Cloudy, With A Chance Of Meatballs


colette_icon.gif sable_icon.gif tamara_icon.gif tasha_icon.gif

Scene Title Cloudy, With A Chance of Meatballs
Synopsis Inviting an injured Sable over to dinner, Colette accidentially turns what could have been a quiet evening into a foodfight… and misses something very significant changing hands.
Date July 16, 2010

Gun Hill

For all that this might be the most awkward dinner arrangement ever, it's a far sight better than the alternative.

Furnished and air-conditioned, the apartment shared by Colette Nichols, Tasha Oliver and Tamara Brooks almost looks like the residence of completely normal young women, if not slightly better painted and appointed than their financial bracket would presume— whatever Tamara's financial bracket is. That doesn't mean, of course, that they don't occasionally need to scrounge for food, and most of tonight's dinner comes courtesy of the Ferrymen's canned food stores in Grand Central Station and non-perishables raided from Lynette Rowan's apartment on the first floor.

Puttanesca is a seemingly fancy meal that can be quite capably made with barely anything on hand. It was one of the first real meals that Colette learned to cook from her sister, and one of the few that she can usually make — with some substitutes — no matter where she is. Insisting on commanding the kitchen in stubborn fashion, the better part of the late afternoon was spent rounding up the proper ingredients on a shoe-string budget and deftly avoiding the anchovies that should go in it out of presumed distaste that the guest of the evening may have towards tiny, slimy, salty little pickled fish.

The remaining ingredients of this pasta scent the air in the apartment by the time Sable has arrives, the heady mix of olives, tomatoes, capers, chili peppers and garlic all boiling together in the sauce makes it smell like an Italian restaurant across the entirety of the fourth floor of Gun Hill Apartments.

The one-armed (at least for now) musician's arrival comes with shouting greeting from the kitchen at he noise of the door opening. "You're late!" is teasing lies that Colette manages to croak out from out of sight. "Go make yourself comfortable, no helping!" Colette is at least consistant in her persistance to be master and commander of all things kitchen and— as Tasha has called her at times— bossy. It's not mean if it's true!

"Lies!" is the hollered defense, as Sable sidles in through the door, her sole available hand locked around the neck of a bottle of what looks to be red wine, acquired by hook or crook of some uncertain forging. Likely not stolen - she's been good. Just fake ID usage. And Sable doesn't consider any law put forth by the Reagan administration as binding in the least. Eff the Gipper.

She takes a cursory gander about the apartment. Certainly nicer than her chaotic digs, a jumble of clothes, pattern clothed and disassembled old school girly mags. The sort of place you would drink wine at. She's also got something else tucked into her sling - from out of white wrapping sticks the dark corner of a CD jewel case. Sable sets the wine on the table and tugs the CD out, tapping it against her thigh as she moseys over to the kitchen threshold, peering in to find the cook.

"Ain't proper t' be right on time, anyhow," she says, just hypothetically - this is no admission of lateness, "Not t' dinner, anyhow. Things 'r never quite fuckin' done on time, eh?" Sable grins, leaning in the door frame, head cocked, "Thanks f'r havin' me over. I'm already gettin' jittery 'bout not bein' able t' play, 'n' a simple girl like m'self only has so many outlets, dig?"

Tasha comes out of the back bedroom at the sound of voices. She's made some attempt to look nice, without actually dressing up since it's just a night in, dinner in the apartment. In clean jean shorts that come to the knee, a clean black t-shirt, her feet in black and white striped ballet flats rather than her Chuck All-Stars, she enters the living room, leaning against the doorframe that separates the living room from the hallway.

"Hey, Sable. I'm sorry to hear you got hurt," she offers, a polite smile offered to the guest. "Can I get you something to drink?" Her eyes sweep the apartment, wondering just what Sable thinks of it — knowing that her mother's money helped pay for some (okay, most) of it makes it suddenly seem less cool in Tasha's eyes, despite her hard work in painting and decorating it to look modern and be a comfortable place to hang out.

Tamara's financial bracket may be reflected in her evening attire — that, or some contrariness has influenced the precog against any consideration of 'nice' when it comes to her appearance tonight. Her purple tee is a little past its most vibrant days, even more faded jeans fraying at the hems; and if her hair is shorter, that doesn't save it from tangles in the least. Bare feet pad quietly down the hall and into the apartment, the last arrival not deigning to announce her entrance in any more overt way: the door opening, the door closing, callused skin whispering over hardwood flooring.

Of course, the apartment isn't so big that her presence goes overlooked. Tamara looks sidelong at Tasha and smiles crookedly, pausing to reach up and nudge a bit of hair off the younger girl's forehead, then letting that hand rest a moment on her shoulder. The seeress doesn't say anything, just smiles; a moment later, she walks over to the coffee table, fingers brushing against its edge. "You like the colors?" Tamara asks, looking to Sable.

A pot clangs in the kitchen, a bowl clinks, and that knocking sound is likely a wooden spoon making contact with the countertop. Sable sees it all, a veritable drum solo of utensils as Colette stirs boiling pasta, stirs boiling sauce, and bounces from one socked foot to the other in beat to whatever rhythm is currently locked up inside of her head. Turning towards the feeling of eyes on her back, she meets Sable's gimp-armed silhouette with a quirk of one brow and lips perked up into a lopsided smile.

"Food's almost done, you're not really late," is equally as teasing as before from Colette. "Get outta' the kitchen before I break your other arm though, I've got everythin' handled, go'n sit down on the couch or something. If you need a drink Tamara probably already got it for you and it's waiting on the coffee table." That much is wryly delivered, but in truth it's not an exaggeration.

Sable's outfit only has four settings - normal, formal, goth and hippy. Formal seems too formal, at least to her. It associates incorrectly - she wears a button up to dates and to job interviews, and this isn't either (at least she didn't think it was). And this isn't a 60's revival (at least she didn't think it was) or a vampire dinner (at least she didn't think it was), so it's same-old, same-old. The heat demanded she ditch the zip-off bottoms of her pants, so her cargo pants are now cargo shorts. This is the only appreciable change to her ensemble.

"See?" Sable says, tapping the CD case against her leg four times, in quick succession, "Hon, I know 'bout timin'. I ain't never too early, nor too late. Point 'f pride, matter 'f practice."

At Tasha's address, Sable first turns her head to get a look at the girl. "Thanks, babe. And it ain't so bad. Mark 'f honor t' be wounded in th' defense 'f a lady, y'know?" Sable flips around to face Tasha and leaning against the other side of the kitchen doorframe - a conversation between thresholds, "Nothin' t' drink just yet. Wanna get some food in me first. Wine'll turn m' head." She suddenly lowers her voice into a stage whisper, tilting towards Tasha and speaking conspiratorially, "They got me on painkillers," her brows waggle, "Some good shit." She winks, and leans back, arm lifting the CD case into clear view. "I'll trouble y' t' put this in, though, if y' don't mind. Think fast!" She gives a little warning before tossing the disc to Tasha in an easy underhand.

Tamara gets a crooked smile, and a look that says 'plotting' plain as day, which actually isn't particularly smart if you're genuinely trying to plot. "And what's that t' you?" she inquires, "I dunno what it is yer fishin' for, darlin', but I ain't givin' nothin' away. I still come f'r y'. You know there's no avoidin' it."

Sable on painkillers — plus the possibility of wine, which they do have, even if they're not legal to drink it — is a confusing thought for Tasha. Would it be an improvement, mellow her out some, or would it make her all the less inhibited? Scary thought, indeed. She just smiles, and does in fact catch the CD case, her right (less dexterous) hand snapping out to catch it. She hated softball, but she was good at it.

"Sure thing," she says easily enough, pushing off the wall and moving to the stereo she had finally brought over from her mother's condo. Nothing new, but better than the paint-speckled little boom box that now resides in the bedroom. She pops open the CD chamber and settles the disc in, then pushes play. Leaning now against the shelving unit, she smiles at Tamara, happy to have a fourth to the little dinner ensemble.

One blonde brow arches at Sable's reply, and in return the girl simply shrugs, shoulders rising and falling in an unhurried motion. If she was indeed fishing, what for remains unexplained. Tamara backtracks two steps, the better to walk around the far side of the coffee table; walks over to the window as the music starts, leaning folded arms against its sill and peering towards the less-than-life-size figures moving to and fro along the street, four floors down.

Hearing the CD tray clicking and clacking is enough to get Colette stepping out of the kitchen but hovering in the doorway not too far from where Sable still lingers. "I've got some good news for you," she offers across the small divide. "Found out that someone I know from Staten Island that I thought up an' disappeared — Constantine Filatov — set up a clinic in Greenwich Village, he's got some sort've magic finger-wigglin' healing thing that he does. I've never seen it work, personally, but when Teo,"s he mentions the Sicillian as if everyone knows him, "got hurt, we took him to see Constantine."

Leaning her shoulder against the door frame, Colette's dark lashes partly hide her eyes as she looks to the stereo, then back to Sable. "Might take a few weeks to set up an appointment with him, but it's a sure shot shorter than it'd take for that broken arm've yours to heal too…" Ever trying to fix everything within reach, Colette is at least predictably consistant.

"But the Jensen Raith on my shoulder says I should let you keep that broken arm for bein' stupid and gettin' into a fight," which is more teasing than not, from Colette, even if only subtly so. She is tempted to leave Sable with a bum arm as a lesson.

The CD Tasha has put in was the work of a fellow southpaw. As the CD spins into a blur in the stereo, the sounds of booming, distant drums hammer over a slight buzzing, and the strange sound of distorted voices, forming a bizarre auditory experience, with scintillating sounds shifting from speaker to speaker.

It's beautiful, if not a little weird. It has an effect on Sable. She closes her eyes and stays silent for the whole minute and nineteen seconds it takes to pass, face almost meditative, as the track shifts and, after a moment, the question: Have you ever been to Electric Ladyland? accompanied by the sound of peerless acid rock guitar.

Sable comes to a bit when the song gets on, and tunes into Colette, who she regards with a lifted eyebrow. "Yer sayin', I take this arm as a lesson?" she says, with the wariness of one in a negotiation, getting terms clear, "I'm still in th' black, Ferrywise? It'd be seen 's proper, like, penance?" She takes the teasing serious, and seems to be considering what she takes to be a proposal. The mind of an individual who does cost/benefit equations with punishment. Someone used to surviving discipline even as whe resists it.

"If you know a healer that's that good," Tasha says, turning to look at Colette, her brows knitting together as she studies Colette's face, the two-toned eyes that she loves to gaze into, but that are also every day a reminder of what Colette's sacrifice to protect those she loved. She gives a little shake of her head, that it hasn't apparently crossed Colette's mind to ask for this Filatov to cure her, yet she wants him to heal a broken arm that will heal of its own accord.

She shrugs, not saying the rest, but moving to the sofa to sit down, feet curling beneath her. She takes the corner of the couch, sitting sideways so she is flanked by arm and back, her eyes on Colette and Sable. She gives a nod to the stereo. "'s good." She knows the song, of course.

"You still made a boneheaded mistake, bum arm or not," Colette implies with a slow shake of her head, "so that isn't gonna' change. But you aren't in trouble, everybody screws up, you're just lucky this time that you're the only one that got hurt. Eric already gave you a talkin' to so I'm not really gonna', you already know where you stand. But— as much as I think it'd be a good learning experience, you're probably a lot more help t'everyone with both your arms working."

Leaning back to eye the stove, Colette narrows her stare and then turns to settle focus back on Sable. "I can talk to Constantine, he might need a favor or two from you in return if you can't pay his fee, but it'll get you back to working. I mean— the Ferry needs you bein' able t'take care've stuff with both yer arms." There's a wrinkle of Colette's nose at that as she leans away from the door frame, then slowly starts making her way back into the kitchen.

"Now go sit down, dinner's almost done," the brunette insists over her shoulder in sharp tone of voice.

"No points f'r bein' brave? F'r sacrificin' m'self so a damsel could get t' safety? This," Sable looks to Tasha, pointing at Colette, her face mournful, nostalgic, "Is why chivalry is dead." She grins wickedly. At least, until the point comes up about paying, or owing a favor. "Oh, what's this 'bout favors? How th' fuck much is he askin'? If it's too high a price, I'll heal natural. Take this as a trail in th' desert, 'n' important f'r my development as 'n artist…?

"Aw, hell, let's not talk about this now. This is downer, buzzkill-type talk over dinner. We'll talk 'bout this later. You two," she swings her finger from Tasha to Colette, Colette to Tasha, "Look beautiful. That smells delicious. I'm gonna go snag Tamara, let's fuckin' eat. Sable, unable to clap her hands, smacks the side of her leg, and then saunters over to Tamara at the window.

"Now," Sable says, rather soft, letting the music cover her words to all but Tamara, "I know you know I was gonna crack, but don't be fuckin' smug 'bout it. I like 'em fine. Like th' violet on y' in particular. Reminds me of a good dream, dig?"

Talk of sacrifice also reminds Tasha of all Colette has done for her, getting shot, getting blind, in order to protect her and others, and it reminds Tasha that she certainly hasn't been injured in the line of dty for a "damsel," so while Sable isn't intending to make the small artist to feel inferior, she still does. "Thanks," she chuckles at the compliment, a slight shake of her head in disagreement, at least in regards to herself. Colette of course is beautiful.

She glances over her shoulder at Tamara and chuckles before rising again, heading to the kitchen to gather plates and drinks and silverware, whatever the chef will let her carry without getting her hand slapped for helping. "Smells good," she murmurs, entering the kitchen.

Tamara turns her head as Sable approaches, blinking quizzically at the broken-armed girl. She tilts her head, then looks back past Sable towards the table and kitchen. "I think there's more tomato than purple," she remarks. "It's all pretty orange." A bit of a smile tugs at the blonde's lips, and she grabs the musician's free hand. "Better sit down. Three times are too many!" Shaking mussed hair back from her face, Tamara leads Sable in the direction of the table and associated furniture, her prior interest in the goings-on (or lack thereof) below entirely abandoned.

A sauce covered wooden spoon comes right out in front of Tasha as she enters the doorway to the kitchen, tapping wetly to her nose. "Out!" Colette insists with both brows lifted and wooden spoon brandished like a scepter. It's an entirely playful level of theatrics she's putting on, though judging from the bowls stacked up on the countertop and one held in Colette's other hand, she's starting to get servings arranged.

"Take these with youwhen you go," Colette insists, motioning to a plastic container of grated cheese and a salt and pepper grinder she borrowed from Lynette's apartment. "I've got the rest, seriously, this is the one thing I can do aside from make things funny colored, let me do it." One black brow raises at that comment, and Colette tilts her head to the side to add, "please?"

"You do plenty of things well, and you know it," might come out more ambiguously and double-entendred then Tasha intended, and she grins before stepping forward to kiss Colette's cheek playfully. She takes the items that Colette gestures to.

"You know you're kinda cute when you're bossy — oh wait, that's all the time," she adds with a wink thrown over her shoulder as she heads back out to the living room. One corner has a tiny little four-person table that so far has only been used for holding mail and CDs and paint tins, but has been cleared off and set with placemats and the like. The parmesan cheese and salt and pepper are placed in the center, and Tasha glances at Sable and Tamara. "I think we're ready to sit. We're going to act like grown ups and sit at the actual table instead of on the couch," she teases.

Sable lets herself be tugged along by Tamara, acting like she's being dragged, though she puts up no real resistance. "Not in every case," she protests, "Sometimes three ain't nearly enough." She swings around using her foot to hook out a chair from under the table, and then leans over to tug out the chair next to her, tapping its back. "Set yerself down here, Tamara. I'm keepin' an eye on y'."

"'n' don't fuckin' encourage 'er!" Sable says, interjecting after Tasha, "She'll keep sayin' that kinda fool thing if y' ain't tough with 'er. Colette, hon, ain't no one in this room don't have th' highest goddamn opinion of y'. Feel fuckin' loved 'n' then grab that food 'n' let's get our eat on, dig? Faster y' do, faster we compliment th' fine fuckin' cuisine."

Tamara lets Sable dictate her place in the seating arrangement with about as much protest as was given to her — none to speak of. "That's only fair," she tells the musician, meanwhile settling the chair to her satisfaction and fidgeting a little with her hair, tweaking the blonde strands until they're all snugly packed behind her ears. For the time being, anyway. Then the girl folds her hands over the bottom edge of her placemat — and promptly unfolds them to snag the pepper grinder, turning it upside down to look through the plastic case at the round corns inside. Since she doesn't actually twist it, only a few stray flakes of black float down to speckle the mat.

It's a few moments before Colette comes out from the kitchen, carrying for bowls of pasta in two arms. As best as she can manage, one bowl on each of her forearms and one in each hand, like she's seen waitresses at the Nite Owl do hundreds of times. Precariously balancing the pasta, Colette starts to approach the couch, then hesitates and looks around confusedly. "Oh we— " have a dining table? isn't quite voiced but it shows in her expression.

Grimacing, she wobbles over towards the dining table, both brows lifted in a I have this under control expression, which she does actually seem to have under control at first. One bowl of pasta is set down in front of a chair that no one has claimed, which likely means it's Colette's. Then with a carefol motion of her arm she slides that other bowl down to her hand and puts it on the table, pushing it over to Tasha's seat with a smile.

"See? I got this," Colette admits with a fond smile as she uses her now free hand to pick up another bowl from her forearm and set it down in front of Tamara, but as Colette circles around the blonde's chair there's a jostle of her movement.

Tamara's precisely chosen chair has upturned a wrinkle in the throw rug beneath the chairs, oen that caught Colette's foot and sent her careening towards the already injured Sable. In an attempt to not re-injure the other girl's arm, Colette throws her hands out, grabbing the back of Tamara's chair thankfully anchored by the blonde's weight, though the already airborne bowl of pasta collides with Sable, spaying crimson sauce, sliced olives and a fragrant garlic perfume all up one side of her shorts and across her tanktop before the bowl comes clunking down onto the floor. Pasta is everywhere, strands sliding off of Sable's leg, some off of her shirt and— Colette— is—


And Sable is macaroni'd.

The yellow eyed girl looks down at herself, post noodle incident. She's see she's daubed in tomato. She gives a single sniff, and then lifts her mobile arm up to her eyeline, her squint directed at a lone olive, slipping down her forearm, down, down - splat. It falls into her lap. She peers down at the intruding vegetable for a moment and then returns her gaze to her arm. She leans forward and, in a very feline (and very weird) gesture she takes a lap at the back of her hand.

Mouth works, throat gulps.

"Too bad," she states, "It's fuckin' tasty."

She looks over at Tasha, "Pour me some wine, wouldja? Th' cook c'n get me a towel."

A glare is shot at Tamara, follow by a cracked smile.

"I dunno how I'm gonna take vengeance, darlin', but you do. I trust it's real poetic."

Tasha smiles her thanks up at Colette, and then everything else unfolds in slow motion, and yet too fast at the same time, unable to stop the events from taking place. Her brown eyes widen, and she makes a lunge as if to catch the bowl but it's too late. She stares at Sable, her mouth agape, before she begins to giggle. A hand comes up to her lips at first, but by the time she stands up to go gather the wine glasses and the chianti from the kitchen, she's laughing so hard no sound comes out, a little bit hyena-ish as tears come to her eyes. She pushes the bottle into Sable's hands, then sets the glasses on the table, before she collapses on the ground by the table, literally holding her sides as she throws her head back and gasps for breath.

"I thought she meant…" Tasha wheezes, gesturing at the orangeish-red walls of the living room, "the paint, and…" she gasps again, "I was going to say it's paprika, not tomato!" Only a painter would correct on the precise color of the paint.

"Oh— oh my God I— I'm— " face already turning bright red, this couldn't really get much worse. "I'm so sorry," comes in a hushed breath from Colette, mis-matched eyes darting to Tamara in her seat before she takes several stumbling steps backwards. "Y— Yeah I can— hhhold on a second." Searching around the living room, Colette hustles over towards the kitchen, striding thorugh the doorway and comes out with a dish towel that already had a few pasta stains on it. As she stands between the kitchen doorway and kitchen table, Colette spots something on the floor by the door.

"Oh— hey hold on," she notes with a few clomping footfalls over to the door, picking up a black gym bag in one hand. "Here I— you can borrow some clothes," Colette offers in apologetic tone. "I've got some pants and stuff in the closet," she notes with a motion of her nose towards the bedroom door.

"My stuff's on the right, we're pretty much the same size. You— can toss your— the— " Colette holds out the towel and gym bag, "you can put the dirty stuff in here. I— I'm so sorry." What Colette fails to remember, and what Tasha may once she finishes laughing, is that particular gym bag has something left in it.

A knife.

Tamara winces at the splatter-painting with tomato sauce that goes on behind her back, remaining seated in her chair where she won't get in anyone's way. Or seem like she might. Or otherwise cause people to trip more than they're already inclined to. Blue eyes look guileless askance at Sable; before she can respond, however, if the girl even intended such, they flick to the gym bag — and linger there. Tamara nods slightly, then scrambles out of her chair, practically climbing over the corner of the table in the process of her exit. She presses a hand on Colette's shoulder in passing — "Stay." — then removes herself to the kitchen, reasons and intent unexplained.

Sable takes the bottle from Tasha's fingers, and then watches as she descends into a furious fit of laughter. Her lips are pursed, and she looks about as dry as she ever has. The bottle joins the glasses on the table, and a sauce-stained hand lifts a ruddy finger, delaying Colette. "Jus'… jus' one sec, hon," she says to Colette and her offered bag and rag, though her eye do not leave Tasha. Her lips widen again, forming a wicked but toothless smile, and without further ado she grabs the hem of her shirt, allowing the pasta and sauce to pool, as she gets to her feet and steps right next to Tasha. And leans over. And lets go.

A cascade of dripping mess descends on the laughing girl in a gloopy precipitation.

Now her smile grows teeth.

The laughter becomes a squeal as the pasta rains down on Tasha, and she only just keeps herself from gathering more of it in her hands to fling back — after all, the furniture is new, even if the red walls would probably camouflage any food fight remnants. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Tasha says, bringing her hands up in surrender. "It was… just… funny…" she can't breathe, and wheezes more, feet sliding in tomato sauce as she tries to get up, landing on her rump with an Oof and more laughter, tears of mirth mixing with splattered tomato sauce to streak down her face.

Licking her lips, she giggles again. "It is very good." She picks up a noodle and dramatically holds it above her head, mouth opening to slurp it in. And then, Tasha dissolves into more giggles. "More towels, please!"

Momentarially frozen by Tamara's request for Colette to stay, the dark-haired teen does just that, though even through her own red-faced embarrassment, she can't shake the amusement at the dinner-come-food-fight this turned into. Despite all attempts to seem apologetic and serious, Colette's smile fails to hide her attempt at repressed laughter. Eyes closing and head shaking, she looks back to the kitchen to handle Tasha's request, only to see Tamara briefly emerge from the doorway, underhanded-tossing a pair of dish-towels lightly damp with water to Colette.

Brief surprise flashes across her face, and Colette exhales a thankful sigh before turning towards Tasha and Sable. "I— am so sorry for like…" she bubbles with laughter again, stepping over to Sable and offering out one of the damp towels, then crouches down to Tasha's side and holds one out for her too, nose wrinkling.

"Well at— least it's good, right?" Colette asks with a nervous laugh, plucking a slice of olive out of Tasha's hair.

Sable takes the dampened towel and considers it like - 'what am I really going to use this for?' Like there might be some secondary application that a creative mind could produce, given consideration. For inspiration, she looks up at Colette, the same almost sedate look on her face as when she was just pasta'd.

"Good?" Sable echoes, "Darlin', how would you know? Sorry?" A repeat of the pre-Tasha saucing smile appears on her lips, a step in the same line of progression, "Darlin', y' ain't sorry yet." Her eyes cut over to Tasha, giving her a meaningful look. "We can't very well let 'er get off th' hook, eh? Chef's gotta enjoy her own eats, same way as those she serves." And then come the teeth, "Go get 'er, gal."

Grinning at Colette, Tasha takes the towel and wipes her face, a brow rising as Colette picks an olive out of her hair. "Now I feel like a monkey or chimp or something," she says wryly, glancing at the now orange towel in her hand, then wiping her arms and legs, everywhere the red sauce landed on skin. The rest is going to have to be changed.

"No, I wouldn't do that," she says over her shoulder to Sable, a solemn head shake and wide eyes. Too innocent. Too good. Sable will surely hold that against her.

The teen holds her shirt carefully so the pasta doesn't spill onto the floor more than it already has, beginning to get to her knees to rise, holding the table for balance so her feet don't slide in the sauce on the hardwood floor. Presumably, she's going to go change, and keep Colette out of this.

But appearances are deceiving.

Without warning, Tasha suddenly throws her arms around Colette in a big bear hug, hard enough to knock Colette backward and of course, share the wealth of the puttanesca.

"Yeah Tasha's not that m— aah!" Thrown backwards by the sudden attack, Colette lands on the floor with a noisy clunk, sliding in pasta and sauce with a pemento stuck to her cheek, "Stop, stop!," she shrieks, breaking into fitful laughter at the traitorous acts. "You— stop, stop, uncle!" Of course despite her insistance that she's not getting involved, Colette is grabbing a fistful of pasta and smearing it across Tasha's cheek with a brush of one hand.

"This— " she snorts out a giggling fit of laughter, "this is the thanks I get, for cooking for you two!" Bright red in the face and flailing helplessly beneath Tasha, Colette squirms and struggles to try and get out of the brunette's grasp, tomato sauce staining all over her clothing, smearing it against the hardwood floor.

Tamara was wise to vacate to the kitchen.

Will she? Won't she? She won't?! SHE WILL!

Any disappointment Tasha's ostensible good behavior is countered twofold by her deft duplicity. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Sable's grin is broad and approving (just the sort of approval Tasha wants, surely) and even shoots Tasha a single thumbs-up. Right on. Rock and roll.

Sable decides now is the time to start toweling herself off, watching the other girls wrestle with an interest that just barely peeks over the line into the genuinely voyeuristic. She's chiefly interested in the spread of mischief. Fringe benefits won't be ignored though. As it happens, having one arm means it's sort of hard to clean the only arm she has to clean things with. She quite literally lacks one hand to wash the other. She does as best she can before draping the towel over her forearm, looking like a post-slapstick sketch maĆ®tre d'. She'd ask for help but hey…

Who can say no to dinner and a show?

"Bitch!" Tasha swears when that handful of noodles is smooshed into her face but it's said love. Really! So much so that Tasha bumps heads with Colette, gives her a kiss, and rolls off to finally stand. "Oh, my god, we look like we killed something," Tasha says, eyes wide as she looks at Sable, herself, Colette, and the floor — which the dogs have found to be quite tasty, both lapping at the tomato sauce.

"Okay, so it may not be the best dinner I ever ate in my whole entire life — no offense, I had to do fancy shit with my parents as a kid, you know, and the Alongquin is phenomenal — but it's certainly memorable."

Wheezing with tired breaths, Colette looks up to Tasha with lips curled into an amused smile, face as blushingly red as the pasta covering her and hair chunked with bits of crushed tomato, pepper and olive. "I— guess— this was one way to do dinner," Colette notes with a crooked smile and a slow shake of her head, one sauce-staiend hand spreading flat as she pushes herself up to her feet, offering a fleeting glance towards the kitchen when she hears bowls clinking and a pan clunking. Tamara, always taking care of things. It earns a smile, then a sigh, and Colette turns to offer a look back to Sable while plucking at her own spaghetti-stained shirt.

"Alright," Colette exhales breathlessly, "okay," trying to calm down from her fitful laughter. "Try not to drip on the rug in the bedroom, my clothes're on the right side of the closet, you can— borrow the shower too if you want." There's a not to the bubblegum-pink painted bathroom from Colette, "tuck your gross clothes in the gym bag and— Tasha is going to help me clean up," is pointedly delivered with a smile.

"'course she is," Sable says, squinting at Colette with one eye, "I'm a guest, I know my rights. I ain't liftin' a single finger t' see this place clean," she flashes a grin, "It's my job t' trash th' place 'n'" she gestures to the mess that Colette began and Sable gleefully spread, "I've done my bit." She snorts, "Thinkin' I'd offer t' help…" She looks to Tasha, rolling her eyes at Colette's sheer impertinence, like - 'get a load of this one, huh?'

She lifts the duffle and swings it over her bad shoulder, if only because it's not her shoulder that's actually busted, and because that's her unsauced side. She hums along with the Hendrix playing from the stereo, and saunters into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Shortly after can be heard the sound of running water, and short cry of alarm (either too hot or too cold) and then, after a brief pause, the sound of shower-singing, more or less in time with the singing on the stereo. Musician's brain, keeping time.

If she wasn't too giddy from laughing, Tasha might remember what was in the duffle bag, but as it is, she's still laughing and her mind is far, far away from the night she and Colette discussed taking that knife and throwing it in the river. "Go get cleaned up," she tells Sable as she heads to the kitchen to get the Swiffer, eyes Tamara suspiciously. "Tomato-y, huh," she says wryly, as she heads back to the living room to mop up the mess. "I think we have enough to spread out. And we can just fill up on bread and then have ice cream if not," Tasha says to Colette, smiling. "It really is good, and I haven't laughed that hard in a long time."

Looking down to the mess on the floor, then over to the sound of water coming from the shower, Colette offers the thinnest crack of a smile and the slow shake of her head. It's strange, how something as simple and straightforward as a dinner turned into both a colossal mess, and at the same time something better — at least for the four people in this apartment. The dangerous truth of that destined knife's movement out of Colette's care and into more wayward hands is lost in the serenity of the moment.

Messy serenity, but serenity none the less.

"I haven't either," Colette admits belatedly, looking up to Tasha with a thoughtful smile. "Laughed, I mean, like— that." Snorting out a laugh, Colette looks back to the bathroom door and slowly shakes her head, thinking back to the arguments she and Sable have had in the last few weeks. All it takes is one good night to start turning things around.

On her way into the kitchen, Colette carries the spilled bowl she'd nearly broken on the floor with her, spaghetti strands in her hair and sauce stains on her cheek. Standing up alongside Tamara, the sets the bowl down in the sink and looks over to the fresh bowl of pasta Tamara's prepared to replace the one Colette practically threw at Sable.

"This was a good idea," Colette concedes in a hushed tone of voice, "thanks."

After all, spaghetti was Tamara's idea.

Maybe that's why she's smirking.

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