7/27/06 - Eve
---
New York Police Department - Lobby
Great brass double doors lead into the precinct lobby, a crowded hall that teems with life under the dictatorship of the officer on duty. Long benches line the walls, ports of rest for the patient and the weary. To either side of the reception desk, hallways painted in peeling puke-green stretch back into the building proper, routing past labeled and busy offices: squad rooms, interrogation rooms, holding pens and file rooms. Ordered chaos is the name of the game; traffic and noise roil through the crowded passages, lit by electric fluorescence and dust-rich light.
Paperwork. There is always paperwork. Eve puffs a breath to to push hair out of her eyes as she surveys the remaining stacks of paper on the desk with a muted frown. She taps a pen against the table, looking up from the work to stretch her neck. Bored brown eyes flicker lazily across the crowd in the lobby.
A crowd increased by one long, lean body, whose street-wise hubris marks him "cop," even without the cheap suit and familiar, prowling gait. Det. Rossi shoves his way through the day's masses, one hand shoved in a pocket, the other hand closed around a styrofoam coffee cup. Under the open wings of the cheap blue suit, gold glitters in a badge beside the holstered gun: sullen black banded with worn brown leather, the stock in trade of a Homicide detective.
"Rossi." Eve raises a hand in an idle wave, eyes lighting on Rossi as a brief haitus from her paperwork. Feet push against the leg of the desk, sending the chair to balance on it's rear legs. "Nice suit."
"Laszlo." The restless stride stalls, baritone and green-eyed gaze skipping through traffic to hunt the greeter down. Rossi's head lifts, jerking up in a minimalist greeting. "Nice rack. Heard you and Lazzaro went out."
"It's a gift," Eve replies easily. She pulls in the corner of her lip to nibble on it. "Yeah." His face is studied with a curiously arched eyebrow. "We did. I've been getting love notes in my locker ever since, most definitely not from Vincent." She inclines a head. "Unless he favors bawdy poetry as a trick to woo women."
Rossi shrugs in an indifferent gesture, opining, "Sounds like Tucci. Can't say I picture Lazzaro as the poetry type, but he might have hidden depths. So how'd it go? He bring you flowers? Sweep you off your feet?" Lips twist in a crooked line of distraction. "Get lucky?"
"Tell Tucci that 'blue' doesn't rhyme with 'tits'," Eve tells the detective. She raises a hand to flutter some fingers. "A lady doesn't kiss an tell. Though I will admit there was a tragic lack of flowers."
"You're not a lady, Laszlo. You're a cop." A nearby chair is swung about on the twist of a wrist, and Rossi swings a leg over its seat to straddle it, arms folding loosely on its back. Pale eyes glitter mockery over the tilt of his cup. "He Lysol your lips before kissing them?" he wonders, gaze trailing across her mouth with a clinical curiosity that borders on the insulting.
Eve raises a mild eyebrow. "Is it impossible to be both? I wasn't warned that I had to turn over my ovaries upon receipt of my badge." Her foot fidgets against the desk's leg, and chair is dropped back to four legs. "No. Why? Does he make you?"
The detective grins abruptly, attention sharpening past abstraction. "Wet wipes," he tells the uniform with cheerful malice. "I got a little packet in my purse. So how's it going besides Lazzaro? Settling in okay?"
"I could live without being the newest arrival," Eve answers with a shrug of a shoulder. "Though the trouble from that has mostly faded in favor of the Lazzaro business. Otherwise," she waggles a hand, so-so.
"You should hear Kant," Rossi advises, the Brooklyn accent briefly deepening over traces of humor. His shoulders roll, flexing before settling under the flat cut of his coat. "She's got a great impression of him asking you out. Sad. You don't have a pet cat, do you?"
"Kant?" Eve furrows a puzzled brow. "God, I bet half the department heard in person, don't know why she'd bother." She pauses, blinkingly slow. "No. Turtle."
Fingernails rasp across the back of a hand, leaving long white streaks where they rake over skin. Rossi considers. "Long as it's not a cat," he decides, pulling himself up to stand. "You might not be a complete loss. So what's the deal between you and the rookie, anyhow?"
"Rookie?" Eve's puzzled furrow deepens. "Who?"
One hand gestures off the airstrip of a sleeve. "Thomas." Rossi thumbs a jerk of fist towards the Homicide squadroom, elaborating: "The new shield. What the fuck she's doing in Homicide as a rookie is beyond me. I'd think she slept with the LT, but the man's a prick, not a twit."
Eve's expression fades into enlightement. "Ah, um --" she snaps a finger with a thoughtful frown. Name is found, "/Regan/." She shakes her head, hand dropping back into her lap. "Bitch needs to learn some damn manners," she opines darkly. "I'd advise staying well away from her."
"Manners," Rossi drawls into his coffee cup's plastic lid, steam veiling some of that sardonic glitter. "I'll be damned, Laszlo. What are you, WASPing at me?"
Eve clicks tongue to the roof of her mouth. "Hardly. But basic decency is not a trait reserved for WASPs alone. She," she spreads a hand, scowling. "Will have some difficulty finding uniforms to work with her." Word, it seems, has been spread. "I don't have the patience for her damn superiority. I've probably been in uniform longer than she has."
The detective's mouth twists as he resettles himself: against a neighboring table this time, hip and leg hooked onto the desk's edge, an elbow hung over the knee in his slouch. "Just do the fucking job, and screw the attitude," Rossi says kindly, either for the absent Regan's benefit or for Eve's. And then, happily prickish, adds, "Women on the job. Jesus. They keep unholstering their ovaries instead of their guns."
Eve's jaw clenches, accompanied by a snort. "So we are allowed to keep our ovaries, afterall?" She flicks fingers at Rossi dismissively. "Better than men, either way. Prick, gun, it's all the same to you."
"Mine's black," Rossi says nicely, and opens his jacket. See? The glock sulks in moody, solitary grandeur by his ribs. It is big. The detective grins.
Eve lifts her chin, corner of her mouth turning up in a smirk. "Mm. Big, too," is snarky response. "Boys will be boys."
The older cop corrects with charitable compassion, "Men, actually, but I get how it is. Between Rourke and Lazzaro, it's not like you've had a lot of experience with the grown-up type. Rourke's sort of like cheese in a can, and Lazzaro's still got the original wrapping."
"The two hardly bare comparassion," Eve remarks, crossing her arms across her stomach. "I suppose you, on the other hand, are the epitome of manliness." Her eyes flicker across his upper body with exaggerated study.
"What I got," Rossi drawls, eyebrows lifting, "is more than you can handle, Laszlo. You're better off with your turtle. Too much excitement down in my neck of the woods."
"Don't flatter yourself." Eve's words are dry, her gaze flickering away from Rossi toward the crowded lobby. "I've got what I want. And --" A finger raises to point at him. "Don't knock Jake."
The detective grins again, if absent-mindedly, distraction once more unfocusing the bright slant of gaze into far-off pastures and playgrounds. His chin lifts in passing farewell; he straightens off the desk with a flick of a wave. "A girl and her turtle. Melts my heart. I'm feeling all warm and mushy inside."
Eve, lounging in her chair, tilts her chin up as Rossi stands. "Mm. You're an asshole." Words and expression are mild, as she raises a hand in half-hearted farewell.
"Gold plated," the deep baritone tosses over a shoulder -- and then Rossi is gone.
[Log ends]
Rossi and Eve cross paths in the precinct. Rossi is a distracted asshole. Eve has tits. End of story.
New York Police Department - Lobby
Great brass double doors lead into the precinct lobby, a crowded hall that teems with life under the dictatorship of the officer on duty. Long benches line the walls, ports of rest for the patient and the weary. To either side of the reception desk, hallways painted in peeling puke-green stretch back into the building proper, routing past labeled and busy offices: squad rooms, interrogation rooms, holding pens and file rooms. Ordered chaos is the name of the game; traffic and noise roil through the crowded passages, lit by electric fluorescence and dust-rich light.
Paperwork. There is always paperwork. Eve puffs a breath to to push hair out of her eyes as she surveys the remaining stacks of paper on the desk with a muted frown. She taps a pen against the table, looking up from the work to stretch her neck. Bored brown eyes flicker lazily across the crowd in the lobby.
A crowd increased by one long, lean body, whose street-wise hubris marks him "cop," even without the cheap suit and familiar, prowling gait. Det. Rossi shoves his way through the day's masses, one hand shoved in a pocket, the other hand closed around a styrofoam coffee cup. Under the open wings of the cheap blue suit, gold glitters in a badge beside the holstered gun: sullen black banded with worn brown leather, the stock in trade of a Homicide detective.
"Rossi." Eve raises a hand in an idle wave, eyes lighting on Rossi as a brief haitus from her paperwork. Feet push against the leg of the desk, sending the chair to balance on it's rear legs. "Nice suit."
"Laszlo." The restless stride stalls, baritone and green-eyed gaze skipping through traffic to hunt the greeter down. Rossi's head lifts, jerking up in a minimalist greeting. "Nice rack. Heard you and Lazzaro went out."
"It's a gift," Eve replies easily. She pulls in the corner of her lip to nibble on it. "Yeah." His face is studied with a curiously arched eyebrow. "We did. I've been getting love notes in my locker ever since, most definitely not from Vincent." She inclines a head. "Unless he favors bawdy poetry as a trick to woo women."
Rossi shrugs in an indifferent gesture, opining, "Sounds like Tucci. Can't say I picture Lazzaro as the poetry type, but he might have hidden depths. So how'd it go? He bring you flowers? Sweep you off your feet?" Lips twist in a crooked line of distraction. "Get lucky?"
"Tell Tucci that 'blue' doesn't rhyme with 'tits'," Eve tells the detective. She raises a hand to flutter some fingers. "A lady doesn't kiss an tell. Though I will admit there was a tragic lack of flowers."
"You're not a lady, Laszlo. You're a cop." A nearby chair is swung about on the twist of a wrist, and Rossi swings a leg over its seat to straddle it, arms folding loosely on its back. Pale eyes glitter mockery over the tilt of his cup. "He Lysol your lips before kissing them?" he wonders, gaze trailing across her mouth with a clinical curiosity that borders on the insulting.
Eve raises a mild eyebrow. "Is it impossible to be both? I wasn't warned that I had to turn over my ovaries upon receipt of my badge." Her foot fidgets against the desk's leg, and chair is dropped back to four legs. "No. Why? Does he make you?"
The detective grins abruptly, attention sharpening past abstraction. "Wet wipes," he tells the uniform with cheerful malice. "I got a little packet in my purse. So how's it going besides Lazzaro? Settling in okay?"
"I could live without being the newest arrival," Eve answers with a shrug of a shoulder. "Though the trouble from that has mostly faded in favor of the Lazzaro business. Otherwise," she waggles a hand, so-so.
"You should hear Kant," Rossi advises, the Brooklyn accent briefly deepening over traces of humor. His shoulders roll, flexing before settling under the flat cut of his coat. "She's got a great impression of him asking you out. Sad. You don't have a pet cat, do you?"
"Kant?" Eve furrows a puzzled brow. "God, I bet half the department heard in person, don't know why she'd bother." She pauses, blinkingly slow. "No. Turtle."
Fingernails rasp across the back of a hand, leaving long white streaks where they rake over skin. Rossi considers. "Long as it's not a cat," he decides, pulling himself up to stand. "You might not be a complete loss. So what's the deal between you and the rookie, anyhow?"
"Rookie?" Eve's puzzled furrow deepens. "Who?"
One hand gestures off the airstrip of a sleeve. "Thomas." Rossi thumbs a jerk of fist towards the Homicide squadroom, elaborating: "The new shield. What the fuck she's doing in Homicide as a rookie is beyond me. I'd think she slept with the LT, but the man's a prick, not a twit."
Eve's expression fades into enlightement. "Ah, um --" she snaps a finger with a thoughtful frown. Name is found, "/Regan/." She shakes her head, hand dropping back into her lap. "Bitch needs to learn some damn manners," she opines darkly. "I'd advise staying well away from her."
"Manners," Rossi drawls into his coffee cup's plastic lid, steam veiling some of that sardonic glitter. "I'll be damned, Laszlo. What are you, WASPing at me?"
Eve clicks tongue to the roof of her mouth. "Hardly. But basic decency is not a trait reserved for WASPs alone. She," she spreads a hand, scowling. "Will have some difficulty finding uniforms to work with her." Word, it seems, has been spread. "I don't have the patience for her damn superiority. I've probably been in uniform longer than she has."
The detective's mouth twists as he resettles himself: against a neighboring table this time, hip and leg hooked onto the desk's edge, an elbow hung over the knee in his slouch. "Just do the fucking job, and screw the attitude," Rossi says kindly, either for the absent Regan's benefit or for Eve's. And then, happily prickish, adds, "Women on the job. Jesus. They keep unholstering their ovaries instead of their guns."
Eve's jaw clenches, accompanied by a snort. "So we are allowed to keep our ovaries, afterall?" She flicks fingers at Rossi dismissively. "Better than men, either way. Prick, gun, it's all the same to you."
"Mine's black," Rossi says nicely, and opens his jacket. See? The glock sulks in moody, solitary grandeur by his ribs. It is big. The detective grins.
Eve lifts her chin, corner of her mouth turning up in a smirk. "Mm. Big, too," is snarky response. "Boys will be boys."
The older cop corrects with charitable compassion, "Men, actually, but I get how it is. Between Rourke and Lazzaro, it's not like you've had a lot of experience with the grown-up type. Rourke's sort of like cheese in a can, and Lazzaro's still got the original wrapping."
"The two hardly bare comparassion," Eve remarks, crossing her arms across her stomach. "I suppose you, on the other hand, are the epitome of manliness." Her eyes flicker across his upper body with exaggerated study.
"What I got," Rossi drawls, eyebrows lifting, "is more than you can handle, Laszlo. You're better off with your turtle. Too much excitement down in my neck of the woods."
"Don't flatter yourself." Eve's words are dry, her gaze flickering away from Rossi toward the crowded lobby. "I've got what I want. And --" A finger raises to point at him. "Don't knock Jake."
The detective grins again, if absent-mindedly, distraction once more unfocusing the bright slant of gaze into far-off pastures and playgrounds. His chin lifts in passing farewell; he straightens off the desk with a flick of a wave. "A girl and her turtle. Melts my heart. I'm feeling all warm and mushy inside."
Eve, lounging in her chair, tilts her chin up as Rossi stands. "Mm. You're an asshole." Words and expression are mild, as she raises a hand in half-hearted farewell.
"Gold plated," the deep baritone tosses over a shoulder -- and then Rossi is gone.
[Log ends]
Rossi and Eve cross paths in the precinct. Rossi is a distracted asshole. Eve has tits. End of story.