(no subject)
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Medical leave finds Chris Rossi at home, loosely seated on the floor in jeans and a T-shirt, hair still a rumpled, damp mop from the shower -- his third of the day. Chores requite boredom; the carpet is strewn with the debris of his idle labor, distraction and exasperation performing a destructive clean-up of his CD collection. Silver discs go flying, chucked over his shoulder one by one to clatter against walls, furniture, chairs and floor. First chaos. Then order. Backstreet Boys. He eyes the disc with blank bewilderment, and sends it spinning.
Sabitha has no such leave. She's still gathering things off the long conference table that served as space for a end-of-the-day-meeting when she connects her hands-free set and dials Chris Rossi. The others have cleared out, leaving her to collect papers and graphs and statements. She hums quietly under her breath while the phone rings.
Another disc clatters against the phone, burying it under K.D. Lang -- "Jesus /Christ/," despairs the manly cop. "Julia, for fuck's sake..." -- and Rossi stretches painfully, carefully, mining with his uninjured arm for the ringing handset. "...you have the /worst/ taste in music. --Yo. Rossi."
"One of these days you're going to greet me with 'Sabitha, I was hoping it was you!' and I'll faint in shock, Chris," Sabby states dryly. She stretches across the table to scoop up an untidy stack of papers. "What're you doing?"
"Sabitha," Chris echoes obediently, a smile chasing his voice down the telephonic aether. "I was hoping it was you. Cleaning out all the shit Julia dumped on me last time she moved. What the fuck is this? Tom Petty? Christ." A crash upturns the rest of the CD tower, detonating over the man's pensive curse.
"Damn," Sabby says, sympathetic. "Sounds like hell. Guess you're way too busy for dinner or something, then?"
There is thunderous silence on the other end of the phone. And then, moody: "Ow."
Sabitha squints concern down the line and pauses in mid-stack. "Chris?"
"Shit," says Chris, over the rattle of plastic and an ominous crunching. "That fucking hurt. --You want to do dinner? I'm not cooking. Unless you want ... I could make some kinda casserole out of these goddamn AOL CDs Julia keeps around. You want to meet up?"
"What'd you do?" Sabby inquires, curious as she works. She circles the table, scowling as she clears out the remains of someone's mocha. "Not asking you to cook, man. Asking you to come out. Or I can bring something to you if you want. My treat."
Another crunch, and then a thud as Chris wobbles to his feet, one-handed, with the phone barely trapped between his shoulder and ear. "Yeah, that'll work. Forget about treating me. I figure I owe you, for all that Italian. Pick your poison."
Sabitha doesn't argue over treats. At the moment. "What's in your neck of the woods? I'll come out. Tell me something good."
"Thai? Vietnamese? Korean? Got some preference? Italian, Chinese, American, French--"
Sabitha leans back against the conference table, pondering this selection with far too much thought. "Damn, Chris," she says. "You're killing me." A pause and she adds, "Know anyplace with good fish?"
At the other end of the line, Chris plows through a mountain of discs and magazines, sending unordered stacks flying against the long plaster walls. "Thought you were a vegetarian," he observes. "Or you going for a whole different thing now? What's that called, pisca-- piscatarian?"
Sabitha snorts amusement and riffles through a filefolder. "I've always eaten fish. Keep up, Chris. C'mon now." Pausing, she prompts again, "Any good seafood places?"
"Cantankerous Fish," the man supplies after a moment's thought. "On Winchester and Stanton. They got a fantastic trout thing I don't get. Pretty posh place to have a blue collar guy like me on your arm, though. Think you can handle the embarrassment?"
Sabitha tucks the last of her things into the crook of her arm and laughs over the handsfree set. "Matt and I went to L'Orchide Noir the other day. You ever been?"
Hidden by distance and the medium of modern communication, Rossi slopes into the pillows of his sofa and props his head on its arm, eyes half-lidding. "That the one in Manhattan? Maybe. I've had a couple of girlfriends with expensive taste. Did Kessler eat his peas with his knife?"
Sabitha works her way out of the conference room, grinning as she goes. "Yeah, that's the one. We didn't have peas. Kept loosening his tie every time the waiter looked at him, though. It was fantastic."
"Stick his napkin in his collar?" Rossi suggests, amusement tracing the curve of his accent. "Slurp his soup? Ask for a straw to drink his wine? Shit -- ask if the wine came out of a box or a screw top?"
Sabitha laughs again, sweeping past her desk to drop off folders and papers and collect her things for the day. The office is otherwise empty, and she chatters without shame. "Might have been tempted," she admits. "But no. We settled for inappropriate conversation and mid-class wine. So tell me where I'm meeting you? It'll take me a bit to get out there," she warns.
Under the damp mop of black, green eyes roll up to check the clock over the kitchen door. "At work?" A rhetorical question. Chris reels off directions with a native's panache, ending the machine gun inventory of streets with a mellow, "You stand me up, Melcross, I'll tell the waiters you took advantage of me. Might even cry."
"Just heading out," Sabby confirms, rhetorical or no. "Aw. Chris. You'd cry over me? Really? I'm so touched!" She snatches up a pen and scribbles down directions, fast and furious and with the occasional pause to ask for clarification.
"Like a girl," Rossi promises, and thumbs the phone off.
The Cantankerous Fish is, as promised, more upscale than not: the windows display discreet glimpses of a lavish interior, as the awnings suggest expectation of a certain class standard. Inside, the facade proves more stifling than the reality; white-coated waters amble around linen islands, and the diners themselves reveal themselves as refreshingly mundane, casual attire mingling with more formal wear.
Rossi is already seated in a booth, slouched darkling and long-limbed against a mirrored wall. Blue collar, perhaps, but the arrogance defies class. At least the clothing proves him capable of elegance: navy trousers and a dark grey shirt show stark under a pale grey sportcoat with its empty left arm. The right arm props its wrist on the table, idle in play; he entertains himself with a fork, poking small ranks of divots into his napkin.
Sabitha is neither casual nor formal, but buisness-like, although her skirt is not of the suit kind (it flows, and there are flowers!), and her blouse looks comfortable. A fast inquiry at the front sends her wandering back to blue collar Chris Rossi, grinning. Her brows lift. "Having fun?"
"One more set and I'll have a phalanx," the Italian notes, dragging himself up out of his chair like a proper gentleman. The fork clatters to the table, tossed with relative indifference beside its plate, and with warmth for the greeting -- pale eyes light, hinting at a smile -- Rossi offers his uninjured arm for a hug. "How's it going, princess?"
Sabitha slides her free arm round Chris to squeeze in a fast, tight hug and then turns to slide her briefcase off her shoulder and to the floor. "Going, going, gone," she jokes, and turns a smile on him. Pauses. Lifts her brows. "Please tell me Vincent didn't shoot you in a fit of rage or something, Chris?" She's still joking as she slides into her seat. "What'd you do, punch a wall?"
The attempt to assist Sabitha's seat in is a futile one at best, and Rossi collapses back into his own seat, annoyance -- exasperation -- cramping across his face. "Had a thing," he says, taking up his fork again to poke another rank of divots. "Apparently, I got crappy social skills. You think I'm poorly socialized, Melcross? Always thought I had charm bleeding out my ass."
"I think you've got charm in spades," Sabby assures him, with laughter in her voice, and she leans forward to squint at him. "A thing?"
The fork pokes. "On the job," Chris says, and regards Sabby with self-deprecating mockery. "What, you never had an accident on the job?"
"Once," Sabby shares, solemnity incarnate, "I got bled all over. Ruined my best suit."
"Bleeding? Jesus--" The fork sways, losing focus for a moment. "Melcross, tell me you stabbed yourself with a pair of scissors or something, and that this isn't some female thing."
Sabitha breaks into laughter, loud enough that she has to cover it behind a hand as she earns a few chiding glances from those more formal patrons. "Bled /on/," she corrects after a moment. "By the President. Remember that thing?"
Leaf-bright eyes glitter at Sabitha, hoarding the light of a grin that only just pads the relieved baritone. "Thank God. Some things a guy doesn't need to hear. --I remember that. Blue blood's just as red. White House pay for your cleaning bills?"
"Nah," Sabby answers, dismissive over a responding grin. "And like hell I was gonna ask. I /did/ get a shiny medal out of it, though. I ever show you that?"
"You're not wearing it now?" Rossi marvels, planting his functional elbow on the table to lean over it, gaze inquisitive over Sabitha's medal-appropriate anatomy. "You get a medal from the President and you take that sucker off? Is it made out of chocolate?"
"You ever seen shiny chocolate?" Sabby returns, bright and fast and amused.
The fork gestures something explicit. Perhaps even lewd. "Gold wrapping," Chris suggests, glancing up as the waiter returns with menus and water for them both. "Tin foil. Probably all the White House could afford, with their deficit. Unless it explodes--"
"Next time you come over," Sabby answers, waggling brows at Chris across the table before she's forced to pause to accept water and menu. She flips it open, continues, "I'll show you. If you're good, I might even let you touch it."
"Kessler might not like me touching your gold medal action," the man lazes, while the waiter's eyes flicker tactfully. "Unless he's the kind that doesn't mind sharing, anyway. How're things going with you two? Still on?"
"Still on," Sabby confirms, easy, while eyes skim down the menu in search of something appetizing. "You gonna tell me what you did to your arm now?"
"It wasn't me. /I/ didn't do anything. Christ. What kind of a klutz do you think I am?"
Sabitha rolls her eyes upward and then drops them to rest on the man across from her. "I'm not actually going to answer that. It was a figure of speech anyway, man." There's a pause, a moment's hesitation for real concern as she asks, "You're ok, though?"
Chris's mouth tips askew, nudging towards a smile's thin wraith. "Never better. Couple of stitches, a little ER time -- it was a through-and-through, no problem. Doc's threatening to name one of the beds after me. 'The Chris Rossi cot.' Kinda has a ring to it."
Sympathy joins concern, written in the twist of a screwed-up smile. "You have the shittiest luck. Stitches?" A pause, for emphasis, and she asks, "/Did/ you get shot again?"
The reply is grudging, and vaguely resentful. "Yeah. --Don't think I like that 'again.'"
Sabitha's reply is instantly horrified. "And you didn't /call/ me so I could bring you more food? Chris. You're going to give me a /complex/." Perhaps a little teasing.
"If I called you every time something happened, Melcross, I'd weigh four hundred pounds. My waistline would be in another zip code." Exasperation mingles with amusement, lobbed across the clean and empty plates. "Between you and my mother and Ca-- and Mikey's wife, my scale doesn't stand a chance." On cue, the waiter returns, soft-footed and inquiring.
"So I'll bring you low-fat something. Make you a stirfry with tofu. It'll be fantastic." Sabby pushes on, teasing, light, joking, and pauses just long enough to murmur an order of pasta with various sorts of shellfish before she turns back to Chris. "Or a girdle. I'll bring you food and a girdle."
Whatever thought waits on Chris's palate is postponed for his order -- trout-something, sauce-something, an incomprehensible text pared down at last to an impatient stab of finger against the menu -- and he returns to a grave-eyed consideration of Sabitha. "You ever seen fat old Italian guys in a sauna? You want me to end up one of them? What I ever do to you?"
"That," Sabby informs Chris, oh-so-seriously, "Is something I endeavor to avoid. I'll bring you the girdle. You avoid the sauna."
"We'll put up a sign on the door," Rossi suggests, testing the curve of his water glass with an exploratory thumb. Water pools, and trickles down; the green eyes warm into a swift, unshadowed smile. "No mutants or fat Italians. Unless they promise not to shoot me."
Sabitha's hand hesitates for a milisecond on the way to her waterglass. Fingers curl, cool, against the smooth surface and her brow knits. Concern appears again, heavy in her gaze. "A mutant shot you?"
Amusement curls against the Brooklyn accent. "I can only figure. Magneto ever strike you as a poofster?"
Concern gives way to mild horror. Sabby leans back in her chair, glass forgotten in her hand. "/Magneto/ shot you?"
"You'd figure he'd use something more creative," Chris muses, slouching slowly and carefully into his seat. The pale sportcoat falls open, baring the arm in its sling; under the dig of brows, green eyes unfocus. "Street lamp, maybe. Parking meter. Vespa. I could see a Vespa."
Sabitha's eyes fall to that sling, worried and watching. She repeats, "Magneto shot you?"
The free hand gestures dismissively, batting away the question and the discomfort that briefly chisels deep lines in Rossi's face. He straightens. "Magneto's boy toy did. --Some sort of object lesson. Damned if I know. For an old guy, Pezhead gets a lot of action. You're a girl. You think he's hot?"
Sabitha hides behind her water glass for a moment, and when it lowers again, she's wiped most the obvious worry from her face. Most. "Do I think /Magneto/ is hot?" Echoing is apparently her thing, this evening.
"Magneto," Chris echoes back, patient. "Erik Lensherr. Old Man Liver. Terrorist, whiskey drinker, all around nice guy. Would /you/ sleep with him?"
Sabitha's face speaks eloquently of horror. "Do I look /that/ bad off?" A pause to lower her glass and she leans in to impart the secret of "He's got to be old enough to be my /grandfather/."
"He's old enough to have known Jesus. That's not the point. Women got weird taste. You find him attractive?"
"I do not," Sabby assures Chris with hasty firmness in her voice, "Find Erik Lensherr attractive." Her eyes narrow on him. "Are you having inadequecy issues or something Chris? Cause you're a hell of a lot better looking than /Magneto./"
The man grins at that, a swift flash of white teeth and green, laughing eyes that wipes away the past year's care for a moment. Just one precious moment. "Women are weird," Rossi says, adding with arrogant cheer, "Damn straight I'm better looking than Magneto. I'm just saying, he gets a lot of action for an old guy. What is it, power?"
Sabitha considers this question with some seriousness for a moment and taps her fingers atop the table. "Probably," she finally answers. A laughing grin flickers over her features. "Or maybe he's just damn good in bed?"
A grimace jerks at Rossi's expression. "Don't feel obligated to verify that for me," he drawls, straightening further -- fork remembered and deployed against the plate's edge (chink!) -- to turns his glance askance. Fellow diners rant about a Broadway show. Another nearby couple argues about taxes. "Anyway. I'm probably not safe to be around, at this rate. Every time I turn around."
"Chris." Sabby leans in, resting her forearms against the edge of the table to regard him seriously. "I love you dearly. But I am not going to hunt down Erik Lensherr and ask if he'll give me a go just to satisfy your curiousity." That said, she nods sharply and dismisses the rest with a smile. "Can't believe I'm being seen with you in public. Might get bled on again."
"You think that's a joke," Rossi notes, dry. "Damn ER isn't laughing."
Sabitha's head tilts, more serious. "You have shitty luck, Chris," she acknowledges. "Damn shitty luck."
An elusive glint of -- something, bites into green eyes. "Fuck-up fairy," Chris reminds. "Told you she had me on speed dial. --Here's an idea. Let's elope."
Sabitha watches Chris quietly across the table before she teases back a smile. "You and me? Gonna take me to Hawaii on honeymoon?" A pause and she considers, with mock horror, "Do I have to take your last name?"
"Open marriage." Romantic that he is, Chris flips his fork and loses it over the side of the table. The dark face sets into disinterest. (Meant to do that.) "I figure, we get married, we get the tax break, we both have affairs when we want, it shuts my Mom up -- what's wrong with 'Rossi'? It's a fine Italian name. Has a lot of history to it."
"A lot of history," Sabby agrees, mild tone spinning the words in an entirely different manner. "I dunno, Chris. You and me in the same house? You think the world could handle that?"
The broad shoulders hunch; the lean spine curves. "I got a plan," Chris explains, owlishly solemn. "Listen--" And the baritone drops into confiding, ludicrous conspiracy, shaping farce out of a long week's pain.
[Log ends]
Medical leave finds Chris Rossi at home, loosely seated on the floor in jeans and a T-shirt, hair still a rumpled, damp mop from the shower -- his third of the day. Chores requite boredom; the carpet is strewn with the debris of his idle labor, distraction and exasperation performing a destructive clean-up of his CD collection. Silver discs go flying, chucked over his shoulder one by one to clatter against walls, furniture, chairs and floor. First chaos. Then order. Backstreet Boys. He eyes the disc with blank bewilderment, and sends it spinning.
Sabitha has no such leave. She's still gathering things off the long conference table that served as space for a end-of-the-day-meeting when she connects her hands-free set and dials Chris Rossi. The others have cleared out, leaving her to collect papers and graphs and statements. She hums quietly under her breath while the phone rings.
Another disc clatters against the phone, burying it under K.D. Lang -- "Jesus /Christ/," despairs the manly cop. "Julia, for fuck's sake..." -- and Rossi stretches painfully, carefully, mining with his uninjured arm for the ringing handset. "...you have the /worst/ taste in music. --Yo. Rossi."
"One of these days you're going to greet me with 'Sabitha, I was hoping it was you!' and I'll faint in shock, Chris," Sabby states dryly. She stretches across the table to scoop up an untidy stack of papers. "What're you doing?"
"Sabitha," Chris echoes obediently, a smile chasing his voice down the telephonic aether. "I was hoping it was you. Cleaning out all the shit Julia dumped on me last time she moved. What the fuck is this? Tom Petty? Christ." A crash upturns the rest of the CD tower, detonating over the man's pensive curse.
"Damn," Sabby says, sympathetic. "Sounds like hell. Guess you're way too busy for dinner or something, then?"
There is thunderous silence on the other end of the phone. And then, moody: "Ow."
Sabitha squints concern down the line and pauses in mid-stack. "Chris?"
"Shit," says Chris, over the rattle of plastic and an ominous crunching. "That fucking hurt. --You want to do dinner? I'm not cooking. Unless you want ... I could make some kinda casserole out of these goddamn AOL CDs Julia keeps around. You want to meet up?"
"What'd you do?" Sabby inquires, curious as she works. She circles the table, scowling as she clears out the remains of someone's mocha. "Not asking you to cook, man. Asking you to come out. Or I can bring something to you if you want. My treat."
Another crunch, and then a thud as Chris wobbles to his feet, one-handed, with the phone barely trapped between his shoulder and ear. "Yeah, that'll work. Forget about treating me. I figure I owe you, for all that Italian. Pick your poison."
Sabitha doesn't argue over treats. At the moment. "What's in your neck of the woods? I'll come out. Tell me something good."
"Thai? Vietnamese? Korean? Got some preference? Italian, Chinese, American, French--"
Sabitha leans back against the conference table, pondering this selection with far too much thought. "Damn, Chris," she says. "You're killing me." A pause and she adds, "Know anyplace with good fish?"
At the other end of the line, Chris plows through a mountain of discs and magazines, sending unordered stacks flying against the long plaster walls. "Thought you were a vegetarian," he observes. "Or you going for a whole different thing now? What's that called, pisca-- piscatarian?"
Sabitha snorts amusement and riffles through a filefolder. "I've always eaten fish. Keep up, Chris. C'mon now." Pausing, she prompts again, "Any good seafood places?"
"Cantankerous Fish," the man supplies after a moment's thought. "On Winchester and Stanton. They got a fantastic trout thing I don't get. Pretty posh place to have a blue collar guy like me on your arm, though. Think you can handle the embarrassment?"
Sabitha tucks the last of her things into the crook of her arm and laughs over the handsfree set. "Matt and I went to L'Orchide Noir the other day. You ever been?"
Hidden by distance and the medium of modern communication, Rossi slopes into the pillows of his sofa and props his head on its arm, eyes half-lidding. "That the one in Manhattan? Maybe. I've had a couple of girlfriends with expensive taste. Did Kessler eat his peas with his knife?"
Sabitha works her way out of the conference room, grinning as she goes. "Yeah, that's the one. We didn't have peas. Kept loosening his tie every time the waiter looked at him, though. It was fantastic."
"Stick his napkin in his collar?" Rossi suggests, amusement tracing the curve of his accent. "Slurp his soup? Ask for a straw to drink his wine? Shit -- ask if the wine came out of a box or a screw top?"
Sabitha laughs again, sweeping past her desk to drop off folders and papers and collect her things for the day. The office is otherwise empty, and she chatters without shame. "Might have been tempted," she admits. "But no. We settled for inappropriate conversation and mid-class wine. So tell me where I'm meeting you? It'll take me a bit to get out there," she warns.
Under the damp mop of black, green eyes roll up to check the clock over the kitchen door. "At work?" A rhetorical question. Chris reels off directions with a native's panache, ending the machine gun inventory of streets with a mellow, "You stand me up, Melcross, I'll tell the waiters you took advantage of me. Might even cry."
"Just heading out," Sabby confirms, rhetorical or no. "Aw. Chris. You'd cry over me? Really? I'm so touched!" She snatches up a pen and scribbles down directions, fast and furious and with the occasional pause to ask for clarification.
"Like a girl," Rossi promises, and thumbs the phone off.
The Cantankerous Fish is, as promised, more upscale than not: the windows display discreet glimpses of a lavish interior, as the awnings suggest expectation of a certain class standard. Inside, the facade proves more stifling than the reality; white-coated waters amble around linen islands, and the diners themselves reveal themselves as refreshingly mundane, casual attire mingling with more formal wear.
Rossi is already seated in a booth, slouched darkling and long-limbed against a mirrored wall. Blue collar, perhaps, but the arrogance defies class. At least the clothing proves him capable of elegance: navy trousers and a dark grey shirt show stark under a pale grey sportcoat with its empty left arm. The right arm props its wrist on the table, idle in play; he entertains himself with a fork, poking small ranks of divots into his napkin.
Sabitha is neither casual nor formal, but buisness-like, although her skirt is not of the suit kind (it flows, and there are flowers!), and her blouse looks comfortable. A fast inquiry at the front sends her wandering back to blue collar Chris Rossi, grinning. Her brows lift. "Having fun?"
"One more set and I'll have a phalanx," the Italian notes, dragging himself up out of his chair like a proper gentleman. The fork clatters to the table, tossed with relative indifference beside its plate, and with warmth for the greeting -- pale eyes light, hinting at a smile -- Rossi offers his uninjured arm for a hug. "How's it going, princess?"
Sabitha slides her free arm round Chris to squeeze in a fast, tight hug and then turns to slide her briefcase off her shoulder and to the floor. "Going, going, gone," she jokes, and turns a smile on him. Pauses. Lifts her brows. "Please tell me Vincent didn't shoot you in a fit of rage or something, Chris?" She's still joking as she slides into her seat. "What'd you do, punch a wall?"
The attempt to assist Sabitha's seat in is a futile one at best, and Rossi collapses back into his own seat, annoyance -- exasperation -- cramping across his face. "Had a thing," he says, taking up his fork again to poke another rank of divots. "Apparently, I got crappy social skills. You think I'm poorly socialized, Melcross? Always thought I had charm bleeding out my ass."
"I think you've got charm in spades," Sabby assures him, with laughter in her voice, and she leans forward to squint at him. "A thing?"
The fork pokes. "On the job," Chris says, and regards Sabby with self-deprecating mockery. "What, you never had an accident on the job?"
"Once," Sabby shares, solemnity incarnate, "I got bled all over. Ruined my best suit."
"Bleeding? Jesus--" The fork sways, losing focus for a moment. "Melcross, tell me you stabbed yourself with a pair of scissors or something, and that this isn't some female thing."
Sabitha breaks into laughter, loud enough that she has to cover it behind a hand as she earns a few chiding glances from those more formal patrons. "Bled /on/," she corrects after a moment. "By the President. Remember that thing?"
Leaf-bright eyes glitter at Sabitha, hoarding the light of a grin that only just pads the relieved baritone. "Thank God. Some things a guy doesn't need to hear. --I remember that. Blue blood's just as red. White House pay for your cleaning bills?"
"Nah," Sabby answers, dismissive over a responding grin. "And like hell I was gonna ask. I /did/ get a shiny medal out of it, though. I ever show you that?"
"You're not wearing it now?" Rossi marvels, planting his functional elbow on the table to lean over it, gaze inquisitive over Sabitha's medal-appropriate anatomy. "You get a medal from the President and you take that sucker off? Is it made out of chocolate?"
"You ever seen shiny chocolate?" Sabby returns, bright and fast and amused.
The fork gestures something explicit. Perhaps even lewd. "Gold wrapping," Chris suggests, glancing up as the waiter returns with menus and water for them both. "Tin foil. Probably all the White House could afford, with their deficit. Unless it explodes--"
"Next time you come over," Sabby answers, waggling brows at Chris across the table before she's forced to pause to accept water and menu. She flips it open, continues, "I'll show you. If you're good, I might even let you touch it."
"Kessler might not like me touching your gold medal action," the man lazes, while the waiter's eyes flicker tactfully. "Unless he's the kind that doesn't mind sharing, anyway. How're things going with you two? Still on?"
"Still on," Sabby confirms, easy, while eyes skim down the menu in search of something appetizing. "You gonna tell me what you did to your arm now?"
"It wasn't me. /I/ didn't do anything. Christ. What kind of a klutz do you think I am?"
Sabitha rolls her eyes upward and then drops them to rest on the man across from her. "I'm not actually going to answer that. It was a figure of speech anyway, man." There's a pause, a moment's hesitation for real concern as she asks, "You're ok, though?"
Chris's mouth tips askew, nudging towards a smile's thin wraith. "Never better. Couple of stitches, a little ER time -- it was a through-and-through, no problem. Doc's threatening to name one of the beds after me. 'The Chris Rossi cot.' Kinda has a ring to it."
Sympathy joins concern, written in the twist of a screwed-up smile. "You have the shittiest luck. Stitches?" A pause, for emphasis, and she asks, "/Did/ you get shot again?"
The reply is grudging, and vaguely resentful. "Yeah. --Don't think I like that 'again.'"
Sabitha's reply is instantly horrified. "And you didn't /call/ me so I could bring you more food? Chris. You're going to give me a /complex/." Perhaps a little teasing.
"If I called you every time something happened, Melcross, I'd weigh four hundred pounds. My waistline would be in another zip code." Exasperation mingles with amusement, lobbed across the clean and empty plates. "Between you and my mother and Ca-- and Mikey's wife, my scale doesn't stand a chance." On cue, the waiter returns, soft-footed and inquiring.
"So I'll bring you low-fat something. Make you a stirfry with tofu. It'll be fantastic." Sabby pushes on, teasing, light, joking, and pauses just long enough to murmur an order of pasta with various sorts of shellfish before she turns back to Chris. "Or a girdle. I'll bring you food and a girdle."
Whatever thought waits on Chris's palate is postponed for his order -- trout-something, sauce-something, an incomprehensible text pared down at last to an impatient stab of finger against the menu -- and he returns to a grave-eyed consideration of Sabitha. "You ever seen fat old Italian guys in a sauna? You want me to end up one of them? What I ever do to you?"
"That," Sabby informs Chris, oh-so-seriously, "Is something I endeavor to avoid. I'll bring you the girdle. You avoid the sauna."
"We'll put up a sign on the door," Rossi suggests, testing the curve of his water glass with an exploratory thumb. Water pools, and trickles down; the green eyes warm into a swift, unshadowed smile. "No mutants or fat Italians. Unless they promise not to shoot me."
Sabitha's hand hesitates for a milisecond on the way to her waterglass. Fingers curl, cool, against the smooth surface and her brow knits. Concern appears again, heavy in her gaze. "A mutant shot you?"
Amusement curls against the Brooklyn accent. "I can only figure. Magneto ever strike you as a poofster?"
Concern gives way to mild horror. Sabby leans back in her chair, glass forgotten in her hand. "/Magneto/ shot you?"
"You'd figure he'd use something more creative," Chris muses, slouching slowly and carefully into his seat. The pale sportcoat falls open, baring the arm in its sling; under the dig of brows, green eyes unfocus. "Street lamp, maybe. Parking meter. Vespa. I could see a Vespa."
Sabitha's eyes fall to that sling, worried and watching. She repeats, "Magneto shot you?"
The free hand gestures dismissively, batting away the question and the discomfort that briefly chisels deep lines in Rossi's face. He straightens. "Magneto's boy toy did. --Some sort of object lesson. Damned if I know. For an old guy, Pezhead gets a lot of action. You're a girl. You think he's hot?"
Sabitha hides behind her water glass for a moment, and when it lowers again, she's wiped most the obvious worry from her face. Most. "Do I think /Magneto/ is hot?" Echoing is apparently her thing, this evening.
"Magneto," Chris echoes back, patient. "Erik Lensherr. Old Man Liver. Terrorist, whiskey drinker, all around nice guy. Would /you/ sleep with him?"
Sabitha's face speaks eloquently of horror. "Do I look /that/ bad off?" A pause to lower her glass and she leans in to impart the secret of "He's got to be old enough to be my /grandfather/."
"He's old enough to have known Jesus. That's not the point. Women got weird taste. You find him attractive?"
"I do not," Sabby assures Chris with hasty firmness in her voice, "Find Erik Lensherr attractive." Her eyes narrow on him. "Are you having inadequecy issues or something Chris? Cause you're a hell of a lot better looking than /Magneto./"
The man grins at that, a swift flash of white teeth and green, laughing eyes that wipes away the past year's care for a moment. Just one precious moment. "Women are weird," Rossi says, adding with arrogant cheer, "Damn straight I'm better looking than Magneto. I'm just saying, he gets a lot of action for an old guy. What is it, power?"
Sabitha considers this question with some seriousness for a moment and taps her fingers atop the table. "Probably," she finally answers. A laughing grin flickers over her features. "Or maybe he's just damn good in bed?"
A grimace jerks at Rossi's expression. "Don't feel obligated to verify that for me," he drawls, straightening further -- fork remembered and deployed against the plate's edge (chink!) -- to turns his glance askance. Fellow diners rant about a Broadway show. Another nearby couple argues about taxes. "Anyway. I'm probably not safe to be around, at this rate. Every time I turn around."
"Chris." Sabby leans in, resting her forearms against the edge of the table to regard him seriously. "I love you dearly. But I am not going to hunt down Erik Lensherr and ask if he'll give me a go just to satisfy your curiousity." That said, she nods sharply and dismisses the rest with a smile. "Can't believe I'm being seen with you in public. Might get bled on again."
"You think that's a joke," Rossi notes, dry. "Damn ER isn't laughing."
Sabitha's head tilts, more serious. "You have shitty luck, Chris," she acknowledges. "Damn shitty luck."
An elusive glint of -- something, bites into green eyes. "Fuck-up fairy," Chris reminds. "Told you she had me on speed dial. --Here's an idea. Let's elope."
Sabitha watches Chris quietly across the table before she teases back a smile. "You and me? Gonna take me to Hawaii on honeymoon?" A pause and she considers, with mock horror, "Do I have to take your last name?"
"Open marriage." Romantic that he is, Chris flips his fork and loses it over the side of the table. The dark face sets into disinterest. (Meant to do that.) "I figure, we get married, we get the tax break, we both have affairs when we want, it shuts my Mom up -- what's wrong with 'Rossi'? It's a fine Italian name. Has a lot of history to it."
"A lot of history," Sabby agrees, mild tone spinning the words in an entirely different manner. "I dunno, Chris. You and me in the same house? You think the world could handle that?"
The broad shoulders hunch; the lean spine curves. "I got a plan," Chris explains, owlishly solemn. "Listen--" And the baritone drops into confiding, ludicrous conspiracy, shaping farce out of a long week's pain.
[Log ends]