5/10/08 - Sabrielle, Jean
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=NYC= Central Park South - Manhattan
Deviating from the slightly more.../lonely/ feel of the northern sections of the park, Central Park South is no less appealing to the eye, regardless. In the distance through the thick treelines of maple and oak looms the skyline of New York. Smaller bodies of water than the Reservoir dot the green, as do bronze statues placed seemingly at random. The Shakespeare Garden, Tavern on the Green, Strawberry Fields, and the like of more popular 'hotspots' of the park flank to all sides.
Sprawling as the park is, it cannot without conscience ignore the needs of small children. Delights abound, in pony rides, in climbable statues -- in ducks! though the reservoir is a chancy sort of entertainment for the young and their caretakers -- and critical to the current point, in playgrounds. The shouts and happy cries of small children ring through the air in the sawdust-floored clearing, the brightly painted metal and rubber of a massive playset obscured in places by the colliding atoms of bodies. Benches ring the area, haven for parents and nannies. Mostly women. Some men.
Chris Rossi is one of them.
Comfortably attired in jeans and a blue shirt, the customary leather overcoat open to accommodate his loose-limbed, cross-legged sprawl on the bench, he looks on the scene with lazy eyes, indifferent to the glances and comments of the more feminine population. Some are admiring. Some are mistrustful. He is, of all the men there, supremely unpaternal.
Sabrielle isn't exactly the mother type, though that's more of a biological lack than because she's against it. She just doesn't have kids. But after the stress of cramming for finals, a trip through the park and the playground seems like a pleasant change of pace. Watching the kids run around in hyper happy madness is soothing in its way to the empath. Kids are so much easier, more simplistic in their emotions, free with their joy. Blue jeans paired with a shirt in her favored purple, she's walking around the edge, dodging kidlets and strollers and toys bouncing away from little hands. She's got a smile on her face, just sort of a lingering one, a residual happiness that's being given to her by the kids buzzing around her.
She doesn't quite lose it, even at the sight of a man sprawling on a bench. One of these things is not like the other, and that would be him. "Mister Rossi, isn't it?" Though she remembers full well the overconfident cop who'd bought her that cup of coffee. "Whatcha doin' round here?" He doesn't strike her as the indulgent uncle.
The identification by name does what simple glances do not, and Rossi swings his gaze up to regard Sabrielle, one eyebrow quirking upward in mild curiosity. Recognition is wholly one-sided; no answering familiarity warms the man's gaze, though wariness slightly tightens its corners. "Babysitting," he says briefly, his head tipping towards the edifice. At this hour, there are too many children to identify one as specific to his presence. "Sorry. We've met?"
She glances over her shoulder, resettling her bag as she does. Book, snack, stuff for a trip to the park inside. Eyes running over the kids. "Baby-sittin', huh? Sounds like your idea of a fun day. " Yes, that's sarcasm, before she's looking at him again. "It was a good while back, don't fret none. Met in a coffee shop, small talk and tha like before ya decided ya felt tha need to pay for my coffee before Ah could. Ah've jus' got a good memory. " The fact he's a cop sort of stuck him in her head, but she won't say so.
Sarcasm is not reciprocated either, but against the background of pleasant moods and the occasional peevish one rising from one parent or another (not to mention the more excitable ones of the children) the detective is a mellow note of deep blue and green: tranquil, in a comfortable way. "Oh," Rossi says, and runs a hand through his hair. Silver shoots against the black, gleaming at his temples. "Don't remember that. Meet a lot of people in the course of things. Was it a decent cup of coffee?"
He definitely had been anything but this mellow and relaxed last they had met. The smile she had was still clinging to her expression, the lack of tension around her eyes. Spring was probably the best season for the empath. Everyone shook off the depression and down moods and bloomed in much better colors just like the plants and trees. "Oh, Ah'm sure in your line of work ya have much better things to remember than a random conversation in line at a coffee shop. " A low laugh. "It was a very good cup of coffee, which only reinforces tha fact Ah still owe ya one. A pastry too, since ya paid for tha sugary snack Ah was procurin' for myself. "
"Only worry about quid pro quo on the job," Rossi says briefly, leaving out a critical word with a minimalism that pares actual meaning into obscurity. An especially loud squeal from the playset snaps his attention back, to view nothing more serious than the flurry of an imminent game of tag. Back to Sabrielle he says a mild, "You're welcome. You got one--?" The question goes incomplete, but the tip of his head toward the frenzy of childish activity fills in the blanks.
Sabrielle chuckles, hand lifting to hook red behind her ear to keep it out of her face. Ahh, there it is, the snap of attention from her to the source of noise, suddenly he's much more likely to be in a parental style role, even if only temporarily. "Well, ya might not worry about it, but owin' a cop a cup of coffee an' a donut is serious business where Ah grew up." Teasing him of course, before his question scatters her thoughts, looking at the kids running around. "Me? Oh, no. Jus' got plenty of 'em back home. Cousins an' such. Sometimes it's nice to just watch 'em run around. "
"Wish they'd spend more time standing still," Rossi says with a mock sourness that does not penetrate into the laziness of his mood. As if on cue, a small, black-haired boy of about 6 years explodes out of the climbing cage to dash towards the detective and present him, solemn-faced, with a rock. Equally solemn, the man accepts it and puts it in his pocket. The family resemblance is visible, and striking, for all the still-malleable softness of the child's features. The younger pair of green eyes stare at Sabrielle, inspecting her from head to foot, and then the boy is gone again, yelling for his playmates.
As though the interruption never occurred, Rossi asks, "Big family?"
"Sometimes, yeah, especially when they're all shriekin' their heads off playin' some ungodly game." An easy smile, that stays put even as the child runs up. Watch the empath melt, even with the twitch of her smile to a grin at the inspection. "A rock. You rate pretty big. Ah normally get twigs an' leaves." Deadpan, watching the little guy run off again.
Attention returned to the man, a shrug. "Southern family. Lots of family, blood an' affection. Only child myself, but Ah get enough cousins to fill half of Yankees Stadium, Ah think."
Says Rossi, sapient and experienced uncle, "At least it isn't alive. Or," he tacks on as a pensive afterthought, "dead. I figured out the Southern," he adds with equal deadpan gravity, detective as he is. He gestures vaguely in his own direction, resettling himself on his seat to take up fractionally less room than before. "Italian, myself. Like my name didn't give it away. Got enough cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, brothers and sisters to start a small country. We'd see your Yankee Stadium and raise you a New York Harbor."
The empath snickers. "Dandelions are probably my most usual honoring gift. Not so bad, until they want me to make chains out of 'em an' ya get all tha sticky glue stuff on your hands. No easy way to get it off, then ya get yer hands all mucked up." A shrug. "Well, it's not like Ah sound Southern or anythin', oh no." Yes, more of that light sarcasm. She's not snarky, just teasing. "Well, see, most of my family isn't Catholic. Keeps tha numbers down a touch." Smirking, shifting her weight to a more easy stance. "He's cute. Nephew?" Glancing back towards the swarm of kids to try and spot the one who gifts rocks.
Down the curving path at the playground's edge comes another two pairs of feet. A tall woman, slender and auburn haired, is proceeding with serene calm in stark opposition to the more flame-haired young man of about four who is rocketing around, swapping from one held hand to the other as if, should he get enough speed, he might just take flight. "Mum! Lookit all the -kids-!" says Nate Grey, part of a steady stream of exclamations. "Can I go play with them? Will they be friends? Is that a pony?" Their path angles them towards Rossi and his companion, and with Jean's eyes squinting off towards the pony rides with idle speculation, it's Nate that notices him first. The "Mum!!" of insistance is all the more marked. "Lookit! It's Aunt Ororo's boooooyfriend."
Rossi's reply to Sabrielle is a brief nod, his own gaze tracking back to the playset to pick out the boy amongst the rest. Whatever game he is engrossed in appears to involve a great deal of shouting, much running, and the occasional argument; actual rules appear to have a fluid quality, understood by the players in a science incomprehensible to adult logic. "They're--" he begins, on the verge of claiming more than one child.
And then, of course, he hears Nate.
Surprise lifts his eyebrows, and he glances towards the familiar name, discovering the speaker and his caretaker in one swift swoop. /This/ pair gets recognition, famous as at least one of them is. His mouth twitches; rue sketches itself across his face, and under the surface serenity of his mood, something a little more tangled and complicated begins to knit itself together. "Hey, Jean. Hey, Nate."
She catches the 'They're..' as well as the unvoiced affection. He's an interesting man to watch, Rossi is. "They? Ya watchin' more than one, then? Gonna have heavy pockets when it's time to head home. " Following his turn of gaze, the little boy catching her eye first, with hair as red as her own. His exuberance makes her smile, a flicker of gaze to Rossi then back towards the boy, then the woman with him. Smile sticks, the flicker over her expression happens in a heartbeat before it's gone. She's not sure just how to act or react. Falling back on the simple manners her mother drilled in her head. Smiling more brightly for them both. "Hello." Simple and to the point.
"Hello, Mr. Rossi," says Nate with solemn politeness and a choice of an easier title to enunciate than 'Detective'. The bursting dies down to standing quietly beside his mother's leg at actually being acknowledged. Hazel eyes peer up at first Rossi and then Sabrielle in turn, matched by Jean's own green gaze and a quirk of her lips. "Popular playground it seems. Hi Chris... are we interrupting anything?" she wonders, giving Sabrielle a nod. Against the tapestry of emotions that is the playground, her own mind is interestingly restrained and subdued, while Nate's is a thread even brighter than the rest, shimmering with delight and wonder at the world.
As though reminded, Rossi feels in his pocket and produces in an opened palm the earlier rock, several leaves, a gum wrapper, two soda can tabs, and a confused ladybug that has come along for the ride. "Not really," he says briefly, answering Jean's question first. A flick of a thought bends Nate's way: the faces of his two nephews, and a clumsy encouragement to go meet them, while aloud he adds, "Dr. Jean Grey, Nate Grey, meet--" oh. shit. "--this woman I apparently bought a coffee for at some point," he finishes a little lamely. He squints at Sabrielle. "You got a name?"
Sabrielle chuckles at the contents of his pockets, all to familiar with the mish-mash of things children give to those watching over them. Things they thought were pretty, or might be useful to the adult. Blue eyes glance to meet Jean's even as a tide of heat washes up into her cheeks. Nate, now he's interesting, that smile sparking back into her eyes. "Sabrielle Harris. Hi. Pleasure to meet ya." Hesitation before her hand if offered. "Mister Rossi here bought me a coffee and a donut a while back. Ah thought it was a law that Ah had to return the gesture. " Yeah, she's feeling pretty lame at the moment herself.
Jean has no hesitation in her own offer of a hand, her clasp firm and her eyes steady on Sabrielle's in a moment of well-honed connection-making. "Pleased to meet you," she assures, and lets enough warmth into her tone to suggest that this is true. "And I have to say I'm a big fan of donut reciprocity-- it's all right, Nate," she assures, distracted momentarily by a tugging at her hand from a small boy gone wide eyed with mingled apprehension and speculation at the mental images. There's a pause and her own eyes go disfocused as he thinks them back at her in a burst of untrained, half-formed projection. They sharpen again on Rossi, and then track out to find the two small faces of which he thought. "It's all right," Jean encourages again, and turns her son about before encouraging him to the playground with a gentle shove. "I'll be right here with Chris and Ms. Harris." Reinforcing that the young boy is on his own, she helps herself to a seat as well.
The two Rossi boys have found a golden retriever, brought to the park as an attendant to another small family, and the horde of admiring -- short -- onlookers around the animal is growing rapidly, much to the delight of the dog. The Rossi uncle, meanwhile, coaxes the ladybug off his hand and onto his lap, where it sits in a dazed fashion while he restores his nephews' treasures to his pocket. "I'm good," he says, answering no question in particular. "Fu-- my old shop put up signs a few weeks back, and then it got blown up. Figured it was time to find a new shop anyway, not to mention cut back on the coffee. Stuff they brew in the house melts old tires."
Sabrielle glances to Rossi at that, yes, that would bethe coffee shop, and the signs she detested. A note of discomfort running through her at that, thinking of the madness of such things. But it wouldn't be polite to bring it up, really. "Yes, Ah've had to make do with stuff at home or tha stuff they serve on campus. Not as good, an' Ah don't have all the fun stuff like flavored syrups or cappucino machine at home. But it still doesn't change tha fact ya were sneaky an' Ah owe ya a cup. " A shift of gaze to Jean, before it quickly moves to find Nate again.
Dogs. Nate can deal with -dogs-. An opening thus supplied to the small, bright-shining mind, he squares his shoulders beneath their Spider-Man t-shirt and inserts himself into the crowd around the goldie. At a distance, words can't be heard, but by the pointing at the bench and the adults upon it, it seems introductions are being attempted.
Jean, on the bench, heaves a sigh at the mention of signs, and grouses that "I really wonder what they think the signs are going to accomplish. I mean, saying 'no mutants' in the hopes of preventing an incident with powers is about on the level with the chances of a 'No cars driving through store windows' sign being effective... and the Bay Horse was my bar in town, damn it," she sums up, admitting personal bias in her politics with a wry smile.
"Never met a 'no cars driving through store windows' sign that didn't work," Rossi says without expression, slouching a little on his side of the bench. Cynical amusement skitters across his mind like water on a hot, greased pan; under lowered eyelids, he regards Sabrielle with a hint of impatience that does not quite translate to the deep, Brooklyn-tarred baritone. "Forget about the coffee. I did. Big deal. Pass it on, if you really want."
Across the playground, the two Rossi brothers reciprocate introductions with enthusiasm and immediately attempt to loop Nate into some sort of criminal conspiracy involving the dog and several twigs. Incomprehensible. The dog appears to enter into the plan wholeheartedly.
The empath looks towards the other woman, understanding in her expression even as she keeps herself mum. A handful of people know the truth about her, but she's not sure she's up to publicly admitting it yet. Heck, her mother doesn't even know the whole story. But she nods, agreeing without agreeing, before she's chuckling at Rossi's mention of the sign working. Arching a brow at him, smirking with her own hint of amusement. She considers making a cop joke, but she refrains. Nor can she really explain the fact he was the first random person to be polite to her in the city, much less nice enough to buy her a cup of coffee at random. "Never thought Ah'd hear a cop turn down a cup of coffee, is all."
"And those tiger-prevention patrols are going -great-," says Jean, but with more humour than wryness this time, as she lets the subject drop with a sigh and a little stretch, and a vague rub of her left forearm, slightly paler than the right. "But I'll shut up on the politics. Is one of the anklebiters out there yours, Ms. Harris?"
The anklebiter named Nate Grey-Summers seems slightly shell-shocked initially by the cheerful inclusion in conspiracy but, after a moment of chewing on one finger, allows diffidently that the dog is a retriever, and there is -water- over -there-, and the potential for Fetching Things.
At that point, certain things are inevitable. The dog will get wet. The boys will get wetter. And something that should not be in the water will end up in the water. The experienced uncle is also a tolerant one, and beyond keeping a distracted eye on the romping trio, he volunteers nothing in the way of warning or prohibition. "Not on duty," he tells Sabrielle, propping his head up on a fist, his elbow pinned on the seat's back. "Off duty I do the--" A grimace. "--tea or soda thing."
She blinks at Jean, shaking her head. "No ma'am. Ah jus' get a little homesick for all my cousins, at times. This reminds me why Ah should be glad Ah live a thousand miles away, an' get to get away with sendin' birthday cards an' money." She's kidding, of course, her tone makes it obvious. "Just was out for a walk through tha park to enjoy tha nicer weather. Seein' little kids runnin' around without any sort of care in tha world always makes me smile, so it seemed worth tha side trip. " A chuckle at Rossi, eyes dropping back over to him. "An' ya sound so enthused over tha tea an' soda 'thing'." A glance towards the kids, with the dog. "Is Nate your only one, Dr. Grey?"
"Trying to get your stomach lining to hold out a little longer?" wonders Jean of Rossi with a crooked smile and her attention drifting lazily over to the small boys, the dog, and the other under-twelves clustering. "Just the one," she confirms to Sabrielle, pauses a moment, and then opts -not- to go into the odd genesis of How Nate Came To Be for a stranger. "Although I swear some days he feels like twenty. If I didn't have a school full of teenagers all jonesing for babysitting money..."
<< Or bail, >> Rossi says, his mouth stirring in the silent echo of the thought that, a little more practiced than the typical flatscan, makes its way towards Jean on a twist of exasperated humor. /Her/ problem, not his! --though a certain distant affection for Jeremy, at least, mixes with the comment. "Getting old," he says aloud for the sake of all three, correcting himself a split-second later with a more defensive, "Older. Used to be I could do a pitcher in a morning and it wouldn't make a difference. Beston, the fu-- my partner, still has a three thermos and two pack a day habit."
Sabrielle didn't really need to know all the details, right? It was pretty clear to the empath Nate was pretty special, even at his young age. Chuckling as Jean taunts Rossi just a little bit more. "Well, when kids are surrounded more by older people, they can get pretty mature pretty quick." Offered with a smile, because she's sure Jean know that! "He seems..very bright." There's an underlying amusement to her words that can't be easily written off. "Ah'm sure he can be a very big handful. But Ah remember bein' tha teenager hit up to watch little ones on a Weekend night so parents could go relax." It was easier to use babysitting as an excuse for not going out with non-existant friends or dates. Smirking at Rossi. "What, is he tryin' to be Humphry Bogart or somethin'? "
"You," Jean informs Rossi with a point of one short-nailed finger, "Are not allowed to talk about getting old. We're the same age, I believe, and I'm not admitting defeat yet." With a firm tip of her chin and a chuckle, she lets her eyes go vague again as she spots the trio of small boys, now joined by the dog's young tomboy of an owner, advancing on the lake. << --careful not to fall in. >> is tacked accidentally on to her reply to Rossi's thought, a private worry wrapping it that is disallowed from surfacing out in the open, visible world. << I'm worried about him. >> is shared, and the face that pairs with it before the thoughts whisk away is not that of Nate's. "Beston's your classic New York cop," she shares with Sabrielle. "Coffee and nicotine are a direly-needed fuel source."
"Four ex-wives," Rossi pitches in, wry. "He's an overachiever." His glance skids askance to Jean, thoughtful, and he lapses into outward silence, his eyes blanking with the effort of constructing and communicating: a trick that has yet to be habit, for all his quasi-regular association with telepaths. << He's a teenager. If he didn't give you anything to worry about, you'd have to worry. >>
The empath is left out of the 'old' discussion. She might be old to the kids running around, but that would be about it. Her lack of height and refusal to cut off her long hair only seems to make her seem younger. A grin for Jean at mention of the classic cop. "He longs in secret to be a star in one of those old detective movies, then?" A glimmer of surprise. "Four ex-wives?" Delivered to Rossi, because she can't quite wrap her mind around it. "Ya'd think after three strikes he'd get tha idea maybe he's not cut out for marriage, or he needs to re-evaluate who he's marryin'." Lopsided grin, though there's a line between her eyebrows that doesn't quite match it. There's something else going on around them, but she has no idea what. Hmm.
"Sometimes even with the best of intentions, cop marriages go south," Jean offers, with an odd bit of personal reflection for someone neither a cop 'nor married. "But he's good people for all that. You should get him building boats like that fellow off of NCIS," she suggests to Rossi. "Gibbs, or something?" Beneath the small talk, beneath the eyes still seeking out her son, words crackle into being and transmit themselves on a more personal frequency. << Most teenagers don't get kidnapped and tortured in the name of science for weeks. >>
There is silence from Rossi for a long moment, far beyond what Jean's spoken comment or Sabrielle's question deserves. His mood, mild until now, skews abruptly towards the black and ugly: a restlessness of mind that is betrayed by the body. Physicality, reined until now, uncurls to stretch beyond the boundaries of the tightening frame; eyes flicker half-closed, the expression in them veiled by lashes. "Don't know that show," he says at last, his mouth thinning. "John's problem is that he's an optimist. He believes in the happy ever after. Damned if I know why."
Sabrielle shrugs. "Ah'll have to take your word on that, ma'am. Ah have limited experience in tha area. Most of tha cops Ah grew up knowin' were married for years, or confirmed bachelor types." There's a hint of pink to her face there, pleasant memories barely touched upon. Eyes glancing to Jean, only to follow them back to the group of boys. A faint smile, seeing the colors all jostling around each other. But Rossi's sudden change of mood has her head coming around again, faint dilation of pupils. Color is gone as quick as it came, a hint of a fidget to her stance, as if to edge back. "Ah can't say Ah lknow it either. An' sometimes there's happily ever after. Ah think. "
"There's an attractive female ex-Mossad agent on it who knows Krav Maga," Jean sums up NCIS with a smile that, while crooked, is just a bit careful in the wake of Rossi's mood. Apology seeps from her mind to his, delicate, yet full of sheep. "Thus for some -strange- reason it's popular with the crop of teenaged males around the school... but you're a bit of a romantic then, Ms. Harris?"
There's a flare of memory from Rossi -- he viewed the files, reviewed the case -- and an underlying, murderous ribbon of emotion that dies, smothered, almost before it is finished being born. Dismissal transfers from his mind to Jean's: it is what it is. << Not mine, >> he says obscurely, frustration wrapping around the disclaimer of ownership. /Not my case/, he means, and he wrenches his attention back to the external world with an almost audible crackle of will. "Sounds like my kind of show," he says, a little more lightly. "Got an ex-Israeli army guy in Homicide. Berkovic. They teach their guys some crazy shit over there." He has no comment to make on romantic endings. Cynic.
Eyes are drawn from the sudden color change around the cop to the good doctor, a moment to refocus her thoughts, shaking her head as if to clear it. "Hmm? Ah'm.. sorry, my mind wandered a moment. But me? No. Ah don't think Ah am, except every now an' then idealism in all its forms gets tha better of me an' Ah wear rose colored glasses a while. Never seen it happen in my life personally, but every now an' then Ah'll see some couple that's clearly been together forever, an' he's still holdin' her hand, an' openin' tha door for her. Moments like that Ah indulge in whims of fancy." A glance at Rossi. "Things like what?"
"My parents have been pretty harmonious for what will be fifty years, soon," Jean shares, lips quirked and a little more reality coming to her expression as Rossi's frustration buries itself once again. "I think this is in large part to the judicious use of dens and sewing rooms... oh dear," The water has been reached. "Do you think we should reel them in?" Rossi, apparently, is considered more of an expert in the art of wrangling multiple young boys than she is.
"Irritating little brats," Rossi says dispassionately, his gaze following hers towards the water. He rises, his hands in his coat pockets, his attitude leisurely though his actual progress is surprisingly quick. "I'll get them. Be right back." His is a departure without much preamble, lacking even rudimentary apology for the need towards Sabrielle. His long stride eats up ground with a haste that is only encouraged by his oldest nephew's sudden windmilling at the edge of the pond.
Sabrielle snickers. "Yeah, we can tell ya just /hate/ watchin' tha kids." Because it's obvious he doesn't, no matter what he says. Watching him go, before eyes slip back to Jean. "They'll probably climb all over him an' get him dirty, an' then he'll complain 'bout that too. Think he secretly likes it. " Fingers running up through her hair, pushing it back from her face. "Fifty years, huh? Think my parents woulda been about twenty-five ish by now." A shrug before she looks down at her feet. "Some people are just meant for that sort of long lastin' romance, Ah guess." A hint of a smile. "Can ya be a romantic, when ya never see it happenin' to ya?" Angling her gaze at jean.
Jean shifts in her seat, eyes alert and her muscles tensed to spring and sprint, should the young windmiller embrace the life aquatic and Rossi somehow miss his catch. A silent maternal recall signal of << Nate Grey-Summers, you come back here. >> is tossed out faster and with less ignore-potential than a shout, and it's a moment before she answers Sabrielle, and a bit of a distracted tone when she does. "I think you can," she offers. "My own personal life is unconventional, to say the least, but things happen... and you're young yet, to show my age a little if I can say so."
For all his claims of retrieval, Rossi does not exhibit any obvious signs of doing so. In the distance, he engages the small trio with a few words, and then -- oh dear -- throws a stick for the dog to chase. Away from the water, true. At least two of the boys attempt to beat the dog to the target, with lamentable success, and a handspan of seconds later there is a giant bundle of man, dog, and boys wrestling on the ground. So much for dignity.
"Ah'm sure Mister Rossi will make sure Nate's fine, Doctor Grey." She's fully aware of the readiness to jump up and the distracted tone, even if she herself isn't a mother. "Well that's good. Because that means Ah can be a romantic without bein' a pushover myself." A pause, words surging in her throat to be spoken. "Nothin' wrong with unconventional, so long as a person's happy. How would we know what conventional is, without people darin' to be outside of it?" Shaking her head, a smile even as her own mood takes a momentary dip before it levels out. "No ma'am, Ah don't think so. You're not old, for one, an' for two, some of us jus' aren't meant for that sort of thing. Not built for it. " Then she's tossing caution to the wind, even as Rossi is going for a wrestle. "If Ah can say so, without ya takin' offense, Ah have to admit admirin' ya an' all that a bit." Cue the flushing.
Nate is hardly more than a sensitive just yet, but one doesn't need telepathy to pick up on the silent 'But moooooom' that greets Jean's maternal fussing. He lingers a moment on the edges of the pile of uncle, nephews and dog, dithering over obeying versus new friends, and comes down on the side of Mr. Rossi is Aunt Ororo's Boyfriend, So This Is OK. Amongst the dark heads, a flash of bright ginger dives in and attaches itself to Rossi's leg with a happily shrieking vengeance.
With the lake no longer an imminent threat, Jean relaxes, sighing into a more comfrotable lean against the bench and giving Sabrielle another crooked smile. "Am I that obvious with the mom-nerves?" she wonders, before her smile softens, and she distinctly does not press for more details about the younger woman's personal life. Instead, she assures that "There's no offense taken. I hope I'm still admirable now that you've met me, rather than a face on T.V., of course."
Rossi is a ruthless romper, absolutely unhampered by the unfairness of his superior weight and musculature against the wildly writhing microbes of smaller bodies. Then again, 3 against 1, with a giant golden retriever a wild card that switches sides depending on whatever is closest -- he disappears completely under a heap of small bodies, and the rip of his laughter is audible across the park, his mood a brilliant flare of gold and green mirth.
Sabrielle shakes her head, with a grin. "Ah'm just, what's a good way to put it. More observant than a lot of people. Ah people watch a lot, so it's a habit. Stand me in good stead, Ah ever get my PhD. Studyin' Psychology an' stuff, bein' observant about people's smaller changes is a plus. " Face goes even more hotly flushed. "More, Ah think. You're intimidatin', but less so to someone like me than a bunch of people lookin' to tear ya or your work down. An' you're not snobby, which helps." She's distracted, head turning to see that flash of Rossi's mood changing again, smiling in reaction to it. "Told ya he loves it." It's obvious, even without the added benefit of empathic knowledge. "Could Ah ask ya somethin', Doctor Grey? Ah mean, if ya think it's too personal, ya can tell me to shut up an' all, but.. how do ya do it?" Blurted out. "Keep all calm an' all, an' be just as ya are with all of it?"
"Just don't spread it around," Jean suggests, eyes twinkling merrily as she watches yet another formidable man of her aquaintance displaying a certain amount of gooey marshmallow center. "We wouldn't want to damage his rep." Out across the way, Nate is going for an arm now, rather than a leg, the shrieking now breathless laughter and a wash of pure joy in being young and small and with people to play with. His mother sighs contentedly, and a few of the fine tension lines dogging her fine brow smooth out as she watches, and nods to her seatmate in permission to ask. The answer takes a moment in coming, and is paired with a chuff of a laugh when it does. "Well, having no choice in the matter helps a lot," she admits. "I'm out and can't go back in, so I may as well just keep living life. But having a support network helps more. At the end of the day, I can go home to some place-- well, not safe," she has to admit. "But open. Home."
Rossi rises like a volcano in the middle of the pile, shedding small bodies like dandruff. Nate ends up tucked upside down under his arm, one of his nephews dangles by his trousers from his fist, the older one clinging to a stranglehold around his neck. The detective is thoroughly rumpled, a condition that does not noticeably hamper him as he begins dragging the gang back towards the playground.
There's a flicker of a smirk. "His secret's safe with me. Ah wouldn't dream of believin' tha cranky cop has a soft spot for tha munchkin set." Eyes settling over the boys and Rossi a moment. "It's good for him, though. All of them. Right now, they're all just happy, havin' a good time. " Seeming almost distracted. "No one's worryin' or frettin'. Good for a body, Ah think. Everyone should be able to unwind like that now an' then." Then eyes divert back to the doctor. "Choice is good, sorry 'bout that. But support network huh? Goin' home ain't much of an option." Home to Louisiana, land of rednecks looking for a reason to get drunk and raise heck? No thanks.
"New York's a big city -- million to one chances happen eight times a day," is Jean's advice, as she flashes Rossi a grin and a call of "Great new fitness routine!" in a contented aside paired with a stretch of her stylishly booted feet. "I don't know what sort of group you're looking for, but I'm sure it's out there... if it's anything adjacent to my circles, I'd be glad to pass your name along."
Shrieking children are dropped unceremoniously onto the sawdust, and Rossi dusts his hands off as the dog circles happily around his playmates, licking everything he can reach. The man wanders back to Jean and Sabrielle, raking a hand through his hair, his cheeks slightly flushed from the exertion; his mood is still buoyant, lumpy in places with bubbles of amusement under the surface of equanimity. "Making friends and influencing people?" he asks breathlessly, his voice warm with earlier laughter. The harshness of his features is alleviated by the remnants of a smile, the hard lines smoothed to strip years from his age.
Sabrielle stills, realizing she just totally outed herself like an idiot. Deer in headlights for a moment, hands lifting to push through her hair in a nervous gesture. Blue eyes flickering from Rossi to Jean. "Just..Ah don't do so hot with groups. " Oh hell, she's already exposed herself, might as well. "Outside is one thing, but lots of people just sort of overload me. Not so hot with it." The flush now is one of embarrassment and shame. "No real handle on it. " A glance as Rossi approaches, managing a smile for him. "Actually, we were more admiring how well ya seem to get along with tha kids, an' seemed to enjoy actin' like one. "
"Takes a man to know when to act like a little boy," Jean quips, but with good nature to her tone, and the reclamation of her son for the purposes of scooping him up and cuddling him. That this transfers grass stains to her own clothing is just part of the joys of motherhood. That she is a -working- mother is demonstrated a beat later by a thoughtful study of Sabrielle and one hand reaching into her purse to pull out a card and offer it over. "If you ever want to talk some place not a public bench," is the explanation given.
"Family my size, you get used to kids," Rossi says, more as explanation than excuse. He apparently feels no need to apologize for it, and behind him, the two boys sit up with shiny, damp faces, beaming happily. The grass stains on his clothes are dark and definitive, of the type that will require some care to remove in the future. "Always useful on the job, too."
There's a jerk like an electric shock through the younger redhead, blue eyes fixing on Jean for a moment before she's taking the card without comment. At least verbalized comment, because inside her head she's wondering how the heck she'd ever get the brass balls to call Doctor Jean Grey. A glance down at the card, momentary frown as it looks vaguely familiar. Her memory for faces is not matched by other things. A sidelong grin for Rossi. "Always gotta keep up on skills for tha job, right?" Glancing at the boys behind him, melting all over again. "Yep, Ah can tell you're so not a favored uncle." More teasing.
"I'm glad that Nate got a chance to meet your nephews," says Jean, squishing the boy in question and provoking a "Muuuum," of mild protest. Not in front of the -guys-! Resting her chin atop his head in cuddly defiance, she admits that "He gets a lot of people to play with at the school, but not so many his own age. And since he's starting kindergarten this fall--" There's a self interruption, and Jean suddenly bites down on something that, by her expression, would be not for young ears. "I forgot-- we need to get going now, but it was a pleasure running into you. Say goodbye, Nate," she prompts.
"We should get going too," Rossi admits, glancing back as his two charges wrap themselves around his legs from behind, grinning around his hips at Nate. A chorus of 'Bye, Nates!' pitches through the air, repeating itself over and over again into a random chant of excitement. "I got to get these two monsters back home, and then get cleaned up for a thing." Hi, Nate! Bye, Nate! Nate! Nate, bye! Bye!
The abrupt change doesn't startle the empath overly much. Doctor Grey is undoubtedly a busy woman. A wave for first the doctor and son, then the cop and his nephews. "It was nice to meet you, Doctor Grey. An' mice to meet you again, Mister Rossi." Flicker of a smile, glancing down at his new leg weights. "Y'all have fun, now."
Bye, Vincent! Bye, Vincent's Brother! Bye, Mr. Rossi! Bye, Lady! More chipper than dutiful, Nate makes his farewells, and then grabs for Jean's hand as she rises to her feet. "We'll do our best... and don't be a stranger, Chris. Allison says hello."
The smile quirks again in Rossi's face at the mention of Allison. "I'll stop by more," he says, and leaves unspoken, /Now that Ororo's back/. With a nod to Sabrielle, the detective hauls his giggling nephews over his shoulders and heads off, his voice mellow under their high-pitched demands for ice cream on the way home.
=NYC= Central Park South - Manhattan
Deviating from the slightly more.../lonely/ feel of the northern sections of the park, Central Park South is no less appealing to the eye, regardless. In the distance through the thick treelines of maple and oak looms the skyline of New York. Smaller bodies of water than the Reservoir dot the green, as do bronze statues placed seemingly at random. The Shakespeare Garden, Tavern on the Green, Strawberry Fields, and the like of more popular 'hotspots' of the park flank to all sides.
Sprawling as the park is, it cannot without conscience ignore the needs of small children. Delights abound, in pony rides, in climbable statues -- in ducks! though the reservoir is a chancy sort of entertainment for the young and their caretakers -- and critical to the current point, in playgrounds. The shouts and happy cries of small children ring through the air in the sawdust-floored clearing, the brightly painted metal and rubber of a massive playset obscured in places by the colliding atoms of bodies. Benches ring the area, haven for parents and nannies. Mostly women. Some men.
Chris Rossi is one of them.
Comfortably attired in jeans and a blue shirt, the customary leather overcoat open to accommodate his loose-limbed, cross-legged sprawl on the bench, he looks on the scene with lazy eyes, indifferent to the glances and comments of the more feminine population. Some are admiring. Some are mistrustful. He is, of all the men there, supremely unpaternal.
Sabrielle isn't exactly the mother type, though that's more of a biological lack than because she's against it. She just doesn't have kids. But after the stress of cramming for finals, a trip through the park and the playground seems like a pleasant change of pace. Watching the kids run around in hyper happy madness is soothing in its way to the empath. Kids are so much easier, more simplistic in their emotions, free with their joy. Blue jeans paired with a shirt in her favored purple, she's walking around the edge, dodging kidlets and strollers and toys bouncing away from little hands. She's got a smile on her face, just sort of a lingering one, a residual happiness that's being given to her by the kids buzzing around her.
She doesn't quite lose it, even at the sight of a man sprawling on a bench. One of these things is not like the other, and that would be him. "Mister Rossi, isn't it?" Though she remembers full well the overconfident cop who'd bought her that cup of coffee. "Whatcha doin' round here?" He doesn't strike her as the indulgent uncle.
The identification by name does what simple glances do not, and Rossi swings his gaze up to regard Sabrielle, one eyebrow quirking upward in mild curiosity. Recognition is wholly one-sided; no answering familiarity warms the man's gaze, though wariness slightly tightens its corners. "Babysitting," he says briefly, his head tipping towards the edifice. At this hour, there are too many children to identify one as specific to his presence. "Sorry. We've met?"
She glances over her shoulder, resettling her bag as she does. Book, snack, stuff for a trip to the park inside. Eyes running over the kids. "Baby-sittin', huh? Sounds like your idea of a fun day. " Yes, that's sarcasm, before she's looking at him again. "It was a good while back, don't fret none. Met in a coffee shop, small talk and tha like before ya decided ya felt tha need to pay for my coffee before Ah could. Ah've jus' got a good memory. " The fact he's a cop sort of stuck him in her head, but she won't say so.
Sarcasm is not reciprocated either, but against the background of pleasant moods and the occasional peevish one rising from one parent or another (not to mention the more excitable ones of the children) the detective is a mellow note of deep blue and green: tranquil, in a comfortable way. "Oh," Rossi says, and runs a hand through his hair. Silver shoots against the black, gleaming at his temples. "Don't remember that. Meet a lot of people in the course of things. Was it a decent cup of coffee?"
He definitely had been anything but this mellow and relaxed last they had met. The smile she had was still clinging to her expression, the lack of tension around her eyes. Spring was probably the best season for the empath. Everyone shook off the depression and down moods and bloomed in much better colors just like the plants and trees. "Oh, Ah'm sure in your line of work ya have much better things to remember than a random conversation in line at a coffee shop. " A low laugh. "It was a very good cup of coffee, which only reinforces tha fact Ah still owe ya one. A pastry too, since ya paid for tha sugary snack Ah was procurin' for myself. "
"Only worry about quid pro quo on the job," Rossi says briefly, leaving out a critical word with a minimalism that pares actual meaning into obscurity. An especially loud squeal from the playset snaps his attention back, to view nothing more serious than the flurry of an imminent game of tag. Back to Sabrielle he says a mild, "You're welcome. You got one--?" The question goes incomplete, but the tip of his head toward the frenzy of childish activity fills in the blanks.
Sabrielle chuckles, hand lifting to hook red behind her ear to keep it out of her face. Ahh, there it is, the snap of attention from her to the source of noise, suddenly he's much more likely to be in a parental style role, even if only temporarily. "Well, ya might not worry about it, but owin' a cop a cup of coffee an' a donut is serious business where Ah grew up." Teasing him of course, before his question scatters her thoughts, looking at the kids running around. "Me? Oh, no. Jus' got plenty of 'em back home. Cousins an' such. Sometimes it's nice to just watch 'em run around. "
"Wish they'd spend more time standing still," Rossi says with a mock sourness that does not penetrate into the laziness of his mood. As if on cue, a small, black-haired boy of about 6 years explodes out of the climbing cage to dash towards the detective and present him, solemn-faced, with a rock. Equally solemn, the man accepts it and puts it in his pocket. The family resemblance is visible, and striking, for all the still-malleable softness of the child's features. The younger pair of green eyes stare at Sabrielle, inspecting her from head to foot, and then the boy is gone again, yelling for his playmates.
As though the interruption never occurred, Rossi asks, "Big family?"
"Sometimes, yeah, especially when they're all shriekin' their heads off playin' some ungodly game." An easy smile, that stays put even as the child runs up. Watch the empath melt, even with the twitch of her smile to a grin at the inspection. "A rock. You rate pretty big. Ah normally get twigs an' leaves." Deadpan, watching the little guy run off again.
Attention returned to the man, a shrug. "Southern family. Lots of family, blood an' affection. Only child myself, but Ah get enough cousins to fill half of Yankees Stadium, Ah think."
Says Rossi, sapient and experienced uncle, "At least it isn't alive. Or," he tacks on as a pensive afterthought, "dead. I figured out the Southern," he adds with equal deadpan gravity, detective as he is. He gestures vaguely in his own direction, resettling himself on his seat to take up fractionally less room than before. "Italian, myself. Like my name didn't give it away. Got enough cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, brothers and sisters to start a small country. We'd see your Yankee Stadium and raise you a New York Harbor."
The empath snickers. "Dandelions are probably my most usual honoring gift. Not so bad, until they want me to make chains out of 'em an' ya get all tha sticky glue stuff on your hands. No easy way to get it off, then ya get yer hands all mucked up." A shrug. "Well, it's not like Ah sound Southern or anythin', oh no." Yes, more of that light sarcasm. She's not snarky, just teasing. "Well, see, most of my family isn't Catholic. Keeps tha numbers down a touch." Smirking, shifting her weight to a more easy stance. "He's cute. Nephew?" Glancing back towards the swarm of kids to try and spot the one who gifts rocks.
Down the curving path at the playground's edge comes another two pairs of feet. A tall woman, slender and auburn haired, is proceeding with serene calm in stark opposition to the more flame-haired young man of about four who is rocketing around, swapping from one held hand to the other as if, should he get enough speed, he might just take flight. "Mum! Lookit all the -kids-!" says Nate Grey, part of a steady stream of exclamations. "Can I go play with them? Will they be friends? Is that a pony?" Their path angles them towards Rossi and his companion, and with Jean's eyes squinting off towards the pony rides with idle speculation, it's Nate that notices him first. The "Mum!!" of insistance is all the more marked. "Lookit! It's Aunt Ororo's boooooyfriend."
Rossi's reply to Sabrielle is a brief nod, his own gaze tracking back to the playset to pick out the boy amongst the rest. Whatever game he is engrossed in appears to involve a great deal of shouting, much running, and the occasional argument; actual rules appear to have a fluid quality, understood by the players in a science incomprehensible to adult logic. "They're--" he begins, on the verge of claiming more than one child.
And then, of course, he hears Nate.
Surprise lifts his eyebrows, and he glances towards the familiar name, discovering the speaker and his caretaker in one swift swoop. /This/ pair gets recognition, famous as at least one of them is. His mouth twitches; rue sketches itself across his face, and under the surface serenity of his mood, something a little more tangled and complicated begins to knit itself together. "Hey, Jean. Hey, Nate."
She catches the 'They're..' as well as the unvoiced affection. He's an interesting man to watch, Rossi is. "They? Ya watchin' more than one, then? Gonna have heavy pockets when it's time to head home. " Following his turn of gaze, the little boy catching her eye first, with hair as red as her own. His exuberance makes her smile, a flicker of gaze to Rossi then back towards the boy, then the woman with him. Smile sticks, the flicker over her expression happens in a heartbeat before it's gone. She's not sure just how to act or react. Falling back on the simple manners her mother drilled in her head. Smiling more brightly for them both. "Hello." Simple and to the point.
"Hello, Mr. Rossi," says Nate with solemn politeness and a choice of an easier title to enunciate than 'Detective'. The bursting dies down to standing quietly beside his mother's leg at actually being acknowledged. Hazel eyes peer up at first Rossi and then Sabrielle in turn, matched by Jean's own green gaze and a quirk of her lips. "Popular playground it seems. Hi Chris... are we interrupting anything?" she wonders, giving Sabrielle a nod. Against the tapestry of emotions that is the playground, her own mind is interestingly restrained and subdued, while Nate's is a thread even brighter than the rest, shimmering with delight and wonder at the world.
As though reminded, Rossi feels in his pocket and produces in an opened palm the earlier rock, several leaves, a gum wrapper, two soda can tabs, and a confused ladybug that has come along for the ride. "Not really," he says briefly, answering Jean's question first. A flick of a thought bends Nate's way: the faces of his two nephews, and a clumsy encouragement to go meet them, while aloud he adds, "Dr. Jean Grey, Nate Grey, meet--" oh. shit. "--this woman I apparently bought a coffee for at some point," he finishes a little lamely. He squints at Sabrielle. "You got a name?"
Sabrielle chuckles at the contents of his pockets, all to familiar with the mish-mash of things children give to those watching over them. Things they thought were pretty, or might be useful to the adult. Blue eyes glance to meet Jean's even as a tide of heat washes up into her cheeks. Nate, now he's interesting, that smile sparking back into her eyes. "Sabrielle Harris. Hi. Pleasure to meet ya." Hesitation before her hand if offered. "Mister Rossi here bought me a coffee and a donut a while back. Ah thought it was a law that Ah had to return the gesture. " Yeah, she's feeling pretty lame at the moment herself.
Jean has no hesitation in her own offer of a hand, her clasp firm and her eyes steady on Sabrielle's in a moment of well-honed connection-making. "Pleased to meet you," she assures, and lets enough warmth into her tone to suggest that this is true. "And I have to say I'm a big fan of donut reciprocity-- it's all right, Nate," she assures, distracted momentarily by a tugging at her hand from a small boy gone wide eyed with mingled apprehension and speculation at the mental images. There's a pause and her own eyes go disfocused as he thinks them back at her in a burst of untrained, half-formed projection. They sharpen again on Rossi, and then track out to find the two small faces of which he thought. "It's all right," Jean encourages again, and turns her son about before encouraging him to the playground with a gentle shove. "I'll be right here with Chris and Ms. Harris." Reinforcing that the young boy is on his own, she helps herself to a seat as well.
The two Rossi boys have found a golden retriever, brought to the park as an attendant to another small family, and the horde of admiring -- short -- onlookers around the animal is growing rapidly, much to the delight of the dog. The Rossi uncle, meanwhile, coaxes the ladybug off his hand and onto his lap, where it sits in a dazed fashion while he restores his nephews' treasures to his pocket. "I'm good," he says, answering no question in particular. "Fu-- my old shop put up signs a few weeks back, and then it got blown up. Figured it was time to find a new shop anyway, not to mention cut back on the coffee. Stuff they brew in the house melts old tires."
Sabrielle glances to Rossi at that, yes, that would bethe coffee shop, and the signs she detested. A note of discomfort running through her at that, thinking of the madness of such things. But it wouldn't be polite to bring it up, really. "Yes, Ah've had to make do with stuff at home or tha stuff they serve on campus. Not as good, an' Ah don't have all the fun stuff like flavored syrups or cappucino machine at home. But it still doesn't change tha fact ya were sneaky an' Ah owe ya a cup. " A shift of gaze to Jean, before it quickly moves to find Nate again.
Dogs. Nate can deal with -dogs-. An opening thus supplied to the small, bright-shining mind, he squares his shoulders beneath their Spider-Man t-shirt and inserts himself into the crowd around the goldie. At a distance, words can't be heard, but by the pointing at the bench and the adults upon it, it seems introductions are being attempted.
Jean, on the bench, heaves a sigh at the mention of signs, and grouses that "I really wonder what they think the signs are going to accomplish. I mean, saying 'no mutants' in the hopes of preventing an incident with powers is about on the level with the chances of a 'No cars driving through store windows' sign being effective... and the Bay Horse was my bar in town, damn it," she sums up, admitting personal bias in her politics with a wry smile.
"Never met a 'no cars driving through store windows' sign that didn't work," Rossi says without expression, slouching a little on his side of the bench. Cynical amusement skitters across his mind like water on a hot, greased pan; under lowered eyelids, he regards Sabrielle with a hint of impatience that does not quite translate to the deep, Brooklyn-tarred baritone. "Forget about the coffee. I did. Big deal. Pass it on, if you really want."
Across the playground, the two Rossi brothers reciprocate introductions with enthusiasm and immediately attempt to loop Nate into some sort of criminal conspiracy involving the dog and several twigs. Incomprehensible. The dog appears to enter into the plan wholeheartedly.
The empath looks towards the other woman, understanding in her expression even as she keeps herself mum. A handful of people know the truth about her, but she's not sure she's up to publicly admitting it yet. Heck, her mother doesn't even know the whole story. But she nods, agreeing without agreeing, before she's chuckling at Rossi's mention of the sign working. Arching a brow at him, smirking with her own hint of amusement. She considers making a cop joke, but she refrains. Nor can she really explain the fact he was the first random person to be polite to her in the city, much less nice enough to buy her a cup of coffee at random. "Never thought Ah'd hear a cop turn down a cup of coffee, is all."
"And those tiger-prevention patrols are going -great-," says Jean, but with more humour than wryness this time, as she lets the subject drop with a sigh and a little stretch, and a vague rub of her left forearm, slightly paler than the right. "But I'll shut up on the politics. Is one of the anklebiters out there yours, Ms. Harris?"
The anklebiter named Nate Grey-Summers seems slightly shell-shocked initially by the cheerful inclusion in conspiracy but, after a moment of chewing on one finger, allows diffidently that the dog is a retriever, and there is -water- over -there-, and the potential for Fetching Things.
At that point, certain things are inevitable. The dog will get wet. The boys will get wetter. And something that should not be in the water will end up in the water. The experienced uncle is also a tolerant one, and beyond keeping a distracted eye on the romping trio, he volunteers nothing in the way of warning or prohibition. "Not on duty," he tells Sabrielle, propping his head up on a fist, his elbow pinned on the seat's back. "Off duty I do the--" A grimace. "--tea or soda thing."
She blinks at Jean, shaking her head. "No ma'am. Ah jus' get a little homesick for all my cousins, at times. This reminds me why Ah should be glad Ah live a thousand miles away, an' get to get away with sendin' birthday cards an' money." She's kidding, of course, her tone makes it obvious. "Just was out for a walk through tha park to enjoy tha nicer weather. Seein' little kids runnin' around without any sort of care in tha world always makes me smile, so it seemed worth tha side trip. " A chuckle at Rossi, eyes dropping back over to him. "An' ya sound so enthused over tha tea an' soda 'thing'." A glance towards the kids, with the dog. "Is Nate your only one, Dr. Grey?"
"Trying to get your stomach lining to hold out a little longer?" wonders Jean of Rossi with a crooked smile and her attention drifting lazily over to the small boys, the dog, and the other under-twelves clustering. "Just the one," she confirms to Sabrielle, pauses a moment, and then opts -not- to go into the odd genesis of How Nate Came To Be for a stranger. "Although I swear some days he feels like twenty. If I didn't have a school full of teenagers all jonesing for babysitting money..."
<< Or bail, >> Rossi says, his mouth stirring in the silent echo of the thought that, a little more practiced than the typical flatscan, makes its way towards Jean on a twist of exasperated humor. /Her/ problem, not his! --though a certain distant affection for Jeremy, at least, mixes with the comment. "Getting old," he says aloud for the sake of all three, correcting himself a split-second later with a more defensive, "Older. Used to be I could do a pitcher in a morning and it wouldn't make a difference. Beston, the fu-- my partner, still has a three thermos and two pack a day habit."
Sabrielle didn't really need to know all the details, right? It was pretty clear to the empath Nate was pretty special, even at his young age. Chuckling as Jean taunts Rossi just a little bit more. "Well, when kids are surrounded more by older people, they can get pretty mature pretty quick." Offered with a smile, because she's sure Jean know that! "He seems..very bright." There's an underlying amusement to her words that can't be easily written off. "Ah'm sure he can be a very big handful. But Ah remember bein' tha teenager hit up to watch little ones on a Weekend night so parents could go relax." It was easier to use babysitting as an excuse for not going out with non-existant friends or dates. Smirking at Rossi. "What, is he tryin' to be Humphry Bogart or somethin'? "
"You," Jean informs Rossi with a point of one short-nailed finger, "Are not allowed to talk about getting old. We're the same age, I believe, and I'm not admitting defeat yet." With a firm tip of her chin and a chuckle, she lets her eyes go vague again as she spots the trio of small boys, now joined by the dog's young tomboy of an owner, advancing on the lake. << --careful not to fall in. >> is tacked accidentally on to her reply to Rossi's thought, a private worry wrapping it that is disallowed from surfacing out in the open, visible world. << I'm worried about him. >> is shared, and the face that pairs with it before the thoughts whisk away is not that of Nate's. "Beston's your classic New York cop," she shares with Sabrielle. "Coffee and nicotine are a direly-needed fuel source."
"Four ex-wives," Rossi pitches in, wry. "He's an overachiever." His glance skids askance to Jean, thoughtful, and he lapses into outward silence, his eyes blanking with the effort of constructing and communicating: a trick that has yet to be habit, for all his quasi-regular association with telepaths. << He's a teenager. If he didn't give you anything to worry about, you'd have to worry. >>
The empath is left out of the 'old' discussion. She might be old to the kids running around, but that would be about it. Her lack of height and refusal to cut off her long hair only seems to make her seem younger. A grin for Jean at mention of the classic cop. "He longs in secret to be a star in one of those old detective movies, then?" A glimmer of surprise. "Four ex-wives?" Delivered to Rossi, because she can't quite wrap her mind around it. "Ya'd think after three strikes he'd get tha idea maybe he's not cut out for marriage, or he needs to re-evaluate who he's marryin'." Lopsided grin, though there's a line between her eyebrows that doesn't quite match it. There's something else going on around them, but she has no idea what. Hmm.
"Sometimes even with the best of intentions, cop marriages go south," Jean offers, with an odd bit of personal reflection for someone neither a cop 'nor married. "But he's good people for all that. You should get him building boats like that fellow off of NCIS," she suggests to Rossi. "Gibbs, or something?" Beneath the small talk, beneath the eyes still seeking out her son, words crackle into being and transmit themselves on a more personal frequency. << Most teenagers don't get kidnapped and tortured in the name of science for weeks. >>
There is silence from Rossi for a long moment, far beyond what Jean's spoken comment or Sabrielle's question deserves. His mood, mild until now, skews abruptly towards the black and ugly: a restlessness of mind that is betrayed by the body. Physicality, reined until now, uncurls to stretch beyond the boundaries of the tightening frame; eyes flicker half-closed, the expression in them veiled by lashes. "Don't know that show," he says at last, his mouth thinning. "John's problem is that he's an optimist. He believes in the happy ever after. Damned if I know why."
Sabrielle shrugs. "Ah'll have to take your word on that, ma'am. Ah have limited experience in tha area. Most of tha cops Ah grew up knowin' were married for years, or confirmed bachelor types." There's a hint of pink to her face there, pleasant memories barely touched upon. Eyes glancing to Jean, only to follow them back to the group of boys. A faint smile, seeing the colors all jostling around each other. But Rossi's sudden change of mood has her head coming around again, faint dilation of pupils. Color is gone as quick as it came, a hint of a fidget to her stance, as if to edge back. "Ah can't say Ah lknow it either. An' sometimes there's happily ever after. Ah think. "
"There's an attractive female ex-Mossad agent on it who knows Krav Maga," Jean sums up NCIS with a smile that, while crooked, is just a bit careful in the wake of Rossi's mood. Apology seeps from her mind to his, delicate, yet full of sheep. "Thus for some -strange- reason it's popular with the crop of teenaged males around the school... but you're a bit of a romantic then, Ms. Harris?"
There's a flare of memory from Rossi -- he viewed the files, reviewed the case -- and an underlying, murderous ribbon of emotion that dies, smothered, almost before it is finished being born. Dismissal transfers from his mind to Jean's: it is what it is. << Not mine, >> he says obscurely, frustration wrapping around the disclaimer of ownership. /Not my case/, he means, and he wrenches his attention back to the external world with an almost audible crackle of will. "Sounds like my kind of show," he says, a little more lightly. "Got an ex-Israeli army guy in Homicide. Berkovic. They teach their guys some crazy shit over there." He has no comment to make on romantic endings. Cynic.
Eyes are drawn from the sudden color change around the cop to the good doctor, a moment to refocus her thoughts, shaking her head as if to clear it. "Hmm? Ah'm.. sorry, my mind wandered a moment. But me? No. Ah don't think Ah am, except every now an' then idealism in all its forms gets tha better of me an' Ah wear rose colored glasses a while. Never seen it happen in my life personally, but every now an' then Ah'll see some couple that's clearly been together forever, an' he's still holdin' her hand, an' openin' tha door for her. Moments like that Ah indulge in whims of fancy." A glance at Rossi. "Things like what?"
"My parents have been pretty harmonious for what will be fifty years, soon," Jean shares, lips quirked and a little more reality coming to her expression as Rossi's frustration buries itself once again. "I think this is in large part to the judicious use of dens and sewing rooms... oh dear," The water has been reached. "Do you think we should reel them in?" Rossi, apparently, is considered more of an expert in the art of wrangling multiple young boys than she is.
"Irritating little brats," Rossi says dispassionately, his gaze following hers towards the water. He rises, his hands in his coat pockets, his attitude leisurely though his actual progress is surprisingly quick. "I'll get them. Be right back." His is a departure without much preamble, lacking even rudimentary apology for the need towards Sabrielle. His long stride eats up ground with a haste that is only encouraged by his oldest nephew's sudden windmilling at the edge of the pond.
Sabrielle snickers. "Yeah, we can tell ya just /hate/ watchin' tha kids." Because it's obvious he doesn't, no matter what he says. Watching him go, before eyes slip back to Jean. "They'll probably climb all over him an' get him dirty, an' then he'll complain 'bout that too. Think he secretly likes it. " Fingers running up through her hair, pushing it back from her face. "Fifty years, huh? Think my parents woulda been about twenty-five ish by now." A shrug before she looks down at her feet. "Some people are just meant for that sort of long lastin' romance, Ah guess." A hint of a smile. "Can ya be a romantic, when ya never see it happenin' to ya?" Angling her gaze at jean.
Jean shifts in her seat, eyes alert and her muscles tensed to spring and sprint, should the young windmiller embrace the life aquatic and Rossi somehow miss his catch. A silent maternal recall signal of << Nate Grey-Summers, you come back here. >> is tossed out faster and with less ignore-potential than a shout, and it's a moment before she answers Sabrielle, and a bit of a distracted tone when she does. "I think you can," she offers. "My own personal life is unconventional, to say the least, but things happen... and you're young yet, to show my age a little if I can say so."
For all his claims of retrieval, Rossi does not exhibit any obvious signs of doing so. In the distance, he engages the small trio with a few words, and then -- oh dear -- throws a stick for the dog to chase. Away from the water, true. At least two of the boys attempt to beat the dog to the target, with lamentable success, and a handspan of seconds later there is a giant bundle of man, dog, and boys wrestling on the ground. So much for dignity.
"Ah'm sure Mister Rossi will make sure Nate's fine, Doctor Grey." She's fully aware of the readiness to jump up and the distracted tone, even if she herself isn't a mother. "Well that's good. Because that means Ah can be a romantic without bein' a pushover myself." A pause, words surging in her throat to be spoken. "Nothin' wrong with unconventional, so long as a person's happy. How would we know what conventional is, without people darin' to be outside of it?" Shaking her head, a smile even as her own mood takes a momentary dip before it levels out. "No ma'am, Ah don't think so. You're not old, for one, an' for two, some of us jus' aren't meant for that sort of thing. Not built for it. " Then she's tossing caution to the wind, even as Rossi is going for a wrestle. "If Ah can say so, without ya takin' offense, Ah have to admit admirin' ya an' all that a bit." Cue the flushing.
Nate is hardly more than a sensitive just yet, but one doesn't need telepathy to pick up on the silent 'But moooooom' that greets Jean's maternal fussing. He lingers a moment on the edges of the pile of uncle, nephews and dog, dithering over obeying versus new friends, and comes down on the side of Mr. Rossi is Aunt Ororo's Boyfriend, So This Is OK. Amongst the dark heads, a flash of bright ginger dives in and attaches itself to Rossi's leg with a happily shrieking vengeance.
With the lake no longer an imminent threat, Jean relaxes, sighing into a more comfrotable lean against the bench and giving Sabrielle another crooked smile. "Am I that obvious with the mom-nerves?" she wonders, before her smile softens, and she distinctly does not press for more details about the younger woman's personal life. Instead, she assures that "There's no offense taken. I hope I'm still admirable now that you've met me, rather than a face on T.V., of course."
Rossi is a ruthless romper, absolutely unhampered by the unfairness of his superior weight and musculature against the wildly writhing microbes of smaller bodies. Then again, 3 against 1, with a giant golden retriever a wild card that switches sides depending on whatever is closest -- he disappears completely under a heap of small bodies, and the rip of his laughter is audible across the park, his mood a brilliant flare of gold and green mirth.
Sabrielle shakes her head, with a grin. "Ah'm just, what's a good way to put it. More observant than a lot of people. Ah people watch a lot, so it's a habit. Stand me in good stead, Ah ever get my PhD. Studyin' Psychology an' stuff, bein' observant about people's smaller changes is a plus. " Face goes even more hotly flushed. "More, Ah think. You're intimidatin', but less so to someone like me than a bunch of people lookin' to tear ya or your work down. An' you're not snobby, which helps." She's distracted, head turning to see that flash of Rossi's mood changing again, smiling in reaction to it. "Told ya he loves it." It's obvious, even without the added benefit of empathic knowledge. "Could Ah ask ya somethin', Doctor Grey? Ah mean, if ya think it's too personal, ya can tell me to shut up an' all, but.. how do ya do it?" Blurted out. "Keep all calm an' all, an' be just as ya are with all of it?"
"Just don't spread it around," Jean suggests, eyes twinkling merrily as she watches yet another formidable man of her aquaintance displaying a certain amount of gooey marshmallow center. "We wouldn't want to damage his rep." Out across the way, Nate is going for an arm now, rather than a leg, the shrieking now breathless laughter and a wash of pure joy in being young and small and with people to play with. His mother sighs contentedly, and a few of the fine tension lines dogging her fine brow smooth out as she watches, and nods to her seatmate in permission to ask. The answer takes a moment in coming, and is paired with a chuff of a laugh when it does. "Well, having no choice in the matter helps a lot," she admits. "I'm out and can't go back in, so I may as well just keep living life. But having a support network helps more. At the end of the day, I can go home to some place-- well, not safe," she has to admit. "But open. Home."
Rossi rises like a volcano in the middle of the pile, shedding small bodies like dandruff. Nate ends up tucked upside down under his arm, one of his nephews dangles by his trousers from his fist, the older one clinging to a stranglehold around his neck. The detective is thoroughly rumpled, a condition that does not noticeably hamper him as he begins dragging the gang back towards the playground.
There's a flicker of a smirk. "His secret's safe with me. Ah wouldn't dream of believin' tha cranky cop has a soft spot for tha munchkin set." Eyes settling over the boys and Rossi a moment. "It's good for him, though. All of them. Right now, they're all just happy, havin' a good time. " Seeming almost distracted. "No one's worryin' or frettin'. Good for a body, Ah think. Everyone should be able to unwind like that now an' then." Then eyes divert back to the doctor. "Choice is good, sorry 'bout that. But support network huh? Goin' home ain't much of an option." Home to Louisiana, land of rednecks looking for a reason to get drunk and raise heck? No thanks.
"New York's a big city -- million to one chances happen eight times a day," is Jean's advice, as she flashes Rossi a grin and a call of "Great new fitness routine!" in a contented aside paired with a stretch of her stylishly booted feet. "I don't know what sort of group you're looking for, but I'm sure it's out there... if it's anything adjacent to my circles, I'd be glad to pass your name along."
Shrieking children are dropped unceremoniously onto the sawdust, and Rossi dusts his hands off as the dog circles happily around his playmates, licking everything he can reach. The man wanders back to Jean and Sabrielle, raking a hand through his hair, his cheeks slightly flushed from the exertion; his mood is still buoyant, lumpy in places with bubbles of amusement under the surface of equanimity. "Making friends and influencing people?" he asks breathlessly, his voice warm with earlier laughter. The harshness of his features is alleviated by the remnants of a smile, the hard lines smoothed to strip years from his age.
Sabrielle stills, realizing she just totally outed herself like an idiot. Deer in headlights for a moment, hands lifting to push through her hair in a nervous gesture. Blue eyes flickering from Rossi to Jean. "Just..Ah don't do so hot with groups. " Oh hell, she's already exposed herself, might as well. "Outside is one thing, but lots of people just sort of overload me. Not so hot with it." The flush now is one of embarrassment and shame. "No real handle on it. " A glance as Rossi approaches, managing a smile for him. "Actually, we were more admiring how well ya seem to get along with tha kids, an' seemed to enjoy actin' like one. "
"Takes a man to know when to act like a little boy," Jean quips, but with good nature to her tone, and the reclamation of her son for the purposes of scooping him up and cuddling him. That this transfers grass stains to her own clothing is just part of the joys of motherhood. That she is a -working- mother is demonstrated a beat later by a thoughtful study of Sabrielle and one hand reaching into her purse to pull out a card and offer it over. "If you ever want to talk some place not a public bench," is the explanation given.
"Family my size, you get used to kids," Rossi says, more as explanation than excuse. He apparently feels no need to apologize for it, and behind him, the two boys sit up with shiny, damp faces, beaming happily. The grass stains on his clothes are dark and definitive, of the type that will require some care to remove in the future. "Always useful on the job, too."
There's a jerk like an electric shock through the younger redhead, blue eyes fixing on Jean for a moment before she's taking the card without comment. At least verbalized comment, because inside her head she's wondering how the heck she'd ever get the brass balls to call Doctor Jean Grey. A glance down at the card, momentary frown as it looks vaguely familiar. Her memory for faces is not matched by other things. A sidelong grin for Rossi. "Always gotta keep up on skills for tha job, right?" Glancing at the boys behind him, melting all over again. "Yep, Ah can tell you're so not a favored uncle." More teasing.
"I'm glad that Nate got a chance to meet your nephews," says Jean, squishing the boy in question and provoking a "Muuuum," of mild protest. Not in front of the -guys-! Resting her chin atop his head in cuddly defiance, she admits that "He gets a lot of people to play with at the school, but not so many his own age. And since he's starting kindergarten this fall--" There's a self interruption, and Jean suddenly bites down on something that, by her expression, would be not for young ears. "I forgot-- we need to get going now, but it was a pleasure running into you. Say goodbye, Nate," she prompts.
"We should get going too," Rossi admits, glancing back as his two charges wrap themselves around his legs from behind, grinning around his hips at Nate. A chorus of 'Bye, Nates!' pitches through the air, repeating itself over and over again into a random chant of excitement. "I got to get these two monsters back home, and then get cleaned up for a thing." Hi, Nate! Bye, Nate! Nate! Nate, bye! Bye!
The abrupt change doesn't startle the empath overly much. Doctor Grey is undoubtedly a busy woman. A wave for first the doctor and son, then the cop and his nephews. "It was nice to meet you, Doctor Grey. An' mice to meet you again, Mister Rossi." Flicker of a smile, glancing down at his new leg weights. "Y'all have fun, now."
Bye, Vincent! Bye, Vincent's Brother! Bye, Mr. Rossi! Bye, Lady! More chipper than dutiful, Nate makes his farewells, and then grabs for Jean's hand as she rises to her feet. "We'll do our best... and don't be a stranger, Chris. Allison says hello."
The smile quirks again in Rossi's face at the mention of Allison. "I'll stop by more," he says, and leaves unspoken, /Now that Ororo's back/. With a nod to Sabrielle, the detective hauls his giggling nephews over his shoulders and heads off, his voice mellow under their high-pitched demands for ice cream on the way home.