2/18/08 - Emma
---
=NYC= Back Deck - Hellfire Clubhouse
With a breathtaking view up and down the East River, the patio serves as a natural extension of the grand house. The deck's slate slabs fit together so tightly as to make the seams all but invisible; rougher marble forms the balustrade railing on the outer edge of the smooth-tiled space. Tables can be set up at a moment's notice, and a steel-and-glass roof awaits deployment, hidden behind the stonework of the wall itself but accessible through carefully designed and even more carefully concealed machinery. New York still makes its presence felt, but only as a level of background noise that does not intrude into this exclusive refuge.
Scattered throughout the wall along the patio are several doors into the clubhouse: to the north, the exercise room; one leads to eventually to the foyer; and to the south is the ballroom. Stone steps lead down and west into the estate's gardens.
The afternoon is warm, for a winter day in New York. The Hellfire Clubhouse is typically empty, with only a few members stopping in for Monday afternoon activities. There is the yoga class, and the raquetball court, and the odd nefarious business meeting. Speaking of nefarious... Emma scowls across the lawns and gardens at a fixed, white point still far too visible from the porch.
There are other things visible -- by eye or other means -- from the porch. The hallway beyond, for instance. The murmur of masculine voices in quiet conversation. The approach of minds, one entrenched in inherited right, the other equally arrogant in earned authority. A businessman's mind, the first; a policeman's mind, the latter. Is that all, detective? For now. Civility without courtesy sends one man one way, and the other (a stranger in a strange land) lost in the hall before he steps out the first promising door.
Chris Rossi steps out onto the back deck and breathes rarified air. "Holy crap," he says, taking in the view, and squints.
Emma rolls her eyes skyward. She's not surprised. His name is on a list that automatically prompts notification. And of /course/ they can't just pass silently in the night. It never works that way. But then again, would they want it to? She exhales and turns, leaning back with the balustrade hitting just at hip level. Softest cashmere weaves itself into a fluffy sweater that begs to be stroked, outlining rather than concealing the figure underneath. She catches the heel of her boot against the railing, her knee lifting the hem of a gracefully hanging skirt. "It was a gift," she says defensively, folding her arms across her chest and glaring at him in defiance.
It is a preemptive explanation, as it happens; the surprise is for the view at large -- the grander one, of the east river and the gardens beyond. Realization of the /statue/ is another matter altogether, and prompts a sharp intake of breath between parted lips. Chris's face freezes, stone-like: a good enough mask for a flatscan, if not for the local telepath. Shock is chased by awe, and then by a bone-jarring hilarity that plows deep into the pensive baritone. "You must've been a very, very good girl for someone to be so--" His voice wavers, then steadies. "--nice."
The view /is/ ni--impressive. Emma's scowl deepens, but even she cannot deny him the ludicrousness of the impression. Too bad he missed the event Leonardo took inspiration from. The statue looses a little something without the reference point. "I am /always/ a very good girl," she snips primly.
"By whose standards? The Hague's?" The riposte is absent-minded, and lacks the customary, cutting edge. It is the statue that absorbs Chris's attention; he is, not surprisingly, fascinated, and strolls forward to gain a better view from a different angle. "Is this one of those things you get from a grateful nation for doing something really unspeakable?"
"If it was unspeakable, I would not be able to tell you, now would I?" Black humor nips at the corner of her mouth and sets it twitching. There are clam shells. And hair.
"Does that mean you're gonna tell me?" Chris asks, a prospect that tempts him enough that he tears his eyes away from the -- manifestation of dubious taste -- to glance towards Emma. The balustrade railing halts his forward progress; he leans beside Emma, hands broad and scarred against the marble, to brace the angled stretch of his arms. A light breeze tugs at his tie, striping it dark blue and simple over the black of his suit jacket. A grin burns vivid in the green eyes. "Or did you get it yourself out of one of those skymall magazines they have on the airplanes?"
"Oh, /yes/. I saw the incredibly pointless waste of perfectly good Italian marble and decided I /must/ have it. Though the customization of the eyes /was/ my idea," Emma breathes, dropping her hands to either side of her and bracing herself to slide up onto the stone. Her hair has been pulled back into a sleek, low-slung ponytail that ends in a simple curl between her shoulder blades. "Ass."
It is a name that he takes as his due, and shuddering as he is with the (mostly successful) attempt to suppress outright laughter at the subject of the eyes -- "I can't see from here," Chris says in a strangled voice. "Are there ruby nipples or something?" -- he is hardly in any position to object. "Is there a /plaque/? 'Gifted to the Hellfire Clubhouse by the Shriners, Lodge 65,' that sort of thing?"
"Pink sapphires. A more realistic hue, don't you think?" She crosses her legs at the knee, dangling her booted foot in his direction. Just in case. "No plaque, but it did come with a note. Something about the girl who has everything." Despite the acerbity of her tone, there is no particular heat.
He almost loses it at the pink sapphires. "I admire the attention to detail," Chris manages after an ominous hiccup of mirth, the words wavering in and out with sheer enjoyment of the ludicrous. "...Let's hear it for the Shriners. Who said you were impossible to shop for? Jesus fucking /Christ/."
"No, that wasn't the unspeakable act," Emma deadpans, huffing an exasperated snort out of her nose. "Honestly. One would think you have /no/ appreciation for--" she almost swallows the next word, but forces it out with a tiny squeak. --"Art."
It is the squeak that unmans him. Unmans him utterly. A shout of happy laughter rings across the deck with no regard for the feelings of others who might be jarred by the explosion of hilarity. Chris lives his emotions on the outside, and this one is no exception; the detective's mind crackles with the same laughter, brilliant, buoyant, flooding the restraints imposed by careful discipline and opening it entirely. "--Art," he manages, the beginning of a reply, and then drops his head to muffle hysteria in his chest. Oy vey.
That laughter washes across her senses, teasing out an answering smile, twisted and wry though it may be. She moves her foot to nudge his arm. "Stop laughing. It's not /funny/!" This is her sulky face. See?
"Jesus," wheezes Chris, shoulders squaring as he braces himself, head lifting to show his face alight with humor. "Are you kidding me? It's fucking hilarious. I haven't laughed like that in -- in /months/. You're /killing/ me. Do you have spotlights for nighttime viewing? Think I could bring the probies in from the Academy to show them?"
Emma groans and kicks harder, this time using the boot heel too. "It was a /Christmas/ present. I couldn't very well send it /back/, could I?"
Ow. Chris bears up manfully against the blow, though he reaches with a hand towards her ankle to preempt a third one. "Return to sender," he suggests joyfully. "We regret to inform you that Emma Frost no longer lives at this address. Please forward all future correspondence to the Camden Orphanage, New Jersey. --/Christmas/ present. Damn, woman. What sorts of things do you ask Santa /for/?"
Her ankle twists in his grip. "Oh, you know. What every girl wants. A house in the Camens, yachts, furs, twenty-foot statues of themselves in the nude..." She wrinkles her nose at him in a mock-sneer.
"See, it's the last one that surprises me," Chris says regretfully, his thumb sliding across her ankle bone before he releases her. "I would've thought whips, chains, some fur-lined manacles, bags of feathers -- thinking back to chicken-wings, anyway. I guess when you live Emma Frost's life, though, you have to live extra--" Another glance towards the statue; his mouth quivers again, almost losing to a guffaw, then steadies. "--extra extra large."
Emma pulls her ankle in, dragging him a little closer before he releases her. "Oh, Christopher. Obvious wish projection, darling," she purrs, reaching out to flick his tie away from his shirt.
"Been there," Chris says with a grin that is, with its legacy of earlier amusement, uncharacteristically boyish, especially given the company. Admittedly: "Though we didn't do that. If I'd known this was here, this would've been my first stop when I got back. Looks like you had a good holiday, anyway." His glance skids back to the statue, crinkles at the corners, then determinedly returns to Emma. Not at all comparing her to the marble model. Naturally.
Naturally. "You wouldn't have liked it." A pause, a twist of lips and dip of lashes, and then, "You've been out of town." Statement rather than question. Her own gaze stays away from the statue with /determination/.
The first statement goes unacknowledged: in speech, if not in thought. Wry acknowledgment answers that; she knows him well enough for that, certainly. Chris shifts where he stands, turning his back to the statue (safer) to settle his hips against the railing. "West coast," he says, "for a little over a month. Last-minute thing. MA. San Francisco's nice," he says, a bit dubiously. "Canadians are too clean. LA is a shithole, and it never stops raining in Seattle. Pretty much what you'd expect. You?"
Emma settles the prodding foot to the ground and balances between tiptoe and seat. "Too clean? You, my dear Chris, are just too suspicious," she accuses, turning her head to ghost a smile at him. "I bet you didn't even bring me a souvenir. Its alright though. I didn't bring you anything either. Europe. Investments in some of the breadcrumb countries fallen off of the former Soviet Union."
Chris flicks a finger at Emma's arm, his fingernail pinging off the cashmere. "Local industry: teenage sex slaves, terrorists, and weapons from the old Soviet bloc. Anything I brought back from Canada'd be a hell of a lot less dangerous. I got a box of Ghiradelli's in the car," he adds as an afterthought, jerking his thumb in the approximate direction of the parking lot. "I was going to give them to John, but it seems kinda gay. Want it?"
"Oh, Chris. How you do make my heart go pitter. pat," Emma replies in a slow, dry tone. The cashmere feathers flutter under the air pressure. "I'll take your chocolate and owe you a sex slave next time I visit." She snorts and looks up and away, back toward the house. "Infrastructure is /my/ industry. Rebuilding now that they seem to be reaching some sort of peace. Roads, railways, airports. Everything crucial to trade and transport. Also, very good PR." The last is said in musing half-awareness.
"You should talk to my brother Mike," Chris says, releasing the railing to shove his hands into his pockets instead. His gaze tips up and back to inspect the roof's glass and steel mechanism. "He's got some stories about what comes out of Eastern Europe and finds its way to New York." Dry meets dry, cynicism waking for the first time to cradle the baritone burr. "You want good PR, try doing something about that."
"Can't put a stop to something when there are no other alternatives. It is a very old argument, darling. Most people would prefer to avoid degradation, but they will crawl if it means survival. Jobs and security. That is what will slow your brother's stories." Emma drapes an arm over his shoulder and follows his gaze. "I can do good, you know. I'm not entirely corrupted evil."
The shoulders stiffen under that unexpected touch, but it is a tension derived from surprise rather than the source. The lean frame relaxes almost immediately, accepting physicality as he usually does, given a certain minimum of familiarity: intimacy, in Emma's case. "Not entirely," Chris drawls, in pro forma mockery. It lacks heat. "You're the one who builds nations. What the fuck do I know. I'm just a cop." A very opinionated one, to be sure.
Emma's fingers drift up to fluff at a patch of hair by his ear, then slithers down as she slides off the banister and back onto her own two feet. "Just the kind of building material used in building nations." She steps back, and with a airblown kiss, away, turning for the mansion. "Good afternoon, Christopher. Be careful of the grounds. They're a little icy this time of year."
Chris's eyes glitter under the heavy black brows. "Maybe the pink sapphires'll be perky," he suggests, abruptly happy again, and turns himself towards the gardens to investigate.
It is possible that his camera phone is primed and ready before he even makes it off the deck.
[Log ends]
The detective leaves the clubhouse, which security duly notes. A few minutes later he is back again. Security notes that as well.
"Mind if I drop this off for Emma?" he asks one of the concierge staff, leaning across her desk with a raised eyebrow. It is her job, and so she takes it, and politely does not mention that Miss Frost usually gets chocolates of a much higher quality than Ghirardelli square.
"Not as gay," Det. Rossi tells the concierge, responding (cryptically) to that careful lack of expression. He grins and leaves, whistling on his way out.
After all, it's the thought that counts.
The heterosexual one.
Not at all gay.
=NYC= Back Deck - Hellfire Clubhouse
With a breathtaking view up and down the East River, the patio serves as a natural extension of the grand house. The deck's slate slabs fit together so tightly as to make the seams all but invisible; rougher marble forms the balustrade railing on the outer edge of the smooth-tiled space. Tables can be set up at a moment's notice, and a steel-and-glass roof awaits deployment, hidden behind the stonework of the wall itself but accessible through carefully designed and even more carefully concealed machinery. New York still makes its presence felt, but only as a level of background noise that does not intrude into this exclusive refuge.
Scattered throughout the wall along the patio are several doors into the clubhouse: to the north, the exercise room; one leads to eventually to the foyer; and to the south is the ballroom. Stone steps lead down and west into the estate's gardens.
The afternoon is warm, for a winter day in New York. The Hellfire Clubhouse is typically empty, with only a few members stopping in for Monday afternoon activities. There is the yoga class, and the raquetball court, and the odd nefarious business meeting. Speaking of nefarious... Emma scowls across the lawns and gardens at a fixed, white point still far too visible from the porch.
There are other things visible -- by eye or other means -- from the porch. The hallway beyond, for instance. The murmur of masculine voices in quiet conversation. The approach of minds, one entrenched in inherited right, the other equally arrogant in earned authority. A businessman's mind, the first; a policeman's mind, the latter. Is that all, detective? For now. Civility without courtesy sends one man one way, and the other (a stranger in a strange land) lost in the hall before he steps out the first promising door.
Chris Rossi steps out onto the back deck and breathes rarified air. "Holy crap," he says, taking in the view, and squints.
Emma rolls her eyes skyward. She's not surprised. His name is on a list that automatically prompts notification. And of /course/ they can't just pass silently in the night. It never works that way. But then again, would they want it to? She exhales and turns, leaning back with the balustrade hitting just at hip level. Softest cashmere weaves itself into a fluffy sweater that begs to be stroked, outlining rather than concealing the figure underneath. She catches the heel of her boot against the railing, her knee lifting the hem of a gracefully hanging skirt. "It was a gift," she says defensively, folding her arms across her chest and glaring at him in defiance.
It is a preemptive explanation, as it happens; the surprise is for the view at large -- the grander one, of the east river and the gardens beyond. Realization of the /statue/ is another matter altogether, and prompts a sharp intake of breath between parted lips. Chris's face freezes, stone-like: a good enough mask for a flatscan, if not for the local telepath. Shock is chased by awe, and then by a bone-jarring hilarity that plows deep into the pensive baritone. "You must've been a very, very good girl for someone to be so--" His voice wavers, then steadies. "--nice."
The view /is/ ni--impressive. Emma's scowl deepens, but even she cannot deny him the ludicrousness of the impression. Too bad he missed the event Leonardo took inspiration from. The statue looses a little something without the reference point. "I am /always/ a very good girl," she snips primly.
"By whose standards? The Hague's?" The riposte is absent-minded, and lacks the customary, cutting edge. It is the statue that absorbs Chris's attention; he is, not surprisingly, fascinated, and strolls forward to gain a better view from a different angle. "Is this one of those things you get from a grateful nation for doing something really unspeakable?"
"If it was unspeakable, I would not be able to tell you, now would I?" Black humor nips at the corner of her mouth and sets it twitching. There are clam shells. And hair.
"Does that mean you're gonna tell me?" Chris asks, a prospect that tempts him enough that he tears his eyes away from the -- manifestation of dubious taste -- to glance towards Emma. The balustrade railing halts his forward progress; he leans beside Emma, hands broad and scarred against the marble, to brace the angled stretch of his arms. A light breeze tugs at his tie, striping it dark blue and simple over the black of his suit jacket. A grin burns vivid in the green eyes. "Or did you get it yourself out of one of those skymall magazines they have on the airplanes?"
"Oh, /yes/. I saw the incredibly pointless waste of perfectly good Italian marble and decided I /must/ have it. Though the customization of the eyes /was/ my idea," Emma breathes, dropping her hands to either side of her and bracing herself to slide up onto the stone. Her hair has been pulled back into a sleek, low-slung ponytail that ends in a simple curl between her shoulder blades. "Ass."
It is a name that he takes as his due, and shuddering as he is with the (mostly successful) attempt to suppress outright laughter at the subject of the eyes -- "I can't see from here," Chris says in a strangled voice. "Are there ruby nipples or something?" -- he is hardly in any position to object. "Is there a /plaque/? 'Gifted to the Hellfire Clubhouse by the Shriners, Lodge 65,' that sort of thing?"
"Pink sapphires. A more realistic hue, don't you think?" She crosses her legs at the knee, dangling her booted foot in his direction. Just in case. "No plaque, but it did come with a note. Something about the girl who has everything." Despite the acerbity of her tone, there is no particular heat.
He almost loses it at the pink sapphires. "I admire the attention to detail," Chris manages after an ominous hiccup of mirth, the words wavering in and out with sheer enjoyment of the ludicrous. "...Let's hear it for the Shriners. Who said you were impossible to shop for? Jesus fucking /Christ/."
"No, that wasn't the unspeakable act," Emma deadpans, huffing an exasperated snort out of her nose. "Honestly. One would think you have /no/ appreciation for--" she almost swallows the next word, but forces it out with a tiny squeak. --"Art."
It is the squeak that unmans him. Unmans him utterly. A shout of happy laughter rings across the deck with no regard for the feelings of others who might be jarred by the explosion of hilarity. Chris lives his emotions on the outside, and this one is no exception; the detective's mind crackles with the same laughter, brilliant, buoyant, flooding the restraints imposed by careful discipline and opening it entirely. "--Art," he manages, the beginning of a reply, and then drops his head to muffle hysteria in his chest. Oy vey.
That laughter washes across her senses, teasing out an answering smile, twisted and wry though it may be. She moves her foot to nudge his arm. "Stop laughing. It's not /funny/!" This is her sulky face. See?
"Jesus," wheezes Chris, shoulders squaring as he braces himself, head lifting to show his face alight with humor. "Are you kidding me? It's fucking hilarious. I haven't laughed like that in -- in /months/. You're /killing/ me. Do you have spotlights for nighttime viewing? Think I could bring the probies in from the Academy to show them?"
Emma groans and kicks harder, this time using the boot heel too. "It was a /Christmas/ present. I couldn't very well send it /back/, could I?"
Ow. Chris bears up manfully against the blow, though he reaches with a hand towards her ankle to preempt a third one. "Return to sender," he suggests joyfully. "We regret to inform you that Emma Frost no longer lives at this address. Please forward all future correspondence to the Camden Orphanage, New Jersey. --/Christmas/ present. Damn, woman. What sorts of things do you ask Santa /for/?"
Her ankle twists in his grip. "Oh, you know. What every girl wants. A house in the Camens, yachts, furs, twenty-foot statues of themselves in the nude..." She wrinkles her nose at him in a mock-sneer.
"See, it's the last one that surprises me," Chris says regretfully, his thumb sliding across her ankle bone before he releases her. "I would've thought whips, chains, some fur-lined manacles, bags of feathers -- thinking back to chicken-wings, anyway. I guess when you live Emma Frost's life, though, you have to live extra--" Another glance towards the statue; his mouth quivers again, almost losing to a guffaw, then steadies. "--extra extra large."
Emma pulls her ankle in, dragging him a little closer before he releases her. "Oh, Christopher. Obvious wish projection, darling," she purrs, reaching out to flick his tie away from his shirt.
"Been there," Chris says with a grin that is, with its legacy of earlier amusement, uncharacteristically boyish, especially given the company. Admittedly: "Though we didn't do that. If I'd known this was here, this would've been my first stop when I got back. Looks like you had a good holiday, anyway." His glance skids back to the statue, crinkles at the corners, then determinedly returns to Emma. Not at all comparing her to the marble model. Naturally.
Naturally. "You wouldn't have liked it." A pause, a twist of lips and dip of lashes, and then, "You've been out of town." Statement rather than question. Her own gaze stays away from the statue with /determination/.
The first statement goes unacknowledged: in speech, if not in thought. Wry acknowledgment answers that; she knows him well enough for that, certainly. Chris shifts where he stands, turning his back to the statue (safer) to settle his hips against the railing. "West coast," he says, "for a little over a month. Last-minute thing. MA. San Francisco's nice," he says, a bit dubiously. "Canadians are too clean. LA is a shithole, and it never stops raining in Seattle. Pretty much what you'd expect. You?"
Emma settles the prodding foot to the ground and balances between tiptoe and seat. "Too clean? You, my dear Chris, are just too suspicious," she accuses, turning her head to ghost a smile at him. "I bet you didn't even bring me a souvenir. Its alright though. I didn't bring you anything either. Europe. Investments in some of the breadcrumb countries fallen off of the former Soviet Union."
Chris flicks a finger at Emma's arm, his fingernail pinging off the cashmere. "Local industry: teenage sex slaves, terrorists, and weapons from the old Soviet bloc. Anything I brought back from Canada'd be a hell of a lot less dangerous. I got a box of Ghiradelli's in the car," he adds as an afterthought, jerking his thumb in the approximate direction of the parking lot. "I was going to give them to John, but it seems kinda gay. Want it?"
"Oh, Chris. How you do make my heart go pitter. pat," Emma replies in a slow, dry tone. The cashmere feathers flutter under the air pressure. "I'll take your chocolate and owe you a sex slave next time I visit." She snorts and looks up and away, back toward the house. "Infrastructure is /my/ industry. Rebuilding now that they seem to be reaching some sort of peace. Roads, railways, airports. Everything crucial to trade and transport. Also, very good PR." The last is said in musing half-awareness.
"You should talk to my brother Mike," Chris says, releasing the railing to shove his hands into his pockets instead. His gaze tips up and back to inspect the roof's glass and steel mechanism. "He's got some stories about what comes out of Eastern Europe and finds its way to New York." Dry meets dry, cynicism waking for the first time to cradle the baritone burr. "You want good PR, try doing something about that."
"Can't put a stop to something when there are no other alternatives. It is a very old argument, darling. Most people would prefer to avoid degradation, but they will crawl if it means survival. Jobs and security. That is what will slow your brother's stories." Emma drapes an arm over his shoulder and follows his gaze. "I can do good, you know. I'm not entirely corrupted evil."
The shoulders stiffen under that unexpected touch, but it is a tension derived from surprise rather than the source. The lean frame relaxes almost immediately, accepting physicality as he usually does, given a certain minimum of familiarity: intimacy, in Emma's case. "Not entirely," Chris drawls, in pro forma mockery. It lacks heat. "You're the one who builds nations. What the fuck do I know. I'm just a cop." A very opinionated one, to be sure.
Emma's fingers drift up to fluff at a patch of hair by his ear, then slithers down as she slides off the banister and back onto her own two feet. "Just the kind of building material used in building nations." She steps back, and with a airblown kiss, away, turning for the mansion. "Good afternoon, Christopher. Be careful of the grounds. They're a little icy this time of year."
Chris's eyes glitter under the heavy black brows. "Maybe the pink sapphires'll be perky," he suggests, abruptly happy again, and turns himself towards the gardens to investigate.
It is possible that his camera phone is primed and ready before he even makes it off the deck.
[Log ends]
The detective leaves the clubhouse, which security duly notes. A few minutes later he is back again. Security notes that as well.
"Mind if I drop this off for Emma?" he asks one of the concierge staff, leaning across her desk with a raised eyebrow. It is her job, and so she takes it, and politely does not mention that Miss Frost usually gets chocolates of a much higher quality than Ghirardelli square.
"Not as gay," Det. Rossi tells the concierge, responding (cryptically) to that careful lack of expression. He grins and leaves, whistling on his way out.
After all, it's the thought that counts.
The heterosexual one.
Not at all gay.