Anniversary
Well, that's done with.
Back to work.
--
Liberty Island
Overlooking New York's harbor as a serene, copper-bound sentinel stands the Lady Liberty, common symbolism to depict New York as she looms above the ports entering the city and the calm waters below. Nearly as tall as the base upon which she stands, the statue was a common first impression of America to past foreign immigrants seeking refuge amid the city's towering sky scrapers for all manner of reasons. Now, she merely stands guard over New York, copper-tinge having lost its luster to a dull marble-green hue and a common attraction for tourists.
Winter is upon them, and sinks its heavy claws into New York. Cold, in all its incarnations: snowfall, icefall, the heavy billows of clouds racing overhead. An unlikely time for people to travel the tour boats to Lady Liberty, and yet there they are -- a small ship, bearing passengers, trundling determinedly across the harbor. They are a hardy folk, New Yorkers, and the leather overcoated man against the starboard railing proves it, his breath a misty curse for the elements, his scarf and black gloves a defiance of it.
An unlikely time for people to travel to Lady Liberty indeed, and that is precisely why the young Midori has decided to catch a ride over. Less crowding, fewer people, and little to no children as parents would deem them too insufferable in the cold to dare the harrowing trip. With back pressed up against the wall of the crowded boat, she does her best to protect herself from the biting cold of the wind, using a beam as a windbreak. Dressed in a white, soft leather jacket with soft wool lining, scarf, heavy boots, stockings and a short skirt, it would seem she'd be rather warm, save for her minimally covered legs.
Short skirts are not the other traveler's problem, to be sure. Spray bites hard at an unexpected bump in passage, kicking up at the people against the railing. With a small oath, the man in brown drops back, rousing a handkerchief from a capacious pocket to wipe at his face: dampened black hair, froth-dabbed raptor nose. "Room there for another?" a Brooklyn baritone lobs to the girl behind the beam, native arrogance assuming assent. Broad shoulders lean against the wall, and settle.
Midori shakes her head as the people clamber towards the walls and away from the railings, finding it all a little amusing; certainly not for their discomfort, but for their stupidity. She watches the man closely as he approaches and waits for him to settle against the wall before speaking, that same, mildly amused look on her face, "Do you usually not wait for a answer, or are you just too damned cold to care?"
"Both," the man answers, laconic. A swift, green-eyed glance skips to the girl, reviewing her -- and her stockinged legs -- with a quizzical, clinical curiosity before returning to the edifying view of water. Horizon. Skyline. Under the overcoat, the long spine shapes itself to the wall's brace. "You usually go out in 20 degree weather in a mini-skirt? Or you just like the way your legs look too much to care?"
The smile playing across Midori's lips changes from one of amusement of other's follies to one of enjoyment; it would seem she's met a witty match. "Touchi," comes a soft reply from between her glossy lips. "Let's just say the cold doesn't bother me as much as it does others."
"Thermal underwear's a good look for you," congratulates the dry baritone; the man lifts his chin in an idle gesture, returning handkerchief and gloved hands back to the safety of his pockets. The overcoat stretches around the added weight, dragging taut, tight lines across the frame of hips. "Won't do you much good if you get wet."
Midori glances down at her appearel, her foot sliding forward along the slippery deck in an attempt to catch a better glimpse of her leg. Tucking it back in against the wall quickly to keep a sense of warmth against the biting cold, she replies, "Thank you. And hence, that is why I wasn't standing against the railing like you, Mr...?"
Another glance askance, absent-minded, registers the leg -- and, along the way, the loss of a foolhardy tourist's pamphlet to the wind. "Rossi," he introduces, peeling a hand out of his pocket to offer it: reluctant courtesy. "Chris Rossi." As an afterthought, he adds, "NYPD."
Midori uncrosses her arms briefly, reaching out to accept the offered hand in the mildest of handshakes before her arm retreats to its nest, snuggled warmly against her body. "The famous Chris Rossi, or are you simply lucky enough to share his name?"
"Famous?" echoes the detective, the slash of brows twitching to a frown. Pale eyes hood, nudging towards irritation; Rossi fists his pocket again, shoulders hunching into the muffler's cover. "What the hell, famous? There some pop star I don't know about?"
"You mustn't read the paper that often, Mr. Rossi. Your name has been in it quite often, as of late." The girl gaze turns from looking out over the bay to examining the man's features slowly, or at least those not hidden in the muffler that she can spy. "You know," she comments in an absent-minded tone, "your eyebrows aren't as bushy as I would have imagined."
The back end of a curse spins mist even through the scarf, and Rossi hitches a hand up to free the bottom half of his face, annoyance sharp-edged across his accent. "--/press/," he finishes, bitterly. A moment's silence makes room for amusement to creep in, however desultory, and a faint mockery turns back down to Midori. "Bushy eyebrows, huh? The NYPD waxes them," he deadpans. "Part of the PR drive."
Midori can't help but let a warm hearted laugh go at Rossi's joke, yet manages to stifle it with her lips closed and the heated air escaping in a flurry of curling mist from her nose. "Whoever said a cop doesn't have a sense of humor?" she muses retorically before turning her head to the side and leaning forward enough to glance past the beam at the ever approaching island. "What was I thinking coming out on a day like today?"
"Who's laughing?" asks Rossi, dour behind the words' mask of white. A glance checks the slow growth of Liberty's stature, beyond the bow: a little more travel is needed yet, to make her more than a distant souvenir. "Good question. Not to mention the outfit. What /were/ you thinking? You a tourist?"
"If you count living here for... five years or so being a tourist, then yeah, I'm a tourist." A sarcastic little smile is added to the end of her comment. "And, as far as I can remember, you weren't exactly complaining when you were looking over my legs, were you?"
Rossi shrugs, sardonic. "They're legs. I wasn't aware I was supposed to complain. Or compliment. They seem nice enough," he commends, canting his head to refresh his memory. On his straightening, he adds, gravely, "They seem to reach the floor just fine."
"Whatever you say..." is given as a mild reply that shows her now disinterest in the topic of her choice of clothing. A deep breath is taken before being exhaled slowly, "So, we've established why I've come out today... why have you come out today?"
"When did we establish why you came out?" Rossi wonders, tipping his head back (bump) to settle as well against the metal wall. Black hair, in need of a haircut, sweeps shaggy fingers across the wide brow and veiled eyes. "Don't remember hearing a /reason/."
Midori replies bluntly, "I'm insane; isn't it obvious? My clothes, the weather, where I'm going; that place *can't* be heated. So, all that leaves me with is an insanity plea. You, however, are dressed rather warmly it would seem, thus not allowing for you to be insane."
Detective Rossi feeds hair through his fingers, raking a futile hand through wind-whipped strands. "It's tradition," he says. "Weather gets cold, I put on more clothes. Call me crazy." His mouth hooks in a crooked ghost of a smile, a quicksilver flash of humor that touches warmth in the green eyes. He glances aside at her, and relents to add, "It's a yearly trip."
"Alright, crazy," she says with a broad smile. "Yearly, hhmm? I've never been here myself. I think that's why I came. That and I was bored out of my skull."
"Never get to do the tourist things when you're a native," observes Rossi, with a dry, droll note skeining through his voice. "Unless you get out-of-towners visiting. Who the hell'd want to?"
Midori shrugs, "Who wouldn't want to? I mean, I've never done it because I've just enver really thought about it. Just like the Empire State Building; never been there, or Madison Square Gardens. You hear all these names when you're growing up, but you never go there."
Brown-coated shoulders hitch into another shrug. "Native, you do," Rossi observes as Brooklyn's accent deepens into the baritone, tracing nature and nurture in one efficient swoop. "Games at the Gardens, and work at Empire State. Especially Times Square, as a beat cop and otherwise. Then again," he allows, "you eventually end up everywhere, as a cop."
Midori nods to the words as she hears them, "You say that as if it's a bad thing, Mr. Rossi." She looks as though she's about to say more, but is cut off by the loudspeaker cutting in announcing their arrival in the next few minutes.
"Do I?" Surprise arches those not-too-bushy eyebrows, clearing for a moment the distracted gaze. "Nothing wrong with seeing the city, one way or another. There's enough of it to go around for tourists and natives, God knows. --Liberty's only once a year. Not many out-of-towners willing to visit it this time of year." The boat lurches a little, slowing through choppy waters; Rossi sets his stance into the deck, pressing into the wall with determined balance.
The sudden lurch is unexpected and Midori doesn't have time to plant her feet and balance herself. Her balance wavers and is finally lost, the end result being her toppling into Rossi, arms thrusting out to wrap around him for support as she slides down.
The man staggers under the sudden impact, a leg jostled wide to counter the new weight. Hands are quick -- practiced, alas -- to catch the girl's fall; the tongue is as quick (also practiced, alas!) with a swear word and a grunt as he steadies. An arm wraps hard around Midori's shoulders, while balance recovers itself. "You okay?"
Midori remains clenched tightly around Rossi while her balance returns and she slowly rises to her feet once more, a rather embarassed look on her features, "Yeah, I'm ok now. Sorry about that."
There is little warmth to be had through layers of clothing: leather coat, suit coat, shirt sleeve. Security must be had instead, and Rossi's arm offers it for a half-second longer before it loosens, patiently waiting Midori's stability before retreating. Green eyes smile down at Midori, humorous and wry behind the solemn expression. "This," he informs, even as the boat slows and coasts to the dock, "is the /real/ reason why you shouldn't stand by the railing."
Midori gives a warm, pleasent smile, her sparkling eyes showing her gratitude as the boat comes to a halt and the ramp is put in place. "Well, it looks like this is where we part company. Good day, Mr. Rossi, and though the odds are a billion to one, we might meet again someday." That said, she takes one step from the wall and is immediately lost in the sea of people, all jockeying forward to be the first off the boat.
[Log ends]
Back to work.
--
Liberty Island
Overlooking New York's harbor as a serene, copper-bound sentinel stands the Lady Liberty, common symbolism to depict New York as she looms above the ports entering the city and the calm waters below. Nearly as tall as the base upon which she stands, the statue was a common first impression of America to past foreign immigrants seeking refuge amid the city's towering sky scrapers for all manner of reasons. Now, she merely stands guard over New York, copper-tinge having lost its luster to a dull marble-green hue and a common attraction for tourists.
Winter is upon them, and sinks its heavy claws into New York. Cold, in all its incarnations: snowfall, icefall, the heavy billows of clouds racing overhead. An unlikely time for people to travel the tour boats to Lady Liberty, and yet there they are -- a small ship, bearing passengers, trundling determinedly across the harbor. They are a hardy folk, New Yorkers, and the leather overcoated man against the starboard railing proves it, his breath a misty curse for the elements, his scarf and black gloves a defiance of it.
An unlikely time for people to travel to Lady Liberty indeed, and that is precisely why the young Midori has decided to catch a ride over. Less crowding, fewer people, and little to no children as parents would deem them too insufferable in the cold to dare the harrowing trip. With back pressed up against the wall of the crowded boat, she does her best to protect herself from the biting cold of the wind, using a beam as a windbreak. Dressed in a white, soft leather jacket with soft wool lining, scarf, heavy boots, stockings and a short skirt, it would seem she'd be rather warm, save for her minimally covered legs.
Short skirts are not the other traveler's problem, to be sure. Spray bites hard at an unexpected bump in passage, kicking up at the people against the railing. With a small oath, the man in brown drops back, rousing a handkerchief from a capacious pocket to wipe at his face: dampened black hair, froth-dabbed raptor nose. "Room there for another?" a Brooklyn baritone lobs to the girl behind the beam, native arrogance assuming assent. Broad shoulders lean against the wall, and settle.
Midori shakes her head as the people clamber towards the walls and away from the railings, finding it all a little amusing; certainly not for their discomfort, but for their stupidity. She watches the man closely as he approaches and waits for him to settle against the wall before speaking, that same, mildly amused look on her face, "Do you usually not wait for a answer, or are you just too damned cold to care?"
"Both," the man answers, laconic. A swift, green-eyed glance skips to the girl, reviewing her -- and her stockinged legs -- with a quizzical, clinical curiosity before returning to the edifying view of water. Horizon. Skyline. Under the overcoat, the long spine shapes itself to the wall's brace. "You usually go out in 20 degree weather in a mini-skirt? Or you just like the way your legs look too much to care?"
The smile playing across Midori's lips changes from one of amusement of other's follies to one of enjoyment; it would seem she's met a witty match. "Touchi," comes a soft reply from between her glossy lips. "Let's just say the cold doesn't bother me as much as it does others."
"Thermal underwear's a good look for you," congratulates the dry baritone; the man lifts his chin in an idle gesture, returning handkerchief and gloved hands back to the safety of his pockets. The overcoat stretches around the added weight, dragging taut, tight lines across the frame of hips. "Won't do you much good if you get wet."
Midori glances down at her appearel, her foot sliding forward along the slippery deck in an attempt to catch a better glimpse of her leg. Tucking it back in against the wall quickly to keep a sense of warmth against the biting cold, she replies, "Thank you. And hence, that is why I wasn't standing against the railing like you, Mr...?"
Another glance askance, absent-minded, registers the leg -- and, along the way, the loss of a foolhardy tourist's pamphlet to the wind. "Rossi," he introduces, peeling a hand out of his pocket to offer it: reluctant courtesy. "Chris Rossi." As an afterthought, he adds, "NYPD."
Midori uncrosses her arms briefly, reaching out to accept the offered hand in the mildest of handshakes before her arm retreats to its nest, snuggled warmly against her body. "The famous Chris Rossi, or are you simply lucky enough to share his name?"
"Famous?" echoes the detective, the slash of brows twitching to a frown. Pale eyes hood, nudging towards irritation; Rossi fists his pocket again, shoulders hunching into the muffler's cover. "What the hell, famous? There some pop star I don't know about?"
"You mustn't read the paper that often, Mr. Rossi. Your name has been in it quite often, as of late." The girl gaze turns from looking out over the bay to examining the man's features slowly, or at least those not hidden in the muffler that she can spy. "You know," she comments in an absent-minded tone, "your eyebrows aren't as bushy as I would have imagined."
The back end of a curse spins mist even through the scarf, and Rossi hitches a hand up to free the bottom half of his face, annoyance sharp-edged across his accent. "--/press/," he finishes, bitterly. A moment's silence makes room for amusement to creep in, however desultory, and a faint mockery turns back down to Midori. "Bushy eyebrows, huh? The NYPD waxes them," he deadpans. "Part of the PR drive."
Midori can't help but let a warm hearted laugh go at Rossi's joke, yet manages to stifle it with her lips closed and the heated air escaping in a flurry of curling mist from her nose. "Whoever said a cop doesn't have a sense of humor?" she muses retorically before turning her head to the side and leaning forward enough to glance past the beam at the ever approaching island. "What was I thinking coming out on a day like today?"
"Who's laughing?" asks Rossi, dour behind the words' mask of white. A glance checks the slow growth of Liberty's stature, beyond the bow: a little more travel is needed yet, to make her more than a distant souvenir. "Good question. Not to mention the outfit. What /were/ you thinking? You a tourist?"
"If you count living here for... five years or so being a tourist, then yeah, I'm a tourist." A sarcastic little smile is added to the end of her comment. "And, as far as I can remember, you weren't exactly complaining when you were looking over my legs, were you?"
Rossi shrugs, sardonic. "They're legs. I wasn't aware I was supposed to complain. Or compliment. They seem nice enough," he commends, canting his head to refresh his memory. On his straightening, he adds, gravely, "They seem to reach the floor just fine."
"Whatever you say..." is given as a mild reply that shows her now disinterest in the topic of her choice of clothing. A deep breath is taken before being exhaled slowly, "So, we've established why I've come out today... why have you come out today?"
"When did we establish why you came out?" Rossi wonders, tipping his head back (bump) to settle as well against the metal wall. Black hair, in need of a haircut, sweeps shaggy fingers across the wide brow and veiled eyes. "Don't remember hearing a /reason/."
Midori replies bluntly, "I'm insane; isn't it obvious? My clothes, the weather, where I'm going; that place *can't* be heated. So, all that leaves me with is an insanity plea. You, however, are dressed rather warmly it would seem, thus not allowing for you to be insane."
Detective Rossi feeds hair through his fingers, raking a futile hand through wind-whipped strands. "It's tradition," he says. "Weather gets cold, I put on more clothes. Call me crazy." His mouth hooks in a crooked ghost of a smile, a quicksilver flash of humor that touches warmth in the green eyes. He glances aside at her, and relents to add, "It's a yearly trip."
"Alright, crazy," she says with a broad smile. "Yearly, hhmm? I've never been here myself. I think that's why I came. That and I was bored out of my skull."
"Never get to do the tourist things when you're a native," observes Rossi, with a dry, droll note skeining through his voice. "Unless you get out-of-towners visiting. Who the hell'd want to?"
Midori shrugs, "Who wouldn't want to? I mean, I've never done it because I've just enver really thought about it. Just like the Empire State Building; never been there, or Madison Square Gardens. You hear all these names when you're growing up, but you never go there."
Brown-coated shoulders hitch into another shrug. "Native, you do," Rossi observes as Brooklyn's accent deepens into the baritone, tracing nature and nurture in one efficient swoop. "Games at the Gardens, and work at Empire State. Especially Times Square, as a beat cop and otherwise. Then again," he allows, "you eventually end up everywhere, as a cop."
Midori nods to the words as she hears them, "You say that as if it's a bad thing, Mr. Rossi." She looks as though she's about to say more, but is cut off by the loudspeaker cutting in announcing their arrival in the next few minutes.
"Do I?" Surprise arches those not-too-bushy eyebrows, clearing for a moment the distracted gaze. "Nothing wrong with seeing the city, one way or another. There's enough of it to go around for tourists and natives, God knows. --Liberty's only once a year. Not many out-of-towners willing to visit it this time of year." The boat lurches a little, slowing through choppy waters; Rossi sets his stance into the deck, pressing into the wall with determined balance.
The sudden lurch is unexpected and Midori doesn't have time to plant her feet and balance herself. Her balance wavers and is finally lost, the end result being her toppling into Rossi, arms thrusting out to wrap around him for support as she slides down.
The man staggers under the sudden impact, a leg jostled wide to counter the new weight. Hands are quick -- practiced, alas -- to catch the girl's fall; the tongue is as quick (also practiced, alas!) with a swear word and a grunt as he steadies. An arm wraps hard around Midori's shoulders, while balance recovers itself. "You okay?"
Midori remains clenched tightly around Rossi while her balance returns and she slowly rises to her feet once more, a rather embarassed look on her features, "Yeah, I'm ok now. Sorry about that."
There is little warmth to be had through layers of clothing: leather coat, suit coat, shirt sleeve. Security must be had instead, and Rossi's arm offers it for a half-second longer before it loosens, patiently waiting Midori's stability before retreating. Green eyes smile down at Midori, humorous and wry behind the solemn expression. "This," he informs, even as the boat slows and coasts to the dock, "is the /real/ reason why you shouldn't stand by the railing."
Midori gives a warm, pleasent smile, her sparkling eyes showing her gratitude as the boat comes to a halt and the ramp is put in place. "Well, it looks like this is where we part company. Good day, Mr. Rossi, and though the odds are a billion to one, we might meet again someday." That said, she takes one step from the wall and is immediately lost in the sea of people, all jockeying forward to be the first off the boat.
[Log ends]