Rumble
Split my lip, scraped my cheek, have some bruises up my left side. Gave him a black eye, and he'll have some pretty colors to shower with.
Felt good. Cassidy kicked my ass -- the dickhead trains, looks like -- but I got in some good hits. Harry won't be inviting us back for an encore performance anytime soon. It's been way too long since I got physical. Chasing down perps went out with the uniform. Sometimes I miss those days.
Three DBs today, all slam dunks. This keeps up, the Captain'll have us start opening up old cases again. Shit happens. She was talking about making us secondary for Kant's AZN pride jacket.
Need a shower, then I'll maybe catch the last quarter of the game and head to bed early. Turning into an old man.
---
It's cold. The streets outside are hinting at the beginnings of ice, as the people of New York make their way about rapid business, heads held low to sink deeper into their jackets. No wind -- almost an eery stillness, which is certainly not matched by the gentle buzz inside Harry's. "-hy there's no way you can even /think/ about mindrape without talking about specialist prisons." The reddish-topped head of Sean is the first part of him inside, though the rest follows at an easy pace, one arm outstretched to keep the portal open.
"Where you're thinking of coming up with that kind of cash--" The answering growl lacks belligerence, being little more than show. Wrapped in muffler and calf-banging leather overcoat, Det. Chris Rossi swings in past the propped door, eyes brightened by chill and exasperation. "Eye for an eye, man. Why not just stick them in their own brains and leave them there? Cost of an IV and a hospital bed, you're set."
"Get rid of the nukes," shrugs Sean, tilting his head back to deliver a bland, obviously amused, grin. The customary battered leather of his jacket is stripped off, as the Irishman throws a glance towards the bar. "Ethics, dear boy. Ever been catatonic? Ever seen someone who /is/? Highly unpleasant, even if they /are/ a criminal. If you're going to do that, might as well kill them." The last snorted with just a touch of scorn.
A glance skips askance, just missing Sean in favor of the bar's long, low curve. "Yeah, I've seen it. If it keeps a telepath from wandering around my brain, I don't give a rat's ass. Gets worse," Rossi adds obscurely, peeling gloves from his own hands to shove them deep into a pocket. "Been lucky so far, but it's only a matter of time. Having someone wander through your brain without asking -- that's /worse/ than rape."
"But," insists Sean, raising a finger to hold the cop's voice, "it depends on the power of the telepath." The finger continues, though it's towards the bar, followed by Cassidy's sinewy form. "Some are only capable of emotional or thought detection, others only projection. However, your point is taken -- Magneto with a powerful telepath? Terrifying." A shrug tilts shoulders up, and an enquiring glanec is thrown over. "Telepaths are rare, to be honest."
Teeth show strong and sharp, bared behind the curl of lips. "Not rare enough. Gets harder and harder with the Doc," Rossi adds, divesting himself of coat and muffler as well to bare himself work-clad and weary in blue suit and grey tie. "Not like I think she'll do anything, but -- can't figure it." Honest bemusement coasts across the baritone, trailing muddy, ghost-like embarrassment in its wake.
"Ye're safe with Jean," Sean assures, with a little nod. Eyes twinkle a brilliant blue along with the smile, this time towards the (blessedly female) bartender. As an aside, "Remember, if you're feeling uncomfortable or wary or anything, then they're definitely not inside your head -- if they were, they'd make sure you felt /fine/ -- coke and a, er-?"
"Hamburger and Adams," Rossi orders, even as he hooks himself over a stool. Distraction notes (and appreciates!) the bartender, more from habit than honest interest; masculine attention is laggard but charm is adroit, serving duplicitous in its stead. "Depends on how stupid or clumsy the asshole is," he adds, loosely knitting his fingers on the countertop to frown at his thumbnails. "This guy the Doc took care of...."
"Cheesburger," Sean tags on, "and something for yourself." A final glint of pearly teeth sent her way, and the man perches next to the cop. "Was stupid and clumsy, I guess? She's not told me about it, yet. Try me?"
Shoulders hitch and roll, uneasy for all the casual sprawl of body. "Some dickhead with a God complex," Chris says briefly, sparing the urge towards storytelling to strip the tale dry. Discomfort moves behind the raptor features. "Funny thing is, I never had a problem with telepaths before. Nowadays, I'd rather meet more red-skinned horn heads. Speaking of which, you follow up with that kid?"
"Sounds normal. Not yet." Fingers tap idly against the bar -- where's my drink, woman? "I think Summers'll be doin' it, unless I feel the urge. Talkin' of which," He pauses, accepting coke with a quiet, friendly smile. "You speak to him about my, er, sources?"
An eyebrow quirks up, its attendant glance running the gleaming length of the bar toward the other man. "Your sources? Months ago," Chris remembers -- reminds -- with curiosity tugging at his voice. "Told you. Back when ... shit, I can't even remember. Before the Amati case, I think, which would make it September, maybe? Not since then. Why? You got new ones?"
"Shit," murmurs Sean, "you did as well." He releases a quiet sigh through his nose, turning to the bar to lean chin against the heels of palms. "No. Scott just confronted me about them."
Blunted knuckles rub along the nose, tracing its shape and slide into shadow. "While back," Rossi remarks, thoughtfully. A glint and a nod pitches gratitude at the arrival of his beer: a new toy to play with. Broad hands frame its base before he breaks the seal of dew to drink. "--He waiting for you to tell him about them?"
"Yeah." The single word, heavy with resignation. "But he also figured who they were, I think." Hello, coke. Sean stares at it. "Astute fella."
The green gaze sharpens behind its droop of black; Rossi grins fleetingly at the mirror behind the bar, casual against the Irishman's reflection. "Yeah? Small mutant world?"
"Too small, sometimes," mutters Cassidy, with a scowl towards the bartop. "Seems you can't get away from 'em, sometimes. Ever get that feeling?"
Det. Rossi's baritone rattles like parchment, aged and arid over the reply. "Like I'm surrounded by mutants? Why the hell would I think that? --Damn things are pouring out my ears, these days. No offense."
"We're /everywhere/," grins Sean, suddenly animated as he flips an amused look over. "Like cops -- can't seem to escape you people for a good solid day's vigilante work. Scumbags."
Vigilante. The long spine curls, slouching; the black head lifts, arrested. "You guys getting up to trouble behind my back, Irish?" Chris splices a half-hearted glower at Sean, brow knit over his beer. "The Captain's got Beston and me on some vigilante action in Hell's Kitchen."
Wry, dissatisfied, Sean regrets, "Wish I was, to be honest." Glower? Meet lopsided, cheeky smile. Cassidy leans over, elbow again supporting. "What sort of action? Could be rival gangs, 'round there."
Green twines with black and bites, white. "Don't go getting any ideas, asshat." There's grudging amusement under the warning, hollowed through the lift of glass. "Civilians winning their streets back is one thing -- I got no problem with that -- but it's only a matter of time before someone gets hurt."
The return is shot out, thrown under lowered brow, though half effort as such. "Stop me, coplet." Coke finds its way to lips, and a small sip precedes, "You mean a vigilante will get hurt? Isn't that part and parcel? Then again, law unto their own hands is almost always dangerous."
"Some good-intentioned guy with a gun or a bat, and suddenly it's murder. Road to hell, man." Rossi toasts it with another drink, light pitched through amber to limn his throat's line. Then, grave, asks, "What's Irish and sits outside in the summertime?"
"/Real/ vigilantes use non-lethals," muses Sean, staring towards the ceiling. A tilt of his head -- what /is/ that? -- and he answers, "Go on."
"Paddy O'Furniture," says the Italian, dulcet-toned. "What, you a vigilante snob, now? Your regular Neighborhood Watch in that neighborhood's got more concerns than not killing the other guy. Staying alive comes first, I'd think -- which is why I'm saying. Bad idea."
A tiny snort punches from Sean's nose. "Not on form, today. Bad idea for the masses, yes," insists Sean, "because they've got no idea what's relaly going on -- these ones you're getting, they just beaten up? Shot? Knifed?"
The cop shrugs. "Senseless, anyway," he will concede, warily: cautious, like the eye that peeks at Sean from around that brooding shoulder. "That was freaking hilarious, Cassidy. You got no sense of humor. --What's the difference between an Irish wedding and an Irish wake?"
"'Bout as hilarious as my arse -- no idea." Cassidy frowns, pondering, "Senseless, that's all? No wounds, no nothing? Odd."
"One less drunk. --Few bruises. Some concussions. Beat up," Rossi clarifies, a passing frown spun for a touch of draft, "but it's only a matter of time. Too many guns and knives in the projects."
"Still, could be rival gangs not wantin' to escalate," the Irishman hypothesises. "Knives? Anyone can get somethin' that'll kill." Again he sups at the cola, as he eyes the bartender. "Where's this food?"
Prompt on cue, the kitchen door bangs open on a waiter's stride out. At the bar, Rossi hunches his shoulders, bitter about the failures of his fellow man. "Freaking hilarious. No goddamn sense of humor," he accuses, wistfully. "Damned if I know why I even try."
A quiet lift of shoulders. "Either you're not on form, or my sense of humour has totally failed me today," explains Sean. "Got anything /really/ offensive, to test me out?" Ahh, burger.
Chris brightens for his food, unconsciously boyish and easily pleased. "How can you tell if a blonde's been using the computer? --Thanks, man." Hamburger, fries; Rossi inhales food without preamble, efficient with the rapidity of a man used to aborted breaks and snatched meals.
Sean's response to his burger is a little more reserved, with careful, if large bites beginning to make their way down it. "Cheers. Tip-Ex on the screen and a wet joystick. Try again." Dryly delivered, before fries make their way towards gaping Irish mouth.
Thwarted of his punchline, Rossi grins into his hamburger, a chuckle throttled behind a swallow. "You're a son-of-a-bitch," he informs without heat: affection of a masculine! very masculine! sort. "Why's 68 the maximum speed limit for blondes?"
"Love you too, Christopher." Affection of an entirely non-existent form -- okay, a smudge. Sean flicks eyes towards his fellow eater, consideration sitting deep behind the blue. "Somethin' to do with sixty nine -- go for it."
"At 69, they blow a rod. --Pass me the ketchup," the detective tangents, sorting through his french fries with a dissatisfied note in the back of his throat. "So, Summers give you a hard time about your snitch?"
Finally, a snort of laughter rips from the redhead, followed by a choking cough. "Saints, man. Burger. Nose." Another clearing of throat, before he shakes his head. "Not too bad, really. He wasn't happy, though -- he's the boss, you know?"
The cop makes a noncommital noise through his own full mouth, an expression of deep satisfaction marching its way across his face. Smug? Yea, verily. "How long you two worked together?" he asks, swallowing. "Don't have those kinks worked out yet?"
"First met, oh, two, three years ago?" Sean notes, as he downs the remnants of cola. "Occasional hiccups, from differing styles. Once we hit an -- er, yeah. We're normally great."
"Ex-cop," quips Rossi, humor slipping eel-like through the grave tone. "And ... boy scout?"
"Tactics versus experience," Sean says, ever the politician. Lips curve into an almost-suppressed half-smile. "Or something like that."
A black eyebrow quizzes. "Bucking for a promotion, Irish?"
"God no," Sean spurts out. "I'm no leader. Scott's excellent at his job, and he takes everything on board. But, like I said, different styles."
Shoulders quiver, twitching around a stretch of muscle, a jerk of unvoiced laughter. "Can't say I see you as Cap," admits Rossi, turning a frank and thoughtful regard onto Sean. "Lieutenant, maybe. Sergeant, sure. Too much boot-polishing and ass-kissing once you're out of the rank and file."
"Sarge I can handle," says Cassidy, "but these days I prefer being a grunt, you know? Less hassle." Shoulders lift, before the Irishman turns to wave a hand at the bartender. "'Sides, once an Inspector, never again."
"Roaches," says Rossi with sympathy and, oh, such kindness. "Looking for rats under the stoves, making sure the cooks have washed their hand -- tough gig, man. I feel for you."
Sean breaks into a chuckle. "Interpol, dumbass. Do they let Americans in, or do you all fail the IQ tests?"
Chris takes temporary refuge in his beer, and over its curved rim, turns lambent, inscrutable eyes onto Sean. "Who needs an IQ working in Europe?" he wonders, baritone pitched and ricocheted inside the glass. "The French did it."
"French surrender if you go near 'em with a spoon," Sean scoffs, "so at least you lot are better than /someone/, eh?" He swivels in place, towards the bar, where he can lean for better effect -- two elbows! "Learn your stereotypes. American; fat and stupid."
"Rich," corrects Chris, mellowly. "And weak. We're going for stereotypes now, you'd be under the table already with a beer in each hand. And I'd be Irish," he supposes, with an idle flick of a hand for the badge beneath the coat. "Shit sells."
"Rich, fat, stupid and weak," Sean decides, allowing his chuckle to escape. "What're you? Just weak, or stupid as well?" He prods at the remains of fries, congealing within ketchup as they are. "Wouldn't I be in a brawl as well by now?"
Rossi's reply is elegant, and mature. His leg jerks; his foot lashes out. Take that, Irish. "Unconscious, drunk, and fighting," he grants. "And in a dress."
"Shit!" comes the exclamation, as leg jerks involuntarily, and the Irishman skips from his seat. One fist balled, pulled back. "Little bastard -- why a dress?"
"Those little mini-skirts your type wears," reminds Chris, a savage grin slashing wild and wide. Green eyes gleam, splintering immature relish; an unadorned french fry hurls after Sean, pinwheeling at his head. "Hear it's cold in Ireland. That shrinkage permanent? Or is it just a genetic thing?"
French fry, meet forehead. Eyes drop a little more tense, and an amused smile spreads across Irish features. "Remember once you promised me a brawl? Wanna back that gob of your up?"
An answering glitter jags back; as for dinner, Rossi finishes it in haste: a matter of two more mouthfuls and a hastily inhaled sip of beer. "Bring it on, Irish. --You finished?" A wallet thumbs out and green fans wide for the bartender's count. "I got yours. Apologies in advance for the ass-kicking you are about to receive."
Sean is honourable -- he waits. "I'm done, and ready, coplet." He stands, fist held back, and beginning to crouch, just a little.
"Keep the change," Rossi adds magnanimously, while the barkeep eyes Sean over his shoulder, abrupt realization shaping into quick exasperation. "Hold onto this for me?" --And then it's off to the races. Chris unfolds, his own gaze bright and anticipatory. Fight! Yay!
The balled fist moves, but the other hand lashes out, the fist driven towards jaw, linked with the smile fading into a look of intense concentration, eyes locked on steady on his opponent.
First blow to Sean. The arm that leaps up to block it is slow, rerouted as it is from its initial purpose: from attack to defense, and a hand's grasp to pull. Behind them, the bartender shouts annoyance -- "Take it outside, Chris, you asshole!" -- while Rossi takes the punch squarely on his shoulder. No matter. The other fist forms and strikes out, powered by practice and the impetus of delight. Calloo, callay! He chortles in his joy, o beamish boy. /That/ for dignity and the peaceful night.
[Log ends]
Rossi and Sean meet up for dinner and a little roughhousing.
Felt good. Cassidy kicked my ass -- the dickhead trains, looks like -- but I got in some good hits. Harry won't be inviting us back for an encore performance anytime soon. It's been way too long since I got physical. Chasing down perps went out with the uniform. Sometimes I miss those days.
Three DBs today, all slam dunks. This keeps up, the Captain'll have us start opening up old cases again. Shit happens. She was talking about making us secondary for Kant's AZN pride jacket.
Need a shower, then I'll maybe catch the last quarter of the game and head to bed early. Turning into an old man.
---
It's cold. The streets outside are hinting at the beginnings of ice, as the people of New York make their way about rapid business, heads held low to sink deeper into their jackets. No wind -- almost an eery stillness, which is certainly not matched by the gentle buzz inside Harry's. "-hy there's no way you can even /think/ about mindrape without talking about specialist prisons." The reddish-topped head of Sean is the first part of him inside, though the rest follows at an easy pace, one arm outstretched to keep the portal open.
"Where you're thinking of coming up with that kind of cash--" The answering growl lacks belligerence, being little more than show. Wrapped in muffler and calf-banging leather overcoat, Det. Chris Rossi swings in past the propped door, eyes brightened by chill and exasperation. "Eye for an eye, man. Why not just stick them in their own brains and leave them there? Cost of an IV and a hospital bed, you're set."
"Get rid of the nukes," shrugs Sean, tilting his head back to deliver a bland, obviously amused, grin. The customary battered leather of his jacket is stripped off, as the Irishman throws a glance towards the bar. "Ethics, dear boy. Ever been catatonic? Ever seen someone who /is/? Highly unpleasant, even if they /are/ a criminal. If you're going to do that, might as well kill them." The last snorted with just a touch of scorn.
A glance skips askance, just missing Sean in favor of the bar's long, low curve. "Yeah, I've seen it. If it keeps a telepath from wandering around my brain, I don't give a rat's ass. Gets worse," Rossi adds obscurely, peeling gloves from his own hands to shove them deep into a pocket. "Been lucky so far, but it's only a matter of time. Having someone wander through your brain without asking -- that's /worse/ than rape."
"But," insists Sean, raising a finger to hold the cop's voice, "it depends on the power of the telepath." The finger continues, though it's towards the bar, followed by Cassidy's sinewy form. "Some are only capable of emotional or thought detection, others only projection. However, your point is taken -- Magneto with a powerful telepath? Terrifying." A shrug tilts shoulders up, and an enquiring glanec is thrown over. "Telepaths are rare, to be honest."
Teeth show strong and sharp, bared behind the curl of lips. "Not rare enough. Gets harder and harder with the Doc," Rossi adds, divesting himself of coat and muffler as well to bare himself work-clad and weary in blue suit and grey tie. "Not like I think she'll do anything, but -- can't figure it." Honest bemusement coasts across the baritone, trailing muddy, ghost-like embarrassment in its wake.
"Ye're safe with Jean," Sean assures, with a little nod. Eyes twinkle a brilliant blue along with the smile, this time towards the (blessedly female) bartender. As an aside, "Remember, if you're feeling uncomfortable or wary or anything, then they're definitely not inside your head -- if they were, they'd make sure you felt /fine/ -- coke and a, er-?"
"Hamburger and Adams," Rossi orders, even as he hooks himself over a stool. Distraction notes (and appreciates!) the bartender, more from habit than honest interest; masculine attention is laggard but charm is adroit, serving duplicitous in its stead. "Depends on how stupid or clumsy the asshole is," he adds, loosely knitting his fingers on the countertop to frown at his thumbnails. "This guy the Doc took care of...."
"Cheesburger," Sean tags on, "and something for yourself." A final glint of pearly teeth sent her way, and the man perches next to the cop. "Was stupid and clumsy, I guess? She's not told me about it, yet. Try me?"
Shoulders hitch and roll, uneasy for all the casual sprawl of body. "Some dickhead with a God complex," Chris says briefly, sparing the urge towards storytelling to strip the tale dry. Discomfort moves behind the raptor features. "Funny thing is, I never had a problem with telepaths before. Nowadays, I'd rather meet more red-skinned horn heads. Speaking of which, you follow up with that kid?"
"Sounds normal. Not yet." Fingers tap idly against the bar -- where's my drink, woman? "I think Summers'll be doin' it, unless I feel the urge. Talkin' of which," He pauses, accepting coke with a quiet, friendly smile. "You speak to him about my, er, sources?"
An eyebrow quirks up, its attendant glance running the gleaming length of the bar toward the other man. "Your sources? Months ago," Chris remembers -- reminds -- with curiosity tugging at his voice. "Told you. Back when ... shit, I can't even remember. Before the Amati case, I think, which would make it September, maybe? Not since then. Why? You got new ones?"
"Shit," murmurs Sean, "you did as well." He releases a quiet sigh through his nose, turning to the bar to lean chin against the heels of palms. "No. Scott just confronted me about them."
Blunted knuckles rub along the nose, tracing its shape and slide into shadow. "While back," Rossi remarks, thoughtfully. A glint and a nod pitches gratitude at the arrival of his beer: a new toy to play with. Broad hands frame its base before he breaks the seal of dew to drink. "--He waiting for you to tell him about them?"
"Yeah." The single word, heavy with resignation. "But he also figured who they were, I think." Hello, coke. Sean stares at it. "Astute fella."
The green gaze sharpens behind its droop of black; Rossi grins fleetingly at the mirror behind the bar, casual against the Irishman's reflection. "Yeah? Small mutant world?"
"Too small, sometimes," mutters Cassidy, with a scowl towards the bartop. "Seems you can't get away from 'em, sometimes. Ever get that feeling?"
Det. Rossi's baritone rattles like parchment, aged and arid over the reply. "Like I'm surrounded by mutants? Why the hell would I think that? --Damn things are pouring out my ears, these days. No offense."
"We're /everywhere/," grins Sean, suddenly animated as he flips an amused look over. "Like cops -- can't seem to escape you people for a good solid day's vigilante work. Scumbags."
Vigilante. The long spine curls, slouching; the black head lifts, arrested. "You guys getting up to trouble behind my back, Irish?" Chris splices a half-hearted glower at Sean, brow knit over his beer. "The Captain's got Beston and me on some vigilante action in Hell's Kitchen."
Wry, dissatisfied, Sean regrets, "Wish I was, to be honest." Glower? Meet lopsided, cheeky smile. Cassidy leans over, elbow again supporting. "What sort of action? Could be rival gangs, 'round there."
Green twines with black and bites, white. "Don't go getting any ideas, asshat." There's grudging amusement under the warning, hollowed through the lift of glass. "Civilians winning their streets back is one thing -- I got no problem with that -- but it's only a matter of time before someone gets hurt."
The return is shot out, thrown under lowered brow, though half effort as such. "Stop me, coplet." Coke finds its way to lips, and a small sip precedes, "You mean a vigilante will get hurt? Isn't that part and parcel? Then again, law unto their own hands is almost always dangerous."
"Some good-intentioned guy with a gun or a bat, and suddenly it's murder. Road to hell, man." Rossi toasts it with another drink, light pitched through amber to limn his throat's line. Then, grave, asks, "What's Irish and sits outside in the summertime?"
"/Real/ vigilantes use non-lethals," muses Sean, staring towards the ceiling. A tilt of his head -- what /is/ that? -- and he answers, "Go on."
"Paddy O'Furniture," says the Italian, dulcet-toned. "What, you a vigilante snob, now? Your regular Neighborhood Watch in that neighborhood's got more concerns than not killing the other guy. Staying alive comes first, I'd think -- which is why I'm saying. Bad idea."
A tiny snort punches from Sean's nose. "Not on form, today. Bad idea for the masses, yes," insists Sean, "because they've got no idea what's relaly going on -- these ones you're getting, they just beaten up? Shot? Knifed?"
The cop shrugs. "Senseless, anyway," he will concede, warily: cautious, like the eye that peeks at Sean from around that brooding shoulder. "That was freaking hilarious, Cassidy. You got no sense of humor. --What's the difference between an Irish wedding and an Irish wake?"
"'Bout as hilarious as my arse -- no idea." Cassidy frowns, pondering, "Senseless, that's all? No wounds, no nothing? Odd."
"One less drunk. --Few bruises. Some concussions. Beat up," Rossi clarifies, a passing frown spun for a touch of draft, "but it's only a matter of time. Too many guns and knives in the projects."
"Still, could be rival gangs not wantin' to escalate," the Irishman hypothesises. "Knives? Anyone can get somethin' that'll kill." Again he sups at the cola, as he eyes the bartender. "Where's this food?"
Prompt on cue, the kitchen door bangs open on a waiter's stride out. At the bar, Rossi hunches his shoulders, bitter about the failures of his fellow man. "Freaking hilarious. No goddamn sense of humor," he accuses, wistfully. "Damned if I know why I even try."
A quiet lift of shoulders. "Either you're not on form, or my sense of humour has totally failed me today," explains Sean. "Got anything /really/ offensive, to test me out?" Ahh, burger.
Chris brightens for his food, unconsciously boyish and easily pleased. "How can you tell if a blonde's been using the computer? --Thanks, man." Hamburger, fries; Rossi inhales food without preamble, efficient with the rapidity of a man used to aborted breaks and snatched meals.
Sean's response to his burger is a little more reserved, with careful, if large bites beginning to make their way down it. "Cheers. Tip-Ex on the screen and a wet joystick. Try again." Dryly delivered, before fries make their way towards gaping Irish mouth.
Thwarted of his punchline, Rossi grins into his hamburger, a chuckle throttled behind a swallow. "You're a son-of-a-bitch," he informs without heat: affection of a masculine! very masculine! sort. "Why's 68 the maximum speed limit for blondes?"
"Love you too, Christopher." Affection of an entirely non-existent form -- okay, a smudge. Sean flicks eyes towards his fellow eater, consideration sitting deep behind the blue. "Somethin' to do with sixty nine -- go for it."
"At 69, they blow a rod. --Pass me the ketchup," the detective tangents, sorting through his french fries with a dissatisfied note in the back of his throat. "So, Summers give you a hard time about your snitch?"
Finally, a snort of laughter rips from the redhead, followed by a choking cough. "Saints, man. Burger. Nose." Another clearing of throat, before he shakes his head. "Not too bad, really. He wasn't happy, though -- he's the boss, you know?"
The cop makes a noncommital noise through his own full mouth, an expression of deep satisfaction marching its way across his face. Smug? Yea, verily. "How long you two worked together?" he asks, swallowing. "Don't have those kinks worked out yet?"
"First met, oh, two, three years ago?" Sean notes, as he downs the remnants of cola. "Occasional hiccups, from differing styles. Once we hit an -- er, yeah. We're normally great."
"Ex-cop," quips Rossi, humor slipping eel-like through the grave tone. "And ... boy scout?"
"Tactics versus experience," Sean says, ever the politician. Lips curve into an almost-suppressed half-smile. "Or something like that."
A black eyebrow quizzes. "Bucking for a promotion, Irish?"
"God no," Sean spurts out. "I'm no leader. Scott's excellent at his job, and he takes everything on board. But, like I said, different styles."
Shoulders quiver, twitching around a stretch of muscle, a jerk of unvoiced laughter. "Can't say I see you as Cap," admits Rossi, turning a frank and thoughtful regard onto Sean. "Lieutenant, maybe. Sergeant, sure. Too much boot-polishing and ass-kissing once you're out of the rank and file."
"Sarge I can handle," says Cassidy, "but these days I prefer being a grunt, you know? Less hassle." Shoulders lift, before the Irishman turns to wave a hand at the bartender. "'Sides, once an Inspector, never again."
"Roaches," says Rossi with sympathy and, oh, such kindness. "Looking for rats under the stoves, making sure the cooks have washed their hand -- tough gig, man. I feel for you."
Sean breaks into a chuckle. "Interpol, dumbass. Do they let Americans in, or do you all fail the IQ tests?"
Chris takes temporary refuge in his beer, and over its curved rim, turns lambent, inscrutable eyes onto Sean. "Who needs an IQ working in Europe?" he wonders, baritone pitched and ricocheted inside the glass. "The French did it."
"French surrender if you go near 'em with a spoon," Sean scoffs, "so at least you lot are better than /someone/, eh?" He swivels in place, towards the bar, where he can lean for better effect -- two elbows! "Learn your stereotypes. American; fat and stupid."
"Rich," corrects Chris, mellowly. "And weak. We're going for stereotypes now, you'd be under the table already with a beer in each hand. And I'd be Irish," he supposes, with an idle flick of a hand for the badge beneath the coat. "Shit sells."
"Rich, fat, stupid and weak," Sean decides, allowing his chuckle to escape. "What're you? Just weak, or stupid as well?" He prods at the remains of fries, congealing within ketchup as they are. "Wouldn't I be in a brawl as well by now?"
Rossi's reply is elegant, and mature. His leg jerks; his foot lashes out. Take that, Irish. "Unconscious, drunk, and fighting," he grants. "And in a dress."
"Shit!" comes the exclamation, as leg jerks involuntarily, and the Irishman skips from his seat. One fist balled, pulled back. "Little bastard -- why a dress?"
"Those little mini-skirts your type wears," reminds Chris, a savage grin slashing wild and wide. Green eyes gleam, splintering immature relish; an unadorned french fry hurls after Sean, pinwheeling at his head. "Hear it's cold in Ireland. That shrinkage permanent? Or is it just a genetic thing?"
French fry, meet forehead. Eyes drop a little more tense, and an amused smile spreads across Irish features. "Remember once you promised me a brawl? Wanna back that gob of your up?"
An answering glitter jags back; as for dinner, Rossi finishes it in haste: a matter of two more mouthfuls and a hastily inhaled sip of beer. "Bring it on, Irish. --You finished?" A wallet thumbs out and green fans wide for the bartender's count. "I got yours. Apologies in advance for the ass-kicking you are about to receive."
Sean is honourable -- he waits. "I'm done, and ready, coplet." He stands, fist held back, and beginning to crouch, just a little.
"Keep the change," Rossi adds magnanimously, while the barkeep eyes Sean over his shoulder, abrupt realization shaping into quick exasperation. "Hold onto this for me?" --And then it's off to the races. Chris unfolds, his own gaze bright and anticipatory. Fight! Yay!
The balled fist moves, but the other hand lashes out, the fist driven towards jaw, linked with the smile fading into a look of intense concentration, eyes locked on steady on his opponent.
First blow to Sean. The arm that leaps up to block it is slow, rerouted as it is from its initial purpose: from attack to defense, and a hand's grasp to pull. Behind them, the bartender shouts annoyance -- "Take it outside, Chris, you asshole!" -- while Rossi takes the punch squarely on his shoulder. No matter. The other fist forms and strikes out, powered by practice and the impetus of delight. Calloo, callay! He chortles in his joy, o beamish boy. /That/ for dignity and the peaceful night.
[Log ends]
Rossi and Sean meet up for dinner and a little roughhousing.