(no subject)
19 May 2007:
All logic would say that /after/ the two hour concert ending late on a Saturday evening is not the best time for something with caffeine. It would appear, though, that more than a few members of the orchestra that has just produced said concert are not particularly logical people. A cluster of tuxedoed and black gowned musicians migrates from the street into the coffeeshop, some chattering about the performance, others about entirely unrelated subjects. And as in orchestral seating, the percussionist stays to the back of the group. Andre swings his cane several inches above the ground as he walks, listening absently more than engaging in conversation, glancing around the room once he's in the line.
The crowd is not inconsiderable, even at this hour, even on a Saturday; most of the tables are filled already, chairs confiscated from one to serve the needs of another. Solitary and somewhat forbidding, Chris Rossi stretches in a long black line across a seat of his own, one foot propped on an empty chair. His pale, level stare fends off importunate chair thieves: /his/ chair. Blatant abuse of the badge at his belt and the gun hanging beside it. Shame.
Some of the other orchestra members take note of the badge and comment on it within their own circle before Andre's scan of the room registers the glint of metal. It is not so forbidding as to prevent the percussionist's eyes from seeking the face of the badge's owner. All the pale levelness that Rossi musters right now does not deter Andre at the instant of recognition, and he raises his free hand in a wave, adding for the not-so-far distance between line and table, "Hey!"
There is more than one group meeting up in the cafe, and several heads pop up attentively at that salute, one hand tentatively responding before its owner hastily uses it to rearrange her hair. Rossi's gaze lifts as well, but the frown embedded behind the lowered brows lightens after a moment. Recognition relaxes his face. "Yo," he greets back, lifting his chin in acknowledgment. "You again."
For his focus on the individual he's actually addressing, Andre doesn't notice the accidental responses of other coffeeshop patrons. His own face, still occupied by the smile that the concert wrought, brightens further at Rossi's relaxation and response. "Me again," he confirms, "and you again. How goes it?" He angles his face from the rest of the line as he speaks, even as his feet hold his place.
Shoulders lift, the somewhat shabby black suit of work rustling at the shrug. "Could be worse," Rossi says, allowing the smallest curve to ease the line of his mouth. His chin lifts again, gesturing: this time with the accompaniment of the hand holding coffee. "What's with the penguin suit? Concert tonight?" His gaze drifts to Andre's companions. "Or are you on a group date for the prom?"
"If you've got the time to chill and drink coffee rather than running around after crazy stuff, yeah, could be worse." Andre concurs, sliding his hand further down the stick of the cane and tilting it to the side from that point. He flicks the index finger of his other hand at his bow tie. "Ayup, concert. This is way too much black for a prom, but not enough makeup for a goth club." He glances toward his musical comrades further up in the line.
An eyebrow arches. Rossi's eyes darken, color shadowed by the reflection of the coffee he is sipping. "Goth. So that's your scene? Piercings, velvet, leather, lace-- wouldn't have pegged you for that. Then again, what you do behind closed doors--" He shifts, hooking his elbow over the back of his chair. The slight curl to his mouth increases somewhat, smile lines etching deeper.
Andre's eyebrows, to the contrary, flatten across his brow, shadowing his own eyes but certainly not darkly enough to pass for emo, let alone goth. "Nuh/uh/. That's Becks. I have always been far more, ahh...geek chic." He closes his eyes and presses his fingertips against his chest for a moment. "Only without the chic bit."
"/That/ I can see," Rossi admits, simple, uncomplicated amusement sliding quicksilver across his face before it disappears in the next breath. Traces of it linger in the baritone, smoothing the harsher edges of the Brooklyn accent. "Bet she's got all sorts of random crap hanging in her closet. Get your coffee," he orders, gesturing past Andre with the edge of his cup. His leg, propped on the chair, bends to drag the seat closer. "You can't be a geek if you don't have more caffeine than blood."
Andre flashes a proud toothy grin at the confirmation of his geekdom, then places two fingers on his neck as if seeking a pulse. "Feels kind of human. I think I burned too much caffeine off with that timp part at the end of the sixth movement." At Rossi's suggestion, he turns back in the proper direction of the line, managing to stay this way for a full ten seconds before glancing back and adding with forced flatness of tone, "I'm not pawing through her closet." Then he commits himself to the line. Which processes through the rest of the orchestra people in an orderly fashion. Andre's order comes quickly when it's his turn, and he then leans against the counter waiting for the drink to be delivered.
Rossi grins into the heat of his cup, reserving reply long enough for Andre to make his order. Then, amiable, it's: "So you're not sleeping together yet?"
Andre catches the question as he turns back to the counter, and the reflexive reddening of his cheeks can certainly cut back across any gap that the sound went through. Some of the other orchestral musicians regard the officer at his statement, then return to their conversations with more spontaneous laughs than before. Andre waits until he returns to the table - the bottom of his cappuccino cup resting on the handle of his cane, with the other hand wrapped around the ineffective cardboard heat guard - before verbally acknowledging that he was the target of the question. "Nuh. Not yet." He's quiet, but neither his inflection nor expression is swayed by disappointment or shame.
"You can do that to break the ice," Rossi suggests, sliding his foot off the seat of the empty chair to push it out a bit for Andre. He returns his cup to the table, the heavy ceramic mug clinking quietly on the marble top. "Come out of her closet wearing some of her clothes, in between getting it off and the arguing, you might be able to talk her into bed. You can tell that story to your kids someday. 'When Mom and Dad conceived you, Dad was wearing a dress.'"
The motions in which Andre's hands engage are pretty normal. They set the coffee cup on the table, they hook the handle of the cane over the back of the chair, they rest against the edge of the table as he slides into the chair. The motions of his facial muscles, however, decide to experiment with new expressions in the realm of amused and horrified at once. "Oh ma-an. Don't think so. She's got the height and the arms on me. I'm /losing/ any confrontation I start!" He shakes his head and laughs over the top of his coffee cup. "I also bet she doesn't actually /have/ dresses. But even if she did...with our genes combined, I think crossdressing could go down as /mundane/ in comparison."
Rossi points at Andre from his fingers' wrap around the mug. He squints. "You might have a point," he grants. "She's got underwear though, right? Never mind," he interrupts himself, slumping a little lower in his chair. His voice waxes dry. "Starting to get into thoughts even I can't stomach. What'd you have to do to go weird with you two?"
"I certainly /hope/ she does." Andre wrinkles his nose and considers the reflection of this expression on the surface of his coffee. "Though that's totally /her/ business." He disturbs the reflected image by blowing across it, then taking a small sip of the steaming liquid. He swallows, then promptly and simply explains, "I think voting Republican'd do it."
"You're not having sex," Rossi points out, propping his head on his fist. He lifts his eyebrows at Andre, the smoky green eyes gleaming. "That's almost as weird. What's the problem? You saving yourselves?"
"It's not feeling like a problem to us," Andre clarifies, leaning back in his chair, his own brown eyes widening. "Seems like we're just going to let it happen when it does. Dating happened after hanging out for a while. Kissing happened after dating for a while. I think that's what natural feels like emotionally."
Rossi scrubs idly at his face, the shadow of bristle rasping against the palm of his hand. "Kids today," he says. Bemusement mingles with amusement; he straightens and shifts again, canting his head to pop his neck. "Nothing like my generation. What's with all this 'feelings' stuff? It's like the '60s are back."
Andre's eyebrows momentarily raise to a level at which they are lost behind the fringe of his bangs as he takes a longer sip of his coffee. He swallows and sets the mug down, fingers falling into their typical tapping pattern against the side of the cup. "Kids? I can't be /that/ much younger than you are." Even though he can't produce such dramatic geezerly joint pops. "And I never liked doing other stuff I was forced to do, so why would I want to force this? We're good with feelings." A smirk pricks at the corners of his lips. "And we're both from California. We're entitled to the hippie thing."
The other man's exhalation is sharp. Steam balloons out of the mug, spinning out in a white cloud. "/Forced/ to-- sex?" Rossi quizzes, a twitch of disbelief yanking his voice askew. He straightens in his chair and leans on the arm of his seat, replacing his coffee on the table to scratch at the back of his neck. "West Coasters. Hate to break the news to you, Andre, but sex is supposed to be enjoyable. Unless you're British. Think with them they've just done too much thinking about the Queen."
"Yeaagh," is the first thought Andre has for the British once Rossi has turned this particular light on them. His lips pull back from his teeth as if the contents of his cup have gone sour rather than the shared mental image of America's colonizers. The reaction fades with a breathed laugh, though. "I'm sure we'll enjoy it when it comes in its course." The statement is simple, quieter than usual, but confident.
"Gotta wonder," Rossi says simply. He considers Andre with some sympathy. "You know how, right? You need the talk? With you young kids, I never really know--"
"They start teaching about how that works in fifth grade." Andre may be able to force his voice to be matter of fact and even, but he can't hold back the march of redness across his face.
"Yeah, but you said you were a geek." Rossi levels a look on Andre, his face grave and concerned: a priestly, fatherly, kindly face. "How the hell do I know you didn't spend the entire class reading some comic book in the back of the class?"
"The kind of geek that paid attention in class!" The look of insistence encompassed by the angle of Andre's brows and the slight pout of his lower lip makes him appear more fitting to the category of 'kid' that Rossi has assigned him.
It is an expression that tries even a veteran detective's hard-core poker face. Rossi's mouth twitches. "Taken your equipment for a test drive? Had it serviced? Checked over? --Forget it," he breaks off hastily, waving away a possible answer. "Forget it. Christ. I need to get la-- I need to stop yanking your chain. Haven't seen Beckah in a while. You two are doing good, sounds like."
Andre manages to maintain his own ridiculous expression for several seconds longer as he looks away from Rossi, quickly down at his lap, and then back up again. As the cop breaks his train of thought, the percussionist releases the look to something more relaxed. He smiles sheepishly and shakes his head a few times, then brushes his hair back from his eyes. "I probably look more embarrassed than I am," he assesses. "And things really are going well. We've both been crazy busy with our respective music, but that makes hanging out all that much nicer." He lifts his coffee and presses the rim of his cup against his lower lip. "How's Ororo?"
"Gorgeous," Rossi says, the hint of a groan in the word. He sprawls bonelessly in his chair, letting his legs stretch into the aisle, free arm expanding long across the table. "Sexy. Brilliant. And unavailable. Christ." His head falls back, gaze cutting up to the ceiling. "If our schedules don't sync up soon, my head's going to explode."
Andre takes a long slow sip of his drink as Rossi elaborates, his brow furrowing at the final word in the string of adjectives. He swallows, then points out, "But if your head explodes, that /guarantees/ you won't be available to, ah, sync." He shrugs and wraps both hands around his cup. "You're guaranteed a rewarding reunion as it is now, yeah?"
The black and silvered head pops up, rumpled hair sketching a wing across Rossi's brow. "Sweet Mary, Joseph, and the donkey they rode in on. It damn well better be." The cop grins outright for the first time, teeth flashing white in a burst of humor that does not lack in self-mockery. "This is why I would've made a crappy priest. I checked out Beckah's place the other night. Looks like it's hopping."
"Priest, huh?" The percussionist's lips press together, though the thinness does not keep the corners from quirking upward along with one of his brows. "I can't say I can imagine that very well." He gives up on suppressing the smile at the mental image, or lack thereof. "Yeah? I've gone a couple of times. Not the kind of scene I've ever really been in before, but it's hers, you know? And she's at her virtuoso best there, no kidding." He releases the cup and moves both hands in an approximation of scratching.
"To each their own." Relaxed as he is, the warmth of his smile remains long enough to burr the edges of his accent, stretching the vowels out into lazy taffy. "Not my kind of music, but it seems like she's doing good. The guys in the club seemed to like her enough to give her some security, anyway."
"She can scratch classical. I was pretty surprised when she first showed me, I have to admit. I'd bet she can scratch jazz, too." Andre inclines his head toward Rossi, both eyebrows now raising and falling back to their normal level. "She goes beyond the normal kind of music for that kind." Pride in Beckah's accomplishment colors his tenor. "And the security thing makes it even better. I'm glad she feels good enough to be open, but it gives so much more to worry about."
Rossi's mouth thins. He inspects Andre from under lowered lashes, the green of his eyes brilliant under the droop of lids. "You realize you could be a target too, right?"
"Yeah." The reply is heavy with previous thought, not a hasty interjection. "That's one of those so many more things." Andre frowns then lifts his cup to his mouth once more.
"You taking precautions?"
"Have been since my hip was busted, which was before I met Beck. Emergency stuff on speed dial. Pepper spray." One of Andre's arms snakes around the back of his chair and pulls the cane to the side for display. "This could also work for whacking if need be." He does not sound thrilled at the prospect.
Rossi's gaze turns to the cane. He does not, it is true, look impressed -- but all he says (diplomat that he is) is: "Huh." He shakes his head and sits up in his seat, tossing back the last of his coffee. "Just be careful, will you? Pretend you're a pretty girl from Iowa on your first trip to New York City. Corn-fed. Used to cows." His chair legs scrape; he stands, a hand shoving into his pocket. The badge flashes at Andre. "Virgin. Don't want to see either of you on my desk."
"Moo," Andre agrees, attempting to flutter his eyelashes at Rossi. He does not quite have the motion down. It looks even more ridiculous than it would on a grown man who had the gesture down perfect. "Seriously, I'll keep watching out. And I have no desire to see your workplace, alive or otherwise. Sticking to coffee places is better, since I can't exactly carry my certified geek caffeine IV down the street." He tilts his head back as Rossi stands, lifting one hand. "Have a good one."
The cop touches two fingers to his brow, a tossed salute, and turns his long stride towards the door. His departure is lost in the influx of new people: straying concert goers, late to the party but game despite it. The door tinkles, opens, then closes. Exeunt Rossi, stage left.
Rossi seems very concerned about the future of Andre's and Beckah's genetic material.
All logic would say that /after/ the two hour concert ending late on a Saturday evening is not the best time for something with caffeine. It would appear, though, that more than a few members of the orchestra that has just produced said concert are not particularly logical people. A cluster of tuxedoed and black gowned musicians migrates from the street into the coffeeshop, some chattering about the performance, others about entirely unrelated subjects. And as in orchestral seating, the percussionist stays to the back of the group. Andre swings his cane several inches above the ground as he walks, listening absently more than engaging in conversation, glancing around the room once he's in the line.
The crowd is not inconsiderable, even at this hour, even on a Saturday; most of the tables are filled already, chairs confiscated from one to serve the needs of another. Solitary and somewhat forbidding, Chris Rossi stretches in a long black line across a seat of his own, one foot propped on an empty chair. His pale, level stare fends off importunate chair thieves: /his/ chair. Blatant abuse of the badge at his belt and the gun hanging beside it. Shame.
Some of the other orchestra members take note of the badge and comment on it within their own circle before Andre's scan of the room registers the glint of metal. It is not so forbidding as to prevent the percussionist's eyes from seeking the face of the badge's owner. All the pale levelness that Rossi musters right now does not deter Andre at the instant of recognition, and he raises his free hand in a wave, adding for the not-so-far distance between line and table, "Hey!"
There is more than one group meeting up in the cafe, and several heads pop up attentively at that salute, one hand tentatively responding before its owner hastily uses it to rearrange her hair. Rossi's gaze lifts as well, but the frown embedded behind the lowered brows lightens after a moment. Recognition relaxes his face. "Yo," he greets back, lifting his chin in acknowledgment. "You again."
For his focus on the individual he's actually addressing, Andre doesn't notice the accidental responses of other coffeeshop patrons. His own face, still occupied by the smile that the concert wrought, brightens further at Rossi's relaxation and response. "Me again," he confirms, "and you again. How goes it?" He angles his face from the rest of the line as he speaks, even as his feet hold his place.
Shoulders lift, the somewhat shabby black suit of work rustling at the shrug. "Could be worse," Rossi says, allowing the smallest curve to ease the line of his mouth. His chin lifts again, gesturing: this time with the accompaniment of the hand holding coffee. "What's with the penguin suit? Concert tonight?" His gaze drifts to Andre's companions. "Or are you on a group date for the prom?"
"If you've got the time to chill and drink coffee rather than running around after crazy stuff, yeah, could be worse." Andre concurs, sliding his hand further down the stick of the cane and tilting it to the side from that point. He flicks the index finger of his other hand at his bow tie. "Ayup, concert. This is way too much black for a prom, but not enough makeup for a goth club." He glances toward his musical comrades further up in the line.
An eyebrow arches. Rossi's eyes darken, color shadowed by the reflection of the coffee he is sipping. "Goth. So that's your scene? Piercings, velvet, leather, lace-- wouldn't have pegged you for that. Then again, what you do behind closed doors--" He shifts, hooking his elbow over the back of his chair. The slight curl to his mouth increases somewhat, smile lines etching deeper.
Andre's eyebrows, to the contrary, flatten across his brow, shadowing his own eyes but certainly not darkly enough to pass for emo, let alone goth. "Nuh/uh/. That's Becks. I have always been far more, ahh...geek chic." He closes his eyes and presses his fingertips against his chest for a moment. "Only without the chic bit."
"/That/ I can see," Rossi admits, simple, uncomplicated amusement sliding quicksilver across his face before it disappears in the next breath. Traces of it linger in the baritone, smoothing the harsher edges of the Brooklyn accent. "Bet she's got all sorts of random crap hanging in her closet. Get your coffee," he orders, gesturing past Andre with the edge of his cup. His leg, propped on the chair, bends to drag the seat closer. "You can't be a geek if you don't have more caffeine than blood."
Andre flashes a proud toothy grin at the confirmation of his geekdom, then places two fingers on his neck as if seeking a pulse. "Feels kind of human. I think I burned too much caffeine off with that timp part at the end of the sixth movement." At Rossi's suggestion, he turns back in the proper direction of the line, managing to stay this way for a full ten seconds before glancing back and adding with forced flatness of tone, "I'm not pawing through her closet." Then he commits himself to the line. Which processes through the rest of the orchestra people in an orderly fashion. Andre's order comes quickly when it's his turn, and he then leans against the counter waiting for the drink to be delivered.
Rossi grins into the heat of his cup, reserving reply long enough for Andre to make his order. Then, amiable, it's: "So you're not sleeping together yet?"
Andre catches the question as he turns back to the counter, and the reflexive reddening of his cheeks can certainly cut back across any gap that the sound went through. Some of the other orchestral musicians regard the officer at his statement, then return to their conversations with more spontaneous laughs than before. Andre waits until he returns to the table - the bottom of his cappuccino cup resting on the handle of his cane, with the other hand wrapped around the ineffective cardboard heat guard - before verbally acknowledging that he was the target of the question. "Nuh. Not yet." He's quiet, but neither his inflection nor expression is swayed by disappointment or shame.
"You can do that to break the ice," Rossi suggests, sliding his foot off the seat of the empty chair to push it out a bit for Andre. He returns his cup to the table, the heavy ceramic mug clinking quietly on the marble top. "Come out of her closet wearing some of her clothes, in between getting it off and the arguing, you might be able to talk her into bed. You can tell that story to your kids someday. 'When Mom and Dad conceived you, Dad was wearing a dress.'"
The motions in which Andre's hands engage are pretty normal. They set the coffee cup on the table, they hook the handle of the cane over the back of the chair, they rest against the edge of the table as he slides into the chair. The motions of his facial muscles, however, decide to experiment with new expressions in the realm of amused and horrified at once. "Oh ma-an. Don't think so. She's got the height and the arms on me. I'm /losing/ any confrontation I start!" He shakes his head and laughs over the top of his coffee cup. "I also bet she doesn't actually /have/ dresses. But even if she did...with our genes combined, I think crossdressing could go down as /mundane/ in comparison."
Rossi points at Andre from his fingers' wrap around the mug. He squints. "You might have a point," he grants. "She's got underwear though, right? Never mind," he interrupts himself, slumping a little lower in his chair. His voice waxes dry. "Starting to get into thoughts even I can't stomach. What'd you have to do to go weird with you two?"
"I certainly /hope/ she does." Andre wrinkles his nose and considers the reflection of this expression on the surface of his coffee. "Though that's totally /her/ business." He disturbs the reflected image by blowing across it, then taking a small sip of the steaming liquid. He swallows, then promptly and simply explains, "I think voting Republican'd do it."
"You're not having sex," Rossi points out, propping his head on his fist. He lifts his eyebrows at Andre, the smoky green eyes gleaming. "That's almost as weird. What's the problem? You saving yourselves?"
"It's not feeling like a problem to us," Andre clarifies, leaning back in his chair, his own brown eyes widening. "Seems like we're just going to let it happen when it does. Dating happened after hanging out for a while. Kissing happened after dating for a while. I think that's what natural feels like emotionally."
Rossi scrubs idly at his face, the shadow of bristle rasping against the palm of his hand. "Kids today," he says. Bemusement mingles with amusement; he straightens and shifts again, canting his head to pop his neck. "Nothing like my generation. What's with all this 'feelings' stuff? It's like the '60s are back."
Andre's eyebrows momentarily raise to a level at which they are lost behind the fringe of his bangs as he takes a longer sip of his coffee. He swallows and sets the mug down, fingers falling into their typical tapping pattern against the side of the cup. "Kids? I can't be /that/ much younger than you are." Even though he can't produce such dramatic geezerly joint pops. "And I never liked doing other stuff I was forced to do, so why would I want to force this? We're good with feelings." A smirk pricks at the corners of his lips. "And we're both from California. We're entitled to the hippie thing."
The other man's exhalation is sharp. Steam balloons out of the mug, spinning out in a white cloud. "/Forced/ to-- sex?" Rossi quizzes, a twitch of disbelief yanking his voice askew. He straightens in his chair and leans on the arm of his seat, replacing his coffee on the table to scratch at the back of his neck. "West Coasters. Hate to break the news to you, Andre, but sex is supposed to be enjoyable. Unless you're British. Think with them they've just done too much thinking about the Queen."
"Yeaagh," is the first thought Andre has for the British once Rossi has turned this particular light on them. His lips pull back from his teeth as if the contents of his cup have gone sour rather than the shared mental image of America's colonizers. The reaction fades with a breathed laugh, though. "I'm sure we'll enjoy it when it comes in its course." The statement is simple, quieter than usual, but confident.
"Gotta wonder," Rossi says simply. He considers Andre with some sympathy. "You know how, right? You need the talk? With you young kids, I never really know--"
"They start teaching about how that works in fifth grade." Andre may be able to force his voice to be matter of fact and even, but he can't hold back the march of redness across his face.
"Yeah, but you said you were a geek." Rossi levels a look on Andre, his face grave and concerned: a priestly, fatherly, kindly face. "How the hell do I know you didn't spend the entire class reading some comic book in the back of the class?"
"The kind of geek that paid attention in class!" The look of insistence encompassed by the angle of Andre's brows and the slight pout of his lower lip makes him appear more fitting to the category of 'kid' that Rossi has assigned him.
It is an expression that tries even a veteran detective's hard-core poker face. Rossi's mouth twitches. "Taken your equipment for a test drive? Had it serviced? Checked over? --Forget it," he breaks off hastily, waving away a possible answer. "Forget it. Christ. I need to get la-- I need to stop yanking your chain. Haven't seen Beckah in a while. You two are doing good, sounds like."
Andre manages to maintain his own ridiculous expression for several seconds longer as he looks away from Rossi, quickly down at his lap, and then back up again. As the cop breaks his train of thought, the percussionist releases the look to something more relaxed. He smiles sheepishly and shakes his head a few times, then brushes his hair back from his eyes. "I probably look more embarrassed than I am," he assesses. "And things really are going well. We've both been crazy busy with our respective music, but that makes hanging out all that much nicer." He lifts his coffee and presses the rim of his cup against his lower lip. "How's Ororo?"
"Gorgeous," Rossi says, the hint of a groan in the word. He sprawls bonelessly in his chair, letting his legs stretch into the aisle, free arm expanding long across the table. "Sexy. Brilliant. And unavailable. Christ." His head falls back, gaze cutting up to the ceiling. "If our schedules don't sync up soon, my head's going to explode."
Andre takes a long slow sip of his drink as Rossi elaborates, his brow furrowing at the final word in the string of adjectives. He swallows, then points out, "But if your head explodes, that /guarantees/ you won't be available to, ah, sync." He shrugs and wraps both hands around his cup. "You're guaranteed a rewarding reunion as it is now, yeah?"
The black and silvered head pops up, rumpled hair sketching a wing across Rossi's brow. "Sweet Mary, Joseph, and the donkey they rode in on. It damn well better be." The cop grins outright for the first time, teeth flashing white in a burst of humor that does not lack in self-mockery. "This is why I would've made a crappy priest. I checked out Beckah's place the other night. Looks like it's hopping."
"Priest, huh?" The percussionist's lips press together, though the thinness does not keep the corners from quirking upward along with one of his brows. "I can't say I can imagine that very well." He gives up on suppressing the smile at the mental image, or lack thereof. "Yeah? I've gone a couple of times. Not the kind of scene I've ever really been in before, but it's hers, you know? And she's at her virtuoso best there, no kidding." He releases the cup and moves both hands in an approximation of scratching.
"To each their own." Relaxed as he is, the warmth of his smile remains long enough to burr the edges of his accent, stretching the vowels out into lazy taffy. "Not my kind of music, but it seems like she's doing good. The guys in the club seemed to like her enough to give her some security, anyway."
"She can scratch classical. I was pretty surprised when she first showed me, I have to admit. I'd bet she can scratch jazz, too." Andre inclines his head toward Rossi, both eyebrows now raising and falling back to their normal level. "She goes beyond the normal kind of music for that kind." Pride in Beckah's accomplishment colors his tenor. "And the security thing makes it even better. I'm glad she feels good enough to be open, but it gives so much more to worry about."
Rossi's mouth thins. He inspects Andre from under lowered lashes, the green of his eyes brilliant under the droop of lids. "You realize you could be a target too, right?"
"Yeah." The reply is heavy with previous thought, not a hasty interjection. "That's one of those so many more things." Andre frowns then lifts his cup to his mouth once more.
"You taking precautions?"
"Have been since my hip was busted, which was before I met Beck. Emergency stuff on speed dial. Pepper spray." One of Andre's arms snakes around the back of his chair and pulls the cane to the side for display. "This could also work for whacking if need be." He does not sound thrilled at the prospect.
Rossi's gaze turns to the cane. He does not, it is true, look impressed -- but all he says (diplomat that he is) is: "Huh." He shakes his head and sits up in his seat, tossing back the last of his coffee. "Just be careful, will you? Pretend you're a pretty girl from Iowa on your first trip to New York City. Corn-fed. Used to cows." His chair legs scrape; he stands, a hand shoving into his pocket. The badge flashes at Andre. "Virgin. Don't want to see either of you on my desk."
"Moo," Andre agrees, attempting to flutter his eyelashes at Rossi. He does not quite have the motion down. It looks even more ridiculous than it would on a grown man who had the gesture down perfect. "Seriously, I'll keep watching out. And I have no desire to see your workplace, alive or otherwise. Sticking to coffee places is better, since I can't exactly carry my certified geek caffeine IV down the street." He tilts his head back as Rossi stands, lifting one hand. "Have a good one."
The cop touches two fingers to his brow, a tossed salute, and turns his long stride towards the door. His departure is lost in the influx of new people: straying concert goers, late to the party but game despite it. The door tinkles, opens, then closes. Exeunt Rossi, stage left.
Rossi seems very concerned about the future of Andre's and Beckah's genetic material.