Back in the New York Groove

[ Veronica holds up two fingers to the hostess. Two, as in the number in her party for lunch. Her party which contained Neal a coworker she, okay, yes, had been crushing on for a spate of time now.

But, she can't help but keep her eye on the others lunching around them as they're led to their table.

As she sits she spots the reason she chose this place for lunch and smiles behind her menu.

The waitress assesses their drink orders. ]

So, you seem to know a lot about me...

[ She eyes Neal. ]

Buffy hadn’t seen a lot of grizzly crime scenes in her time, but she had a tough stomach.

She always had. It was something she prided herself on. She was a cool head in a crisis and usually managed to keep it together pretty well, but there was something about this crime scene that got under her skin in the worst way. It was the victims, more than anything else, and while she’d seen victims before, this one was more than she had expected.

Buffy was still a tough girl, though. She managed to keep it together long enough for Detectives Flack and Monroe to relieve her at the crime scene, and then she bolted out the door and as far away as she could get. She didn’t want to contaminate the scene, if at all possible, so she ducked past the yellow tape blocking off the alleyway, around the corner to the nearest garbage can, and lost what was left of her lunch. It wasn’t pretty, but it was enough to help the queasy feeling pass in her stomach.

She was straightening to wipe at her mouth with the back of her hand, when she saw the older man standing not too far from her, kit in hand and an eyebrow raised in surprise. Her eyes sheepishly lowered to the ground, before nodding and taking a step back.

“Hey, Detective Taylor,” she sighed, before jerking her thumb over her shoulder. “Crime scene’s this way.”

[See Buffy.

See Buffy hack.

When freezing rain lands you with a shell of ice on your car, you gotta do whatever you can to get it off. Even if that means going at it with a scraper like a madwoman. Buffy looks like a rather pleased madwoman, as she's having way too much fun with hacking the ice off her and Riley's squad car. Being a California girl, you'd think that she would be opposed to all things ice and snow, but apparently, she's as happy as a calm

Feel free to mock her.]

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As far as Max was concerned, she wasn’t screwed until they were fitting her for a set of cement shoes.

In fact, she really wanted to see them try.

Max was fifteen and considered herself too smart for her own good. She knew the rules regarding John Winchester, and how the gangs in the area didn’t fuck with him unless they had a death wish, but Max wasn’t just a member of any gang. She was an X5, had been on the streets since she was old enough to walk, and had kicked the ass of pretty much everyone else in this city—she didn’t see why John Winchester would be any different. It was why she was sitting in his interrogation room, waiting for him to join her. He seemed to think she had stolen something of his. Maybe he was right, and maybe he was wrong, but for right now, she wasn’t giving anything away. She was cool and comfortable, legs kicked up on the table and waiting expectantly.

She was disappointed when she didn’t get John. She got Dean instead.

Not that Dean wasn’t interesting enough, but it was still a little disappointing. She sighed as she crossed her arms in front of her chest, before shrugging. “So? What’s the dealio with the whole interrogation scenario? Far as I know, you ain’t the cops.”

“No. I’m not. I’m worse.” Dean was nineteen, barely old enough to be considered legal, but he was still a scary son of a bitch. She’d seen him beat men twice his size into submission, but then again so had she. “We know you roll with the X5s. What are you doing around here?”

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Doing anything for John?

[Buffy makes it about as far as the front desk of the precinct before she pitches forward, her forehead hitting her arm as she comes to a stop. there were days when she thought being a cop was super duper awesome, and then there were days when she wished that criminals were nonexistent, and or that they had all left New York City. That they had run far, far away to somewhere like Iceland where they would be the Icelandic police's problem, not hers]

They run. Why do they always run?

Dean needed something to do with his time.

He had spent the past eighteen years looking after Sam. John Winchester was a smart man, and a hell of a leader for the Winchester-Campbell crime family, but father of the year he was not. Dean loved his father, but he was often more concerned with keeping his family safe than actually spending time with his family. Dean had a job. It was take care of Sam. Take care of Sam he did—in fact, he might have protected him a little more than he should. Because now Sam was gone, and Dean was alone—and to be frank, he hated every fucking minute of it.

He was in a bar on the wrong side of town, but even that side of town knew not to mess with him. They knew who he was and that trying to kick him out of their bar would just make more trouble for them than they really wanted. They were more than willing to let him have his booth in the back of the bar and drink himself into oblivion rather than cause any trouble. It’s not like he didn’t pay. At least, until she walked in.

She was wearing a tight black dress that hugged all her curves in all the right places, along with just the right flash of pale cleavage at the top. She was practically built to get his attention, and he was aware that it might have been a little too much of a coincidence, but he was a little too drunk to care at the moment, and was more than willing to try and get that cleavage to fit in the palm of his hand without getting slapped. It took way faster than he had anticipated, but he was high on endorphins and alcohol and was more than willing to follow her back to her hotel room and let her have her wicked way with him.

That had the potential to be a bad move.

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[If you're heading towards Lindsey McDonald's office, you might see a pretty brunette perched on the edge of his desk with her legs crossed in front of her. If you're Lindsey McDonald, this has all the signs of being very good for you.

If you're not ... well, sucks to be you.

She doesn't have anything particularly scandalous planned. In fact, from this angle it might just seem like she has a thing against chairs. But still -- not all that bad a picture, is it?]

smarterthanu: Hey, Caffrey. Are you working right now or getting your Tetris on? Do people still play Tetris?