A/N: So we all know that at some point, Laurel and Gareth are going to get pissed off enough to do more than argue. If we know that, I'm pretty sure Rochelle has picked up on that, too. Enjoy part 1 of my "oh, just kiss her already" frustration at Ritter and Healy

Rochelle Daudier had taken up a solid presence in Laurel Healy's life. Between Stacy and Anthony's respective infections, Abby's suicide and the fact that Laurel hated just about everybody else in Washington DC, Rochelle was just about the only person Laurel felt like she could really talk to. They'd come to spend quite a bit of time together, whether they were investigating the whole screwworm thing with Gustav or, like tonight, doing what normal people not on the brink of uncovering a major alien conspiracy do on a Wednesday night sometimes do: eating bad Thai takeout, drinking red wine and discussing anything but screwworms or politics. The topic du jour was whether or not Misty, the "skanky" (Rochelle's words, not hers, Laurel told herself, though she vehemently agreed) anchor for a predominantly Republican sympathizing news station, had had a boob job. Rochelle thought so, Laurel disagreed.

"I mean, all I'm saying is that there is no way in hell she can wear a dress that tight and not have her bra showing a little bit. And it's far easier to go braless if you've got the fake stuff that doesn't move." Rochelle sipped her wine and gestured to the muted Misty (they hadn't actually listened to a word she said, Rochelle had just turned her on as a far-more-useful-as-a-mute visual aid).

Laurel shook her head, poking at her pad thai, "Nope, I've met Misty. She's just annoying enough to have perfect boobs."

Rochelle pursed her lips, contemplating the personality to cup size comparison for a moment, "Hmm, I don't think that there's a correlation between the fact that she's an irritating blonde bimbo and – "She was cut off by Laurel's phone buzzing on the coffee table. Laurel sighed and picked it up. A text from Gareth. She groaned and silenced the phone.

"What does Blue Eyes want?" Rochelle's tone was teasing and Laurel narrowed her eyes a fraction,

"Probably to bait me into another argument about something because he's simply irritating like that, and don't call him Blue Eyes." Laurel did not need reminding that aforementioned blue eyes and the obnoxious, smug, ever present human they were attached to had taken up semi-permanent residence in her thoughts and had stayed resolutely put, despite her efforts to eradicate him.

Rochelle put her glass down and gave Laurel a significant look, "You like him and you like to hate him. Just have your stupid, inevitable angry sex and get on with your lives so I can stop watching you two dance around the sexual tension."

Laurel blanched and spluttered for words. She could not sleep Gareth Ritter. He was a smirking sore in her life that would not go away, aggravatingly handsome as he was,

"I do not want to sleep with Gareth."

Rochelle laughed, "Yes, you do and the limited interactions I've seen all suggest that he wants to, too. In all honesty, I think he's actually into you, but angry sex seems more your guys' speed right now."

Ignoring the jab at their inability to have a conversation that didn't inevitably end in a sarcastic battle of wits, Laurel allowed herself to contemplate this for a moment. Their last argument had ended with both of them closer to the other than was just professional. The air had thickened, and Gareth, glowering at her, had most certainly glanced away from her glaring eyes to her pursed lips. The argument had been interrupted by a senatorial intern, who was none the wiser to the fact that (god dammit, Rochelle) Laurel had been a hair too close to Wheatus' Chief-of-Staff. Not to mention the fact that she had developed an involuntary habit of smiling slightly whenever she saw him, and, now that she thought about it, he had, too. Then there was the whole Gareth staring at her while he was with Misty. To top it all off, he dressed so well. Guys in LA didn't dress like Gareth Ritter di-god dammit, she wanted him.

"Fine."

Rochelle raised her eyebrows, feigning confusion,

"I'm sorry, fine what?"

Darkly, Laurel muttered, her tone increasing in volume as she went, "I like him. I want him and his stupid smirk and over-styled hair and nice suits and yes, those goddamn blue eyes. Ugh, I hate him. I hate him and his sarcasm and his smirk and his clothes and his boss and his little flirty faces and… and everything about him!"

Rochelle laughed and Laurel gave her a sidelong glare,

"You really think he's into me? He has Little Miss Fake Boobs."

"Wow, I'm on fire tonight. I get you to concede that Misty's boobs are fake and to admit that you have a thing for Gareth Ritter. Now all I need to do is figure out how to address the whole screwworm situation and I can retire." Rochelle's eyes were alight with teasing and Laurel scoffed slightly as she took a sip of her wine.

"It's not like you can do anything about it, Rochelle." Laurel saw no way to make any sort of relationship with Gareth work. Yes, he pissed her off, and it sort of turned her on, but even just an arguing until one of the parties kissed the other to shut them up, no other string attached thing couldn't work with her brother's war on Senator Wheatus. Not that she hadn't considered kissing him to shut up him because she saw no other way to win the argument (she had instead chosen to stalk off, defeated for once).

"You're right, but I can sit here and tell you to go hop on that before Little Miss Fake Boobs does because I'd far prefer you having some fun to her having some fun with him."

"We'll see, Rochelle. Now shut up and eat your food. You're almost as bad as Ritter."

Rochelle fell silent, and Laurel checked her phone. Need to pick your brain about something crazy tomorrow. Figured you're probably the best person to talk crazy with, seeing as you're a democrat and all.

This was the asshat that she'd fallen for.

Perfect.