Target Practice
OOC: Always, offline personal thoughts
I feel as if I am waking from a lengthy dream. That's been my life for near two years. Sabitha Melcross, if I did not know better, I'd say your abilities are akin to the people whose companies we frequent. Or maybe it's just the games you play.
It's good to be alive. Again.
Autumn Lights Apts #530 - Matt's Apartment(#3103RCA)
"Man, sorry about that," calls one Matt Kessler from the direction of the washer and dryer, busy applying liquid stain remover to a blouse and skirt that are definitely -not- his size. "I didn't realize that bowl was cracked, much less on the point of breaking... I bet Dan probably put it in the dishwasher too many times or something." When in doubt, after all, blame the brother. "On the upside, it looks like another ten minutes will get the stains out?"
From Matt's bedroom, Sabby's head appears around the corner with a laughing smile. "Convenient little brother, huh? You blame everything on Daniel?" Her head disappears and her voice muffles for a moment as she informs him. "Hey, I'm stealing one of your FDNY T-shirts. Ok?"
"Well, I don't have a dog," Matt calls back cheerfully. He pauses for a moment in his stain removal to consider the image of Sabby wearing one of his shirts. With a smirk, he apparently finds it good. "Sure, SoCal. Although it'll probably be a short dress on you."
"Good," Sabby returns, exiting with a flip of her hand to pull hair free from the collar. "Then I don't have to deal with trying to find pants to match." She pads barefoot to Matt and braces her hands on his shoulder, stretching up to peer over it at his work. "Did you put the rice on?"
"Yessum," Matt confirms with a smirk, turning his head to administer a quick kiss before holding skirt and blouse up for approval. "Just have to throw these in the washer and... dammit." The box of Tide appears to be somewhat lacking in detergent crystals. "I'm going to have to go downstairs and get some more laundry soap. You OK manning the place alone for a few, hon?"
Sabitha tilts her head back to grin up at him and delivers a sound pat to his shoulder. "I think I can handle it. I'll try not to burn the place down," she promises.
Matt delivers a sound pat somewhere anatomically lower, and flashes a grin as he sidesteps around her and makes his way to the door. "Back in a flash... and that shirt definitely looks better on you than me." Open and shut goes the apartment door, and down the hall goes Matt, whistling to himself.
Not 45 seconds later, comes a sharp rapping on the door.
"Everything looks better on me!" Sabby calls after him, grinning at the doorway before she disappears into the kitchen to check in on enchiladas and rice. For forty-five seconds. Brows shoot up as she backtracks, and her hand is on the door and pulling it open as she speaks. "--forget something?"
Travis allows an appropriate look of surprise to cross his face. Quickly reigned back to a neutral expression. Overperformance is bad bad bad. "Sabitha." The name hangs in the doorframe between them.
Equal surprise floods Sabitha's expression, followed by a carefully controlled unease as she stands with a hand braced against the door while the other tugs self-consciously down at the T-shirt she's wearing. FDNY. "Travis." A matching name, twirling uncomfortably with her own before she finds her voice again. "Uh... Matt... sorry, Matt will be right back. He just ran downstairs." There's half a pause for a breath, and then she continues with words that run together. "He had to get laundry detergent to wash my clothes because we spilt enchilada sauce on them and we don't want to it to stain but he'll be right back. Uh. Did you need something?"
"Enchilada sauce," Travis repeats, the corner of his mouth toying in a smirk. Then back to business. "Ah, I was hoping I could use his telephone. My line went down this morning, and I am ready to speak my mind to the new AT&T SBC congomerate."
Another tug, a sideways shift of her legs, and Sabby glances over her shoulder to Matt's telephone. She pulls her lip between her teeth in deep uncertainty, and wary uncomfortableness wafts off her in waves. Her eyes sweep back to Travis. "Well," she allows eventually. "Come in. He'll be back up in a second. You can ask him. I'm sure he won't mind."
Travis nods, slipping past her into the room. "I was hoping he would not. The lobby telephone is quite likely the worst connection in New York." Once the door is closed, he pauses, leaning against the back of the couch. "You're looking good. H-- life's treating you well?"
Sabitha glances sharply over at Travis and then pulls her shoulders back and nods firmly. "Not bad. A year out of school, living in the real world. All that jazz. You?" She moves past Travis and back toward the kitchen, asking over her shoulder as she goes, "You want something to drink? While you wait?"
"Because it was such a terribly dry and exhausting walk." The sarcasm is right up there with amusement in Travis' tone. "But no, don't put it off on my account."
Sabitha's brows shoot up, but she doesn't look back at Travis. In fact, she wastes a good minute in the kitchen, checking rice, enchiladas, pouring a glass of water from the fridge. When there's nothing more to possibly be done, she finally moves to join him, glass shoved in front of her in offering despite his words.
Meanwhile, Travis has been busy at work. A full minute can pump a helluva lot of emotions into the area surrounding him. Casual position resting against the back of the sofa, though, would indicate none of this. Nor hint at the lust in the air. "I've missed seeing you around the mansion."
Sabitha pulls the glass back in against her as she watches Travis. Her eyes flicker down and then up in a weighing once-over, and one leg shifts, hip tilting, as empathy makes its subtle adjustments. "Yeah... uh. Yeah," she confirms after a minute, lifting her gaze to meet his. "I try to keep my distance. Safer. You know."
As he idly fingers the top button of his shirt, Travis nods understandingly. "Indeed, it seems a black hole for ... well, things one doesn't speak of in genteel company. Although I never knew /you/ to live life in the safety of the expected."
Sabitha's eyes drop to that button and then whip up again, startled and guilty. Her tongue slips out to moisten suddenly-dry lips as she moves around, avoiding his gaze, to drop onto a corner of the couch. A long swallow of water, and then the glass is set aside on the coffee table. "My life doesn't tend to follow expected routes," she answers quietly. "No."
Travis swivels as Sabby takes her seat, ideally positioned in the middle of the furniture as he props an elbow on the back and settles his weight on it. "Damn convention. Why should we answer to society for anything we do?"
Sabitha tucks a bare leg under her and smooths desperately at the hem of her T-shirt (FDNY. FDNY!), coaxing it down over her thighs. "I seem to remember that you don't," she answers.
"Not when I can avoid it." Travis straightens, sliding around the couch to settle on the other end. Well, not quite the end. It's not that big of a couch. "These apartments all look the same. Strange seeing the furniture in the wrong place. Although sitting here, it almost seems like my place."
Sabitha pivots to watch him. A shift of position leaves her half an inch closer to Travis, body language reading stark interest as empathic waves penetrate and affect. Looping signals feed her own responses, and Travis's intentional lust feeds into Sabby's less intentional desire. "Does it?" she answers with heavy distraction. "I've never thought they were that similiar." She presses her lips together, wetting them, and adds, "Matt has a chameleon," inanely.
"Aye, he's got that on me, I suppose," Travis says, leaning against the couch, something near a smile playing across his lips. "Though I doubt you'll ever get Truth or Dare from him, no matter how many drinks are involved." Pause. "Good times, eh?"
Sabitha's eyes slip past Travis and toward the door. "I don't know," she answers vaguely. "He might." Her eyes snap back to Travis's glowing green. "Especially if he thought it was going to end up the way ours did."
"Oh yes, it /did/..." Travis says, smile shifting subtly to leer. "But that would be just reliving the past, whereas..." He shifts his weight, then directly meets her gaze, staring right back into her eyes.
Sabitha nearly starts at the leer. Instead, she presses both hands flat against her thighs and meets his gaze steadily. "Whereas?" she asks, voice catching as her throat suddenly finds itself dry.
Suddenly heady himself from the exertion and emotions, "Whereas..." Travis begins, cutting himself off as he leans and kisses her. "Whereas you know how incredibly sexy you look right now, right?" he asks, pulling back just enough to look her in the eyes.
Sabitha breathes a little sigh into the kiss, a trembling "/Oh/" that echoes into the air between them as he pulls back. Her eyes meet his, sparking green flares, and she raises a hand unthinking to press it against the back of his neck and pull him toward her again.
There's no resistance on Travis' part. He lets himself be pulled back in, even aiding the process by sliding closer to her, sharing the same cushion on the sofa, one arm sliding along the uphostery between her and the couch.
Oblivious to all this, Matt's still whistling as he steps out of the elevator and heads down the hall. Pheremones carried on the air currents slowly pique the already-healthy interest levels of youthful male firefighters as he gets closer to the door, and the whistling trails off into an abstracted humming, little one-use package of Tide being bounced from hand to hand. He drops it just before the door and pauses with a hand on the handle to stoop and retrieve it.
Sabitha leans back into the cushion (into his arm) as their lips meet again, clashing in an intense spiral of empathy-fed lust and desire that leaves rational thought tiptoeing along the edge of Sabby's mind, searching for a way in. Her fingers tighten at the nape of his neck, pressing tiny cresecents in the shape of fingernails.
Travis is enjoying this thoroughly. One hand caresses her hair, the free one looking for a place to settle elsewhere, all the while pouring out as intense emotions as he can muster. Screw the hangover to come.
The reprieve from realization is a breif one for Matt. Inhaling lungfuls of further pheremones as he lingers in the doorway to pick up the tide, he's well into a tantalizing series of thoughts involving Sabby -out- of his t-shirt as he steps into the hall. There's a sudden shocked curse as he reaches the end of the short hall and is greeted with an eyeful of what's going on on his couch. "Holy FUCK." he states again, a great deal louder. Normally, this would be a time for icy anger and smoulder-eyed threats. Now... Matt's over by the couch inside of two paces, one hand grabbing Travis by the shoulder to jerk him away, away, and -off- of -his- couch. "Reed, I'm givin' you two seconds to get your ass out of my apartment, or I'm gonna break a few laws."
Sabitha scrambles backwards at the first sign of Matt, obsenity echoing into the sudden space between her and Travis. Her hands flail for purchase against the couch as she repeats the word, desperate and confused. "Fuck. Oh, fuck."
"Might not be wise," Travis says, letting himself be pulled to his feet and turning to face the two of them. "These walls /are/ pretty thin after all. And besides," he adds, letting his gaze slip towards Sabitha. "I don't think I was the only one enjoying myself."
Hello, Travis' stomach, this is Matt's fist. Pleased to meet you. "You just lost the two seconds, buddy," he states, eyes narrowed and his mouth curved in an ugly line. "Sabby," he states, circling to block the exit to the hall and not taking his eyes off of Travis. "You left a sweater and a pair of sweat pants here once. They're in the bottom drawer of my dresser."
Sabitha doesn't move for said clothes. Neither does she protest when Matt's fist finds Travis' stomach, save for an audible wince. She's taken up an obscene mantra, quietly under her breath, as curses string themselves together and she looks from Matt to Travis and back with wide eyes.
The wind is entirely knocked out of him, lust stoppered as well. Travis, though, makes a quick transition from the all-too-real doubled over, letting himself drop to his knees, his watering eyes narrowing slightly. Fine, we'll play rough. He doesn't respond, just gapes a moment, sucking in air, but the emotions wafting off him begin to shift.
"Sabby," Matt states again, grasping visibly at shreds of self control to lift his eyes and look steadily at her. He nods his head towards the door again, and then turns to Travis. On his knees puts him at a good height for Matt to kick him in the kidneys. "Crawl on out of here, boy."
The sound of her name startles Sabby into motion, and she scrambles off the couch and toward Matt's bedroom without another word. Hands clench into T-shirt fabric at her side as she goes.
Travis rolls with the kick, thus saving from what could have been a more painful blow. And it leaves him lying on the floor looking up at the other. And just like that, a sudden blast of pure, unfounded terror is blasted from him, aided in part by the flight mechanism he's fighting himself.
With a sudden gasp, Matt falls back, staggering as his attention goes to shifting all around the room in search of what's threatening rather than looking where he goes. One hand finds the couch, then jerks back as if scorched. "What the hell... God... what -are- you?" he wonders, settling on Travis, the only other person in the room, as that which must be scary.
Travis pushes himself to his knees. "Just... wanted... to use... your phone..." he sputters, hopefully convincingly. "This... place is possessed. Fuckin' ghosts or something. What the hell... going on?"
Hand in hand with the fear, suspicion, distrust, paranoia and edginess creep in. Matt's hands are still pressed against the wall in an attempt to reassure himself of their solidity and presence, but the narrowing is returning to eyes widened in panic. "I was gone for ten minutes," he states, with an audible tremor in a voice pitched higher and thinner than normal. "Nobody shows up just to use a phone and gets half way to fucking..." And even in extremis, Matt still can't think of a proper term for what he and Sabby are to each other. "Fuck!" he spits, taking refuge in that most useful and versatile of words. And then the paranoia finds itself a target. "It's you. You're doing... something. You probably knew, about Mona, about Stever. Bastard. Fucking. -Bastard-." And he lunges from the wall, diving at Travis in the sort of football tackle that made his college intramural team weep for joy. Football, however, is somewhat against following tackles up with punching and kneeing and grappling and other bits of ultraviolence. "Stop it, stop it, or I'll -make- you!"
Well, that was unexpected. Thank god for coffee tables, however. After a few attempts at blocking, Travis manages an agile roll to the coffee table, which acts as shield for a moment. He reaches up, snagging the previously scorned glass of water, throwing it in the man's face, wincing as he attempts to shift emotions to something more soothing. His eyes water and one hand presses against his temple, ironically, one of the few places where no punches have landed.
Sabitha is halfway back to the livingroom, clothes grasped in clenching fists in front of her, when the lingering effects of terror hits her. Panic rises thick and bitter in the back of her throat. She has to pause with a hand braced against the wall, fingers curving desperately into its surface, until Travis shifts the emotions down, and by this time, she has no doubt left in her mind. Anger flares outward with magnificent force as she approaches. "What the /fuck/ did you mean," she shoots toward him before her glance can take in the logistics of the situation. "That the walls are /thin/?"
Matt is momentarily stunned, both by the water and by the sudden cessation of fear. Mostly the water, but the brute force rearranging of his emotions is starting to make his head spin. He shouts something incoherent but angry at Travis, and lunges again. But this time, having heard Sabitha on some level, he doesn't tackle and instead tries for a come-along hold to face him towards Sabby and hold him there. New York's Bravest, not Finest is he, but 5 inches in height, 45 pounds more of weight, and a gruelling exercise regime can help make up for a lack of finesse. The rage helps too.
The pounding in his head doesn't make it any easier and Travis finds himself standing between the two of them, eyes squinting to avoid as much light as possible.
Sabitha advances on Travis with fury in her step and outrage in her gaze. Her extra clothing is discarded on the couch as she comes to stop in front of him, far enough that she doesn't have to look /up/. Not to Travis. Her voice quiets to something that shakes with excess emotion, and her hands curl into tiny fists at her side. "You receive. Do you produce, too?"
"Answer the lady, shitstain," Matt growls, with a sharp gleam in his eyes that covers for the fact that he has no clue what's going on. This doesn't prevent him from giving Travis a good shake to rattle his head even more, after noticing that it seems to be hurting him.
Travis apparantly has decided that silence is the best solution. Which is only partly decision, partly necessity from the throbbing headache that spans his entire skull. At the shaking, there's a slight moan, though with a grimace, he stoppers that from any more charismatic demonstrations of pain.
Sabitha's hand is shaking as she draws her arm back, precise and powerful, to deliver a punch that ought to help with that headache. And possibly a bloody nose. Her hand is still shaking when she drops it to wrap her other round it, insulating and steady while she spits words at him with a dangerous tremor in her voice. "You fucking /asshole/. You fucking... fucking..." And then she's done. Balance gone, she collapses down into the corner of the couch and leans forward, arms wrapped round her stomach, to stare at her toenails. Painted slut red.
Matt has has enough. There's an approving, bitter, wry smirk for Sabitha getting her satisfaction, however. Off to the door Travis is toted, in efficient and no-nonsense fashion. Opened, he shoves the other man out of it, and warns that "We'll talk some other time, but you leave her the hell alone." before slamming it with a satisfying sound.
2nd Door on the right, and straight on til morning. Travis is inside his own apartment within moments, any semblance of satisfaction entirely erased by the state of his head. Passing in the hallways will be fun, now, won't it?
Travis' part. Remainder of log found at: http://xmm-sabby.livejournal.com/116504.html#cutid1
Autumn Lights Apts #520 - Mimi and Ismena
Slowly, moving through time like a glacier retreating from a mountain, traces of the once and former Mimi have been disappearing from Ismena's apartment. The mixture of traditional and inflatable furniture is now unmixed, with dark woods, light fabrics and simple, Classical lines in evidence. There are rugs underfoot, potted plants growing with the leafy abandon of sheer terror (Ismena takes tips in horticulture from one A. J. Crowley of Good Omens fame, it seems.) and the gentle trickle of water from a tabletop fountain. The penguin remains, however. Currently, it's offering a tray full of delicate little hors d'oevres to Travis, while Ismena reclines upon a settee. "And has my flame-loving neighbour proved any more trouble for you?"
There's a barely concealed smirk in his response as Travis shakes his head. "Haven't seen him since. Not sure what shift he's on at the moment, but we've not crossed paths in the hallways since." He takes one of the crackers from the tray, balancing it on his finger tips as he examines his neighbor. "There were too many unknowns I should have accounted for. But then, I might have decided otherwise. I have to admit, however petty it may be, that the revenge /was/ as sweet as they claim it to be."
"I am," Ismena admits with a nibble of something involving cheese and puffed pastry, "Somewhat confused as to what you were taking revenge on, although you certainly threw a notable wrench into their plans, and that's worthy of praise." Delicately, she dusts her fingertips clean of any clinging crumbs after a moment's thoughtful chewing. "I did not have to put up with yet another night of your former girlfriend serenading me with her orgasm through the walls. Which are really too thin."
"That they are," Travis agrees, eyes settling across the room at the dividing wall. He pauses to pop the snack into his mouth, crunching into it as he thinks through the response. "It takes a lot of gall to hook up with an ex's neighbor. I'd not thought her capable of such...maliciousness. She certainly didn't seem to be harboring such a grudge the times we've met--not often, but still considerable considering our connections. The only regret is that it became obvious I was the cause. I'd planned more subtlety. Although the benefit is learning my limits, so it's not entirely a loss."
"Alternately, she 'hooked up', as the vernacular goes, with Lieutenant Kessler before being aware that you share the same floor of the same building with him," Ismena theorizes. "New York is a city of eight million people, which means that an impossible, million-to-one chance is happening to eight people as we speak. In which case, all you demonstrated was that she retains the ability to inflame your passions. Your passion for revenge... if not your passion for something else. But I prefer to think of it as a game well played," she concludes, taking a glass of something alchoholic from the penguin and giving Travis a toast. "Do you plan to play with her any further, and will I get to see?"
Travis slides a tumbler from the tray, swirling it around. "I think the actual statistics for impossibility are higher than that, if I recall," he comments dryly. "And I'm surprised to hear you, of all people, speaking of such improbable coincidences." He tilts the glass back, then stares at the ice cubes a moment before responding further. "I haven't decided a course of action yet," he admits. "Emma Frost has a liking for her and might not appreciate my sides endeavors. And I enjoy the leniency she's allowed thus far too much to jeopardize it. Not to mention the fact that I'm not likely to be left alone in a room with either of them for a very long time. So in short, if there's more, it must be more subtle."
"Not only do the gods play dice with the universe," Ismena adapts Hawking to her purposes with a bare shouldered shrug, the yoke of the peasant blouse she's chosen shifted with her lounging, "They sometimes throw them where they cannot be seen. Only a fool would entirely rule out chance... but she's one of the Lady Frost's pets, is she? Hm, a challenge, that." Smoothly, she stretches, and notes with a little yawn that "I might try my hand with her some time. Sabitha, not Frost."
Travis smirks slightly at that. "We tempted fate with Frost once; I'm not eager to try it again." His head shakes slightly with the thought. "Dice. I suppose life would be much simpler if I believed it was mere chance. Simpler to choose a course of action, that is."
"Well, since one cannot predict when Chance will play a role, one may as well carry on as if it did not exist. The alternative path leads to madness." She gestures loosely with her glass, as the penguin waddles over to offer Travis an identical one, waiting patiently and with his beak cocked just so. "Would you mind, if I toyed with Sabitha? You clearly retain enough of a possessive feel to toy with her yourself, and I'd be loathe to intrude."
"Toy away," Travis replies immediately. "She's the one that discarded the civility card. Now she's just... target practice," he concludes. Perhaps a bit too forcibly. But then again, he's on one couch and Ismena on the other. He nods at the penguin, absently tugging at one sleeve.
Ismena's eyebrows twitch slightly upwards, and her expression sharpens -just- a touch at that forceful tone, but only for a moment and then the information is stored and processed, and she returns to lounging, lazing indolence. "Shall I be sure to share any more interesting games I turn up?"
"Please do," Travis smirks. "And if you're not around some evening, I might make use of your...airducts myself. But enough dwelling on exes and neighbors. You've changed the place up, I see."
"Yes, some warning would be appreciated," Ismena states with dryness infinite. "Your abilities are somewhat omnidirectional, and I was left taking a very cold shower and a very stiff drink by the time you were done with those two. Still... it was a privilege to hear you work. And yes," she confirms, with a pleased pat to her settee. "Mimi's taste in furniture, while endearing, was not to mine."
"Even were I to reveal enough to undertake training," Travis comments. "I doubt it would ever be other than omnidirectional, as you say. Although that has its uses. And yes, you look much more at home now."
"Omnidirectional makes concealment easier. If an entire group is affected, which one of the group is responsible?" Ismena questions rhetorically with a sip of her drink. "But, as you say, that has its uses."
"Well, my dear Ismena," Travis says, setting the glass aside, and sitting up straighter, entering discussion mode. "Now that we've addressed the neighbors and fates and employical relations, have you given further thought to our last conversation? I find myself ready for a challenge of more daunting nature."
"A wealthy and overly-confident fellow named Raymond Hubbard," Ismena states promptly. "I've been allowing him to teach me how to shoot, and I have been positively intrigued to know what he keeps in his bank boxes." And, with a smile far less pleasant than a smile should be, she outlines what sketchy facts she has about the man. And then outlines a few plans as to how a few things might be done.
I feel as if I am waking from a lengthy dream. That's been my life for near two years. Sabitha Melcross, if I did not know better, I'd say your abilities are akin to the people whose companies we frequent. Or maybe it's just the games you play.
It's good to be alive. Again.
Autumn Lights Apts #530 - Matt's Apartment(#3103RCA)
"Man, sorry about that," calls one Matt Kessler from the direction of the washer and dryer, busy applying liquid stain remover to a blouse and skirt that are definitely -not- his size. "I didn't realize that bowl was cracked, much less on the point of breaking... I bet Dan probably put it in the dishwasher too many times or something." When in doubt, after all, blame the brother. "On the upside, it looks like another ten minutes will get the stains out?"
From Matt's bedroom, Sabby's head appears around the corner with a laughing smile. "Convenient little brother, huh? You blame everything on Daniel?" Her head disappears and her voice muffles for a moment as she informs him. "Hey, I'm stealing one of your FDNY T-shirts. Ok?"
"Well, I don't have a dog," Matt calls back cheerfully. He pauses for a moment in his stain removal to consider the image of Sabby wearing one of his shirts. With a smirk, he apparently finds it good. "Sure, SoCal. Although it'll probably be a short dress on you."
"Good," Sabby returns, exiting with a flip of her hand to pull hair free from the collar. "Then I don't have to deal with trying to find pants to match." She pads barefoot to Matt and braces her hands on his shoulder, stretching up to peer over it at his work. "Did you put the rice on?"
"Yessum," Matt confirms with a smirk, turning his head to administer a quick kiss before holding skirt and blouse up for approval. "Just have to throw these in the washer and... dammit." The box of Tide appears to be somewhat lacking in detergent crystals. "I'm going to have to go downstairs and get some more laundry soap. You OK manning the place alone for a few, hon?"
Sabitha tilts her head back to grin up at him and delivers a sound pat to his shoulder. "I think I can handle it. I'll try not to burn the place down," she promises.
Matt delivers a sound pat somewhere anatomically lower, and flashes a grin as he sidesteps around her and makes his way to the door. "Back in a flash... and that shirt definitely looks better on you than me." Open and shut goes the apartment door, and down the hall goes Matt, whistling to himself.
Not 45 seconds later, comes a sharp rapping on the door.
"Everything looks better on me!" Sabby calls after him, grinning at the doorway before she disappears into the kitchen to check in on enchiladas and rice. For forty-five seconds. Brows shoot up as she backtracks, and her hand is on the door and pulling it open as she speaks. "--forget something?"
Travis allows an appropriate look of surprise to cross his face. Quickly reigned back to a neutral expression. Overperformance is bad bad bad. "Sabitha." The name hangs in the doorframe between them.
Equal surprise floods Sabitha's expression, followed by a carefully controlled unease as she stands with a hand braced against the door while the other tugs self-consciously down at the T-shirt she's wearing. FDNY. "Travis." A matching name, twirling uncomfortably with her own before she finds her voice again. "Uh... Matt... sorry, Matt will be right back. He just ran downstairs." There's half a pause for a breath, and then she continues with words that run together. "He had to get laundry detergent to wash my clothes because we spilt enchilada sauce on them and we don't want to it to stain but he'll be right back. Uh. Did you need something?"
"Enchilada sauce," Travis repeats, the corner of his mouth toying in a smirk. Then back to business. "Ah, I was hoping I could use his telephone. My line went down this morning, and I am ready to speak my mind to the new AT&T SBC congomerate."
Another tug, a sideways shift of her legs, and Sabby glances over her shoulder to Matt's telephone. She pulls her lip between her teeth in deep uncertainty, and wary uncomfortableness wafts off her in waves. Her eyes sweep back to Travis. "Well," she allows eventually. "Come in. He'll be back up in a second. You can ask him. I'm sure he won't mind."
Travis nods, slipping past her into the room. "I was hoping he would not. The lobby telephone is quite likely the worst connection in New York." Once the door is closed, he pauses, leaning against the back of the couch. "You're looking good. H-- life's treating you well?"
Sabitha glances sharply over at Travis and then pulls her shoulders back and nods firmly. "Not bad. A year out of school, living in the real world. All that jazz. You?" She moves past Travis and back toward the kitchen, asking over her shoulder as she goes, "You want something to drink? While you wait?"
"Because it was such a terribly dry and exhausting walk." The sarcasm is right up there with amusement in Travis' tone. "But no, don't put it off on my account."
Sabitha's brows shoot up, but she doesn't look back at Travis. In fact, she wastes a good minute in the kitchen, checking rice, enchiladas, pouring a glass of water from the fridge. When there's nothing more to possibly be done, she finally moves to join him, glass shoved in front of her in offering despite his words.
Meanwhile, Travis has been busy at work. A full minute can pump a helluva lot of emotions into the area surrounding him. Casual position resting against the back of the sofa, though, would indicate none of this. Nor hint at the lust in the air. "I've missed seeing you around the mansion."
Sabitha pulls the glass back in against her as she watches Travis. Her eyes flicker down and then up in a weighing once-over, and one leg shifts, hip tilting, as empathy makes its subtle adjustments. "Yeah... uh. Yeah," she confirms after a minute, lifting her gaze to meet his. "I try to keep my distance. Safer. You know."
As he idly fingers the top button of his shirt, Travis nods understandingly. "Indeed, it seems a black hole for ... well, things one doesn't speak of in genteel company. Although I never knew /you/ to live life in the safety of the expected."
Sabitha's eyes drop to that button and then whip up again, startled and guilty. Her tongue slips out to moisten suddenly-dry lips as she moves around, avoiding his gaze, to drop onto a corner of the couch. A long swallow of water, and then the glass is set aside on the coffee table. "My life doesn't tend to follow expected routes," she answers quietly. "No."
Travis swivels as Sabby takes her seat, ideally positioned in the middle of the furniture as he props an elbow on the back and settles his weight on it. "Damn convention. Why should we answer to society for anything we do?"
Sabitha tucks a bare leg under her and smooths desperately at the hem of her T-shirt (FDNY. FDNY!), coaxing it down over her thighs. "I seem to remember that you don't," she answers.
"Not when I can avoid it." Travis straightens, sliding around the couch to settle on the other end. Well, not quite the end. It's not that big of a couch. "These apartments all look the same. Strange seeing the furniture in the wrong place. Although sitting here, it almost seems like my place."
Sabitha pivots to watch him. A shift of position leaves her half an inch closer to Travis, body language reading stark interest as empathic waves penetrate and affect. Looping signals feed her own responses, and Travis's intentional lust feeds into Sabby's less intentional desire. "Does it?" she answers with heavy distraction. "I've never thought they were that similiar." She presses her lips together, wetting them, and adds, "Matt has a chameleon," inanely.
"Aye, he's got that on me, I suppose," Travis says, leaning against the couch, something near a smile playing across his lips. "Though I doubt you'll ever get Truth or Dare from him, no matter how many drinks are involved." Pause. "Good times, eh?"
Sabitha's eyes slip past Travis and toward the door. "I don't know," she answers vaguely. "He might." Her eyes snap back to Travis's glowing green. "Especially if he thought it was going to end up the way ours did."
"Oh yes, it /did/..." Travis says, smile shifting subtly to leer. "But that would be just reliving the past, whereas..." He shifts his weight, then directly meets her gaze, staring right back into her eyes.
Sabitha nearly starts at the leer. Instead, she presses both hands flat against her thighs and meets his gaze steadily. "Whereas?" she asks, voice catching as her throat suddenly finds itself dry.
Suddenly heady himself from the exertion and emotions, "Whereas..." Travis begins, cutting himself off as he leans and kisses her. "Whereas you know how incredibly sexy you look right now, right?" he asks, pulling back just enough to look her in the eyes.
Sabitha breathes a little sigh into the kiss, a trembling "/Oh/" that echoes into the air between them as he pulls back. Her eyes meet his, sparking green flares, and she raises a hand unthinking to press it against the back of his neck and pull him toward her again.
There's no resistance on Travis' part. He lets himself be pulled back in, even aiding the process by sliding closer to her, sharing the same cushion on the sofa, one arm sliding along the uphostery between her and the couch.
Oblivious to all this, Matt's still whistling as he steps out of the elevator and heads down the hall. Pheremones carried on the air currents slowly pique the already-healthy interest levels of youthful male firefighters as he gets closer to the door, and the whistling trails off into an abstracted humming, little one-use package of Tide being bounced from hand to hand. He drops it just before the door and pauses with a hand on the handle to stoop and retrieve it.
Sabitha leans back into the cushion (into his arm) as their lips meet again, clashing in an intense spiral of empathy-fed lust and desire that leaves rational thought tiptoeing along the edge of Sabby's mind, searching for a way in. Her fingers tighten at the nape of his neck, pressing tiny cresecents in the shape of fingernails.
Travis is enjoying this thoroughly. One hand caresses her hair, the free one looking for a place to settle elsewhere, all the while pouring out as intense emotions as he can muster. Screw the hangover to come.
The reprieve from realization is a breif one for Matt. Inhaling lungfuls of further pheremones as he lingers in the doorway to pick up the tide, he's well into a tantalizing series of thoughts involving Sabby -out- of his t-shirt as he steps into the hall. There's a sudden shocked curse as he reaches the end of the short hall and is greeted with an eyeful of what's going on on his couch. "Holy FUCK." he states again, a great deal louder. Normally, this would be a time for icy anger and smoulder-eyed threats. Now... Matt's over by the couch inside of two paces, one hand grabbing Travis by the shoulder to jerk him away, away, and -off- of -his- couch. "Reed, I'm givin' you two seconds to get your ass out of my apartment, or I'm gonna break a few laws."
Sabitha scrambles backwards at the first sign of Matt, obsenity echoing into the sudden space between her and Travis. Her hands flail for purchase against the couch as she repeats the word, desperate and confused. "Fuck. Oh, fuck."
"Might not be wise," Travis says, letting himself be pulled to his feet and turning to face the two of them. "These walls /are/ pretty thin after all. And besides," he adds, letting his gaze slip towards Sabitha. "I don't think I was the only one enjoying myself."
Hello, Travis' stomach, this is Matt's fist. Pleased to meet you. "You just lost the two seconds, buddy," he states, eyes narrowed and his mouth curved in an ugly line. "Sabby," he states, circling to block the exit to the hall and not taking his eyes off of Travis. "You left a sweater and a pair of sweat pants here once. They're in the bottom drawer of my dresser."
Sabitha doesn't move for said clothes. Neither does she protest when Matt's fist finds Travis' stomach, save for an audible wince. She's taken up an obscene mantra, quietly under her breath, as curses string themselves together and she looks from Matt to Travis and back with wide eyes.
The wind is entirely knocked out of him, lust stoppered as well. Travis, though, makes a quick transition from the all-too-real doubled over, letting himself drop to his knees, his watering eyes narrowing slightly. Fine, we'll play rough. He doesn't respond, just gapes a moment, sucking in air, but the emotions wafting off him begin to shift.
"Sabby," Matt states again, grasping visibly at shreds of self control to lift his eyes and look steadily at her. He nods his head towards the door again, and then turns to Travis. On his knees puts him at a good height for Matt to kick him in the kidneys. "Crawl on out of here, boy."
The sound of her name startles Sabby into motion, and she scrambles off the couch and toward Matt's bedroom without another word. Hands clench into T-shirt fabric at her side as she goes.
Travis rolls with the kick, thus saving from what could have been a more painful blow. And it leaves him lying on the floor looking up at the other. And just like that, a sudden blast of pure, unfounded terror is blasted from him, aided in part by the flight mechanism he's fighting himself.
With a sudden gasp, Matt falls back, staggering as his attention goes to shifting all around the room in search of what's threatening rather than looking where he goes. One hand finds the couch, then jerks back as if scorched. "What the hell... God... what -are- you?" he wonders, settling on Travis, the only other person in the room, as that which must be scary.
Travis pushes himself to his knees. "Just... wanted... to use... your phone..." he sputters, hopefully convincingly. "This... place is possessed. Fuckin' ghosts or something. What the hell... going on?"
Hand in hand with the fear, suspicion, distrust, paranoia and edginess creep in. Matt's hands are still pressed against the wall in an attempt to reassure himself of their solidity and presence, but the narrowing is returning to eyes widened in panic. "I was gone for ten minutes," he states, with an audible tremor in a voice pitched higher and thinner than normal. "Nobody shows up just to use a phone and gets half way to fucking..." And even in extremis, Matt still can't think of a proper term for what he and Sabby are to each other. "Fuck!" he spits, taking refuge in that most useful and versatile of words. And then the paranoia finds itself a target. "It's you. You're doing... something. You probably knew, about Mona, about Stever. Bastard. Fucking. -Bastard-." And he lunges from the wall, diving at Travis in the sort of football tackle that made his college intramural team weep for joy. Football, however, is somewhat against following tackles up with punching and kneeing and grappling and other bits of ultraviolence. "Stop it, stop it, or I'll -make- you!"
Well, that was unexpected. Thank god for coffee tables, however. After a few attempts at blocking, Travis manages an agile roll to the coffee table, which acts as shield for a moment. He reaches up, snagging the previously scorned glass of water, throwing it in the man's face, wincing as he attempts to shift emotions to something more soothing. His eyes water and one hand presses against his temple, ironically, one of the few places where no punches have landed.
Sabitha is halfway back to the livingroom, clothes grasped in clenching fists in front of her, when the lingering effects of terror hits her. Panic rises thick and bitter in the back of her throat. She has to pause with a hand braced against the wall, fingers curving desperately into its surface, until Travis shifts the emotions down, and by this time, she has no doubt left in her mind. Anger flares outward with magnificent force as she approaches. "What the /fuck/ did you mean," she shoots toward him before her glance can take in the logistics of the situation. "That the walls are /thin/?"
Matt is momentarily stunned, both by the water and by the sudden cessation of fear. Mostly the water, but the brute force rearranging of his emotions is starting to make his head spin. He shouts something incoherent but angry at Travis, and lunges again. But this time, having heard Sabitha on some level, he doesn't tackle and instead tries for a come-along hold to face him towards Sabby and hold him there. New York's Bravest, not Finest is he, but 5 inches in height, 45 pounds more of weight, and a gruelling exercise regime can help make up for a lack of finesse. The rage helps too.
The pounding in his head doesn't make it any easier and Travis finds himself standing between the two of them, eyes squinting to avoid as much light as possible.
Sabitha advances on Travis with fury in her step and outrage in her gaze. Her extra clothing is discarded on the couch as she comes to stop in front of him, far enough that she doesn't have to look /up/. Not to Travis. Her voice quiets to something that shakes with excess emotion, and her hands curl into tiny fists at her side. "You receive. Do you produce, too?"
"Answer the lady, shitstain," Matt growls, with a sharp gleam in his eyes that covers for the fact that he has no clue what's going on. This doesn't prevent him from giving Travis a good shake to rattle his head even more, after noticing that it seems to be hurting him.
Travis apparantly has decided that silence is the best solution. Which is only partly decision, partly necessity from the throbbing headache that spans his entire skull. At the shaking, there's a slight moan, though with a grimace, he stoppers that from any more charismatic demonstrations of pain.
Sabitha's hand is shaking as she draws her arm back, precise and powerful, to deliver a punch that ought to help with that headache. And possibly a bloody nose. Her hand is still shaking when she drops it to wrap her other round it, insulating and steady while she spits words at him with a dangerous tremor in her voice. "You fucking /asshole/. You fucking... fucking..." And then she's done. Balance gone, she collapses down into the corner of the couch and leans forward, arms wrapped round her stomach, to stare at her toenails. Painted slut red.
Matt has has enough. There's an approving, bitter, wry smirk for Sabitha getting her satisfaction, however. Off to the door Travis is toted, in efficient and no-nonsense fashion. Opened, he shoves the other man out of it, and warns that "We'll talk some other time, but you leave her the hell alone." before slamming it with a satisfying sound.
2nd Door on the right, and straight on til morning. Travis is inside his own apartment within moments, any semblance of satisfaction entirely erased by the state of his head. Passing in the hallways will be fun, now, won't it?
Travis' part. Remainder of log found at: http://xmm-sabby.livejournal.com/116504.html#cutid1
Autumn Lights Apts #520 - Mimi and Ismena
Slowly, moving through time like a glacier retreating from a mountain, traces of the once and former Mimi have been disappearing from Ismena's apartment. The mixture of traditional and inflatable furniture is now unmixed, with dark woods, light fabrics and simple, Classical lines in evidence. There are rugs underfoot, potted plants growing with the leafy abandon of sheer terror (Ismena takes tips in horticulture from one A. J. Crowley of Good Omens fame, it seems.) and the gentle trickle of water from a tabletop fountain. The penguin remains, however. Currently, it's offering a tray full of delicate little hors d'oevres to Travis, while Ismena reclines upon a settee. "And has my flame-loving neighbour proved any more trouble for you?"
There's a barely concealed smirk in his response as Travis shakes his head. "Haven't seen him since. Not sure what shift he's on at the moment, but we've not crossed paths in the hallways since." He takes one of the crackers from the tray, balancing it on his finger tips as he examines his neighbor. "There were too many unknowns I should have accounted for. But then, I might have decided otherwise. I have to admit, however petty it may be, that the revenge /was/ as sweet as they claim it to be."
"I am," Ismena admits with a nibble of something involving cheese and puffed pastry, "Somewhat confused as to what you were taking revenge on, although you certainly threw a notable wrench into their plans, and that's worthy of praise." Delicately, she dusts her fingertips clean of any clinging crumbs after a moment's thoughtful chewing. "I did not have to put up with yet another night of your former girlfriend serenading me with her orgasm through the walls. Which are really too thin."
"That they are," Travis agrees, eyes settling across the room at the dividing wall. He pauses to pop the snack into his mouth, crunching into it as he thinks through the response. "It takes a lot of gall to hook up with an ex's neighbor. I'd not thought her capable of such...maliciousness. She certainly didn't seem to be harboring such a grudge the times we've met--not often, but still considerable considering our connections. The only regret is that it became obvious I was the cause. I'd planned more subtlety. Although the benefit is learning my limits, so it's not entirely a loss."
"Alternately, she 'hooked up', as the vernacular goes, with Lieutenant Kessler before being aware that you share the same floor of the same building with him," Ismena theorizes. "New York is a city of eight million people, which means that an impossible, million-to-one chance is happening to eight people as we speak. In which case, all you demonstrated was that she retains the ability to inflame your passions. Your passion for revenge... if not your passion for something else. But I prefer to think of it as a game well played," she concludes, taking a glass of something alchoholic from the penguin and giving Travis a toast. "Do you plan to play with her any further, and will I get to see?"
Travis slides a tumbler from the tray, swirling it around. "I think the actual statistics for impossibility are higher than that, if I recall," he comments dryly. "And I'm surprised to hear you, of all people, speaking of such improbable coincidences." He tilts the glass back, then stares at the ice cubes a moment before responding further. "I haven't decided a course of action yet," he admits. "Emma Frost has a liking for her and might not appreciate my sides endeavors. And I enjoy the leniency she's allowed thus far too much to jeopardize it. Not to mention the fact that I'm not likely to be left alone in a room with either of them for a very long time. So in short, if there's more, it must be more subtle."
"Not only do the gods play dice with the universe," Ismena adapts Hawking to her purposes with a bare shouldered shrug, the yoke of the peasant blouse she's chosen shifted with her lounging, "They sometimes throw them where they cannot be seen. Only a fool would entirely rule out chance... but she's one of the Lady Frost's pets, is she? Hm, a challenge, that." Smoothly, she stretches, and notes with a little yawn that "I might try my hand with her some time. Sabitha, not Frost."
Travis smirks slightly at that. "We tempted fate with Frost once; I'm not eager to try it again." His head shakes slightly with the thought. "Dice. I suppose life would be much simpler if I believed it was mere chance. Simpler to choose a course of action, that is."
"Well, since one cannot predict when Chance will play a role, one may as well carry on as if it did not exist. The alternative path leads to madness." She gestures loosely with her glass, as the penguin waddles over to offer Travis an identical one, waiting patiently and with his beak cocked just so. "Would you mind, if I toyed with Sabitha? You clearly retain enough of a possessive feel to toy with her yourself, and I'd be loathe to intrude."
"Toy away," Travis replies immediately. "She's the one that discarded the civility card. Now she's just... target practice," he concludes. Perhaps a bit too forcibly. But then again, he's on one couch and Ismena on the other. He nods at the penguin, absently tugging at one sleeve.
Ismena's eyebrows twitch slightly upwards, and her expression sharpens -just- a touch at that forceful tone, but only for a moment and then the information is stored and processed, and she returns to lounging, lazing indolence. "Shall I be sure to share any more interesting games I turn up?"
"Please do," Travis smirks. "And if you're not around some evening, I might make use of your...airducts myself. But enough dwelling on exes and neighbors. You've changed the place up, I see."
"Yes, some warning would be appreciated," Ismena states with dryness infinite. "Your abilities are somewhat omnidirectional, and I was left taking a very cold shower and a very stiff drink by the time you were done with those two. Still... it was a privilege to hear you work. And yes," she confirms, with a pleased pat to her settee. "Mimi's taste in furniture, while endearing, was not to mine."
"Even were I to reveal enough to undertake training," Travis comments. "I doubt it would ever be other than omnidirectional, as you say. Although that has its uses. And yes, you look much more at home now."
"Omnidirectional makes concealment easier. If an entire group is affected, which one of the group is responsible?" Ismena questions rhetorically with a sip of her drink. "But, as you say, that has its uses."
"Well, my dear Ismena," Travis says, setting the glass aside, and sitting up straighter, entering discussion mode. "Now that we've addressed the neighbors and fates and employical relations, have you given further thought to our last conversation? I find myself ready for a challenge of more daunting nature."
"A wealthy and overly-confident fellow named Raymond Hubbard," Ismena states promptly. "I've been allowing him to teach me how to shoot, and I have been positively intrigued to know what he keeps in his bank boxes." And, with a smile far less pleasant than a smile should be, she outlines what sketchy facts she has about the man. And then outlines a few plans as to how a few things might be done.