7/10/06 - Adel
---
A pawn keeps watchful eye on Rossi, tucked safe and chaste in Brooklyn. The afternoon sun is high and bright, playing tag with the few clouds scudding across the sky. A call locates them; a cab brings the Bishop. Adel shows up, stepping blinking out into the sun. He looks up at the brownstone tenements, hesitating. Then he strikes out with his silver-handled cane, moving to the door. He leans on the nearest button to announce himself.
The doorbell is audible through the open windows, the gauze of light summer curtains stirring with the breeze. Voices sound from the living room beyond. There's someone at the door. You gonna get it? You get it. No, you get it. /You/ get it. Listen, you jerk-- the door slaps open on the jerk of a strong, female arm, the wooden edge hooked into the hollow of a shoulder. Green eyes; black hair; a vivid, grinning face. "Yo," says Julia Rossi, glancing interest across the visitor. Cute. Not her type. Too bad. "What can I do you for?"
So her type, the reflexive urge of empathy coaxes. Adel grins into Julia's face, all cheerful ease. He leans on his cane, just a trifle pointed. Harmless! "Sister, I bet? I came to see your brother -- Chris."
The spitting, sparking pyrotechnics of Julia's mind dance obediently to that touch of persuasion. Her type, yes! But there are other concerns. "Chris?" she echoes, protective grar blazing up in prompt suspicion. She leans further into the door jamb, FDNY shirt pulled tighter across her chest. "You a friend of his? Not from the force," she identifies easily, casting a professional -- entirely professional! -- glance down the man's body.
"Not from the force," Adel agrees. "But, yes, a friend. I heard about--" He taps his temple, smile slipping regretful. "I don't wish to bother him," he adds, leaning heavily on Julia's protection via the mad skillz of his mind. Let him in. Lethimin. Lethiminlethiminlethimin. "I just wanted to stop by, say hi. Familiar faces help, right?"
"Something like that," Julia admits, roused familial instincts subsiding under that masterly manipulation. The shapely piglet straightens away from the door, tilting her head towards the foyer inside. "Wanna come in?" she suggests, with a wag of her chinny-chin-chin. "He's in the kitchen helping mom."
Adel scuffs his hand down the side of his face, disbelief in the roll of his eyes. "Mom." He straightens his shoulders and marshals his resources. "How about his brothers?" he asks, tone brightening as he eases in through the door. "Thanks."
The redoubtable Rossi sister shrugs, hooking her thumbs in her back pocket as she steps back to make room. That-a-way, her nod indicates. "Which one?" she wants to know, cheerfully enough. "Paul's on shift, Mikey's out back helping Dad with something, and Gabe's -- probably down at the college, screwing some grad student with more boobs than brains. You friends with one of them, too?"
"Not really," Adel breezes. "I've just heard stories. It's good to finally meet you." He pauses on his path to Christopher to turn and offer Julia a hand. "Sorry, manners. Hi. That way, you said?" He tips his head in echo of her nod, and then moves to find what his mind already feels for: Christopher Rossi.
His mind is young, uneven in the way of youth: like fabric draped over a polluted landscape, frayed in places to show gray patches beneath. In innocence is tranquility, though residual unease wraps around Sabitha's name. Garbed in a T-shirt and jeans, his masculine dignity compromised by a plain yellow apron, the middle son of the Rossi clan chops carrots with a practiced knife. One, two, three, four, scrape, thunk, repeat.
Adel glances around the corner as he weaves his telepathy through poor Christopher's thoughts, taking the measure of his mind. Yes, yes, yes -- Sabitha. He presses to find out more, following recent memory. Straightens, steps back, and he hisses over his shoulder at Julia: "What should I do? I don't want to upset him or anything, I just want to see how he's doing. Should I just say hi, not stay long?" He shrugs, a typical helpless male. He submits himself to her wisdom. "What?"
"Up to you," Julia says cheerfully back, likewise sotto voce -- then promptly removes choice from his hands by announcing over his shoulder, "/Yo/. Chris. You got a buddy here to see you. He's cute," she encourages, swatting that Arab ass with an easy, companionable hand before wiggling a wave across Adel's head. "He can stick around for dinner if he can handle the Rossi clan."
The grin that Adel flashes over his shoulder at Julia is full of practiced charm, but little ease. He mouths the word 'thanks' and then steps in. "Hey. Chris," he greets, syllable awkward on his tongue. "Your sister said I'm cute." Telepathy squeezes Rossi's mind, prying information. Saaabitha. He lifts all the recent thoughts, all the new memories, and makes them his own.
Regret trails after those thoughts like sticky fingers, leaving imprints of rue, of chagrin, of subdued sorrow -- and of that unnerving moment come and gone in a heartbeat, a different personality submerging his own. "Yeah?" Chris says, the knife stilling under his puzzled glance up. Recognition stirs with slow pain: sneeze. sniffle. "I know you," he realizes. "Aller-- Allergy?"
"Allergy," Adel confirms, wry tone implying a shared in-joke, telepathy-backed to all minds listening (mom, sister, /witnesses/--), where there is none. "I just came to see how you were doing." He gauges the press of memory, cautiously sifting through thoughts in search of a resurgence of the past.
Something stirs at that sieving touch, a shredded remnant of memory -- a Christmas sale, a squashed eyeball -- fluttering like a broken wing before it fades. "Did you shave?" Chris wonders, laying the knife on a bed of diced vegetable before belatedly remembering: "Oh. Hey. I'm sorry. I mean, hi. I thought you said we weren't really friends."
"Twins," Adel says, holding up two fingers. "You weren't really friends with my brother." He /lies through his teeth/, and does so with a smile. "He's got longer hair," he adds, waving a hand at his own hair, where bleach is fading back into natural black hues. "I heard about you from him, anyway. Anything I can get you, man, or should I just leave you in your family's hands? Speaking of--" He looks over his shoulder for Julia, and then hisses back, "Your sister is kind of hot." He tries to be quiet out of respect for Ma Rossi.
"I hear that a lot," Chris admits with a hunch of protective shoulders. Ma Rossi, a quiet, solid presence whose faded prettiness is a worn-out copy for her children's, smiles kindly welcome at Adel over a plate of linguini and disappears out the dining room door. "I mean, even in college--" Thoughts derail, puzzling back to the other man. "I don't remember your name. I'm sorry," he apologizes. "I remember Allergy -- is that really your last name? -- but I don't know your first...."
"Al-Razi," Adel corrects easily. "Adel. My brother was Bahir. It's almost alphabetical, if it helps." He turns his hands out, shrugging. "No more on your sister, then," he adds, grinning at the hunch of shoulders. "So are you really doing okay, then?"
The older man looks apologetic, the mind faithfully recording the name in mnemonics. "Adel," he says, and wipes his hands on the apron before leaning over the table to offer one in welcome. "I'm doing okay. Barring that I've lost thirteen years of my life." Lips twist; arms straight-arm to support his lean. "So how do we know each other?"
"Ah--" Adel closes his mouth. His eyes crinkle with a suppressed smile, thick lashes falling low in the dip of his gaze. He gusts a breath, running a hand back through his hair. "It's kind of a long story. You had a run in with my brother, let's say. I told you he was kind of a dick. You and me got along, though. Thirteen years, huh?" Succinct, he says, "Shit."
"Bits of it are coming back," Chris says with philosophic optimism, straightening again to reclaim his knife. Moisture glistens along its blade, flecked with pieces of carrot. "The docs say it might not be permanent. I get flashes, every so often--" Case in point. Vagrant deja vu disorients the man for a second; he points the knife at Adel, frowning down it at the telepath. "Your brother's friends with some guy I don't like. Pe-- Pepe, or something."
Adel's teeth glint in a jaw-set smile. "I don't like him either," he says in something like a growl. His fingers clench at his side, carefully flattened against his thighs. He breathes out, softly, and smiles more easily. "Anyway. I'm glad it won't be permanent. Any projection? How'd it happen? Nothing I can do to help, then?"
Shoulders lift, creeping back towards their hunch. "No idea," Chris says, mind twisting into shallow distress again before launching, more happily, after thoughts of dinner. /Pesto/. And salad. "Thanks, though. I've got doctors crawling all over me, and a friend left me a number to call." Sabitha wavers fuzzily across his forebrain. He cuts a quick, open grin up. "I'll get it sorted out. Can't last forever, can it?"
"Sorry," Adel says, grin met in friendly (/friendly/!) kind. "I don't mean to bother you with a lot of questions. Should I get out of your hair so your family can get dinner? I thought about calling ahead, but I wasn't sure if it was a good idea, and I was in the neighborhood, so--" He trails off, fingers sketching a broad, if vague, gesture.
"You're welcome to stay if you want," Chris invites, gesturing with the tip of his knife towards the empty doorframe of the dining room, where Mrs. Rossi can be seen setting the table. Sounds of deep, squabbling voices drift in through the rear window. The present Rossi scion looks bemused. "--If you can deal with the family, anyway."
Adel dithers. "I promised my brother I'd get dinner with him," he finally says, regretful. "And besides, I might hit on your sister, and that's just weird at a tableful of fa--" He break off, visibly reevaluates Christopher's mental space, and grins sheepishly. "Eh, never mind. I guess I'll just catch you later. Let me know how things turn out, okay?"
Bewilderment trips after Adel's half-finished word, stuttering after it to search for its completion. Fathers. Family. Fatheads? "Oh," Chris says, puzzled. "Okay. Beston's coming over, if you know him. That is -- he comes over pretty much every night, anyway. If you're sure you don't want to hang out--" Baritone peters out, the book closing on another quick grin. "Sure. Do I know how to reach you?"
Adel guides Rossi's wondering to 'Family' with an idle touch. Fatheads. He snorts, and nods. "Yeah, Beston. Of course he is. Taking care of you, huh?" he asks with a straight man's sly tease. "I think my number's in your cell." Adel does a wiggly gesture with his finger, suppressing impatience behind a quick grin. "Maybe just ah--" He leans over to steal a circle of carrot.
The knife makes an unthreatening motion, gesturing towards the others before scraping a handful off the cutting board towards Adel. "He's my partner. I guess. --Go for it," Chris says agreeably. "Plenty more where those came from." Careful wrist action produces a fraction of that alleged bounty, finishing the final few inches of carrot. "Come by anytime."
Adel crunches contently into the slice of carrot, and sails out. "Sure. You take care of yourself, Chris." He passes back through the rest of the residence on his way to the door, finds Julia, finds her /ass/, swats it, and then breezes out the door. In a cane-and-gimp sort of breezing way.
In a hale and hearty (if mentally handicapped) way, Chris returns to the art of carrot castration. Chop chop chop. Choppity-chop chop.
[Log ends]
Adel comes to visit Rossi so he can reenact a a little fantasy of his where he's the big bad wolf and Chris is the little piglet, and there's huffing and puffing and touching and tasting and eating-- The al-Razi player is a bit of a perv. Also, that cut-tag? Is totally what he set with before he backpedaled. See what I mean? PERV.
A pawn keeps watchful eye on Rossi, tucked safe and chaste in Brooklyn. The afternoon sun is high and bright, playing tag with the few clouds scudding across the sky. A call locates them; a cab brings the Bishop. Adel shows up, stepping blinking out into the sun. He looks up at the brownstone tenements, hesitating. Then he strikes out with his silver-handled cane, moving to the door. He leans on the nearest button to announce himself.
The doorbell is audible through the open windows, the gauze of light summer curtains stirring with the breeze. Voices sound from the living room beyond. There's someone at the door. You gonna get it? You get it. No, you get it. /You/ get it. Listen, you jerk-- the door slaps open on the jerk of a strong, female arm, the wooden edge hooked into the hollow of a shoulder. Green eyes; black hair; a vivid, grinning face. "Yo," says Julia Rossi, glancing interest across the visitor. Cute. Not her type. Too bad. "What can I do you for?"
So her type, the reflexive urge of empathy coaxes. Adel grins into Julia's face, all cheerful ease. He leans on his cane, just a trifle pointed. Harmless! "Sister, I bet? I came to see your brother -- Chris."
The spitting, sparking pyrotechnics of Julia's mind dance obediently to that touch of persuasion. Her type, yes! But there are other concerns. "Chris?" she echoes, protective grar blazing up in prompt suspicion. She leans further into the door jamb, FDNY shirt pulled tighter across her chest. "You a friend of his? Not from the force," she identifies easily, casting a professional -- entirely professional! -- glance down the man's body.
"Not from the force," Adel agrees. "But, yes, a friend. I heard about--" He taps his temple, smile slipping regretful. "I don't wish to bother him," he adds, leaning heavily on Julia's protection via the mad skillz of his mind. Let him in. Lethimin. Lethiminlethiminlethimin. "I just wanted to stop by, say hi. Familiar faces help, right?"
"Something like that," Julia admits, roused familial instincts subsiding under that masterly manipulation. The shapely piglet straightens away from the door, tilting her head towards the foyer inside. "Wanna come in?" she suggests, with a wag of her chinny-chin-chin. "He's in the kitchen helping mom."
Adel scuffs his hand down the side of his face, disbelief in the roll of his eyes. "Mom." He straightens his shoulders and marshals his resources. "How about his brothers?" he asks, tone brightening as he eases in through the door. "Thanks."
The redoubtable Rossi sister shrugs, hooking her thumbs in her back pocket as she steps back to make room. That-a-way, her nod indicates. "Which one?" she wants to know, cheerfully enough. "Paul's on shift, Mikey's out back helping Dad with something, and Gabe's -- probably down at the college, screwing some grad student with more boobs than brains. You friends with one of them, too?"
"Not really," Adel breezes. "I've just heard stories. It's good to finally meet you." He pauses on his path to Christopher to turn and offer Julia a hand. "Sorry, manners. Hi. That way, you said?" He tips his head in echo of her nod, and then moves to find what his mind already feels for: Christopher Rossi.
His mind is young, uneven in the way of youth: like fabric draped over a polluted landscape, frayed in places to show gray patches beneath. In innocence is tranquility, though residual unease wraps around Sabitha's name. Garbed in a T-shirt and jeans, his masculine dignity compromised by a plain yellow apron, the middle son of the Rossi clan chops carrots with a practiced knife. One, two, three, four, scrape, thunk, repeat.
Adel glances around the corner as he weaves his telepathy through poor Christopher's thoughts, taking the measure of his mind. Yes, yes, yes -- Sabitha. He presses to find out more, following recent memory. Straightens, steps back, and he hisses over his shoulder at Julia: "What should I do? I don't want to upset him or anything, I just want to see how he's doing. Should I just say hi, not stay long?" He shrugs, a typical helpless male. He submits himself to her wisdom. "What?"
"Up to you," Julia says cheerfully back, likewise sotto voce -- then promptly removes choice from his hands by announcing over his shoulder, "/Yo/. Chris. You got a buddy here to see you. He's cute," she encourages, swatting that Arab ass with an easy, companionable hand before wiggling a wave across Adel's head. "He can stick around for dinner if he can handle the Rossi clan."
The grin that Adel flashes over his shoulder at Julia is full of practiced charm, but little ease. He mouths the word 'thanks' and then steps in. "Hey. Chris," he greets, syllable awkward on his tongue. "Your sister said I'm cute." Telepathy squeezes Rossi's mind, prying information. Saaabitha. He lifts all the recent thoughts, all the new memories, and makes them his own.
Regret trails after those thoughts like sticky fingers, leaving imprints of rue, of chagrin, of subdued sorrow -- and of that unnerving moment come and gone in a heartbeat, a different personality submerging his own. "Yeah?" Chris says, the knife stilling under his puzzled glance up. Recognition stirs with slow pain: sneeze. sniffle. "I know you," he realizes. "Aller-- Allergy?"
"Allergy," Adel confirms, wry tone implying a shared in-joke, telepathy-backed to all minds listening (mom, sister, /witnesses/--), where there is none. "I just came to see how you were doing." He gauges the press of memory, cautiously sifting through thoughts in search of a resurgence of the past.
Something stirs at that sieving touch, a shredded remnant of memory -- a Christmas sale, a squashed eyeball -- fluttering like a broken wing before it fades. "Did you shave?" Chris wonders, laying the knife on a bed of diced vegetable before belatedly remembering: "Oh. Hey. I'm sorry. I mean, hi. I thought you said we weren't really friends."
"Twins," Adel says, holding up two fingers. "You weren't really friends with my brother." He /lies through his teeth/, and does so with a smile. "He's got longer hair," he adds, waving a hand at his own hair, where bleach is fading back into natural black hues. "I heard about you from him, anyway. Anything I can get you, man, or should I just leave you in your family's hands? Speaking of--" He looks over his shoulder for Julia, and then hisses back, "Your sister is kind of hot." He tries to be quiet out of respect for Ma Rossi.
"I hear that a lot," Chris admits with a hunch of protective shoulders. Ma Rossi, a quiet, solid presence whose faded prettiness is a worn-out copy for her children's, smiles kindly welcome at Adel over a plate of linguini and disappears out the dining room door. "I mean, even in college--" Thoughts derail, puzzling back to the other man. "I don't remember your name. I'm sorry," he apologizes. "I remember Allergy -- is that really your last name? -- but I don't know your first...."
"Al-Razi," Adel corrects easily. "Adel. My brother was Bahir. It's almost alphabetical, if it helps." He turns his hands out, shrugging. "No more on your sister, then," he adds, grinning at the hunch of shoulders. "So are you really doing okay, then?"
The older man looks apologetic, the mind faithfully recording the name in mnemonics. "Adel," he says, and wipes his hands on the apron before leaning over the table to offer one in welcome. "I'm doing okay. Barring that I've lost thirteen years of my life." Lips twist; arms straight-arm to support his lean. "So how do we know each other?"
"Ah--" Adel closes his mouth. His eyes crinkle with a suppressed smile, thick lashes falling low in the dip of his gaze. He gusts a breath, running a hand back through his hair. "It's kind of a long story. You had a run in with my brother, let's say. I told you he was kind of a dick. You and me got along, though. Thirteen years, huh?" Succinct, he says, "Shit."
"Bits of it are coming back," Chris says with philosophic optimism, straightening again to reclaim his knife. Moisture glistens along its blade, flecked with pieces of carrot. "The docs say it might not be permanent. I get flashes, every so often--" Case in point. Vagrant deja vu disorients the man for a second; he points the knife at Adel, frowning down it at the telepath. "Your brother's friends with some guy I don't like. Pe-- Pepe, or something."
Adel's teeth glint in a jaw-set smile. "I don't like him either," he says in something like a growl. His fingers clench at his side, carefully flattened against his thighs. He breathes out, softly, and smiles more easily. "Anyway. I'm glad it won't be permanent. Any projection? How'd it happen? Nothing I can do to help, then?"
Shoulders lift, creeping back towards their hunch. "No idea," Chris says, mind twisting into shallow distress again before launching, more happily, after thoughts of dinner. /Pesto/. And salad. "Thanks, though. I've got doctors crawling all over me, and a friend left me a number to call." Sabitha wavers fuzzily across his forebrain. He cuts a quick, open grin up. "I'll get it sorted out. Can't last forever, can it?"
"Sorry," Adel says, grin met in friendly (/friendly/!) kind. "I don't mean to bother you with a lot of questions. Should I get out of your hair so your family can get dinner? I thought about calling ahead, but I wasn't sure if it was a good idea, and I was in the neighborhood, so--" He trails off, fingers sketching a broad, if vague, gesture.
"You're welcome to stay if you want," Chris invites, gesturing with the tip of his knife towards the empty doorframe of the dining room, where Mrs. Rossi can be seen setting the table. Sounds of deep, squabbling voices drift in through the rear window. The present Rossi scion looks bemused. "--If you can deal with the family, anyway."
Adel dithers. "I promised my brother I'd get dinner with him," he finally says, regretful. "And besides, I might hit on your sister, and that's just weird at a tableful of fa--" He break off, visibly reevaluates Christopher's mental space, and grins sheepishly. "Eh, never mind. I guess I'll just catch you later. Let me know how things turn out, okay?"
Bewilderment trips after Adel's half-finished word, stuttering after it to search for its completion. Fathers. Family. Fatheads? "Oh," Chris says, puzzled. "Okay. Beston's coming over, if you know him. That is -- he comes over pretty much every night, anyway. If you're sure you don't want to hang out--" Baritone peters out, the book closing on another quick grin. "Sure. Do I know how to reach you?"
Adel guides Rossi's wondering to 'Family' with an idle touch. Fatheads. He snorts, and nods. "Yeah, Beston. Of course he is. Taking care of you, huh?" he asks with a straight man's sly tease. "I think my number's in your cell." Adel does a wiggly gesture with his finger, suppressing impatience behind a quick grin. "Maybe just ah--" He leans over to steal a circle of carrot.
The knife makes an unthreatening motion, gesturing towards the others before scraping a handful off the cutting board towards Adel. "He's my partner. I guess. --Go for it," Chris says agreeably. "Plenty more where those came from." Careful wrist action produces a fraction of that alleged bounty, finishing the final few inches of carrot. "Come by anytime."
Adel crunches contently into the slice of carrot, and sails out. "Sure. You take care of yourself, Chris." He passes back through the rest of the residence on his way to the door, finds Julia, finds her /ass/, swats it, and then breezes out the door. In a cane-and-gimp sort of breezing way.
In a hale and hearty (if mentally handicapped) way, Chris returns to the art of carrot castration. Chop chop chop. Choppity-chop chop.
[Log ends]
Adel comes to visit Rossi so he can reenact a a little fantasy of his where he's the big bad wolf and Chris is the little piglet, and there's huffing and puffing and touching and tasting and eating-- The al-Razi player is a bit of a perv. Also, that cut-tag? Is totally what he set with before he backpedaled. See what I mean? PERV.