18822/Pasta la vista, baby

Pasta la vista, baby
Date of Scene:	13 August 2024
Location:	Apartment 701
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	Harper Row, Helena Bertinelli

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Harper Row has posed:
Tonight is an important night. Harper Row has invited someone over, on purpose, to eat some of her cooking. This means she's had lead-up time, preparation if you will. She has had notice to clear away all the laundry into one bin, kicked what can be booted under furniture or closet. Ms. Row has made an effort to make her modest place to be acceptable if not inviting.

"Everyone likes garlic..." she mutters, trying to squint at her tablet propped on the counter while she tries to juggle three pots on her stove top, 2 out of the 3 are at a boil. A strainer stands at the ready nearby, along with boxes of noodles, sauce, cans and other paraphenalia. She's invited Helena over to pay her back, and then some, for all the assistance, guidance and gosh darned awesome example she was to aspire to. It had been a spur of the moment idea without fully thinking it through, but now the date on the calendar was here and it was time to roll up her sleeves and get 'r done.

Harper's eyes sweep to a timepiece that's set to Gotham time, trying to see how much leeway she's got before her guest may arrive. "Oh. My. Gaaaaaaawd."

Not much time.

Helena Bertinelli has posed:
Helena Bertinelli feels almost strange showing up in regular clothes. When she goes out at night, it's usually armored, sheathed and sharpened, ready to lay low the wicked and bless them with the pain they deserved. A satisfying pastime, to be sure. Instead, though, she's wearing leggings and a simple creme blouse, open at the throat. She wore her hair down for once, now long enough to spill over her shoulders, straight and black as night. She wears only her family signet ring on her right hand and a smartwatch with a few extra gadgets. Just in case.

On, and she was carrying a small case when she arrived. Just enough for a crossbow and a few party favors. Again. Just in case.

She raps her knuckles on the door, ankle-high boots with a bit of a heel adding to her height. She bends a knee for a moment to pick up the wine she'd put down back up off the floor. A rather good Venetian red, scarlet as blood and over a hundred years aged. She isn't nervous. She's never had the luxury of nerves.

Harper Row has posed:
Harper hears the knock, and it coincides almost cinematically with how she commits one of many transgressions. She snaps the dry pasts in half and drops both halves into the bubbling pot. A flurry of twisting of dials on the stove to set things to a simmer or boil, and no time to double check which was which.

The steam rising into the range hood is sucked away to a dull roar and she scampers over towards the door.

Harper has dressed down as well, and while it's not clothes to lounge in, they are as civilian as you'd imagine for the Gotham punkette. A black tank top due to the heat of the kitchen, no cigarette burns or tears, and the kerchief she was wearing over her perspiring forehead is yanked down to make a makeshift scarf. Her jeans are likewise in a good state and acceptable to polite society. She kicks off her sandals and toes into some better flats as she makes her way to the door.

She has left the apron on and advertises the jaunty font: Kiss the Crook.

"Coming!" Harper makes the quick decision to take a quick swig of something to brace herself and skids towards the door, opening it with a flourish. Past the opening threshold is the smell of spices and some humidity. Harper smiles a bit manic, and then widens her eyes as she takes in Helena. Impressed and surprised for some reason. "Oh wow. Please, get in here."

Helena Bertinelli has posed:
Helena Bertinelli doesn't have the budget for the fashion to which she aspired - she was raised in significant luxury that she had once dreamed of being a model, when she was just a young girl. Before she knew what her family was. And before they died for their sins.

She pushed the shadows of her memories aside for now. That was the past and she served it enough, night after night. Tonight, she could try to be a person and not just a vendetta.

"Sicilian custom," she says, making her way over towards the kitchen casually, "Do you have real glasses or are we drinking the good stuff out of red Solo cups?" she asks with a raised eyebrow.

She detects the elements of cooking and begins to poke her head over to investigate, "And just what is brewing here? Some sort of witchcraft?

Harper Row has posed:
It is some manner of sorcery, with many little modern cauldrons. Non matching set of pots of course, and some having seen better days. One may get the feeling that it is a collection of orphaned cookware left behind by old roommates or inherited from relatives.

The biggest pot has the standard spaghetti, though there's another of corkscrew pasta, and some mini ravioli. Suspiciously like that from a can ~with~ the sauce. A potential backup plan? And then there's the molten lava meat sauce making a little caldera of tongue burning stuff, presumably destined to slather over something.

"I've watched so many YouRube videos. But I think I got us a few courses. You won't go home with an empty stomach." Closer to the oven, there's probably some garlic bread being immolated as well. Bird of Prey eyes would note that this is not the ~first~ attempt, rather a followup to stand in for an experiment that didn't make it. And the video to assist in cooking has hit a paywall Ad that is certainly colourful but not Micheline Star stuff.

"I even watched a few movies to get in the swing of things, but when I got distracted that didn't help and turned 'em off. But I promise it'll be edible. I managed to keep guardianship over my brother..." A pause. "...Though he did have critiques now and then. Oh shit...yes, I've totally got glasses."

Harper turns to a series of cabinets and heaves open the top-most. Up there are some actual wine glasses. And stacks of red cups. And those novelty cups served by McDowells when Muppets had a movie out. She goes up on tip-toes to snag a duo of glassware rather than plastic. "...Not tonight Kermit, we got classy company in the house."

Helena Bertinelli has posed:
Helena Bertinelli had stood at the knee of her Sicilian grandmother since she was two or three years old. Smelled the ripe tomatoes and the sizzing prosciutto. The sharp burn of her Nona mincing garlic by hand, releasing its fragrance as she filled her dishes with the richness of its oil. She would steal pieces of bread, carrying them back to her room and eating them under her covers while she read books about adventure and action and detectives. Pulp fiction, really, had always been her favorite, even it was old fashioned. Even then, she was drawn to the dark. She never understood that her own father could...

Dammit, Helena. Stop. Be in the moment.

"I'm sure I'll enjoy it," she says. She isn't a snob, for all she understands the rich tradition of her cultural heritage. She's had to eat SpaghettiOs out of a can, too.

"Don't mind me, please, continue," she says. Although she might sneak in a stir here and there, or rummage through the spice area, looking for garlic salt. She might adjust a temperature ever so slightly. But really, she's not interfering, this is Harpers show, absolutely.

"Fine, fine, I'll go sit and await the feast," she says, taking her wine with her and going to find a seat.

Harper Row has posed:
Harper reaches up to rake nails through her hair, combing them back away from her face and the anxiety lurking under the surface. And then she's tugging at the kerchief wound about her neck. The resistence helps focus her mind and when it starts to hurt, provide her with enough physical sensation to avoid a spiral. "You should see my PBJ's, hrnnn."

Harper hovers over the stove, casting a glance over her shoulder now and then. It's always these times when she can spy something she forgot to tidy up, poking from under a rug or behind a cabinet. Ugh, focus. Back to more stirring, burning her tongue for a taste test, and assembling the plates. Presentation isn't her strong suit, but she wings it in her own way. "Hot stuff. Hot stuff." Bread is rescued, thankfully not turned to ash from a helpful intervention. The pasta is close to alright, not too overdone, but needs pointers. It wouldn't be a stretch to note that Helena has upped the quality by dint of a little of this and that, here and there.

The table has been set, cleared of tech and projects, bearing knicks and abrasions from decades of homework and home meals. Clean, but has history of its own. This is a lived in place, real and tangible.

"Real glad you said yes to come over. Gave me the motivation to get organized. Well, mostly. Living on my own is harder than I thought after little bro went off to college and leave the nest. When you don't have someone under your wing, I dunno, when you take care of someone, you take care of something inside yourself as well maybe." The thoughts burble, and Harper smiles wryiy. "Can't fill up our bellies on philosophy can we? Not that kind anyways...Heeeere we go!"

Harper presents the pasta, side order of garlic bread, and tugs a bottle opener out of her back pocket where it was threatening to tear her new denim. "What can we toast to? That's how people do, at a spread like this, yeah?"

Helena Bertinelli has posed:
Helena Bertinelli takes her seat an snatches away the bottle opener, popping the cork on the wine carefully and then pouring liberal glasses for each of the women. She cups her own, threading the stem between her fingers, and lifts it up. "I usually toast to vengeance," she says. "Not exactly a noble sentiment. Maybe a toast to peace. Just a moment of it. And someone to share it with," she says.

Once glasses are clinked, Helena will eat with careful elegance. She can't help it, she was taught this stuff in that same kitchen, how to fold a napkin or twirl her noodles just so around her fork, artful and ladylike. She isn't showing off, it's just the only way she knows how to do it. Helena has always been a very good student. That's why she ended up a teacher.

"The bread is excellent," she says, showing she still has that same hunger for carbs she had as a girl. She utters not a criticism and certainly cleans her plate, sopping up the remains with the last of her garlic bread.

"I've been...alone for a while," she says. "Like, totally alone. No friends. No allies. Just hunting."

"I think it's bad for me. So it's time for me to try something else. And here we are."

Harper Row has posed:
Harper mimics how Helena holds her glass aloft. She'd pinch the stem normally, and feels awful fancy cradling it. It makes the smile on her face more genuine, somewhat bashful. And she gives an amicable nod to the toast, wholeheartedly behind the sentiment.

Once she's seated across from her guest of honor, she eats, being cautious not to stuff and cram. She's not delicate, but she won't clean her plate like she's in a dungeon. Harper mumbles a thanks, and sips at the wine to wash down the cooking as she listens. It's good wine, and not something she'd have selected for herself. New experiences, the spice of life.

Harper givevs the back of the fork a lick and then more thorough inward-cheek pull to get the last bits. Once her mouth is clear and she's made sure to consign a bit of bread with another sip of wine, she gets her elbows on the table and hunches her shoulders some.

"You're good at it. I bet you got pretty sharp being so in the zone." Harper's feet arch, half-losing her shoes as she fidgets with toes. "I'm glad you're here, and trying something maybe different. And especially with us, the girls, and the bats. The lone Huntress look is killer, pun intended, it lends a scary awesome element to you. Bad for the bad guys." Harper chews on her lip ring and lets it wobble free. "But yeah, better to try something else, with others. And you can experiment on me anytime. I've found if I'm on my own too long..." she winces. "...let's just say we there's no quality control in the warehouse, no extra supervisor or teacher to correct my homework or suggest a better way...let's just say my intentions are good by my execution is not. I'm blabbering."

Harper reaches over to pat-nab-pat at one of Helena's hands. "I'm something else, day or night. Mi casa, su casa."

Helena Bertinelli has posed:
Helena Bertinelli can't help but admit it, "I did. I wreaked a lot of hell. I spent some time early this year back in Italy. Toured around. Visited the places my family used to live. Said hello to the new residents. I don't think they were happy to see me," she says.

"But it's not enough. Revenge was my first love. My north star. But I've already punished the ones responsible, the ones I started hunting all those years ago."

"So...now what?

Harper Row has posed:
Harper gives this some thought, ruminating on options while she digests words and meal. "That's a biggie. A real whopper. You don't do anything in half measures." She swallows and chews the inside of her cheek.

Harper's chair makes some little floor squeaks as she adjusts her caboose. "So what it sounds like you're saying, is you need something new in your sights. A new thing for your compass to home in on. Yeah...a whopper." Harper's forehead creases and she gets up from her chair and beckons. "C'mon, fresh air and the rooftop above our heads might show a new constellation, or at least put things in perspective. Don't worry, I still have dessert if it turns out it's raining. Again." An impish smile and a wink.