Participants:
| Scene Title | Ice Packs and Cream |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | A chance meeting at the batting cages has Russo quizzing about the man he's been mistaken for. |
| Date | October 12, 2010 |
The Batting Cage — The Bronx
It's been a long day. A very very long day. After spending most of it with special effects acne makeup (go big or go home with the practical jokes), Bradley Russo is relieved to be out of it (and without Kristen anywhere in sight). His baseball jersey (those damned Yankies) and faded blue jeans help him fit in here. But instead of chew, he's chewing gum — no reason to give himself another addiction if he can help it.
CRACK
He poises again, leaning back just enough, feet slightly staggered, and weight put more on the back foot as he keeps his knees loose. Again he swings.
CRACK
With a satisfied smirk, his round in the cage is done. He quite literally struts out of the cage. The smirk, however, fades as he spots a couple of rather silly looking young ladies who have been watching him. They giggle loudly as he rolls his eyes and treads towards a bench to wait his next turn; the cages are all about sharing after all. With a slide of his hand, he tugs the baseball cap from his head and runs a hand through his hair, still relieved not to be wearing that special effects makeup.
CRACK
The cage adjacent to Russo's holds a woman with her back turned to him. Her fiery curls are braided into a tail that stretches almost to the middle of her back and it swings to the side every time she does. She's also dressed in a pair of faded jeans, ones that are distressed from too much wash and wear. Her blue and white baseball jersey is loose fitting and has the name SANTIAGO printed on the back. It's obviously not her own last name, perhaps a novelty knock off that can be bought on any corner for $5.
CRACK
Her sister's been home almost an entire day.
CRACK
The two bedroom apartment might not be big enough simply for the fact that there's already been noise complaints, bathroom complaints, and squabbles over who used all the hot water first. With three of them showering, of course someone's going to lose out. At least there hasn't been a squeak about anything else, the loss they've had to face without each other.
Russo's eyes flit to the red-headed figure at bat. His own eyebrows arch at the pang of recognition; he'd drank her drink back at karaoke night. He strolls up towards the cage as he admires her form. It's not flirtatious, or intended to be as such, but following their rather infamous duet (ala Eminem) it would be imprudent not to say hello.
"Hey kiddo, watch out, eh?" His eyebrows furrow slightly as the smirk returns to his face and the back of his hand is run across it, still trying to smear away the now-inexistent makeup that had once made its mark there.
"I may have to change your nickname to slugger!" the tone is teasing, light, airy and full of goodwill, assuming she remembers who she is. And even if she doesn't, his tone is warm enough.
Television star? Of course Delia would remember who he is, she's got epic skills in fangirl. Practically dropping the bat in surprise, she turns to greet him and gets hit in the back with a ball cannonballed at high speed. "AHH!!" She bellows, then another hits her, this time in the flank as she twists to protect herself from any more harm.
A quick turn has her kicking the large stop button on the other side, just before another projectile beans her somewhere else. It could have been higher, it could have been lower, but she narrowly avoided the mishap.
With a little whimper, she rubs at her lower back and tries to massage out the aches that are likely going to form two circular purple bruises. "Hi Mister Russo, how are you doing?" The little smile she gives him doesn't quite mask all of the pain she's in.
Whoops. That was certainly not Brad's intent. He cringes at the first hit, winces at the second, and sympathy groans at the last. "Sorry bout that, Kiddo." He frowns at little at the massage but manages a rather toothy, empathetic smile moments later as he leans against the outside of the cage.
"I'm good! Glad to see you recovered from our duet… unless the aggression is leftover from that — in which case, I probably owe you an apology." He winks and then shrugs. No matter his mood, he can, generally, fake it in public, something most in the entertainment industry would deem his finer quality. "We can walk over to the drink stand and get you some ice for that if you like. And ice cream — or something on me? I think I owe it to you after that creaming…" There's a small pause before he's stipulating, "Call me Brad."
There's something of a crooked grin from the young woman as she extends her hand for the customary shake that goes along with introduction. "Delia," an uncommon enough name that there might only be a few handfuls of the same int he city. "Recovered? Are you kidding? We were fantastic!"
Of course, in her own mind, Delia can sing. Her boyfriend loves her singing, he's told her so a few times. Being a little (read: a lot) tone deaf, the young woman also extends that belief to her partner in the duet. "I don't think anyone that got up there was better than we were… Well maybe Barbie Girl, but that's the song, you can't screw that one up."
"Touche," Brad grins as he shakes her hand. "Well it was a delight to sing with you. More Eminem is what I say." He winks as he releases her hand. "Delia," he repeats her name with a slight furrowing of his eyebrows. "That is an unusual name. Named after anyone? I got stuck with Bradley. Although I have to admit Brad is kind of a stud name even if Bradley elicits images of drinking brandy in smoking jackets next to a fireplace."
Again he shrugs, "And you're right. Barbie Girl isn't really a fair comparison. Everyone likes life in plastic. I mean.. it's fantastic." His cheeks redden while his lips turn up into a dimpled smile, even if it's cheesy, he stands by the lameness of his joke.
There's something of a crooked grin from the young woman as she extends her hand for the customary shake that goes along with introduction. "Delia," an uncommon enough name that there might only be a few handfuls of the same int he city. "Recovered? Are you kidding? We were fantastic!"
Of course, in her own mind, Delia can sing. Her boyfriend loves her singing, he's told her so a few times. Being a little (read: a lot) tone deaf, the young woman also extends that belief to her partner in the duet. "I don't think anyone that got up there was better than we were… Well maybe Barbie Girl, but that's the song, you can't screw that one up."
"Touche," Brad grins as he shakes her hand. "Well it was a delight to sing with you. More Eminem is what I say." He winks as he releases her hand. "Delia," he repeats her name with a slight furrowing of his eyebrows. "That is an unusual name. Named after anyone? I got stuck with Bradley. Although I have to admit Brad is kind of a stud name even if Bradley elicits images of drinking brandy in smoking jackets next to a fireplace."
Again he shrugs, "And you're right. Barbie Girl isn't really a fair comparison. Everyone likes life in plastic. I mean.. it's fantastic." His cheeks redden while his lips turn up into a dimpled smile, even if it's cheesy, he stands by the lameness of his joke.
Grinning from ear to ear, Delia nods in agreement with the assessment of the song, "Totally… I didn't think someone that looks as old as my dad would be so cool about music." She chortles just a bit, something that ends in a little snort before she covers her mouth, her face turning crimson with blush as well.
"I was sort of named after my grandma… Her name was … a bit longer but everyone called her Delia." The expression on her face is telltale of the young woman's relief that she wasn't given the other name. As she tucks her hands into her pockets, a close lipped grin is pointed up at the man for a moment before she shrugs, "Bradley's a cool name… A bit too… what you said though. But I bet you could hang out at the Playboy mansion with the name Bradley." That is every man's dream, isn't it?
"Wait. Are you saying I look as old as your dad?" Brad's eyebrows furrow together though the smile remains, indicating he's still in good humour. "How old do you think I am?" His nose wrinkles with that same good humour. He shakes his head with another toothy grin, complete with dimples.
"Ha! I'm pretty sure hanging out at the playboy mansion has little to do with a man's name, and more to do with his position in life. Bradley just sounds like I'm heading to the cape for the weekend, but I'm betting that my grandparents pressured Mom into that one." He flashes her another smile as he falls into step with Delia. "And my image doesn't need me connected to the playboy mansion, thanks. I'm not that kind of television show personality."
"Is this an Oil of Olay commercial? Because I am so not playing that game… Let's just say that you look as old as my dad and leave it at that, okay?" Delia's eyebrows raise high on her forehead as she looks over at him, not quite up because she's a fairly tall woman. "Besides, in a world of a kajillion different freaky abilities, you never know… My dad could never age and be stuck in his.. miiiiid — thiiiirtiiies?" Those last two words are drawn out to a lengthy breath as she takes a few steps away from the cages and away from the ball cannon.
Flashing him a smile of her own, the redhead glances up into his eyes and her eyelashes flare out a little in surprise. "Hey, you have like… the same color of eyes as me… that's sort of wicked cool."
And there it is. More evidence. Brad's cheeks flush a little. "There's no way your father is in his mid thirties… and neither am I." Early thirties; that's right, ya'lls. His head tilts as he shoots her a sidelong glance; they do have the same eyes — that grey-blue calm and soothing in colour, "So we do." There's a pause as he arches his eyebrows, "Did you get those from your father?" He chuckles to temper the conversation while his hands are shoved into his pockets.
"Were… were you in the news recently?" he clears his throat and holds out a palm. "Don't worry if you were, I won't say anything to anyone about anything. I just… just trying to place you. I feel like I know you." Or am your half-brother you know nothing about. He grins.
"Yeah, my dad and I have pretty much the same eye color… My sister's are a little grayer, I used to joke that she was adopted until they could have a better daughter." A thumb is pointed in her own direction as the young redhead grins even wider, her crooked smile becoming even more pronounced. "But no, you're right… Dad's not in his mid thirties. He's a lot older. I think he was older than you are when I was born. Sorry, tee-emm-eye, right?"
She gives off a near silent breathy before freezing and casting the television star a worried sidelong glance. "Uhm…" Blinking rapidly, her head twitches as she casts darting glances around them, as if afraid of something or someone. "Uhm…" Her hesitation could be proof enough that the young woman is indeed the one in the news. "Uhm… I… uhm…"
The evidence is telling in itself. "Hey, hey, hey. Forget I asked." His jawline tightens, however, just a little. Just enough. Fortunately his hands are still in his pockets, occupying them from showing his own personal tell. Instead, his lips crack into another grin followed by a shake of his head, "Look Kid, keep your chin up. Life won't always be so bad." And then as a kind of afterthought he tacks on, "Believe me."
With a high-pitched whistle, he shuffles forward again. "So. Are you an ice cream gal? Or more of salty snack kinda gal?" His lips twitch into a half smile. "Or are you one of those crazy coffee buzzers? I was always more a tequila man…"
"I— Either or, I guess?" Delia squeaks, still looking nervous enough to bolt like a fawn at first scent of danger. Her lightly freckled nose and cheeks are host to a bit of a blush as she averts her eyes from Russo's and looks down at the ground. One of her hands comes up from her pocket to tuck the ballcap on her head a little lower to shadow her face.
"Sorry, it's not that — I mean you said that — " Trying to tell someone that you can't trust them yet without hurting feelings is like trying to tell a child that not everyone is created equal and that some children just are afforded better lives. "I'd like to trust you, I really would, you seem like a nice enough guy… It's just that — I'm in a lot of trouble. You read the news…" After that, it's just self explanitory.
"Hey. It's cool. Don't worry about it," Brad knows she has no reason to trust him, instead he just keeps shuffling forward. "Seriously." He clears his throat as he attempts to change the subject, slowing his pace even more. His gaze flits away from her, off to the skyline. "Besides I'm sure you have lots of people looking out for you." Beat. "Like that boyfriend of yours, right?" He recalls Jaiden, who hadn't left after their karaoke rendition. "Or the father whose eyes you have. Or the rest of your family?" There's another pause while he hmmms. "Keep the circle of trust small. That's what I always say." He never says that, but seems to practice it.
"Just make sure you do actually trust," the unsolicited advice is tacked on as an imperative life lesson, a wisdom necessary to explicate to the next generation. "And remember, 'To trust is a greater compliment than being loved,'" they're George MacDonald's words, but Russo adopts them as his own for this moment. "Love and trust go hand in hand."
Her eyes grow a little wide at the impart of life lessons that aren't quite unexpected. "Uhm… yeah, Dad and Jaiden… a couple of other people." She doesn't mention her sister, not because the inky haired woman isn't on it, but because the article didn't mention her at all. She's still relatively free and clear in the eyes of the public. As Delia considers the question a little more, her lips move as more and more people get added onto her list of trusts, a lot of them she doesn't even know.
""Uhm.. thanks, for the advice," The redhead's voice is a little muted, quiet over the din of his fans and the other batters in the cages. "…and the quotes," is added on to the end, in recognition of the wisdom passed on. "So you like tequila better than ice cream? I think that's actually a crime in some third world countries."
"Kid, I like tequila better than breathing," the words are punctuated with a slight raise of Brad's eyebrows. "I like tequila better than most things." Pointedly he wags a finger at her, "This is why you should never ever drink. Ever. It will spare you from a life of pain, suffering, and general misery." Ironically he smiles as he shares even more wisdom. "Especially tequila. I know in my glory days I would follow the tequila train and," he whistles again for emphasis, choosing not to share his though, merely the action behind it.
"Did you know it's illegal in New York to walk around on Sundays with an ice cream cone in your pocket? So ha! More illegalness. Randomly… stuff." His gaze flits away again while his cheeks tinge pink.
Russo is granted a rather obvious incredulous gaze as he imparts the random bit of trivia and another smile is cracked by the young woman. "Seriously? Who would put ice cream in their pocket? One, it would melt. Two, it's sort of a waste of ice cream… Not to mention the icky pants after." She places her hands into her pockets, almost as though trying to hide some or make sure there's none in there. Likely the latter.
"Never had tequila…" she offers in exchange, tidbit for tidbit. "Dad wouldn't even let me have a drink after… well something incredibly bad happened and I had to do something… and everyone else was drinking after. Except me."
"Smart man. Your father," his father. The words only make his jaw tighten again, leaving Brad in this odd state of affairs. Russo's lips purse together as if to whistle again, but no sound comes out; just the motion. "Not worth drinking. I swear it's not. Trust me. I mean 'Just because you got the monkey off your back doesn't mean the circus left town,'" George Carlin's words just seem appropriate.
Finally they reach the little drink stand (complete with ice cream). And Russo glances at the girl working it, "Uh. I'll just have a coke. Thanks. And then… whatever she's having. Also… a baggy of ice if you have it." Turning back to Delia he clucks his tongue, "Honestly, ice it tonight, heat it tomorrow, you'll be right as rain in a couple of days. Believe me. I'm a guy who knows these things." As he reaches into his wallet he adds, "I've been in more than one scrap in my day."
"I — I was a med student. I'm pretty sure I'll be fine," The explanation is given by way of consolation to Brad as he offers the advice about ice. Delia takes it though, placing it on the second bruise, the one she can actually reach without dislocating her shoulder. "Well not technically in med school yet but I was going to be. I was most of the way through a nursing degree." Everything that was publicly announced in the article, nothing new for information.
Turning toward the girl after Russo is given his coke, the redhead smiles and peruses the menu before grinning broadly and pointing. "Single scoop tiger tiger, please." The host is given a blushing smile that's accompanied by a wrinkle of her nose and shrugs. "It's the best flavor and you can't find it anywhere."
"It's a colourful ice cream. I'll give you that," Russo quips back as he pops the top of his coke, making that familiar fizzy noise. "And hey, as long as you'll eat it, I don't think the colour matters much." He hadn't forgotten about the nursing bit, but for fear of seeming stalkery he felt it prudent not to mention. Instead he blazes passed it, "Of course, I like cooking and to make food really delicious it has to look good. Presentation is key. The right ingredients… herbs fresh from the garden. That makes a world of difference, you know. And don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Plus growing large cucumbers is an art form." He holds up his hands defensively, "I know, I know. It's not like a manly hobby. Except it is. I mean where else can a guy play in the dirt anymore? And. Cooking is like an acceptable adult way to make a mess."
"You garden?" The curious tilt to the young woman's head and the quizzical expression beg for more details on the subject, albeit silently. "My dad, he used to have a garden, when we lived at the house…" The implication there, obviously, is that they don't live there anymore. Of course, being fugitives from the long arm of the law, it doesn't leave very much wiggle room for staying in your home.
"I was thinking about getting him some kind of a herb garden or something, you know? One of those little ones that you can grow in the window." Smiling a little brighter, she shrugs her shoulders in a helpless manner to ease off any embarrassment about the trivial gift.
"I garden at a place I don't — and I have one of those herb gardens for my apartment. It's better than having nothing. And I think they're great for keeping herbs and vegetables year round." Brad gulps his coke. "It's a considerate gift; I bet he'd appreciate it." Not that he knows anything about this man. "I mean… he cares. He wouldn't let you drink, right? Showing you care — nothing wrong with that. Ever."
Contemplatively he hmmms. "I like the idea of it. Family, I mean. Never knew my dad." There's a pause before he's tacking on, "I had an awesome mom though. The best. Even if everyone says that about them, she was… she was just outstanding. Anything and everything whenever I needed her."
"I had a great mom too," The young woman says quietly, averting her eyes from the star. Studying the ground, Delia kicks at the dust with her too old tennis shoes, the kind that used to be white but now no matter how many times you wash them, they're still gray. A little cloud settles on the toe with the hole, dirtying the white sock with a bit of reddish brown. "She used to be there when I needed her…. until the day she wasn't."
It might have been the very same day that she was needed most of all.