(no subject)
Got called in on the 28th briefing after all, and it wasn't quite what Kessler said. No surprise there. Cooperation's only good up to the collar, and a church arsonist can be a big one. Not related as much as the FD thought. Common ground's still mutants, but they're working a link that looks like it's hooking up through a church in Harlem. Mutant Affairs is lending contacts, no bodies. No positive ID on mutant activity. Baptist church had a guest preacher who gave an anti-mutant sermon, but he got kicked out.
Captain's starting to get into it with the Feds. Poor assholes. Threw them out of her office. Showdown between the government and the Cap, I'll back her every time.
Still dogging me. I can wait them out.
---
While the weather outside is, on the whole, ghastly, it seems just about the most interesting thing for the young woman sitting at the corner table to stare at. The large paned windows streaked in the snow-turn-sleet, Rachel still stares blankly out of them with a small bottle of Malibu in hand as if she can see something through the blur other than the indistinct outlines of a few people still out there making for cover.
One outline coalesces into solidity, pressing through the wet and whipped cold to slam through the cafe's entrance. Wind howls in with him, rousing napkins and stranded newspapers to agitated salute before it dies away, cut off by the door's closing bang. The newest patron brushes at his hair, gloved hand flicking water off rumpled black; pale eyes glance indifference around the cafe, hard over the raptor nose and secretive, sensual mouth. New York presents Det. Rossi again. What a small city she is.
Rachel barely looks up as she takes another sip, just raising a hand to flatten her own hair back down at the wind, until she realizes who it is. The rude cop!. Great. Turning to face him properly, she offers him a slight smile turn smirk at how soaked he is, "Hey. Feel like a walk?".
A swift look aside marks the speaker, green eyes darkened by the stitch of black brows. The line at the counter is nonexistent; Rossi's baritone pitches in a Brooklyn-scored order across it -- regular coffee, hand me one of those ... yeah, thanks -- before tossing lazy recognition at Rachel. "You're the kid from the Kitchen."
Rachel nods in response, "Mmhm, hopefully looking less like what I was mistaken for now I'm in the right part of town?" she answers playfully, the rotten weather not getting her down like most even if she does seem extremely tired. "Thank you again for that subway card, though." she adds with a smile, indicating the empty seat across from her (despite the distinct lack of much else /but/ empty seats) with the neck of her bottle, "If you'd care to join me instead of sitting alone like I have for the past half an hour? I can assure you, even watching people outside get soaked can grow quite boring after a while." she offers with a grin.
The cop considers Rachel for a moment, expressionless, while the barista behind the counter gathers together his order. Finally, he shrugs. Coffee in one gloved hand, a bagel in the other, he prowls to join Rachel at her table. "Why not?" he says, resigned. "Not every day I get invited to sit with jailbait."
Rachel raises an eyebrow, taking a sip from the half-full (Should you look at it from an optimist point of view) bottle in her hand, "Jail bait?" she enquires, the grin not so pronounced as she drinks but just as visible in her eyes as before. "What, exactly, do you mean by that?".
"How old are you?" Rossi asks, stretching himself into the offered chair. Tired physicality uncurls with him, claiming territory with all the automatic arrogance of his type. Through the escaping lace of steam, masculinity inspects the girl -- weighs, catalogues, considers, judges -- with easy experience before the hooded gaze drifts away. "You don't got that where you come from? Jailbait. Bait that'll land you in jail."
Rachel looks to him incredulously, "I'm eighteen, actually, and closer nineteen at that." she replies, placing the drink down. Probably best she /doesn't/ get drunk and just enforce any opinion he may have of her. "Isn't that somewhat contradictory to the assumption you made before, anyway?" she continues, tone perhaps not as offended as she has the right to be.
One brow slashes up, and Rossi's mouth twists in a crooked ghost of a smile. "Not so'd you'd notice. --So you're legal, if barely. What's your name?" He sinks back into his chair, an arm resting on the chair's back to fist the hollow of temple. Damp still streaks his hair; small drops of it shiver onto his coat lapel at the movement.
Rachel smirks slightly before replying, "Rachel, usually." and laughing lightly, "Rachel Knight. And just because I'm legal it doesn't mean I exercise the right, let alone abuse it." she answers and leans back more comfortably in her own chair, hardly having noticed how she'd brought herself back to attention at his entrance. After a short pause, she moves to change the subject- blushing a little, "You know they made a lot of coats with hoods for a reason.".
"You're not my type," Rossi reassures with a glint of sardonic humor. "Don't worry. --So my hair gets a little wet. Who gives a shit? The city gets worse, and my coats get trashed." A shoulder lifts in a lopsided shrug, indifference flattening the deep baritone voice; he claims his coffee and tests it, attention skipping towards the window. "You're from, what. England? You should know crappy weather."
Rachel laughs, taking the bottle up again to hold it mid-way towards her mouth, "You'd be surprised, it's not as bad back there as you all seem to think." she replies with a shrug of her own, her smile turning back into the full fledged grin she seems to rarely be without in some degree, "And you know I'm not your type from what, an hour's talking maximum?" she ventures- eyebrow lifting again while her laid back demeanor otherwise does near enough to kill any suggestiveness inherent in the gesture.
The free hand gestures, still clad in black leather. "From your birthday," Rossi articulates, before stripping the glove off. The bared fingers are strong and callused, showing the stripes and scars of his profession against the tanned skin. "You're a little young for my taste."
"I get that a lot. Though you're right, you are a bit old." she retorts with a semi-wink, not quite enough for you to be certain she did.
The answering smile is quicksilver and cynical, though it does something to ease the harsh lines of face and jaw. "Point," Rossi says. Amusement coasts under the baritone, warming it slightly. "So what are you. Student? Tourist?"
Rachel smiles back, bottle touching her lips as she tips up barely enough for a taste- a staler perhaps, "Just a commuter I guess. A chance to 'start anew' and all that?" she eventually says, eyes lifting to his at the end with the smile. "But that was only a fortnight ago, before that I was a student." she adds as if worried he'd get the wrong idea of her.
"What happened? Change your mind?" Rossi shreds his bagel, scattering crumbs across the plate; he wrenches off a piece for consumption, chasing it with a swallow of coffee before tipping his gaze elsewhere: new patrons, with the inevitable draft.
"About?" she asks, then going on to explain the most likely meaning, "Being a student was all well and good, I still would be but there was just some other stuff too." in as uninterested a tone as she can. Not worth a lie, but not also something she'd want focussed on. "All I know of you is that you're a cop, carry a gun, hang around the less savory parts of town and like to accuse girls of being hookers when they approach you in such a place." she remarks with a slight grin, "So what else is there that /you/ do?".
Distraction has Rossi's attention pinned away: the two new men, overcoat-clad and still hunched against the wind, brush themselves dry. "Fucking-- Homicide," the cop lobs back to Rachel, the word terse and succinct. Shoulders stiffen into errant hostility. He refocuses on her, jaw set. "I'm a detective in Homicide. And Mutant Affairs, over at the one-nine. Chris Rossi."
Rachel's eyes travel over to the new comers also but snap back to Rossi at the description of his job- something she quickly follows through to hide with a look to her drink instead. "Ah." she replies, doing a very mediocre job of not seeming all that bothered by it. "Well I guess that's more interesting than secretary work, hmm?" she continues as an afterthought and an attempt not to appear awkward. Thank god for the lack of light today, at least.
"/Interesting/," the detective echoes back, ripping the word in two. "That's one way to put it. --Wave to the nice FBI men," he invites in a darkly brilliant voice. Rossi settles his back into the window and lifts a happily mocking hand to the latest patrons. The two men glance at the table, frown, and move away.
Rachel looks a little nervously to the two again and does all she can to appear at ease- most certainly not laid back in her chair anymore. "Have I walked into some sort of cop-cantina?" she asks with as playful a smile as she can muster, her voice hushed compared to before.
The cop slouches in his seat, head lolling back to bare the clean line of throat. Against the overcoat's black, the paler colors of green shirt and brown tie warm the dark skin. "We come as a matched set," he explains, lashes fanning across the sliver of his gaze. "They follow me around. Everyone needs his own FBI goons. You don't have some of your very own?"
"Whatever happened to relying on your own ability to handle yourself?" she asks, grinning slightly and then shrugging, "I did have some at one point, but I've found since then that a protective flat-mate works /much/ better.".
Irritation snaps behind the stained-glass gaze, twisting the cop's mouth askew. "Ask the Feds," Rossi says, briefly. "They just can't stand not being part of the fun and games. --Flat-mate? Oh. Right. Brit talk for roommate."
Rachel nods with a smirk, "Mmhm, and I blame any bad American habits I may pick up solely on his influence." she remarks, looking out of the corner of her eye to the other two a moment and then back to him, "So if you stand out in the rain, they will too?...If I were you and, as such, didn't care about the rain I'd find a really big open space an see if they would." she speculates with another simper.
"Suicidal," Rossi says with cryptic exasperation, and then looks simply and purely amused. An elbow props on the table; he props his head on his hand, canting a glance across it at Rachel. "You got the distinction of sitting with a person of interest. They're on me like white on rice. Don't suppose you got anything illegal you want to sell me? Just to keep things interesting."
Rachel shakes her head with a soft laugh, "Not on me, no. Unless the rules have changed for us 'getting along fine' since you set them in the kitchen?" she replies with another semi-wink, the rest of the time just grinning playfully, "But even then there'd still be the problem of you using the words 'want to' right now.".
"Rules don't change," Det. Rossi allows, watching with disinterested annoyance as the agents buy coffee and claim a table, just within earshot. "You interested in joining the Brotherhood? They give me a free toaster if I recruit five people."
Rachel laughs again, "Oh most certainly! After the last few rampages, working solo has started to get a little same-y. So long as you share the toaster." she responds, taking a veritable gulp of her now rapidly emptying bottle and then turning the label to face him and pointing to it- perhaps a /little/ tipsy after all but certainly not anywhere near as bad as the jazz club. "Have you ever seen or tried this before?" she asks.
The man glances at the label and shrugs. "Not a rum drinker," he says briefly. "More of a whiskey or scotch -- or beer guy, really. Coconut rum's a little fru-fru for me. Bit early in the day, isn't it?" He studies the young woman quizzically, professional attention waking behind the deceptive indifference.
"When you live with a flatmate like mine you fast get the impression that there /is/ no 'too early'." Rachel answers, followed by another swig. "I guess it /is/ what Dorian'd call a 'chick drink', but it's still really nice. You should try some." she tells him in all seriousness.
The free hand lifts in passing refusal. "No, thanks. Appreciate the thought. --Your roommate's a lush?" Rossi asks, curious.
"A what?... Why would he be that, whatever it is?" she inquires, cocking her head curiously and then draining what's left in the bottle, a good 1/8th or so. At least the rain's abated somewhat so she /can/ leave if it gets awkward again...
"A lush," Rossi repeats patiently, and follows the word up with a hand gesture: the universal sign for an alcoholic, mimed bottle tipped up to the waiting mouth. "A drunk. Don't know what you guys call it over the pond."
"Oh!" she shakes her head, tipping the nigh-on empty bottle up just to make sure there's none left so she can put it down for good, "No. Well... either he isn't actually /drunk/ all the time or he can act sober a LOT better than I can." she explains with a smirk and from the looks of it a bit of effort put into not giggling after. "He might be back from lectures soon, though, so I should maybe get back soon." she finishes, a lot more serious again.
Rossi reexamines Rachel with a slow, lazy gaze; the hint of a smile slides behind the eyes, slightly relaxing the clinical attention. "You sure you're sober enough to make it back on your own?"
Rachel frowns at him, "I really look that far gone? So long as I can figure out the number on the lift dial it's a pretty straight route back." she answers, winking mischievously and turning enough to necessitate that she steadies her bottle again after jogging the table, "Unless you're offering me some company back?".
Det. Rossi grins at that, unadulterated amusement youthening the saturnine face. For a moment, physicality uncurls again to consider the girl, green eyes kindling: masculine, appreciative, /aware/. "That an invitation? --Sorry, kid," he adds cheerfully, that hint of heat shut down without a blink. "You're still too young for me."
Rachel pauses, curious, at that before getting up and blushing brightly- having to reach out and stop the bottle mid-fall again as she tucks in her chair. "Sorry... See you sometime soon, no doubt?" she asks even as she backs a strangely winding path felt between the tables towards the door.
Left behind, Det. Rossi hooks his mouth into a half-born smile, shaking his head, and lapses into silence. Coffee. Bagel. FBI. There are worse ways to spend a Monday afternoon.
[Log ends]
Captain's starting to get into it with the Feds. Poor assholes. Threw them out of her office. Showdown between the government and the Cap, I'll back her every time.
Still dogging me. I can wait them out.
---
While the weather outside is, on the whole, ghastly, it seems just about the most interesting thing for the young woman sitting at the corner table to stare at. The large paned windows streaked in the snow-turn-sleet, Rachel still stares blankly out of them with a small bottle of Malibu in hand as if she can see something through the blur other than the indistinct outlines of a few people still out there making for cover.
One outline coalesces into solidity, pressing through the wet and whipped cold to slam through the cafe's entrance. Wind howls in with him, rousing napkins and stranded newspapers to agitated salute before it dies away, cut off by the door's closing bang. The newest patron brushes at his hair, gloved hand flicking water off rumpled black; pale eyes glance indifference around the cafe, hard over the raptor nose and secretive, sensual mouth. New York presents Det. Rossi again. What a small city she is.
Rachel barely looks up as she takes another sip, just raising a hand to flatten her own hair back down at the wind, until she realizes who it is. The rude cop!. Great. Turning to face him properly, she offers him a slight smile turn smirk at how soaked he is, "Hey. Feel like a walk?".
A swift look aside marks the speaker, green eyes darkened by the stitch of black brows. The line at the counter is nonexistent; Rossi's baritone pitches in a Brooklyn-scored order across it -- regular coffee, hand me one of those ... yeah, thanks -- before tossing lazy recognition at Rachel. "You're the kid from the Kitchen."
Rachel nods in response, "Mmhm, hopefully looking less like what I was mistaken for now I'm in the right part of town?" she answers playfully, the rotten weather not getting her down like most even if she does seem extremely tired. "Thank you again for that subway card, though." she adds with a smile, indicating the empty seat across from her (despite the distinct lack of much else /but/ empty seats) with the neck of her bottle, "If you'd care to join me instead of sitting alone like I have for the past half an hour? I can assure you, even watching people outside get soaked can grow quite boring after a while." she offers with a grin.
The cop considers Rachel for a moment, expressionless, while the barista behind the counter gathers together his order. Finally, he shrugs. Coffee in one gloved hand, a bagel in the other, he prowls to join Rachel at her table. "Why not?" he says, resigned. "Not every day I get invited to sit with jailbait."
Rachel raises an eyebrow, taking a sip from the half-full (Should you look at it from an optimist point of view) bottle in her hand, "Jail bait?" she enquires, the grin not so pronounced as she drinks but just as visible in her eyes as before. "What, exactly, do you mean by that?".
"How old are you?" Rossi asks, stretching himself into the offered chair. Tired physicality uncurls with him, claiming territory with all the automatic arrogance of his type. Through the escaping lace of steam, masculinity inspects the girl -- weighs, catalogues, considers, judges -- with easy experience before the hooded gaze drifts away. "You don't got that where you come from? Jailbait. Bait that'll land you in jail."
Rachel looks to him incredulously, "I'm eighteen, actually, and closer nineteen at that." she replies, placing the drink down. Probably best she /doesn't/ get drunk and just enforce any opinion he may have of her. "Isn't that somewhat contradictory to the assumption you made before, anyway?" she continues, tone perhaps not as offended as she has the right to be.
One brow slashes up, and Rossi's mouth twists in a crooked ghost of a smile. "Not so'd you'd notice. --So you're legal, if barely. What's your name?" He sinks back into his chair, an arm resting on the chair's back to fist the hollow of temple. Damp still streaks his hair; small drops of it shiver onto his coat lapel at the movement.
Rachel smirks slightly before replying, "Rachel, usually." and laughing lightly, "Rachel Knight. And just because I'm legal it doesn't mean I exercise the right, let alone abuse it." she answers and leans back more comfortably in her own chair, hardly having noticed how she'd brought herself back to attention at his entrance. After a short pause, she moves to change the subject- blushing a little, "You know they made a lot of coats with hoods for a reason.".
"You're not my type," Rossi reassures with a glint of sardonic humor. "Don't worry. --So my hair gets a little wet. Who gives a shit? The city gets worse, and my coats get trashed." A shoulder lifts in a lopsided shrug, indifference flattening the deep baritone voice; he claims his coffee and tests it, attention skipping towards the window. "You're from, what. England? You should know crappy weather."
Rachel laughs, taking the bottle up again to hold it mid-way towards her mouth, "You'd be surprised, it's not as bad back there as you all seem to think." she replies with a shrug of her own, her smile turning back into the full fledged grin she seems to rarely be without in some degree, "And you know I'm not your type from what, an hour's talking maximum?" she ventures- eyebrow lifting again while her laid back demeanor otherwise does near enough to kill any suggestiveness inherent in the gesture.
The free hand gestures, still clad in black leather. "From your birthday," Rossi articulates, before stripping the glove off. The bared fingers are strong and callused, showing the stripes and scars of his profession against the tanned skin. "You're a little young for my taste."
"I get that a lot. Though you're right, you are a bit old." she retorts with a semi-wink, not quite enough for you to be certain she did.
The answering smile is quicksilver and cynical, though it does something to ease the harsh lines of face and jaw. "Point," Rossi says. Amusement coasts under the baritone, warming it slightly. "So what are you. Student? Tourist?"
Rachel smiles back, bottle touching her lips as she tips up barely enough for a taste- a staler perhaps, "Just a commuter I guess. A chance to 'start anew' and all that?" she eventually says, eyes lifting to his at the end with the smile. "But that was only a fortnight ago, before that I was a student." she adds as if worried he'd get the wrong idea of her.
"What happened? Change your mind?" Rossi shreds his bagel, scattering crumbs across the plate; he wrenches off a piece for consumption, chasing it with a swallow of coffee before tipping his gaze elsewhere: new patrons, with the inevitable draft.
"About?" she asks, then going on to explain the most likely meaning, "Being a student was all well and good, I still would be but there was just some other stuff too." in as uninterested a tone as she can. Not worth a lie, but not also something she'd want focussed on. "All I know of you is that you're a cop, carry a gun, hang around the less savory parts of town and like to accuse girls of being hookers when they approach you in such a place." she remarks with a slight grin, "So what else is there that /you/ do?".
Distraction has Rossi's attention pinned away: the two new men, overcoat-clad and still hunched against the wind, brush themselves dry. "Fucking-- Homicide," the cop lobs back to Rachel, the word terse and succinct. Shoulders stiffen into errant hostility. He refocuses on her, jaw set. "I'm a detective in Homicide. And Mutant Affairs, over at the one-nine. Chris Rossi."
Rachel's eyes travel over to the new comers also but snap back to Rossi at the description of his job- something she quickly follows through to hide with a look to her drink instead. "Ah." she replies, doing a very mediocre job of not seeming all that bothered by it. "Well I guess that's more interesting than secretary work, hmm?" she continues as an afterthought and an attempt not to appear awkward. Thank god for the lack of light today, at least.
"/Interesting/," the detective echoes back, ripping the word in two. "That's one way to put it. --Wave to the nice FBI men," he invites in a darkly brilliant voice. Rossi settles his back into the window and lifts a happily mocking hand to the latest patrons. The two men glance at the table, frown, and move away.
Rachel looks a little nervously to the two again and does all she can to appear at ease- most certainly not laid back in her chair anymore. "Have I walked into some sort of cop-cantina?" she asks with as playful a smile as she can muster, her voice hushed compared to before.
The cop slouches in his seat, head lolling back to bare the clean line of throat. Against the overcoat's black, the paler colors of green shirt and brown tie warm the dark skin. "We come as a matched set," he explains, lashes fanning across the sliver of his gaze. "They follow me around. Everyone needs his own FBI goons. You don't have some of your very own?"
"Whatever happened to relying on your own ability to handle yourself?" she asks, grinning slightly and then shrugging, "I did have some at one point, but I've found since then that a protective flat-mate works /much/ better.".
Irritation snaps behind the stained-glass gaze, twisting the cop's mouth askew. "Ask the Feds," Rossi says, briefly. "They just can't stand not being part of the fun and games. --Flat-mate? Oh. Right. Brit talk for roommate."
Rachel nods with a smirk, "Mmhm, and I blame any bad American habits I may pick up solely on his influence." she remarks, looking out of the corner of her eye to the other two a moment and then back to him, "So if you stand out in the rain, they will too?...If I were you and, as such, didn't care about the rain I'd find a really big open space an see if they would." she speculates with another simper.
"Suicidal," Rossi says with cryptic exasperation, and then looks simply and purely amused. An elbow props on the table; he props his head on his hand, canting a glance across it at Rachel. "You got the distinction of sitting with a person of interest. They're on me like white on rice. Don't suppose you got anything illegal you want to sell me? Just to keep things interesting."
Rachel shakes her head with a soft laugh, "Not on me, no. Unless the rules have changed for us 'getting along fine' since you set them in the kitchen?" she replies with another semi-wink, the rest of the time just grinning playfully, "But even then there'd still be the problem of you using the words 'want to' right now.".
"Rules don't change," Det. Rossi allows, watching with disinterested annoyance as the agents buy coffee and claim a table, just within earshot. "You interested in joining the Brotherhood? They give me a free toaster if I recruit five people."
Rachel laughs again, "Oh most certainly! After the last few rampages, working solo has started to get a little same-y. So long as you share the toaster." she responds, taking a veritable gulp of her now rapidly emptying bottle and then turning the label to face him and pointing to it- perhaps a /little/ tipsy after all but certainly not anywhere near as bad as the jazz club. "Have you ever seen or tried this before?" she asks.
The man glances at the label and shrugs. "Not a rum drinker," he says briefly. "More of a whiskey or scotch -- or beer guy, really. Coconut rum's a little fru-fru for me. Bit early in the day, isn't it?" He studies the young woman quizzically, professional attention waking behind the deceptive indifference.
"When you live with a flatmate like mine you fast get the impression that there /is/ no 'too early'." Rachel answers, followed by another swig. "I guess it /is/ what Dorian'd call a 'chick drink', but it's still really nice. You should try some." she tells him in all seriousness.
The free hand lifts in passing refusal. "No, thanks. Appreciate the thought. --Your roommate's a lush?" Rossi asks, curious.
"A what?... Why would he be that, whatever it is?" she inquires, cocking her head curiously and then draining what's left in the bottle, a good 1/8th or so. At least the rain's abated somewhat so she /can/ leave if it gets awkward again...
"A lush," Rossi repeats patiently, and follows the word up with a hand gesture: the universal sign for an alcoholic, mimed bottle tipped up to the waiting mouth. "A drunk. Don't know what you guys call it over the pond."
"Oh!" she shakes her head, tipping the nigh-on empty bottle up just to make sure there's none left so she can put it down for good, "No. Well... either he isn't actually /drunk/ all the time or he can act sober a LOT better than I can." she explains with a smirk and from the looks of it a bit of effort put into not giggling after. "He might be back from lectures soon, though, so I should maybe get back soon." she finishes, a lot more serious again.
Rossi reexamines Rachel with a slow, lazy gaze; the hint of a smile slides behind the eyes, slightly relaxing the clinical attention. "You sure you're sober enough to make it back on your own?"
Rachel frowns at him, "I really look that far gone? So long as I can figure out the number on the lift dial it's a pretty straight route back." she answers, winking mischievously and turning enough to necessitate that she steadies her bottle again after jogging the table, "Unless you're offering me some company back?".
Det. Rossi grins at that, unadulterated amusement youthening the saturnine face. For a moment, physicality uncurls again to consider the girl, green eyes kindling: masculine, appreciative, /aware/. "That an invitation? --Sorry, kid," he adds cheerfully, that hint of heat shut down without a blink. "You're still too young for me."
Rachel pauses, curious, at that before getting up and blushing brightly- having to reach out and stop the bottle mid-fall again as she tucks in her chair. "Sorry... See you sometime soon, no doubt?" she asks even as she backs a strangely winding path felt between the tables towards the door.
Left behind, Det. Rossi hooks his mouth into a half-born smile, shaking his head, and lapses into silence. Coffee. Bagel. FBI. There are worse ways to spend a Monday afternoon.
[Log ends]