Blue Blood
Managed to ditch the Feds before heading into Xavier's. That should piss them off plenty. Probably just add fuel to the fire. Like I give a shit, at this point.
Yeah. Looked out the window just now and there they are, Starsky and Hutch, parked across the street like a pair of giant targets. They couldn't stick out more if their car was painted FBI. Not there to protect my ass, for damn sure. Snag Magneto? Fat lot of good they did last time.
More I think about this, the better this loan thing sounds. Beston's bitching and moaning about it, but he's already telling me stories about the guys he knows over there. He got the LT to agree to send him with me, if I go over for a few days. Damned if I know what they're planning on doing with our caseloads. If they make an arrest on the Gianni case while I'm at the 28th, that will seriously frost my cookies.
Cassidy's a good guy. More I hear about his days on the job, the more it sounds like he was a really good cop, too. But damn. Talking to kids? Most people try to keep their kids away from my mouth. He's either dumber than he looks, or desperate. He'll regret it. I'll regret it. The kids'll probably regret it.
Subtle. I can do subtle.
---
Xavier School Recreation Room
This, my friends, is a place for people to come and relax. Broad wide screen television in one area of the room with various other sofas and chairs around. Vivid walls of pale green and embossed gold wallpaper add a friendly air to this place. Tables, whether coffee or card, line the room, as well as an air-hockey table and fooze ball table for games. Closets support various items for fun, large bay windows give light to the room.
A wrist jerks, accompanied by a grunt from within a throat. Red haired flops across, as Sean throws heart and soul into an almighty thwack of the fooseball. The Irishman is casual; in jeans and a t-shirt, as he follows the journey of the white ball. "Come on!"
Small plastic men rush to the defense, rattling across metal to slam the heavy ball into the wall. Rossi spins a handle, sending the target skipping back towards the other end of the table. "How many hours a day do you spend /playing/ this shit?" he demands, rough voice edged with amusement. His own attire is likewise casual, long-sleeves and jeans for the weekend, boots and couch-tossed overcoat for the weather. "You're like a freaking kid."
"I -work- with children, you daft idiot," Sean returns, with a defiant jutting outof his jaw. He catches the ball on the back of a defender, and throws up a glance. "All men are children inside. How about you and your, uh, okay. Most men." The defender skips to the side, traversing the ball, before it is again launched towards Rossi's goal.
The goalie makes a hasty and noble attempt at defense, to no avail; the ball bounces off his own blunt feet, and slams its way home. "Yours," Chris grants, without heat. A finger flicks at the railed tally markers, before he digs into his side of the table to retrieve the ball. "What's that saying? Working with kids keeps you young inside, or something like that?"
A triumphantly shaken fist couples a little whoop of victory. "Gotcha," Sean says, with an oh-so humble smile. "Keeps me in touch with the knowledge of how to best remove spots, and how to hide pornography," Sean responds, easily. "But yeah. Kids keep me fairly energetic."
A forefinger cocks the ball into place, holding it against the launching cup. An eyebrow arcs. "Keeps you something, anyway," Chris drawls, mouth crooking. The ball snaps out, rumbling across the playing field; Rossi spins a handle's bar, taking haphazard advantage of the moment. "That all you've been up to lately? Playing babysitter?"
"Interpol asked for me back," Sean says, with a tiny little twitch of his shoulders; the sketch of a sneer ghosting over his lips. "Want me to work 'round here for 'em. 'Part from that, though. How've you been, anyway, boyo?"
A shoulder hitches. Chris frowns over the tabletop; distraction skips his attention towards the ball, and a wild swing of the bar that sends the ball careening back in his own -- oops -- direction. "The usual," he says, abrupt. "Interpol, huh? Doing a little poaching in our territory?"
"Not quite," Sean returns, with a slow grimace. "They're after a couple of things, I think. Neither of which I can talk about, 'less you get the right forms filled in. Reckon I should go with it?" An honest question, apparently, as the Irishman utterly ignores the table beneath him.
"You want to?" Rossi asks, making an amateur play for the goal before giving up altogether, hands flattening across the bars. The little pawns stop, in various angles of dignity or plastic jubilation. Chris glances up, pale eyes thoughtful. Opaque. "Miss it?"
"I can do it as well as this," shrugs Sean. "I'd need contacts round here, though. PD contacts." The blue eyes look up to the other man, and look directly upon the detective. "You know what it's like."
Chris leans across the handles, arms folding loosely, shoulders hunched. "You tell me," he says back, and drops his gaze to the table. "I've never worked for Interpol."
"I mean the job," Sean returns, slowly. "Coming back. Can't leave it."
"You left once before." The ball slowly comes to a limp stop against the table wall. Chris reaches in to claim it. "No reason you couldn't leave again."
"I got ditched before," says Sean. "They use guilt against you, you know? Fu-- Darn, Chris, I don't know. I could, I guess." Shrug. "You want a coke?"
Chris straightens slowly, a twinge nipping at the edges of his expression mid-rise. "Sure. --Worse than the goddamn Church. Nothing wrong in listening to what they got to say," he supposes, tossing the ball to let it hop across the table. "Go on board as an independent contractor. Pick and choose your cases."
Sean turns to head into the kitchen. "Then I'll listen," he says, nodding slowly but with a thread of uncertain restraint in his tone. "Reckon I can-- could. I'll have to check with Summers, mind." Then he's away and towards soft beverage.
"Then again, fu-- don't take my advice," Chris calls after Sean, winding his own way around the assortment of seats to drop into a couch's end. His brow drops into his hand, baritone subsiding to a mutter. "About as useful as a spaghetti noodle at a gun fight."
"Bull-- crap," Sean replies, good-naturedly, as he comes back in, wielding a pair of bottle of dark, fizzy liquid. "Wouldn't have asked, would I? Oh sh-sorry I could make it to the funeral. I-- yeah."
The other man straightens, extending an arm to accept his bottle. "Thanks. Don't worry about it. Not my funeral." Chris's mouth twists, skewed into macabre humor. "I'll expect you at mine. --It was just a funeral."
"Even so," Sean says, quietly. He pauses, before giving the other man a helpless look. "It's related-- but anyway. Your funeral, I'll be there. Might even sing a song for you."
"I'll schedule you in," Rossi says gravely, popping the top off his bottle with a practiced twist of hand. He flicks the cap to the coffee table, where it hiccups off a game controller before spinning to a noisy, dizzy stop. "Just ... no show tunes. At this rate, my death is going to need all the dignity I can get."
Sean wags a finger. "Top o' the bill, I hope." He cracks his own bottle with a practised jerk of his hand, then tosses it in the general direction of the table; of the other cap. "How are you on blues? I mena, you want everyone being nice and depressed, right? Mourning the passing of the almighty Rossi?"
"The whole shebang," Chris drawls, eyes half-masting over his slouch into the chair. He tips his bottle back to swallow a mouthful, throat working across the drink. "Six of my best friends at the casket, and dress blues, all around. My mom would be pissed, otherwise." Humor wavers for a second at the thought, mouth thinning to a grim line.
"Do I get a rifle?" Sean wonders, quietly. He nods to himself, threading the humour through his tone in a vague but obvious reassurance. "You're definitely the sort of guy in need of twenty one guns-- or inches."
A glance skims at Sean, wryly mocking. "That the best you can come up with? Like hell you get to a rifle at my funeral. When was the last time you handled one?" Chris tips the bottle again, half emptying it, and straightens. "Your guys out front don't like guns."
A shrug grips Sean's shoudlers; freezing at the top. "Guns're the same as some mutations, like that. Only if you give one to an idiot do they become dangerous." A sneer -- playful -- skips across his lips. "Last time I touched a firearm was-- christ. Alright. No guns for me. Can I at least buy a couple of clowns for the front entrance?"
"Don't like clowns," Rossi sighs, slouching a little further to rest his head on the back of the sofa. "Worse than mimes. Hate mimes. And balloons. Damn. Wonder how I feel about elephants and big tops? --So where do we bury you?"
"Space," Sean says, "or back home. Burn me-- hate the thought of maybe waking up in a coffin, you know?" He mocks a little shudder. "-I-, however, want dancing girls. And mimes. Just to follow you around."
Chris props the bottle on his thigh and closes his eyes, expression amused. "We can cremate them with you. The mimes, anyway. I'll keep the dancing girls."
"You like Irish dancers?" Sean wonders. "They do have swords, you know."
"Girls with weapons." Close-eyed still, Chris grins slightly. "That's hot. Magneto's got one. Tall, blonde, cold drink of water."
"Could be Ellen Dramstadt," Sean says, nodding slightly. "You should pull up her record. See -why- she's one of his. Then see if she's hot."
Pale eyes sliver open, skimming a brilliant, amused glance at the other man. "I met her. The Feds don't talk to you poodles? Old Pezhead has his monkey shoot me one day, and then has another monkey heal me the next. I'm obviously a member of the Brotherhood." Mockery skeins heavy and thick through the last, twitching the black brows together.
"She -healed- you?" Sean says, blinking surprise, then waxing towards business; frank and rapid in his brogue. "I didn't know -that-. What the-- why? Have you been checked out by a proper doctor since then?"
"Tests like you wouldn't believe," Rossi reassures, remembered annoyance skidding back into the Brooklyn-tamed voice. "Fu-- damn docs pulled more blood out of me than Magneto ever has. CAT scans, MRI scans, EKG scans, poking and prodding and /Christ/. If I never see another doc again this side of the grave--"
Sean jumps in, "Then it'll be ten minutes too late/" His frown deepens; a cleft now fully formed between brows. "Which one shot you?" he asks, probingly. His feet carry him; stalking softly; pacing. Up and along; a turn on a heel.
Chris lifts his head to fist it, arm braced into the sofa's support. "Jean says it was probably Mystique," he supplies, lazily unconcerned. "I just figured Mags had started batting for the other team. Bullets never struck me as his sort of thing."
"I've not seen Jean in too long," Sean admits, quietly and suddenly regretful. "Magneto turned gay? Here was me thinking you were the only one. Then again, you guys seem to get cosy an awful lot."
"He likes my ass," Rossi says, mild. Black lashes splice his gaze, dragging long black lattices across lichen-green. "Can't blame him for that. Can't say I'm too thrilled about his idea of courtship. Involves too many hospital visits."
"It's a control thing," Sean tells him, sagely. "Tie him up sometime, and he'll be your slave for life." A quick scan checks for children. "Apparently a lot of high-powered businessmen are into this forced-homosexuality thing. Bet he's the same."
Chris slides a hand across his eyes and shudders, a quiet chuckle roughening the dark baritone. "There're some images I could've done without, you asshole. Shut the fu-- /dammit/." He sinks down still further, long legs bracing against the coffee table's edge. "That's it. Lock the door. If I have to bite back one more word, my head'll explode."
Cassidy paces towards the door; then shuts it tight, twitching his staff key in the lock only a moment later. "There," says he, turning to the detective. "Feel free to vent."
Given invitation and opportunity, Rossi's tongue abruptly loses impetus. He takes up the bottle again and muzzles himself with it, draining it almost empty before rolling it aside on the slide of hands. "Don't know how you manage hanging around kids all day."
The Irishman falls back; shoulders thudding against the door as he relaxes in place. "Kids don't bring me to the same levels of profanity as you do." His own bottle snakes its way to his lips, jerked up for a swig. "You're a pro."
"You never had a student like me," Chris decides, grinning easy, shallow amusement to himself. He stretches an arm across the back of the sofa, claiming more space so he can look down its length at Cassidy. "I made /nuns/ swear. You got an easy life, Sean. Maybe you should go back to Interpol. Build some character."
"You offerin' to be my PD contact?" Sean asks, with his tongue slipping out from between teeth; which sink into it for a moment. Teeth release. "In fact-- reckon you can hold your tongue for an hour; maybe two?"
"You going to confess to something criminal?" Rossi asks, the sine wave of his voice elongating to curiosity. "I can hold my tongue, as long as it's not causing any harm."
"No," Sean replies, simply, to the first question. "But I do need someone who can keep their mouth shut-- anyway. How'd you fancy giving a lesson?" He fails utterly not to smirk.
The black brows lift. "Lesson?"
"The public services," replies the brogue. Blue eyes glint.
"The publi-- the hell?" Confusion strips the accent spare. "What're you going on about?"
"Give a talk, Chris," Sean says, beaming a smile. "Talk to the kids about the cops, the fire service, whatever. I mean, you did a good enough job on Alyssa."
For a long moment the direct, pale gaze meets Sean's, blank with surprise. Then: "Forget it." Chris stirs, and glances away. "Screw /that/. Talk to kids, my ass. Why the fuck you would think /that'd/ be a good idea--"
"Stir the bright flame of public service in the hearts of the youth," Sean tells him, with a probe attached firmly to his tone. "Rossi. You're -good- at talking to people. The kids'd love you, and you know it."
"They can't possibly be that stupid, even if they are mutants," Rossi says rudely. "'Bright flame of public service.' That's a crock of shit, and you know it. You seriously think I'd recommend anybody get into this line of work?"
Cassidy's voice comes again. "Then why do you still do it?"
"Because -- fuck." The baritone wrenches raw. "What else am I going to do?"
Sharp and clear, blue eys are locked on. Sean homes in. "There's a -lot- else you could do, Rossi." He sets his jaw, and steps up from his lounging lean, pacing again. "But you don't. Same reason I want to go back. It's the Job."
Temper bites hot in Rossi's face, scoring across that expressive mien with white-tipped talons -- only to fade away again a half-second later. "So, shit. It's the Job. It sucks ass. You should be hoping for something better for your kids." He folds forwards, elbows on knees, arms loose between; the black head hangs, lowered in blank, unseeing study of the floor. "Accounting, or ... stockbroking, or something."
"You'd be surprised how many grow a sense of heroism after learning about us poodles," says Cassidy, levelly. "I want it exorcised." He regards the other man with frank appraisal. "You want a beer? Figure you'd make a crappy accountant. Maybe a decent pro-wrestler."
"So, what. You want me to talk to them about the bad shit?" A mute glance accepts the offer of the beer; Chris drains the last of his soda and leaves it, still dew-drenched, on the table. "I can do that. Show them scars, show them photographs: nightmares, I got. Then again, so do you. So /you/ do it."
"I'm the big softy," says Sean, shrugging. "I can't think of a way to do it subtly. How about repo-man? You could do that."
"It wouldn't be subtle. You want subtle, talk to -- fuck, I don't know." A hand gestures impatiently. "Talk to Lazzaro, maybe."
Cassidy shakes his head "I don't know him. Not properly. Damnit. Shouldn't have asked. Sorry."
The detective jerks his shoulders, scrubbing at his face with one broad-palmed hand. "No, it's fine. Fuck. /Fuck/. If you want me to convince them away from the job, I can do that. You'll regret it, though." His mouth twists, thinly. "So will they."
Sean purses his lips up into a grimace. "Subtle, Chris," warns he, level and frank. "Though-- what about trying to nudge them towards paramedics; ambulance crew. Or am I just being too protective? God, I hate this bit of the job."
"Bus crew gets shot at too," Rossi points out, folding his hands into a single fist to prop his chin on it. "Not like the FD runs away from the bad scene."
"Sweet lord, they don't, no," says Sean, fervent memory striking a flush across his cheeks as he rubs over an eye with a bunched fist. "So what -do- I try to tell them?"
Chris shakes his head slightly, mouth thinned over the uneven press of his chin. Eyes, shadowed and closing, splinter into bare threads of color. "Damned if I know. You're the teacher, not me. Send them to the shelters, maybe. Let them have a taste of the bad shit. A few nightmares never hurt anyone."
"The shelters," Sean echoes, at a murmur. "Bet they'd jump on the chance to go help down there. Now -that-, Rossi, is an idea." A wry smile twists his lips, as he slumps into a comfortable seat. "Somewhere gentler, to start, and build up the more excitable ones to something-- yeah."
"Could backfire." A swift, brittle shrug. "They see vics, get all gung ho about wanting to ride in like a fucking hero--"
"Point," mutters Cassidy. "Have to pick and choose which ones go where." A frown deepens over his brow; deepening the creases that are beginning to form by virtue of his age. "Why can't they be simpler, eh? Y'know, bet it's just my paranoia; think they all want to go poodle."
Chris's mouth curves a little, a smile that burrows behind the heavy-lidded gaze. "Can't imagine why they'd want to be like you guys. You wear cool uniforms when I'm not around? --They ever see the aftermaths? The bodies, the injuries, the casualties?"
"Leather," Sean replies, with a flashed grin. "Black leather." His smile drifts lopsided; towards another smirk, as arms fling out and rest over the top of his seat. "They don't think like that. They see the victory, not the battle, not the bloodshed. At least, I know I did when I was that age."
"You let them see it?"
"We don't tend to commit atrocities." Sean lifts a brow; disapproving. "They also have a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Went to my first funeral when I was six months old," Rossi recalls, baritone coasting through distraction and abstraction. "Then three, then five -- that was ... Uncle Seamus, I guess -- and six, and then one when I was ten. Thing with being born blue, you know what you're getting into when you decide on the job."
Cassidy doesn't answer for a long moment, simply nodding mute understanding. "Was it ever a decision? I just walked in; natural as speakin' like a leprechaun."
Chris shrugs, dragging the edge of his thumb along the line of his cheek and jaw, tracing the line of skull under skin. "You know Magneto," he diverts, abruptly.
"Met him, yes," Sean replies, only flickering up a brow for the change. "Why?"
"Just met him? Thought he used to teach at the school."
"Before my time around here," Sean says, shaking his head slowly, and scrunching eyes as the back of his neck meets the seat's lip. "I met him via other means."
Chris glances askance. "What happened?"
Wearily, Sean's head rises, and he regards the other man with a helpless expression. "Sabella Miller."
The cop tips his head back, curiosity still drawn across the hard face. Shadows smudge the pallid gaze, rimming the green with black and deeper blues. "Color me surprised. He had a thing for her, too? I'm guessing it didn't go so hot."
"Not in the end, no," Sean responds, closing his eyes. "Magneto tried to kill me, then eventually, I was the one to sell her out. Was trying to get in contact with Jean when she died. Nasty stuff."
"Nasty stuff," Chris says, and unspoken sympathy roughens his voice, just shy of outright expression. "She was coming in from the cold?"
"She was trying," Sean tells him. "I think. But-- some things are unforgivable, you know?"
The cop shoves resignation into his expression, sloping back again into the seat cushions. "Yeah. I know. Still-- I'm sorry, man."
Cassidy shakes his head, defiantly bringing his jaw to a proper setting. "Don't be," he says, "I did the right thing. Sucked, but it was right. How 'bout you. I spilled. How're you holding up?"
Rossi's gaze meets Cassidy's; the wall slams shut almost visibly behind the strong, sardonic face. "Just fine," he drags out, self-deprecating. "Water off a duck's back."
"Bullshit," Sean responds. "Do I have to beat it out of your sorry ass?" He pauses, with a faint frown. "Again."
"Gave you a black eye," Chris recalls with satisfaction, cracking the knuckles of his right hand in the palm of the left. "It looked good on you."
"Gave you a--" The frown reappears. "What -did- I give you?"
The cop looks quizzical. "Split my lip. Some bruises. Walked with a bit of a limp. Think you cracked a rib, too; had a hard time breathing for a couple of days."
"You also gave me a broken finger," Sean tells him, nodding a little. "Sorry-- I forget fights with meaningless wusses."
A laugh shivers across the younger man's baritone, warming its darker timbres. "Didn't know that. Served you right, asshole. Harry didn't let me back in for almost a week."
Sean breaks into a chuckle. "I've not tried going back, yet." He lets his eyes close again, and lounges properly, totally ignoring the gentle tap of small hands upon the door. "Should kick your ass again."
"Might want to reconsider. Magneto visits the bar from time to time, turns out. Ran into him there." Rossi scrapes his hand across his hair, rumpling black locks into a disordered nest.
"Wouldn't want to f-mess--" A glance to the door. "--with your boyfriend, would I?"
"It's locked," Rossi reminds, following Sean's glance. "He's going to kill me one of these days. I can't figure out why he hasn't done it yet."
"I don't even need to say anything."
Chris grins faintly at Sean. "That your natural Irish charm?"
"Nah. The charm's the one that makes me shag women you know," Sean returns, wry again.
The cop shrugs. "It happens. New York's pretty small. Don't tell me if you ever shagged Canto," he suggests, lifting his chin to Sean. "Some things I'd rather not know."
"Don't think I did," the Banshee ponders, lifting a hand to his chin. "Not my type. Media people scare me."
Chris shakes his head, his emptied bottled attracting his attention. He tips it with a forefinger, rolling it along the stretched letter of his hand. "Don't blame you. This is one of those instincts for self-preservation none of you poodles seem to have."
Mutters Cassidy, "We attract newpapers." He scowls at the scant remains of his own drink, before knocking it back and releasing the bottle to fall to the floor. Still ignoring the insistant tapping of little knuckles. "Least we don't attract international terrorists like a bitch on heat."
It is a cue for a smile. Chris makes none. The bottle rattles nobbly glass across the table, rumbling quiet thunder through battered wood. "He's going to kill me, one of these days," he says again, and looks blindly at his reflection in the television. "Wish he'd just ... fucking get it over with."
Sean simply shakes his head. "If he was going to, he would have. Quit with the fatalism. I prefer it when you're funny."
"You want funny, go look in the mirror," Rossi retorts, straightening with a bleak glance for the other man. Humor moves to cover it a half-second later, an easy aegis. "If you still want me to talk to your brats, I'll think about it. Have to be in the next couple of weeks, though."
"I look in the mirror when I want tripods," Sean quips back. "Subtle-- why?"
"LT's talking about lending me to another precinct," Chris says, tipping the bottle back to a standing position before duplicating the act himself. He stands, stretching a leg over the coffee table to head back to the open area. "Keep the G off my back for a bit. Maybe lose Pezhead while I'm at it."
"There goes my PD contact," Sean scowls, though he does perk to nod towards the other man. "Makes sense. I say go with it, if you want it."
The other man shrugs. "Only for a few weeks, tops. I'll still be PD. I'll give you my number," Rossi adds, pausing with a hand already on his discarded coat. Pale eyes glance up. "Otherwise, you can always talk to Beston. John'll give you a hand if you need it."
"Yeah," says Sean, obviously and entirely unconvinced. "I'd need-- shhhh-oot. We'll talk if I take it." He drains the remainder of his bottle, before flicking the opposite wrist; firing the staff key towards the other man. "You look after yourself, you hear me?"
Black swings around the broad shoulders, opening the sleeves for Chris's shrug into it. "Right back at you," Rossi says, wry. He snags the key out of its flight; a thrust and twist later, the door clicks open. "I'll see you later, Cassidy. Good luck with the Interpol thing."
"Yeah," Sean trails off, frowningly. "See you later, man."
A hand flips farewell, sketching a wave, and Chris prowls out. Time to go home.
[Log ends]
Yeah. Looked out the window just now and there they are, Starsky and Hutch, parked across the street like a pair of giant targets. They couldn't stick out more if their car was painted FBI. Not there to protect my ass, for damn sure. Snag Magneto? Fat lot of good they did last time.
More I think about this, the better this loan thing sounds. Beston's bitching and moaning about it, but he's already telling me stories about the guys he knows over there. He got the LT to agree to send him with me, if I go over for a few days. Damned if I know what they're planning on doing with our caseloads. If they make an arrest on the Gianni case while I'm at the 28th, that will seriously frost my cookies.
Cassidy's a good guy. More I hear about his days on the job, the more it sounds like he was a really good cop, too. But damn. Talking to kids? Most people try to keep their kids away from my mouth. He's either dumber than he looks, or desperate. He'll regret it. I'll regret it. The kids'll probably regret it.
Subtle. I can do subtle.
---
Xavier School Recreation Room
This, my friends, is a place for people to come and relax. Broad wide screen television in one area of the room with various other sofas and chairs around. Vivid walls of pale green and embossed gold wallpaper add a friendly air to this place. Tables, whether coffee or card, line the room, as well as an air-hockey table and fooze ball table for games. Closets support various items for fun, large bay windows give light to the room.
A wrist jerks, accompanied by a grunt from within a throat. Red haired flops across, as Sean throws heart and soul into an almighty thwack of the fooseball. The Irishman is casual; in jeans and a t-shirt, as he follows the journey of the white ball. "Come on!"
Small plastic men rush to the defense, rattling across metal to slam the heavy ball into the wall. Rossi spins a handle, sending the target skipping back towards the other end of the table. "How many hours a day do you spend /playing/ this shit?" he demands, rough voice edged with amusement. His own attire is likewise casual, long-sleeves and jeans for the weekend, boots and couch-tossed overcoat for the weather. "You're like a freaking kid."
"I -work- with children, you daft idiot," Sean returns, with a defiant jutting outof his jaw. He catches the ball on the back of a defender, and throws up a glance. "All men are children inside. How about you and your, uh, okay. Most men." The defender skips to the side, traversing the ball, before it is again launched towards Rossi's goal.
The goalie makes a hasty and noble attempt at defense, to no avail; the ball bounces off his own blunt feet, and slams its way home. "Yours," Chris grants, without heat. A finger flicks at the railed tally markers, before he digs into his side of the table to retrieve the ball. "What's that saying? Working with kids keeps you young inside, or something like that?"
A triumphantly shaken fist couples a little whoop of victory. "Gotcha," Sean says, with an oh-so humble smile. "Keeps me in touch with the knowledge of how to best remove spots, and how to hide pornography," Sean responds, easily. "But yeah. Kids keep me fairly energetic."
A forefinger cocks the ball into place, holding it against the launching cup. An eyebrow arcs. "Keeps you something, anyway," Chris drawls, mouth crooking. The ball snaps out, rumbling across the playing field; Rossi spins a handle's bar, taking haphazard advantage of the moment. "That all you've been up to lately? Playing babysitter?"
"Interpol asked for me back," Sean says, with a tiny little twitch of his shoulders; the sketch of a sneer ghosting over his lips. "Want me to work 'round here for 'em. 'Part from that, though. How've you been, anyway, boyo?"
A shoulder hitches. Chris frowns over the tabletop; distraction skips his attention towards the ball, and a wild swing of the bar that sends the ball careening back in his own -- oops -- direction. "The usual," he says, abrupt. "Interpol, huh? Doing a little poaching in our territory?"
"Not quite," Sean returns, with a slow grimace. "They're after a couple of things, I think. Neither of which I can talk about, 'less you get the right forms filled in. Reckon I should go with it?" An honest question, apparently, as the Irishman utterly ignores the table beneath him.
"You want to?" Rossi asks, making an amateur play for the goal before giving up altogether, hands flattening across the bars. The little pawns stop, in various angles of dignity or plastic jubilation. Chris glances up, pale eyes thoughtful. Opaque. "Miss it?"
"I can do it as well as this," shrugs Sean. "I'd need contacts round here, though. PD contacts." The blue eyes look up to the other man, and look directly upon the detective. "You know what it's like."
Chris leans across the handles, arms folding loosely, shoulders hunched. "You tell me," he says back, and drops his gaze to the table. "I've never worked for Interpol."
"I mean the job," Sean returns, slowly. "Coming back. Can't leave it."
"You left once before." The ball slowly comes to a limp stop against the table wall. Chris reaches in to claim it. "No reason you couldn't leave again."
"I got ditched before," says Sean. "They use guilt against you, you know? Fu-- Darn, Chris, I don't know. I could, I guess." Shrug. "You want a coke?"
Chris straightens slowly, a twinge nipping at the edges of his expression mid-rise. "Sure. --Worse than the goddamn Church. Nothing wrong in listening to what they got to say," he supposes, tossing the ball to let it hop across the table. "Go on board as an independent contractor. Pick and choose your cases."
Sean turns to head into the kitchen. "Then I'll listen," he says, nodding slowly but with a thread of uncertain restraint in his tone. "Reckon I can-- could. I'll have to check with Summers, mind." Then he's away and towards soft beverage.
"Then again, fu-- don't take my advice," Chris calls after Sean, winding his own way around the assortment of seats to drop into a couch's end. His brow drops into his hand, baritone subsiding to a mutter. "About as useful as a spaghetti noodle at a gun fight."
"Bull-- crap," Sean replies, good-naturedly, as he comes back in, wielding a pair of bottle of dark, fizzy liquid. "Wouldn't have asked, would I? Oh sh-sorry I could make it to the funeral. I-- yeah."
The other man straightens, extending an arm to accept his bottle. "Thanks. Don't worry about it. Not my funeral." Chris's mouth twists, skewed into macabre humor. "I'll expect you at mine. --It was just a funeral."
"Even so," Sean says, quietly. He pauses, before giving the other man a helpless look. "It's related-- but anyway. Your funeral, I'll be there. Might even sing a song for you."
"I'll schedule you in," Rossi says gravely, popping the top off his bottle with a practiced twist of hand. He flicks the cap to the coffee table, where it hiccups off a game controller before spinning to a noisy, dizzy stop. "Just ... no show tunes. At this rate, my death is going to need all the dignity I can get."
Sean wags a finger. "Top o' the bill, I hope." He cracks his own bottle with a practised jerk of his hand, then tosses it in the general direction of the table; of the other cap. "How are you on blues? I mena, you want everyone being nice and depressed, right? Mourning the passing of the almighty Rossi?"
"The whole shebang," Chris drawls, eyes half-masting over his slouch into the chair. He tips his bottle back to swallow a mouthful, throat working across the drink. "Six of my best friends at the casket, and dress blues, all around. My mom would be pissed, otherwise." Humor wavers for a second at the thought, mouth thinning to a grim line.
"Do I get a rifle?" Sean wonders, quietly. He nods to himself, threading the humour through his tone in a vague but obvious reassurance. "You're definitely the sort of guy in need of twenty one guns-- or inches."
A glance skims at Sean, wryly mocking. "That the best you can come up with? Like hell you get to a rifle at my funeral. When was the last time you handled one?" Chris tips the bottle again, half emptying it, and straightens. "Your guys out front don't like guns."
A shrug grips Sean's shoudlers; freezing at the top. "Guns're the same as some mutations, like that. Only if you give one to an idiot do they become dangerous." A sneer -- playful -- skips across his lips. "Last time I touched a firearm was-- christ. Alright. No guns for me. Can I at least buy a couple of clowns for the front entrance?"
"Don't like clowns," Rossi sighs, slouching a little further to rest his head on the back of the sofa. "Worse than mimes. Hate mimes. And balloons. Damn. Wonder how I feel about elephants and big tops? --So where do we bury you?"
"Space," Sean says, "or back home. Burn me-- hate the thought of maybe waking up in a coffin, you know?" He mocks a little shudder. "-I-, however, want dancing girls. And mimes. Just to follow you around."
Chris props the bottle on his thigh and closes his eyes, expression amused. "We can cremate them with you. The mimes, anyway. I'll keep the dancing girls."
"You like Irish dancers?" Sean wonders. "They do have swords, you know."
"Girls with weapons." Close-eyed still, Chris grins slightly. "That's hot. Magneto's got one. Tall, blonde, cold drink of water."
"Could be Ellen Dramstadt," Sean says, nodding slightly. "You should pull up her record. See -why- she's one of his. Then see if she's hot."
Pale eyes sliver open, skimming a brilliant, amused glance at the other man. "I met her. The Feds don't talk to you poodles? Old Pezhead has his monkey shoot me one day, and then has another monkey heal me the next. I'm obviously a member of the Brotherhood." Mockery skeins heavy and thick through the last, twitching the black brows together.
"She -healed- you?" Sean says, blinking surprise, then waxing towards business; frank and rapid in his brogue. "I didn't know -that-. What the-- why? Have you been checked out by a proper doctor since then?"
"Tests like you wouldn't believe," Rossi reassures, remembered annoyance skidding back into the Brooklyn-tamed voice. "Fu-- damn docs pulled more blood out of me than Magneto ever has. CAT scans, MRI scans, EKG scans, poking and prodding and /Christ/. If I never see another doc again this side of the grave--"
Sean jumps in, "Then it'll be ten minutes too late/" His frown deepens; a cleft now fully formed between brows. "Which one shot you?" he asks, probingly. His feet carry him; stalking softly; pacing. Up and along; a turn on a heel.
Chris lifts his head to fist it, arm braced into the sofa's support. "Jean says it was probably Mystique," he supplies, lazily unconcerned. "I just figured Mags had started batting for the other team. Bullets never struck me as his sort of thing."
"I've not seen Jean in too long," Sean admits, quietly and suddenly regretful. "Magneto turned gay? Here was me thinking you were the only one. Then again, you guys seem to get cosy an awful lot."
"He likes my ass," Rossi says, mild. Black lashes splice his gaze, dragging long black lattices across lichen-green. "Can't blame him for that. Can't say I'm too thrilled about his idea of courtship. Involves too many hospital visits."
"It's a control thing," Sean tells him, sagely. "Tie him up sometime, and he'll be your slave for life." A quick scan checks for children. "Apparently a lot of high-powered businessmen are into this forced-homosexuality thing. Bet he's the same."
Chris slides a hand across his eyes and shudders, a quiet chuckle roughening the dark baritone. "There're some images I could've done without, you asshole. Shut the fu-- /dammit/." He sinks down still further, long legs bracing against the coffee table's edge. "That's it. Lock the door. If I have to bite back one more word, my head'll explode."
Cassidy paces towards the door; then shuts it tight, twitching his staff key in the lock only a moment later. "There," says he, turning to the detective. "Feel free to vent."
Given invitation and opportunity, Rossi's tongue abruptly loses impetus. He takes up the bottle again and muzzles himself with it, draining it almost empty before rolling it aside on the slide of hands. "Don't know how you manage hanging around kids all day."
The Irishman falls back; shoulders thudding against the door as he relaxes in place. "Kids don't bring me to the same levels of profanity as you do." His own bottle snakes its way to his lips, jerked up for a swig. "You're a pro."
"You never had a student like me," Chris decides, grinning easy, shallow amusement to himself. He stretches an arm across the back of the sofa, claiming more space so he can look down its length at Cassidy. "I made /nuns/ swear. You got an easy life, Sean. Maybe you should go back to Interpol. Build some character."
"You offerin' to be my PD contact?" Sean asks, with his tongue slipping out from between teeth; which sink into it for a moment. Teeth release. "In fact-- reckon you can hold your tongue for an hour; maybe two?"
"You going to confess to something criminal?" Rossi asks, the sine wave of his voice elongating to curiosity. "I can hold my tongue, as long as it's not causing any harm."
"No," Sean replies, simply, to the first question. "But I do need someone who can keep their mouth shut-- anyway. How'd you fancy giving a lesson?" He fails utterly not to smirk.
The black brows lift. "Lesson?"
"The public services," replies the brogue. Blue eyes glint.
"The publi-- the hell?" Confusion strips the accent spare. "What're you going on about?"
"Give a talk, Chris," Sean says, beaming a smile. "Talk to the kids about the cops, the fire service, whatever. I mean, you did a good enough job on Alyssa."
For a long moment the direct, pale gaze meets Sean's, blank with surprise. Then: "Forget it." Chris stirs, and glances away. "Screw /that/. Talk to kids, my ass. Why the fuck you would think /that'd/ be a good idea--"
"Stir the bright flame of public service in the hearts of the youth," Sean tells him, with a probe attached firmly to his tone. "Rossi. You're -good- at talking to people. The kids'd love you, and you know it."
"They can't possibly be that stupid, even if they are mutants," Rossi says rudely. "'Bright flame of public service.' That's a crock of shit, and you know it. You seriously think I'd recommend anybody get into this line of work?"
Cassidy's voice comes again. "Then why do you still do it?"
"Because -- fuck." The baritone wrenches raw. "What else am I going to do?"
Sharp and clear, blue eys are locked on. Sean homes in. "There's a -lot- else you could do, Rossi." He sets his jaw, and steps up from his lounging lean, pacing again. "But you don't. Same reason I want to go back. It's the Job."
Temper bites hot in Rossi's face, scoring across that expressive mien with white-tipped talons -- only to fade away again a half-second later. "So, shit. It's the Job. It sucks ass. You should be hoping for something better for your kids." He folds forwards, elbows on knees, arms loose between; the black head hangs, lowered in blank, unseeing study of the floor. "Accounting, or ... stockbroking, or something."
"You'd be surprised how many grow a sense of heroism after learning about us poodles," says Cassidy, levelly. "I want it exorcised." He regards the other man with frank appraisal. "You want a beer? Figure you'd make a crappy accountant. Maybe a decent pro-wrestler."
"So, what. You want me to talk to them about the bad shit?" A mute glance accepts the offer of the beer; Chris drains the last of his soda and leaves it, still dew-drenched, on the table. "I can do that. Show them scars, show them photographs: nightmares, I got. Then again, so do you. So /you/ do it."
"I'm the big softy," says Sean, shrugging. "I can't think of a way to do it subtly. How about repo-man? You could do that."
"It wouldn't be subtle. You want subtle, talk to -- fuck, I don't know." A hand gestures impatiently. "Talk to Lazzaro, maybe."
Cassidy shakes his head "I don't know him. Not properly. Damnit. Shouldn't have asked. Sorry."
The detective jerks his shoulders, scrubbing at his face with one broad-palmed hand. "No, it's fine. Fuck. /Fuck/. If you want me to convince them away from the job, I can do that. You'll regret it, though." His mouth twists, thinly. "So will they."
Sean purses his lips up into a grimace. "Subtle, Chris," warns he, level and frank. "Though-- what about trying to nudge them towards paramedics; ambulance crew. Or am I just being too protective? God, I hate this bit of the job."
"Bus crew gets shot at too," Rossi points out, folding his hands into a single fist to prop his chin on it. "Not like the FD runs away from the bad scene."
"Sweet lord, they don't, no," says Sean, fervent memory striking a flush across his cheeks as he rubs over an eye with a bunched fist. "So what -do- I try to tell them?"
Chris shakes his head slightly, mouth thinned over the uneven press of his chin. Eyes, shadowed and closing, splinter into bare threads of color. "Damned if I know. You're the teacher, not me. Send them to the shelters, maybe. Let them have a taste of the bad shit. A few nightmares never hurt anyone."
"The shelters," Sean echoes, at a murmur. "Bet they'd jump on the chance to go help down there. Now -that-, Rossi, is an idea." A wry smile twists his lips, as he slumps into a comfortable seat. "Somewhere gentler, to start, and build up the more excitable ones to something-- yeah."
"Could backfire." A swift, brittle shrug. "They see vics, get all gung ho about wanting to ride in like a fucking hero--"
"Point," mutters Cassidy. "Have to pick and choose which ones go where." A frown deepens over his brow; deepening the creases that are beginning to form by virtue of his age. "Why can't they be simpler, eh? Y'know, bet it's just my paranoia; think they all want to go poodle."
Chris's mouth curves a little, a smile that burrows behind the heavy-lidded gaze. "Can't imagine why they'd want to be like you guys. You wear cool uniforms when I'm not around? --They ever see the aftermaths? The bodies, the injuries, the casualties?"
"Leather," Sean replies, with a flashed grin. "Black leather." His smile drifts lopsided; towards another smirk, as arms fling out and rest over the top of his seat. "They don't think like that. They see the victory, not the battle, not the bloodshed. At least, I know I did when I was that age."
"You let them see it?"
"We don't tend to commit atrocities." Sean lifts a brow; disapproving. "They also have a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Went to my first funeral when I was six months old," Rossi recalls, baritone coasting through distraction and abstraction. "Then three, then five -- that was ... Uncle Seamus, I guess -- and six, and then one when I was ten. Thing with being born blue, you know what you're getting into when you decide on the job."
Cassidy doesn't answer for a long moment, simply nodding mute understanding. "Was it ever a decision? I just walked in; natural as speakin' like a leprechaun."
Chris shrugs, dragging the edge of his thumb along the line of his cheek and jaw, tracing the line of skull under skin. "You know Magneto," he diverts, abruptly.
"Met him, yes," Sean replies, only flickering up a brow for the change. "Why?"
"Just met him? Thought he used to teach at the school."
"Before my time around here," Sean says, shaking his head slowly, and scrunching eyes as the back of his neck meets the seat's lip. "I met him via other means."
Chris glances askance. "What happened?"
Wearily, Sean's head rises, and he regards the other man with a helpless expression. "Sabella Miller."
The cop tips his head back, curiosity still drawn across the hard face. Shadows smudge the pallid gaze, rimming the green with black and deeper blues. "Color me surprised. He had a thing for her, too? I'm guessing it didn't go so hot."
"Not in the end, no," Sean responds, closing his eyes. "Magneto tried to kill me, then eventually, I was the one to sell her out. Was trying to get in contact with Jean when she died. Nasty stuff."
"Nasty stuff," Chris says, and unspoken sympathy roughens his voice, just shy of outright expression. "She was coming in from the cold?"
"She was trying," Sean tells him. "I think. But-- some things are unforgivable, you know?"
The cop shoves resignation into his expression, sloping back again into the seat cushions. "Yeah. I know. Still-- I'm sorry, man."
Cassidy shakes his head, defiantly bringing his jaw to a proper setting. "Don't be," he says, "I did the right thing. Sucked, but it was right. How 'bout you. I spilled. How're you holding up?"
Rossi's gaze meets Cassidy's; the wall slams shut almost visibly behind the strong, sardonic face. "Just fine," he drags out, self-deprecating. "Water off a duck's back."
"Bullshit," Sean responds. "Do I have to beat it out of your sorry ass?" He pauses, with a faint frown. "Again."
"Gave you a black eye," Chris recalls with satisfaction, cracking the knuckles of his right hand in the palm of the left. "It looked good on you."
"Gave you a--" The frown reappears. "What -did- I give you?"
The cop looks quizzical. "Split my lip. Some bruises. Walked with a bit of a limp. Think you cracked a rib, too; had a hard time breathing for a couple of days."
"You also gave me a broken finger," Sean tells him, nodding a little. "Sorry-- I forget fights with meaningless wusses."
A laugh shivers across the younger man's baritone, warming its darker timbres. "Didn't know that. Served you right, asshole. Harry didn't let me back in for almost a week."
Sean breaks into a chuckle. "I've not tried going back, yet." He lets his eyes close again, and lounges properly, totally ignoring the gentle tap of small hands upon the door. "Should kick your ass again."
"Might want to reconsider. Magneto visits the bar from time to time, turns out. Ran into him there." Rossi scrapes his hand across his hair, rumpling black locks into a disordered nest.
"Wouldn't want to f-mess--" A glance to the door. "--with your boyfriend, would I?"
"It's locked," Rossi reminds, following Sean's glance. "He's going to kill me one of these days. I can't figure out why he hasn't done it yet."
"I don't even need to say anything."
Chris grins faintly at Sean. "That your natural Irish charm?"
"Nah. The charm's the one that makes me shag women you know," Sean returns, wry again.
The cop shrugs. "It happens. New York's pretty small. Don't tell me if you ever shagged Canto," he suggests, lifting his chin to Sean. "Some things I'd rather not know."
"Don't think I did," the Banshee ponders, lifting a hand to his chin. "Not my type. Media people scare me."
Chris shakes his head, his emptied bottled attracting his attention. He tips it with a forefinger, rolling it along the stretched letter of his hand. "Don't blame you. This is one of those instincts for self-preservation none of you poodles seem to have."
Mutters Cassidy, "We attract newpapers." He scowls at the scant remains of his own drink, before knocking it back and releasing the bottle to fall to the floor. Still ignoring the insistant tapping of little knuckles. "Least we don't attract international terrorists like a bitch on heat."
It is a cue for a smile. Chris makes none. The bottle rattles nobbly glass across the table, rumbling quiet thunder through battered wood. "He's going to kill me, one of these days," he says again, and looks blindly at his reflection in the television. "Wish he'd just ... fucking get it over with."
Sean simply shakes his head. "If he was going to, he would have. Quit with the fatalism. I prefer it when you're funny."
"You want funny, go look in the mirror," Rossi retorts, straightening with a bleak glance for the other man. Humor moves to cover it a half-second later, an easy aegis. "If you still want me to talk to your brats, I'll think about it. Have to be in the next couple of weeks, though."
"I look in the mirror when I want tripods," Sean quips back. "Subtle-- why?"
"LT's talking about lending me to another precinct," Chris says, tipping the bottle back to a standing position before duplicating the act himself. He stands, stretching a leg over the coffee table to head back to the open area. "Keep the G off my back for a bit. Maybe lose Pezhead while I'm at it."
"There goes my PD contact," Sean scowls, though he does perk to nod towards the other man. "Makes sense. I say go with it, if you want it."
The other man shrugs. "Only for a few weeks, tops. I'll still be PD. I'll give you my number," Rossi adds, pausing with a hand already on his discarded coat. Pale eyes glance up. "Otherwise, you can always talk to Beston. John'll give you a hand if you need it."
"Yeah," says Sean, obviously and entirely unconvinced. "I'd need-- shhhh-oot. We'll talk if I take it." He drains the remainder of his bottle, before flicking the opposite wrist; firing the staff key towards the other man. "You look after yourself, you hear me?"
Black swings around the broad shoulders, opening the sleeves for Chris's shrug into it. "Right back at you," Rossi says, wry. He snags the key out of its flight; a thrust and twist later, the door clicks open. "I'll see you later, Cassidy. Good luck with the Interpol thing."
"Yeah," Sean trails off, frowningly. "See you later, man."
A hand flips farewell, sketching a wave, and Chris prowls out. Time to go home.
[Log ends]