9/13/06 - Isabel, Jackson, Jean-Paul, Magneto
---
=NYC= The Sanctuary - McLaughlin Alley - Greenwich Village
Accessible through one of the nondescript doorways from the filthy, unpopulated alleyway outside, those who find their way to The Sanctuary usually have been pointed in the right direction. The single room of the coffee joint is deceptively large, despite the only natural lighting being from a pair of windows almost too grimy to see through. The remaining dimness is cured effectively, however, by a series of well-placed wall sconces amidst bookshelves and abstract paintings by little-known local artists. The main counter with its impressive menu of caffeinated goodness dominates most of one wall, but arranged in the still plentiful leftover space are any number of seating arrangements from small, iron-wrought tables and chairs to a battered old couch and stained table as well as patched and repatched beanbag furniture.
But the focus of The Sanctuary is not so much its comfortable atmosphere as the eccentric crowd it runs with. A crowd so eccentric, in fact, that it's no secret to the patrons of this joint that the majority of them are mutants. No doubt the owners and operators of the shop are mutants themselves, and in this easygoing crowd it's not uncommon to have your double espresso served to you by a fellow with three eyes and a tail.
As the day draws into evenings, those who linger in the shop at this hour may begin to detect a rhythmic pulse of music from underfoot. Not loud or obtrusive, per say, but present nonetheless, and wanting of investigation.
Wednesday night -- and yet there is life in the old Sanctuary, if of a more subdued sort than the weekend's revels. Hump day's stupor drags down even those brazen enough to be out on such a night; the conversations are low and lazy, unmoved by the rattle of bass from below.
Humanity at its finest. Or at its strangest, at any rate, excepting the man who leans against the bar, dark suit opened over shirt and tie. Det. Rossi argues with the bartender, a picture flipped between indifferent nose and Roman one. "--like a fucking /lobster/," he bites, Brooklyn's accent sharp with exasperation. "Jesus H. Christ. They don't teach civics in bartending school?"
Jackson, stopping in before work in remarkably unsparkly black corduroys and a red polo shirt, grins as he approaches the counter. "Mostly s'just how to mix drinks, si -- Rossi," he answers, slipping onto a barstool by the police officer. "Though," he adds to the bartender, "All I want's a coffee, please."
Isabel stalks into the small-ish shop and looks around. Hump day normally being her day after work to hit the bars, she's in a particularly pissy mood at the thought of no alcohol. Not noticing her sparkly tattoo artist yet, she claims a seat as her own and stares down at the counter, slowly pulling her black cowboy hat trying to decide on a drink that was safe, yet not reminiscent of 'wussy'.
Jean-Paul just had to know. Given the card in a roundabout way, hearing through one person who knew a guy who knows a nother girl who heard from a friend, the French-Canadian student just had to know the Sanctuary's whereabouts and see the place for himself. It was probably a good idea, but it still left him uncomfortable considering recent events.
The thump-thump of music underfoot has him itching to go investigate, but as more of a personal dare than any comfort or relaxation, Jean-Paul stays put where he's been for the past half hour, sitting alone at a table with a bookbag, going over a few course scheduals and adjusting his pocket calender to fit in his new schedule. People are given a hooded once-over upon entry, but nothing more.
"Civics 101, buddy," Rossi tells the bartender, whose interest has already moved on to the dispensing of coffee. Alcohol? No alcohol? Irish Cream hovers over the cup, waiting its cue. The cop leans back, hands flattening on the counter. "What goes around, comes around. You make me unhappy, suddenly the whole world opens on unhappiness like you do not even /begin/ to understand. --I remember you," he decides with a lift of the chin to Jackson. Green eyes focus on the younger man, unfocusing with memory. "You're Ororo's kid."
Magneto has been here for a time. An hour, at least - likely far longer, with cold eyes turned carefully across the dance floor sprawled out before him. Thumping music and colorful lighting entice forth no reaction. His eyes are for the young people dancing, shielded beneath the black shadow of his fedora and the much more intimidating dark of an immense bouncer. He is downstairs, safely out of sight, if not out of mind for those that remain upstairs.
"Just plain black coffee, thanks. I've gotta work myself in a bit. -- Yes, sir, I am." Satisfied that his coffee is safely nonalcoholic, Jackson's attention reverts to Rossi. "Not having a good night?"
Izzy's eyes slide over to Jackson's cofee cup. She nods to the bartender and says, "Same. No cream." She scoots off her barstool and moves behind Jackson, clasping a hand down gently on his shoulder. "Well if'fn it ain't my favorite lil artist," she says, Texan drawl ringing out clearly.
Rossi's hiss cuts off with annoyance, bit off between the flash of white teeth. "No such thing as a bad night," he informs, shuffling his photograph off the counter to slip into an inner pocket. The jut of gun at his hip presses black and heavy against the jacket, pressing its bulge against cheap fabric. "I'm all about the zen. Jacko -- or something, wasn't it?" His gaze skips over to Isabel, some vague glimmer of recognition marking the woman before dismissing her to move on.
He is going to have no life on Mondays and Wednesdays, is he? Scribbling in a long list over a series of days, Jean-Paul reaches out to find himself with a tiny empty cup. Where did his expresso go? Had he been here that long? Shaking his head and closing the planner, the young man stands and looks to the counter to see... why, a cozy collection of aquantances. One of which happens to look a little familar. With only a nod should any sort of eye contact be made, Jean-Paul heads over to ask for one of the bottles of water behind the counter, leaving things be.
For all his attitude and nature tend to make him seem larger than his actual five feet and eleven inches, the near seven-foot slab of muscle he's currently standing beside and behind is more than enough to divert attention from his own shadowy post near the stairs. Muttered words are exchanged, low voices hardly audible beneath the heavy bass, crisp bills pass from one hand to another, and Erik turns to scale the stairs at his back.
Jackson starts slightly at the touch on his shoulder, but surprise dissolves into a warm smile and cheerful greeting for the woman who touched him. "Hey! How's things? -- It's Jackson." His attention turns back to Rossi once more. "Seems like a good philosophy to have. I should try it at work." The young man approaching the counter elicits no greeting, but a smile, directed down into Jackson's coffee rather than at Jean-Paul.
"Ya know Jackson, things ain't nearly 's bad 's I supposed they'd be. So'z I suppose I can't really complain. Who's yer friend?" she ends, nodding to Rossi and smiling at the detective, not recognizing him really at all.
"Bull," Rossi quips aside, turning his broad frame away from the bar to scythe a glance across the room's interior. A waiter catches his attention, dragging a frown to the dark face; a leaned inquiry of the bartender twists his mouth askew. "I'll take a coffee," he adds over his shoulder in belated order. "Black as it comes. If the spoon stays standing after you've stirred it, that'll be just about right." Jackson's privilege to introduce. He turns a sardonic gaze to Isabel, mockery bright in hooded eyes.
Apparently Jackson likes his coffee. Jean-Paul notes the gesture, but doesn't attricute it to him considering the bevy of company the young man has. He really does have to learn to be more sociable. The water bottle is set on the counter and Jean-Paul pats himself down for the cash, left gauchely paying for it with a credit card. He adds a pastry, just to not feel like such a vagabond and waits for his card to go through. Slipping a glance to the current center of attention, he can't help but notice how the swelling's healed nicely and take some sort of sense of personal satisfaction in that.
Up the stairs, long fingers wrapped firmly around the supporting rail as music and conversation trails off into a low undercurrent of sound that is altogether far more tolerable. The hat is visible first, then the silver at his temples. The black of his gloves and the subdued flare of his overcoat. Magneto glances quickly over the upstairs, leather creaking as he flexes a lazy hand and steps neatly aside to allow a pair of punked out young men to cross into the coffee shop ahead of him. Not drawing attention to himself, but very certainly /there/.
"I'm sorry," Jackson says, slightly chagrined at the lapse in manners. "Izzy, this is Detective Rossi. Rossi, Isabel." Etiquette complete, Jackson's attention is free to wander -- first to Jean-Paul, who receives an actual smile this time, and a nod of recognition, and then, idly, around the rest of the room. He furrows his brow slightly. Blinks. Turns back to his coffee, both the bruise on his cheek and the sparkling red eyeshadow and lipstick he wears made all the more visible by the sudden pallor of his skin.
Izzy's smile freezes to her lips, thugh she nods her head politely to Rossi. She looks back down at Jackson about to ask something before she eyes the bruise suspiciously. "Jackson, what th' hell happened ta yer face? Git in a fight with a container 'f glitter?"
The cop shifts his body slightly, turning back to claim his coffee before returning his attention elsewhere. Out and over -- and across, chin lifting in inner city salutation. Yo. "Fucking," Rossi begins, straightening off of the bar to plow his free hand into his pocket. Annoyance at a newcomer. Not Magneto. "Dammit. At least bring a bucket for your own goddamn /slime/."
Some people just have that sense of presence. That inexplicable feeling of their weight in the room, as if personality were a gravity in and of itself. While certainly incogneto and unrecognisable to the French Canadian, the older man's bearing even at a distance is enough to turn his head and give some due consideration. He is not staring, just surprised by such a man and only the reciept moves his gaze away A scribbly signature ater, he tosses up the bottle of water to catch it deftly in return on his way back to his seat. Interesting how some people are just ... there.
Sparkling red eyeshadow on a young man is not something Erik has seen with any sort of real frequency despite his impressive age and rather wide ranging span of experiences. It is the glitter that catches his eye, and a muted, vaguely skeptical study of Jackson is carried out from near the stairwell before he moves slowly for the counter, chilly glare flickering against Jean-Paul's brief attention along the way. Hrmph.
"No, it was my --" Hesitation. "-- roommate. He took objection to my --" Jackson's hesitation now is not for trying to pick the right word, but for the blue eyes that are on him. Though the color is slowly returning to his cheeks, his hands curl tighter around his mug of coffee, knuckles pressed white, the bright red of his nailpolish standing in sharp relief against the pale ceramic cup. He catches one lip ring between his teeth with a faint clink of enamel on metal. His eyes drop back to the counter.
Curiosity skips down to Jackson, black brows tugging together into a straight, low line. Det. Rossi inspects the young man's profile, quizzical, then skims his attention elsewhere again. Man tossing water. Woman wearing pipe cleaners on her head. Something that looks like a--
It is the last one that pauses him, whitening the knuckles around the coffee mug. Eyes flare stained-glass green. "Fuck," Rossi says again, and reaches abortively for his hip. "Shit. Goddammit." His vocabulary sucks.
"Yer /roommate/?" Izzy asks, arching an eyebrow at Jackson, Rossi ignored for the moment. She slowly follows his eyes to Jean-Paul and looks back down at the sparkly southern boy. "Well lemme tell ya somethang. /Roommates/ shouldn't be hittin' ya." She nods her head towards Jean-Paul. "That him?"
Jean-Paul turns back to his planner, feeling a sort of shivver at the back of his neck. Looking back, he notes the happy party seems to have grown quiet at the elder man's approach, his fedora'd shadow bearing down on them like a monolith to the apes. Shaking his head, Jean-Paul admitted to himself he really was getting far too theatrical for his own good and should probably mind his own business. Twisting off the cap to the water, he was unable to keep from sliding a sidelong glance to the scene at the bar...
Depressingly self-assured considering the public and unpredictable nature of his current surroundings, Magneto tips a lazy nod of greeting to Rossi as he eases up to the counter next to him, eyes scanning to the detective's hip before they bother to pass over his current company. "Christopher."
Teeth bare, showing white. Rossi sets his back against the counter, spine stiffened and straightened to military precision. "/Erik/," he crabs back, with great dignity. And then, on cue, demands, "What the hell are you doing here? Jonesing for the floor show?" His gaze narrows to a sharper focus on Jackson, brow blackening in unthinking accusation.
Jackson swallows and rests his mug back on the counter, Izzy's question and Jean-Paul both completely forgotten. He lifts bright blue eyes from the mug to the all-too-familiar face that has just joined their party. His eyes narrow at Rossi's tone, one pierced eyebrow raising at the detective's hostility, but he rearranges his expression again quickly back to neutral as his focus falls back to Magneto. Miss Manners /never/ addressed how you greet known terrorists on random encounters, and so, uncertain what etiquette dictates, he offers a silent prayer to his God and a quiet "Good evening, sir," to Magneto.
Isabel eyes Rossi, vision trailing around her shoulder to the... wow, the terrorist standing next to her. And she thought the night would be /boring/ with out alcohol. She looks back to her untouched cup of coffee sitting on the bar and slides next to Jackson, taking a half protective stance over the man, one hand wrapped around the cup. She nervously puts her hand back on Jackson's shoulder, leaning against him as she forces a smile to her lips. "Hey- uh, there. Stranger."
Jean-Paul wouldn't be caught dead watching this scene, but a few looks up from his work gave him a a clear view of the situation as it unfolded. He could understand if the gentleman didn't want to draw attention to himself, it was his was his surroundings that conspired to do so anyway. Bared teeth, paled complexions, everything aside from jumping up on a table and shrieking made sure that Jean-Paul was tuned into the event of a lifetime. Very grateful no one paid attention to six year old Canadian politics, he remained at ease and waited for the possibly inevitable. After all, who said Magneto went out to get away from it all from time to time?
"Magneto," comes the cool correction, a grey-touched brow lifted for the questions that follow. Rather than answer them, he looks back across the counter and reaches into the dark fo his overcoat after his wallet. 'The usual' is well on its way to being organized when a fresh fifty dollar bill finds its way out onto the counter surface, and Erik finally looks back to Rossi, to Isabel, and then more directly to Jackson. "Or Dr. Lensherr. ...Evening."
"Then you can stop calling me Christopher," says Rossi, resignation slanting across the carapace of his baritone. His elbow hooks over the bar's counter, shoulder jutting through the stretch of jacket; a finger flicks idly between the assembled mutants, tallying the younger man and young woman. "Like your coat. I ever tell you about this great leather overcoat I used to have?"
"Dr. Lensherr," Jackson repeats, voice quiet, but even. He returns Magneto's look steadily, meeting the older man's blue eyes with his own. His tongue ring clicks against his teeth on the L: Jackson is suddenly, acutely aware of just how /much/ metal he wears in his face. One red fingernail taps restlessly against his knee. "Coat?" His voice is suddenly perplexed. Then, acceding, but no less confused: "It /is/ quite a nice coat."
"Magneto 't is," Izzy says, a bit too politely, at least for her. She dips her head to take a sip of the black liquid and murmurs in Jackson's ear, "Ya neva answered my question. That him?" Her eyes don't know who to lock on to, Magneto or Jean-Paul.
Jean-Paul was starting to become aware of the fact that the young woman in the cowboy hat was eyeing him. He shot her a look back, aknowledging this strange situation and wondering where he was fitting into all of this.
Not quite pained, the sidelong look Erik spares Christopher as his change is sorted back to him isn't really committed enough to be patronizing either. It simply is what it is until a dark cup of coffee is pushed across the counter, and Erik pushes a hefty portion of his change back across the bleak surface in turn before tucking the rest into his wallet and stepping politely aside, out of the way. "This one is from Russia. I can recommend an excellent black market vendor, if you are interested. I've found him to be well worth the trouble of maintaining communication overseas."
"Someone ruined it," Rossi tells Jackson and Isabel, conversational. Almost friendly, in a cynical, native New Yorker way. "Threw an SUV at me, and shredded it. And then there was another overcoat. Nice overcoat. Great for winter. Some inconsiderate jerk has his boyfriend shoot me through it. Can you believe that? In the year 2006, someone does that to a good wardrobe? Makes you want to cry."
"Your -- what?" Izzy's question had been pushed completely out of Jackson's mind; it takes him a moment to refocus before he can provide a rather laconic answer: "Not him." His eyes are pulled back to Magneto: there is a trace of fear in them, admittedly, but it's far overshadowed by a healthy dose of respect that is perhaps peculiarly incompatible with his self-proclaimed pacifism. "That's a travesty, sir," Jackson offers politely to Rossi, though his attention is hardly on the detective at all.
Isabel outright stares at Jean-Paul, giving him a judemental once over, though at Jackson's denail of him being the roommate in question, the hard look is quickly dropped. Her eyes slide over to Rossi and a sarcastic smirk crawls ontyou her features. "Damn, cryin' shame. See, that's why I like ta stick ta basics 's much 's possible. Jeans an' a black top. Alwyas works, easily replacable." Dipping into her coffee cup again, her mouth finds the space next to Jackson's ear again and she whispers, "Would ya like me ta have a right pleasant lil chat with this here /roommate/ of yers?"
Was the man at the counter bring a complaint against a known wanted criminal responcible for crimes against humankind over a coat? Is this how Americans do this? The young woman rightfully diverts her gaze elsewhere, leaving Jean-Paul a little dumbstruck by the man's audacity and the willingness of those with him to back him up in this taunt. He started to gather up his things, just in case.
"It is no small wonder that he is alive at all, really," Erik contributes to the conversation despite having the stiff set of his shoulders turned to most of it, a tiny packet of cream squeezed off into his cup with a practiced pinch around the flimsy plastic. Plop. "Someone must be looking out for him. That, or the perpetrator of such villainy is a man of excessive patience."
Rossi grins abruptly, eyes gleaming with a swift, reckless humor. "Angels working overtime," he drawls, trailing the angle of vowels after it. "Or the perpetrator of the villainy -- good word, man. /Villainy/. Has a ring. -- this mastermind of crime has a sick sense of humor. He owes me a coat."
"No," Jackson says to Isabel, firmly. "That's unnecessary. I think he might be -- moving out, soon, anyway." His coffee, as yet untouched, is suddenly remembered; he adds seven packets of sugar to the mug of black coffee before stirring and sipping it slowly. "Do angels get time and a half for that?" he wonders, over the steam of his drink.
Isabel ohhs and smiles, looking back and forth between Rossi and Magneto, wondering only briefly why the cop isn't shooting at him. Yeah, that whole throwing an SUV thing. Relaxing a bit, she straightens and leans against the bar, one hand resting almost protectively against her stomach. "He better," she says to Jackson with a smile. Nobody hits her friends and gets away with it, if she can help it.
Jean-Paul took a leisurely route to leaving his table. Would the man get his coat. Would Magneto crush him into a tiny pulp? Could anyone do anything about either outcome? He could stay at least until he finished his water to wait the answer out...
"It's fascinating, what a higher education will do for one's vocabulary." Left hand extended aside to deposit the spent capsule of cream into a hole meant for such things, Magneto next sets about the task of stirring as he turns back to eye Isabel and Jackson. "Christopher is a rare find. Though he is not a mutant, as a homosexual, he has a unique understanding of what it is like to be part of a minority that is looked down upon and at times feared in our unforgiving Western society. I highly recommend that you take the time to get to know him, while you have it." A half-smile is directed past Isabel, specifically for Jackson, and Erik winks before leaning away from the bar in the direction of the door, sipping his coffee as he goes.
"As a mutant /and/ a homosexual," Jackson says with a wry grin, downing the rest of his coffee quickly, "I think I somewhat understand."
Isabel arches an eyebrow at Rossi. That /would/ explain the sentiment towards the coat.
Coffee sprays. Rossi chokes. "You flaming /son/ of a /jackass/," he hiccups through the back of his arm, ire swift to bite into his face. Baritone roughens, thickening towards -- hilarity? fury? "Screw you, Erik. Who's the one dressed like a goddamn /pimp/?"
Like a good portion of the patrons, Jean-Paul stares openly at the scene. Insults aside, he is left to shake his head and wait until the older gentleman revolutionary has passed to make his own exit. No one wants to get caught in a door with Magneto and Jean-Paul could do without calling any attention to himself. He didn't know the right handshake anymore and wouldn't risk deportation just to say he met THE Master of Magnetism.
"This is The Sanctuary, Christopher. No one will judge you, here," Erik lifts his voice to impart, free hand lifted in casual farewell, overcoat drafting heavy in the wake of his measured stride. Bye!
Rarer than hen's teeth, Rossi's laugh. It breaks in a moment's sheer mirth, outrage plucked by black humor. "Jesus fucking /Christ/--" Bye!
Jackson's eyes follow Magneto on his departure. lips quirking despite himself. His coffee mug, now empty, is placed back on the counter. "Work," he says, shaking his head. "I really should get there." Nodding to Rossi and Isabel, he slips quickly out of the coffeeshop.
(Is this where I type 'Bye!'?)
Bye!
Isabel watches wide eyed as Magneto and then Jackson take off. She looks back to Rossi and a devilish grin begins to spread across her face as she drains her own cup of coffee and sets it down on the bar. "Well, if'fn that ain't 'nough 'citment fer one night I don't know what is."
Jean-Paul gathers his things, missing his chance to check in on the sparkling young man and query as to why he doesn't have any concealer. A well timed exit, Jean-Paul is left to mutter under his breath, "... Americans."
The remnants of that laugh still trembles across Rossi's voice, doing much to soften the harshness of saturnine features. "Like a fucking circus," he says, turning back to the counter to slide his emptied mug across the bar. Napkins, gathered in a fist, blots ineffectually at the dampened shirt front before being tossed in a heap beside the mug. "Gotta call this in. Dammit. I swear he's got some kind of -- GPS wedged in my tooth."
Isabel presses her lips together, trying not to laugh at the detective's situation. She picks up a handful of napkins herself and blots at the spots that Rossi missed. "Don't you boys got somethang ta scan fer that sorta stuff?" she asks. "'R maybe he jsut wants a date?"
"I'm not gay," Rossi retorts, fishing a phone from the inner recesses of his jacket to flip it open. His gaze turns down with humorous bemusement at the woman's assistance. "Thanks," he adds, waving the napkins away. "I'm fine. He just likes to mess with me because he's a prick who learned his sense of humor from PBS."
Isabel tosses the napkins on the coutner. She wasn't doing very well with it anyhow. "Well then, seein' as how I'd really not like ta hafta sit here and talk ta cops, I suppose I should git a move on, shouldn't I?" Izzy digs around in a pocket, pulling out a few crumpled bills and unfloding them, waving her other hand at the bartender.
Rossi lifts his chin in a distracted acknowledgment, but his attention is already for the phone, the other ear closed by the expedience of a forefinger. "--Yo. /Yo/. Twinker. Rossi. Guess who just popped up like a bad muppet in Sanctuary?"
Isabel waves a silent goodbye as she hands the money off to the bartender and tips her stetson to Rossi with a flick of her fingers, heading out the entrance.
[Log ends]
A pleasant night at the Sanctuary stutters along just fine until Magneto tells a room full of mutants that Rossi is his little boy lover. NICE ONE, OLD MAN.
=NYC= The Sanctuary - McLaughlin Alley - Greenwich Village
Accessible through one of the nondescript doorways from the filthy, unpopulated alleyway outside, those who find their way to The Sanctuary usually have been pointed in the right direction. The single room of the coffee joint is deceptively large, despite the only natural lighting being from a pair of windows almost too grimy to see through. The remaining dimness is cured effectively, however, by a series of well-placed wall sconces amidst bookshelves and abstract paintings by little-known local artists. The main counter with its impressive menu of caffeinated goodness dominates most of one wall, but arranged in the still plentiful leftover space are any number of seating arrangements from small, iron-wrought tables and chairs to a battered old couch and stained table as well as patched and repatched beanbag furniture.
But the focus of The Sanctuary is not so much its comfortable atmosphere as the eccentric crowd it runs with. A crowd so eccentric, in fact, that it's no secret to the patrons of this joint that the majority of them are mutants. No doubt the owners and operators of the shop are mutants themselves, and in this easygoing crowd it's not uncommon to have your double espresso served to you by a fellow with three eyes and a tail.
As the day draws into evenings, those who linger in the shop at this hour may begin to detect a rhythmic pulse of music from underfoot. Not loud or obtrusive, per say, but present nonetheless, and wanting of investigation.
Wednesday night -- and yet there is life in the old Sanctuary, if of a more subdued sort than the weekend's revels. Hump day's stupor drags down even those brazen enough to be out on such a night; the conversations are low and lazy, unmoved by the rattle of bass from below.
Humanity at its finest. Or at its strangest, at any rate, excepting the man who leans against the bar, dark suit opened over shirt and tie. Det. Rossi argues with the bartender, a picture flipped between indifferent nose and Roman one. "--like a fucking /lobster/," he bites, Brooklyn's accent sharp with exasperation. "Jesus H. Christ. They don't teach civics in bartending school?"
Jackson, stopping in before work in remarkably unsparkly black corduroys and a red polo shirt, grins as he approaches the counter. "Mostly s'just how to mix drinks, si -- Rossi," he answers, slipping onto a barstool by the police officer. "Though," he adds to the bartender, "All I want's a coffee, please."
Isabel stalks into the small-ish shop and looks around. Hump day normally being her day after work to hit the bars, she's in a particularly pissy mood at the thought of no alcohol. Not noticing her sparkly tattoo artist yet, she claims a seat as her own and stares down at the counter, slowly pulling her black cowboy hat trying to decide on a drink that was safe, yet not reminiscent of 'wussy'.
Jean-Paul just had to know. Given the card in a roundabout way, hearing through one person who knew a guy who knows a nother girl who heard from a friend, the French-Canadian student just had to know the Sanctuary's whereabouts and see the place for himself. It was probably a good idea, but it still left him uncomfortable considering recent events.
The thump-thump of music underfoot has him itching to go investigate, but as more of a personal dare than any comfort or relaxation, Jean-Paul stays put where he's been for the past half hour, sitting alone at a table with a bookbag, going over a few course scheduals and adjusting his pocket calender to fit in his new schedule. People are given a hooded once-over upon entry, but nothing more.
"Civics 101, buddy," Rossi tells the bartender, whose interest has already moved on to the dispensing of coffee. Alcohol? No alcohol? Irish Cream hovers over the cup, waiting its cue. The cop leans back, hands flattening on the counter. "What goes around, comes around. You make me unhappy, suddenly the whole world opens on unhappiness like you do not even /begin/ to understand. --I remember you," he decides with a lift of the chin to Jackson. Green eyes focus on the younger man, unfocusing with memory. "You're Ororo's kid."
Magneto has been here for a time. An hour, at least - likely far longer, with cold eyes turned carefully across the dance floor sprawled out before him. Thumping music and colorful lighting entice forth no reaction. His eyes are for the young people dancing, shielded beneath the black shadow of his fedora and the much more intimidating dark of an immense bouncer. He is downstairs, safely out of sight, if not out of mind for those that remain upstairs.
"Just plain black coffee, thanks. I've gotta work myself in a bit. -- Yes, sir, I am." Satisfied that his coffee is safely nonalcoholic, Jackson's attention reverts to Rossi. "Not having a good night?"
Izzy's eyes slide over to Jackson's cofee cup. She nods to the bartender and says, "Same. No cream." She scoots off her barstool and moves behind Jackson, clasping a hand down gently on his shoulder. "Well if'fn it ain't my favorite lil artist," she says, Texan drawl ringing out clearly.
Rossi's hiss cuts off with annoyance, bit off between the flash of white teeth. "No such thing as a bad night," he informs, shuffling his photograph off the counter to slip into an inner pocket. The jut of gun at his hip presses black and heavy against the jacket, pressing its bulge against cheap fabric. "I'm all about the zen. Jacko -- or something, wasn't it?" His gaze skips over to Isabel, some vague glimmer of recognition marking the woman before dismissing her to move on.
He is going to have no life on Mondays and Wednesdays, is he? Scribbling in a long list over a series of days, Jean-Paul reaches out to find himself with a tiny empty cup. Where did his expresso go? Had he been here that long? Shaking his head and closing the planner, the young man stands and looks to the counter to see... why, a cozy collection of aquantances. One of which happens to look a little familar. With only a nod should any sort of eye contact be made, Jean-Paul heads over to ask for one of the bottles of water behind the counter, leaving things be.
For all his attitude and nature tend to make him seem larger than his actual five feet and eleven inches, the near seven-foot slab of muscle he's currently standing beside and behind is more than enough to divert attention from his own shadowy post near the stairs. Muttered words are exchanged, low voices hardly audible beneath the heavy bass, crisp bills pass from one hand to another, and Erik turns to scale the stairs at his back.
Jackson starts slightly at the touch on his shoulder, but surprise dissolves into a warm smile and cheerful greeting for the woman who touched him. "Hey! How's things? -- It's Jackson." His attention turns back to Rossi once more. "Seems like a good philosophy to have. I should try it at work." The young man approaching the counter elicits no greeting, but a smile, directed down into Jackson's coffee rather than at Jean-Paul.
"Ya know Jackson, things ain't nearly 's bad 's I supposed they'd be. So'z I suppose I can't really complain. Who's yer friend?" she ends, nodding to Rossi and smiling at the detective, not recognizing him really at all.
"Bull," Rossi quips aside, turning his broad frame away from the bar to scythe a glance across the room's interior. A waiter catches his attention, dragging a frown to the dark face; a leaned inquiry of the bartender twists his mouth askew. "I'll take a coffee," he adds over his shoulder in belated order. "Black as it comes. If the spoon stays standing after you've stirred it, that'll be just about right." Jackson's privilege to introduce. He turns a sardonic gaze to Isabel, mockery bright in hooded eyes.
Apparently Jackson likes his coffee. Jean-Paul notes the gesture, but doesn't attricute it to him considering the bevy of company the young man has. He really does have to learn to be more sociable. The water bottle is set on the counter and Jean-Paul pats himself down for the cash, left gauchely paying for it with a credit card. He adds a pastry, just to not feel like such a vagabond and waits for his card to go through. Slipping a glance to the current center of attention, he can't help but notice how the swelling's healed nicely and take some sort of sense of personal satisfaction in that.
Up the stairs, long fingers wrapped firmly around the supporting rail as music and conversation trails off into a low undercurrent of sound that is altogether far more tolerable. The hat is visible first, then the silver at his temples. The black of his gloves and the subdued flare of his overcoat. Magneto glances quickly over the upstairs, leather creaking as he flexes a lazy hand and steps neatly aside to allow a pair of punked out young men to cross into the coffee shop ahead of him. Not drawing attention to himself, but very certainly /there/.
"I'm sorry," Jackson says, slightly chagrined at the lapse in manners. "Izzy, this is Detective Rossi. Rossi, Isabel." Etiquette complete, Jackson's attention is free to wander -- first to Jean-Paul, who receives an actual smile this time, and a nod of recognition, and then, idly, around the rest of the room. He furrows his brow slightly. Blinks. Turns back to his coffee, both the bruise on his cheek and the sparkling red eyeshadow and lipstick he wears made all the more visible by the sudden pallor of his skin.
Izzy's smile freezes to her lips, thugh she nods her head politely to Rossi. She looks back down at Jackson about to ask something before she eyes the bruise suspiciously. "Jackson, what th' hell happened ta yer face? Git in a fight with a container 'f glitter?"
The cop shifts his body slightly, turning back to claim his coffee before returning his attention elsewhere. Out and over -- and across, chin lifting in inner city salutation. Yo. "Fucking," Rossi begins, straightening off of the bar to plow his free hand into his pocket. Annoyance at a newcomer. Not Magneto. "Dammit. At least bring a bucket for your own goddamn /slime/."
Some people just have that sense of presence. That inexplicable feeling of their weight in the room, as if personality were a gravity in and of itself. While certainly incogneto and unrecognisable to the French Canadian, the older man's bearing even at a distance is enough to turn his head and give some due consideration. He is not staring, just surprised by such a man and only the reciept moves his gaze away A scribbly signature ater, he tosses up the bottle of water to catch it deftly in return on his way back to his seat. Interesting how some people are just ... there.
Sparkling red eyeshadow on a young man is not something Erik has seen with any sort of real frequency despite his impressive age and rather wide ranging span of experiences. It is the glitter that catches his eye, and a muted, vaguely skeptical study of Jackson is carried out from near the stairwell before he moves slowly for the counter, chilly glare flickering against Jean-Paul's brief attention along the way. Hrmph.
"No, it was my --" Hesitation. "-- roommate. He took objection to my --" Jackson's hesitation now is not for trying to pick the right word, but for the blue eyes that are on him. Though the color is slowly returning to his cheeks, his hands curl tighter around his mug of coffee, knuckles pressed white, the bright red of his nailpolish standing in sharp relief against the pale ceramic cup. He catches one lip ring between his teeth with a faint clink of enamel on metal. His eyes drop back to the counter.
Curiosity skips down to Jackson, black brows tugging together into a straight, low line. Det. Rossi inspects the young man's profile, quizzical, then skims his attention elsewhere again. Man tossing water. Woman wearing pipe cleaners on her head. Something that looks like a--
It is the last one that pauses him, whitening the knuckles around the coffee mug. Eyes flare stained-glass green. "Fuck," Rossi says again, and reaches abortively for his hip. "Shit. Goddammit." His vocabulary sucks.
"Yer /roommate/?" Izzy asks, arching an eyebrow at Jackson, Rossi ignored for the moment. She slowly follows his eyes to Jean-Paul and looks back down at the sparkly southern boy. "Well lemme tell ya somethang. /Roommates/ shouldn't be hittin' ya." She nods her head towards Jean-Paul. "That him?"
Jean-Paul turns back to his planner, feeling a sort of shivver at the back of his neck. Looking back, he notes the happy party seems to have grown quiet at the elder man's approach, his fedora'd shadow bearing down on them like a monolith to the apes. Shaking his head, Jean-Paul admitted to himself he really was getting far too theatrical for his own good and should probably mind his own business. Twisting off the cap to the water, he was unable to keep from sliding a sidelong glance to the scene at the bar...
Depressingly self-assured considering the public and unpredictable nature of his current surroundings, Magneto tips a lazy nod of greeting to Rossi as he eases up to the counter next to him, eyes scanning to the detective's hip before they bother to pass over his current company. "Christopher."
Teeth bare, showing white. Rossi sets his back against the counter, spine stiffened and straightened to military precision. "/Erik/," he crabs back, with great dignity. And then, on cue, demands, "What the hell are you doing here? Jonesing for the floor show?" His gaze narrows to a sharper focus on Jackson, brow blackening in unthinking accusation.
Jackson swallows and rests his mug back on the counter, Izzy's question and Jean-Paul both completely forgotten. He lifts bright blue eyes from the mug to the all-too-familiar face that has just joined their party. His eyes narrow at Rossi's tone, one pierced eyebrow raising at the detective's hostility, but he rearranges his expression again quickly back to neutral as his focus falls back to Magneto. Miss Manners /never/ addressed how you greet known terrorists on random encounters, and so, uncertain what etiquette dictates, he offers a silent prayer to his God and a quiet "Good evening, sir," to Magneto.
Isabel eyes Rossi, vision trailing around her shoulder to the... wow, the terrorist standing next to her. And she thought the night would be /boring/ with out alcohol. She looks back to her untouched cup of coffee sitting on the bar and slides next to Jackson, taking a half protective stance over the man, one hand wrapped around the cup. She nervously puts her hand back on Jackson's shoulder, leaning against him as she forces a smile to her lips. "Hey- uh, there. Stranger."
Jean-Paul wouldn't be caught dead watching this scene, but a few looks up from his work gave him a a clear view of the situation as it unfolded. He could understand if the gentleman didn't want to draw attention to himself, it was his was his surroundings that conspired to do so anyway. Bared teeth, paled complexions, everything aside from jumping up on a table and shrieking made sure that Jean-Paul was tuned into the event of a lifetime. Very grateful no one paid attention to six year old Canadian politics, he remained at ease and waited for the possibly inevitable. After all, who said Magneto went out to get away from it all from time to time?
"Magneto," comes the cool correction, a grey-touched brow lifted for the questions that follow. Rather than answer them, he looks back across the counter and reaches into the dark fo his overcoat after his wallet. 'The usual' is well on its way to being organized when a fresh fifty dollar bill finds its way out onto the counter surface, and Erik finally looks back to Rossi, to Isabel, and then more directly to Jackson. "Or Dr. Lensherr. ...Evening."
"Then you can stop calling me Christopher," says Rossi, resignation slanting across the carapace of his baritone. His elbow hooks over the bar's counter, shoulder jutting through the stretch of jacket; a finger flicks idly between the assembled mutants, tallying the younger man and young woman. "Like your coat. I ever tell you about this great leather overcoat I used to have?"
"Dr. Lensherr," Jackson repeats, voice quiet, but even. He returns Magneto's look steadily, meeting the older man's blue eyes with his own. His tongue ring clicks against his teeth on the L: Jackson is suddenly, acutely aware of just how /much/ metal he wears in his face. One red fingernail taps restlessly against his knee. "Coat?" His voice is suddenly perplexed. Then, acceding, but no less confused: "It /is/ quite a nice coat."
"Magneto 't is," Izzy says, a bit too politely, at least for her. She dips her head to take a sip of the black liquid and murmurs in Jackson's ear, "Ya neva answered my question. That him?" Her eyes don't know who to lock on to, Magneto or Jean-Paul.
Jean-Paul was starting to become aware of the fact that the young woman in the cowboy hat was eyeing him. He shot her a look back, aknowledging this strange situation and wondering where he was fitting into all of this.
Not quite pained, the sidelong look Erik spares Christopher as his change is sorted back to him isn't really committed enough to be patronizing either. It simply is what it is until a dark cup of coffee is pushed across the counter, and Erik pushes a hefty portion of his change back across the bleak surface in turn before tucking the rest into his wallet and stepping politely aside, out of the way. "This one is from Russia. I can recommend an excellent black market vendor, if you are interested. I've found him to be well worth the trouble of maintaining communication overseas."
"Someone ruined it," Rossi tells Jackson and Isabel, conversational. Almost friendly, in a cynical, native New Yorker way. "Threw an SUV at me, and shredded it. And then there was another overcoat. Nice overcoat. Great for winter. Some inconsiderate jerk has his boyfriend shoot me through it. Can you believe that? In the year 2006, someone does that to a good wardrobe? Makes you want to cry."
"Your -- what?" Izzy's question had been pushed completely out of Jackson's mind; it takes him a moment to refocus before he can provide a rather laconic answer: "Not him." His eyes are pulled back to Magneto: there is a trace of fear in them, admittedly, but it's far overshadowed by a healthy dose of respect that is perhaps peculiarly incompatible with his self-proclaimed pacifism. "That's a travesty, sir," Jackson offers politely to Rossi, though his attention is hardly on the detective at all.
Isabel outright stares at Jean-Paul, giving him a judemental once over, though at Jackson's denail of him being the roommate in question, the hard look is quickly dropped. Her eyes slide over to Rossi and a sarcastic smirk crawls ontyou her features. "Damn, cryin' shame. See, that's why I like ta stick ta basics 's much 's possible. Jeans an' a black top. Alwyas works, easily replacable." Dipping into her coffee cup again, her mouth finds the space next to Jackson's ear again and she whispers, "Would ya like me ta have a right pleasant lil chat with this here /roommate/ of yers?"
Was the man at the counter bring a complaint against a known wanted criminal responcible for crimes against humankind over a coat? Is this how Americans do this? The young woman rightfully diverts her gaze elsewhere, leaving Jean-Paul a little dumbstruck by the man's audacity and the willingness of those with him to back him up in this taunt. He started to gather up his things, just in case.
"It is no small wonder that he is alive at all, really," Erik contributes to the conversation despite having the stiff set of his shoulders turned to most of it, a tiny packet of cream squeezed off into his cup with a practiced pinch around the flimsy plastic. Plop. "Someone must be looking out for him. That, or the perpetrator of such villainy is a man of excessive patience."
Rossi grins abruptly, eyes gleaming with a swift, reckless humor. "Angels working overtime," he drawls, trailing the angle of vowels after it. "Or the perpetrator of the villainy -- good word, man. /Villainy/. Has a ring. -- this mastermind of crime has a sick sense of humor. He owes me a coat."
"No," Jackson says to Isabel, firmly. "That's unnecessary. I think he might be -- moving out, soon, anyway." His coffee, as yet untouched, is suddenly remembered; he adds seven packets of sugar to the mug of black coffee before stirring and sipping it slowly. "Do angels get time and a half for that?" he wonders, over the steam of his drink.
Isabel ohhs and smiles, looking back and forth between Rossi and Magneto, wondering only briefly why the cop isn't shooting at him. Yeah, that whole throwing an SUV thing. Relaxing a bit, she straightens and leans against the bar, one hand resting almost protectively against her stomach. "He better," she says to Jackson with a smile. Nobody hits her friends and gets away with it, if she can help it.
Jean-Paul took a leisurely route to leaving his table. Would the man get his coat. Would Magneto crush him into a tiny pulp? Could anyone do anything about either outcome? He could stay at least until he finished his water to wait the answer out...
"It's fascinating, what a higher education will do for one's vocabulary." Left hand extended aside to deposit the spent capsule of cream into a hole meant for such things, Magneto next sets about the task of stirring as he turns back to eye Isabel and Jackson. "Christopher is a rare find. Though he is not a mutant, as a homosexual, he has a unique understanding of what it is like to be part of a minority that is looked down upon and at times feared in our unforgiving Western society. I highly recommend that you take the time to get to know him, while you have it." A half-smile is directed past Isabel, specifically for Jackson, and Erik winks before leaning away from the bar in the direction of the door, sipping his coffee as he goes.
"As a mutant /and/ a homosexual," Jackson says with a wry grin, downing the rest of his coffee quickly, "I think I somewhat understand."
Isabel arches an eyebrow at Rossi. That /would/ explain the sentiment towards the coat.
Coffee sprays. Rossi chokes. "You flaming /son/ of a /jackass/," he hiccups through the back of his arm, ire swift to bite into his face. Baritone roughens, thickening towards -- hilarity? fury? "Screw you, Erik. Who's the one dressed like a goddamn /pimp/?"
Like a good portion of the patrons, Jean-Paul stares openly at the scene. Insults aside, he is left to shake his head and wait until the older gentleman revolutionary has passed to make his own exit. No one wants to get caught in a door with Magneto and Jean-Paul could do without calling any attention to himself. He didn't know the right handshake anymore and wouldn't risk deportation just to say he met THE Master of Magnetism.
"This is The Sanctuary, Christopher. No one will judge you, here," Erik lifts his voice to impart, free hand lifted in casual farewell, overcoat drafting heavy in the wake of his measured stride. Bye!
Rarer than hen's teeth, Rossi's laugh. It breaks in a moment's sheer mirth, outrage plucked by black humor. "Jesus fucking /Christ/--" Bye!
Jackson's eyes follow Magneto on his departure. lips quirking despite himself. His coffee mug, now empty, is placed back on the counter. "Work," he says, shaking his head. "I really should get there." Nodding to Rossi and Isabel, he slips quickly out of the coffeeshop.
(Is this where I type 'Bye!'?)
Bye!
Isabel watches wide eyed as Magneto and then Jackson take off. She looks back to Rossi and a devilish grin begins to spread across her face as she drains her own cup of coffee and sets it down on the bar. "Well, if'fn that ain't 'nough 'citment fer one night I don't know what is."
Jean-Paul gathers his things, missing his chance to check in on the sparkling young man and query as to why he doesn't have any concealer. A well timed exit, Jean-Paul is left to mutter under his breath, "... Americans."
The remnants of that laugh still trembles across Rossi's voice, doing much to soften the harshness of saturnine features. "Like a fucking circus," he says, turning back to the counter to slide his emptied mug across the bar. Napkins, gathered in a fist, blots ineffectually at the dampened shirt front before being tossed in a heap beside the mug. "Gotta call this in. Dammit. I swear he's got some kind of -- GPS wedged in my tooth."
Isabel presses her lips together, trying not to laugh at the detective's situation. She picks up a handful of napkins herself and blots at the spots that Rossi missed. "Don't you boys got somethang ta scan fer that sorta stuff?" she asks. "'R maybe he jsut wants a date?"
"I'm not gay," Rossi retorts, fishing a phone from the inner recesses of his jacket to flip it open. His gaze turns down with humorous bemusement at the woman's assistance. "Thanks," he adds, waving the napkins away. "I'm fine. He just likes to mess with me because he's a prick who learned his sense of humor from PBS."
Isabel tosses the napkins on the coutner. She wasn't doing very well with it anyhow. "Well then, seein' as how I'd really not like ta hafta sit here and talk ta cops, I suppose I should git a move on, shouldn't I?" Izzy digs around in a pocket, pulling out a few crumpled bills and unfloding them, waving her other hand at the bartender.
Rossi lifts his chin in a distracted acknowledgment, but his attention is already for the phone, the other ear closed by the expedience of a forefinger. "--Yo. /Yo/. Twinker. Rossi. Guess who just popped up like a bad muppet in Sanctuary?"
Isabel waves a silent goodbye as she hands the money off to the bartender and tips her stetson to Rossi with a flick of her fingers, heading out the entrance.
[Log ends]
A pleasant night at the Sanctuary stutters along just fine until Magneto tells a room full of mutants that Rossi is his little boy lover. NICE ONE, OLD MAN.