A is for Apple


delilah_icon.gif francois_icon.gif

Scene Title A is for Apple
Synopsis Francois visits Delilah for gift-giving and checking in.
Date September 25, 2010

The Octagon: Playground

With the warm days and cooler nights of late September, Delilah has been dressing for both. Most of the daytime was spent helping Abby, and now that she is home in the late afternoon, some time is spent sitting out with Samson near the park. Though the dog loves children to death, she won't be taking him onto the playground anytime soon; Delilah is sitting on a bench a short distance from it, close enough to be able to watch the goings on and keep track of them. And she is just out of reach, so no children will be coming her way anytime soon. There is a note on her door, inside the building- 'Outside, by playground if you need me'.

Her long, paisley skirt is gathered under her, the dark red cardigan pulled warmly around her. Samson's lead is tied around the leg of the bench, and he seems to only be enjoying the time outside, lying nearby on his side, watching the jungle gym in the short distance. Dee has some knitting in her lap, a bag of yarn at her feet; whatever it is that she is making is various colors of green and yellow, like spring sprouts.

Moving down the slight incline of a path, Francois' foot falls only become audible and direct when it carries him nearer the bench, uninclined to call out a greeting or otherwise draw attention, as if reluctant to break up the peace of the place. Though the temperature is bound to drop, he enjoys warm weather, is used to warm weather, from southern France to South America, never mind the decades spent in the frostier corners of Europe. His feet are in sneakers, legs in jeans, a soft grey T-shirt untucked over brown belt, and sunglasses, even. A faded denim jacket is there to allow for the encroaching, eventual cool.

In his hand is also a paper bag — not the crunchy brown kind, but store bought, rectangular and black, dangling from strings that he hooks loosely with his fingers. His pace slows when he approaches, sharply aware that out of the social visits he's actually gone and made since two months ago—

This may be the second? And the first sure wasn't Delilah. He offers a wave, one that aborts to taking off sunglasses, the smile more in his eyes than his mouth.

It's hard to see someone and know them right away when they frankly, are dressed like any average joe, and you aren't expecting to see them. Because of this, both Delilah and Samson seem to take the man in periphery as a passerby. That is, until he slows down and removes his glasses. The dog peers over, studious, and his mistress zones back into her head from the knitting, and blinks up to see who it is. Her smile is nearly immediate, and without a mote of hesitation. It's in her eyes and her mouth, and generally takes over her whole expression, all the way to raised eyebrows. The dog isn't totally sure who it is, but wags his tail anyway.

"Hey Frankie." Hey wait now- "Just kidding, I remember the rule. Hello Francois." Delilah's laugh is easy, and more knowing than cute. She promptly pats a hand on the empty span of bench to her right, as expectant as ever.

The jab makes his smile come easier, grateful for the familiarity, as he folds up his sunglasses in his hand and takes those last couple of steps to sit down. Fortunately, Francois' face no longer looks necessarily punched — the last of bruises are healing as swift as a change in the weather, with only the last, smudgy inferences of them high on his cheek. Both eyes are clear. He sits, tucks paper bag between ankles. "Bonjour Delilah. Samson." The dog might not remember him, but human brains tend to be better about these things.

Hands don't immediately go out to pet the dog, either, but that's par for the course. "You look well. How are things?"

He knows my name! Samson likes him, even if the smell escapes doggy memory in a jumble of what was winter. He shifts up to sit, watching the bag more than Francois. Something for dog in there? Bags sometimes do that.

"As good as they can be, I think, apart from a close call with time travel and a heartbroken girl…" Delilah moves her hand up to rub at one cheek, the same hand resting thereafter on her stomach. She seems content to disengage herself from knitting, folding it on her lap and very much sinking into the bench. Sigh. "But that's not quite important anymore, I think I've fixed it. Maybe. But the guy that helped me out is kind of- missing- again."

Nothing for a dog in there. There's the scent of cardboard and cotton, maybe things to chew and tear apart, which is why Francois has it placed so protectively at his feet. But nothing foody, not even very peoply, save for the traces of scent gleaned from his own hands, and those that handled the items before. There's also the smell of newness.

Francois isn't really watching Samson, though, after initial glance and obligatory greeting. An eyebrow raises at the mention of time travel— more catching than the goddamn Evo-plague— and his expression drains, some, of mild amicability. Not her fault. "Who is the guy?" he finds himself asking anyway.

Delilah shifts in her seat now, trying to get comfortable. "Hiro Nakamura. Some boob was trying to get my aunt to leave new york in '07, I had to go with him to stop it. Long story short, we also saved a kid that died- but- I guess he never did, if we got him back…" She stops to consider this, rubbing at her face and grunting once. "I don't like thinking about it, gives me a headache. I'm not made to do things like that."

"I think it puts people off, too." She notes, quietly, and somewhat astutely.

Francois' gaze breaks from Delilah at the confirmation of Hiro Nakamura— of course~— and instead swings out to watch the playground as she talks, a small sound of interest revving at the back of his throat but not actually offering real words. "Hiro Nakamura seems to be getting around lately. Perhaps his talents would fair better in the present than history, or at least just as well." There is irritation in his voice, softened with an apologetic shrug. "I'm glad you made it back safely."

"I guess someone else has been making trouble, is all. I hadn't seen him since winter was ending, when I was taking care of him at the hospital." He still looks ill. Dee's worry is not verbalized, but it's written all over her face.

"So am I. Both of us. Would have been kind of tricky if I'd come back one less alien…" Her hand rubs at the curve of her front. "He's been jostling a while now, everything looks good when I go to the obstetrician. I can't really figure asking for a better time of this. I think I've had it easy though." Few complications is a blessing, considering how late she found out about it. "The shower's in a couple weeks, I can't believe it- I sent out some cards." Just so he isn't totally shocked when he gets one.

For all that there is no real warmth for Hiro Nakamura, too much wariness clouding it, desire to stay away shifting his perspectives, there is warmth for the next change of subject, Francois' interest attentive. Lines at his eyes show in a smile, and he glances down at what he's brought with him. "Then you can receive these early," he decides, a hand dipping down between his feet. "Before others get the same idea, unless they already have. I have had enough time, truly, I've been a little unfocused.

"But here." He shifts to the side enough to set down the paperbag, nudging it enough to encourage her to dip her hands into, though she can already tell. They are books, for the very very young, more pictures than words. One seems to be made of organic fabric, even, all relatively small, and adding up to four.

"You and Eileen are on top of this, huh?" Delilah comments softly, her cheeks flushing a little. She shifts again to peer into the bag, putting one hand out to push Samson's nose away. Not yours. She sets her knitting down on her other side, before gently dipping her hands in the bag to find the little treasures inside. The texture itself makes her smile, fingertips on covers and pages. She takes them out to look over them, the happy expression on her face never waning.

"How lovely- finally, books." She should have figured it be the doctor. "It's a ways before he's flipping pages himself, but by that time I may forget that little boys are all different." Delilah chuckles, taking her time in looking through them, one by one. She seems genuinely pleased. "I already read to him- not that I think he understands books, but just- so I talk, you know…? Same with music."

The one crafted of cotton is inspired by Beatrix Potter, Peter Rabbit adventures that are communicated in pictures over the lady's famous stories. Francois smiles wider at the mention of Eileen having the same idea as him, and having it earlier. Typical. "Perhaps we are avoiding attending a baby shower," he suggests, with a wry note in his voice, watching her hands card through them. The next is English too, brighter images than the watercolour dilute of Peter Rabbit and friends.

The next is italiano, and the last is francais. Potentially inoffensive, for they are— like the others— mostly images. Still, he finds himself excusing the last with a; "I don't know how that one got in there."

"I wouldn't be too shocked, I admit." Delilah looks sidelong to him, up from her admiring of the books and illustrations. "I adore Beatrix Potter, but maybe that is because I am European…" She spares another chuckle at finding that two of them are in two separate languages. That's a hint if she ever saw one, and his subtle claim is rather telling. "I'm going to try the multilingual baby thing, I hope that it works. Toddlers are so very absorbent of everything."

"I expect when he can, he'll have preferences too- but while he can't talk, mum gets to decide~."

There is a nod at her affirmation that Beatrix Potter was not an inaccurate choice on his part, subtle relief loosening the set of his shoulders. Only the fourth extra English one doesn't seem tailored, but possibly concession to the fact that they are all in America, a simple alphabetical narrative of animals and objects. A is for apple, and the apples in the Western world grow red and fat, with a single verdant green leaf, and printed on pages that are blunt and rounded at the corners.

"She will make good choices for him, I am sure. It is unfortunate that one of us isn't Spanish — I think it is prettiest." His posture straightens, indication that he seeks to leave her in peace soon enough, even if he isn't getting up right that second. There is some linging pink flush in the shells of his ears, for all that blush didn't reach his face. It makes the bloodless scar tissue at his bitten ear seem stark. "That is all I came to do, really, and to see how you are. Sometimes it is if I don't keep an eye on everything for long enough, things change or vanish."

The sight of A for Apple actually makes Dee hungry, somehow, and she fights the urge to exclaim it. Instead, she just settles a massaging hand on herself. When she puts the books away as equally gently as she took them out, her smile practically reaches her ears. "I'll try not to do that." Delilah reassures him. "Thank you for coming to see me. You're allowed to, whenever you'd like, for the record. I don't want you to feel you are ever intruding on me."

"What's your favorite color, Francois?" A question, entirely for him, out of the blue.

Eyes blink at that question, going unfocused in consideration about which colour in the whooole world would he peg as his favoirite. There is fondness for white, and the cartoon hue of Abby's hair when it goes pink, and storm-blue of a certain Italian's eyes because eye contact is a kink, if not a very daring one. But there isn't a lot of intellectualising, except a possible exercise in vanity due to his own eye colour, when he states, some mirth in his voice, "Green, Delilah.

"And I will remember that, and come by. It is not very out of my way — I work sometimes at the Suresh Centre."

Not very daring at all, no, not when so many people make eye contact all the time- Like Delilah, when she is waiting for an answer so readily. When she gets it, she nods to herself and reaches over to draw him closer. Whale-hug-time, please. Just let her, how can you say no? "Okay. Good. Cause I'm making you a scarf." Just to let him know.

"Winter's coming, but I'm hoping it ain't like the last one. Seems like it just ended, cripes. My nose feels colder than the dog's, sometimes."

There's no retreat from a hug, not even a whale-hug. Francois hooks an arm around her shoulders in a squeeze back of an embrace, chin tucking on her shoulder for its extent before release, hand brushing fondly over red hair as he retracts until his hands are back on his lap. There are still the notes of cologne on him, although probably applied earlier in the day, before he switched into casual gear. No smoke, no wine. Not yet.

Oh, a scarf. :D "Merci, I would like that." This time, he does get to his feet, glasses still loosely clasped in a fist and letting her alone with baby books and the bag with which they arrived in. "Even if winter leaves us when it is scheduled to.

"You know where to find me until next time. Take care of yourself, s'il vois plait."

Even though it is Francois, good ol'lost in time old man Francois- Delilah can always appreciate a nice-smelling man. Maybe she did tuck her face in a little bit more, hard to tell.

"I leave knitted things everywhere when the season rolls in- so if you want some gloves too…" Just sayin. Though with things coming up this winter, she may only find time when she is already pooped out. Babies are hard, after all. But, as it is Delilah, she'll superwoman it somehow. "You take care too, love. It was nice seeing you, even just for a minute." Her tone is honest and her smile as one arm perches on the back of the bench is as bright as it was when he showed up.

It would probably be dorky to say thank you at her honest affirmation as to his presence— being good and old and lost in time, and all. Francois resists the urge, offers a smile instead, a glance from her eyes, to baby bump that's definitely gotten well passed that pop stage of obtrusiveness, and then to Samson. Bye dog. "You too," instead, just as open, before he's tracking back up the path, with less purpose than before.

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