Log:Spaghetti Knight

Spaghetti Knight
I'm curious to know.
Participants Cornelius, Darby, and Ziv	22 October, 2017 Three Winters eat pasta and drink wine.
Location The roof of Darby's apartment building
The message was clear, but so many things about it were not clear. Both Darby and Ziv each got their own invitation--written in crayon in thick, blocky letters--at different places Darby's was found on her refrigerator. It is a pink post-it with purple crayon that says: NO SPUGETTY ROOF 11:11 Ziv's note was found at the very first place she found a note from Cornelius. It is written on a 3x5" flash card (a physics formula on the back side in someone else's handwritten pencil). It reads: DARBEE'S ROOF 11:11 DON'T BE LATE OR EARLY ETHER 1 IS RUDE On Darby's roof--which is accessible due to the lock to it being picked at some point--there is a picnic table. It is far too clean to be native to the roof. On it is a lovely tablecloth that belongs in a restaurant. In fact, Darby might recognize it from an italian place she once visited. There are candles lit on it. Thirteen in total. Cornelius, however, is nowhere to be seen. The night is clear and cool, and the only sound is that of some people in the parking lot laughing as a man tells a story involving a mall cop and himself. Darby pushes through the broken door (at approximately 11:08) that squeals on its hinges as if something hinge-y is about to literally break off the door frame. She has a shawl hanging between the crooks of her elbows. A black off-the-shoulder top, and a pair of black pedal-pusher pants with scuffed red flats. She regards the lay out as the door screams shut behind her and clangs against the frame, her lips quirking upward at the corners before she scans the remainder of the roof in no particular rush to check for who might or might not be there. It looks as if she suspects she is alone. At least for the time being. That said she moves toward the table, touches at a candle to see if any wax has melted yet. After that she simply walks to the edge of the roof and gazes down the six or so stories to the streets below, her thoughts her own. It's nearing about the time when others are supposed to be there, and the table is all laid out, when a pair of black wings flits through the area. It circles once, and then dives down towards the table, landing on the bench. To those in the know, it seems to be a silver-haired bat - a summering species that is likely all but gone this late in the year. The tiny mammal just kind of crouches, and then begins to preen a wing. Without turning from the view, Darby speaks, "I don't think you use crayon to write, Ziv." Or spell quite like that. "But it is lovely to see you." It is at 11:12 that Cornelius seems to materialize out of the shadows on the darker side of the roof's door. He is wearing a smoking jacket over his robe and jeans, which gives him a look that is more mischievous than dignified. His typical slouch is also gone. Instead he has his powerful chest puffed out and his posture quite erect. Perhaps that is because he is balancing a tray in his right hand. Instead of the dome one might expect covering it, it is covered by a black, domed barbeque lid. Whistling a tune off-key (his attempt at "That's Amore") he moves straight to the table without giving so much as a nod and sets the tray in the middle of it. "There." He straightens and looks at Darby; one eyebrow lifted. "Where's my other date?" Lips pursed, he pulls back at his sleeve to look at an empty wrist instead of a watch. Darby's back is turned to the pomp and circumstance of Cornelius' arrival, sadly. But when she hears the whistling, she turns her head to look over her shoulder, first at the perched Ziv, then past her to the wildly attired and showy Knight. Her brows arch a bit and she purses her lips, either in dismay at the showiness, or to quell amusement. "-This-" Darby states flatly in her idiosyncratic but not unpleasant rasp of a quiet voice. "... is -not- a date." She turns her body to regard Cornelius and Ziv. "Or perhaps the two of you are an item and I missed the fanfare. Congratulations." Dryly. Bats can't really roll their eyes; or at least in most species it can't properly be seen with them doing so. Shadows twist and turn as the Wyrd Ziv had envoked unravels, leaving her sitting neatly on the bench at the table, one leg folded over the other. She's dressed reasonably nicely at least - in a black lace dress, with her usual myriad of bangles, a number of subtly-colored necklaces, and no shoes. When you have claws instead of feet, that's a general 'no shoes' policy. "Not so," Ziv says, a bit drily, with a small shake of her head. Back to Darby, she comments, "I would've thought it'd be the two of you." Her eyes slide over to Cornelius, afterwards, and then the tray he's carrying with a slightly perked brow. "Look, if I buy you dinner-" Cornelius cuts off the condescending tone he was speaking in as he looks over at Ziv; feigning surprise at her appearance. "See?" This is directed at Darby. "She's wearing a dress. Totally a date." He glances down at Darby's feet and then sighs. "Even if you are in flats." Looking over at Ziv, he smiles. "And what, pray tell, would make you think that I am with her?" The smile turns into an off center mouth and crooked eyebrows as he acts at incredulousness. "I mean, don't get me wrong. She's pretty, but...." He finishes the statement with a skeptical look and then attempts to change the subject by lifting the barbeque lid from the tray. A mountain of spaghetti flush with meatballs and somehow still piping hot as if just taken from the oven. Parmesian, meat, sauce, and--stealing the show--noodles to die for are there waiting for the three of them; easily enough to feed twice their number. "Ta-la-dee-la-dee-da, ladies." A flourish of his left hand has him holding two forks out for the taking. Perhaps it is the draw of the unraveling Wyrd that leaves the lovely figure of Ziv in her black lace dress, or perhaps it is the steaming platter of fresh pasta that stirs Darby to approach. "Admit it," to Cornelius. "You prefer to loom." But she's all about the food, her oh-so-dark brown eyes ravishing the 'macaroni and gravy' with the treasured meatballs, a flare of her nostrils only seen by those watching for it. So much for never having an appetite. "You are forgiven for eating my breakfast," Darby adds with a glance to Cornelius that takes in the glory of the vintage smoking jacket. "And you are definitely date material." For /someone/ is implied. "In that wardrobe." To Ziv. "You look quite stunning, darling. How is your foot?" She reaches for one of the offered forks. Only two? Then sets one knee onto bench or seat to complete the reunited triad and presses a palm to the beautifully clad tabletop to dig her fork into the pile and begin to twirl it. "Athena and Odysseus, that smells -sublime-." Not taking a seat even. Perhaps she is hungrier than she lets on. "He's all 'but's," she asides to Ziv as she finishes winding a bite of pasta on the fork, then pauses with a concerned expression. "No wine?" A pointed almost accusatory look at Cornelius. "I often wear dresses," Ziv counters easily enough, with a lift of her chin and a sweep of her ears forward. Her wings are splayed out on the edge of the table, and she doesn't immediately reach for a fork or any such thing. Perhaps she's going to Lady and the Tramp it? Probably not in that dress. Her ears twitch to and fro as she listens to the banter going back and forth between Darby and Cornelius, not seeming to have much to offer up - though something Darby says certainly catches some of her attention. "Athena and Odysseus? That's an... interesting swear," she says, with a small blink, finally reaching for a fork. "And thank you. My foot is good; someone gave me some blushberries and I got a few more recently. I'm... glad for them. Last night could've turned out much differently." A fleeting grimace flickers over her face, and then she looks over at Cornelius. "I might've found you a date," she notes, deadpan. Cornelius gives a sideways nod of his head at being accused of preferring to loom. It is the kind of body language that says, 'True enough.' He places his right hand, and the lid in it, over his chest and gives a bow. "Oh really?" Cornelius hurls the lid away from them like a frisbee; sending it flying away from them at a speed an Olympic thrower would be proud of. His eyes are on Ziv as he asks, "And whom-" There is a crash as the lid hits a windshield somewhere down the street, but he continues to speak as if he somehow did not hear it. "-would you like me to meet, Batgirl?" He moves around to the other side of the table and sits down on the bench, which leaves the two of them the bench closer to the door. He pulls a pair of chopsticks and a spoon from his pockets and begins to wind himself up some spaghetti without looking at it; using the chopsticks to swirl and the spoon as a base to catch it all. It is the asian method of eating long noodles. "Is she lovely? I'm shallower than a kiddy pool that's been half-drained." Only after Darby has a full fork of pasta with the perfect size bite for someone who is hungry but not wanting their cheeks to bulge with the amount she shoves into her mouth does Darby settle somewhat slowly, or carefully, depending on how one translates her slow-motion, to the seat beside Ziv, her table manners otherwise impeccable as she chews the first bite of the pasta with a somewhat atypical moan of delight sounding quietly in her throat. She closes her eyes and smiles as if her newest lover is pasta with cheese, sauce and meatballs. She swallows -- is that tmi? -- and then dabs at the corners of her mouth with a napkin before looking to Ziv. "You are more connected than I," she notes with some measure of intrigue. "I'm glad you're healed or well on your way. I hope your companion-beast is also well." A pause, her fork returns to the communal pile after she watches the chopsticks method with some interest for a moment. "I have an appointment to swear to the Community-At-Large day after next." As if commenting on the weather. Immmediately after, to Ziv, "Not a fan of the Odyssey?" Ziv's offer to find Cornelius a companion may intrigue Darby as well. "Do tell us who you would match him with. I'm curious to know." Finally the next bite, this time with a large bit of meatball mixed in. How shallow is Cornelius? "I hope you insure against spinal injuries." "Oh, she's lovely... she's big, and has one big tooth sticking out like this," says Ziv, drawing her lips back and allowing one sharp, little canine tooth to jut upwards past her lip. "And she's got hair everywhere, wears rags, and has one dead arm that's shedding skin..." this last part comes with a little bat of the batling's deep brown eyes. "When you were saying you were looking for a date, Cornelius, I immediately thought of her. She seems just your type." Okay, probably that was a bit mean, but she's grinning as she takes the fork and starts trying to poke at the spaghetti. Wings, apparently, aren't good for spinning, and the noodles slide back down off of the utensil. "...I've never read the Odyssey," admits Ziv, with a sideways glance to Darby. She sinks down lower to the table, contemplating how exactly she's likely going to eat the spaghetti presented before her. "And Neville's doing good. I have him settled in with some of the other bats, might bring him around a little more soon... I think you'll like the Queen. She's an interesting lady." The expression that cats make after they sniff another cat's butthole? That is about what Cornelius's face looks like in response to Ziv's description. He clears his throat softly, sets down his loaded spoon and chopsticks, and reaches under the table to pull out a box--yes, a box--of wine. Reaching down once more, he pulls up three big, red Dixie cups. "You think I would forget wine? Me?" He shakes his head and fills--yes, fills--each cup up. He affects an accent as he fils them and distributes. "Tonight vee vill be drinking a cabernet sauvignon zat is taken from ze valley of central California. As you can see from ze beautiful 'orse on ze label, it is some very fancy and classy sheet, ladies." He lifts his cup up over the center of the table and toasts. "To finding the right one. Assuming we ever do." There is a touch of a smirk on his lips at that. Darby sets down her fork as the wine is produced after listening with interest to what Ziv has to say. "Tell me about her. You oathed. Did she instill that good faith, or did you give your pledge for some other reason?" She'll ask about Neville at her next opportunity if the glittering interested reflected by the candlelight in her eyes is any indication. Then she takes the proffered red solo-type cup of wine as the bastardized French description is offered. "Merci." Her French is far too cultured not to have been studied at some point, even the single word of it. She, too, lifts her cup. "Assuming there could be 'one'." Or a 'right' one at that. But she does incline her head in a way that harkens to old parties where toasts were a form of cultured code-speak. She lifts the cup in toast, miming 'clinking' hers to the other two as if they were crystal rather than plastic before taking a slow sip while regarding the pair she is sitting with over the top edge. That's a lot of wine, Ernest and Julio. "To finding the right one," Ziv doesn't sound as if she has much conviction in this, but follows Cornelius's example of a toast anyhow, lofting the red Dixie cup high. She hasn't sniffed the wine yet, but doesn't really look dubious about it, either. Ah, the innocence of youth that hasn't ever drank boxed wine. Which she's not doing immediately after the toast, either. "She's also the leader of the Custodians, which I joined, and I'm fond of her - but it might be for different reasons than you might be interested in," explains Ziv, without ultimately explaining anything at all. She's still looking at the spaghetti hungrily, and dubiously, since it appears she's not quite sure what to do with the fork. Eventually she just sweeps her wings out, scooping some of it up and into her mouth. It's a thoroughly inelegant approach that doesn't speak well for her table manners, which have been left behind as she chows down before the spaghetti manages to seep into her wings too much. "When I was first told about the local groups, I thought someone was recruiting serfs." Cornelius sips his wine, looks please at its flavor, and then sets it aside so that he can eat. Before the first bite he adds, "Custodians and Harvestmen? Janitors and farmers. That's kinda where my brain went. It wasn't until the third or forth time someone at the Wayhole tried to explain it that I actually tuned in long enough to listen and went oooooh-" He continues to hold the word for about four seconds before it finishes. "-oh." The giant bite is all shoved into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. It is wonderfully delicious, but he comments. "Olives. Should have asked for fistfuls of olives. So! Who wants to play a game?" That question is a lead for the reason for this gathering. One he asks so very casually that the devil might be proud. "Which reasons are yours?" Darby asks Ziv after she swallows a sip, then immediately takes another one before setting down her cup. She is reaching for her fork, a helpful intent in mind when Ziv gives in and scoops at the pile of pasta. Some might expect Darby to act offended or repulsed by this, but it doesn't faze in her in the least. In fact, she offers a hint of what could be described as an agreeable smile to Ziv as she eats thusly, noting as an aside to Cornelius, "Garlic bread might have been helpful." Darby can be such a bitch. Or was that said in another manner entirely. Perhaps she's simply inscrutible. Or she's the world's most dryly ascerbic runnerswift. "To explain which?" Darby digs her fork back in and tangles her fork with the pasta, disturbing the perfection of Cornelius' chopstick-twirling inexorably. "A game ... and so ends the generous repayment of a debt of Italian food and comes the true motive for this gathering. I'm certain you're about to tell us the rules, Rex." The pasta from her wing-bowl is finished, and Ziv takes some time to lick the sauce off of her wings, trying to at least make herself presentable again. Which doesn't really work without napkins - are there napkins? Either way, she's a bat-girl in a pretty dress, currently licking spaghetti sauce off her wings, and then her lips. "Garlic bread does sound good," she agrees, readily, as her gaze snaps back up to Darby and away from where she's trying to clean up after herself. "And I, erm, well I like her partially because of her hedgebeast..." A rosy hue is slipping into Ziv's ears, the blush not so obvious underneath of her fur. "...Where I came from, there are a lot like me. And I mean a lot. But here there aren't any, and she keeps a little bat hedgebeast that she goes flying with... so..." A shrug there, sending ripples through her wingsails. Then, she's dubiously regarding Cornelius with an obvious sense of doubt. Eyes narrowing, she asks him, "What kind of game?" "Give them an inch and they want eight more," Cornelius sighs to himself." His chopsticks and spoon are cleared of food once more, then stood up on the table so that none of the sauce gets on the tablecloth. He hoists his wine, washes his food down, and looks across the table. One hand is on his plastic 'goblet', and the other reaches beneath the table to pull out a celtic cross. It is about as big around as a fist, and it looks as if it has been cobbled together with pieces of broken stained glass from a church, bird seed, and tiny pieces of crushed agate. It is held out above the food on Cornelius's broad palm. "The game is called Conch. We will use this cross as the conch. When you hold it, you can ask one personal question--the more invasive the better--to someone at the table. After he or she answers, you hand them the conch. This continues until someone refuses to answer. When that happens, that person is out. Since I have suggested the game, I won't go first. That'd just be rude." He grins mischievously and drinks. Darby regards the cross after lifting the forkful of pasta to her mouth and enjoying its contents with avarice-contained manners. Another dab of the napkin she supposedly has to her lips before returning it to her lap and she reaches for the cross with one hand, her cup-o-wine with the other. A drink, then she speaks up, "Ziv." Either it's the reflection of the candlelight or her eyes are actually sparkling. "What is a secret pleasure you don't share with others that I might use to delight you?" Darby asks a startlingly direct and delving question. Well, Ziv had been in the process of shoveling more spaghetti into her mouth greedily, and looks up towards Darby with her mouth presently full and smudged with spaghetti sauce. "Wuh?" she wonders, around the mouthful of food, before hastily finishing her mastication and swallowing it, leaving the remains untouched in her wings. After Darby's question, she stares blankly for at least ten seconds. "Uuuuuh." Though Cornelius is watching with interest as Darby takes the cross in the game of Conch (his own invention), that interest increases no small amount when he hears the question she asks. He drinks wine as he looks from Darby to Ziv and back... and back to Ziv once more. Running out of his oh-so limited patience, he gestures for Ziv to speak. "Well? I mean, you can use prose if you want. 'Do you like polishing canoes?' I mean, or tell her that she's not your type. I mean, she probably gets that a lot." Darby sets down her fork and rests her elbow improperly atop the clothed tabletop, her chin atop the back of her knuckles as she awaits a response or denial, the fingers of her other hand tracing idly over the shards, seeds, and glass of the cross as she continues to hold it. Wings full of Cornelius's spaghetti, they're not presently suitable for hiding behind. Ziv boggles at the thought of the question, eyes wide, before eventually offering up a subdued answer of, "I don't know. For me it's right now really... um... trying a lot of new things. I don't... have a list of anything that 'delights' me or anything like that." Her ears flick backwards, and she shrugs with a nervous laugh. The two at the table might get the impression there's -something- there that she's holding back and refusing to answer with; bu the primary response does sound sincere enough. Darby's brows lift at the vague answer, her gaze steady on Ziv's expression, her demeanor, her body language and tone. But she looks prepared to let it be. Her gaze drops to the cross in her hand and she seems to get lost in her own thoughts for a few long moments. Without buying what Ziv says for a second, Cornelius leans in a little at the table and peers at her over his plastic cup o' wine. "Maybe Sweetmeats here is a little more up Batgirl's alley than I thought. Or rather," his eyebrows lift and fall once, "maybe she wants her to be up her alley." He looks pleased with his own play on words as he takes a drink, but then drops the teasing. "Alright, Darbs. Hand the cross over to Zivvy-poo. Her turn to ask someone a question." He sets down the glass and returns to shoveling food for the time being. Darby offers the cross to Ziv then looks to Cornelius. "I will refuse to answer your questions if you call me Darbs or Toots, Rex." Still, the glimmer about her, the cloak of the isolation of the rooftop, the darkness and candlelight, the Winter companionship all cloak Darby in a pleasant demeanor far more than the shawl still linked between the crooks of her elbows. She reaches for her wine and swirls the large amount still remaining in the white inside of the red cup. "You're too alley-jealous, Rex. Perhaps it's been too long since you successfully seduced a paramour." Ziv accepts the cross - though it takes some twisting to do so. And she ends up getting it covered in spaghetti sauce, since that's what her wings have all over them. "Cornelius," she says after a long moment, letting the question of where her proclivities lie hang unanswered. "What's the story of the last time you had an embarassing failure?" Oh, bravo to Ziv. Darby's brows raise and she lifts her gaze to the bat-girl Lost with something of an impressed expression before turning the query on Cornelius and watching him avidly while maintaining the perch of her chin atop her knuckles, her bare shoulders opalescent in the darkness. There is a visible wince as the cross gets spaghetti sauce on it, but Cornelius recovers quickly enough to react to Ziv's question with a disappointed frown. "You get asked a question about what makes you want to grind on a washing machine during a spin cycle, and I get a question about a time the poop hit the fan and I was standing there with my mouth open? Really?" He stacks his utensils once more and then blows air out of his mouth in a way that makes his bangs shift. "Fine." The wine cup is lifted and drained. He looks at the box as he holds down the button to refill the plasticware. "I'm not sure if it was the last time I experienced an 'embarrassing failure' or not--mind ain't what it used to be--but I'll tell you a story." Another sigh; this one more audible. "Have you ever wanted to believe someone even when every bit of you called bullshit? That's how I was. Wanting to believe. Wanting to trust a woman because I had feelings for her. Hell; who am I kidding? I was head over heels for her." The cup full, he lifts it to his lips and gives it a sniff. "But I knew she was damaged. And I was damaged. We had enough baggage between the two of us to fill more than a storage unit, that's for sure." He takes a bigger drink than his previous sips, but not as much as when he quaffed it back. "Even though I knew she was twisted, I made myself ignore it. I tried to fix her, but... you can't fix something when you're broken. It just doesn't work. So when she snapped, I guess a part of me snapped a little bit, too. I knew all along that it was going to happen, but when it did? Well... I was equal parts anguish and anger, but I can't say I was surprised. Nothing quite as embarrassing as staring into the sun and convincing yourself you won't go blind right up until the point that you cease to see." He sucks in a too-deep breath and drops it as a sigh. "Fuck." His eyes continue to look down into his wine. Silence holds right after Cornelius speaks his piece - at least from Ziv. She flicks an ear thoughtfully, regarding his face, and then reaches over to put the cross down next to him on the table - still smudged with spaghetti sauce. "Happens to all of us. Kind of," Ziv answers, in what might be an attempt to console Cornelius, though it doesn't appear she truly has much else to contribute there. Her ears droop subtly then, and she turns to instead look at Darby. Darby's almost amiable demeanor slowly evaporates as Cornelius tells his story. A shimmery glimpse of mantle-appropriate frost shimmers across her bare shoulders like it was brushed there for effect like some women smear on glitter. She rises from her seat on the bench, cup-o-wine in hand and steps over the bench to wander a few steps away out of the candlelight and toward the roof's edge. She's not -leaving-, but she's also about as pleased with Cornelius' reply as she was with Ziv's, though there's no disgust or narrowing of her gaze at either response. The shawl is drawn up to cover her shoulders as she stands no more than a half dozen feet away with her perfectly postured back to the pair at the table. "Shit," Cornelius swears again. He drinks his glass down and leaves it on the table. His sleeve is pulled back to look at his wrist so quickly that someone else might not notice there is no watch there. "Almost midnight. I gotta run before my carriage turns into a pumpkin and I'm banging Betty White instead of Cameron Diaz." He plucks the cross up off the table, leaves the food and wine behind, and rolls backwards off of the roof without so much as a goodbye. Ziv's dark eyes drift after Cornelius, but she makes no attempts to stop the knight. Soon after, she's looking at Darby instead, and seeing no real alternative that doesn't involve her clothing, she cleans her hands-slash-wings off on the tabletop. More quietly, apologetically, she presents to the other Beast, "Sorry to be a... what do they call it... buzzkill." She's frowning now, but gets up and leaves the wine there, saying more gently to the Runnerswift, "Good night, Darby."