath the long leather trench coat she wears, sliding it down her back, removing it, and hanging it over her arm. A pair of black eyes that look disturbingly hollow peer around the room taking in the look of things with an odd ammount of scrutiny. The woman known as Blythe illicits more than a few odd looks as she heads toward the bar.
Odd looks from other men, perhaps, but not from the cops. There is nothing /odd/ about the look the jester sends her way, for instance: it is flatly, idly amused -- appreciative, even -- if in an irreverent fashion. The frown swept her by the Italian next to him is a distracted thing, shadowed by fatigue. "--fourteenth," the latter says, running fingers through rumpled black hair. "I swear to God, if you hadn't pulled that shit with the pediatrician--"
"Shut up, Rossi," says the eldest of the four, amiable. "Go get some more beers."
The Italian shuts his mouth, thinning it around a retort, and stands to head towards the bar.
Stopping beside the bar Blythe does not move to sit. The woman adjusts the ribbon laces that hold her haltertop taught across her back and flops her coat on the barstool. "'tender..."she says in a smooth tone, "Just a whiskey on the rocks...."she pauses , "Could you make that two of those?" she adds with a sigh, sweeping her hand through her hair as the batender turns to awknoledge her with an arched eyebrow.
"Three," says baritone a half-moment later, brought up against the bar's counter. Rossi folds an arm on that polished counter, leaning into the elbow; an absent-minded glance takes in Blythe, skims across her in dispassionate assessment, then scythes back to the bartender. "Same as before. And one diet coke."
Blythe turns to look back at Rossi as the bartender goes about his buisiness with the drinks, fixing him with a pair of hollow black eyes. Perhaps it didnt strike Rossi until just now, or perhaps on approach it was counted off as a draft, but the air is cold, frigid cold. Not only that, its heavy, like the feeling someone would have if sitting in a steamroom trying to breath through a straw. The very air is thick, and quite uncomfortable. Blythe scans Rossi for a moment and furrows her brow worriedly.
Placing the two drinks in front of Blythe the bartender blinks a couple times in idle confusion, shakes his head and goes about getting Rossi's order.
The other arm joins the first, folding loosely on the bar, and Rossi breathes -- only to discover it is visible, a thick plume before his face. "The fuck?" he begins blankly, tipping a glance up to the motionless fans flanked by lights. Green eyes narrow and harden, turning down again and across: to Blythe. Focus. A muscle jumps in the corner of his jaw. "You doing that?"
At first she says nothing, taking one of her glasses of whiskey and taking a few solid gulps of the beverage. Blythe looks over at Rossi and frowns, "Hrm?"she makes a questioning sound as though she didn't quite hear the question.
Another small plume of breath writhes between them, exhaled deliberately between parted lips. "You," says Rossi, deliberately articulating. "Doing. That. Question mark."
Blythe unfortunately, cannot see breath any differently than she normally does. She sighs, still fully understanding what he means despite that and as she opens her mouth to speak a puff of visible breath of her own is released. "- my appologies."she states with an frown moving a couple steps away and sliding her glasses along down the bar with her. The effect is indeed quite lessened. At about 5 feet away it's still chilly and it does feel like a humid day but no where near what it felt like a breif moment before. Blythe looks down into her cup and takes another long gulp.
Mouth pressed into a fine, harsh line, Rossi hunches his shoulders over his folded arms, head canting attentively to the small shifts in atmosphere. Satisfaction ghosts behind that remote expression; satisfaction and annoyance, in truth, a cynical exasperation that has nothing to do with the bartender's return with beers and coke. "Thanks. --You might want to learn how to control that," he notes down the bar, searching inside his suit coat for a battered black wallet.
Blythe sighs, " Not much I can do about it really. "she states, "Dont worry about paying, I got it for you. " she says to Rossi, "I have it for all of you. Its on me...."she says into her glass as she reaches over to shrug her coat back onto her shoulders.
"Appreciate the thought," says Rossi, without noticeable gratitude, "but it's my round anyway." Bills flare out of the leather sleeve, slipped across the counter for the bartender's patient hand. The man half-turns, a beer in each hand, only to find one of his companions already beside him. Baritone murmurs in exchange with low tenor; glass clinks, and then he is left with one. His own. "You don't want to be buying cops beers anyway," he adds more mildly, while the asian detective ambles back to the table, bearing drinks. "Good way to get remembered. Considering."
Finishing off the first cup of a drink ment to be sipped Blythe turns to face Rossi, "I dont get forgotten easily as it is. For your trouble the offer is the least I can make,"she says folding her arms across her chest. "Didnt realize it was quite that awful today."
He pauses on the first step away from the bar, pale gaze slivered behind heavy lids and lashes. "It varies?" the cop wonders, voice thoughtful over its Brooklyn scoring.
Blythe shrugs, "Its hard to tell, its always the same to me, "she says lowly, "if you must know. But if I'm having a bad day it tends to be a little worse, either way it's always like that. "she arches a brow, "Are you very familliar with things like this, sir?"she asks politely
"Yeah, I know a little," he admits, wry; a certain sardonic self-mockery flickers across his face, deepening the shadows in eyes and jaw. "If you're wanting to keep your thing under wraps, you might want to find a friend and work on controlling that."
Blythe chuckles, a bit, "I have quite a bit of control. I have no idea if anything will get rid of this. I am looking into it. "she says "I've lived in this city most of my life and I'm still here, so I suppose noones decided I'm work taking pot shots at yet."she says with a bit of sarcasm and hint of casual knowing that drips with a 'you cant tell me anything I dont already know' attitude.
That attitude would be surprised. Rossi's, at any rate, is more akin to relative indifference. "It's your skin," he says briefly, gaze glimmering at her over a sip of beer -- amber mingles with green, dying the eyes a muddled blend of the two -- and he lifts his chin in a gesture towards the wider expanse of the bar. "Incidents are getting more frequent. You might want to watch yourself."
Blythe says, "I am very aware, " as she scoops up her glass to take another sip, "nice to see a sensible person today though. My skin you say?" she chuckles, "What do you mean?"
The detective shrugs, turning his glance away: to his erstwhile table, where an argument pitches its low-voiced warning between his companions. His eyes tighten at the corners, marking strain. "Just what I said." Helpful man. /Garrulous/ man. "The Friends are getting louder."
Flopping down on the barstool Blythe grins, "Happens when you get a couple drinks in you."she says, "I definately needed that bit myself."she states with a grin. The dulling effects of such a brew begining to be felt in a most plesant manner. "Very nice of you to not immediately scurry away like a crab, but I cant possibly be more interesting than your friends."
"No," agrees Rossi. (Charmer.) An eyebrow quizzes up at Blythe, distractedly curious, and then he nods. Farewell, that is. "Keep out of trouble." Beer-laden, wallet tucking safely away in his inner pocket, the detective turns away: back to his table. Back to argument. Back to the case.
Blythe watches him go, nods, tosses back her full glass, stands and heads for the door.
[Log ends]
Out for drinks with his colleagues, Rossi runs into a chilly mutant and gives her some brusque advice.
Stopped by Xavier to check up on the exploding kid. Who the hell names their kid 'Xavier,' anyway? Asking to get his ass kicked. Suppose it's different for rich kids. In that income bracket, the schoolyard bully's probably named Percy. Should ask Talhurst if he was the big cock on the walk when he was growing up.
More tired than I thought. Can't keep my brain together. Going all over the place. Jeremy seemed pretty happy. Good kid. Already being fed cookies by Alyssa, not that this is a surprise. Count on her to make friends with the new boy.
Amati. Need to remember to cross-check those phone numbers. Email. Get Yamaguchi on that, maybe try to pull Rickard from that cybercrimes group. Shouldn't have pushed that pediatrician angle, but I swear there's something there. Physical evidence, my ass.
Need to grab some sleep before I head back to the precinct. Who's afraid of the dark?
---
<> Main Entrance - Lv1
The foyer entrance preceding the Great Hall is elegant, like the rest of the mansion. Dark-colored wood-panel walls are lined with sconces and a particularly long array of hat and coat pegs for students and staff alike to hang their garments on as they seek safety from the elements, outside. In front of the grand-doors, a rubber mat is layed out for feet to be wiped upon, but it's a rather pathetic attempt in the springtime, when rambunctious students track in mud from one corner of the estate to the other.
Sunday afternoon, and a weekday at a boarding school makes for quiet: amusements are to be had elsewhere, in the city, in the stables, in playrooms and rec rooms. In the great hall of Xavier school, peace holds sway, draped in swathes rich, autumnal light. For the visitor who idles beside one of them, it is the tranquility of the gardens outside that attract interest, more seductive than the elegance within. Fatigue wears Chris Rossi like a well-loved coat, shrugged on with the comfort of familiarity; he props his shoulder against a wall and waits in patience, drowsing behind open, shadow-painted eyes.
The hurried patter of sneakers across the floor heralds the youthful energy of Jeremy's approach. He moves into view at a swift bob, brown curls bouncing as he careens to a halt. Hazel eyes round in pleased surprise as he recognizes the visitor, and the round face lights with a bright grin. "Oh -- hallo!"
"Hey there, kid." Rough baritone smooths over the Brooklyn accent, familiar and easy. Rossi straightens from his wall-pinned lean, hands in suit coat pockets; the twitch of an answering grin warms that remote face. "How's it going? --Hope you don't mind. Thought I'd pop in and see how you were doing."
"I don't mind!" Jeremy hastens to assure, bouncing forward on his toes as he beams up at Chris. "I don't get visitors 'cause my mom's in Oregon! It's going good! I'm still a little behind in like all my classes but the professors are gonna help me be caught up soon."
The light of amusement pales Rossi's gaze, and a hand removes itself from its pocket to reach for Jeremy's head: inarguable, that urge to rumple that curly head. "Yeah? She make it back okay? You seem pretty happy," he observes, inspecting Jeremy with a hard, thoughtful attention that eases as it skims. "Making friends?"
Jeremy suffers the ruffling of his hair with the cheerful good humor of a boy who's really quite used to this kind of thing. "Oh, she got home fine, I'll tell her you asked," he bobs. "I'm getting along with people all right, yeah. Especially when I don't blow them up at all." The boyish face crinkles into rueful, self-aimed disgruntlement for a moment, before cheery distraction seizes his brain for another tangential piece of information to burble out. "But Alyssa gave me some cookies! She says she knows you."
"Alyssa?" echoes Rossi, retrieving his hand with a look of bemused apology: sorry, mate. He tucks it safely in his pocket, and finishes: "Yeah, I know her. Bakes a mean cookie," he'll grant that absent and troublesome girl, with a crooked smile for the memory. "She's working on training to become a cop, eventually. I know a few people around here. Cassidy, Summers-- mostly the professors, I suppose. Good people."
"Really?" Hazel eyes go wide and round. "Gosh, I didn't know that." Jeremy stills for a moment, the pause for a brief, brain-halting mental image of his newfound friend blue-uniformed and toting a gun -- before attention is jerked to matters at hand. "I guess it would make more sense that you'd know the, like, grown-ups," he pipes, grinning. "It's cool you came to see me, though!" he brights happily. "I'd share my cookies but I ate them all."
Baritone tugs into quiet humor, dragging lazy-tongued over the ramps and drops of the urban landscape. "There're always more cookies," Rossi consoles. "Appreciate the thought, though. I just came by to-- well." A hand rakes through hair, hedgehogging it into wild spikes between the fingers as he trails off. Green eyes blink at Jeremy, pensive. "Just checking on you. You sure you're doing okay?"
"Yeah," answers the boy in bright youth's voice-changing crackle. He clears his throat, the hyperactive edge bleeding off a little into something more somber as he earnestly informs, "I've hardly boomed anything in days now, I'm really settling in I think." Jeremy peers up at him in puzzlement. "Are you okay?"
Rossi scrubs at his face with his free hand, scouring at the betraying marks of weariness. "Stopped by on my way home from work." Muffled, that explanation. It rouses itself more clearly, more articulate, around a rueful, "Tucci broke my car radio. An hour and a half of -- I think it was Disney channel or something. Any second now I'm going to turn into some bouncy blonde chick with big brea--" Wait. "Er," he says lamely. "Long day."
Jeremy's face scrunches in complete sympathy. "That /completely/ sucks," he announces. "Cora went through a bubblegum phase. Now she does country, I think Montana has something in the water or something. Do you want to borrow my IPod?"
This is cause for a chuckle, and so Rossi offers one, warmth again animating the shadowed face. "Appreciate the thought, but I'll be fine. Julia -- my sister -- she's good with cars. She'll fix it. That's good, though," he observes, tracking back through the conversational threads. "About the boo-- about the explosions, I mean. The ... booms. Considering you're in a new place and all; it was probably pretty scary being left on your own."
"It was kind of bad at first. I accidentally exploded Professor Logan when I first got here." Jeremy looks down.
"You--" The word twangs, ill-tuned, exhaled more sharply than Rossi intends. With better care he echoes, "Exploded Professor Logan? Is he--?"
"Oh! No!" yelps Jeremy hurriedly, looking up with round eyes. "He's fine, he's totally fine. He healed up quick."
The broad shoulders relax, betraying by that very droop that they had tensed at all. "That's good," supposes Rossi, blinking quickly. "Healed up quick. The name sounds -- I haven't met Logan."
"He's Dr. Grey's boyfriend," provides Jeremy helpfully.
"Canadian," ventures Rossi.
Jeremy looks puzzled. "I don't know. Is there a way to check?"
Rossi abruptly looks very solemn. "They have it tattooed on them at birth," he informs. "On the backs of their thighs. A great big red maple leaf."
Jeremy laughs. "I don't think I want to ask to see," he decides, because he does have slightly more self-preservatory instinct than a deranged gnat.
"Easier just to ask," agrees the detective, kindly. His gaze casts around the room, as though expecting the imminent appearance of that formidable and elusive boyfriend-of-Jean-Grey. No show. "Drinks good beer, I think. But other than that -- no booms?"
Jeremy reaches up to scratch his head, grimacing. "A couple," he allows. "But no real damage or anything. I kind of scared Alyssa with one that was just air. Oh, and I totally killed my roommate's pillow and had to get him a new one, but he didn't mind."
Rossi asks with interest, "Was it attacking you?"
Jeremy grins sheepishly up at him. "It was sitting there minding its own business," he confessed. "But I haven't done any since then."
The older man grins back, a curiously boyish expression absent its usual cynicism. "Pillows are devious that way," he informs. "It was probably hatching some kind of plot. Good move, taking it out before it took you out. --Guess that means you're settling in fine. That's all I needed to know."
Jeremy laughs again, sheer delight over nefarious pillow schemes. "Okay, cool," he nods amiably. "Thanks for checking up on me!"
"Anytime," says Rossi, blinking sleepily at the boy. A nod bids him farewell, turning him towards the door -- and then he pauses to wheel back on a foot. "Hey, before I forget--" White flicks out from the depths of his suit, filched between fingers and stretched in offering. Business card. 'NYPD,' it reads. "--in case you ever need me--"
Jeremy takes the business card and regards it with round eyes for a moment before his fingers close tightly arounds it and he nods briskly. "Hey, thanks," he says. Gosh.
Gosh, indeed. "Call me if you need--" What, exactly? Rossi's brow folds over that selfsame question. In the end he leaves it unfinished, batting it away with a hand. Whatever. "Later, Jeremy. Take care of yourself."
"Later, Detective Rossi!" Jeremy waves with his left hand, his right closed firmly over the business-card. He beams. "Hope your radio gets fixed!"
One last glance, a crimp, a gleam of a smile, and then Rossi is gone, closing the door behind him. To home. To sleep, perchance -- most definitely -- to dream. Aye, there's the rub.
Rossi checks in on Jeremy, the boy who goes boom and the newest little student at Xavier School.
---
The Rowdy Wrangler
The smell of sandlewood and beer is the first things to strike the senses as you mowsy on into this bar. The next is the sounds of enjoyment coming from all around you, from the drunken cowboys on the second level of the bar, or the cheers and jeers of the customers watching as a patron tries to break a new record on the mechanical bull. The bar is long, stretching across the back wall with a picture of John Wayne in the center and horseshoes decorating the area around it. The air is filled with the sounds of Country music and more than one cowboy hat can be seen bobbing around in the place. There's plenty of room to sit, or if you fancy a line dance, the large dancefloor is off to the right.
[Exits : [O]ut ]
[Players : Blythe ]
It is a strange place to find sane men on a Sunday night, and yet there they are, suited and shod, ties loosened, fatigue riding their shoulders at the end of a long day. Weekend notwithstanding -- but there have never been any claims of /sanity/ for the NYPD. Four men sprawl around a wall-hugging table, the arrogance of authority marking them as police: black-haired Italian, greying Irishman, bald jester, somber Asian. Four men, four beers, and less visible, four tempers. Not that the noise of the Rowdy Wrangler cares.
Lost? One might ask of the dark clad asian woman who enters the bar. Its an understatement to say she seems simply out of place. Her garb is suited for the matrix, not for the tanned suede party that a place like this one promotes. Her blue hued hair hangs just above her shoulders with a shock of silver white hair in the front, pushed behind her ear. She shrugs her shoulders beneath the long leather trench coat she wears, sliding it down her back, removing it, and hanging it over her arm. A pair of black eyes that look disturbingly hollow peer around the room taking in the look of things with an odd ammount of scrutiny. The woman known as Blythe illicits more than a few odd looks as she heads toward the bar.
Odd looks from other men, perhaps, but not from the cops. There is nothing /odd/ about the look the jester sends her way, for instance: it is flatly, idly amused -- appreciative, even -- if in an irreverent fashion. The frown swept her by the Italian next to him is a distracted thing, shadowed by fatigue. "--fourteenth," the latter says, running fingers through rumpled black hair. "I swear to God, if you hadn't pulled that shit with the pediatrician--"
"Shut up, Rossi," says the eldest of the four, amiable. "Go get some more beers."
The Italian shuts his mouth, thinning it around a retort, and stands to head towards the bar.
Stopping beside the bar Blythe does not move to sit. The woman adjusts the ribbon laces that hold her haltertop taught across her back and flops her coat on the barstool. "'tender..."she says in a smooth tone, "Just a whiskey on the rocks...."she pauses , "Could you make that two of those?" she adds with a sigh, sweeping her hand through her hair as the batender turns to awknoledge her with an arched eyebrow.
"Three," says baritone a half-moment later, brought up against the bar's counter. Rossi folds an arm on that polished counter, leaning into the elbow; an absent-minded glance takes in Blythe, skims across her in dispassionate assessment, then scythes back to the bartender. "Same as before. And one diet coke."
Blythe turns to look back at Rossi as the bartender goes about his buisiness with the drinks, fixing him with a pair of hollow black eyes. Perhaps it didnt strike Rossi until just now, or perhaps on approach it was counted off as a draft, but the air is cold, frigid cold. Not only that, its heavy, like the feeling someone would have if sitting in a steamroom trying to breath through a straw. The very air is thick, and quite uncomfortable. Blythe scans Rossi for a moment and furrows her brow worriedly.
Placing the two drinks in front of Blythe the bartender blinks a couple times in idle confusion, shakes his head and goes about getting Rossi's order.
The other arm joins the first, folding loosely on the bar, and Rossi breathes -- only to discover it is visible, a thick plume before his face. "The fuck?" he begins blankly, tipping a glance up to the motionless fans flanked by lights. Green eyes narrow and harden, turning down again and across: to Blythe. Focus. A muscle jumps in the corner of his jaw. "You doing that?"
At first she says nothing, taking one of her glasses of whiskey and taking a few solid gulps of the beverage. Blythe looks over at Rossi and frowns, "Hrm?"she makes a questioning sound as though she didn't quite hear the question.
Another small plume of breath writhes between them, exhaled deliberately between parted lips. "You," says Rossi, deliberately articulating. "Doing. That. Question mark."
Blythe unfortunately, cannot see breath any differently than she normally does. She sighs, still fully understanding what he means despite that and as she opens her mouth to speak a puff of visible breath of her own is released. "- my appologies."she states with an frown moving a couple steps away and sliding her glasses along down the bar with her. The effect is indeed quite lessened. At about 5 feet away it's still chilly and it does feel like a humid day but no where near what it felt like a breif moment before. Blythe looks down into her cup and takes another long gulp.
Mouth pressed into a fine, harsh line, Rossi hunches his shoulders over his folded arms, head canting attentively to the small shifts in atmosphere. Satisfaction ghosts behind that remote expression; satisfaction and annoyance, in truth, a cynical exasperation that has nothing to do with the bartender's return with beers and coke. "Thanks. --You might want to learn how to control that," he notes down the bar, searching inside his suit coat for a battered black wallet.
Blythe sighs, " Not much I can do about it really. "she states, "Dont worry about paying, I got it for you. " she says to Rossi, "I have it for all of you. Its on me...."she says into her glass as she reaches over to shrug her coat back onto her shoulders.
"Appreciate the thought," says Rossi, without noticeable gratitude, "but it's my round anyway." Bills flare out of the leather sleeve, slipped across the counter for the bartender's patient hand. The man half-turns, a beer in each hand, only to find one of his companions already beside him. Baritone murmurs in exchange with low tenor; glass clinks, and then he is left with one. His own. "You don't want to be buying cops beers anyway," he adds more mildly, while the asian detective ambles back to the table, bearing drinks. "Good way to get remembered. Considering."
Finishing off the first cup of a drink ment to be sipped Blythe turns to face Rossi, "I dont get forgotten easily as it is. For your trouble the offer is the least I can make,"she says folding her arms across her chest. "Didnt realize it was quite that awful today."
He pauses on the first step away from the bar, pale gaze slivered behind heavy lids and lashes. "It varies?" the cop wonders, voice thoughtful over its Brooklyn scoring.
Blythe shrugs, "Its hard to tell, its always the same to me, "she says lowly, "if you must know. But if I'm having a bad day it tends to be a little worse, either way it's always like that. "she arches a brow, "Are you very familliar with things like this, sir?"she asks politely
"Yeah, I know a little," he admits, wry; a certain sardonic self-mockery flickers across his face, deepening the shadows in eyes and jaw. "If you're wanting to keep your thing under wraps, you might want to find a friend and work on controlling that."
Blythe chuckles, a bit, "I have quite a bit of control. I have no idea if anything will get rid of this. I am looking into it. "she says "I've lived in this city most of my life and I'm still here, so I suppose noones decided I'm work taking pot shots at yet."she says with a bit of sarcasm and hint of casual knowing that drips with a 'you cant tell me anything I dont already know' attitude.
That attitude would be surprised. Rossi's, at any rate, is more akin to relative indifference. "It's your skin," he says briefly, gaze glimmering at her over a sip of beer -- amber mingles with green, dying the eyes a muddled blend of the two -- and he lifts his chin in a gesture towards the wider expanse of the bar. "Incidents are getting more frequent. You might want to watch yourself."
Blythe says, "I am very aware, " as she scoops up her glass to take another sip, "nice to see a sensible person today though. My skin you say?" she chuckles, "What do you mean?"
The detective shrugs, turning his glance away: to his erstwhile table, where an argument pitches its low-voiced warning between his companions. His eyes tighten at the corners, marking strain. "Just what I said." Helpful man. /Garrulous/ man. "The Friends are getting louder."
Flopping down on the barstool Blythe grins, "Happens when you get a couple drinks in you."she says, "I definately needed that bit myself."she states with a grin. The dulling effects of such a brew begining to be felt in a most plesant manner. "Very nice of you to not immediately scurry away like a crab, but I cant possibly be more interesting than your friends."
"No," agrees Rossi. (Charmer.) An eyebrow quizzes up at Blythe, distractedly curious, and then he nods. Farewell, that is. "Keep out of trouble." Beer-laden, wallet tucking safely away in his inner pocket, the detective turns away: back to his table. Back to argument. Back to the case.
Blythe watches him go, nods, tosses back her full glass, stands and heads for the door.
[Log ends]
Out for drinks with his colleagues, Rossi runs into a chilly mutant and gives her some brusque advice.