The dinner party (Part 2 of 2)
[OOC: continued from Part 1 because of log's size.]
Fortunate (or unfortunate) Rossi is too busy ladling a final drop of soup to notice the glance between conspirators. "'City life,'" he says, wry, and belies his disbelief of Leah's cooking skills to add with sudden enthusiasm: "This doesn't suck, Canto. --Yeah. Well, it's easier in the city to have an occasional fling. Relationship material? Ain't happenin' in New York. I'm not crying."
"Amazing how quickly feelings change," Travis offers a quick grin. "Well, 'quickly' being years of preparation, of course. And yes, main course sounds wonderful."
Sabitha's gaze skitters away from Travis and moves toward Leah. "It's delicious so far," she confirms, and deftly angles a foot to kick Rossi's shin under the table. Gently. She gives him a sweet smile. "Better than some of us can do, anyway."
"You're darling, Travis," and Leah aims a fleeting kiss at his cheek as she rises to, well, /first/ refill her wineglass and then set about clearing the dishes for the next course. "And thank you, Sabby." And shut up, Rossi. "Let me get this stuff into the kitchen, and I'll be right back with pasta. It's just fettucine in a white-wine sauce. I figured that was safe enough? Some spices, nothing crazy."
A shiny, green-eyed gaze flicks up at Sabitha from soup, and Rossi crinkles his brow at the woman. "Ow," he says as a matter of course, for the pure principle of the thing. Injured, he adds: "What was that for? --She cooks better than she writes." You hear that, Canto?
Sabitha slides from the table without pausing to ask. She tells. "I'll help you with the dishes, Leah," she states, and smiles innocently down at Rossi. "And that's saying something." One hand clamps down hard on his shoulder as she stands, fingers curling into his flesh. It's unclear whether /that/ one is flirtation or warning. Could be either, with Sabby. "How nice of you to say so." Her grip eases into an absent pat and fingers that trail across the back of his neck before she disappears toward the kitchen. To help.
"Caaanto," Travis says abruptly, suddenly making the obvious connection. That he's so good at. "You're /that/ Leah Canto?" he calls to the kitchen. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, though, in turning back to the table while awaiting the response. Finger draping. Mrrrrr
Bemusement arrests Rossi's initial response, leaving him to snap his mouth shut with a quizzical furrow dug between his brows, and he follows Sabitha's departure with a cant of his head. "What the fu-- mm." Distractions aboud. Travis' question gives his attention new focus, and a fingers rake wildly through black hair to stir it into agitated tangles. Eyes narrow. "'That' Leah Canto?"
"Thanks," glowers Leah into the sink as she meticulously piles the dishes therein. "I'm going to kill him or screw him before the night is through, Sabby, I swear to /God,/ and I don't know which would be more satisfactory. Crap. Hand me the potholders? I'll take the pasta, you get the sauce."
Sabitha moves to do as directed, and her voice edges into a matching tone. "You try the latter, I'll try the former," she suggests, handing over the potholders. "I mean, bloody /hell/. I'm not imagining this, right? I really would be getting more of a reaction from a log?"
Logs are turned into tables, though, and so there is quite literally a once-log between Travis and Sabby, to be fair. "Just put two and two together," he says, "with the writing and the name." Apparantly, he's answered his own question. Die, smalltalk, die.
Give him bigtalk, and Rossi -- that man among men -- will bludgeon the smaller talk with it. "I think you need a drink," he informs Travis, stretching an arm to provide it. "And so," he decides after a second's thought, "do I. She pissed at you?"
Leah growls a little, and the potholders feel her wrath with a mighty squeeze around the pasta pot's handles. "You are not imagining it, my friend. I'm sitting right next to him, remember. I think I could crawl into his lap and lick his face, and he'd just smile at /me./ He's going out with /you./ So. And Rossi -- God, I should've seen this coming," she despairs. "I'm sorry. I'm trying not to snipe at him, but habit, y'know. What should we do? Get plastered and make out, just you and me, in front of them?"
Sabitha moves around to get the sauce, working in silence for a moment. "Hell," she replies after a moment. "I don't know." A pause, and she adds, "If you want to snipe at him, feel free. /I/ won't be offended. I'm sure as hell feeling pissy enough myself." She lifts the sauce. "Where do you want this?" she asks, before adding, "Hell, Leah, I'm sorry. I should've clamped down on the need to /do/ something and just let us have a nice dinner." She wrinkles her nose and adds, "At least if we made out, I'd be getting /some/ action. And it'd probably require fewer deep and intense heart to hearts to get there."
Leah sighs and shoulders Sabitha with absent, sympathetic affection. "/Guys./ It's okay, really. We'll get through this, even if there has to be murder and screwing and drunken lesbianism on the couch while they stare. T'hell with it; c'mon." She settles the pot firmly against her middle and moves back to the dining area, her firm cheerfulness rising into place again with each step.
"Seems like it," Travis frowns. "Women and their dates. /If/ that's what this is all about. And yeah, another drink sounds fantastic. Fill it up." Once it's poured, he holds it a moment before drinking it. He falls silent as they return, offering a quick smile.
His own glass topped off, Rossi eyes Sabitha's a moment before performing the same service for hers. Leah? Doesn't need to be drunk again while Chris is in the room. "Smells good," he admits, firmly standing the bottle between Sabitha's place and his own. "I got to give it to you, Canto. You can cook. Teach Julia. She sucks."
"Make sure you feel me up," Sabby mutters as she follows Leah out. "I didn't wear this shirt for /nothing/." And her own cheerfulness rises to meet Leah's, and she thinks to ask, as they return, "Anyone need a top-up? Ah... you've got it already?" Her eyes note, briefly, Travis's glass, refilled by Chris, and then smiles easily as he adds to her won. She'll pass that bottle right down to Leah as soon as she sits.
And Leah will sit down and accept that bottle just as soon as everyone had a serving of nice hot pasta with the spiced white sauce drizzled on top. Which effort takes her only a few moments, and then -- wine. Huzzah. "Thank you, Sabby," she says with great dignity and makes sure her glass is full. "Thank you, too, Christopher. I'm sure Julia -- that's his sister -- and I can put our heads together at some point and fix you a meal you'll never forget. Do remind me."
Sabitha passes the wine without comment, and then settles in with her pasta. "Ah, right. How many of there are you, then?" she questions with an interested glance at Rossi. "You, Gabe, Julia... you said you had a big family, right?" Pissed at Travis? Why, whatever would make one think /that/? Certainly not the way she steadfastly keeps her gaze on Christopher as she waits for an answer.
Chris tracks the passage of wine bottle from woman to woman, and levels Sabitha a look of reproach before flaring his nostrils over the food. "/What's/ in this?" he asks, taking up his fork. "--Yeah. Us Catholic Italians, you know. There's a lot of us. Paul's a cop, then there's Gabe, and me, and Mikey, who's also a cop. And Julia." The fork points its tines at Leah, mutely gesturing before he adds, mildly, "She's got a big one, too."
Leah laughs a little. "Not /as/ big. Just four: brother, brother, me, and our sister. It's just white-wine sauce, Chris, with some spices in it. If I were trying to kill you," she says nicely, "I wouldn't do it with pasta. How Godfather of me."
"There are much better ways to kill someone," Sabby agrees blandly, and smiles as she forks in a bite. "I don't imagine that poison would be very /satisfying/, at the last." She's joking. Really.
For that quip at least, Rossi has a boyish grin handy. He turns it on Leah, appreciative (one antagonist to another) and seconds, humorously, "Hammer to the head is more like it, or a knife in the chest. Maybe a baseball bat. Smells good, anyway." He is in a mood to be gracious, if only for this ephemeral moment of truce. A moment later: "Tastes good."
Leah murmurs thanks and then turns to Travis with fluttering lashes of apology. "I'm sorry, I missed you earlier -- /that/ Canto? I suppose I am, if you've read any of my work. Aren't you a dear for noticing!"
And that ends any hope of continued peace. Disgust twists Rossi's lips askew, and he hunches his spine and shoulders in a broody, territorial question mark over his plate before turning his attention to Sabitha in a courtesy only /slightly/ forced. "So what's it like to be a senator's aide? Backstabbing? Lies? Betrayal? Video tape?"
Well, Travis's got some ground to recover. "Poison only works if you can stand over them and watch as they turn blue," he quips, twisting the pasta around his fork a moment. Okay, Attempt the first. One loafered foot makes its way under the table, brushing against Sabitha's. A quick sideward smile accompanies it before he echoes Rossi's complients. "This is excellent. And yes, I've read a few of your pieces. Not too many people can state their opinions as strongly without sounding like they have a chip on their shoulder."
"If only it were anything near that glamorous," Sabitha replies with a dry smile. A quick glance toward Leah, and it deepens into a grin. "Leah probably sees more of that than I do. I'm mostly stuck with databases and numbers crunching all day." When she's not giving interviews and dining Senators. But that's only once in a blue moon. She leans forward for her glass, and then... is that a /foot/ against hers? Sabby's own foot shoots backward in startled surprise, and the first questioning glance she sends across the table goes toward Leah, not Travis, so unexpected is it. Lesbianism doesn't /work/ if no one can /see/.
Leah widens her eyes in negative response to Sabitha, what/ever/ is going on over there, and then leans to Travis. Nearly into him, in fact. Blame the wine. Mm, wine, though her gaze and her voice are crystal-clear and -sharp. "Politics sucks," she agrees, "so I'm happy just to watch from the sidelines. You really read them, Travis? Damn. You /do/ know how to win a girl's heart: compliment her cooking, her writing . . . mmm. I believe I /will/ ask Sabby, there, if I may borrow you for a while. You're so good to me," she purrs and blinks up at him.
With this sort of provocation, it is only to be expected that Rossi's face should redraw itself into stark, offended lines. Exasperation wings its way down the table at Leah, borne on a hot green gaze. The rest of him, meanwhile, bends towards Sabitha with deliberate charm: all that energy, all focused and hers. "Sounds dull. What do you do for fun? Masquerades, I get, and you listen to loud music in your apartment -- I know /that/ part. What else?"
Sabitha narrows her eyes as she attempts to read Leah's reaction, and then drags them toward Travis. You can almost /see/ her willing Leah to lick his face, just to see what he does. "If I loan you Travis, does that mean I get Christopher, then?" she questions lightly, and oh, yes, wine. She shifts sideways, slanting toward him. "Although he's what? Single? Fast and loose and into the lust? So permission may not apply." There's a sort of breathless quality by the end, a result of that energy, focused, and /oh/, not that she's thought about that bit at all, while talking with Leah. Or Abby. "Hm? Me? Well. That depends, I suppose," she answers with a slow smile. "Work keeps me busy, of course. And I've still friends at the university. I take judo, too, and I'm learning to shoot a gun properly." She lifts a hand, flexing it at Rossi before it falls to the table, ever-closer to him. "A girl's got to know how to take care of herself in a city like this, after all."
No response. Travis' face tightens slightly, and he quickly shakes off a daze, and a desire to take things to the next level. Mutationally speaking. "I'd like to think I'm well-read. Single, fast, loose and lusty" he nods toward Rossi. "Don't let that rep get out of this room, man. You'll have women beating down your door. Unless that's your thing, I suppose."
"Have him," Leah tells Sabitha flatly and stabs at a noodle. Die. "And, oh, it /is,/ Travis. He's quite the slut, and quite proud of it. A guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do, right? Poor Christopher. Just playing the hand dealt to him, and to hell with how the cards feel afterwards."
A splintered, slivered glance scythes at the other diners over the plate of pasta, uncomfortably, uneasily aware of -- something, anyway, enough to touch his look with vague suspicion. Still, Rossi is, after all (and by Leah's evidence) a male, and masculine appreciation licks at the intent attention turned on Sabitha. "Always useful to know how to protect yourself. Lots of lonely guys wandering around in the city, and not all of 'em know how to behave. --It's a big city," he tells Travis, easily. "I'll lock the door." As for Canto? Don't hear you, woman. La la la la la la.
Sabitha's expression eases toward the fascinated, and was she eating, here? She can hardly take another bite. "Quite the slut? /Really?/ How horrible." She doesn't look horrified, here. Her eyes flick, lightening fast, to Travis, and then back to Rossi. "I think so, too. And the judo keeps me in shape," she shares with a slow smile. She fingers the edge of her collar, toying, and then reaches for her wine. "You locking folks out, or in?"
There just is no way to win. Travis is doing his own fair job of twisting that pasta into painful contortions before it finds its way to his mouth. Huzzah for limberness. At least in fetticini. "Why can't it be both," he asks. "No use boxing locks into a one-use corner?"
As a reward, Sabitha receives a slow smile of her own, one that slides like black velvet across lips and hooded eyes. "Depends on who it is," Rossi tells Sabitha quietly, leaning forward on his elbows to hang his weight on one. A shoulder wings, distending the fine-drawn cloth of his jacket; the other arm hooks, rolling his own wine glass in careless spirals over the devastated salad plate. For Travis and Leah's sake, he adds in a less intimate volume: "Like a cat door, with a little lock? That could work. And maybe a peephole to see what's coming?"
Leah is eating pasta with all of her glowering, hot-eyed attention. Well, that and drinking wine because, hey, the bottle's /right/ /there./
Sabitha exhales softly, and for a brief moment she's fantastically caught up in the flirtation. Oh, she /does/ like to flirt. It gives the most lovely adrenaline rush. And what was that about assuring Travis that he'd never /see/ it? "Does it?" she replies in a low murmur, and then abruptly pulls her gaze back from Rossi. There's a line there, somewhere, dangerously close. Let's speak to Leah. Hi Leah! "Please don't tell me there's another course coming after this," she begs of their host, and flickers a slightly sheepish smile at her. "I don't think I could handle another bite. It was fabulous."
"Dessert," Leah mutters, then blinks out of her brown study into hostess mode. Which, admittedly, is not as polished as it was two glasses, one course, and a few key sentences ago. But she comes up with a smile for Sabitha. /Just/ Sabitha. "Gelato, even. And coffee to go with it. Whenever we're ready, we can move right on into the living room to enjoy it and each other's company." Yeah.
"I'm good," says Rossi with a certain fierce cheer. He rises on the phrase, stretching to grab Sabitha's plate before she can stir; it clatters atop his own empty one with an ominous crack. "Here. Hand me yours, Travis. --I'll help you get the coffee, Canto. You guys go on out to the living room and relax. Only fair I do some work to trade for the food."
Travis passes his plate across the table, eyes flickering around the table. But no, there's not enough other dishes to warrant an excuse to clear, so he simply nods at the man before taking his glass to the living room and finding a seat.
Sabitha leans back, with a glowing smile directly up at Rossi. "Oh! Thank you," she intones, and then slides herself from her seat. She stretches for a moment, arms over her head and back arching, before she reclaims her glass and directs herself toward the living room with nary a look her at Travis. She drops without a word into the nearest armchair. And drinks her wine.
Oh, joy. Leah doesn't say it, at Rossi's offer, but her expressive Italian face says plenty. She climbs to her feet and goes with him, however, carrying the last few dishes with her to join the rest in the sink. "So kind," she mutters at her old, dear friend. "God knows what I've done to deserve it. You aren't afraid I'm going to grab you again, are you, Christopher?"
"You're not that drunk," retorts Rossi, though the reminder prompts a faint stiffening of the lean frame beneath its sport coat. The plates clatter to the counter, and are followed a moment later by the silverware, gathered up in one impatient hand. Fingers wipe themselves on a napkin, viciously efficient, and toss /that/ to the pile as well before thrusting themselves into pockets: alas, style! Hot eyes scowl. "What the -- holy fuck. What're you two doing in there, Canto?"
"I'm not drunk, period," Leah informs him icily. "I can hold more than three or four glasses of wine, thanks. Jesus." She leans into the counter, ostensibly to reach for the mugs in a cabinet above her head; the move lets her slide prickly disdain at Rossi behind her arm's shield. "Sabby's having guy problems, obviously. Aren't you a detective? Or is your Y-chromosome drowning out your observational expertise?"
The cop snorts, settling his own hips against the counter's lip next to Leah, arms stitched in a tight, unforgiving knot. "A blind fruit bat could figure that," Rossi says, dragging his Brooklyn accent rough and raw through the silk of his baritone. "What is this, you trying to make him jealous? Or her jealous? You guys plan on you flirting with her boyfriend?"
Travis stares at Sabby a moment, before sliding down along the sofa closer to her chair. "I'm /sorry/, Sabby. Four months. I'd say it was a slip of the tongue, but I won't lie. Just miscounted. Didn't... mean to screw up the evening."
Sabitha slides her gaze to Travis, and there's a moment's disbelief, pure and simple, in her gaze. In fact, she has to take a minute to wrap her brain around that one. She blinks. And takes a drink of her wine. And then answers, evenly, "That didn't ruin the evening." And then she abruptly shares a smile, a flash of Socialite Sabby, and there's a hint of the gush to her tone. "/I'm/ having a /fantastic/ time."
Leah sighs and arranges the mugs on a tray. "Go get the stuff from the freezer, Rossi? The blue tub next to the ice trays." She reaches for bowls next, a stack of them, and spoons. And for patience. "Look. I'm feeling the sisterhood vibe with her, okay? Now that I've /seen/ them . . . eh. Our falling-out, between her and me, makes more sense now. I'm just trying to help however I can, and it isn't working, and it's making me think about /my/ guy problems, and I suppose I did have too much wine."
"Don't give me that," Travis comes back quickly, voice muttered to keep it low. "Of course you're having a good time. I am too. But not together. So... if that's not it, then what's up? You're obviously ticked off with me about something. Chris mentioned it a moment ago too, so it's not the wine talking."
"You got guy problems? --Don't tell me," Rossi amends hastily, slamming open the freezer door to thud into the nearby cabinet. Plastic hisses through his search, ransacked for the eventual triumph. "Typical women, trying to make a guy jealous. Stop drinking. I don't want a repeat of--" /That/. Through tumbled black hair, green shows in a flash of fresh hostility. "I think your friend's boyfriend might be retarded. Fuck. What am I gonna tell Gabe?"
Sabitha's eyes trail toward the kitchen, thoughtfully. "Did he?" she questions, and shifts. Posture is abandoned in favor of curling her legs beneath her and slouching backwards, and she mulls that one over in silence, with no further response.
Leah's hand shoots out to squeeze that fine Italian ass, and she says cheerfully, "Thanks for the support, you prick. Give me the gelato and carry in the coffee. Here, on the tray." She makes it all nice, mugs arranged around the steaming pot, and hands it to him with a hard face and a harder gaze. "I have no idea what your brother has to do with anything right now, Rossi, but I wonder why you keep bringing him up. He's out of my life; has been for three years, in that way. I don't care about him. You /know/ I don't, so why? Are you using him as a shield--" her eyes narrow, and her voice drops to ugly depth "--so you don't have to hold me while I cry anymore? Oh, poor you. Get in there with the coffee before I give our friends a good show."
"Fine, everything's just great," Travis shrugs. "Daisies and butterflies. I can play along too." He leans back on the sofa, trying to find a comfortable position.
Sabitha's gaze creeps back to Travis again, with a small frown, and then she uncurls from her seat. "Leah," she calls toward the kitchen, with no thought for what conversation she and Rossi may or may not be having. "Do you have anymore wine?" And then quieter, as she approaches the kitchen, "I feel the desperate urge to get drunk off my ass at the moment. D'you mind?"
"God/damn/it--!" The curse rips across the kitchen and into the living room, ripe with temper; the rest of the ejaculation drops back to prudent levels and tight, razor-edged hissing. "Keep your hands /off/ my ass, Canto." Anything else he might have to say is lost in the rattle of his new burden, and the furious, space-eating stride that drives him out of the small nook and into the living room proper. Right into -- /almost/ into -- disaster. Sabitha. "Shi--" Porcelain shrieks across the tray, and is rescued by a hand. Supercop.
Sabitha skids to a halt as Rossi does, a hair's breadth from collision. She stops. Looks up. Smiles. "Hi," she greets, and then neatly steps around him. And what the hell, reaches round to pat him firmly on the ass before she goes searching for Leah again. She was, apparently, /just/ close enough to hear that admondation. "Leah?"
"Right here, and I don't mind at all," Leah floats serenely to Sabitha, her dear and only friend. "There's whiskey in the pantry behind me, too. Could go well with the coffee. Knock yourself out." Then she adds viciously, "I am going to kill Detective Christopher Rossi, and there isn't a jury in the land that will convict me. Want me to off Travis first for you? Might as well. /Men./ God/dam/mit. What are we doing? Sit by me when we get back in there. Save me from committing violence."
Mugs shiver again, clanking as Chris lurches at that authoritative pat. "Goddammit," he breathes again, setting his jaw before wrestling irritation into submission. Is it any wonder that Rossi should be a little wild-eyed when he makes it to the coffee table? "Coffee," he informs Travis, voice tight and trimmed, the word bitten off with a savage click of teeth. "You know, I don't know you from Adam, but -- shit, man. If someone looked at my girlfriend the way I looked at yours, I'd rip his fucking face off. What the hell are those two brain surgeons in there playing at?"
"I was planning on it," Sabby mutters with quiet conviction, and throws back the last of her wine in a short, quick swallow. "He just.. I can't... /GAH!/" She ends her rant in a low exclamation, wordlessly, and shakes her head. "Blessing of the gods that I don't have work tomorrow, because I have not wanted to be drunk this badly in a very long time. Whiskey, you say?" She moves to dig into it, deftly plucking out the bottle. "Remind me to repay you for this. Seriously." She turns, whiskey in hand, and drags in a deep breath. "Ready?"
"If I ripped your face off," Travis says cooly, "I'd be stuck here myself with the two of them." He reaches for the coffee, sipping at it black. Nice and strong. And counter to the wine. "You touch her, though," he adds, "and you /will/ lose that hand. Just so we're clear."
Leah pinches her nose first and sighs out a long breath. "Maybe." She looks up around the pinch, drops her hand, reaches out with the other to squeeze Sabitha's free one, hard and warm. "It'll be okay," she says with quiet ferocity. "I'm glad you came. I /am./ Thank you. We'll make it through this somehow, even if it's drunk as a lord. Okay. Okay." Another breath, then she takes up the dessert tray and leads the charge back into battle.
It is an answer that crooks Rossi's lips and shifts lingering temper to approval, however razor-edged. "You could /try/ to take it," he counters, the urge towards competition promptly roused. He loops a forefinger around his own mug, leaving the tray for the tabletop, and sinks his weight into an empty sofa's corner. An ankle is dragged up to prop itself on the opposite knee, sketching a numeral for a lap; the barest trace of a smile greets the two women's arrival, tight-lipped around caution.
"I might sleep on your couch tonight," Sabby murmurs in reply, squeezing Leah's hand and then following her out to the living room. Where she promptly unscrews the whiskey and pours a generous dollop into her coffee, as much as it'll take without spilling over. "Who else wants some?" she questions, with a gaze around that ends up lingering - where else? - on Rossi.
Who says, eyeing that whisky, a succinct: "Fuck."
Sabitha smiles sweetly. "Well. That will have to wait until we're drunker."
"Let's not see that challenge through," Travis shrugs. "Because it'd be a shame to ruin the evening. And you seem a decent enough guy." He falls silent as the women return. "None for me, thanks. I'm paying the cabbie," he shakes his head toward Sabby.
Leah settles /her/ tray on the coffee table next to Rossi's, and she kneels by it to dish out the frozen treat into the little bowls. Concentrates very closely on that work; it's very important. "Very much drunker," she mutters at Rossi and Sabitha. "Who wants gelato?"
Sabitha ignores Travis's coffee (Travis?) and tops off Rossi and Leah's drinks without waiting for a more explicit answer. She leaves the whiskey, uncapped on the coffee table, and scoops up her own mug for a long swallow. Not entirely smart, from the grimace on her face, but the whiskey sure kicks in a hell of a lot faster than the wine. She drops back into her chair, safely away from either man.
After some hesitation, discomfort crawling its shell across his slouched form, Rossi extends himself to accept a bowl. "Well," he says, baritone wrung to an arid dryness. "This is . . . fun. I tell you I met Dr. Grey the other day in a pub, Canto? She's taller than she looks on TV."
Leah drops a spoon on the table. Picks it up, fast and with a frown she can't erase fast enough. "That's nice," she flatlines, and pushes out bowls for Rossi and Travis both. Takes one for herself and scoots straight back to lean against Sabitha's chair. Her arm against Sabitha's legs. And her head, wearily, against Sabitha's knee.
Sabitha has claimed a bowl before she sat, and she spends a moment twirling her spoon through the gelato before it's abandoned to her knee and one hand lifts to absently pet the top of Leah's head as it rests against her. "I know her," she offers to Rossi, although there is a distinct lack of enthusiasm. She turns a piercing gaze on Travis. "Travis does too. Don't you?"
Leah rubs her temple absently into Sabby's warm knee and pokes at her gelato. Doesn't say anything, just sits there, rests there, and listens.
"She seems nice," Rossi observes, settling his coffee into the corner of his lap with another weary scrub at his already finger-spiked hair. A bemused flicker tips off the two women and their physical intimacy, before turning to Travis and a conversational: "Broke up with her boyfriend, was kind of down. Told her a stupid perp story -- we have a pool going in the precinct. Got a laugh."
Sabitha's fingers still on Leah's head, and then trail down to settle on her shoulder. A silent, reassuring touch. Jean Grey's boyfriend. One Mr. Scott Summers? "Does she?" Sabby questions, quietly, and the way her eyes linger on Rossi - or certain parts of Rossi - is downright disturbing by this time. "Imagine that. Broke up... I wonder if she was looking for a rebound." Her gaze sweeps upward. "I imagine you'd look pretty good. As a rebound."
Leah murmurs, "He /is/ a good kisser. Helluva tongue."
There's only a stare for a few seconds before Travis sets aside his bowl and standing "I need to be headed out," he says. "Early morning." LIES!!! "It was good to meet you, Chris." He steps around the table, pausing a moment in front of the entwined Sabby/Leah, bending over to give his hostess a quick peck on the cheek. "Lovely evening, Leah. The food was fantastic. Every bit what Sabby promised. No, don't get up. I can see myself out." Straightening, he looks directly at Sabby. "I'll call you... later," he says. And with that, he crosses the room, snatching his jacket from the back of the dining chair. "Have a great evening," he concludes the entire display in not half-a-minute and is gone.
Arrested in mid-lift, Rossi's coffee mug pauses midway between lap and lips, green gaze wedged and rigid on the two women. And then, fascinated, Travis' dignified departure. In the small silence that ensues after the door's click, he returns his implacable stare to /them/. That pair. That conniving, contriving, catastrophic pair. "I think the evening's over."
"No shit, Sherlock," is Leah's tired response. She pushes herself up to put her bowl on the table and then curl back up against Sabby. And glare at Rossi, but without the evening's edge -- without much heat or heart at all, in fact. "We tried, okay? That was -- fuck. We were just trying to get things jump-started. Mock and feel superior now, Chris. It's what you're best at. Just do it somewhere else, because I don't feel like breaking down in tears again, and not because of /you./"
Sabitha stares at Travis the whole while, and there's a long, slow sense of building rage that spikes when he dips to kiss Leah on the cheek and then floods forth, uncontrollable, as the door shuts. She spasms upward, arching to torpedo her spoon at the door after him. "Fuck /you/!" Her reply is loud and emphatic, and Leah may not want to break down in tears, but Sabby hasn't got much control over it at the moment. She turns and buries her face in the back of the chair, muffling quiet sobs while her fingers curl around her gelato bowl.
"Yes," Leah decides, "get the fuck out /now,/ Rossi. I am not kidding."
The coffee mug, abandoned in theory, is finally abandoned in fact; a quiet click settles it on the table, and Rossi -- for once not argumentative -- stands to shove both hands in his pockets. "I'm going," he says, dispensing with farewells. For once he chooses grace over speed, routing his way around the furniture towards the door. Hand on the handle, hallway exposed beyond, he pauses long enough to flick a grim not-smile back at Leah. "Thanks for the food." And then he, too, is gone.
Leah, then, climbs to her feet and starts cleaning up -- just getting stuff out of the living room and into the kitchen, moving quietly and calmly, careful of her tipsy state (and her furniture, which shows the tendency to creep into her way at odd moments) and most certainly of her guest.
Sabitha remains where she is for a few minutes, forcibly pulling herself back together in slow, micro-manageable pieces. Finally, she turns her head from its cushion and muses, quietly, "And now he will call me and be angry and insist to know what game I'm playing. And he will claim that I've no right to be upset, because didn't we plan that I should bring clothes and stay over next time? And he will make excuses, about how he's very bad at this, and he's trying. And he's never really done this before." She leans forward, and without asking, lifts the whiskey bottle to drain a shot from it directly, and grimaces fiercely. "And it will circle around again." She falls back into her seat, and her gaze sweeps to seek out Leah. "Fucking hell. Am I insane? Really? I mean, honestly, Leah, am I?"
Leah looks up from wiping some spilled sauce off the countertop. "No," she says, and annoyance rises through her weariness, piercing the alto with hedgehog prickles. "I wonder if he is, though. I'm so sorry he kissed /me,/ Sabby. That's not what I intended. Was he trying to slight you? Intentionally? Asshole." She throws the rag down and returns to the living room to slump on the chair's arm next to the other woman. "/Asshole./ What's his problem? What's his /damage/?"
"Probably," Sabby answers miserably, and slumps backward to correct, "Maybe. I don't know. Hell. I probably shouldn'tve done it. And now he'll make it all about the sex again, and it's not fucking /about/ the sex, y'know?" She turns her head, cushioned on the back of the chair, to regard Leah closely. "I mean, it is. But it's not. It's about... everything. I mean, /why/ doesn't he want... And I have to fucking /proposition/ Christopher Rossi before he even /notices/? /You/ were more upset by the flirting than he was!"
Absently brushing back bits of Sabby-hair from Sabby-brow, Leah muses, "It's about the companionship? Affection, relating, /being/ with you -- I know. He's a guy; he probably doesn't. Wants it all to fit in neat boxes, or a checklist: 'I say this, I do that, and I will have satisfied her because /I/ feel satisfied.' Fuck him." She says it as she means it, as a dismissal, not an imperative, and lets her hand fall limp in her lap. "I wasn't upset by the flirting. Rossi was. Nice ass-pat, by the way. I think I did that the other night, before I passed out. Hell. Go down and sleep with /him,/ Sabby. Travis has had his chance. Sounds like he's had plenty, and what are you getting out of it?"
Sabitha curls her hands into herself, and leans her head toward Leah like a child. "I do want to hear that story sometime," she reminds quietly. She gives a short, half-hearted shake of her head. "I can't. Hell, I owe /him/ an apology. Shouldn'tve put him in the middle of anything. Shouldn'tve..." Her words blur together a moment, as that second shot hits, and she blinks and focuses on the last question. "I dunno."
Leah allows the lean -- welcomes it, in her dragged-out state, with a companionable arm around her shoulders. "So, we played games we shouldn't have. That's wrong. I know. But he forced you into this. You're a tough cookie, hon. God knows you can do better than getting backed into a corner where you have to use /tricks/ to get him to notice you." She ponders a moment in silence. Then: "If you apologize to him, you'll just give up that much more power to him. You know that. You're like a dog chasing after a bone that's not even there -- heh. Sorry for the imagery, but seriously. He's got something you want. He's not fucking giving it to you. How much more chasing are you gonna do?"
Sabitha laughs shortly, bitterly. "No... apologize to /Christopher/," she clarifies. "Not fucking apologizing to Travis. Not fucking.. hell." She straightens abruptly, pulls away from Leah, pushes handfuls of hair out of her face. "I should go home. Hell. I completely ruined your party, Leah. And the food was so /good/."
"It must've been, if Rossi would say so." Leah blinks blearily from her perch. "Oh. Okay, apologize to /him./ I suppose I should at some point, and find out why he keeps throwing his brother -- my three-years-ago /ex/ -- between us, and why he's so touchy about being touched. He sure kissed back well enough the other night. Control freak, I bet." And she snorts, scrubs at her face, and mutters some oath. "Anyway. Not about me here; about you. Are you okay to get home? I'll call you a cab. /And/ tell you that story whenever you want. You'll like it."
Sabitha reaches up to pat Leah's leg. "I think he likes you," she shares. "And it scares him like hell." She pauses, frowns mournfully, and then finishes, "But then, what the hell do /I/ know about men?" She pushes herself up to stand, only a bit wobbly. "Yeah. I'm fine. Not /that/ drunk." A little drunk. She eyes the whiskey. "I might take another shot for the road, though. Hell, do I want to pass out and not wake up until Monday."
Leah heaves a breath. "Oh, if only. Go ahead; there's plenty more where it came from. I'm gonna have to go to AA at his rate. Fucking Rossi. Fucking Summers. Fucking /men./" She slides off the chair arm, fortunately with her feet under her, and moves for the phone in the kitchen. "A cab, then? While you get some liquid oblivion in you, girlfriend."
Sabitha nods, and scoops up the whiskey with loving care. Mm, yeah. Just one more shot for the road, please, and she'll still be coherent enough to count out the correct change. She thinks. "Yeah. Cab is good. Thanks." And soon there is a cab, and soon there is a Sabby in the cab, curled up against one door and staring blankly at the passing lights outside. And soon, there is a Sabby palming her cell phone consideringly.
And there is a Leah, standing alone in the middle of a lonely apartment with the scents of dinner and alcohol, and frustration and anger, settling out of the air around her. She puts a hand to her face. She closes her eyes. Then she tugs her blouse straight, picks up her keys, and marches out of the apartment and down and over and up to a door. That door. Rossi's. And knocks quietly.
[To be continued. Log ends.]
Fortunate (or unfortunate) Rossi is too busy ladling a final drop of soup to notice the glance between conspirators. "'City life,'" he says, wry, and belies his disbelief of Leah's cooking skills to add with sudden enthusiasm: "This doesn't suck, Canto. --Yeah. Well, it's easier in the city to have an occasional fling. Relationship material? Ain't happenin' in New York. I'm not crying."
"Amazing how quickly feelings change," Travis offers a quick grin. "Well, 'quickly' being years of preparation, of course. And yes, main course sounds wonderful."
Sabitha's gaze skitters away from Travis and moves toward Leah. "It's delicious so far," she confirms, and deftly angles a foot to kick Rossi's shin under the table. Gently. She gives him a sweet smile. "Better than some of us can do, anyway."
"You're darling, Travis," and Leah aims a fleeting kiss at his cheek as she rises to, well, /first/ refill her wineglass and then set about clearing the dishes for the next course. "And thank you, Sabby." And shut up, Rossi. "Let me get this stuff into the kitchen, and I'll be right back with pasta. It's just fettucine in a white-wine sauce. I figured that was safe enough? Some spices, nothing crazy."
A shiny, green-eyed gaze flicks up at Sabitha from soup, and Rossi crinkles his brow at the woman. "Ow," he says as a matter of course, for the pure principle of the thing. Injured, he adds: "What was that for? --She cooks better than she writes." You hear that, Canto?
Sabitha slides from the table without pausing to ask. She tells. "I'll help you with the dishes, Leah," she states, and smiles innocently down at Rossi. "And that's saying something." One hand clamps down hard on his shoulder as she stands, fingers curling into his flesh. It's unclear whether /that/ one is flirtation or warning. Could be either, with Sabby. "How nice of you to say so." Her grip eases into an absent pat and fingers that trail across the back of his neck before she disappears toward the kitchen. To help.
"Caaanto," Travis says abruptly, suddenly making the obvious connection. That he's so good at. "You're /that/ Leah Canto?" he calls to the kitchen. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, though, in turning back to the table while awaiting the response. Finger draping. Mrrrrr
Bemusement arrests Rossi's initial response, leaving him to snap his mouth shut with a quizzical furrow dug between his brows, and he follows Sabitha's departure with a cant of his head. "What the fu-- mm." Distractions aboud. Travis' question gives his attention new focus, and a fingers rake wildly through black hair to stir it into agitated tangles. Eyes narrow. "'That' Leah Canto?"
"Thanks," glowers Leah into the sink as she meticulously piles the dishes therein. "I'm going to kill him or screw him before the night is through, Sabby, I swear to /God,/ and I don't know which would be more satisfactory. Crap. Hand me the potholders? I'll take the pasta, you get the sauce."
Sabitha moves to do as directed, and her voice edges into a matching tone. "You try the latter, I'll try the former," she suggests, handing over the potholders. "I mean, bloody /hell/. I'm not imagining this, right? I really would be getting more of a reaction from a log?"
Logs are turned into tables, though, and so there is quite literally a once-log between Travis and Sabby, to be fair. "Just put two and two together," he says, "with the writing and the name." Apparantly, he's answered his own question. Die, smalltalk, die.
Give him bigtalk, and Rossi -- that man among men -- will bludgeon the smaller talk with it. "I think you need a drink," he informs Travis, stretching an arm to provide it. "And so," he decides after a second's thought, "do I. She pissed at you?"
Leah growls a little, and the potholders feel her wrath with a mighty squeeze around the pasta pot's handles. "You are not imagining it, my friend. I'm sitting right next to him, remember. I think I could crawl into his lap and lick his face, and he'd just smile at /me./ He's going out with /you./ So. And Rossi -- God, I should've seen this coming," she despairs. "I'm sorry. I'm trying not to snipe at him, but habit, y'know. What should we do? Get plastered and make out, just you and me, in front of them?"
Sabitha moves around to get the sauce, working in silence for a moment. "Hell," she replies after a moment. "I don't know." A pause, and she adds, "If you want to snipe at him, feel free. /I/ won't be offended. I'm sure as hell feeling pissy enough myself." She lifts the sauce. "Where do you want this?" she asks, before adding, "Hell, Leah, I'm sorry. I should've clamped down on the need to /do/ something and just let us have a nice dinner." She wrinkles her nose and adds, "At least if we made out, I'd be getting /some/ action. And it'd probably require fewer deep and intense heart to hearts to get there."
Leah sighs and shoulders Sabitha with absent, sympathetic affection. "/Guys./ It's okay, really. We'll get through this, even if there has to be murder and screwing and drunken lesbianism on the couch while they stare. T'hell with it; c'mon." She settles the pot firmly against her middle and moves back to the dining area, her firm cheerfulness rising into place again with each step.
"Seems like it," Travis frowns. "Women and their dates. /If/ that's what this is all about. And yeah, another drink sounds fantastic. Fill it up." Once it's poured, he holds it a moment before drinking it. He falls silent as they return, offering a quick smile.
His own glass topped off, Rossi eyes Sabitha's a moment before performing the same service for hers. Leah? Doesn't need to be drunk again while Chris is in the room. "Smells good," he admits, firmly standing the bottle between Sabitha's place and his own. "I got to give it to you, Canto. You can cook. Teach Julia. She sucks."
"Make sure you feel me up," Sabby mutters as she follows Leah out. "I didn't wear this shirt for /nothing/." And her own cheerfulness rises to meet Leah's, and she thinks to ask, as they return, "Anyone need a top-up? Ah... you've got it already?" Her eyes note, briefly, Travis's glass, refilled by Chris, and then smiles easily as he adds to her won. She'll pass that bottle right down to Leah as soon as she sits.
And Leah will sit down and accept that bottle just as soon as everyone had a serving of nice hot pasta with the spiced white sauce drizzled on top. Which effort takes her only a few moments, and then -- wine. Huzzah. "Thank you, Sabby," she says with great dignity and makes sure her glass is full. "Thank you, too, Christopher. I'm sure Julia -- that's his sister -- and I can put our heads together at some point and fix you a meal you'll never forget. Do remind me."
Sabitha passes the wine without comment, and then settles in with her pasta. "Ah, right. How many of there are you, then?" she questions with an interested glance at Rossi. "You, Gabe, Julia... you said you had a big family, right?" Pissed at Travis? Why, whatever would make one think /that/? Certainly not the way she steadfastly keeps her gaze on Christopher as she waits for an answer.
Chris tracks the passage of wine bottle from woman to woman, and levels Sabitha a look of reproach before flaring his nostrils over the food. "/What's/ in this?" he asks, taking up his fork. "--Yeah. Us Catholic Italians, you know. There's a lot of us. Paul's a cop, then there's Gabe, and me, and Mikey, who's also a cop. And Julia." The fork points its tines at Leah, mutely gesturing before he adds, mildly, "She's got a big one, too."
Leah laughs a little. "Not /as/ big. Just four: brother, brother, me, and our sister. It's just white-wine sauce, Chris, with some spices in it. If I were trying to kill you," she says nicely, "I wouldn't do it with pasta. How Godfather of me."
"There are much better ways to kill someone," Sabby agrees blandly, and smiles as she forks in a bite. "I don't imagine that poison would be very /satisfying/, at the last." She's joking. Really.
For that quip at least, Rossi has a boyish grin handy. He turns it on Leah, appreciative (one antagonist to another) and seconds, humorously, "Hammer to the head is more like it, or a knife in the chest. Maybe a baseball bat. Smells good, anyway." He is in a mood to be gracious, if only for this ephemeral moment of truce. A moment later: "Tastes good."
Leah murmurs thanks and then turns to Travis with fluttering lashes of apology. "I'm sorry, I missed you earlier -- /that/ Canto? I suppose I am, if you've read any of my work. Aren't you a dear for noticing!"
And that ends any hope of continued peace. Disgust twists Rossi's lips askew, and he hunches his spine and shoulders in a broody, territorial question mark over his plate before turning his attention to Sabitha in a courtesy only /slightly/ forced. "So what's it like to be a senator's aide? Backstabbing? Lies? Betrayal? Video tape?"
Well, Travis's got some ground to recover. "Poison only works if you can stand over them and watch as they turn blue," he quips, twisting the pasta around his fork a moment. Okay, Attempt the first. One loafered foot makes its way under the table, brushing against Sabitha's. A quick sideward smile accompanies it before he echoes Rossi's complients. "This is excellent. And yes, I've read a few of your pieces. Not too many people can state their opinions as strongly without sounding like they have a chip on their shoulder."
"If only it were anything near that glamorous," Sabitha replies with a dry smile. A quick glance toward Leah, and it deepens into a grin. "Leah probably sees more of that than I do. I'm mostly stuck with databases and numbers crunching all day." When she's not giving interviews and dining Senators. But that's only once in a blue moon. She leans forward for her glass, and then... is that a /foot/ against hers? Sabby's own foot shoots backward in startled surprise, and the first questioning glance she sends across the table goes toward Leah, not Travis, so unexpected is it. Lesbianism doesn't /work/ if no one can /see/.
Leah widens her eyes in negative response to Sabitha, what/ever/ is going on over there, and then leans to Travis. Nearly into him, in fact. Blame the wine. Mm, wine, though her gaze and her voice are crystal-clear and -sharp. "Politics sucks," she agrees, "so I'm happy just to watch from the sidelines. You really read them, Travis? Damn. You /do/ know how to win a girl's heart: compliment her cooking, her writing . . . mmm. I believe I /will/ ask Sabby, there, if I may borrow you for a while. You're so good to me," she purrs and blinks up at him.
With this sort of provocation, it is only to be expected that Rossi's face should redraw itself into stark, offended lines. Exasperation wings its way down the table at Leah, borne on a hot green gaze. The rest of him, meanwhile, bends towards Sabitha with deliberate charm: all that energy, all focused and hers. "Sounds dull. What do you do for fun? Masquerades, I get, and you listen to loud music in your apartment -- I know /that/ part. What else?"
Sabitha narrows her eyes as she attempts to read Leah's reaction, and then drags them toward Travis. You can almost /see/ her willing Leah to lick his face, just to see what he does. "If I loan you Travis, does that mean I get Christopher, then?" she questions lightly, and oh, yes, wine. She shifts sideways, slanting toward him. "Although he's what? Single? Fast and loose and into the lust? So permission may not apply." There's a sort of breathless quality by the end, a result of that energy, focused, and /oh/, not that she's thought about that bit at all, while talking with Leah. Or Abby. "Hm? Me? Well. That depends, I suppose," she answers with a slow smile. "Work keeps me busy, of course. And I've still friends at the university. I take judo, too, and I'm learning to shoot a gun properly." She lifts a hand, flexing it at Rossi before it falls to the table, ever-closer to him. "A girl's got to know how to take care of herself in a city like this, after all."
No response. Travis' face tightens slightly, and he quickly shakes off a daze, and a desire to take things to the next level. Mutationally speaking. "I'd like to think I'm well-read. Single, fast, loose and lusty" he nods toward Rossi. "Don't let that rep get out of this room, man. You'll have women beating down your door. Unless that's your thing, I suppose."
"Have him," Leah tells Sabitha flatly and stabs at a noodle. Die. "And, oh, it /is,/ Travis. He's quite the slut, and quite proud of it. A guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do, right? Poor Christopher. Just playing the hand dealt to him, and to hell with how the cards feel afterwards."
A splintered, slivered glance scythes at the other diners over the plate of pasta, uncomfortably, uneasily aware of -- something, anyway, enough to touch his look with vague suspicion. Still, Rossi is, after all (and by Leah's evidence) a male, and masculine appreciation licks at the intent attention turned on Sabitha. "Always useful to know how to protect yourself. Lots of lonely guys wandering around in the city, and not all of 'em know how to behave. --It's a big city," he tells Travis, easily. "I'll lock the door." As for Canto? Don't hear you, woman. La la la la la la.
Sabitha's expression eases toward the fascinated, and was she eating, here? She can hardly take another bite. "Quite the slut? /Really?/ How horrible." She doesn't look horrified, here. Her eyes flick, lightening fast, to Travis, and then back to Rossi. "I think so, too. And the judo keeps me in shape," she shares with a slow smile. She fingers the edge of her collar, toying, and then reaches for her wine. "You locking folks out, or in?"
There just is no way to win. Travis is doing his own fair job of twisting that pasta into painful contortions before it finds its way to his mouth. Huzzah for limberness. At least in fetticini. "Why can't it be both," he asks. "No use boxing locks into a one-use corner?"
As a reward, Sabitha receives a slow smile of her own, one that slides like black velvet across lips and hooded eyes. "Depends on who it is," Rossi tells Sabitha quietly, leaning forward on his elbows to hang his weight on one. A shoulder wings, distending the fine-drawn cloth of his jacket; the other arm hooks, rolling his own wine glass in careless spirals over the devastated salad plate. For Travis and Leah's sake, he adds in a less intimate volume: "Like a cat door, with a little lock? That could work. And maybe a peephole to see what's coming?"
Leah is eating pasta with all of her glowering, hot-eyed attention. Well, that and drinking wine because, hey, the bottle's /right/ /there./
Sabitha exhales softly, and for a brief moment she's fantastically caught up in the flirtation. Oh, she /does/ like to flirt. It gives the most lovely adrenaline rush. And what was that about assuring Travis that he'd never /see/ it? "Does it?" she replies in a low murmur, and then abruptly pulls her gaze back from Rossi. There's a line there, somewhere, dangerously close. Let's speak to Leah. Hi Leah! "Please don't tell me there's another course coming after this," she begs of their host, and flickers a slightly sheepish smile at her. "I don't think I could handle another bite. It was fabulous."
"Dessert," Leah mutters, then blinks out of her brown study into hostess mode. Which, admittedly, is not as polished as it was two glasses, one course, and a few key sentences ago. But she comes up with a smile for Sabitha. /Just/ Sabitha. "Gelato, even. And coffee to go with it. Whenever we're ready, we can move right on into the living room to enjoy it and each other's company." Yeah.
"I'm good," says Rossi with a certain fierce cheer. He rises on the phrase, stretching to grab Sabitha's plate before she can stir; it clatters atop his own empty one with an ominous crack. "Here. Hand me yours, Travis. --I'll help you get the coffee, Canto. You guys go on out to the living room and relax. Only fair I do some work to trade for the food."
Travis passes his plate across the table, eyes flickering around the table. But no, there's not enough other dishes to warrant an excuse to clear, so he simply nods at the man before taking his glass to the living room and finding a seat.
Sabitha leans back, with a glowing smile directly up at Rossi. "Oh! Thank you," she intones, and then slides herself from her seat. She stretches for a moment, arms over her head and back arching, before she reclaims her glass and directs herself toward the living room with nary a look her at Travis. She drops without a word into the nearest armchair. And drinks her wine.
Oh, joy. Leah doesn't say it, at Rossi's offer, but her expressive Italian face says plenty. She climbs to her feet and goes with him, however, carrying the last few dishes with her to join the rest in the sink. "So kind," she mutters at her old, dear friend. "God knows what I've done to deserve it. You aren't afraid I'm going to grab you again, are you, Christopher?"
"You're not that drunk," retorts Rossi, though the reminder prompts a faint stiffening of the lean frame beneath its sport coat. The plates clatter to the counter, and are followed a moment later by the silverware, gathered up in one impatient hand. Fingers wipe themselves on a napkin, viciously efficient, and toss /that/ to the pile as well before thrusting themselves into pockets: alas, style! Hot eyes scowl. "What the -- holy fuck. What're you two doing in there, Canto?"
"I'm not drunk, period," Leah informs him icily. "I can hold more than three or four glasses of wine, thanks. Jesus." She leans into the counter, ostensibly to reach for the mugs in a cabinet above her head; the move lets her slide prickly disdain at Rossi behind her arm's shield. "Sabby's having guy problems, obviously. Aren't you a detective? Or is your Y-chromosome drowning out your observational expertise?"
The cop snorts, settling his own hips against the counter's lip next to Leah, arms stitched in a tight, unforgiving knot. "A blind fruit bat could figure that," Rossi says, dragging his Brooklyn accent rough and raw through the silk of his baritone. "What is this, you trying to make him jealous? Or her jealous? You guys plan on you flirting with her boyfriend?"
Travis stares at Sabby a moment, before sliding down along the sofa closer to her chair. "I'm /sorry/, Sabby. Four months. I'd say it was a slip of the tongue, but I won't lie. Just miscounted. Didn't... mean to screw up the evening."
Sabitha slides her gaze to Travis, and there's a moment's disbelief, pure and simple, in her gaze. In fact, she has to take a minute to wrap her brain around that one. She blinks. And takes a drink of her wine. And then answers, evenly, "That didn't ruin the evening." And then she abruptly shares a smile, a flash of Socialite Sabby, and there's a hint of the gush to her tone. "/I'm/ having a /fantastic/ time."
Leah sighs and arranges the mugs on a tray. "Go get the stuff from the freezer, Rossi? The blue tub next to the ice trays." She reaches for bowls next, a stack of them, and spoons. And for patience. "Look. I'm feeling the sisterhood vibe with her, okay? Now that I've /seen/ them . . . eh. Our falling-out, between her and me, makes more sense now. I'm just trying to help however I can, and it isn't working, and it's making me think about /my/ guy problems, and I suppose I did have too much wine."
"Don't give me that," Travis comes back quickly, voice muttered to keep it low. "Of course you're having a good time. I am too. But not together. So... if that's not it, then what's up? You're obviously ticked off with me about something. Chris mentioned it a moment ago too, so it's not the wine talking."
"You got guy problems? --Don't tell me," Rossi amends hastily, slamming open the freezer door to thud into the nearby cabinet. Plastic hisses through his search, ransacked for the eventual triumph. "Typical women, trying to make a guy jealous. Stop drinking. I don't want a repeat of--" /That/. Through tumbled black hair, green shows in a flash of fresh hostility. "I think your friend's boyfriend might be retarded. Fuck. What am I gonna tell Gabe?"
Sabitha's eyes trail toward the kitchen, thoughtfully. "Did he?" she questions, and shifts. Posture is abandoned in favor of curling her legs beneath her and slouching backwards, and she mulls that one over in silence, with no further response.
Leah's hand shoots out to squeeze that fine Italian ass, and she says cheerfully, "Thanks for the support, you prick. Give me the gelato and carry in the coffee. Here, on the tray." She makes it all nice, mugs arranged around the steaming pot, and hands it to him with a hard face and a harder gaze. "I have no idea what your brother has to do with anything right now, Rossi, but I wonder why you keep bringing him up. He's out of my life; has been for three years, in that way. I don't care about him. You /know/ I don't, so why? Are you using him as a shield--" her eyes narrow, and her voice drops to ugly depth "--so you don't have to hold me while I cry anymore? Oh, poor you. Get in there with the coffee before I give our friends a good show."
"Fine, everything's just great," Travis shrugs. "Daisies and butterflies. I can play along too." He leans back on the sofa, trying to find a comfortable position.
Sabitha's gaze creeps back to Travis again, with a small frown, and then she uncurls from her seat. "Leah," she calls toward the kitchen, with no thought for what conversation she and Rossi may or may not be having. "Do you have anymore wine?" And then quieter, as she approaches the kitchen, "I feel the desperate urge to get drunk off my ass at the moment. D'you mind?"
"God/damn/it--!" The curse rips across the kitchen and into the living room, ripe with temper; the rest of the ejaculation drops back to prudent levels and tight, razor-edged hissing. "Keep your hands /off/ my ass, Canto." Anything else he might have to say is lost in the rattle of his new burden, and the furious, space-eating stride that drives him out of the small nook and into the living room proper. Right into -- /almost/ into -- disaster. Sabitha. "Shi--" Porcelain shrieks across the tray, and is rescued by a hand. Supercop.
Sabitha skids to a halt as Rossi does, a hair's breadth from collision. She stops. Looks up. Smiles. "Hi," she greets, and then neatly steps around him. And what the hell, reaches round to pat him firmly on the ass before she goes searching for Leah again. She was, apparently, /just/ close enough to hear that admondation. "Leah?"
"Right here, and I don't mind at all," Leah floats serenely to Sabitha, her dear and only friend. "There's whiskey in the pantry behind me, too. Could go well with the coffee. Knock yourself out." Then she adds viciously, "I am going to kill Detective Christopher Rossi, and there isn't a jury in the land that will convict me. Want me to off Travis first for you? Might as well. /Men./ God/dam/mit. What are we doing? Sit by me when we get back in there. Save me from committing violence."
Mugs shiver again, clanking as Chris lurches at that authoritative pat. "Goddammit," he breathes again, setting his jaw before wrestling irritation into submission. Is it any wonder that Rossi should be a little wild-eyed when he makes it to the coffee table? "Coffee," he informs Travis, voice tight and trimmed, the word bitten off with a savage click of teeth. "You know, I don't know you from Adam, but -- shit, man. If someone looked at my girlfriend the way I looked at yours, I'd rip his fucking face off. What the hell are those two brain surgeons in there playing at?"
"I was planning on it," Sabby mutters with quiet conviction, and throws back the last of her wine in a short, quick swallow. "He just.. I can't... /GAH!/" She ends her rant in a low exclamation, wordlessly, and shakes her head. "Blessing of the gods that I don't have work tomorrow, because I have not wanted to be drunk this badly in a very long time. Whiskey, you say?" She moves to dig into it, deftly plucking out the bottle. "Remind me to repay you for this. Seriously." She turns, whiskey in hand, and drags in a deep breath. "Ready?"
"If I ripped your face off," Travis says cooly, "I'd be stuck here myself with the two of them." He reaches for the coffee, sipping at it black. Nice and strong. And counter to the wine. "You touch her, though," he adds, "and you /will/ lose that hand. Just so we're clear."
Leah pinches her nose first and sighs out a long breath. "Maybe." She looks up around the pinch, drops her hand, reaches out with the other to squeeze Sabitha's free one, hard and warm. "It'll be okay," she says with quiet ferocity. "I'm glad you came. I /am./ Thank you. We'll make it through this somehow, even if it's drunk as a lord. Okay. Okay." Another breath, then she takes up the dessert tray and leads the charge back into battle.
It is an answer that crooks Rossi's lips and shifts lingering temper to approval, however razor-edged. "You could /try/ to take it," he counters, the urge towards competition promptly roused. He loops a forefinger around his own mug, leaving the tray for the tabletop, and sinks his weight into an empty sofa's corner. An ankle is dragged up to prop itself on the opposite knee, sketching a numeral for a lap; the barest trace of a smile greets the two women's arrival, tight-lipped around caution.
"I might sleep on your couch tonight," Sabby murmurs in reply, squeezing Leah's hand and then following her out to the living room. Where she promptly unscrews the whiskey and pours a generous dollop into her coffee, as much as it'll take without spilling over. "Who else wants some?" she questions, with a gaze around that ends up lingering - where else? - on Rossi.
Who says, eyeing that whisky, a succinct: "Fuck."
Sabitha smiles sweetly. "Well. That will have to wait until we're drunker."
"Let's not see that challenge through," Travis shrugs. "Because it'd be a shame to ruin the evening. And you seem a decent enough guy." He falls silent as the women return. "None for me, thanks. I'm paying the cabbie," he shakes his head toward Sabby.
Leah settles /her/ tray on the coffee table next to Rossi's, and she kneels by it to dish out the frozen treat into the little bowls. Concentrates very closely on that work; it's very important. "Very much drunker," she mutters at Rossi and Sabitha. "Who wants gelato?"
Sabitha ignores Travis's coffee (Travis?) and tops off Rossi and Leah's drinks without waiting for a more explicit answer. She leaves the whiskey, uncapped on the coffee table, and scoops up her own mug for a long swallow. Not entirely smart, from the grimace on her face, but the whiskey sure kicks in a hell of a lot faster than the wine. She drops back into her chair, safely away from either man.
After some hesitation, discomfort crawling its shell across his slouched form, Rossi extends himself to accept a bowl. "Well," he says, baritone wrung to an arid dryness. "This is . . . fun. I tell you I met Dr. Grey the other day in a pub, Canto? She's taller than she looks on TV."
Leah drops a spoon on the table. Picks it up, fast and with a frown she can't erase fast enough. "That's nice," she flatlines, and pushes out bowls for Rossi and Travis both. Takes one for herself and scoots straight back to lean against Sabitha's chair. Her arm against Sabitha's legs. And her head, wearily, against Sabitha's knee.
Sabitha has claimed a bowl before she sat, and she spends a moment twirling her spoon through the gelato before it's abandoned to her knee and one hand lifts to absently pet the top of Leah's head as it rests against her. "I know her," she offers to Rossi, although there is a distinct lack of enthusiasm. She turns a piercing gaze on Travis. "Travis does too. Don't you?"
Leah rubs her temple absently into Sabby's warm knee and pokes at her gelato. Doesn't say anything, just sits there, rests there, and listens.
"She seems nice," Rossi observes, settling his coffee into the corner of his lap with another weary scrub at his already finger-spiked hair. A bemused flicker tips off the two women and their physical intimacy, before turning to Travis and a conversational: "Broke up with her boyfriend, was kind of down. Told her a stupid perp story -- we have a pool going in the precinct. Got a laugh."
Sabitha's fingers still on Leah's head, and then trail down to settle on her shoulder. A silent, reassuring touch. Jean Grey's boyfriend. One Mr. Scott Summers? "Does she?" Sabby questions, quietly, and the way her eyes linger on Rossi - or certain parts of Rossi - is downright disturbing by this time. "Imagine that. Broke up... I wonder if she was looking for a rebound." Her gaze sweeps upward. "I imagine you'd look pretty good. As a rebound."
Leah murmurs, "He /is/ a good kisser. Helluva tongue."
There's only a stare for a few seconds before Travis sets aside his bowl and standing "I need to be headed out," he says. "Early morning." LIES!!! "It was good to meet you, Chris." He steps around the table, pausing a moment in front of the entwined Sabby/Leah, bending over to give his hostess a quick peck on the cheek. "Lovely evening, Leah. The food was fantastic. Every bit what Sabby promised. No, don't get up. I can see myself out." Straightening, he looks directly at Sabby. "I'll call you... later," he says. And with that, he crosses the room, snatching his jacket from the back of the dining chair. "Have a great evening," he concludes the entire display in not half-a-minute and is gone.
Arrested in mid-lift, Rossi's coffee mug pauses midway between lap and lips, green gaze wedged and rigid on the two women. And then, fascinated, Travis' dignified departure. In the small silence that ensues after the door's click, he returns his implacable stare to /them/. That pair. That conniving, contriving, catastrophic pair. "I think the evening's over."
"No shit, Sherlock," is Leah's tired response. She pushes herself up to put her bowl on the table and then curl back up against Sabby. And glare at Rossi, but without the evening's edge -- without much heat or heart at all, in fact. "We tried, okay? That was -- fuck. We were just trying to get things jump-started. Mock and feel superior now, Chris. It's what you're best at. Just do it somewhere else, because I don't feel like breaking down in tears again, and not because of /you./"
Sabitha stares at Travis the whole while, and there's a long, slow sense of building rage that spikes when he dips to kiss Leah on the cheek and then floods forth, uncontrollable, as the door shuts. She spasms upward, arching to torpedo her spoon at the door after him. "Fuck /you/!" Her reply is loud and emphatic, and Leah may not want to break down in tears, but Sabby hasn't got much control over it at the moment. She turns and buries her face in the back of the chair, muffling quiet sobs while her fingers curl around her gelato bowl.
"Yes," Leah decides, "get the fuck out /now,/ Rossi. I am not kidding."
The coffee mug, abandoned in theory, is finally abandoned in fact; a quiet click settles it on the table, and Rossi -- for once not argumentative -- stands to shove both hands in his pockets. "I'm going," he says, dispensing with farewells. For once he chooses grace over speed, routing his way around the furniture towards the door. Hand on the handle, hallway exposed beyond, he pauses long enough to flick a grim not-smile back at Leah. "Thanks for the food." And then he, too, is gone.
Leah, then, climbs to her feet and starts cleaning up -- just getting stuff out of the living room and into the kitchen, moving quietly and calmly, careful of her tipsy state (and her furniture, which shows the tendency to creep into her way at odd moments) and most certainly of her guest.
Sabitha remains where she is for a few minutes, forcibly pulling herself back together in slow, micro-manageable pieces. Finally, she turns her head from its cushion and muses, quietly, "And now he will call me and be angry and insist to know what game I'm playing. And he will claim that I've no right to be upset, because didn't we plan that I should bring clothes and stay over next time? And he will make excuses, about how he's very bad at this, and he's trying. And he's never really done this before." She leans forward, and without asking, lifts the whiskey bottle to drain a shot from it directly, and grimaces fiercely. "And it will circle around again." She falls back into her seat, and her gaze sweeps to seek out Leah. "Fucking hell. Am I insane? Really? I mean, honestly, Leah, am I?"
Leah looks up from wiping some spilled sauce off the countertop. "No," she says, and annoyance rises through her weariness, piercing the alto with hedgehog prickles. "I wonder if he is, though. I'm so sorry he kissed /me,/ Sabby. That's not what I intended. Was he trying to slight you? Intentionally? Asshole." She throws the rag down and returns to the living room to slump on the chair's arm next to the other woman. "/Asshole./ What's his problem? What's his /damage/?"
"Probably," Sabby answers miserably, and slumps backward to correct, "Maybe. I don't know. Hell. I probably shouldn'tve done it. And now he'll make it all about the sex again, and it's not fucking /about/ the sex, y'know?" She turns her head, cushioned on the back of the chair, to regard Leah closely. "I mean, it is. But it's not. It's about... everything. I mean, /why/ doesn't he want... And I have to fucking /proposition/ Christopher Rossi before he even /notices/? /You/ were more upset by the flirting than he was!"
Absently brushing back bits of Sabby-hair from Sabby-brow, Leah muses, "It's about the companionship? Affection, relating, /being/ with you -- I know. He's a guy; he probably doesn't. Wants it all to fit in neat boxes, or a checklist: 'I say this, I do that, and I will have satisfied her because /I/ feel satisfied.' Fuck him." She says it as she means it, as a dismissal, not an imperative, and lets her hand fall limp in her lap. "I wasn't upset by the flirting. Rossi was. Nice ass-pat, by the way. I think I did that the other night, before I passed out. Hell. Go down and sleep with /him,/ Sabby. Travis has had his chance. Sounds like he's had plenty, and what are you getting out of it?"
Sabitha curls her hands into herself, and leans her head toward Leah like a child. "I do want to hear that story sometime," she reminds quietly. She gives a short, half-hearted shake of her head. "I can't. Hell, I owe /him/ an apology. Shouldn'tve put him in the middle of anything. Shouldn'tve..." Her words blur together a moment, as that second shot hits, and she blinks and focuses on the last question. "I dunno."
Leah allows the lean -- welcomes it, in her dragged-out state, with a companionable arm around her shoulders. "So, we played games we shouldn't have. That's wrong. I know. But he forced you into this. You're a tough cookie, hon. God knows you can do better than getting backed into a corner where you have to use /tricks/ to get him to notice you." She ponders a moment in silence. Then: "If you apologize to him, you'll just give up that much more power to him. You know that. You're like a dog chasing after a bone that's not even there -- heh. Sorry for the imagery, but seriously. He's got something you want. He's not fucking giving it to you. How much more chasing are you gonna do?"
Sabitha laughs shortly, bitterly. "No... apologize to /Christopher/," she clarifies. "Not fucking apologizing to Travis. Not fucking.. hell." She straightens abruptly, pulls away from Leah, pushes handfuls of hair out of her face. "I should go home. Hell. I completely ruined your party, Leah. And the food was so /good/."
"It must've been, if Rossi would say so." Leah blinks blearily from her perch. "Oh. Okay, apologize to /him./ I suppose I should at some point, and find out why he keeps throwing his brother -- my three-years-ago /ex/ -- between us, and why he's so touchy about being touched. He sure kissed back well enough the other night. Control freak, I bet." And she snorts, scrubs at her face, and mutters some oath. "Anyway. Not about me here; about you. Are you okay to get home? I'll call you a cab. /And/ tell you that story whenever you want. You'll like it."
Sabitha reaches up to pat Leah's leg. "I think he likes you," she shares. "And it scares him like hell." She pauses, frowns mournfully, and then finishes, "But then, what the hell do /I/ know about men?" She pushes herself up to stand, only a bit wobbly. "Yeah. I'm fine. Not /that/ drunk." A little drunk. She eyes the whiskey. "I might take another shot for the road, though. Hell, do I want to pass out and not wake up until Monday."
Leah heaves a breath. "Oh, if only. Go ahead; there's plenty more where it came from. I'm gonna have to go to AA at his rate. Fucking Rossi. Fucking Summers. Fucking /men./" She slides off the chair arm, fortunately with her feet under her, and moves for the phone in the kitchen. "A cab, then? While you get some liquid oblivion in you, girlfriend."
Sabitha nods, and scoops up the whiskey with loving care. Mm, yeah. Just one more shot for the road, please, and she'll still be coherent enough to count out the correct change. She thinks. "Yeah. Cab is good. Thanks." And soon there is a cab, and soon there is a Sabby in the cab, curled up against one door and staring blankly at the passing lights outside. And soon, there is a Sabby palming her cell phone consideringly.
And there is a Leah, standing alone in the middle of a lonely apartment with the scents of dinner and alcohol, and frustration and anger, settling out of the air around her. She puts a hand to her face. She closes her eyes. Then she tugs her blouse straight, picks up her keys, and marches out of the apartment and down and over and up to a door. That door. Rossi's. And knocks quietly.
[To be continued. Log ends.]