(no subject)
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Greenwich Apts #330 - Sabitha(#2470RCA)
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.
Bank holidays typically mean a day off. Sabitha finagled half a day; a busy morning faded into a lazy afternoon filled with napping and DVDs and then drifted into an evening that finds her stretched on her couch, picking through the remains of a salad while she balances a book open on her lap. A single lamp sends its warm glow spreading through the room from its place behind her shoulder, and low, folksy music smooths the mood in murmuring undertones.
Down the corridor, the elevator chimes a sleepy note and yawns to disgorge Chris Rossi, still clad in the accessories of work: long black overcoat, blue suit beneath, tie, gun, badge -- and cynicism, a vapor trail that bobs and eddies in his wake. He steps into the hallway with a roll of the head, stretching the neck's broad column down the few paces it takes to a certain door. Knock knock. "Yo, Melcross. You in?"
Sabitha pivots toward the door, shifting on the couch to peer at it in heavy silence. Her fingers tap against the friendly pages of her book and then she slides it shut and deposits both book and salad on her coffee table. She tugs at the hem of her knit sweater, pulling it over her hips as she crosses to the door to swing it open. "Hey, Chris." A quick glance takes in said accessories of work, and her lips twist into a small smile. "Not here on business, right?"
"You murder anyone in the last few days?" Chris wonders, with all evidence of honest interest. He leans on the threshold, settling into a leg's crossed brace and a shoulder's press into the lintel; hands plow back into pockets, shaping bulges at his hips. "I was in the neighborhood. Figured I'd just check in with you, see how you were doing--"
"Been tempted," Sabby answers with a quiet quirk of a smile. "But I'm still squeaky clean, officer. Come in?" She steps sideways and jerks her head in indication. "Did someone in my apartment get murdered again? Because if so, I'm going to consider moving."
The detective rolls his shoulders in a lopsided shrug, unpinning himself to straighten and saunter into the apartment proper. "Not unless you've got a body somewhere that isn't stinking up the place yet. Just dropped by to see if I could catch up with some people -- you seen your buddy Percy, lately? -- and figured I'd see what was up." Rossi stops, parking himself in the middle of the room. Pale eyes grin at Sabitha. "So. What's up?"
Sabitha's spine stiffens silently as she strolls toward the kitchen. She directs a look at Chris over her shoulder. "Saw him Saturday. Do you want something to drink? Munch on? I just finished dinner."
Chris trails idly after Sabitha, a dark hound at her heels. "I grabbed something at the precinct," he admits. "I'm fine. Unless you want to go out for dessert. Joe's sandwiches aren't what you'd call high cuisine. Sort of begs for something afterwards to wash the taste out of your mouth."
Sabitha shakes her head and disappears behind the swinging curtain of her freezer door. "Night in for me tonight," she shares emphatically, and pulls back to waggle a carton of ice cream, peanut butter cup, at Chris. "Not high cuisine either, but I promise it's tasty. Want some?"
"Sure." Green buckles with white in a swift, easy grin. "I'll take whatever. Mom never let us have sweets when we were kids. You should've seen me when I started living on my own." Chris props himself up in the kitchen's frame in much the same way he did the entrance, black head tilted for a deceptively sleepy regard.
"Hog wild? Footloose and fancy free?" Sabby suggests with a sideways glance at Chris as she goes about the task of pulling down bowls and searching out spoons.
"Dessert for every dinner," Chris bats back cheerfully, digging out his hands at last to strip them of gloves, one by one. "And lunch, and breakfast. Only reason I didn't balloon up to a thousand pounds was Julia. And Beth."
"Incentive to stay fit and lean, was she?" Sabby asks with half a smirk as she pries scoops of ice cream from carton to bowls. "Or just good exercise?"
The gloves shove into a pocket, leather fingers peeking out to wave. "Both." Chris's baritone gleams; so, too, does the shuttered gaze. "Then there was the Academy, so -- ended up never having time to fatten up. You're not Italian, so you don't know how it is with my family. They see you gain weight, they damn well tell you."
"Along with every other mistake you could possibly make in your life, I imagine," Sabby answers, and shoves a bowl across the counter toward Chris.
Chris runs a knuckle down the length of his nose, nudging the scratch that crosses its bridge. Rue. "Yeah, well. It's something else when your old man starts bringing a girdle to the table. --Thanks," he offers up, courteous poppet. And: "So what else is new? Sorry for dropping in on you the other night."
"A girdle? Honestly?" Sabby lifts her brows as she turns to face Chris with her bowl cradled in her hands, silent indication that it's time for him to get out of the doorway so she can find a seat. "Nah, it was good. I always like to see you guys. Hey! I saw that the boys in blue had a big night the other night. Were you in on that?"
The cop claims his ice cream in both hands, like a good boy, and ambles out into the living room with the passing, "Big night? Oh. You mean the Pezhead thing? Not supposed to talk about it. Retaliation," he clarifies, spooling himself into a chair. "Hush hush. Doesn't matter. Feds have him, anyway."
Sabitha smiles slowly. "Pezhead? /Really/, Chris?" She swings herself into her bedroom quickly to snatch up a knitted through and slings it round her shoulders before she drops onto the couch. "Good. One less thing to worry about."
"Magneto," Chris concedes, thumbing his coat's buttons to let it fall open across the battered suit. "Lensherr. Whatever you want to call him. --You don't think he looks like a pez dispenser with that pot he wears on his head? Helmet, whatever?"
"Can't say I've ever sat around and thought about it," Sabby returns, and jabs her spoon into a mound of ice cream with violence. "What's up with that thing, anyway?"
"What thing?" Ice cream. Yay!
"Helmet," Sabby reminds. "Keep up, Chris."
Explains Chris, "Thought you were talking about pez." It could happen. His fork sketches a descriptive question mark in the air, and is punctuated in turn by the laconic, "No clue. Brain waves from Mars, maybe? Or he figures he looks cool in it. Getting fashion advice from Queer Eye for the Tonka Truck Guy."
Spoon. Unless Magneto has been messing with it.
"He does wear a cape," Sabby allows, and digs out the chocolatey goodness of a peanutbutter filled cup with intense concentration.
"Must never have seen the Incredibles," laments Chris.
"Doesn't strike me as the sort for animated features." Ice cream disappears from her spoon and melts slowly on her tongue.
This, Rossi will allow, is a possibility. "Probably scared of making the kids cry," he suggests, spooning -- spooning! -- ice cream with a lazily tortuous precision. "Was starting to think he was following me around. At least I won't see him popping up around any corners for a while."
Sabitha's gaze raises sharply to settle on Rossi over the hovering curve of her spoon. "Following you around?"
"Kept running into him. --Didn't I tell you this? Shit. How long has it been since we've talked?" The spoon pops into the corner of Chris's mouth and dangles there, waggling ludicrously with his solemn-eyed speculation. "Just saw you last week, right?"
"Running into /Magneto/?" Sabby asks. Her hovering spoon falls to her bowl with a faint clatter as she leans forward. "What the fuck, Chris?" Her hand, now free, waves spastically through the air. "Yeah, saw you last week. With Vincent, remember?"
Chris gestures a dismissive hand, recalling over a muffled clink of teeth and metal, "Right. Bahir and your boy Percy. How about before then? Shit. I honestly can't remember. Been busy," he excuses, popping the utensil out of his mouth to wave apology. "Sorry."
"I think before Christmas," Sabby answers impatiently before she prompts, "Magneto?"
"Dickhead doesn't appreciate me," Chris mourns, rummaging through his hair to make a tangle of the black locks. "Think he might be allergic to my face."
Exasperation colors Sabby's voice as she picks up her spoon and twists it between her fingers. "/Chris/."
A glance spits mordant humor at Sabby. "/Melcross/," Chris chips back, solemn. "What? I had a couple of run-ins with Pezhead. I'm not dead. What's the big deal?"
Sabitha subsides back into the couch and scoops up a pair of bites in rapid succession before she turns her attention to the task of seeking out another cup. "Not dead is good."
"There you go, then." Pragmatic philosophy. Chris laps up another spoonful, turns the metal around, and reflects a distorted Sabitha back at her. Amusement wonders, "Does it drive you nuts, knowing cops?"
Sabitha blinks confusion up at Chris through quiet eyes. "No. Why?"
The man shrugs, winces, and straightens. "Just curious. I've got you figured as a worrier. --Then again, you used to be a lot more stressed, before."
Sabitha's smile flickers upwards. "Did I? When?"
"Before." The spoon ticks off months. "Back -- before. Damn. I'm all eloquent and articulate and shit, tonight."
"A veritable Shakespeare," Sabby agrees easily. Her spoon arcs dismissal in the air. "So. Magneto's been stalking you. What else?"
Chris considers. "Beston's talking about retiring again. Got a new muffler for the Buick. I'm dating Leah. Need to buy a new coat. --Oh." Important. He hunches forward again, planting elbow on knee, and squints down a forefinger's jab at Sabitha. "I need to find out where you got that cake."
Sabitha leans forward sharply. "You're dating Leah? Like, dating dating?"
"Did you hear me about the cake?" demands Chris, only to tack on a bitterly heartfelt, "Women. Can't keep their minds on the important stuff."
"I don't know where the cake came from." Steadfastly, Sabby bulldozes back to her subject of choice. "Seriously, Chris. /Really/ dating?"
Discomfort hiccups at Chris's expression, dragging its lines into an awkward, remote mask. "What does that mean, '/really/ dating'? There some sort of definition for dating I don't know about? Christ." He plows back into his seat, molding his spine to its back with a thoughtless flinch. "We've been on dates."
"Exclusive?"
Chris's chin drops to his chest. He glowers. "Maybe."
Sabitha's eyes fix on Chris with disbelieving consideration. "Wow."
He stirs restlessly. "What?"
Sabitha tilts a shoulder upward. "Makes sense," she answers after a moment. "You two always seemed hung up on each other."
"Hung /up/?" Incredulity skips in Chris's jerk up, tangling with its own outraged echo. "Hung /up/? On each other? What the fuck? Like /hell/."
Sabitha sits back hard and drops her spoon into her bowl, left to rest on her lap. "Sorry," she pacifies with quick words and an avoidant gaze. "Just. Into each other."
Rossi subsides, albeit with reluctance, irritation -- moody, prickly, ready to snatch and snarl -- an ill-tamed and unwelcome visitor behind the baritone. "Yeah, well. Shit happens. Wouldn't have figured it a year ago."
"Things change," Sabitha allows, and studies her ice cream in silence for a moment before she extends her bowl across the space to Chris. "You want the rest of mine?"
"Nah. I'm set." Chris proves it with the clink of utensil on bowl lip, and the clatter of the same spoon, discarded. Once more the spine curves, pillowing elbows on knees, and through that turtled, protective hunch, pale eyes inspect Sabitha. "You okay?"
Sabitha slides her bowl to the coffee table in lieu of delivering it to Rossi's hands and flashes a bright smile. "Nearly got a three day weekend this week. Half a day today. Good for the relaxation. Do you guys have to work through the holidays? You flip coins for that or something?"
"Traded." A laconic answer for a complicated, convoluted construct. Fingers flip, tracing the diagram -- this for that, him for her -- while behind it, annoyance subsides and is supplanted by curiosity. "Yamaguchi took Christmas, I took Tucci's MLK, and he's got Beston's Fourth. I think it works out somehow. Either that, or I've screwed myself over for the next two years. You still doing the NYPD benefits gig?"
Sabitha's smile widens half a titch and then subsides again. "Sounds like fun. I'm a little disappointed there aren't fist fights, though." A shift of her head tilts confirmation at him. "Yeah. Just kind of biding my time right now. Everyone's recovering from the holidays."
"How was your trip?"
"Oh, it was good," Sabby answers. She shifts up to slide a foot beneath her as she leans against the couch's arm for support. "Did lots of museums. Theatre. Saw the royal ballet one night, that was awesome. Have you been?"
"England?" Rossi shakes his head. Softens enough to grin, a crooked bite of expression that mellows the harsh face. "Outside of that whole thing in Italy, I haven't been out of the states. Haven't been out of New York or Jersey since I graduated the Academy."
"I thought you might've traveled or something, while you were there." Sabby tips her head back into the comfort of couch cushions and regards Chris in silence for a second, two, before she adds, "It was my first time abroad."
"Yeah?" Chris settles back, slinging his arm over -- ow -- over (ow, ow) over the chair's back. "You went by yourself, right? Meet up with any friends or something?"
Sabitha eyes Chris's sling before green eyes sweep back to his and she shakes her head, a tight, short movement. "No, just me."
"And a whole country of British guys." The cop looks sober. "Some of them even straight."
"Some of them," Sabby agrees easily.
"Enough of them?"
Sabitha lifts her brows. "For /what/?"
"For a good time." Chris grins, stretching a leg to poke gently, oh so gently! at Sabitha's space. Poke. "Little bit of culture--"
Sabitha rolls her eyes upward and retreats back into her own space. /Hers/. "I didn't go to England to get laid, Chris."
Chris protests. "Didn't say you did. Just saying, you go to a foreign country, you get to meet the people...."
"You see things... go to the theatre, stare at the Rosetta stone," Sabby counters.
"Go out to dinner, meet interesting women -- guys -- try not to get mugged," Chris suggests. "Avoid Eurodisney."
"No Eurodisney in London. They do have a big ferris wheel, though."
"Can you buy Elmo on it?"
"Dunno. Didn't ride it."
"Then what's the point?"
"Dunno," Sabby repeats over a half-curved smile. "Didn't ride it."
"City with a ferris wheel, and /you/ went to see museums." Chris steeples his fingers and regards Sabitha sorrowfully over their tips. "Sometimes I wonder about you, Melcross."
"How I got to be this fabulous?"
"Go to a city and ignore the ferris wheels. Christ. Might as well head to Atlantic City and ignore the gambling."
"I've never been gambling," Sabby shares.
"I can show you gambling in two easy steps," Chris advises, opening a palm to offer it to Sabby, face up in demand. "First you give me money, and then I take it."
Sabitha eyes Chris's open palm dubiously, lips pursed.
Patiently, Chris says, "I can't show you if you don't give me the money. Step two is sort of dependent on step one, see."
"I'm pretty fond of my paycheck, sorry," Sabitha apologizes. "I'll give you more ice cream?"
The hand retracts. "In a spoon?" Chris eyes her thoughtfully. "How're things going with Kessler, by the way?"
"I was thinking a bowl, but we can manage a spoon if you want." Sabby's brows knit as she stares at Chris. "How on earth did you get from gambling to Matt?"
A finger spins an idle wheel. "Keep up with me here, Melcross. Gambling, love -- so what's the story? You two still ever get past the ... what was it, the third date?"
Sabitha snorts so softly as to be almost inaudible. "Gambling, love. Right." A sharp shake of her head feathers strands of hair into her face, and she shoves them back with a hand. "Yeah, we're still dating."
"Going good?" Green eyes laugh behind the grave face.
"Yeah," Sabby replies simply.
Those smiling eyes widen, gently mocking. "Exclusive?"
Sabitha's lips twist. "No."
"Relieved?"
Sabitha snorts a laugh. "I'm not you, Chris."
"And yet somehow, I'm the one being all monogamous," quips Chris with wry self-deprecation, unraveling himself to stand. "Then again, I'm practically over the hill."
"Ridiculously ancient," Sabby agrees, and unfolds her legs to follow suit. She studies him in silence for a moment, head tilted back to take in the entire picture. "I think it might suit you."
"Old age?" Chris's lips quirk; a hand plunges into his pocket, fishing out gloves. "I'm hurt, Melcross. I thought I was good at nubile youth."
"Monogamy," Sabby corrects.
Chris sobers slightly, looking down at Sabitha. "Yeah," he concedes at last. "Maybe. I'll give it a shot. See how it goes." Something moves behind his expression, quicksilver and fleeting -- a softening, quaint peace -- and then disappears. "How about you and Kessler?"
Sabitha watches that something with a quiet sadness until it disappears and then shakes a snappy smile onto her features. "Matt? Nah, I doubt it. Just... a bit of comfortable fun, y'know?"
"Cotton candy," says Chris, kindly. "Yeah, I get it. Pink. Bubblegum-flavored. Exactly what I thought when I first met the guy. 'This guy'd be great on a cardboard stick--'"
"Tastes great, too," Sabby answers with a fast waggle of her brows.
Rossi chuckles. "Hell on your face and hair, though," he finishes, baritoning digging deep into innuendo. "I should get going. I got stuff. Thanks for the ice cream, Melcross. Next time you're near the precinct, call me. I'll buy you the best hot dog this side of the Atlantic."
"If only I ate them," Sabby returns with half a smile. "I'll stop by anyway. Don't get yourself killed out there, k?"
"Pezhead's locked up, and his amorous and evil designs on my ass are locked up with him," says Chris, dragging on his gloves en route to the door. A grin scythes over his shoulder at Sabby. "What's to worry?"
Sabitha trails several paces behind Chris with slow, dragging steps. "World's safe and sound," she agrees.
"Worrier," challenges Chris, pausing with a hand on the doorknob to glance down at the straggling woman. An eyebrow climbs; an arm reaches, hooking to reel her into his ribs: unprompted, cheerful affection.
Sabitha buries her face against Rossi's chest for a moment. One breath, two, deeply inhaled, and then she unravels herself from the cop and tips a smile up at him while hands smooth at her hair. "It's in my job description."
The smell of leather, the tang of gun oil, and under it the heartbeat of Rossi's scent itself: his own, unique. "You need a new job," Chris tells her, solemn as a sage. Then the chin lifts, the smile twists, and out he goes -- into the hallway, back to the real world. "Later, Melcross."
"Later, Chris." Sabby smiles once more, and then shuts the door on Rossi, the hallway, and the real world.
Greenwich Apts #330 - Sabitha(#2470RCA)
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.
Bank holidays typically mean a day off. Sabitha finagled half a day; a busy morning faded into a lazy afternoon filled with napping and DVDs and then drifted into an evening that finds her stretched on her couch, picking through the remains of a salad while she balances a book open on her lap. A single lamp sends its warm glow spreading through the room from its place behind her shoulder, and low, folksy music smooths the mood in murmuring undertones.
Down the corridor, the elevator chimes a sleepy note and yawns to disgorge Chris Rossi, still clad in the accessories of work: long black overcoat, blue suit beneath, tie, gun, badge -- and cynicism, a vapor trail that bobs and eddies in his wake. He steps into the hallway with a roll of the head, stretching the neck's broad column down the few paces it takes to a certain door. Knock knock. "Yo, Melcross. You in?"
Sabitha pivots toward the door, shifting on the couch to peer at it in heavy silence. Her fingers tap against the friendly pages of her book and then she slides it shut and deposits both book and salad on her coffee table. She tugs at the hem of her knit sweater, pulling it over her hips as she crosses to the door to swing it open. "Hey, Chris." A quick glance takes in said accessories of work, and her lips twist into a small smile. "Not here on business, right?"
"You murder anyone in the last few days?" Chris wonders, with all evidence of honest interest. He leans on the threshold, settling into a leg's crossed brace and a shoulder's press into the lintel; hands plow back into pockets, shaping bulges at his hips. "I was in the neighborhood. Figured I'd just check in with you, see how you were doing--"
"Been tempted," Sabby answers with a quiet quirk of a smile. "But I'm still squeaky clean, officer. Come in?" She steps sideways and jerks her head in indication. "Did someone in my apartment get murdered again? Because if so, I'm going to consider moving."
The detective rolls his shoulders in a lopsided shrug, unpinning himself to straighten and saunter into the apartment proper. "Not unless you've got a body somewhere that isn't stinking up the place yet. Just dropped by to see if I could catch up with some people -- you seen your buddy Percy, lately? -- and figured I'd see what was up." Rossi stops, parking himself in the middle of the room. Pale eyes grin at Sabitha. "So. What's up?"
Sabitha's spine stiffens silently as she strolls toward the kitchen. She directs a look at Chris over her shoulder. "Saw him Saturday. Do you want something to drink? Munch on? I just finished dinner."
Chris trails idly after Sabitha, a dark hound at her heels. "I grabbed something at the precinct," he admits. "I'm fine. Unless you want to go out for dessert. Joe's sandwiches aren't what you'd call high cuisine. Sort of begs for something afterwards to wash the taste out of your mouth."
Sabitha shakes her head and disappears behind the swinging curtain of her freezer door. "Night in for me tonight," she shares emphatically, and pulls back to waggle a carton of ice cream, peanut butter cup, at Chris. "Not high cuisine either, but I promise it's tasty. Want some?"
"Sure." Green buckles with white in a swift, easy grin. "I'll take whatever. Mom never let us have sweets when we were kids. You should've seen me when I started living on my own." Chris props himself up in the kitchen's frame in much the same way he did the entrance, black head tilted for a deceptively sleepy regard.
"Hog wild? Footloose and fancy free?" Sabby suggests with a sideways glance at Chris as she goes about the task of pulling down bowls and searching out spoons.
"Dessert for every dinner," Chris bats back cheerfully, digging out his hands at last to strip them of gloves, one by one. "And lunch, and breakfast. Only reason I didn't balloon up to a thousand pounds was Julia. And Beth."
"Incentive to stay fit and lean, was she?" Sabby asks with half a smirk as she pries scoops of ice cream from carton to bowls. "Or just good exercise?"
The gloves shove into a pocket, leather fingers peeking out to wave. "Both." Chris's baritone gleams; so, too, does the shuttered gaze. "Then there was the Academy, so -- ended up never having time to fatten up. You're not Italian, so you don't know how it is with my family. They see you gain weight, they damn well tell you."
"Along with every other mistake you could possibly make in your life, I imagine," Sabby answers, and shoves a bowl across the counter toward Chris.
Chris runs a knuckle down the length of his nose, nudging the scratch that crosses its bridge. Rue. "Yeah, well. It's something else when your old man starts bringing a girdle to the table. --Thanks," he offers up, courteous poppet. And: "So what else is new? Sorry for dropping in on you the other night."
"A girdle? Honestly?" Sabby lifts her brows as she turns to face Chris with her bowl cradled in her hands, silent indication that it's time for him to get out of the doorway so she can find a seat. "Nah, it was good. I always like to see you guys. Hey! I saw that the boys in blue had a big night the other night. Were you in on that?"
The cop claims his ice cream in both hands, like a good boy, and ambles out into the living room with the passing, "Big night? Oh. You mean the Pezhead thing? Not supposed to talk about it. Retaliation," he clarifies, spooling himself into a chair. "Hush hush. Doesn't matter. Feds have him, anyway."
Sabitha smiles slowly. "Pezhead? /Really/, Chris?" She swings herself into her bedroom quickly to snatch up a knitted through and slings it round her shoulders before she drops onto the couch. "Good. One less thing to worry about."
"Magneto," Chris concedes, thumbing his coat's buttons to let it fall open across the battered suit. "Lensherr. Whatever you want to call him. --You don't think he looks like a pez dispenser with that pot he wears on his head? Helmet, whatever?"
"Can't say I've ever sat around and thought about it," Sabby returns, and jabs her spoon into a mound of ice cream with violence. "What's up with that thing, anyway?"
"What thing?" Ice cream. Yay!
"Helmet," Sabby reminds. "Keep up, Chris."
Explains Chris, "Thought you were talking about pez." It could happen. His fork sketches a descriptive question mark in the air, and is punctuated in turn by the laconic, "No clue. Brain waves from Mars, maybe? Or he figures he looks cool in it. Getting fashion advice from Queer Eye for the Tonka Truck Guy."
Spoon. Unless Magneto has been messing with it.
"He does wear a cape," Sabby allows, and digs out the chocolatey goodness of a peanutbutter filled cup with intense concentration.
"Must never have seen the Incredibles," laments Chris.
"Doesn't strike me as the sort for animated features." Ice cream disappears from her spoon and melts slowly on her tongue.
This, Rossi will allow, is a possibility. "Probably scared of making the kids cry," he suggests, spooning -- spooning! -- ice cream with a lazily tortuous precision. "Was starting to think he was following me around. At least I won't see him popping up around any corners for a while."
Sabitha's gaze raises sharply to settle on Rossi over the hovering curve of her spoon. "Following you around?"
"Kept running into him. --Didn't I tell you this? Shit. How long has it been since we've talked?" The spoon pops into the corner of Chris's mouth and dangles there, waggling ludicrously with his solemn-eyed speculation. "Just saw you last week, right?"
"Running into /Magneto/?" Sabby asks. Her hovering spoon falls to her bowl with a faint clatter as she leans forward. "What the fuck, Chris?" Her hand, now free, waves spastically through the air. "Yeah, saw you last week. With Vincent, remember?"
Chris gestures a dismissive hand, recalling over a muffled clink of teeth and metal, "Right. Bahir and your boy Percy. How about before then? Shit. I honestly can't remember. Been busy," he excuses, popping the utensil out of his mouth to wave apology. "Sorry."
"I think before Christmas," Sabby answers impatiently before she prompts, "Magneto?"
"Dickhead doesn't appreciate me," Chris mourns, rummaging through his hair to make a tangle of the black locks. "Think he might be allergic to my face."
Exasperation colors Sabby's voice as she picks up her spoon and twists it between her fingers. "/Chris/."
A glance spits mordant humor at Sabby. "/Melcross/," Chris chips back, solemn. "What? I had a couple of run-ins with Pezhead. I'm not dead. What's the big deal?"
Sabitha subsides back into the couch and scoops up a pair of bites in rapid succession before she turns her attention to the task of seeking out another cup. "Not dead is good."
"There you go, then." Pragmatic philosophy. Chris laps up another spoonful, turns the metal around, and reflects a distorted Sabitha back at her. Amusement wonders, "Does it drive you nuts, knowing cops?"
Sabitha blinks confusion up at Chris through quiet eyes. "No. Why?"
The man shrugs, winces, and straightens. "Just curious. I've got you figured as a worrier. --Then again, you used to be a lot more stressed, before."
Sabitha's smile flickers upwards. "Did I? When?"
"Before." The spoon ticks off months. "Back -- before. Damn. I'm all eloquent and articulate and shit, tonight."
"A veritable Shakespeare," Sabby agrees easily. Her spoon arcs dismissal in the air. "So. Magneto's been stalking you. What else?"
Chris considers. "Beston's talking about retiring again. Got a new muffler for the Buick. I'm dating Leah. Need to buy a new coat. --Oh." Important. He hunches forward again, planting elbow on knee, and squints down a forefinger's jab at Sabitha. "I need to find out where you got that cake."
Sabitha leans forward sharply. "You're dating Leah? Like, dating dating?"
"Did you hear me about the cake?" demands Chris, only to tack on a bitterly heartfelt, "Women. Can't keep their minds on the important stuff."
"I don't know where the cake came from." Steadfastly, Sabby bulldozes back to her subject of choice. "Seriously, Chris. /Really/ dating?"
Discomfort hiccups at Chris's expression, dragging its lines into an awkward, remote mask. "What does that mean, '/really/ dating'? There some sort of definition for dating I don't know about? Christ." He plows back into his seat, molding his spine to its back with a thoughtless flinch. "We've been on dates."
"Exclusive?"
Chris's chin drops to his chest. He glowers. "Maybe."
Sabitha's eyes fix on Chris with disbelieving consideration. "Wow."
He stirs restlessly. "What?"
Sabitha tilts a shoulder upward. "Makes sense," she answers after a moment. "You two always seemed hung up on each other."
"Hung /up/?" Incredulity skips in Chris's jerk up, tangling with its own outraged echo. "Hung /up/? On each other? What the fuck? Like /hell/."
Sabitha sits back hard and drops her spoon into her bowl, left to rest on her lap. "Sorry," she pacifies with quick words and an avoidant gaze. "Just. Into each other."
Rossi subsides, albeit with reluctance, irritation -- moody, prickly, ready to snatch and snarl -- an ill-tamed and unwelcome visitor behind the baritone. "Yeah, well. Shit happens. Wouldn't have figured it a year ago."
"Things change," Sabitha allows, and studies her ice cream in silence for a moment before she extends her bowl across the space to Chris. "You want the rest of mine?"
"Nah. I'm set." Chris proves it with the clink of utensil on bowl lip, and the clatter of the same spoon, discarded. Once more the spine curves, pillowing elbows on knees, and through that turtled, protective hunch, pale eyes inspect Sabitha. "You okay?"
Sabitha slides her bowl to the coffee table in lieu of delivering it to Rossi's hands and flashes a bright smile. "Nearly got a three day weekend this week. Half a day today. Good for the relaxation. Do you guys have to work through the holidays? You flip coins for that or something?"
"Traded." A laconic answer for a complicated, convoluted construct. Fingers flip, tracing the diagram -- this for that, him for her -- while behind it, annoyance subsides and is supplanted by curiosity. "Yamaguchi took Christmas, I took Tucci's MLK, and he's got Beston's Fourth. I think it works out somehow. Either that, or I've screwed myself over for the next two years. You still doing the NYPD benefits gig?"
Sabitha's smile widens half a titch and then subsides again. "Sounds like fun. I'm a little disappointed there aren't fist fights, though." A shift of her head tilts confirmation at him. "Yeah. Just kind of biding my time right now. Everyone's recovering from the holidays."
"How was your trip?"
"Oh, it was good," Sabby answers. She shifts up to slide a foot beneath her as she leans against the couch's arm for support. "Did lots of museums. Theatre. Saw the royal ballet one night, that was awesome. Have you been?"
"England?" Rossi shakes his head. Softens enough to grin, a crooked bite of expression that mellows the harsh face. "Outside of that whole thing in Italy, I haven't been out of the states. Haven't been out of New York or Jersey since I graduated the Academy."
"I thought you might've traveled or something, while you were there." Sabby tips her head back into the comfort of couch cushions and regards Chris in silence for a second, two, before she adds, "It was my first time abroad."
"Yeah?" Chris settles back, slinging his arm over -- ow -- over (ow, ow) over the chair's back. "You went by yourself, right? Meet up with any friends or something?"
Sabitha eyes Chris's sling before green eyes sweep back to his and she shakes her head, a tight, short movement. "No, just me."
"And a whole country of British guys." The cop looks sober. "Some of them even straight."
"Some of them," Sabby agrees easily.
"Enough of them?"
Sabitha lifts her brows. "For /what/?"
"For a good time." Chris grins, stretching a leg to poke gently, oh so gently! at Sabitha's space. Poke. "Little bit of culture--"
Sabitha rolls her eyes upward and retreats back into her own space. /Hers/. "I didn't go to England to get laid, Chris."
Chris protests. "Didn't say you did. Just saying, you go to a foreign country, you get to meet the people...."
"You see things... go to the theatre, stare at the Rosetta stone," Sabby counters.
"Go out to dinner, meet interesting women -- guys -- try not to get mugged," Chris suggests. "Avoid Eurodisney."
"No Eurodisney in London. They do have a big ferris wheel, though."
"Can you buy Elmo on it?"
"Dunno. Didn't ride it."
"Then what's the point?"
"Dunno," Sabby repeats over a half-curved smile. "Didn't ride it."
"City with a ferris wheel, and /you/ went to see museums." Chris steeples his fingers and regards Sabitha sorrowfully over their tips. "Sometimes I wonder about you, Melcross."
"How I got to be this fabulous?"
"Go to a city and ignore the ferris wheels. Christ. Might as well head to Atlantic City and ignore the gambling."
"I've never been gambling," Sabby shares.
"I can show you gambling in two easy steps," Chris advises, opening a palm to offer it to Sabby, face up in demand. "First you give me money, and then I take it."
Sabitha eyes Chris's open palm dubiously, lips pursed.
Patiently, Chris says, "I can't show you if you don't give me the money. Step two is sort of dependent on step one, see."
"I'm pretty fond of my paycheck, sorry," Sabitha apologizes. "I'll give you more ice cream?"
The hand retracts. "In a spoon?" Chris eyes her thoughtfully. "How're things going with Kessler, by the way?"
"I was thinking a bowl, but we can manage a spoon if you want." Sabby's brows knit as she stares at Chris. "How on earth did you get from gambling to Matt?"
A finger spins an idle wheel. "Keep up with me here, Melcross. Gambling, love -- so what's the story? You two still ever get past the ... what was it, the third date?"
Sabitha snorts so softly as to be almost inaudible. "Gambling, love. Right." A sharp shake of her head feathers strands of hair into her face, and she shoves them back with a hand. "Yeah, we're still dating."
"Going good?" Green eyes laugh behind the grave face.
"Yeah," Sabby replies simply.
Those smiling eyes widen, gently mocking. "Exclusive?"
Sabitha's lips twist. "No."
"Relieved?"
Sabitha snorts a laugh. "I'm not you, Chris."
"And yet somehow, I'm the one being all monogamous," quips Chris with wry self-deprecation, unraveling himself to stand. "Then again, I'm practically over the hill."
"Ridiculously ancient," Sabby agrees, and unfolds her legs to follow suit. She studies him in silence for a moment, head tilted back to take in the entire picture. "I think it might suit you."
"Old age?" Chris's lips quirk; a hand plunges into his pocket, fishing out gloves. "I'm hurt, Melcross. I thought I was good at nubile youth."
"Monogamy," Sabby corrects.
Chris sobers slightly, looking down at Sabitha. "Yeah," he concedes at last. "Maybe. I'll give it a shot. See how it goes." Something moves behind his expression, quicksilver and fleeting -- a softening, quaint peace -- and then disappears. "How about you and Kessler?"
Sabitha watches that something with a quiet sadness until it disappears and then shakes a snappy smile onto her features. "Matt? Nah, I doubt it. Just... a bit of comfortable fun, y'know?"
"Cotton candy," says Chris, kindly. "Yeah, I get it. Pink. Bubblegum-flavored. Exactly what I thought when I first met the guy. 'This guy'd be great on a cardboard stick--'"
"Tastes great, too," Sabby answers with a fast waggle of her brows.
Rossi chuckles. "Hell on your face and hair, though," he finishes, baritoning digging deep into innuendo. "I should get going. I got stuff. Thanks for the ice cream, Melcross. Next time you're near the precinct, call me. I'll buy you the best hot dog this side of the Atlantic."
"If only I ate them," Sabby returns with half a smile. "I'll stop by anyway. Don't get yourself killed out there, k?"
"Pezhead's locked up, and his amorous and evil designs on my ass are locked up with him," says Chris, dragging on his gloves en route to the door. A grin scythes over his shoulder at Sabby. "What's to worry?"
Sabitha trails several paces behind Chris with slow, dragging steps. "World's safe and sound," she agrees.
"Worrier," challenges Chris, pausing with a hand on the doorknob to glance down at the straggling woman. An eyebrow climbs; an arm reaches, hooking to reel her into his ribs: unprompted, cheerful affection.
Sabitha buries her face against Rossi's chest for a moment. One breath, two, deeply inhaled, and then she unravels herself from the cop and tips a smile up at him while hands smooth at her hair. "It's in my job description."
The smell of leather, the tang of gun oil, and under it the heartbeat of Rossi's scent itself: his own, unique. "You need a new job," Chris tells her, solemn as a sage. Then the chin lifts, the smile twists, and out he goes -- into the hallway, back to the real world. "Later, Melcross."
"Later, Chris." Sabby smiles once more, and then shuts the door on Rossi, the hallway, and the real world.