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Greenwich Apts #330 - Sabitha
The flat is large and unhindered by walls and doors. A raised area in the corner serves as Sabitha's bedroom, and it's sectioned off by tall wooden screens painted with elaborate oriental designs. A huge picture window is draped in sheer fabrics of cream and deep red, and a large, elegant rug is centered on the hardwood floors. The walls are bare, for now, and the furnishings - a simple couch and wingchair, a coffee table, an armour housing a television, a bookshelf overflowing with historical texts - are sparce. In one corner is a kitchen area, in the other a door leading to a bathroom, and others concealing closet space.
Sabitha glances over her shoulder as she jingles her keys in her lock. "Should I make you close your eyes? Astound you with my homemaking and decorating skills all at once?"
"I could trip over one of your shoes," says the following baritone, cordially. "Break my neck, sue your ass--"
"I keep a neat apartment," Sabitha protests mildly, and swings open the door. "And you wouldn't sue me. You love me too much."
Amusement tickles her back, green-eyed and lazy. "Never underestimate the persuasive powers of a decent lawyer, Melcross. Or an irritated union." Post-dinner and sated by warmth and conversation, Chris Rossi leans against the hallway of Sabitha's floor, hands lost in the wide pockets of his leather overcoat. Under the flipped-up collar, a hint of pale blue suggests at a button down shirt, manacled by a darker stripe of tie; the blue trouser legs that cross at the ankles are all work, all formality, comfortable over the slush-striped shoes. "So how /did/ it go? You never said."
A flip of a switch floods her apartment with warm light, and Sabitha takes a moment to shrug out of her coat and slid off her heels before she crosses in stockinged feet to plug in her tree in front of the window. "I'll have to keep you away from lawyers, then," she returns. Crouched next to her tree with concern for her knee-length skirt, she glances over her shoulder at Chris. "How'd what go?"
"The Doc," clarifies Chris, betraying greater intimacy with the redoubtable telepath a moment later with: "Jean." In her wake, he unhooks himself from the wall to pad after, a pause in the threshold turning his attention to the tree. The wrinkle of a smile tugs his mouth askew. "Nice."
Sabitha stills for a minute and then props her hand against the floor to push herself upward. Her voice is a bit tight as she answers around a smile. "Oh. It went ok." She steps back swiftly and raises a hand, Vanna White. "Yeah? Pretty good for my first one, don't you think?"
Experienced critic and old hand Chris Rossi (--salted with experience yet still alive with passion--) cants his dark head and darker good looks at the Christmas tree, considering. "Not bad at all," he decides after a moment, before nudging the door shut behind him with a hip. "Good work. You drag that monster up here all by yourself? --No, wait. You said you got Kessler to help you."
Sabitha drops her hands and widens her smile. "Yeah," she confirms. "And put the lights on, help my decorate... hell, he even sang Christmas songs with me." One foot rubs absently against her ankle as she stands and tilts her head toward the tree, studying it. "Not too shabby," she decides quietly. "You want something to drink? I can make you hot chocolate and spike it with alcohol. Homey /and/ fun."
"And I can get drunk and spank you," finishes Rossi, crossing to the tree to give it the full inspection. "Sounds good to me. --So did Jean find anything? Or was I just being paranoid?"
Sabitha delivers a companionable shove to Rossi's shoulder as she sweeps past him toward the kitchen. "Yes to the alcohol, the hot chocolate, or both?" she asks before her tone dims again. "Oh. Ah. Yes, she found something. Nothing important."
"Telepaths," Chris says with ripe dislike, thoughtlessly sweeping Jean into the rule, rather than the exception. A passing grin rewards Sabitha's shrug -- he rocks lightly, swaying before regaining his balance -- and returns to a contemplative fingertap against one light. It hums at him, wildly happy. "Sorry. Wonder if I have to go trace the dickhead's steps and ask her to check everyone?"
Sabitha rubs at her temples absently as she fishes out mugs, taking his lack of answer for a confirmation of both. "Unless you think they've been stealing state secrets," she suggests quietly, "I wouldn't bother. Sometimes not knowing is better."
Chris makes a small sound of dissatisfaction, turning away; the tree's lights paint color against his cheek, hiding the bruise that darkens its line. "I'd rather know. I hate that shit, wandering around in someone else's mind -- cheeses me off." A slow prowl of the apartment's boundaries finds itself limited by holiday adornment, and he frowns at the kitchen, coming up short in its doorway. "Ignorance isn't bliss. You rather I didn't tell you?"
Sabitha is silent for a minute, quiet filled by the clatter of ceramic mugs, the splash of running water. As the microwave begins to hum she pauses to admit softly, "No." She stirs again with a sudden burst of energy. "What do you want in yours? I've got peppermint schnapps if that's up your alley."
"So," says Chris, and crooks a grin at Sabitha that twists the split and healing lip. "I'm okay without. Have to head to the precinct in a bit to pick up John. His car finally died. --How're things going with you and Sparky? Okay?"
Sabitha sputters into slow laughter. "Hell. Sparky." She leans back against a counter, arms and ankles crossing as she waits for the water to heat. "Going fine. Good. I need to call him and have him come by before he heads out for the holidays... oh! Don't let me forget. I have your gift." She starts at the beep of the timer and moves into action again.
"Gift?" Dismay flicks its whip across Chris's face; he straightens, recovering enough to remember gloves -- ah, warmth -- and strip them off with a pull of teeth. "Shit. We doing gifts? Did you buy me a pony?"
Sabitha flicks her eyes upward, a brief roll sent to him over her shoulder for full effect. "I told you I was," she reminds him mercilessly. "Don't worry about it. I do it because I want to-- Here." She turns to extend him a steaming mug of chocolate, with candycane dropped in as a swizzle stick. "Sadly, I'm not rich enough for a pony."
Chris's face falls; he shoves his gloves in his pocket and accepts the mug with both hands. "I wanted a pony," he says, sadly.
"Alas," Sabitha answers seriously. "You'll have to find another sugar momma."
The black head hangs. Chris sniffles.
Sabitha nudges at Chris as she passes out of her kitchen and toward her livingroom. "Hey," she begins. "Hey. Did... ah. Have you talked to Leah?"
Not for Sabitha's view that slight stiffening of shoulders, nor the sudden blankness that recasts Chris's face into silent, remote repose. "Yeah," he says, baritone easy on his slow turn back, half drowned in the upspring of steam and heat. "I talked to her just ... day before yesterday, actually. Why? --That's right, you left me a message about her."
"Yeah," Sabby echoes with a similiar stiffening as she drops into her couch.
"What happened? --I forgot what you said," Chris apologizes, loosening himself in the overcoat's swaddling to sink into the seat's other end. Long legs stretch, finding purchase with crossed ankles. "She called you?"
"Glad to know you pay so much attention to me," Sabby answers, dry. "Yes. She called me. Drunk off her ass." She curls her legs under her, smoothing her skirt over her knees and balancing her mug against them. "But you've talked to her."
"Yeah. --Not about her phone call to you, though." Green eyes skip their gaze across the mug at Sabitha, curiosity buried behind the faint smile. "I should've asked. What /did/ you guys talk about?"
"We didn't talk," Sabby corrects. "She talked at me. On about..." She pauses, curling her fingers around the warmth of her mug as she remembers. "Ah. Pushing people away. Safe. People being hurt." A frown appears. "The evils of mutantkind."
The cordial gaze tightens, then cloaks behind a sudden veil of black. "Oh," says Chris. And again, more thoughtful, "Yeah? Damn, Canto. Could you be any more cliche?"
Sabitha's gaze lifts to Chris, silently curious.
"'In vino,'" explains that lucid other, articulating kindly distraction from the pitch and skew of speculation. Chris hitches his mug in a solemn salute, and takes refuge in forced peace.
Sabitha exhales a tired breath. "Is she ok?"
Chris touches fingers to his battered lower lip, the tip of his tongue poking out (childish man) to investigate the booboo. "No."
Sabitha's eyes fall closed, pressing tightly for a moment before she blinks them open again to regard Chris. Bruises have been noticed over dinner, of course, but now they're regarded with more interest. "What, then?"
"Probably sober, now," he points out, and promptly looks guilty. "Should call her. I sent her flowers," Chris offers, by way of expedient excuse.
Sabitha blinks slowly. "That's not what I meant, Chris."
The detective eyes Sabitha, touches his lip again, and considers. "What's your beef with the Doc?"
"I'm not talking to you about Jean Grey."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to, Chris." Sabby stares down the length of the couch at him evenly. "And because you're asking to change the subject without bothering to have enough balls to admit that's what you're doing."
"I have plenty of balls," Chris informs Sabitha, amusement pressing white-bellied and fluid behind his expression. "It's not exactly a change of subject. Never mind. --You two still friends? You and Canto."
Sabitha does not meet amusement with good humor. "No."
"Then what's the trouble? --Too bad," Chris adds, simple sincerity dappling the regret. The wide brow folds over the mug, reading through the splay and curl of fingers. "Then again ... maybe not. If you're worried about her, you should pick up the phone and ask her, Melcross. Get her out of that damned apartment."
"We're not friends, Chris," Sabby elaborates with excessive (and somewhat annoyed) patience.
"Then why do you care?" asks Chris with less strident patience.
"Fine," Sabby answers shortly. "Nevermind. I just thought you might want a headsup."
"Appreciate it." There, again, sincerity -- under, it is true, a leavening of humor. Chris props his elbow on the sofa's arm, fists his temple, and grins across the intervening space at Melcross. "You got someplace to go for Christmas? Rossi clan does a big Christmas dinner the night before. You want to come by, it's the same deal as Thanksgiving."
Sabitha glances over at her tree and sips at steaming chocolate slowly. "I was thinking of going somewhere, actually. Take a little vacation." Her eyes skid back toward Chris with a small smile. "Thanks for the offer, though."
The middle scion of the Rossi family hitches his shoulders in a shrug, acknowledging over the creak of leather, "Not a big deal. So many people over at our house during the holidays, there's always room for one or two more. Standing room only, once in a while. --Where're you heading?"
"Dunno," Sabby answers, and shifts to tuck her mug atop her endtable. "Maybe nowhere. We'll see." She slides off the couch and plants herself on the floor in front of her tree, shuffling through through a small stack of wrapped gifts there.
"Meeting up with your brother?"
Sabitha shuffles several boxes to one side. "Hm? No. If I go, it'll be by myself."
"You don't miss him?" wonders Rossi, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees, drink cradled between them like a particularly festive oracle.
Sabitha shrugs slightly and pulls free a pair of gifts, one flat and square, the other a small box, with a triumphant smile. "We were never that close."
The detective eyes the two boxes with a wary eye. "Ever regret it?"
Sabitha shuffles backward and turns to extend both gifts to Chris. "I don't know what it'd be like to be different. Hard to regret it," she answers.
Chris regards Sabitha doubtfully over the two boxes. "I didn't get you anything," he advises. "Well. I haven't yet, anyway. The last time I went shopping, I had the thing with al-Bahir, and the time before that, I ran into an ex--"
"Don't worry about it," Sabby waves off again. "They're hardly serious. Just for fun." She rises to perch on the couch next to him and inclines her head toward the thin, flat package. "Do that one first."
The drink deposited at his feet, Chris obediently shuffles boxes to attack the thin, flat one first. Paper peels in fuzzy-edged ribbons: man in stature and years, he is still a boy when it comes to presents. Yay! "What is it?" he demands, unnecessarily.
Sabitha's smile slides into a grin. "/Open/ it," she responds, even as he does. Inside, a children's book. In pink. The 'Tooth Fairy Kit'.
"Oh my God," says Chris. "Just what I've /always/ wanted, Melcross. I think I'm having an orgasm right here on your couch."
Sabitha's grin twitches wider. "I couldn't manage the two front teeth," she apologizes solemnly. "Try not to make a mess, though. I really don't want to clean it up."
Solemn even under duress, Chris extracts the book and begins the process of flipping through its pages, rapt. "Fucking literary /masterpiece/," he advises with deep-seated dignity. "Look. There are /pictures/. God damn."
Sabitha looks entirely pleased with Chris's reaction, perched on the edge of the couch next to him. "Fair return for the tiara. You can make someone read it to you at bedtime."
Eyes glitter, trapping laughter behind their shields. "Thank you, Mom," Chris says meekly, stretching to hang a curl of wrapping paper over Sabitha's ear. "It's the bestest present /ever/."
Sabitha's grin borders on a laugh, and then she shoves the other box at him. "This one's not as fun," she answers seriously. "Try not to be disappointed."
Given the gratification of the first present, Chris dives into the second with no little anticipation, sending little confetti pieces of paper across the sofa with little regard for Sabitha's housekeeping. "What is it?" he asks again, as part of the ritual.
Sabitha shakes her head, both in denial and to dislodge the strip of paper. "Open it and see," she directs again, obedient. Inside, a pair of very nice men's gloves, of the sort to keep fingers quite warm while allowing freedom of movement. Not nearly as exciting as the tooth fairy.
On the other hand, the appreciation that meets them is of a more honest sort. "Nice," Rossi says, promptly fitting them over the ring-banded right hand. Boyish pleasure: the dark face warms happily. "Fit, too. Thanks, Melcross. My old pair were starting to get thin."
"Thought you probably spend a lot of time in the cold," Sabby dismisses, leaning forward to curve her hands over her knees. "Nature of the job, right? You can never have too many pairs of good gloves."
"Nah." Assent, of a laconic sort. Chris grins, stripping the glove from his hand, and reaches up wrap his broad hand around the back of Sabitha's head to reel her in. Bruised or no, the kiss he plants in casual affection on her hair is fraternal affection, at worst. "Thanks. I ever manage to do Christmas shopping without ending up on the job, I'll get you yours."
Sabitha collapses into him and slides an arm across his back for a quick, sharp squeeze. "Don't worry about it," she dismisses again. "You're welcome. Glad you like them."
"It's a miracle I haven't lost this pair already," Chris admits, bundling his new gloves into each other before shoving them deep into a pocket. The book is another matter altogether, and he flips a page of it, reclaiming his mug over a glower. "What the hell am I going to do with this? Damn. And it's pink."
Sabitha smiles smugly and reclaims her personal space with some small amount of reluctance. "Coffee table book," she suggests.
The sound Rossi makes is descriptive of something, certainly. Not assent, to be sure. "I'd pay to see Spiccati's face if he saw that on my table," he admits, alarm mixing with hilarity behind the slow-banked smile. "I'd never hear the end of it. It'd beat the Kitten thing, at least."
"Give it to someone else for Christmas," Sabby suggests further. She wiggles back to her corner to reclaim her hot chocolate. "I promise not to be offended. Joy of that sort ought to eb shared."
Chris grins, sharp and fast. "I know exactly what to do with it," he promises. "So what else is going on in your life, Melcross? New boyfriend, I got. How's the work?"
Sabitha hesitates half a moment over Chris's label of Matt before she decides it's not worth protestation. "Work's work," she answers half-heartedly. "Busy. The Police Foundation's Christmas Bash is this weekend."
"Lydia? Linda? Linda," Rossi remembers uncertainly, plowing into the recesses of his suit coat to produce a carton of cigarettes. One for him, fed out into the corner of his mouth; one shaken out and offered to Sabitha, under an eyebrow's hike. "You were saying your friend wanted you to help you with it. Enjoying it?"
"Linda, right," Sabby confirms. "Evans." She leans forward to accept the offer of a cigarette in midexplanation. "We're not friends, really. We just worked together on the benefit thing." One shoulder hitches in a half shrug, the other kept still so as not to disturb her hot chocolate. "Yeah. Well enough. I came in late, so I kinda got shoved with the mundane details. Something to do though, right?"
Lighter. Chris replaces the packet in the black cavity from whence it came, and produces in its place a cheerfully garish plastic lighter in shades of Magneto purple. Red. Rurple. "Yeah, but -- you at least having fun? Or finding it satisfying? Something? Different, sure," he'll allow over the flicks of thumb and striker. "Damn. It's out of fuel." And shaking it will change that, somehow.
Sabitha glances at Chris in half a moment's hesitation before she replaces her mug on the endtable and pushes off in search of a lighter. She's got one round here. Someplace. She moves toward the kitchen to rummage through a junk drawer. "Yeah," she answers as she goes. "Yeah, I think I do. Anyway. What about you? How's the case load?"
It's all under control. Chris is shaking his lighter. And then closing one eye and staring down its barrel, apparently under the belief that this will cow the lighter into submission. "Usual," he answers through distraction. "Nothing serious. Mostly domestic violence cases and robberies gone wrong, a few crackheads; this time of year, all the bad guys stay at home and watch TV. It's like a little Christmas present for the squad. --HAH. Got i--shit. Never mind."
"Hold on, I've got one," Sabitha promises amidst noisy rummaging. "Happy times in Rossi land, then? Full of Christmas parties and egg nog and holiday cheer? /Ah/, there." Lighter procured, Sabitha returns and tosses it over the back of the couch toward Chris.
"Got a PC policy in the precinct," Rossi reports with some amusement, fishing the new lighter out of the cushions. "See what you get when you suck? Replaced. Take that, you piece of crap. -- No decorations. NYPD's being all sensitive. Except Hyman and Salwan, they put up little Christmas lights on their desks. Told the Captain that if One PP asks, they're exercising their religious freedoms."
Sabitha rolls her eyes heavenward. "You've got to be fucking kididng me," she states with feeling. "I've been to church maybe a dozen times in my entire life, and /I/ lke Christmas. Give me a break." She settles down next to him, patiently waiting for her light.
Gentleman that he is, Rossi flicks (flicks, flicks, flicks, flicks) "--Goddammit. My thumb's retarded--" flicks the lighter towards Sabitha first, cigarette still clinging desperately to the corner of his mouth. "Hyman's a crappy Jew, and Salwan's a crappy Muslim."
"Next time, /I'll/ light the damn things," Sabby answers, and leans in to inhale her cigarette alight. Her lips twitch slightly. "Ha. Well. Good for them."
"--Until Hyman starts demanding his partner have a bris," adds Chris, disgruntled over his own inhalation and lit smoke. The lighter sketches an arc through the air, tossed back to Sabitha's side; /his/ failed Bic receives a baleful glare, and is tossed to ignomious disposal on the nearby table. "Power to the religious nuts. At least this year Christmas didn't start too early."
Sabitha snatches her lighter from midair with something less than a deft touch and leans back, blissful in a cloud of smoke. "No decorations at your place, then?"
Chris confesses, abashed, "Haven't had time. Don't spend a lot of hours in the apartment, except to sleep and--" A slow blink. "--change my clothes and shower," he concludes, with only the slightest of hesitations. "It's where I keep my stuff, pretty much. That's it."
Sabitha catches that blink and responds to it with a slow smile. "That's it, huh?" she questions, and stretches a leg out to nudge at his thigh with a toe.
Altar boy innocence. One has sung with the angels. "That's it," Chris swears. "Ow. What? I'm injured, woman."
Sabitha shakes her head, but she's smiling and she doesn't ask further. "Yeah, what's up with that, anyway?" she questions.
"Asshole," Rossi says, innocence shattering to a certain buoyant memory of satisfaction. Pleasure. /Relish/. "Cassidy's got no sense of humor."
Sabitha's foot retreats back to her side of the couch and she regard Chris with wide eyes for a moment. "Sean?"
Green eyes flare back, surprised. "Yeah, you -- oh. That's right. You know him. Forgot. You got to stop sleeping with the guys I hang out with," Chris announces with some righteous indignation. "I get confused. Had a little dust up a couple of nights. He kicked my ass," he adds with deep contentment, and drops his head back to exhale smoke.
Sabitha's lips twist slightly. "Already have, Chris, don't worry." Her brows lift over a long, deep inhale. "On purpose?"
"On purpose?"
"Were you fighting him on purpose?" Sabitha elaborates patiently.
"I told him he had a small pecker," Chris announces brightly.
Sabitha is startled into short laughter that's soon covered by a solemn expression. "I promise he doesn't."
Chris's grin fades, almost immediately. Reproach washes through baritone. "/Melcross/. I didn't need to know that."
"You brought it up," Sabitha points out, unashamed. "I can describe it if you want."
"You /asked/," reminds Chris, unraveling to stand. "I told him he had a -- never mind. Christ, Melcross. I don't need that image. Anyway, I gave him a black eye before we got kicked out of the pub. He's a good guy."
Sabitha tips her head back to regard the standing Chris. "Yeah. You said that last time we talked about him," she answers, and shakes her head with a soft snort. "And you guys say women are weird."
"/Men/ make sense. What's a little getting physical?" He disappears into the kitchen with his mug, then emerges without; leather whimpers like a stomped rat, folded over in his arms' knot on the couch back. "You get two women going, hell'll freeze over before they're buddies again."
Sabitha watches Chris with silent eyes until he returns. "So what happens when a man and a woman get into it?" she asks.
Hands open, palms empty. "You got a reasonable guy on one side, and a crazed estrogen-charged nutcase in the other," says reasonable, if not /wise/ Chris. "Magnetic repulsion. Takes two to make a couple. Anyway," he adds, straightening to plug his pockets, "eventually a sane guy knows to give up and move on. Life's too short. The insane ones, I end up arresting."
Sabitha hides any expression in an exhale of smoke, a rising, obscuring cloud. "Good to know things are so simple from where you stand," she replies after a moment.
"People usually are," Chris observes, looking down at Sabitha with black humor readied and waiting behind his expression. "They just like to think they're complicated. Makes them feel better. Nothing new under the sun, Melcross. See it all the time in interrogation."
"Never run into anyone who's not what you expect, Chris?" Sabitha asks from behind a veil of slowly-clearing smoke.
Chris sinks his hip onto the back of the couch, moving the cigarette to knuckles instead of lips. "Beyond the superficial shit? --I read people wrong from time to time," he'll allow. "Eventually, though ... nah. Not very often. There're cliches for a reason. Cut through all the ribbons and the shiny paper, and you got the same shit: love, lust, fear, anger, hate. Need."
Sabitha leans sideways to scoop an ashtray from her endtable and taps her cigarette before extending it toward Chris in offering. "That's depressing."
The cop accepts the ashtray, shedding ashes in its hollow with his own wry, "Yeah. Sometimes it is. Most people get too wrapped up in their personal shit to look at anything or anyone else. Self-centered. Let it build up, and then bang. They're standing at the door, telling me they didn't /mean/ to blow away hubby, it was just an accident."
Sabitha stares at Chris for a considering moment. She shifts straighter against the arm of the couch. "Where do you fit?" she asks finally, curiously.
"Stereotypical," Chris says with a macabre cheer, settling the ashtray on his knee for easy access. "Hero complex. I might off some guy out of some idealistic bullshit, or if my temper snapped. Got anger problems."
One corner of Sabby's mouth lifts. "Yeah, you've said that before," she asks. Macabre curiousity urges her to continue. "What about me, first time we met?"
The cigarette taps out again. Self-preservation, belated but game, waves wild, Summersian semaphore. "Yeah. Don't think we're having /this/ conversation," Rossi decides, dragging himself up again. "I should get going to the precinct before John starts getting pissy."
Sabitha's half-smile turns to a full one. "Pyschotic bitch?" she suggests easily. "Probably right, too." She stands as Chris does, stretching briefly. "Tell him I said hi?"
"I'll tell him," Chris promises, drawing on -- ah -- his new gloves with a crooked slant of lips for their warmth. The cigarette spins merry wreaths of smoke around the black head; he plants it in the corner of his mouth again, and reaches to tousle Sabitha's hair. "Thanks again for these. If you don't end up going on your holiday, remember the Rossi house is open."
Sabitha reaches up to slap at Chris's hand with a dry smile. "Hey now. Don't push this kid sister thing too far, Chris Rossi, or I'll take your hand off. That hair takes /time/," she admonishes. "Yeah. Rossi house. Open. I'll remember."
The grin Chris flashes her is swift, slashed with white and green. "Night, Melcross. Have a good one." The door opens; the detective steps out into the hallway, bearing his gifts with him and trailing the sweet perfume of tobacco. "I don't see you again before the season, Merry Christmas. And stay away from telepaths."
Sabitha snorts quietly as she trails him to the door, cigarette clamped firmly between two fingers. "Don't worry. I've learned that lesson," she assures him. "Merry Christmas Chris. I'll see you later." With that, she swings the door shut behind him and turns back into her apartment.
[Log ends]
Greenwich Apts #330 - Sabitha
The flat is large and unhindered by walls and doors. A raised area in the corner serves as Sabitha's bedroom, and it's sectioned off by tall wooden screens painted with elaborate oriental designs. A huge picture window is draped in sheer fabrics of cream and deep red, and a large, elegant rug is centered on the hardwood floors. The walls are bare, for now, and the furnishings - a simple couch and wingchair, a coffee table, an armour housing a television, a bookshelf overflowing with historical texts - are sparce. In one corner is a kitchen area, in the other a door leading to a bathroom, and others concealing closet space.
Sabitha glances over her shoulder as she jingles her keys in her lock. "Should I make you close your eyes? Astound you with my homemaking and decorating skills all at once?"
"I could trip over one of your shoes," says the following baritone, cordially. "Break my neck, sue your ass--"
"I keep a neat apartment," Sabitha protests mildly, and swings open the door. "And you wouldn't sue me. You love me too much."
Amusement tickles her back, green-eyed and lazy. "Never underestimate the persuasive powers of a decent lawyer, Melcross. Or an irritated union." Post-dinner and sated by warmth and conversation, Chris Rossi leans against the hallway of Sabitha's floor, hands lost in the wide pockets of his leather overcoat. Under the flipped-up collar, a hint of pale blue suggests at a button down shirt, manacled by a darker stripe of tie; the blue trouser legs that cross at the ankles are all work, all formality, comfortable over the slush-striped shoes. "So how /did/ it go? You never said."
A flip of a switch floods her apartment with warm light, and Sabitha takes a moment to shrug out of her coat and slid off her heels before she crosses in stockinged feet to plug in her tree in front of the window. "I'll have to keep you away from lawyers, then," she returns. Crouched next to her tree with concern for her knee-length skirt, she glances over her shoulder at Chris. "How'd what go?"
"The Doc," clarifies Chris, betraying greater intimacy with the redoubtable telepath a moment later with: "Jean." In her wake, he unhooks himself from the wall to pad after, a pause in the threshold turning his attention to the tree. The wrinkle of a smile tugs his mouth askew. "Nice."
Sabitha stills for a minute and then props her hand against the floor to push herself upward. Her voice is a bit tight as she answers around a smile. "Oh. It went ok." She steps back swiftly and raises a hand, Vanna White. "Yeah? Pretty good for my first one, don't you think?"
Experienced critic and old hand Chris Rossi (--salted with experience yet still alive with passion--) cants his dark head and darker good looks at the Christmas tree, considering. "Not bad at all," he decides after a moment, before nudging the door shut behind him with a hip. "Good work. You drag that monster up here all by yourself? --No, wait. You said you got Kessler to help you."
Sabitha drops her hands and widens her smile. "Yeah," she confirms. "And put the lights on, help my decorate... hell, he even sang Christmas songs with me." One foot rubs absently against her ankle as she stands and tilts her head toward the tree, studying it. "Not too shabby," she decides quietly. "You want something to drink? I can make you hot chocolate and spike it with alcohol. Homey /and/ fun."
"And I can get drunk and spank you," finishes Rossi, crossing to the tree to give it the full inspection. "Sounds good to me. --So did Jean find anything? Or was I just being paranoid?"
Sabitha delivers a companionable shove to Rossi's shoulder as she sweeps past him toward the kitchen. "Yes to the alcohol, the hot chocolate, or both?" she asks before her tone dims again. "Oh. Ah. Yes, she found something. Nothing important."
"Telepaths," Chris says with ripe dislike, thoughtlessly sweeping Jean into the rule, rather than the exception. A passing grin rewards Sabitha's shrug -- he rocks lightly, swaying before regaining his balance -- and returns to a contemplative fingertap against one light. It hums at him, wildly happy. "Sorry. Wonder if I have to go trace the dickhead's steps and ask her to check everyone?"
Sabitha rubs at her temples absently as she fishes out mugs, taking his lack of answer for a confirmation of both. "Unless you think they've been stealing state secrets," she suggests quietly, "I wouldn't bother. Sometimes not knowing is better."
Chris makes a small sound of dissatisfaction, turning away; the tree's lights paint color against his cheek, hiding the bruise that darkens its line. "I'd rather know. I hate that shit, wandering around in someone else's mind -- cheeses me off." A slow prowl of the apartment's boundaries finds itself limited by holiday adornment, and he frowns at the kitchen, coming up short in its doorway. "Ignorance isn't bliss. You rather I didn't tell you?"
Sabitha is silent for a minute, quiet filled by the clatter of ceramic mugs, the splash of running water. As the microwave begins to hum she pauses to admit softly, "No." She stirs again with a sudden burst of energy. "What do you want in yours? I've got peppermint schnapps if that's up your alley."
"So," says Chris, and crooks a grin at Sabitha that twists the split and healing lip. "I'm okay without. Have to head to the precinct in a bit to pick up John. His car finally died. --How're things going with you and Sparky? Okay?"
Sabitha sputters into slow laughter. "Hell. Sparky." She leans back against a counter, arms and ankles crossing as she waits for the water to heat. "Going fine. Good. I need to call him and have him come by before he heads out for the holidays... oh! Don't let me forget. I have your gift." She starts at the beep of the timer and moves into action again.
"Gift?" Dismay flicks its whip across Chris's face; he straightens, recovering enough to remember gloves -- ah, warmth -- and strip them off with a pull of teeth. "Shit. We doing gifts? Did you buy me a pony?"
Sabitha flicks her eyes upward, a brief roll sent to him over her shoulder for full effect. "I told you I was," she reminds him mercilessly. "Don't worry about it. I do it because I want to-- Here." She turns to extend him a steaming mug of chocolate, with candycane dropped in as a swizzle stick. "Sadly, I'm not rich enough for a pony."
Chris's face falls; he shoves his gloves in his pocket and accepts the mug with both hands. "I wanted a pony," he says, sadly.
"Alas," Sabitha answers seriously. "You'll have to find another sugar momma."
The black head hangs. Chris sniffles.
Sabitha nudges at Chris as she passes out of her kitchen and toward her livingroom. "Hey," she begins. "Hey. Did... ah. Have you talked to Leah?"
Not for Sabitha's view that slight stiffening of shoulders, nor the sudden blankness that recasts Chris's face into silent, remote repose. "Yeah," he says, baritone easy on his slow turn back, half drowned in the upspring of steam and heat. "I talked to her just ... day before yesterday, actually. Why? --That's right, you left me a message about her."
"Yeah," Sabby echoes with a similiar stiffening as she drops into her couch.
"What happened? --I forgot what you said," Chris apologizes, loosening himself in the overcoat's swaddling to sink into the seat's other end. Long legs stretch, finding purchase with crossed ankles. "She called you?"
"Glad to know you pay so much attention to me," Sabby answers, dry. "Yes. She called me. Drunk off her ass." She curls her legs under her, smoothing her skirt over her knees and balancing her mug against them. "But you've talked to her."
"Yeah. --Not about her phone call to you, though." Green eyes skip their gaze across the mug at Sabitha, curiosity buried behind the faint smile. "I should've asked. What /did/ you guys talk about?"
"We didn't talk," Sabby corrects. "She talked at me. On about..." She pauses, curling her fingers around the warmth of her mug as she remembers. "Ah. Pushing people away. Safe. People being hurt." A frown appears. "The evils of mutantkind."
The cordial gaze tightens, then cloaks behind a sudden veil of black. "Oh," says Chris. And again, more thoughtful, "Yeah? Damn, Canto. Could you be any more cliche?"
Sabitha's gaze lifts to Chris, silently curious.
"'In vino,'" explains that lucid other, articulating kindly distraction from the pitch and skew of speculation. Chris hitches his mug in a solemn salute, and takes refuge in forced peace.
Sabitha exhales a tired breath. "Is she ok?"
Chris touches fingers to his battered lower lip, the tip of his tongue poking out (childish man) to investigate the booboo. "No."
Sabitha's eyes fall closed, pressing tightly for a moment before she blinks them open again to regard Chris. Bruises have been noticed over dinner, of course, but now they're regarded with more interest. "What, then?"
"Probably sober, now," he points out, and promptly looks guilty. "Should call her. I sent her flowers," Chris offers, by way of expedient excuse.
Sabitha blinks slowly. "That's not what I meant, Chris."
The detective eyes Sabitha, touches his lip again, and considers. "What's your beef with the Doc?"
"I'm not talking to you about Jean Grey."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to, Chris." Sabby stares down the length of the couch at him evenly. "And because you're asking to change the subject without bothering to have enough balls to admit that's what you're doing."
"I have plenty of balls," Chris informs Sabitha, amusement pressing white-bellied and fluid behind his expression. "It's not exactly a change of subject. Never mind. --You two still friends? You and Canto."
Sabitha does not meet amusement with good humor. "No."
"Then what's the trouble? --Too bad," Chris adds, simple sincerity dappling the regret. The wide brow folds over the mug, reading through the splay and curl of fingers. "Then again ... maybe not. If you're worried about her, you should pick up the phone and ask her, Melcross. Get her out of that damned apartment."
"We're not friends, Chris," Sabby elaborates with excessive (and somewhat annoyed) patience.
"Then why do you care?" asks Chris with less strident patience.
"Fine," Sabby answers shortly. "Nevermind. I just thought you might want a headsup."
"Appreciate it." There, again, sincerity -- under, it is true, a leavening of humor. Chris props his elbow on the sofa's arm, fists his temple, and grins across the intervening space at Melcross. "You got someplace to go for Christmas? Rossi clan does a big Christmas dinner the night before. You want to come by, it's the same deal as Thanksgiving."
Sabitha glances over at her tree and sips at steaming chocolate slowly. "I was thinking of going somewhere, actually. Take a little vacation." Her eyes skid back toward Chris with a small smile. "Thanks for the offer, though."
The middle scion of the Rossi family hitches his shoulders in a shrug, acknowledging over the creak of leather, "Not a big deal. So many people over at our house during the holidays, there's always room for one or two more. Standing room only, once in a while. --Where're you heading?"
"Dunno," Sabby answers, and shifts to tuck her mug atop her endtable. "Maybe nowhere. We'll see." She slides off the couch and plants herself on the floor in front of her tree, shuffling through through a small stack of wrapped gifts there.
"Meeting up with your brother?"
Sabitha shuffles several boxes to one side. "Hm? No. If I go, it'll be by myself."
"You don't miss him?" wonders Rossi, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees, drink cradled between them like a particularly festive oracle.
Sabitha shrugs slightly and pulls free a pair of gifts, one flat and square, the other a small box, with a triumphant smile. "We were never that close."
The detective eyes the two boxes with a wary eye. "Ever regret it?"
Sabitha shuffles backward and turns to extend both gifts to Chris. "I don't know what it'd be like to be different. Hard to regret it," she answers.
Chris regards Sabitha doubtfully over the two boxes. "I didn't get you anything," he advises. "Well. I haven't yet, anyway. The last time I went shopping, I had the thing with al-Bahir, and the time before that, I ran into an ex--"
"Don't worry about it," Sabby waves off again. "They're hardly serious. Just for fun." She rises to perch on the couch next to him and inclines her head toward the thin, flat package. "Do that one first."
The drink deposited at his feet, Chris obediently shuffles boxes to attack the thin, flat one first. Paper peels in fuzzy-edged ribbons: man in stature and years, he is still a boy when it comes to presents. Yay! "What is it?" he demands, unnecessarily.
Sabitha's smile slides into a grin. "/Open/ it," she responds, even as he does. Inside, a children's book. In pink. The 'Tooth Fairy Kit'.
"Oh my God," says Chris. "Just what I've /always/ wanted, Melcross. I think I'm having an orgasm right here on your couch."
Sabitha's grin twitches wider. "I couldn't manage the two front teeth," she apologizes solemnly. "Try not to make a mess, though. I really don't want to clean it up."
Solemn even under duress, Chris extracts the book and begins the process of flipping through its pages, rapt. "Fucking literary /masterpiece/," he advises with deep-seated dignity. "Look. There are /pictures/. God damn."
Sabitha looks entirely pleased with Chris's reaction, perched on the edge of the couch next to him. "Fair return for the tiara. You can make someone read it to you at bedtime."
Eyes glitter, trapping laughter behind their shields. "Thank you, Mom," Chris says meekly, stretching to hang a curl of wrapping paper over Sabitha's ear. "It's the bestest present /ever/."
Sabitha's grin borders on a laugh, and then she shoves the other box at him. "This one's not as fun," she answers seriously. "Try not to be disappointed."
Given the gratification of the first present, Chris dives into the second with no little anticipation, sending little confetti pieces of paper across the sofa with little regard for Sabitha's housekeeping. "What is it?" he asks again, as part of the ritual.
Sabitha shakes her head, both in denial and to dislodge the strip of paper. "Open it and see," she directs again, obedient. Inside, a pair of very nice men's gloves, of the sort to keep fingers quite warm while allowing freedom of movement. Not nearly as exciting as the tooth fairy.
On the other hand, the appreciation that meets them is of a more honest sort. "Nice," Rossi says, promptly fitting them over the ring-banded right hand. Boyish pleasure: the dark face warms happily. "Fit, too. Thanks, Melcross. My old pair were starting to get thin."
"Thought you probably spend a lot of time in the cold," Sabby dismisses, leaning forward to curve her hands over her knees. "Nature of the job, right? You can never have too many pairs of good gloves."
"Nah." Assent, of a laconic sort. Chris grins, stripping the glove from his hand, and reaches up wrap his broad hand around the back of Sabitha's head to reel her in. Bruised or no, the kiss he plants in casual affection on her hair is fraternal affection, at worst. "Thanks. I ever manage to do Christmas shopping without ending up on the job, I'll get you yours."
Sabitha collapses into him and slides an arm across his back for a quick, sharp squeeze. "Don't worry about it," she dismisses again. "You're welcome. Glad you like them."
"It's a miracle I haven't lost this pair already," Chris admits, bundling his new gloves into each other before shoving them deep into a pocket. The book is another matter altogether, and he flips a page of it, reclaiming his mug over a glower. "What the hell am I going to do with this? Damn. And it's pink."
Sabitha smiles smugly and reclaims her personal space with some small amount of reluctance. "Coffee table book," she suggests.
The sound Rossi makes is descriptive of something, certainly. Not assent, to be sure. "I'd pay to see Spiccati's face if he saw that on my table," he admits, alarm mixing with hilarity behind the slow-banked smile. "I'd never hear the end of it. It'd beat the Kitten thing, at least."
"Give it to someone else for Christmas," Sabby suggests further. She wiggles back to her corner to reclaim her hot chocolate. "I promise not to be offended. Joy of that sort ought to eb shared."
Chris grins, sharp and fast. "I know exactly what to do with it," he promises. "So what else is going on in your life, Melcross? New boyfriend, I got. How's the work?"
Sabitha hesitates half a moment over Chris's label of Matt before she decides it's not worth protestation. "Work's work," she answers half-heartedly. "Busy. The Police Foundation's Christmas Bash is this weekend."
"Lydia? Linda? Linda," Rossi remembers uncertainly, plowing into the recesses of his suit coat to produce a carton of cigarettes. One for him, fed out into the corner of his mouth; one shaken out and offered to Sabitha, under an eyebrow's hike. "You were saying your friend wanted you to help you with it. Enjoying it?"
"Linda, right," Sabby confirms. "Evans." She leans forward to accept the offer of a cigarette in midexplanation. "We're not friends, really. We just worked together on the benefit thing." One shoulder hitches in a half shrug, the other kept still so as not to disturb her hot chocolate. "Yeah. Well enough. I came in late, so I kinda got shoved with the mundane details. Something to do though, right?"
Lighter. Chris replaces the packet in the black cavity from whence it came, and produces in its place a cheerfully garish plastic lighter in shades of Magneto purple. Red. Rurple. "Yeah, but -- you at least having fun? Or finding it satisfying? Something? Different, sure," he'll allow over the flicks of thumb and striker. "Damn. It's out of fuel." And shaking it will change that, somehow.
Sabitha glances at Chris in half a moment's hesitation before she replaces her mug on the endtable and pushes off in search of a lighter. She's got one round here. Someplace. She moves toward the kitchen to rummage through a junk drawer. "Yeah," she answers as she goes. "Yeah, I think I do. Anyway. What about you? How's the case load?"
It's all under control. Chris is shaking his lighter. And then closing one eye and staring down its barrel, apparently under the belief that this will cow the lighter into submission. "Usual," he answers through distraction. "Nothing serious. Mostly domestic violence cases and robberies gone wrong, a few crackheads; this time of year, all the bad guys stay at home and watch TV. It's like a little Christmas present for the squad. --HAH. Got i--shit. Never mind."
"Hold on, I've got one," Sabitha promises amidst noisy rummaging. "Happy times in Rossi land, then? Full of Christmas parties and egg nog and holiday cheer? /Ah/, there." Lighter procured, Sabitha returns and tosses it over the back of the couch toward Chris.
"Got a PC policy in the precinct," Rossi reports with some amusement, fishing the new lighter out of the cushions. "See what you get when you suck? Replaced. Take that, you piece of crap. -- No decorations. NYPD's being all sensitive. Except Hyman and Salwan, they put up little Christmas lights on their desks. Told the Captain that if One PP asks, they're exercising their religious freedoms."
Sabitha rolls her eyes heavenward. "You've got to be fucking kididng me," she states with feeling. "I've been to church maybe a dozen times in my entire life, and /I/ lke Christmas. Give me a break." She settles down next to him, patiently waiting for her light.
Gentleman that he is, Rossi flicks (flicks, flicks, flicks, flicks) "--Goddammit. My thumb's retarded--" flicks the lighter towards Sabitha first, cigarette still clinging desperately to the corner of his mouth. "Hyman's a crappy Jew, and Salwan's a crappy Muslim."
"Next time, /I'll/ light the damn things," Sabby answers, and leans in to inhale her cigarette alight. Her lips twitch slightly. "Ha. Well. Good for them."
"--Until Hyman starts demanding his partner have a bris," adds Chris, disgruntled over his own inhalation and lit smoke. The lighter sketches an arc through the air, tossed back to Sabitha's side; /his/ failed Bic receives a baleful glare, and is tossed to ignomious disposal on the nearby table. "Power to the religious nuts. At least this year Christmas didn't start too early."
Sabitha snatches her lighter from midair with something less than a deft touch and leans back, blissful in a cloud of smoke. "No decorations at your place, then?"
Chris confesses, abashed, "Haven't had time. Don't spend a lot of hours in the apartment, except to sleep and--" A slow blink. "--change my clothes and shower," he concludes, with only the slightest of hesitations. "It's where I keep my stuff, pretty much. That's it."
Sabitha catches that blink and responds to it with a slow smile. "That's it, huh?" she questions, and stretches a leg out to nudge at his thigh with a toe.
Altar boy innocence. One has sung with the angels. "That's it," Chris swears. "Ow. What? I'm injured, woman."
Sabitha shakes her head, but she's smiling and she doesn't ask further. "Yeah, what's up with that, anyway?" she questions.
"Asshole," Rossi says, innocence shattering to a certain buoyant memory of satisfaction. Pleasure. /Relish/. "Cassidy's got no sense of humor."
Sabitha's foot retreats back to her side of the couch and she regard Chris with wide eyes for a moment. "Sean?"
Green eyes flare back, surprised. "Yeah, you -- oh. That's right. You know him. Forgot. You got to stop sleeping with the guys I hang out with," Chris announces with some righteous indignation. "I get confused. Had a little dust up a couple of nights. He kicked my ass," he adds with deep contentment, and drops his head back to exhale smoke.
Sabitha's lips twist slightly. "Already have, Chris, don't worry." Her brows lift over a long, deep inhale. "On purpose?"
"On purpose?"
"Were you fighting him on purpose?" Sabitha elaborates patiently.
"I told him he had a small pecker," Chris announces brightly.
Sabitha is startled into short laughter that's soon covered by a solemn expression. "I promise he doesn't."
Chris's grin fades, almost immediately. Reproach washes through baritone. "/Melcross/. I didn't need to know that."
"You brought it up," Sabitha points out, unashamed. "I can describe it if you want."
"You /asked/," reminds Chris, unraveling to stand. "I told him he had a -- never mind. Christ, Melcross. I don't need that image. Anyway, I gave him a black eye before we got kicked out of the pub. He's a good guy."
Sabitha tips her head back to regard the standing Chris. "Yeah. You said that last time we talked about him," she answers, and shakes her head with a soft snort. "And you guys say women are weird."
"/Men/ make sense. What's a little getting physical?" He disappears into the kitchen with his mug, then emerges without; leather whimpers like a stomped rat, folded over in his arms' knot on the couch back. "You get two women going, hell'll freeze over before they're buddies again."
Sabitha watches Chris with silent eyes until he returns. "So what happens when a man and a woman get into it?" she asks.
Hands open, palms empty. "You got a reasonable guy on one side, and a crazed estrogen-charged nutcase in the other," says reasonable, if not /wise/ Chris. "Magnetic repulsion. Takes two to make a couple. Anyway," he adds, straightening to plug his pockets, "eventually a sane guy knows to give up and move on. Life's too short. The insane ones, I end up arresting."
Sabitha hides any expression in an exhale of smoke, a rising, obscuring cloud. "Good to know things are so simple from where you stand," she replies after a moment.
"People usually are," Chris observes, looking down at Sabitha with black humor readied and waiting behind his expression. "They just like to think they're complicated. Makes them feel better. Nothing new under the sun, Melcross. See it all the time in interrogation."
"Never run into anyone who's not what you expect, Chris?" Sabitha asks from behind a veil of slowly-clearing smoke.
Chris sinks his hip onto the back of the couch, moving the cigarette to knuckles instead of lips. "Beyond the superficial shit? --I read people wrong from time to time," he'll allow. "Eventually, though ... nah. Not very often. There're cliches for a reason. Cut through all the ribbons and the shiny paper, and you got the same shit: love, lust, fear, anger, hate. Need."
Sabitha leans sideways to scoop an ashtray from her endtable and taps her cigarette before extending it toward Chris in offering. "That's depressing."
The cop accepts the ashtray, shedding ashes in its hollow with his own wry, "Yeah. Sometimes it is. Most people get too wrapped up in their personal shit to look at anything or anyone else. Self-centered. Let it build up, and then bang. They're standing at the door, telling me they didn't /mean/ to blow away hubby, it was just an accident."
Sabitha stares at Chris for a considering moment. She shifts straighter against the arm of the couch. "Where do you fit?" she asks finally, curiously.
"Stereotypical," Chris says with a macabre cheer, settling the ashtray on his knee for easy access. "Hero complex. I might off some guy out of some idealistic bullshit, or if my temper snapped. Got anger problems."
One corner of Sabby's mouth lifts. "Yeah, you've said that before," she asks. Macabre curiousity urges her to continue. "What about me, first time we met?"
The cigarette taps out again. Self-preservation, belated but game, waves wild, Summersian semaphore. "Yeah. Don't think we're having /this/ conversation," Rossi decides, dragging himself up again. "I should get going to the precinct before John starts getting pissy."
Sabitha's half-smile turns to a full one. "Pyschotic bitch?" she suggests easily. "Probably right, too." She stands as Chris does, stretching briefly. "Tell him I said hi?"
"I'll tell him," Chris promises, drawing on -- ah -- his new gloves with a crooked slant of lips for their warmth. The cigarette spins merry wreaths of smoke around the black head; he plants it in the corner of his mouth again, and reaches to tousle Sabitha's hair. "Thanks again for these. If you don't end up going on your holiday, remember the Rossi house is open."
Sabitha reaches up to slap at Chris's hand with a dry smile. "Hey now. Don't push this kid sister thing too far, Chris Rossi, or I'll take your hand off. That hair takes /time/," she admonishes. "Yeah. Rossi house. Open. I'll remember."
The grin Chris flashes her is swift, slashed with white and green. "Night, Melcross. Have a good one." The door opens; the detective steps out into the hallway, bearing his gifts with him and trailing the sweet perfume of tobacco. "I don't see you again before the season, Merry Christmas. And stay away from telepaths."
Sabitha snorts quietly as she trails him to the door, cigarette clamped firmly between two fingers. "Don't worry. I've learned that lesson," she assures him. "Merry Christmas Chris. I'll see you later." With that, she swings the door shut behind him and turns back into her apartment.
[Log ends]