(no subject)
From the paper journal of Father Simon Terrence, St. Francis of Assisi, Harlem, NY
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Joe Kirby has kindly agreed to repair the confessional at no charge to the church, which is quite kind of him. He remains baffled exactly how the locking mechanism became so warped. Mrs. Molnar is convinced that Presbyterians did it, though why and how she has been unable to explain. I fear she continues in her belief that Presbyterians are behind most of the evils in this world.
Despite the damage, or perhaps because of it, Father Christopher has apparently taken to finding refuge in the booth, or so Sister Angelica has told me. I admit I have not seen this myself, but she assures me that when our guest disappears, he is most commonly to be found there. Hiding, she says. To my dismay, she claims that some of our female parishoners have taken to "dogging" Father Christopher, which I believe may mean that they are giving him unwanted attention? (Note to self: I must remember to ask Miguel the proper usage of the phrase, "riding his ass." It does not, as I originally thought, refer to the story of the Good Samaritan. I believe I applied it inappropriately when speaking to Deacon Fitzwallace yesterday.) Father Christopher has not complained to me as yet, which Sister Angelica says only proves that he is accustomed to being the Double-D battery (really, sometimes Sister Angelica is practically incomprehensible. I must ask Miguel for a translation).
I am hopeful that the entire situation is a misunderstanding by Sister Angelica, and that she has misinterpreted their not unnatural desire to make Father Christopher feel welcome. I have made a note in my calendar to broach the subject with him tomorrow. If he is indeed feeling harassed, I can only apologize on their behalf and reproach them. Not for the world would I have him feel hunted, when he was promised sanctuary here. I am afraid I have been quite unobservant and not attending to him properly. He must have the worst possible opinion of his host, though he continues to be courteous and really, very interesting company.
On second thought, I have decided to remove the passage of the Abyssinians from the sermon on Sunday. Deacon Mathews suggested that people might think I was referring to cats. I was prompted to write a more expository paragraph to the sermon, but it began taking over the entire message and became, indeed, so extraordinarily long that Mrs. Molnar announced that it was quite manageable. Sister Angelica has suggested that I write out a pamphlet and distribute it to the parish for required reading before the sermon. It is possible she was speaking in jest, but I believe there might be some merit in the idea. The Lord may love us all equally and unconditionally, but I think even He would like his angels to be educated.
I went into the nave this evening, and discovered that somehow the wrong color polish had been applied to the pews. Mrs. Molnar tells me that I am convinced of this every year, because the wood fades over the course of the summer, but I am positive I am not mistaken. I must remember to speak very sternly to Mr. Alvarez about this. It simply will not do.
---
St. Francis of Assisi is having its pews waxed and polished after a long winter, and the smell of it -- pungent, clean -- trails cold fingers across the stone walls and floors. The volunteers have come and gone, and only the lingering few remain: to gossip, to pray, to sneak a peek at the new priest whose looks and personality are already making him notorious in the small parish. If it is the last that keeps them, they are disappointed. In the confessional booth, roped off with a warding sign ('Closed for repairs') Father Christopher slouches cravenly in the priest's chair, and hides.
The curious throngs have been strengthened today by one brunette who peers over tortoise-shell sunglasses as she drifts in the front door. A light scan verifies the presence of one almost familiar mind, coward that he is, and a smile gets tucked into the corner of her mouth. Emma pulls her glasses off and hangs an arm over the edge of a bulging trench coat pocket, heeled mary-janes clacking her progress across the nave toward the confessional booths where. with a smirk, she disappears. Inside, the slide and click of the door seals her into privacy and she settles onto the bench whose purpose is about the only thing obvious. Emma taps a fingernail against the intervening wall, and Amber ventures "Hello?"
Cloaked in the darkness of false anonymity, the curtain-veiled figure in the other half of the booth jerks up in his seat, startled by the sound and light of the opening door. "Ergh," the baritone says. The cloth partition sweeps back, pushed by a hand, even as Rossi excuses himself with, "I'm sorry, my child. I'm not-- that is, the confessional isn't open at the moment. If you'd like, I can--"
Amber wrinkles her nose and sits back, pulling the beret from her head and dusting her voice with sultry amusement. "My child? I suppose there are those who might consider that a /sweet/ pet name..."
Recognition skips like a stone across the priest's distraction; the ripples of its passage pull up images and memories owing nothing to chastity. Green eyes widen, puzzling through the metal lattice. Rossi leans forward, curling fingers through the holes. "I beg your pardon?" The familiar baritone is cultured, without its Brooklyn accent. Not so cultured, the shock of confirmation. << /Shit/. >>
"I'm sorry. Do I have the wrong Christopher after all?" Amber purrs, squirming into a position that recommended neither for the confessional booth nor the penitent. It does, however, pull the edges of her coat apart enough to allow glimpses of leg and plaid to show through.
The eyes glance down -- how not? -- and then up again, recognizing the cover blown. Cynicism floods across the dark face, washing away any trace of the man of God; behind it, a nigh-audible wrench jerks the mind down well-worn paths, settling more comfortably into the cop's template. "Great," Rossi says, quiet over the harsh note of suspicion. "Just ... fucking fantastic. What the hell are you doing here?"
An eye roll expresses exasperation succiently; she slumps lower, pressing knee to wall, the tip of of shoe starting to beat a quiet staccato. "Came to see the priest that's redeeming the souls of young women and condemning those of the old. I swear, you're on the fast track to the Popehood at this rate. What? Were you /trying/ to keep a low profile or something?"
"Christ, you've got to be shitting me," Rossi scythes back, ire tugging on the edges of consonants and vowels, steering them back towards the taste of Brooklyn. "I've been avoiding the women like -- what the hell do you think I'm doing in here? It's a freaking wolf pack out there. How the--" Fingers dig in; knuckles, barely visible through the mesh, whiten. His voice flattens. "How did you know it was me?"
"Let's see... How did Cynthia's mom put it? 'Eyes that peel the layers from a person's soul and leave 'em naked as the day they were born, and not mindin' a bit. Hair as dark as chocolate that makes you want to put your fingers to it and never let go." She pauses and glints a wicked smile up at him through the grate. "A few other things that made me blush to hear coming from a sixty year old woman. And then there was your name in the program. Granted, Rosetti isn't quite the same, but it was enough to get me curious."
The cop swears under his breath; the fingers disengage, to let the man settle his back into the wall, head tilted back to drop against wood. "Fantastic," he says, profile set grim. "My cover gets blown because some old biddy's got a yen to write bad romance novels. --You tell anyone it's me?"
Amber fiddles with the coat's buckle, running it up and down the length of the belt in slow, steady strokes. "'course not. I was curious, not stupid." She stops and pushes up straighter, assuming an innocent expression. "Well, curious and intrigued. Never been inside one of these places in my life." Her tongue flicks out to wet her lips as they spread into a wide, inviting smile and she continues, "Are you going to give me the tour?"
"You going to tell anyone it's me?" Rossi wonders, straightening to lower his brows at her. One-track mind; professionalism trumps all, even the subtle promptings of sound and speculation (buckle, belt, coat, and underneath--?) "You're not part of the parish."
"Why would I? I'm /not/ part of your little happy community here, and I've got nothing to gain by blabbing," Amber shrugs, glancing aside at the door to the booth, fingers still fiddling idly down the row of large buttons fastening the coat over a wide, peter pan collar and... "Think anyone would notice if I went wondering by myself?" Eyes glinting barely green in the darkness (sanctity!) of the confessional narrow in amusement and drift back to the patch of face visible.
The bright, hard gaze skips down again, pauses in darkening surprise, and jumps up again. "Are you wearing a--" No. "Wander around if you want," Rossi says with wary care, tension easing slightly under the propriety of the priestly black. "Any place you shouldn't be is locked up anyway. I'm pretty sure nobody would mind."
Amusement drains from her expression and her smile tips downward and hardens. "Hm. Maybe it's not quite as interesting as I thought," she murmurs, reaching for the booth door, thumbing it and pushing it open. "Enjoy yourself, Father Christopher."
"Hold on," baritone says, leaping swiftly after her. The chair hisses across the carpet, stirred by Rossi's rise after -- and his sink back, as the forgotten partition makes hard connection with his reaching hand and head. A muffled curse feeds through the clutch of pain; another curse, less obscene, rues over rumpled dignity. "Hold up a second. Ow. Crap. Freaking /wood/--"
Amber huffs a breathy snort and pulls back in, though the door remains open and her voice is modulated to carry a few feet beyond them in saccharine cheer. "Tsk. Father Christopher. Are you alright?"
A green eye glares irritation through the partition, though a suspicious gleam of amusement lurks behind it. "Think I gave myself a concussion," Chris informs, rising with more care. "How long're you here for? --Here. Close the door."
Amber's smirk holds a hint of maliciousness, confirmed by the lowly murmured, "What will the parishioners think?" She does close the door though, and settles back into the seat on her side of the divide. "How long do I need to be here for?"
"Depends," Chris says cautiously, "on what you're here for. Confession doesn't have to be that long, and you're not a Catholic anyway, are you?" Nor one of his adopted flock. Reminded, the man's mind whispers behind well-kept shields, rousing other interests and ideas inappropriate to the chaste collar. A smile sinks the baritone deep. "Just what kind of a tour were you looking for, anyway?"
Amber's head dips, hair swinging forward in a dark mockery of a penitent's veil. She examines a nail, quirking smile hidden from view if not voice. "I've been a /very/ bad girl, though, Father. Am I banned from the comforts of confession because of my faith?" A pause, and admittance, "Or lack thereof?" She turns toward him, peeking at him out of the corner of her eye. "What kind you got?"
Rossi grins into the curve of his hand, elbow leaned against the rim of the privacy shield. Little privacy. Barely a shield: not against the growing heat of imagination, made three-dimensional and immediate by the hedonist's mastery of the senses. "I got the four star tour and penance, if you want to call it that. You repent your sins, God gives you something to do to pay for it, and you're all clear in the eyes of the Lord. It's the repenting that's the tough part," he grants, eyes brilliant. "Pretty tough when the sins're so fun."
Who needs to be limited to three dimensions, especially when one of the masters is a telepath? Power responds to sensual beckoning, unwrapping and folding around his awareness with languid and delicate grace. Amber slides cold fingers around the back of her neck, pulling hair free of her collar and shoulder to escape in an ebon waterfall. "Mm, I'm sure. But what kind of things do I have to do to pay for my sins? Give some money away? Chant a dirge or two?" A brow arches. "Bake brownies for my favorite priest?"
Touched and fed by that stimuli (her hair, innate sensuality, the touch of his fingers on hers, her scent and his, mingling--) interest piques, strengthening to make its claim. "I'm pretty sure we could come up with something," Chris murmurs, gaze following that bared throat and the hum of sensitivity under the skin. "Maybe somewhere along this tour. Some sins have bigger payback."
Memory swells behind near-closed lids, filling the space (damn the divide) between them, choking out (gasping, panting, moaning) thought. Amber leans forward, hands on her knees and face pressed close to the grate, her line of sight suggestive and hungry as she breathes, "How much bigger?"
Chris opens his mouth to answer, only to shut it again. His mind does it for him, unwitting, heat rubbing its static fire through the tangle of minds; a matching hunger, whetted by forced chastity, lights the harsh face. "Outside," he says, baritone deepened to the rip of black silk. "Back of the building. Parking lot. Give me five minutes and meet me there." << And I'll /show/ you. >>
Amber sniffs and rolls a heated look up to his eyes, smiling a smile, secretive smile. "Back of the building? You do know it's cold outside, don't you?" she laughs, fingering the grating for a moment before pushing to her feet and exiting the booth in a swirl of coat and legs and sensations left to throb around (in?) Chris alone.
Darkness. Blessed privacy. Chris sinks back into the wall, head falling back, eyes closing, to drown: in need, in frustration, in anticipation, in guilt. In silence he gropes for a grown man's discipline, and reins it to curb the swift race of blood. A minute. Two. And then he stands. Time to brave the stares, to front and shed them on his way outside. Urgent matters to attend to. A holy man's work is never done.
[Log ends]
Rossi's cover is blown (again) when 'Amber' hunts him down. He does the professional thing and shuts her up.
---
"--literature coming in," the baritone finishes, Brooklyn's accent harsh and deep in the patient recitation. "Maybe the deacon. I'm checking on it. Simon's clear, anyway."
Darkness knits across the quiet bar, a nearly deserted oasis for a thirsty man and his companions. The priest's collar shows stark against the column of throat, bared only for the tip of a bottle and a hard pull. Chris Rossi -- Father Christopher Rosetti -- slouches over the plant of his elbows on the table, an abstracted frown fed towards the peeling label of his bottle. The booth walls are high; the background music, optimistic, is higher.
Vincent isn't drinking. He is, however, taking notes - lines etching in between his brows as he frowns in concentration, and scribbles down names in his precise hand. Simon's clear, poss. deacon, something that looks oddly like a sheep, doodled into the upper right hand corner of his notepad. "You look like hell."
"I look like a jackass," Chris corrects, hooking a finger in the collar to run it around: a futile attempt at loosening that ecclesiastic leash. "I /feel/ like hell. I need a shower. Playing a priest has got to be the dirtiest-- give me drug dealers or pedophiles, any day. I'm drowning in tea and cookies. You've got no idea. Looking at your ugly face has to be the best thing to have happened today."
"Thanks." says Vincent, the lines creasing in around his mouth dry as he sketches a rocket pack onto the back of the fluffy sheep. His eyes flick up only once to Rossi from behind his glasses before he turns the page. "What've you got on the deacon?"
A hand gestures, dew from the bottle still damp on the long fingers. "Been with the church for years. Uptight guy. Doesn't talk much. Tried the mutant angle on him, but he didn't bite. He'll open up eventually," Rossi says, settling his shoulder into the booth wall. A sardonic gaze glitters at Vincent, amusement moving dark-footed behind it. "I'm a stand-up guy. Likeable and all that. Not to mention a /priest/. From my mouth to God's ear."
Vincent isn't looking all that great himself, in his typical perpetual state of semi-exhaustion, unshaven and tired as his pen continues to scratch across cheap notebook paper. "Uh huh. What's his name again?"
"Mathews. Jeremiah Mathews. AKA Jerry. --Talking about looking like the dog's dinner--" Rossi trails off suggestively, claiming his beer again to gesture at Vincent with its base. Eyebrows hike, reaching towards query and a certain cynical appreciation. "How long're you gonna act like I ran over your dog?"
"Deacon Jeremiah Mathews. Sounds like a winner. Anyone else?" Vincent mutters as he writes, and promptly scratches in an underline beneath the name, ignoring Rossi's assessment of his studly personage in the process. He does, however, look up at the question, brows lifting in a lazy mirror of Rossi's. "Sorry?"
The beer gestures again, this time finishing the motion in a cross. "George Daniels," Rossi supplies. "Most fanatic janitor I've ever met. Think the guy might be a little off in the head, for that matter. --What're you pissed at? That you told me? Or that I caught you?"
"George Daniels." Vincent repeats on a short delay, eyes lingering on Rossi with dull irritation before he dips his chin to scratch out, 'Dr. George Daniels, Janitor Extraordinair. Fanatic, possibly clinically insane.' The butt of the pen is then lifted to scratch at the side of his nose as he sniffs and looks back up. "You didn't /catch/ me. I mean, it wasn't like I was stealing something."
The other man smiles at Vincent over the tip of a drink, lashes fanned black and thick across the splintering of green. "Not like you had a deep dark secret," he agrees, amiably. "Shit you were sneaking around trying to hide from people. So fine. I didn't catch you. So you're just pissed you told me. --Write down Tracy Martinez while you're at it. She's a maybe. Has this weird beef about an ex-boyfriend who went out looking for God and found a new mutant girlfriend instead."
"Okay," says Vincent, pen turned over and tapped hard into the table between them, "you caught me. I should have been paying attention, I should have been more careful, and I should've been quick enough to come up with some kind of lie that would have held you over until I could think about what I wanted to do or say. The whole thing is a clusterfuck of what ifs and should haves, Rossi. This is my career, we're talking about here." Diatribe delivered, Lazzaro glares at him for a few seconds, and then looks abruptly back down to his notepad, subdued. "What was that name? Tracy..."
"Martinez," Rossi supplies. "Tracy Martinez. So you'll be prepared next time. You seriously think I'm going to go running to someone because you got a problem with staying corporeal? Feds and IA're already halfway convinced I work for the goddamn Brotherhood. Screw them." A thumbnail presses under the edge of the bottle's label, pushing it into damp wrinkles. Conversationally, Chris adds, "Screw /you/."
"Martinez." is echoed distractedly as it's written down, as with most of the names before it. "I don't have a problem with staying -- this isn't a joke." Vincent cuts himself off, and jabs his pen at Rossi. Very threatening. "Not with this 'sensitive positions' bullshit being passed around in the senate."
The bottle bats at the pen. Mine is bigger than yours. "Christ, man. Who's joking? I know Cassidy. I know the deal. The damn bill won't get passed. Even if it does--" Rossi sits forward, elbows and beer planting on the table again, and glares at Vincent over the loose knit of his hands. "We figure out a way around it. Pull a few strings. Call in some favors. --Hey. What's the last thing to go through a bug's mind when it hits a windshield?"
"The windshield." Vincent replies, tone and glare equally dry and even across the table as he pulls the pen lazily back away from the bat of Chris' bottle. "I've never deliberately broken a law in my life, Chris. This is big. This is big for me. ...Did you get the boyfriend's name?"
"Jesus Alvarez," Rossi supplies, twisting to reach into his pocket for a folded scrap of paper. A thumb unwraps it, flattening it over a forefinger's bench; he drops it to the table, sliding it across to the other man. "Got his address and place of business there. Sounds like he has a yellow sheet. --You're a freaky boy scout, Lazzaro. You seriously telling me you'd take that test, even if it meant you were out?"
From Rossi's slide to Vincent's, the paper is transferred and copied in his own handwriting, into the notebook. "Okay. I'll have Jake look him up. Ask him a few questions." Scribble, scribble, scribble. Vincent doesn't look up, still making notes. "I'm not taking the test. That's what I'm saying. If this thing goes through, things could get ugly."
"So we figure something else out," Rossi says, watching under heavy eyelids while the pen makes inroads on his findings. "They probably have someone over at that place who can 'port in some kind of replacement blood. We'll get a vial of mine, swap it out, no biggie. Then again, maybe we'd better get some of Kant's. They might suspect something if they find a Y chromosome in yours."
"Probably." Vincent agrees, starting a new paragraph. "But at the same time, it needs to be as small scale as possible. Even in New York, people talk." Period. He stops writing and settles his back against the booth cushion, sighing. "It's like I said - I don't break the law. But this is a bad law. As for me having a Y chromosome, your sister never complained."
Chris says, "Asshole." It lacks heat. "Yeah. It's a fucking stupid law. Grey'll come up with something. Does she know? --Shit, of course she does." Resignation and some subtler, darker note paints the rhetorical reply; Rossi frowns down at the empty bottle, rolls it between his fingers, and sets to serious removal of its label. His mouth twitches. "Should tell old Pezhead. He can stalk you for a change, instead."
"Everyone with the school knows. And Melcross. Now you. That's what I get for trying to deal with the one skeleton in my closet, I guess. Should've seen it coming." Click. Click-click. The ballpoint if the pen is clicked in and out as Vincent watches Rossi, tired and a little sullen. "Grey's a fucking lunatic."
"I'm not arguing that one," Rossi says, paper hissing as it is peeled in one long, V-shaped ribbon away from glass. A thumbnail dredges under the forefinger's, scraping clotted paper out; Chris's mouth thins into unthinking hostility, only to ease at his glance back up. "Doesn't matter. She'll help out. For Cassidy's sake, if nothing else. You're pretty crappy at keeping a secret, Lazzaro."
"Theoretically, you and Melcross are the only ones who found out on your own. And /you/ wouldn't have, if I hadn't made the decision to try to learn about this thing so I could stop worrying about it." Vincent's brows twitch down at the continued scraping of Rossi's nails at paper. "Anyway, I'm busy enough without trying to fend off the advances of /your/ would-be boyfriend."
Chris's gaze fixes, focuses, narrowing to unblinking study of the other man. "Got it under control?" A startled note threads through the question; abrupt tension knits the set of shoulders. "You're not going to go ... popping out of a scene if someone draws on you, or pop back in the middle of some wall or something, are you?"
Vincent's jaw tenses at that, squared and harsh against the question. "If I ever was, I would have done it already. I had it under control for years. Never had any problems until I moved up here, and the stress got to me." Click-click. Vincent looks down away from Rossi to tuck the pen into his suit jacket. "But for now, I'm not going anywhere unless I want to."
"You'd make a damn ugly wall hanging," Rossi says, relaxing. Another ribbon peels off the bottle, urged on its way by the scratch of nails. He lays it out next to its brother, mouth a grimace over their lanes. "Remember that chick with the gravity thing? Nailed the garbageman a few months ago? Out of control. Slept with her before I knew. Can you imagine being thrown out a window because you give a girl an orgasm? Christ."
"I'd rather not think about it. The wall hanging thing." Notebook flipped back up and closed, Vincent smooths a hand over the cover, and then tucks it under his arm, preparing to stand. "Aside, you actually have to be capable of giving a woman an orgasm before you need to be worried about that kind've thing."
The other man grins, physicality expanding for a moment in sheer, testosterone-fueled arrogance. "Doubting a man of the cloth, Lazzaro? The things I can do -- raise a woman up and let her touch the face of God. Never had any complaints. Get the hell out of here," Rossi advises, "before I demonstrate on your sweet, feminine ass. If I don't get out of this penguin suit soon, I'm gonna explode."
"Yeah, yeah. I'll see you in hell, Rossi. Have fun with your tea and biscuits, or whatever." And with that and a lazy lift of the notebook, Vincent turns to excuse himself from the bar. Back to work.
[Log ends]
Vincent substitutes for Rossi's handler and acts like a big bald baby. Chris is manly. Very, very manly.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Joe Kirby has kindly agreed to repair the confessional at no charge to the church, which is quite kind of him. He remains baffled exactly how the locking mechanism became so warped. Mrs. Molnar is convinced that Presbyterians did it, though why and how she has been unable to explain. I fear she continues in her belief that Presbyterians are behind most of the evils in this world.
Despite the damage, or perhaps because of it, Father Christopher has apparently taken to finding refuge in the booth, or so Sister Angelica has told me. I admit I have not seen this myself, but she assures me that when our guest disappears, he is most commonly to be found there. Hiding, she says. To my dismay, she claims that some of our female parishoners have taken to "dogging" Father Christopher, which I believe may mean that they are giving him unwanted attention? (Note to self: I must remember to ask Miguel the proper usage of the phrase, "riding his ass." It does not, as I originally thought, refer to the story of the Good Samaritan. I believe I applied it inappropriately when speaking to Deacon Fitzwallace yesterday.) Father Christopher has not complained to me as yet, which Sister Angelica says only proves that he is accustomed to being the Double-D battery (really, sometimes Sister Angelica is practically incomprehensible. I must ask Miguel for a translation).
I am hopeful that the entire situation is a misunderstanding by Sister Angelica, and that she has misinterpreted their not unnatural desire to make Father Christopher feel welcome. I have made a note in my calendar to broach the subject with him tomorrow. If he is indeed feeling harassed, I can only apologize on their behalf and reproach them. Not for the world would I have him feel hunted, when he was promised sanctuary here. I am afraid I have been quite unobservant and not attending to him properly. He must have the worst possible opinion of his host, though he continues to be courteous and really, very interesting company.
On second thought, I have decided to remove the passage of the Abyssinians from the sermon on Sunday. Deacon Mathews suggested that people might think I was referring to cats. I was prompted to write a more expository paragraph to the sermon, but it began taking over the entire message and became, indeed, so extraordinarily long that Mrs. Molnar announced that it was quite manageable. Sister Angelica has suggested that I write out a pamphlet and distribute it to the parish for required reading before the sermon. It is possible she was speaking in jest, but I believe there might be some merit in the idea. The Lord may love us all equally and unconditionally, but I think even He would like his angels to be educated.
I went into the nave this evening, and discovered that somehow the wrong color polish had been applied to the pews. Mrs. Molnar tells me that I am convinced of this every year, because the wood fades over the course of the summer, but I am positive I am not mistaken. I must remember to speak very sternly to Mr. Alvarez about this. It simply will not do.
---
St. Francis of Assisi is having its pews waxed and polished after a long winter, and the smell of it -- pungent, clean -- trails cold fingers across the stone walls and floors. The volunteers have come and gone, and only the lingering few remain: to gossip, to pray, to sneak a peek at the new priest whose looks and personality are already making him notorious in the small parish. If it is the last that keeps them, they are disappointed. In the confessional booth, roped off with a warding sign ('Closed for repairs') Father Christopher slouches cravenly in the priest's chair, and hides.
The curious throngs have been strengthened today by one brunette who peers over tortoise-shell sunglasses as she drifts in the front door. A light scan verifies the presence of one almost familiar mind, coward that he is, and a smile gets tucked into the corner of her mouth. Emma pulls her glasses off and hangs an arm over the edge of a bulging trench coat pocket, heeled mary-janes clacking her progress across the nave toward the confessional booths where. with a smirk, she disappears. Inside, the slide and click of the door seals her into privacy and she settles onto the bench whose purpose is about the only thing obvious. Emma taps a fingernail against the intervening wall, and Amber ventures "Hello?"
Cloaked in the darkness of false anonymity, the curtain-veiled figure in the other half of the booth jerks up in his seat, startled by the sound and light of the opening door. "Ergh," the baritone says. The cloth partition sweeps back, pushed by a hand, even as Rossi excuses himself with, "I'm sorry, my child. I'm not-- that is, the confessional isn't open at the moment. If you'd like, I can--"
Amber wrinkles her nose and sits back, pulling the beret from her head and dusting her voice with sultry amusement. "My child? I suppose there are those who might consider that a /sweet/ pet name..."
Recognition skips like a stone across the priest's distraction; the ripples of its passage pull up images and memories owing nothing to chastity. Green eyes widen, puzzling through the metal lattice. Rossi leans forward, curling fingers through the holes. "I beg your pardon?" The familiar baritone is cultured, without its Brooklyn accent. Not so cultured, the shock of confirmation. << /Shit/. >>
"I'm sorry. Do I have the wrong Christopher after all?" Amber purrs, squirming into a position that recommended neither for the confessional booth nor the penitent. It does, however, pull the edges of her coat apart enough to allow glimpses of leg and plaid to show through.
The eyes glance down -- how not? -- and then up again, recognizing the cover blown. Cynicism floods across the dark face, washing away any trace of the man of God; behind it, a nigh-audible wrench jerks the mind down well-worn paths, settling more comfortably into the cop's template. "Great," Rossi says, quiet over the harsh note of suspicion. "Just ... fucking fantastic. What the hell are you doing here?"
An eye roll expresses exasperation succiently; she slumps lower, pressing knee to wall, the tip of of shoe starting to beat a quiet staccato. "Came to see the priest that's redeeming the souls of young women and condemning those of the old. I swear, you're on the fast track to the Popehood at this rate. What? Were you /trying/ to keep a low profile or something?"
"Christ, you've got to be shitting me," Rossi scythes back, ire tugging on the edges of consonants and vowels, steering them back towards the taste of Brooklyn. "I've been avoiding the women like -- what the hell do you think I'm doing in here? It's a freaking wolf pack out there. How the--" Fingers dig in; knuckles, barely visible through the mesh, whiten. His voice flattens. "How did you know it was me?"
"Let's see... How did Cynthia's mom put it? 'Eyes that peel the layers from a person's soul and leave 'em naked as the day they were born, and not mindin' a bit. Hair as dark as chocolate that makes you want to put your fingers to it and never let go." She pauses and glints a wicked smile up at him through the grate. "A few other things that made me blush to hear coming from a sixty year old woman. And then there was your name in the program. Granted, Rosetti isn't quite the same, but it was enough to get me curious."
The cop swears under his breath; the fingers disengage, to let the man settle his back into the wall, head tilted back to drop against wood. "Fantastic," he says, profile set grim. "My cover gets blown because some old biddy's got a yen to write bad romance novels. --You tell anyone it's me?"
Amber fiddles with the coat's buckle, running it up and down the length of the belt in slow, steady strokes. "'course not. I was curious, not stupid." She stops and pushes up straighter, assuming an innocent expression. "Well, curious and intrigued. Never been inside one of these places in my life." Her tongue flicks out to wet her lips as they spread into a wide, inviting smile and she continues, "Are you going to give me the tour?"
"You going to tell anyone it's me?" Rossi wonders, straightening to lower his brows at her. One-track mind; professionalism trumps all, even the subtle promptings of sound and speculation (buckle, belt, coat, and underneath--?) "You're not part of the parish."
"Why would I? I'm /not/ part of your little happy community here, and I've got nothing to gain by blabbing," Amber shrugs, glancing aside at the door to the booth, fingers still fiddling idly down the row of large buttons fastening the coat over a wide, peter pan collar and... "Think anyone would notice if I went wondering by myself?" Eyes glinting barely green in the darkness (sanctity!) of the confessional narrow in amusement and drift back to the patch of face visible.
The bright, hard gaze skips down again, pauses in darkening surprise, and jumps up again. "Are you wearing a--" No. "Wander around if you want," Rossi says with wary care, tension easing slightly under the propriety of the priestly black. "Any place you shouldn't be is locked up anyway. I'm pretty sure nobody would mind."
Amusement drains from her expression and her smile tips downward and hardens. "Hm. Maybe it's not quite as interesting as I thought," she murmurs, reaching for the booth door, thumbing it and pushing it open. "Enjoy yourself, Father Christopher."
"Hold on," baritone says, leaping swiftly after her. The chair hisses across the carpet, stirred by Rossi's rise after -- and his sink back, as the forgotten partition makes hard connection with his reaching hand and head. A muffled curse feeds through the clutch of pain; another curse, less obscene, rues over rumpled dignity. "Hold up a second. Ow. Crap. Freaking /wood/--"
Amber huffs a breathy snort and pulls back in, though the door remains open and her voice is modulated to carry a few feet beyond them in saccharine cheer. "Tsk. Father Christopher. Are you alright?"
A green eye glares irritation through the partition, though a suspicious gleam of amusement lurks behind it. "Think I gave myself a concussion," Chris informs, rising with more care. "How long're you here for? --Here. Close the door."
Amber's smirk holds a hint of maliciousness, confirmed by the lowly murmured, "What will the parishioners think?" She does close the door though, and settles back into the seat on her side of the divide. "How long do I need to be here for?"
"Depends," Chris says cautiously, "on what you're here for. Confession doesn't have to be that long, and you're not a Catholic anyway, are you?" Nor one of his adopted flock. Reminded, the man's mind whispers behind well-kept shields, rousing other interests and ideas inappropriate to the chaste collar. A smile sinks the baritone deep. "Just what kind of a tour were you looking for, anyway?"
Amber's head dips, hair swinging forward in a dark mockery of a penitent's veil. She examines a nail, quirking smile hidden from view if not voice. "I've been a /very/ bad girl, though, Father. Am I banned from the comforts of confession because of my faith?" A pause, and admittance, "Or lack thereof?" She turns toward him, peeking at him out of the corner of her eye. "What kind you got?"
Rossi grins into the curve of his hand, elbow leaned against the rim of the privacy shield. Little privacy. Barely a shield: not against the growing heat of imagination, made three-dimensional and immediate by the hedonist's mastery of the senses. "I got the four star tour and penance, if you want to call it that. You repent your sins, God gives you something to do to pay for it, and you're all clear in the eyes of the Lord. It's the repenting that's the tough part," he grants, eyes brilliant. "Pretty tough when the sins're so fun."
Who needs to be limited to three dimensions, especially when one of the masters is a telepath? Power responds to sensual beckoning, unwrapping and folding around his awareness with languid and delicate grace. Amber slides cold fingers around the back of her neck, pulling hair free of her collar and shoulder to escape in an ebon waterfall. "Mm, I'm sure. But what kind of things do I have to do to pay for my sins? Give some money away? Chant a dirge or two?" A brow arches. "Bake brownies for my favorite priest?"
Touched and fed by that stimuli (her hair, innate sensuality, the touch of his fingers on hers, her scent and his, mingling--) interest piques, strengthening to make its claim. "I'm pretty sure we could come up with something," Chris murmurs, gaze following that bared throat and the hum of sensitivity under the skin. "Maybe somewhere along this tour. Some sins have bigger payback."
Memory swells behind near-closed lids, filling the space (damn the divide) between them, choking out (gasping, panting, moaning) thought. Amber leans forward, hands on her knees and face pressed close to the grate, her line of sight suggestive and hungry as she breathes, "How much bigger?"
Chris opens his mouth to answer, only to shut it again. His mind does it for him, unwitting, heat rubbing its static fire through the tangle of minds; a matching hunger, whetted by forced chastity, lights the harsh face. "Outside," he says, baritone deepened to the rip of black silk. "Back of the building. Parking lot. Give me five minutes and meet me there." << And I'll /show/ you. >>
Amber sniffs and rolls a heated look up to his eyes, smiling a smile, secretive smile. "Back of the building? You do know it's cold outside, don't you?" she laughs, fingering the grating for a moment before pushing to her feet and exiting the booth in a swirl of coat and legs and sensations left to throb around (in?) Chris alone.
Darkness. Blessed privacy. Chris sinks back into the wall, head falling back, eyes closing, to drown: in need, in frustration, in anticipation, in guilt. In silence he gropes for a grown man's discipline, and reins it to curb the swift race of blood. A minute. Two. And then he stands. Time to brave the stares, to front and shed them on his way outside. Urgent matters to attend to. A holy man's work is never done.
[Log ends]
Rossi's cover is blown (again) when 'Amber' hunts him down. He does the professional thing and shuts her up.
---
"--literature coming in," the baritone finishes, Brooklyn's accent harsh and deep in the patient recitation. "Maybe the deacon. I'm checking on it. Simon's clear, anyway."
Darkness knits across the quiet bar, a nearly deserted oasis for a thirsty man and his companions. The priest's collar shows stark against the column of throat, bared only for the tip of a bottle and a hard pull. Chris Rossi -- Father Christopher Rosetti -- slouches over the plant of his elbows on the table, an abstracted frown fed towards the peeling label of his bottle. The booth walls are high; the background music, optimistic, is higher.
Vincent isn't drinking. He is, however, taking notes - lines etching in between his brows as he frowns in concentration, and scribbles down names in his precise hand. Simon's clear, poss. deacon, something that looks oddly like a sheep, doodled into the upper right hand corner of his notepad. "You look like hell."
"I look like a jackass," Chris corrects, hooking a finger in the collar to run it around: a futile attempt at loosening that ecclesiastic leash. "I /feel/ like hell. I need a shower. Playing a priest has got to be the dirtiest-- give me drug dealers or pedophiles, any day. I'm drowning in tea and cookies. You've got no idea. Looking at your ugly face has to be the best thing to have happened today."
"Thanks." says Vincent, the lines creasing in around his mouth dry as he sketches a rocket pack onto the back of the fluffy sheep. His eyes flick up only once to Rossi from behind his glasses before he turns the page. "What've you got on the deacon?"
A hand gestures, dew from the bottle still damp on the long fingers. "Been with the church for years. Uptight guy. Doesn't talk much. Tried the mutant angle on him, but he didn't bite. He'll open up eventually," Rossi says, settling his shoulder into the booth wall. A sardonic gaze glitters at Vincent, amusement moving dark-footed behind it. "I'm a stand-up guy. Likeable and all that. Not to mention a /priest/. From my mouth to God's ear."
Vincent isn't looking all that great himself, in his typical perpetual state of semi-exhaustion, unshaven and tired as his pen continues to scratch across cheap notebook paper. "Uh huh. What's his name again?"
"Mathews. Jeremiah Mathews. AKA Jerry. --Talking about looking like the dog's dinner--" Rossi trails off suggestively, claiming his beer again to gesture at Vincent with its base. Eyebrows hike, reaching towards query and a certain cynical appreciation. "How long're you gonna act like I ran over your dog?"
"Deacon Jeremiah Mathews. Sounds like a winner. Anyone else?" Vincent mutters as he writes, and promptly scratches in an underline beneath the name, ignoring Rossi's assessment of his studly personage in the process. He does, however, look up at the question, brows lifting in a lazy mirror of Rossi's. "Sorry?"
The beer gestures again, this time finishing the motion in a cross. "George Daniels," Rossi supplies. "Most fanatic janitor I've ever met. Think the guy might be a little off in the head, for that matter. --What're you pissed at? That you told me? Or that I caught you?"
"George Daniels." Vincent repeats on a short delay, eyes lingering on Rossi with dull irritation before he dips his chin to scratch out, 'Dr. George Daniels, Janitor Extraordinair. Fanatic, possibly clinically insane.' The butt of the pen is then lifted to scratch at the side of his nose as he sniffs and looks back up. "You didn't /catch/ me. I mean, it wasn't like I was stealing something."
The other man smiles at Vincent over the tip of a drink, lashes fanned black and thick across the splintering of green. "Not like you had a deep dark secret," he agrees, amiably. "Shit you were sneaking around trying to hide from people. So fine. I didn't catch you. So you're just pissed you told me. --Write down Tracy Martinez while you're at it. She's a maybe. Has this weird beef about an ex-boyfriend who went out looking for God and found a new mutant girlfriend instead."
"Okay," says Vincent, pen turned over and tapped hard into the table between them, "you caught me. I should have been paying attention, I should have been more careful, and I should've been quick enough to come up with some kind of lie that would have held you over until I could think about what I wanted to do or say. The whole thing is a clusterfuck of what ifs and should haves, Rossi. This is my career, we're talking about here." Diatribe delivered, Lazzaro glares at him for a few seconds, and then looks abruptly back down to his notepad, subdued. "What was that name? Tracy..."
"Martinez," Rossi supplies. "Tracy Martinez. So you'll be prepared next time. You seriously think I'm going to go running to someone because you got a problem with staying corporeal? Feds and IA're already halfway convinced I work for the goddamn Brotherhood. Screw them." A thumbnail presses under the edge of the bottle's label, pushing it into damp wrinkles. Conversationally, Chris adds, "Screw /you/."
"Martinez." is echoed distractedly as it's written down, as with most of the names before it. "I don't have a problem with staying -- this isn't a joke." Vincent cuts himself off, and jabs his pen at Rossi. Very threatening. "Not with this 'sensitive positions' bullshit being passed around in the senate."
The bottle bats at the pen. Mine is bigger than yours. "Christ, man. Who's joking? I know Cassidy. I know the deal. The damn bill won't get passed. Even if it does--" Rossi sits forward, elbows and beer planting on the table again, and glares at Vincent over the loose knit of his hands. "We figure out a way around it. Pull a few strings. Call in some favors. --Hey. What's the last thing to go through a bug's mind when it hits a windshield?"
"The windshield." Vincent replies, tone and glare equally dry and even across the table as he pulls the pen lazily back away from the bat of Chris' bottle. "I've never deliberately broken a law in my life, Chris. This is big. This is big for me. ...Did you get the boyfriend's name?"
"Jesus Alvarez," Rossi supplies, twisting to reach into his pocket for a folded scrap of paper. A thumb unwraps it, flattening it over a forefinger's bench; he drops it to the table, sliding it across to the other man. "Got his address and place of business there. Sounds like he has a yellow sheet. --You're a freaky boy scout, Lazzaro. You seriously telling me you'd take that test, even if it meant you were out?"
From Rossi's slide to Vincent's, the paper is transferred and copied in his own handwriting, into the notebook. "Okay. I'll have Jake look him up. Ask him a few questions." Scribble, scribble, scribble. Vincent doesn't look up, still making notes. "I'm not taking the test. That's what I'm saying. If this thing goes through, things could get ugly."
"So we figure something else out," Rossi says, watching under heavy eyelids while the pen makes inroads on his findings. "They probably have someone over at that place who can 'port in some kind of replacement blood. We'll get a vial of mine, swap it out, no biggie. Then again, maybe we'd better get some of Kant's. They might suspect something if they find a Y chromosome in yours."
"Probably." Vincent agrees, starting a new paragraph. "But at the same time, it needs to be as small scale as possible. Even in New York, people talk." Period. He stops writing and settles his back against the booth cushion, sighing. "It's like I said - I don't break the law. But this is a bad law. As for me having a Y chromosome, your sister never complained."
Chris says, "Asshole." It lacks heat. "Yeah. It's a fucking stupid law. Grey'll come up with something. Does she know? --Shit, of course she does." Resignation and some subtler, darker note paints the rhetorical reply; Rossi frowns down at the empty bottle, rolls it between his fingers, and sets to serious removal of its label. His mouth twitches. "Should tell old Pezhead. He can stalk you for a change, instead."
"Everyone with the school knows. And Melcross. Now you. That's what I get for trying to deal with the one skeleton in my closet, I guess. Should've seen it coming." Click. Click-click. The ballpoint if the pen is clicked in and out as Vincent watches Rossi, tired and a little sullen. "Grey's a fucking lunatic."
"I'm not arguing that one," Rossi says, paper hissing as it is peeled in one long, V-shaped ribbon away from glass. A thumbnail dredges under the forefinger's, scraping clotted paper out; Chris's mouth thins into unthinking hostility, only to ease at his glance back up. "Doesn't matter. She'll help out. For Cassidy's sake, if nothing else. You're pretty crappy at keeping a secret, Lazzaro."
"Theoretically, you and Melcross are the only ones who found out on your own. And /you/ wouldn't have, if I hadn't made the decision to try to learn about this thing so I could stop worrying about it." Vincent's brows twitch down at the continued scraping of Rossi's nails at paper. "Anyway, I'm busy enough without trying to fend off the advances of /your/ would-be boyfriend."
Chris's gaze fixes, focuses, narrowing to unblinking study of the other man. "Got it under control?" A startled note threads through the question; abrupt tension knits the set of shoulders. "You're not going to go ... popping out of a scene if someone draws on you, or pop back in the middle of some wall or something, are you?"
Vincent's jaw tenses at that, squared and harsh against the question. "If I ever was, I would have done it already. I had it under control for years. Never had any problems until I moved up here, and the stress got to me." Click-click. Vincent looks down away from Rossi to tuck the pen into his suit jacket. "But for now, I'm not going anywhere unless I want to."
"You'd make a damn ugly wall hanging," Rossi says, relaxing. Another ribbon peels off the bottle, urged on its way by the scratch of nails. He lays it out next to its brother, mouth a grimace over their lanes. "Remember that chick with the gravity thing? Nailed the garbageman a few months ago? Out of control. Slept with her before I knew. Can you imagine being thrown out a window because you give a girl an orgasm? Christ."
"I'd rather not think about it. The wall hanging thing." Notebook flipped back up and closed, Vincent smooths a hand over the cover, and then tucks it under his arm, preparing to stand. "Aside, you actually have to be capable of giving a woman an orgasm before you need to be worried about that kind've thing."
The other man grins, physicality expanding for a moment in sheer, testosterone-fueled arrogance. "Doubting a man of the cloth, Lazzaro? The things I can do -- raise a woman up and let her touch the face of God. Never had any complaints. Get the hell out of here," Rossi advises, "before I demonstrate on your sweet, feminine ass. If I don't get out of this penguin suit soon, I'm gonna explode."
"Yeah, yeah. I'll see you in hell, Rossi. Have fun with your tea and biscuits, or whatever." And with that and a lazy lift of the notebook, Vincent turns to excuse himself from the bar. Back to work.
[Log ends]
Vincent substitutes for Rossi's handler and acts like a big bald baby. Chris is manly. Very, very manly.