(no subject)
Out from under. Took off the clerical collar, put on the old suit and tie. Doesn't itch as bad.
Something to be said for pants that you can open.
Pretty sure we got the right guy. Can't imagine what Father Simon's thinking right now. Poor guy. This assignment sucked ass. Hate the lying. May have done some good even as a fake priest, though I'm pretty sure if the Archdiocese ever hears about the Planned Parenthood thing, I'll be excommunicated faster than you can say 'no glove, no love.' Going to miss Sister Angelica and Mrs. Molnar and Father Simon. Not to mention Miguel. Would go back there for a visit someday, but they pulled me out without blowing my cover. Chickenshit that I am, figure they're better off believing the lie.
Headed over to Xavier's after debrief, looking for Summers. Ran into a couple of their kids when I headed out to the patio for a smoke. Weird power that girl Rogue has. That's got to suck. Full body condom doesn't sound like a lot of fun, if that's what she's got ahead of her. Evolution's kind of a bitch. Good to see the thing with the Allerdyce kid didn't leave any permanent scars on the Jubilee kid, though. None that I can see, anyway. Perky chick. Probably a side effect of being a walking firecracker.
The school's safe, my ass. Safe for mutants, maybe. Wonder what memories Rogue got? She was looking pretty green. Shit. If she got one of those memories, I'm going to feel like a goddamn pedophile.
Shit. I hope Julia doesn't fuck Summers over.
Mary Mother of God. I hope Julia doesn'
---
The sun's out, the thermometer is hovering around the 70 mark, and white knees are making their appearances in skirt and shorts dug out of the bottom of the drawer. Not that Jubilee has too worry /too/ much about blinding skin-tones... She's sitting stubbornly in a patch of sunlight at the far end of the patio, crosslegged and arms folded, huddling into a hooded sweatshirt. BUT SHE'S IN SHORTS, DANG IT!
The sliding glass door is tugged open, making its' familiar gritty sliding noise before settling with a smack against the stoppers. Rogue comes out, in very much different attire. She's wearing her trusty long green coat, white gloves, and long brown pants. Her hand is gripped around a tall glass full of ice and tea, and the teen makes her way right for Jubilee. "Yah looked hot out 'ere." Rogue teases, holding out the glass to her friend. "Nice an' cold."
"Shuddup," Jubilee grouses, eyeing the iced-drink bitterly. "I'm celebratin'."
Rogue snorts a laugh, instead bringing the drink up to sip herself. "Oh? What... Christmas? Yah white 'nough for it." Her best friend says with a smirk and a nod towards the pasty knees. Not that Rogue can talk much, being pasty almost year round.
One closes a door to keep bugs out and patients in. This one is open. The detective's clothing is not the stuff of drawers, but closets and dark places: the brown overcoat is thin, unbuttoned over the black suit and equally black shirt; the tie, a paler green, licks pallid color against the monochrome. His head tipped to the lighting of a cigarette, hand lifted to shield against wind and its interruption, Chris Rossi steps out onto the patio and breathes in fresh air -- and nicotine.
"Spring!" Jubilee retorts, relaxing and unwinding as the sun passes from behind a bank of clouds and resumes it's warming. "Don't knock the tan. It's a little weak right now, but give me a couple hours a day for a week and it'll be bac--" Jubilee cuts off her boast at the appearance of someone new. Someone /old/ and new. *blink, blink* Huh? "Hey, Ro," she hisses. "Who's the scruff?"
Rogue barks a laugh and lets her eyes roll up. "Oh yeah. Warm weather. Don' remind me, okay?" She says with a sigh and eyes the so called 'tan'. "Wha'? Realize that' it won' happ-" Rogue retorts as Jubilee is cut off, but she ends up cutting herself off anyways. She peeks over her shoulder with knitted brows. "Erm. Dunno. New Professor maybe?"
Hardly. Smoke trails away, the cigarette lowered. Rossi rakes his free hand through his hair, scraping it away from the wide brow -- and blinks, gaze askance. Young people. Recognition stirs, tugging at a frown. "You're that kid from the thing," he realizes to Jubilee, Brooklyn's accent shaping the deep baritone. "Alyssa's friend. You're looking better." A glance skims aside to Rogue, inspecting her for idle posterity.
That kid from the thing. If only he knew how many variations on that tagline Jubilee could come up with. She cocks her head and peers closer, then rolls to her knees and pushes up to her feet, shoving her toes in and around the thongs of a pair of flipflops before ambling closer, pinching a piece of Rogue's shirt between her fingers as she moves, tugging her after. "Lyssa? Hunh?" A memory flares, slapping faces and situations into place, and she stops, face falling into blanked lines. "Oh. Yeah. The thing. Hi. Yeah. Um. Can't keep me down for long."
"What, he knows who /you/ are?" Rogue squeaks, jerking her head to look at Jubilee with wide eyes. The teen steps back and, tucking her hand and drink into her chest to allow Jubilee to pass freely. Of course, the pinched shirt causes her to jump forward, a grunt of annoyance coming from her. Reluctantly she follows, trying to stifle a laugh. "She has no idea wha' yah talkin' ah'bout, y'know."
"Been a while," Rossi grants, scratching lazily at the plane of cheek before planting his cigarette into the corner of his mouth. It hangs there, clinging to his lip in sheer bloody-minded defiance of gravity. "You get into that much trouble? --It was that time with the kid, what's his name. Allerdyce. You, Alyssa, exploding car--" Pale eyes squint at Rogue, mildly curious. "You kids must lead exciting lives."
"I do too!" Jubilee protests, back a heel up to step on Rogue's foot, defiance forcing life into expression and tone and leaving an after burn of her more naturally garrulous state. "I remember. You're one of Lyssa's dicks," she says, this one to Chris.
Rogue squints her eyes, missing the look from Rossi. "Shit, ow." She hisses at the back of her friends head. Her glass of iced tea is swirled slightly, letting the icecubes lazily clank around their cylinder glass cage. "Cool it, Jubes. Yeah, our lives are okay. So what are yah doing here, huh?" She asks, peeking around Jubilee.
Something sardonic (and vaguely appalled) moves behind Rossi's expression. "Cop," he clarifies, succinct. "Not a dick. Not in any sense of the word. At least, not in relation to Alyssa. --Just came by to talk to Summers." A hand searches absently for its pocket and finds it, the suit coat pushed back to show the empty mouth of a holster; the other, more hospitable, extends to Rogue. "You one of the students, too? Rossi. Detective Chris Rossi. Homicide and MA."
"Hunh. Thought you were a detective or somethin'" Jubilee shrugs, shoving her own hands into the hoodie's pockets and stretching them out before her as she rocks on her feet.
Rogue pushes past Jubes, placing her drink into her other hand as she moves to accept the handshake. Southern hospitality, that's Rogue... some of the time. "M'Rogue. An' this ray o'sunshine is Jubilee." She says, glancing back at the sparkplug.
"Asshole, yes," says Det. Rossi. "Dick, no. --Nice to meet you, Rogue. And Jubilation Lee, I already know. Weird names you guys have around here," he observes, baritone coasting deceptively bland. His handshake is brief and firm, the fingers ridged with calluses. "What do you guys call the Poodle Prince?"
Jubilee shoots a look at Rogue at this new moniker for Scott, then busts out laughing. "Poodle Prince? Scooter? Hahahaha!" She doubles over, sweatshirt clad hands balling on her knees.
Rogue looks amused as she allows her hand to retreat. "Huh. Never heard 'im called tha'. So... wha', you two close 'nough t'joke like tha' or do yah jus' not like Scott?" Rogue asks, innocently trying to figure out the relationship.
A black brow lifts; the cop's gaze slivers, green darkening in ready amusement. "Scooter? I can see that. Fits him," Rossi admits, rocking back slightly on his heels. "He's a good guy. I like him fine. He saved my life at least once, so I owe him one."
"You should talk ta Logan if ya want any more names ta use on him," Jubilee grins, straightening up and catching her breath. "Yeah? He's good at that kinda thing. Just don't try ta live with him."
Rogue mouths an 'ah' of understanding and nods. "He's ah good guy, yeah." She agrees, stepping to the side and looking at Jubilee. "She's warmed up t'yah, detective. An' um, how do you know Alyssa?" The teen asks, pushing the questions further.
Rossi's mouth skews, digging a barred furrow into its corner and above the raptor nose. "Friend of a friend," he says briefly. "Leah Canto. --Logan's the hairy guy dating Jean, right? Drinks good beer. Summers and him don't get along?"
Jubilee squints at the name, recognizing but not placing it, discarding it quickly in favor of nodding, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "That's one way ta put it."
Rogue humms through her close mouth, her eyes dropping down into her drink. She takes a sip and tries to figure out /exactly/ what is going on around here. "Logan doesn't get ah'long well wi' many people." Rogue comments with a glance above the glass rim. "'Course, some people say th' same ah'bout me." A nicely timed glare is given to Jubilee.
"You guys got a nickname for him? Besides Brillopad?" the man wonders, cigarette smoke curling a pale, ghostly wreath around his head before whisking away to visit other parts of the patio. "Good thing your guy Xavier has a big house, or else the roof would blow off, with all your mutations and personalities."
Jubilee crinkles her nose and sticks out her tongue at her friend. Her attention is redirected by Rossi's comment, and she frowns slightly. "Guess you know all about us then, huh?"
Rogue's eyebrows shoot up, and she takes a hesitant step back towards Jubilee without even thinking of it. "Who told yah?" She says suspiciously, her eyes narrowing slightly. Her toe scraps at the concrete tile.
"Jean," Rossi says, laconic over the name. Eyelids fan halfway shut, black lashes splintering amused green. "It's not exactly the world's best kept secret, though. By that point, I'd pretty much figured it out for myself. Between Alyssa, Allerdyce, Cassidy, Jean, and Summers-- that many mutants in one place sorta begs the question. So what're your stories?"
"You want our stories or our powers?" Jubilee shoots back, pulling her hands out and planting them on her hips, stepping forward into an aggressive stance, though her tone's not overly snappish.
Rogue gives the cop a searching look, her eyes skimming over to Jubilee. "He says Jean told him." She reminds her friend. After all, Jean is a trusted source, right? At least she hopes so. Rogue lets both hands grip her glance, not sure of how to answer.
The detective pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, smoothing away the remnant of his frown. "Whichever," he invites easily, Brooklyn's tincture deepening in his baritone. "Take your pick. Ending up here can't be too bad. Better not be, anyway, considering Jeremy and Alison're here now."
"Gummy bears on /crack/, just how inbred /are/ we?" Jubilee exclaims, throwing up her hands in exasperation. "I /know/," gets hissed back at Rogue before she holds up a hand and lets a fitful stream of energy flare up, then hooks a thumb at the other girl. "I make fireworks, an' she leeches. Orphans both. We graduated last year."
Rogue clears her throat and wiggles her gloved hand. "Um, yeah... what wi' th' killin' an' stealin' o' memories." She adds lazily, letting her eyes peel away. "We teach here." Rogue says with a tiny nod. "Nothin' too special, huh Jubes?"
Despite the verbal invitation, the reality takes Rossi somewhat by surprise. White shows startled around green irises at the dazzling display; an oath, jagged, rasps across the dangling cigarette on his automatic step back. "Shit," he says, stiffening the arm in its pocket. "You could warn a guy before you do a demonstration. --Killing and stealing of ... the fuck? You talking about what you do?" Abruptly wary, the cop's gaze skips to Rogue, measuring. "She doesn't mean you turn into some giant slimy bloodsucker, does she?"
Jubilee lets the energy sink back into her hand and lifts her brows in an expression of arrogant superiority that has more to do with her age than her powers. "What? You've already rattled off half the names on the attendance roster, you'd think you'd be used to the freakshow by now."
Rogue eyes her own hand, not looking at Rossi. "Nah, but at least tha'd mean Ah could get close t'someone wi'out killin' 'em." She says with a dull smirk. Rogue snags the tip of her white glove with her teet hand slides her hand out. "I can give ah demo, if yah'd like." She says past the glove in her mouth.
"Getting used to Cassidy's ugly face is one thing," Rossi says with some asperity. "Having someone go off like a roman candle in your face is something else. So some of that damage that day was your doing, I take it? Figures. The day I meet a witness who doesn't lie--" The baritone breaks off at Rogue's offer; the detective's brows arc, face hardening. "This the mutant power version of 'this tastes disgusting. Here, try this?'"
"Yeah? So? You'd rather those two have crapped all over Lyssa?" Jubilee retorts, stepping back and folding her arms across her chest and grinning encouragingly at Rogue. "You waitin' for us to dare ya?"
Rogue keeps up the same smirk, her other hand holding out the glass of tea to Jubilee to take. "Oh, c'mon now. Jus' ah hand shake, yeah? We did tha' before, 'member? Y'didn't get hurt." She pressures him, holding out her bare hand.
The detective's mouth slashes into a grim, thin line; his head lifts, baring the warm pulse of heartbeat beneath the skin, and the tightening of muscle in the jaw. "What does a handshake with bare skin do?" Rossi asks, pinching the cigarette from the corner of his mouth to flick its ash away. "I may be dead in a few months, but I don't got any particular yen to rush, getting there."
Jubilee takes the glass and curls it in to her chest. "She'd break contact 'fore ya /died/, wouldn't ya, Roguie?"
Rogue tugs the glove out of her mouth and stuffs the glove in her pocket. She flips her extended hand, polishing her nails before stepping towards Rossi again and offering it again. "Oh /sure/, Jubes. D'you know how ah'nnoying th' papers would be t'fill out if Ah didn't?" Rogue smiles up to Rossi. "C'mon, now Sah. Wouldn't deny ah lady ah handshake, would yah?" She says in her thickest southern accent.
The cigarette is nearly burned down. Rossi eyes it, stoops to stub it out on the sole of his shoe, and fields his other hand to take possession of it. "Fine," he says wryly, and meets Rogue's smiling gaze with a flat, level one of his own. "Just so you know, I end up dead? My ghost is coming after you, first." And the open hand stretches to claim hers.
"What the heck is it about your accent?" Jubilee queries. "You sure it's not a mind-control power on its own?"
Rogue seems pleased with herself. "Mayhaps, Jubilee. Jus' in case, yeh'd better watch yah step an' clean up your cereal bowls from now on before I get angry." She warns her friend. "Now, jus' relax, Sah. This won't hurt much... 'least, Ah don't think it will." Rogue grasps his hand with her own bare one, falling completely silent. After a few moments he should start to feel something much like being short of breath.
The detective's hand is strong and dry, laced across with small scars and calluses; his memories bloom full-fleshed and vivid across the contact: a sensualist's retrieval of sight, sound, taste, touch, and scent. The cool, echoing peace of a church's nave; the constriction of a priest's collar around the throat; the murmur of a dry, aged voice; the explosion and bloody spatter of a bullet through a woman's brain--
Jubilee starts as contact is actually made, nearly dropping the glass as she takes a step forward with a concern-varnished, "Ro...?"
Rogue breaks the contact, her eyes widening and a gasp getting caught up high in her voice. The girl starts shivering all over, her shocked eyes looking up at Rossi. "Ah- Ah..." Rogue gulps down a bit of air. "Jesus." She says in a cracked voice, stepping backwards until coming threatening to come into contact with Jubilee unless the other moves.
Rossi's pulse races in the hollow of his throat, his shoulders stiff over the rapid rise and fall of his chest. "Shit," he says, baritone ragged over his awkward step back. "That's some wallop you got there, kid. What'd you do?" He bends, planting hands on knees, black head drooped in vertigo's aftermath.
Jubilee doesn't move and staggers back with the contact, the glass slipping and shattering on the cement, ignored for the moment as she grips Rogue's shoulders. "Hey lollipop," she murmurs near the girl's ear, glancing between the two. "She probably got some memories. Energy too. If you was like us, she'd have gotten yer power too, for a little while."
Rogue cements herself to the ground, trying not to sway. "There was a... a woman... an'..." Rogue says in a hoarse voice. Her eyes sweep up to the cop for a second but they seem unable to stay there and instead fall back. She lets herself push up against Jubilee for comfort. "Ah gotta... Ah gotta go lay down." Rogue whines, kneading her hand into her forehead. "Jubes..."
"Memories," Rossi repeats breathlessly, tousled head lifting. Eyes glitter, focusing sharply on the two girls. "Well, shit. Which ones? Probably should've warned me about that. Not a lot of Rated-G stuff in there. --She going to be okay?" he demands, straightening to tower over the pair.
"Yeah," Jubilee answers, lips twisting into a wryly disapproving grimace. "Probably just snippets. She wasn't holdin' on long enough to get much that'll make sense I think. Don' worry. Your favorite line o' porn's probably safe." Jubilee starts to push Rogue toward the house, maneuvering into a supportive posture before glancing back at the detective. "Sorry 'bout that, by the way."
Rogue tenses her shoulders, her head ducked and her eyes shutting tightly. She allows herself to be pushed, her hands curling up against her stomach as she stumbles towards the house. "S'everywhere, Jubes. It's like Ah can /feel/ it." Rogue mumbles hastily, seeming glad to get out of the sight of Rossi.
"The poodles're always claiming their school's safe," Rossi says, a hand sliding into its pocket. His gaze follows them, thoughtful, speculative. "So much for that."
[Log ends]
---
Art Room
The room chosen for the art studio is pleasant wide and open. Like the Music Room, it can be hot in the summer, but there are several windows lining one wall to remedy some of this. The effort has been taken here to plaster and paint the walls a fresh coat of white, although several classes of students have thoroughly covered most of this in grand murals of their own. Dragons, suns, colored banners, skeletons, rolling landscapes... all cover the walls to create the comfortable feeling of being enclosed in creativity. There are no desks here, but a few large tables and chairs are set up at one end mostly, for classes. A few large canvases leaning against the walls are evidence of works in progress. Against any bare spot of wall available there are shelves and cupboards to contain the many art supplies used here.
Scott is not a painter. Anything he did, mind, would be all about hue and contrast instead of color, which could provide some interesting semi-modernist motifs. As it is, however, he can appreciate contrast and motif and he is examining the decorated walls with a critical air.
The door is open, which makes it easier for visitors, say, to pass and glance in and recognize the critic. Visitors such as Rossi, who prowls down the hallway with his hands in his pockets, thin overcoat a cape behind him. "--Summers," he greets, pausing. The baritone is already exasperated, as though plucked out of the middle of an ongoing conversation. "There you are. This place is a goddamn maze."
"Intellectual stimulation," Scott rephrases and turns, efficient, on his heel. His expression, as ever, is neutral as the white plaster wall this used to be. "Evening, Rossi. What can we do for you"
"Like rats," Rossi punctuates in his turn, straight arms stiffening to the press of shoulders. A few steps carry him into the room, for a dubious glance around the walls. "Colorful. --They pulled me from assignment, so I thought I'd come by and check on you. See if you'd gotten anywhere on the Friends. Ran into some of your kids downstairs."
"Ah. I trust that was entertaining?" Scott says, with a paired step toward Rossi, toes touching light before heels join more steadyingly. "I'm afraid I've found nothing on the Friends, however. Business. Rather engrossing lately." He says this with a certain tensed regret.
A hand untangles from its cloth shelter, reaching up to scrub through black hair. "'Entertaining' isn't the word for it," Rossi says, dry and terse; the coat, pulled up and open by the gesture, bares the empty hang of the holster and belt-slung badge. "What's her name, Rogue? She shook my hand, and went off, looking sick. Guess she got some memories, or something. There ain't a lot in my brain that's rated for general consumption."
Scott's wince is visible in his left eyebrow and nostril. Then, he releases tension with a sigh. "Rogue. Why on earth did she shake your hand without a glove? How are you, by the way? Her power is two-way unpleasant, often."
"I'm fine," Rossi says, prowling around the room's perimeters with the bleed of excess, nervous energy. "Think they thought it'd be funny. Kids. Your school may be safe by /your/ standards," he adds, squinting dubiously at a wildly chromatic canvas, "but it sure as hell isn't for guys like me."
Invisibly, Scott's eyes track the detective, and his chin cants a fraction. "It's not always safe by my standards. They shouldn't have done that. I'll need to talk with them." He takes another, weighted step. "If friends of the school can't walk its walls without being harrassed, we're very poor hosts."
Green eyes glance at Scott, shadowed by the lowered brows. "Kids," Rossi says again, and some tightness in his face eases. The stalking stride slows, coming to a halt. "They probably didn't mean any harm. Can't blame them. Their age, I was doing shit that would've gotten me arrested if anyone caught me."
"Their age, I was doing . . . " Scott's brow furrows. "Nothing, really. Of any import. But, indeed. They mean no harm."
"What were you doing?" Rossi wonders, couching his hands in his pockets again. White gleams in a sudden, mocking grin. "--Scooter?"
"Nothing," Scott insists darkly. "Of any import."
Rossi considers Scott, head canted to a quizzical question mark. "Prom, wasn't it? That's right, you told me. Sucks," he opines, moving with graceless, indifferent impatience from one easel to the next. Giraffe. Headless. He ponders it with blank suspicion. "I got some bites from informants while I was under, but nothing really good. Freaking Red Queen. Running in place to stay still."
"Prom. 16. Younger than they are." Scott is a bastion of accuracy. Who looks at Rossi with a general eyebrow raise. "Red Queen? Explain."
"Lewis Carroll. Nuns made me read it, back in the day." A backhanded gesture dismisses the author and his indomitable heroine. Chris touches fingertips to a lick of gleaming wall, checks them for paint, and finds them undyed. "There's some character in it called the Red Queen. Has some kind of race, where you run and never get anywhere -- bizarre, the shit that stays in your head."
"Ah. I've actually read that. I just thought it was --" Scott raises two fingers as if to pluck out the reference, but lowers them, warily. He tries a smile. "All queens are red to me. Perhaps all races as well."
Surprised, the other man glances to Scott and remembers, visibly, brought up short by that unreadable red stare. "I forgot," Rossi admits. "You see red when you take those off? Or colors?"
"No." Scott's lip lifts high. "It's, however, unimportant."
Det. Rossi regards Scott with curiosity. "You ever just ... let loose, Summers?"
"Occasionally." Scott's lip falls down to impassive. "It tends to frighten people."
"Blowing shit up frightens people. Or you talking about letting your hair down and putting on a hula skirt?"
"Both." Scott must raise his finger to point this out.
Chris's mouth curves crookedly; amusement lights the pale gaze, relaxing the harsh features. "You need one of those things. A loving, caring, accepting environment, like the therapist says. --Never got around to inviting you over to the Rossi house, did I?" he recalls. "C'mon by. You can hula all you want. If more than one of us kids are there, things'll be blowing up anyway. They won't notice anything you nuke."
Ah. That eyebrow climbs like a sudden mountaineer. "Rossi, I make a point of avoiding loud and noisy gatherings. I get quite enough of that."
"Good point," Rossi grants. "How about a date? Not with me, before you get any ideas. My sister Julia."
"A date?" Scott's eyebrow is just staying persistently pinned there. Oh, the bleeding incredulity.
Shoulders hike up, betraying discomfort by their stiffened slope. "My sister," Chris reminds and winces a little, shadow trembling like an oath at the corner of his eye. "I promised her I'd give you her number."
"Why?" The eyebrow reaches terminal, uncomfortable height, almost a suspended wince.
"She saw you in the hospital, that time after the Dumbass Duo," Rossi says, abandoning the walls to wander back towards the doorway. A hand feeds through hair again, starfished wide to ravage through black. "I suppose she liked you. --The hell do I know. I'm not asking my sister about her taste in men. Normally she goes for cops or FD."
"Perhaps, in spirit, I am close enough." Eyebrow dips low. Scott attempts another faint smile. "I suppose it couldn't hurt. But I'd hope you've warned her about what kind of company I am."
The hand agitates through hair again, scraping it into drunken hedgehog bristles. "You're the one who needs to be warned," Rossi says bluntly. "She's -- Julia's kinda like a force of nature. Anyway. Here's her number. Call her if you feel up to it. She's good company, at least."
"Ah. But a force of nature." Scott accepts a number with obvious, bedarkened wariness. His nostrils emit a light flare. "Does she insist on sex on a first date?"
"Oh, for /fuck's/ sake--" Rossi casts a swift, harassed look at Scott. "Jesus, man. She's my /sister/. This is not shit I want to know about her."
"/I/ would like to know it about her," Scott says, chin lifting.
"Then ask /her/," Chris directs, shoulders flattening and pulling back. "Far as I'm concerned, my sister never has sex. Ever. Someday soon, she'll join a convent and die a nun." He begins prowing towards the hallway, pausing only to enunciate: "A /virgin/ nun."
"And yet, she is a force of nature. A saintly force of nature? A pure wind, perhaps?" Scott keeps his voice terribly deadpan.
Det. Rossi's shoulders creep up towards his ears. "--on her Hayabusa, or Ducati, or whichever it is that isn't in pieces on her garage floor right now. Asshole. She races," he admits grudgingly. "AMA. And she's an engineer in the FDNY. You two should get along like a ... whatever."
"Ah." Scott's smile widen slightly. "Perhaps we shall indeed get along, then."
Chris eyes that smile with deep, entrenched suspicion, a vaguely baffled look sliding across his face. His jaw thrusts out. He is disgruntled. "Fantastic," he says, without conviction. "Anyway. I'm heading out. Haven't spent a night in my own bed since this gig started. --Check up on that kid, Rogue," he advises, stepping out into the hallway. "I don't know what she got from my memories, but just in case...."
"I will speak with her," Scott promises, his voice low. "I suppose I may well speak to your sister, as well. If for different reasons. Apparently."
"A nun, Summers," Rossi reminds, his pace carrying him down the hall at a rapid pace. The baritone trails behind, a stern echo of brotherly concern. "A /virgin/ nun."
"Of course, Rossi," Scott says, with a purely acknowledging nod.
If the detective hears it, he gives no sign; there is none to give. The hallway is empty, gone, free of cops and their corruptive influence. There is paint on the walls of the art room, see? Look at the walls, Scott.
Scott dutifully looks at the walls. And sighs. "I liked the bare plaster better," he finally judges.
The walls sulk.
Something to be said for pants that you can open.
Pretty sure we got the right guy. Can't imagine what Father Simon's thinking right now. Poor guy. This assignment sucked ass. Hate the lying. May have done some good even as a fake priest, though I'm pretty sure if the Archdiocese ever hears about the Planned Parenthood thing, I'll be excommunicated faster than you can say 'no glove, no love.' Going to miss Sister Angelica and Mrs. Molnar and Father Simon. Not to mention Miguel. Would go back there for a visit someday, but they pulled me out without blowing my cover. Chickenshit that I am, figure they're better off believing the lie.
Headed over to Xavier's after debrief, looking for Summers. Ran into a couple of their kids when I headed out to the patio for a smoke. Weird power that girl Rogue has. That's got to suck. Full body condom doesn't sound like a lot of fun, if that's what she's got ahead of her. Evolution's kind of a bitch. Good to see the thing with the Allerdyce kid didn't leave any permanent scars on the Jubilee kid, though. None that I can see, anyway. Perky chick. Probably a side effect of being a walking firecracker.
The school's safe, my ass. Safe for mutants, maybe. Wonder what memories Rogue got? She was looking pretty green. Shit. If she got one of those memories, I'm going to feel like a goddamn pedophile.
Shit. I hope Julia doesn't fuck Summers over.
Mary Mother of God. I hope Julia doesn'
---
The sun's out, the thermometer is hovering around the 70 mark, and white knees are making their appearances in skirt and shorts dug out of the bottom of the drawer. Not that Jubilee has too worry /too/ much about blinding skin-tones... She's sitting stubbornly in a patch of sunlight at the far end of the patio, crosslegged and arms folded, huddling into a hooded sweatshirt. BUT SHE'S IN SHORTS, DANG IT!
The sliding glass door is tugged open, making its' familiar gritty sliding noise before settling with a smack against the stoppers. Rogue comes out, in very much different attire. She's wearing her trusty long green coat, white gloves, and long brown pants. Her hand is gripped around a tall glass full of ice and tea, and the teen makes her way right for Jubilee. "Yah looked hot out 'ere." Rogue teases, holding out the glass to her friend. "Nice an' cold."
"Shuddup," Jubilee grouses, eyeing the iced-drink bitterly. "I'm celebratin'."
Rogue snorts a laugh, instead bringing the drink up to sip herself. "Oh? What... Christmas? Yah white 'nough for it." Her best friend says with a smirk and a nod towards the pasty knees. Not that Rogue can talk much, being pasty almost year round.
One closes a door to keep bugs out and patients in. This one is open. The detective's clothing is not the stuff of drawers, but closets and dark places: the brown overcoat is thin, unbuttoned over the black suit and equally black shirt; the tie, a paler green, licks pallid color against the monochrome. His head tipped to the lighting of a cigarette, hand lifted to shield against wind and its interruption, Chris Rossi steps out onto the patio and breathes in fresh air -- and nicotine.
"Spring!" Jubilee retorts, relaxing and unwinding as the sun passes from behind a bank of clouds and resumes it's warming. "Don't knock the tan. It's a little weak right now, but give me a couple hours a day for a week and it'll be bac--" Jubilee cuts off her boast at the appearance of someone new. Someone /old/ and new. *blink, blink* Huh? "Hey, Ro," she hisses. "Who's the scruff?"
Rogue barks a laugh and lets her eyes roll up. "Oh yeah. Warm weather. Don' remind me, okay?" She says with a sigh and eyes the so called 'tan'. "Wha'? Realize that' it won' happ-" Rogue retorts as Jubilee is cut off, but she ends up cutting herself off anyways. She peeks over her shoulder with knitted brows. "Erm. Dunno. New Professor maybe?"
Hardly. Smoke trails away, the cigarette lowered. Rossi rakes his free hand through his hair, scraping it away from the wide brow -- and blinks, gaze askance. Young people. Recognition stirs, tugging at a frown. "You're that kid from the thing," he realizes to Jubilee, Brooklyn's accent shaping the deep baritone. "Alyssa's friend. You're looking better." A glance skims aside to Rogue, inspecting her for idle posterity.
That kid from the thing. If only he knew how many variations on that tagline Jubilee could come up with. She cocks her head and peers closer, then rolls to her knees and pushes up to her feet, shoving her toes in and around the thongs of a pair of flipflops before ambling closer, pinching a piece of Rogue's shirt between her fingers as she moves, tugging her after. "Lyssa? Hunh?" A memory flares, slapping faces and situations into place, and she stops, face falling into blanked lines. "Oh. Yeah. The thing. Hi. Yeah. Um. Can't keep me down for long."
"What, he knows who /you/ are?" Rogue squeaks, jerking her head to look at Jubilee with wide eyes. The teen steps back and, tucking her hand and drink into her chest to allow Jubilee to pass freely. Of course, the pinched shirt causes her to jump forward, a grunt of annoyance coming from her. Reluctantly she follows, trying to stifle a laugh. "She has no idea wha' yah talkin' ah'bout, y'know."
"Been a while," Rossi grants, scratching lazily at the plane of cheek before planting his cigarette into the corner of his mouth. It hangs there, clinging to his lip in sheer bloody-minded defiance of gravity. "You get into that much trouble? --It was that time with the kid, what's his name. Allerdyce. You, Alyssa, exploding car--" Pale eyes squint at Rogue, mildly curious. "You kids must lead exciting lives."
"I do too!" Jubilee protests, back a heel up to step on Rogue's foot, defiance forcing life into expression and tone and leaving an after burn of her more naturally garrulous state. "I remember. You're one of Lyssa's dicks," she says, this one to Chris.
Rogue squints her eyes, missing the look from Rossi. "Shit, ow." She hisses at the back of her friends head. Her glass of iced tea is swirled slightly, letting the icecubes lazily clank around their cylinder glass cage. "Cool it, Jubes. Yeah, our lives are okay. So what are yah doing here, huh?" She asks, peeking around Jubilee.
Something sardonic (and vaguely appalled) moves behind Rossi's expression. "Cop," he clarifies, succinct. "Not a dick. Not in any sense of the word. At least, not in relation to Alyssa. --Just came by to talk to Summers." A hand searches absently for its pocket and finds it, the suit coat pushed back to show the empty mouth of a holster; the other, more hospitable, extends to Rogue. "You one of the students, too? Rossi. Detective Chris Rossi. Homicide and MA."
"Hunh. Thought you were a detective or somethin'" Jubilee shrugs, shoving her own hands into the hoodie's pockets and stretching them out before her as she rocks on her feet.
Rogue pushes past Jubes, placing her drink into her other hand as she moves to accept the handshake. Southern hospitality, that's Rogue... some of the time. "M'Rogue. An' this ray o'sunshine is Jubilee." She says, glancing back at the sparkplug.
"Asshole, yes," says Det. Rossi. "Dick, no. --Nice to meet you, Rogue. And Jubilation Lee, I already know. Weird names you guys have around here," he observes, baritone coasting deceptively bland. His handshake is brief and firm, the fingers ridged with calluses. "What do you guys call the Poodle Prince?"
Jubilee shoots a look at Rogue at this new moniker for Scott, then busts out laughing. "Poodle Prince? Scooter? Hahahaha!" She doubles over, sweatshirt clad hands balling on her knees.
Rogue looks amused as she allows her hand to retreat. "Huh. Never heard 'im called tha'. So... wha', you two close 'nough t'joke like tha' or do yah jus' not like Scott?" Rogue asks, innocently trying to figure out the relationship.
A black brow lifts; the cop's gaze slivers, green darkening in ready amusement. "Scooter? I can see that. Fits him," Rossi admits, rocking back slightly on his heels. "He's a good guy. I like him fine. He saved my life at least once, so I owe him one."
"You should talk ta Logan if ya want any more names ta use on him," Jubilee grins, straightening up and catching her breath. "Yeah? He's good at that kinda thing. Just don't try ta live with him."
Rogue mouths an 'ah' of understanding and nods. "He's ah good guy, yeah." She agrees, stepping to the side and looking at Jubilee. "She's warmed up t'yah, detective. An' um, how do you know Alyssa?" The teen asks, pushing the questions further.
Rossi's mouth skews, digging a barred furrow into its corner and above the raptor nose. "Friend of a friend," he says briefly. "Leah Canto. --Logan's the hairy guy dating Jean, right? Drinks good beer. Summers and him don't get along?"
Jubilee squints at the name, recognizing but not placing it, discarding it quickly in favor of nodding, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "That's one way ta put it."
Rogue humms through her close mouth, her eyes dropping down into her drink. She takes a sip and tries to figure out /exactly/ what is going on around here. "Logan doesn't get ah'long well wi' many people." Rogue comments with a glance above the glass rim. "'Course, some people say th' same ah'bout me." A nicely timed glare is given to Jubilee.
"You guys got a nickname for him? Besides Brillopad?" the man wonders, cigarette smoke curling a pale, ghostly wreath around his head before whisking away to visit other parts of the patio. "Good thing your guy Xavier has a big house, or else the roof would blow off, with all your mutations and personalities."
Jubilee crinkles her nose and sticks out her tongue at her friend. Her attention is redirected by Rossi's comment, and she frowns slightly. "Guess you know all about us then, huh?"
Rogue's eyebrows shoot up, and she takes a hesitant step back towards Jubilee without even thinking of it. "Who told yah?" She says suspiciously, her eyes narrowing slightly. Her toe scraps at the concrete tile.
"Jean," Rossi says, laconic over the name. Eyelids fan halfway shut, black lashes splintering amused green. "It's not exactly the world's best kept secret, though. By that point, I'd pretty much figured it out for myself. Between Alyssa, Allerdyce, Cassidy, Jean, and Summers-- that many mutants in one place sorta begs the question. So what're your stories?"
"You want our stories or our powers?" Jubilee shoots back, pulling her hands out and planting them on her hips, stepping forward into an aggressive stance, though her tone's not overly snappish.
Rogue gives the cop a searching look, her eyes skimming over to Jubilee. "He says Jean told him." She reminds her friend. After all, Jean is a trusted source, right? At least she hopes so. Rogue lets both hands grip her glance, not sure of how to answer.
The detective pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, smoothing away the remnant of his frown. "Whichever," he invites easily, Brooklyn's tincture deepening in his baritone. "Take your pick. Ending up here can't be too bad. Better not be, anyway, considering Jeremy and Alison're here now."
"Gummy bears on /crack/, just how inbred /are/ we?" Jubilee exclaims, throwing up her hands in exasperation. "I /know/," gets hissed back at Rogue before she holds up a hand and lets a fitful stream of energy flare up, then hooks a thumb at the other girl. "I make fireworks, an' she leeches. Orphans both. We graduated last year."
Rogue clears her throat and wiggles her gloved hand. "Um, yeah... what wi' th' killin' an' stealin' o' memories." She adds lazily, letting her eyes peel away. "We teach here." Rogue says with a tiny nod. "Nothin' too special, huh Jubes?"
Despite the verbal invitation, the reality takes Rossi somewhat by surprise. White shows startled around green irises at the dazzling display; an oath, jagged, rasps across the dangling cigarette on his automatic step back. "Shit," he says, stiffening the arm in its pocket. "You could warn a guy before you do a demonstration. --Killing and stealing of ... the fuck? You talking about what you do?" Abruptly wary, the cop's gaze skips to Rogue, measuring. "She doesn't mean you turn into some giant slimy bloodsucker, does she?"
Jubilee lets the energy sink back into her hand and lifts her brows in an expression of arrogant superiority that has more to do with her age than her powers. "What? You've already rattled off half the names on the attendance roster, you'd think you'd be used to the freakshow by now."
Rogue eyes her own hand, not looking at Rossi. "Nah, but at least tha'd mean Ah could get close t'someone wi'out killin' 'em." She says with a dull smirk. Rogue snags the tip of her white glove with her teet hand slides her hand out. "I can give ah demo, if yah'd like." She says past the glove in her mouth.
"Getting used to Cassidy's ugly face is one thing," Rossi says with some asperity. "Having someone go off like a roman candle in your face is something else. So some of that damage that day was your doing, I take it? Figures. The day I meet a witness who doesn't lie--" The baritone breaks off at Rogue's offer; the detective's brows arc, face hardening. "This the mutant power version of 'this tastes disgusting. Here, try this?'"
"Yeah? So? You'd rather those two have crapped all over Lyssa?" Jubilee retorts, stepping back and folding her arms across her chest and grinning encouragingly at Rogue. "You waitin' for us to dare ya?"
Rogue keeps up the same smirk, her other hand holding out the glass of tea to Jubilee to take. "Oh, c'mon now. Jus' ah hand shake, yeah? We did tha' before, 'member? Y'didn't get hurt." She pressures him, holding out her bare hand.
The detective's mouth slashes into a grim, thin line; his head lifts, baring the warm pulse of heartbeat beneath the skin, and the tightening of muscle in the jaw. "What does a handshake with bare skin do?" Rossi asks, pinching the cigarette from the corner of his mouth to flick its ash away. "I may be dead in a few months, but I don't got any particular yen to rush, getting there."
Jubilee takes the glass and curls it in to her chest. "She'd break contact 'fore ya /died/, wouldn't ya, Roguie?"
Rogue tugs the glove out of her mouth and stuffs the glove in her pocket. She flips her extended hand, polishing her nails before stepping towards Rossi again and offering it again. "Oh /sure/, Jubes. D'you know how ah'nnoying th' papers would be t'fill out if Ah didn't?" Rogue smiles up to Rossi. "C'mon, now Sah. Wouldn't deny ah lady ah handshake, would yah?" She says in her thickest southern accent.
The cigarette is nearly burned down. Rossi eyes it, stoops to stub it out on the sole of his shoe, and fields his other hand to take possession of it. "Fine," he says wryly, and meets Rogue's smiling gaze with a flat, level one of his own. "Just so you know, I end up dead? My ghost is coming after you, first." And the open hand stretches to claim hers.
"What the heck is it about your accent?" Jubilee queries. "You sure it's not a mind-control power on its own?"
Rogue seems pleased with herself. "Mayhaps, Jubilee. Jus' in case, yeh'd better watch yah step an' clean up your cereal bowls from now on before I get angry." She warns her friend. "Now, jus' relax, Sah. This won't hurt much... 'least, Ah don't think it will." Rogue grasps his hand with her own bare one, falling completely silent. After a few moments he should start to feel something much like being short of breath.
The detective's hand is strong and dry, laced across with small scars and calluses; his memories bloom full-fleshed and vivid across the contact: a sensualist's retrieval of sight, sound, taste, touch, and scent. The cool, echoing peace of a church's nave; the constriction of a priest's collar around the throat; the murmur of a dry, aged voice; the explosion and bloody spatter of a bullet through a woman's brain--
Jubilee starts as contact is actually made, nearly dropping the glass as she takes a step forward with a concern-varnished, "Ro...?"
Rogue breaks the contact, her eyes widening and a gasp getting caught up high in her voice. The girl starts shivering all over, her shocked eyes looking up at Rossi. "Ah- Ah..." Rogue gulps down a bit of air. "Jesus." She says in a cracked voice, stepping backwards until coming threatening to come into contact with Jubilee unless the other moves.
Rossi's pulse races in the hollow of his throat, his shoulders stiff over the rapid rise and fall of his chest. "Shit," he says, baritone ragged over his awkward step back. "That's some wallop you got there, kid. What'd you do?" He bends, planting hands on knees, black head drooped in vertigo's aftermath.
Jubilee doesn't move and staggers back with the contact, the glass slipping and shattering on the cement, ignored for the moment as she grips Rogue's shoulders. "Hey lollipop," she murmurs near the girl's ear, glancing between the two. "She probably got some memories. Energy too. If you was like us, she'd have gotten yer power too, for a little while."
Rogue cements herself to the ground, trying not to sway. "There was a... a woman... an'..." Rogue says in a hoarse voice. Her eyes sweep up to the cop for a second but they seem unable to stay there and instead fall back. She lets herself push up against Jubilee for comfort. "Ah gotta... Ah gotta go lay down." Rogue whines, kneading her hand into her forehead. "Jubes..."
"Memories," Rossi repeats breathlessly, tousled head lifting. Eyes glitter, focusing sharply on the two girls. "Well, shit. Which ones? Probably should've warned me about that. Not a lot of Rated-G stuff in there. --She going to be okay?" he demands, straightening to tower over the pair.
"Yeah," Jubilee answers, lips twisting into a wryly disapproving grimace. "Probably just snippets. She wasn't holdin' on long enough to get much that'll make sense I think. Don' worry. Your favorite line o' porn's probably safe." Jubilee starts to push Rogue toward the house, maneuvering into a supportive posture before glancing back at the detective. "Sorry 'bout that, by the way."
Rogue tenses her shoulders, her head ducked and her eyes shutting tightly. She allows herself to be pushed, her hands curling up against her stomach as she stumbles towards the house. "S'everywhere, Jubes. It's like Ah can /feel/ it." Rogue mumbles hastily, seeming glad to get out of the sight of Rossi.
"The poodles're always claiming their school's safe," Rossi says, a hand sliding into its pocket. His gaze follows them, thoughtful, speculative. "So much for that."
[Log ends]
---
Art Room
The room chosen for the art studio is pleasant wide and open. Like the Music Room, it can be hot in the summer, but there are several windows lining one wall to remedy some of this. The effort has been taken here to plaster and paint the walls a fresh coat of white, although several classes of students have thoroughly covered most of this in grand murals of their own. Dragons, suns, colored banners, skeletons, rolling landscapes... all cover the walls to create the comfortable feeling of being enclosed in creativity. There are no desks here, but a few large tables and chairs are set up at one end mostly, for classes. A few large canvases leaning against the walls are evidence of works in progress. Against any bare spot of wall available there are shelves and cupboards to contain the many art supplies used here.
Scott is not a painter. Anything he did, mind, would be all about hue and contrast instead of color, which could provide some interesting semi-modernist motifs. As it is, however, he can appreciate contrast and motif and he is examining the decorated walls with a critical air.
The door is open, which makes it easier for visitors, say, to pass and glance in and recognize the critic. Visitors such as Rossi, who prowls down the hallway with his hands in his pockets, thin overcoat a cape behind him. "--Summers," he greets, pausing. The baritone is already exasperated, as though plucked out of the middle of an ongoing conversation. "There you are. This place is a goddamn maze."
"Intellectual stimulation," Scott rephrases and turns, efficient, on his heel. His expression, as ever, is neutral as the white plaster wall this used to be. "Evening, Rossi. What can we do for you"
"Like rats," Rossi punctuates in his turn, straight arms stiffening to the press of shoulders. A few steps carry him into the room, for a dubious glance around the walls. "Colorful. --They pulled me from assignment, so I thought I'd come by and check on you. See if you'd gotten anywhere on the Friends. Ran into some of your kids downstairs."
"Ah. I trust that was entertaining?" Scott says, with a paired step toward Rossi, toes touching light before heels join more steadyingly. "I'm afraid I've found nothing on the Friends, however. Business. Rather engrossing lately." He says this with a certain tensed regret.
A hand untangles from its cloth shelter, reaching up to scrub through black hair. "'Entertaining' isn't the word for it," Rossi says, dry and terse; the coat, pulled up and open by the gesture, bares the empty hang of the holster and belt-slung badge. "What's her name, Rogue? She shook my hand, and went off, looking sick. Guess she got some memories, or something. There ain't a lot in my brain that's rated for general consumption."
Scott's wince is visible in his left eyebrow and nostril. Then, he releases tension with a sigh. "Rogue. Why on earth did she shake your hand without a glove? How are you, by the way? Her power is two-way unpleasant, often."
"I'm fine," Rossi says, prowling around the room's perimeters with the bleed of excess, nervous energy. "Think they thought it'd be funny. Kids. Your school may be safe by /your/ standards," he adds, squinting dubiously at a wildly chromatic canvas, "but it sure as hell isn't for guys like me."
Invisibly, Scott's eyes track the detective, and his chin cants a fraction. "It's not always safe by my standards. They shouldn't have done that. I'll need to talk with them." He takes another, weighted step. "If friends of the school can't walk its walls without being harrassed, we're very poor hosts."
Green eyes glance at Scott, shadowed by the lowered brows. "Kids," Rossi says again, and some tightness in his face eases. The stalking stride slows, coming to a halt. "They probably didn't mean any harm. Can't blame them. Their age, I was doing shit that would've gotten me arrested if anyone caught me."
"Their age, I was doing . . . " Scott's brow furrows. "Nothing, really. Of any import. But, indeed. They mean no harm."
"What were you doing?" Rossi wonders, couching his hands in his pockets again. White gleams in a sudden, mocking grin. "--Scooter?"
"Nothing," Scott insists darkly. "Of any import."
Rossi considers Scott, head canted to a quizzical question mark. "Prom, wasn't it? That's right, you told me. Sucks," he opines, moving with graceless, indifferent impatience from one easel to the next. Giraffe. Headless. He ponders it with blank suspicion. "I got some bites from informants while I was under, but nothing really good. Freaking Red Queen. Running in place to stay still."
"Prom. 16. Younger than they are." Scott is a bastion of accuracy. Who looks at Rossi with a general eyebrow raise. "Red Queen? Explain."
"Lewis Carroll. Nuns made me read it, back in the day." A backhanded gesture dismisses the author and his indomitable heroine. Chris touches fingertips to a lick of gleaming wall, checks them for paint, and finds them undyed. "There's some character in it called the Red Queen. Has some kind of race, where you run and never get anywhere -- bizarre, the shit that stays in your head."
"Ah. I've actually read that. I just thought it was --" Scott raises two fingers as if to pluck out the reference, but lowers them, warily. He tries a smile. "All queens are red to me. Perhaps all races as well."
Surprised, the other man glances to Scott and remembers, visibly, brought up short by that unreadable red stare. "I forgot," Rossi admits. "You see red when you take those off? Or colors?"
"No." Scott's lip lifts high. "It's, however, unimportant."
Det. Rossi regards Scott with curiosity. "You ever just ... let loose, Summers?"
"Occasionally." Scott's lip falls down to impassive. "It tends to frighten people."
"Blowing shit up frightens people. Or you talking about letting your hair down and putting on a hula skirt?"
"Both." Scott must raise his finger to point this out.
Chris's mouth curves crookedly; amusement lights the pale gaze, relaxing the harsh features. "You need one of those things. A loving, caring, accepting environment, like the therapist says. --Never got around to inviting you over to the Rossi house, did I?" he recalls. "C'mon by. You can hula all you want. If more than one of us kids are there, things'll be blowing up anyway. They won't notice anything you nuke."
Ah. That eyebrow climbs like a sudden mountaineer. "Rossi, I make a point of avoiding loud and noisy gatherings. I get quite enough of that."
"Good point," Rossi grants. "How about a date? Not with me, before you get any ideas. My sister Julia."
"A date?" Scott's eyebrow is just staying persistently pinned there. Oh, the bleeding incredulity.
Shoulders hike up, betraying discomfort by their stiffened slope. "My sister," Chris reminds and winces a little, shadow trembling like an oath at the corner of his eye. "I promised her I'd give you her number."
"Why?" The eyebrow reaches terminal, uncomfortable height, almost a suspended wince.
"She saw you in the hospital, that time after the Dumbass Duo," Rossi says, abandoning the walls to wander back towards the doorway. A hand feeds through hair again, starfished wide to ravage through black. "I suppose she liked you. --The hell do I know. I'm not asking my sister about her taste in men. Normally she goes for cops or FD."
"Perhaps, in spirit, I am close enough." Eyebrow dips low. Scott attempts another faint smile. "I suppose it couldn't hurt. But I'd hope you've warned her about what kind of company I am."
The hand agitates through hair again, scraping it into drunken hedgehog bristles. "You're the one who needs to be warned," Rossi says bluntly. "She's -- Julia's kinda like a force of nature. Anyway. Here's her number. Call her if you feel up to it. She's good company, at least."
"Ah. But a force of nature." Scott accepts a number with obvious, bedarkened wariness. His nostrils emit a light flare. "Does she insist on sex on a first date?"
"Oh, for /fuck's/ sake--" Rossi casts a swift, harassed look at Scott. "Jesus, man. She's my /sister/. This is not shit I want to know about her."
"/I/ would like to know it about her," Scott says, chin lifting.
"Then ask /her/," Chris directs, shoulders flattening and pulling back. "Far as I'm concerned, my sister never has sex. Ever. Someday soon, she'll join a convent and die a nun." He begins prowing towards the hallway, pausing only to enunciate: "A /virgin/ nun."
"And yet, she is a force of nature. A saintly force of nature? A pure wind, perhaps?" Scott keeps his voice terribly deadpan.
Det. Rossi's shoulders creep up towards his ears. "--on her Hayabusa, or Ducati, or whichever it is that isn't in pieces on her garage floor right now. Asshole. She races," he admits grudgingly. "AMA. And she's an engineer in the FDNY. You two should get along like a ... whatever."
"Ah." Scott's smile widen slightly. "Perhaps we shall indeed get along, then."
Chris eyes that smile with deep, entrenched suspicion, a vaguely baffled look sliding across his face. His jaw thrusts out. He is disgruntled. "Fantastic," he says, without conviction. "Anyway. I'm heading out. Haven't spent a night in my own bed since this gig started. --Check up on that kid, Rogue," he advises, stepping out into the hallway. "I don't know what she got from my memories, but just in case...."
"I will speak with her," Scott promises, his voice low. "I suppose I may well speak to your sister, as well. If for different reasons. Apparently."
"A nun, Summers," Rossi reminds, his pace carrying him down the hall at a rapid pace. The baritone trails behind, a stern echo of brotherly concern. "A /virgin/ nun."
"Of course, Rossi," Scott says, with a purely acknowledging nod.
If the detective hears it, he gives no sign; there is none to give. The hallway is empty, gone, free of cops and their corruptive influence. There is paint on the walls of the art room, see? Look at the walls, Scott.
Scott dutifully looks at the walls. And sighs. "I liked the bare plaster better," he finally judges.
The walls sulk.