A Mother's Right


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Scene Title A Mother's Right
Synopsis To worry, regardless of the circumstances.
Date May 15, 2011

Eltingville Blocks - Trafford Residence

Twelve Holly Avenue is not the biggest nor most impressive of buildings, but it sits nestled along the street with a comfortable quality and cottage-like appearance that sets it apart. The tan paint and brown roof envelop a rather slim two-bedroom house, and with the daintily flowered front lawn under the face of a bay window, it leaves a very quaint first impression. There is a side driveway and a backyard, which itself is one of the only yards along the neighboring ones to not have a pool. Instead, it has a small rear deck and a green lawn, a flower garden along part of the fence, shadowed slightly by a maroon-leaved maple that also shadows the deck in the afternoon and evening hours.

Inside the home, the decor and utilities are a mixture of vintage and classical retro; while not from one decade of influence, there is much influence from between the thirties and sixties. The inside is primarily in different pastel shades, though all rooms have a steady stream of crisp and warm yellows and whites, mixed with green in the downstairs and blues with the upper level. There also seem to be a lot of flowers- not always real, though the fragrance of a bouquet can find space to waft its way through the house.

The furniture is always comfortable, everywhere in the house; there is a distinct lack of pointed corners on tables and chairs, and a surplus of big, squashy pieces in neutral earth tones for the others. The dining room overlooks the front lawn, whereas the den has a wide window looking out over the backyard. The kitchen is at the rear entrance, a sliding door going out onto the deck. Up the stairs is the bathroom, sitting nearly parallel, and the bedrooms are next to one another, yet still able to overlook either patch of grass outside.

With the spring weather as wet as it is, there is bound to be some collateral damage when thunderstorms come rolling overhead with the usual crashing and banging about. On Staten Island even before the bomb, neighborhoods could be prone to blackouts; with the urban decay as it is, though, it seems as if they have been more common. Most of the time it is simply the case of a fuse somewhere snapping, or lightning hitting the wrong thing. Usually it gets back in a couple hours. Not tonight, in this part of Eltingville. One of the transformers at the start of the block has lost a battle with nature.

It is early in the evening when the power blips out, leaving Delilah suddenly on a dark rear deck with Walter in her lap. The lamps they've put put here were never great things, but when you can see the block flickering into blackness one house at a time, it keeps one dreadfully silent to watch. Delilah fidgets in her wicker chair a moment, peering down at Walter and then to the wicker table with a lit citronella candle in the center. It casts an eerily fiery glow on both ginger heads.

"Well, damn." Where'd Sable go? She wasn't watching when the other girl got up last- so either terrorizing the yard, or somewhere in the house.

Blackouts mark minor states of emergency, when you realize just how dark darkness can get when the bulbs dim out. It’s a fasting of a sort, a rationing of light. It’s a little too familiar to a population that has endured so many disasters in such close succession. It can be frightening, upsetting, it can invite discord. Remind you of how things are falling apart.

You could think of it like this, and that would be a major buzzkill. And Sable is not of a mind to be glum these days, however much an artistic temperament might try contrarywise. She’s rifling through the cabinets, a flashlight held overhead as she searches for- something. Somethings.

When she comes back, she’s got a roll of tape, a pair of safety scissors - a foresighted gift for Walter or maybe just something to save Sable from herself when she gets in a crafty mood - and a brown paper lunch bag, the kind of thing she’s been taking to work when she’s earning her keep from Polk, Anthony and Taylor.

She steps back into the warm light, and her weird eyes catch the way the flicker plays on Delilah’s profile as she lingers momentarily in the doorway. She’s smiling as she steps out onto the porch, the awning dripping trails of rainwater as the clouds beat percussion overhead.

“All that fancy paints as fair,” Sable says, moving over to cup Delilah’s far cheek and leaning down to plant a soft kiss on the near on. She sidles over to the porch railing before settling into a lean, opposite Delilah, the water nearly grazing the back of her head - nearly.

Something in mind, she sets to work on the paper bag with the scissors, tongue peeking from the corner of her mouth before she remembers to ask: “Y’all ain’t cold are y’, love?”

"Do I have candles in that drawer?" Delilah asks when she sees the tape and scissors, her hands around Walter and her cheek leaning into what short gestures of affection Sable gives. "I just watched the whole street go out. Do we have anything that'll go bad, besides milk?" Hopefully not. She watches the paper bag being cut up with a very discerned interest, glancing up to check the waterproof ability of the deck cover. Seems to be doing a good job. Dee wanted to let Walter experience a storm outside, for once, and he's been quite good about it so far. The darkness seems to be more interesting than the grumbling old clouds are.

"Nah, I'm fine. What are you doing, there?"

Sable quirks her lips to the side, checking through her not entirely conventionally arranged memory. Food food, going bad, going- “Think mebbe I got some hamborg,” she says, wincing, “mebbe I should fry that sucker up, make a snack ‘f it. ‘T least with gas ya’ll jus’ need a match. Mebbe we oughta go more medieval,” she cracks a grin, “I could go out fishin’ or huntin’ while y’all tend th’ garden. Civilization’s no goddamn use anyhow, that’s gettin’ t’ be real clear.”

Her eyes slip down to Walter, his round features glowing in the light, red hair made flame. Her smile is replaced with a thoughtful look. “He’d grow up knowin’ bird calls, ‘n’ how t’ gather herbs t’ make ‘is mum’s mornin’ tea,” her gaze lives to Delilah, “don’t sound so bad, do it?”

She’s smiling again. Sable nods, “saw a few - want I should get ‘em, darlin’? Light up the night?” Bits of cut of brown paper begin to shower down between her feet. “‘N’, this?” she lifts the bag a little, “y’all’ll see, when I’m done,” she wrinkles her nose, “if I don’t fuck it up, that is.” Which the way she says it, sounds like it might not be improbable.

Delilah ticks her tongue on the roof of her mouth, trying to not totally roll her eyes over her smile. "The tea is a given. As for herbs, you'll prrrobably have that covered anyway…" Yes, that was a Mary Jane joke. In case she missed it- "But none of that til he's an adult."

"Well, if you fuck it up, will you tell me anyhow? I think candles might not be so great outside, but we can leave this door open for the air, alright? Come on then, Walter, we're gonna go in and put some candles on the table." Delilah gathers the baby up, and he lets out a giggle when she pulls him closer to blow a wet raspberry on his stomach under the little t-shirt.

"You wanna make- ah- tacos or somethin', then?" Dee says, once she surfaces and steps onto the inside of the sliding doorway, bare feet on kitchen tile.

Sable squints at Delilah over scissors paused mid-snip. “Y’all natural immune t’ romance, or didja work up a resistance?” she jibes, “y’all keep Walter handy, darlin’, ‘cause I get you alone, and I’ma see jus’ how cool you stay.” This doesn’t sound like an idle threat, playful yes, but not without wickedness. She’s on the straight (irony not intended) and narrow, yes, but domestic virtue doesn’t preclude passion.

“Tacos? Sure, sure,” Sable says, bobbing her head, folding the bag and slipping it, the scissors and the tape into a big pants pocket before padding back inside, keeping the door open as instructed as she follows Delilah. She tugs a lighter out of her pocket; Delilah’s joke is well leveled - at least Sable doesn’t smoke cigarettes! Not that that would fly at all with a baby in the house. She sets it on the kitchen table, available to Dee for illuminatory use, and then moves over to the fridge, snagging the flashlight she left on the counter one the way. Leaning over, she searches the fridge’s still-chilly but warming interior with the pale pool of light until she finds the ground beef.

“And come on, darlin’, y’all shouldn’t be sayin’ that,” she adds, toothy wolf’s smile visible even in the dark of the kitchen, “y’all should say I could never foul it up or nothin’, say how y’all know I’m gonna succeed. Plus, darlin’, hate to say it but- what’s with that language ‘round th’ little one?” she tut tuts, though she absolutely can’t keep a straight face, as she teases, smile basically shameless.

Maybe this is all just the front that Dee wants to put up for the sake of ~romance~. More likely than coldness! Delilah wiggles her way through the kitchen, smartly shrugging while putting Walter, for now, into his high chair; she then goes to fetch some of the candles from the drawer, sturdy looking things that she arranges on the table. "It won't matter, when he learns what things mean, right? He'll say 'ess' or 'eff' but he'll still be thinking the whole word."

"You can get me alone when the baby is pooped enough to stay asleep." Sure enough. Pulling her hair back over her shoulders, Delilah sets about lighting some of the plain white candles. The baby in the chair watches each one with a vague alertness, following the path of his mother's hands and the little mote of fire.

The redhead’s restraint is only a sign of her canniness - she’s right on the money. Sable, restless striver, is of just the temperament to want, to need, a little hard-to-get. Delilah renders herself aspiration over and over, and Sable gets what her musician’s soul needs - love and longing, both. And plenty of each, even through the squint of her laughter, snicker wheezing through her teeth as she considers Delilah, mind already getting ahead of itself. She just has to be patient, be still.

Sable snags a match from a drawer and lights a stove head, blue flames casting her in chilly illumination. “Mebbe he won’t curse ‘t all, then, since cursin’ won’t seem nothin’ forbidden nor special,” she conjectures, as she adds a little oil to a pan and begins to heat it.

"God knows he'll curse. He's genetically unable to not curse." Delilah smiles and makes sure the candles stay lit before she adjusts Walter's high chair so he can keep an eye on them in the half-dark. "We've only got the hard shells in the cupboard there- I don't think they're old or anything." She's looking for them a moment later, putting aside the packet of flavoring with them on the counter, before she watches Sable moving about.

"If the power doesn't come back on by tomorrow, I'll make sure to find out when it'll be back. I know its sketchy out here, but hopefully they can replace that line. They aren't the only people needing it- and it certainly isn't just civilians, either.

Not just civilians, no. Sable briefly wonders if those superheated, Evo hunting cat things that rove the wilderness have to gallop back to some sort of home base once and a while. She imagines them plugging their tails into the wall, like a laptop or a cell phone. At rest, maybe they'd be cute? No- no, probably not even then.

The oil begins to sizzle and Sable begins to toss the beef, where it sputters and spits and browns. She grabs the flavor packet and tears it open, adding sprinklings of seasoning and mixing with a nearby spatula before adding more beef, letting it separate into the crumbles tacos demand. Once its well cooking, she turns and takes a lean against the counter next, eyes finding Delilah again, watching her move in the candlelight.

"Y'all are so beautiful, it hurts," she says, apropos nada save for the fact that the thought strikes her right there and then. Her smile is crooked, showing a trace of the pain she's claiming to feel, "none 'f this seems proper real, firelit like this. Feels all th' more a dream." She lifts a hand and beckons to Dee. "Come 'ere, love?"

Hovering there with one hip against the kitchen table, Delilah busied herself while Sable was cooking, and brought back an unopened package of glowsticks; one of those things you buy, intend to use, and never really go to a party or have a reason to use them, and so of course they float around in your possessions for weeks. This seemed like a great time to break a couple out and snap them into life. She is putting them on Walter's wrists and handing him another when Sable allows the pan to sit.

With the baby suddenly entranced by glowing circles, it leaves Dee to lean where she is, watching as Sable turns and starts her all too common play. Smiling again, the expression is caught on Delilah's face in between playing with Walter and thinking she needs to get out some lettuce and such. Off-guard, yes, but not an unexpected smile. "Awright…" The redhead steps over, one hand going to catch the one that beckoned her closer.

"So next time I want you all over me, I just need to blow the fusebox? Is that it?" Not that Sable's ever really inattentive- "Might get a bit expensive if you ask me."

Attentive, yes, consistently so. And by no means is this the first time Sable’s taken Dee by the waist; in fact, Delilah can probably predict - full seconds before it happens - when Sable is about to let her hands coast down the curve of Dee’s hips, as if they were subject to some special gravity. Familiar enough, too, is the firmness of her clasp, a habit formed early on, a tacit request that Delilah should stay. Stay close, for fear that any moment she might be drawn away, re-enstating distance Sable has striven to erase.

The brush of Sable’s nose against Delilah’s jaw is also hardly new, but there’s nothing like habit’s for-granted-ness to dull the diminutive woman’s intentness, or intensity. The only thing casual about her is the grin she wears, and even that is theater - nonchalance for the sake of coolness. “In full light, darlin’, this is a house ‘n’ home, ‘n’ a family I’m figurin’ m’self part of. Earnin’ that, earnin’ you- y’all know I been doin’ my best t’ be my best, t’ be good,” she confides, “‘n’ I been good…”

A kiss against Delilah’s neck encourages agreement when she asks, right after, murmuring, “ain’t I?

“Dark falls, though,” she continues, words close as her lips hover here, “and I recall that I ain’t jus’ here t’ show how good I c’n be.”

There's something to be said when Delilah can take Sable so seriously most of the time; but even then, there are some times where she just gets tossed into giggles because of the sheer height of the ham. Today is one of those days. Delilah is able to withstand it until the last- while her arms have twined around Sable, she is left to fall into laughter when the smaller girl mutters into her throat. "Talk about ham and cheese, huh?" Dee squeezes her arms, effectively smushing them together.

"Yes, you've been good." The redhead tilts her shoulders back to look at Sable, smirking all the while. "And no, you're not just here for that." Dee fights the smile, trying to feign Utter Seriousness. "A very ungood matter indeed."

“Chivalry ain’t dead, darlin’,” Sable says, unrepentantly hammish and unabashedly cheesy, “nor good ol’ fashioned romance gone. Jus’ switched teams, is all. And now you ain’t stuck waitin’ on it, like so many sorry birds.” Oh, cute. A bold little re-write - who exactly was waiting on whom again, hmmm?

The concession as to Sable’s goodness, and allowance for some wickedness, combined with the squished proximity, inspires Sable to lunge right up, kissing Delilah right on the lips, the kind of kiss that doesn’t care to stop, at least not at only kissing. It’s not that she’s helping herself - it’s that she can’t help herself. At least not for that moment, nor likely would she in moments to come, if the smell of food that has sat still on the heat for a little too long weren’ curling into her sense perception, insidiously reminding Sable of a world outside the warm circumference of Delilah’s embrace.

So, with great reluctance, Sable descends from the heights of Dee denting her lip with one prominent canine as she bites back a whole host of desires and intentions that were just about to get open airing. “Moment y’all set him t’ bed,” she warns, temper of her gaze already conveying what she’s about to say, “you better watch out,” she snaps her teeth, lupine, up at Delilah, “‘cause I’m comin’ t’ getcha.”

But not if the house is on fire. Before the battery powered alarms go off, Sable quickly flips the food and spreads it out again, browning the other side. She steals a glance over her shoulder at Delilah, tormenting herself just a little, as she is wont to do. Food will be ready soon, she reasons. Doing this now means other doings later. Each thing in its proper order, no cheating or shortcuts. No easy way.

“We got anythin’ else, put on these things?” she asks, talking business because anything else may sidetrack her.

Delilah is pliant not only physically, she happens to be able to accommodate Sable's advances and ministrations as well as anyone should. Of course, she is also more than happy to. Maybe Sable has been learning to receive messages, however, because she does silently remind the air that there is something on the stove, and there is a baby nearby still playing with the hoops of green, blue and pink. "Oh, don't worry. I'll watch out alright." Maybe even make Sable fight further. It's so easy to get her riled up, even easier to make everything an unnecessary challenge.

"Lettuce, sour cream, tomatoes, cheeese-" You know, to go with the ham. Delilah smiles to herself and sets into getting some of it out, becoming busy enough with her hands and a silent tune that she sways to across the kitchen. "You do know that I'm just going to stall putting him to bed, right? To drive you mad?" Yeah. Now it's totally unfair! "It'll be like a serial plot."

Sable gives Delilah a narrow eyed look, quite possibly unseen by the redhead as she busies herself, but maybe felt in its pointedness, a jab in the back or - let’s be honest here, considering where Sable’s vision gravitates - the backside. “Lucky I love y’,” she quips, “ain’t no way I’d let y’all get ‘way with bein’ so cruel, elsewise.” The blade of the spatula goes at the sizzling meat with an aggression born of redirected energies. She’s cooking the heck out of this taco filling.

A flick of the wrist and the blue flame dies, along with a sadly appreciable portion of the room’s total luminescence. A few more jabs and flips, and then the meat is left to steam in the frying pan, the hot metal keeping the meal warm. She takes the opportunity to creep up behind Delilah, slipping arms about her waist, hands meeting over her belly as she springs up to set her chin on Delilah’s left shoulder - seat of the bad conscience. “Every bit ‘f mad y’ drive me, darlin’, jus’ know I intend t’ return th’ favor, best I can, given half th’ chance.”

This promised, she kisses Delilah behind the ear and adds: “Grub’s up.”

Delilah gets a large plastic plate from the cupboard, and sets into cutting some lettuce and tomatoes to arrange on it for building purposes. She sets out the baggie of cheese and the small tub of cream with it, peeling open the package of corn-colored shells, smiling over her shoulder. "I know, I know. Cruelty is subjective, though." She thinks she's just being hard to get! "That's what I'm hoping." Wouldn't be right, otherwise, would it?

"Make up a little bit for him to taste. Might as well let him, but with our luck he'll get addicted to tacos." Walter, meanwhile, is minding his own damn business and trying his damndest to put one of the glowing hoops over his head. It doesn't fit, obviously- so it just gets jammed into his hair, and it sits there only until his head leans forward and it clatters back down. A steady stamping comes rolling down the stairs, and for a moment it sounds like the thunder outside- but when Samson comes sauntering in to periscope-eyeball the stuff on the counter and stove, he is met with Delilah's finger flicking him sharply in the nose. To which Samson wrinkles his face for a couple of seconds before letting out a great woofing sneeze.

"And make one for him, before he grows thumbs and just steals the meat off the stove." Because stuff like that can happen.

Sable retreats back to the stove, sidling around Samson so she can grab the skillet and bear the meat over to the rest of the food. Assembling tacos in the dark is actually a fair bit harder than you might think, and Samson is graced with the first, extremely messy taco - it’s not as if he’s concerned about presentation. Sable gets her hand clear quick as she can, not eager to lose a finger to Samson’s innocent but eager jaws.

The dark haired girl watches Walter coronate then abdicate, and reaches out to take the glowing ring, which she sets back upon the infant’s ginger head with a touch of ceremony. “No need t’ go tossin’ that away like no Caesar,” she informs him, before snapping off a piece of shell and layering ingredients, and placing it before Walter, though just out of his reach. Mum gets the final word.

Sable composes Delilah’s taco - she more or less has to be told not to do something for Dee before going ahead to try and do it, her chivalry heedless as knightly charges tend to be - and presents it to her lady fair before plopping down in a chair. Sweeping back her hair, which is getting longish against since Delilah last cut it (a gesture of enormous faith, Sable will insist, considering the redhead’s name), she pulls the paper bag, scissors and tape out of her bag and starts to work again, a humming softly to herself. Her gaze cuts up to Delilah for a moment, pale face painted by the light of the candles. “Ain’t no light without shadow, eh? Nor shadow without light. And we favor one o’er th’ other- by why, eh?” she points at her eyes with two fingers, scissors held rather incautiously in the pointing hand, “‘cause were hung up on bein’ able t’ see.” And this pertains to what, exactly?

Samson has learned to be gentle when taking things from people, even if it smells delicious enough that he could probably just chomp Sable's arm off. Taco taco taco taco- Yesssssss- He opens his maw like the hinge of a garbage bin, practically inhaling it. He wolfs it down, no pun intended. The baby takes a few tries to grab onto the glowing hoops again, his depth perception not exactly so good in the dark yet. Delilah sits down in the chair next to him when Sable puts down the small sample, and Delilah makes sure it is properly mushy before offering up a taste test.

Walter has zero problem in putting other people's fingers in his mouth, too.

Delilah notes the long sweep of Sable's hair once again, and though she knows it needs a trim, she'll save that for another time. For now, she watches Sable put down the plate and start with that paper bag again. What in the- Dee purses her lips at it. What is it? Well, she may never find out until she lets it finish. Sable's poetry gets a sidelong look, too.

"And what's that mean? Other than being bad at seeing in between?" Something of that nature. Delilah puts up a smear of cream for the baby to taste second. He immediately wrinkles up his face and spits the filmy white out of his mouth, and it dribbles down his chin.

A capacity for indulgence is important in a friend of Sable’s, and this is trebley the case in a significant other. She grins, ever so pleased as she holds forth, a natural born purveyor of addlebrained notions. “It’s th’ seein’ itself, us thinkin’ dark is- like- a takin’ away, ‘cause without light y’ can’t see,” she sets the scissors aside and tugs the bag open, revealing its perforated sides. “But jus’ light is jus’ as blindin’. Y’all need a mix, such that anythin’ c’n come int’ bein’.” With remarkable care, eschewing the slouching clumsiness of her usual mien, Sable sets tape to the corners and then lowers the bag over a candle. In moments, the bag is standing, shivering full of hot air, as light seeps through holes and casts shapes on the walls.

Sable isn’t much of a visual artist, and this is not much of a magic lantern, but the tiles of light take on vague semblances. One’s a bird, maybe? And is that other one- a fish? That over there, cast on the furthest wall, has the cartiod swells of a heart. And hovering by the (now useless) lightswitch, close by, is an vulpine shape with peaking triangles for ears - a fox’s silhouette staring at them with slanted eyes of candlelight.

Delilah is as curious as can be, but she knows Sable has her way of doing silly things- the paper bag is just one of them. She lets Walter taste some of the taco meat flavor on his fingers while she decides to tuck in, suddenly aware of how hungry she is. Only when the bag is opened and put over a light does she lean back to peer at it; it doesn't take long for her to notice that it casts shapes onto the walls, and she tilts her head around to find them all. The last one she looks at is the one by the lightswitch, and she only misses the fish because she finds herself momentarily entranced.

Clearing her throat and making sure there are no bits in her molars, Delilah fidgets in her chair and edges only slightly away from the watchful firelit eyes on the wall. "It's lovely." And it is- just that her voice seems too sober for the compliment it forms. And she keeps glancing up at the canid as if it might leap off the paint job. "And it reminds me, I should probably tell you something-" Delilah feigns a spirit of nonchalance, so it's hard to tell if it is something important or not. She seems to think it isn't, by her body language, but her voice is still rather peaked.

At her worst Sable can be pretty horrifically inconsiderate, the amount of time and thought given to the feelings of others sometimes severely truncated by her own interests - this is, in effect, the curse of every wastrel, reformed or otherwise. But Delilah's feelings and state of mind are rarely given less than priority, a favor granted by virtue of being girlfriend and reformer both - fucking up again is something Sable simply cannot afford.

So yeah, her ears perk as some hidden significance casts a shadow over Delilah's tone. Yellow eyes break from the image on the wall, favoring Dee's shaded features instead. And just as Sable knows something is up, it wouldn't be hard to for Dee to tell that Sable knows. Her attention is focused, expectant. "Whassat, love?"

Adjusting her chair, the girl across the corner of the table looks to be mulling over the contents of what she wants to tell; something that takes consideration, but there is not so much distress on Delilah's face. Maybe something better described as unrest. "I've put off saying anything, but I think it's about time I can without worrying. It's about Adel, and her friends. You didn't do anything wrong or nothin', so don't look so ready for it, huh?" Dee chuckles, unable to miss Sable's intentness.

"None of them did anything either, so far as I know. It's just that there was something I was told, and while the source has no reason to ever play a joke like that on me, nothing's happened to confirm it." Delilah sounds …disappointed, maybe. "Anyway- do you know how they all got here? Did she ever tell you?"

Sable manages a crooked grin. "Dinnit figure- can't remember doin’ nothin’, ‘n’ I’d ‘t least wanna profit from sin b’fore havin’ t’ buy redemption,” she comments with a small laugh, leaning back in her chair a little. Her head tilts, though, as the line of conversation enters strange temporal territory. Honestly, Sable had hoped that all that time travelling stuff was settled - she hadn’t inquired further because she had decided on her interpretation of events and was sticking to her guiding stars.

But apparently it’s still an issue, at least to Dee, and soon the redhead’s unrest is mirrored in Sable’s own unease. She bites her lip, catches herself doing it, and stops, lips pursing to prevent further betrayals. She’s listening, darnit!

Sable’s dark head swishes back and forth in a negative. “I dunno ‘bout all that, no.” No more robust answer is forthcoming; simply put, she’d set such concerns aside.

Delilah can tell that it wasn't on Sable's mind at all; the simple way that the other girl seems to try and silently goad Dee to say something more is all that says it. "I told Quinn about this kind of on accident not too long ago, and she seemed to feel it was okay to tell you too. Everyone thinks it was Hiro, right?" Right. "Well, it wasn't." There comes the tricky part. Nearby, Samson licking the floor interrupts her with a thick slurping. "Stop that, you're not a mop-" She leans over and pinches his upper thigh, and he prances away to the other side of the table, bumping his head on the end.

"Anyway, someone told me who it really was." Delilah looks over at the shape by the lightswitch again, looking somewhat guilty. "And apparently he's with everyone that's been hiding out? I'm not sure about that part."

The spectral vulpine keeps its peace, neither betraying Delilah nor giving her any help. She's on her own in this particular confession. Sable isn't an inquisitor, at least, though as confessors go she's could afford to be a little more self possessed. Or at least more informed. That Adel has other othertimely friends she's inferred, but Sable has been almost willfully disinterested in the finer details. Sable finds herself blinking, trying to figure out what it is Delilah is saying slash also not yet saying.

Only basically she ends up giving up. Everyone thinks it's Hiro, yes, and Sable was going along with that opinion as a default - she wasn't really invested in it. But who else it might be? Beats her! She nods now. "Go on, love. This fella someone t' you?"

The redhead watches the dog as he wanders around the table again, dutifully finding his big metal bowl of water and lapping some of it up. When she looks back to Sable, it is with a look of mild consternation, though not directed at anything, really. "Yeah. Someone to you, too." Dee resists the temptation to point, or make some more Gallifrey jokes. Sable probably isn't the type to pick up on it. Even if a TARDIS in the family would be nice.

"Adel and her friends got here because of Walter, but he's not calling himself that, obviously." Delilah's collar feels stuffy already, even though its not so tight and actually quite wide. "I don't think Samson gave me that sword for Hiro, after all." It was always an inkling, but she chose to think otherwise.

Okay wait, there are some names being thrown around and Sable has to take the time to figure out who is who. Samson the man and not the dog. Hiro the time samurai and not the generic term for protagonist. Walter the-

Wait, Walter?

She’s catching on, or so the flat stare at the baby amongst them indicates. They grow up fast, yes, and Sable’s been around to see some of that, but that doesn’t mean she’s extrapolated him into adulthood. If he’s here, has she seen him? Are the lines of some face seen in passing even just barely hinted at in the round softness of the infant’s features. Walter goes from secret kept to a keeper of secret, and while Dee has told, he ain’t telling.

Sable, poet that she is, combines eloquence with brevity: “No shit.”

The baby version of one apparently running rampant has nothing important to say about this, apart from that there is now a mess of taco bits all over his plate. He's not actually eating anything, just sticking his fingers in, then to his mouth, then he makes a noise of babytalk approval. When Sable starts staring, he just stares back, two fingers in his mouth. Hiro indeed. Delilah was prepared for a little more than what she gets, so there is a tiny sigh. Partial relief.

"No shit." She confirms, with a half-smile. "He's been going by his middle name." Dee says, quietly, gesturing at the fox with her fingers. "I haven't actually- seen him, though, so everything I've been told is secondhand. But like I said, the one that told me wouldn't have a reason to make it up."

It's maybe just on sustained release, though it's true that Sable takes a remarkable amount in stride. In fact, Sable's expression changes to one of deeper shock when her gaze turns to Delilah. Imagining how it must be for her, the young mother. And this is when she frowns. "Jesus," she says, "'n' how long has it been since that bunch showed? How long's he been around, without payin' 'is mum a call?"

A beat. "Wait- wait- y'all are tellin' me he," she thumbs over at the critter gnawing on its own hand, "c'n control time?"

"This was never about me. Or you. We just kind of got in the way of things, probably, of whatever they'd come to do." Delilah tries to wave off Sable's affront that how dare he not come. "I dunno how long they've been around. At least November, December? At least whenever you guys got a drummer…" She tries to shrug, leaning one arm on the table and reaching over to wipe some of the mess from Walter's cheek.

"Yeah. That's about the jist of it. Not right now, obviously-" She laughs as she looks down at him, a kind of fond awe mixing up with the usual stuff. "Someday, according to plan. He did get tested when he was in the hospital, and it was positive. I didn't worry too much about it back then." She does now, though.

All right, fine. Sable gives Walter a sidelong look, like he better be grateful for this dispensation. She rubs her nose with the back of her hand, squinting a little. November, December, it's all a blur for the most part. "'N' jus' what have they come t' do? I dunno, gal- honest. This is all way b'yond my fuckin' ken. I'm jus' a goddamn musician, darlin'. I'm jus' tryna live my life right."

It's less awe than simple befuddlement that appears in Sable's look towards Walter. "Whatall are we in th' way of? Can't figure he'd be up t' anything y'all wouldn't approve of, wouldja?"

"I don't know much about this stuff either, you know. And I don't even have a career to speak of." Delilah rubs her forehead. "No, I don't think so. I told Quinn cause she seems so in the know, and even then she thinks they are here to just stop something terrible from happening. Probably a bunch of things, that end up influencing where they are from. So basically they are all changing their own existence or something like that, just so we can have peace?" Something of that nature.

"I haven't heard anything that wasn't promising- at least- nothing I wouldn't approve of, heh." Delilah laughs this time. "But I can't know unless it's the truth and he shows up. You know how I've been jumpy the last few weeks." Like when people come to the door, or when Sable creeps up behind her, or when she hears a mysterious squeaking on floorboards at night. And the whole- there is a sword in their bedroom- thing.

"I told Quinn, I just hope that maybe they trust us enough to tell us if they need help. I dunno what's going on with everyone else, but we've only ran into that thing with the house you all bungled into…"

Now that does explain a few things. Sable's brow furrows, once again imagining (or trying to) what Delilah must have been feeling all this time. With him out there. "Jumpy, hell," her lips quirk, "figure y'all needed time with it, but pains me t' think y've been sittin' on that all this time," she tugs a smile to her features, "course, kinda hard t' jus' bring up. Christ…"

Only actually, there is something Sable still would like details about: "So 'xactly why's it I gotta watch out not t' bump int' that there sword when I wake up 'n' gotta visit th' little gal's room?"

"I didn't want to just tell you, or you might have gone gallavanting off to find him. You were in that mood back when I found out." Delilah chews on her bottom lip in the relative dark. She smiles sheepishly when Sable asks what she does. "It's not that much in the way…I just- I thought I was going to have to keep it away from Hiro or something and demand answers, but now I really don't know why it's in there. Maybe to make sure." That if it goes missing, someone took it that knew it was in there. Without signaling anyone in the house.

"That's the only thing I have, if he just- comes and goes." Dee puts her hand out to smooth the baby's hair back. "He needs a bit of a haircut. I don't want him to grow up into some kind of long-haired dick or something." It might sound important if she didn't sound like she was joking…!

Sable's nose wrinkles; she wants to take exception to there being only the sword. But Delilah has absolved the elder Walter his distance, at least up front, and though Sable is still a little beady-eyed at what some old fashioned sensibility in her thinks of as ingratitude, she's not about to grump about a son to his own mother. "I trust, b'fore whatever th' hell they're up t' is right finished, he'll come," she gives a tiny snort, smiling lopsidedly, "shit, time traveller? Bet he'll wait 'til th' last possible moment." Because they get to.

"Yeah, really. It isn't like he doesn't have all the time in the world." Delilah leans her head into one hand, leaning on the table and watching Samson circle around to the baby chair. He promptly sticks his nose up on the top, more than willing to vacuum up anything there. She sees it, but frankly, Dee can't bring herself to care. Next time she'll yell, but she's not really feeling the discipline all of a sudden.

"Should I ask Adel about it, do you think? Or should I just leave it, still?" She sounds hopeful, for a moment. "I do want to see him, I think… but not if I'm hunting him down…" Mom is mom is mom, though. She is worried.

Sable draws herself to her feet and lifts her chair, making an awkward shuffle and haul. The foxhead flashes across her as she wanders past the projected light, and when she settles, it's next to Delilah, chair placed next to the other woman's. Sable sits, scoots, and puts her arms around Dee's middle. Worry in one echoes into worry in the other, and Sable's dark brows are tucked close together.

"Figure y' got a right t' ask. Figure if he wants t' not be seen, f'r whatever reason, he'll keep scarce," Sable nods, and places a kiss on Dee's cheek, "ask 'er. Meanin' t' rally th' troops anyhow. Y'all c'n grab 'er, b'fore 'r after." She's figuring Dee may want a certain amount of privacy in this matter, guarded as she's been about it, and personal as it is.

Delilah is a bit quick to wrap her arm around Sable's shoulders and tug her closer. "To be honest, I'd rather someone else be around for it. If she didn't tell me on her own there must be a reason, and god knows she might not take me butting in too well. Though she has seen me change him before. I think we'd be even…" Awkward much. "I might have a right, but it doesn't mean I should."

Delilah grunts a little and wraps her other arm around Sable, bear-hugging her and burying her nose into dark bristly hair. "I'm just worried for him, even if I've never seen him. That's okay, right?"

Sable's wee, but her grip is firm, if touched of that fervency that accompanies her adoration. It's a strange feeling she's feeling; Delilah is usually so composed, contained, competent - to see her confess worry, to see her need, it's a little unnerving. But greater is her odd sense of privilege, the gratification that comes from getting to be there for her. She cannot be happy properly, not in the face of Delilah's concern, but she can at least be grateful. And present

"I'll be there, sure, if I'll be 'f help," Sable says, from the depths of Delilah's hug. A squeeze makes the pledge emphatic. Her chin lifts and her hair rustles against Delilah as she speaks again, a little clearer for not talking into Dee.

"Love, yer 'is goddamn mother. Y'all worry yerself white if you gotta," Sable neck cranes, crown nudging the other woman, her smile hidden so close to Dee, "but don't go hurryin' t' it. I'm awful fond 'f y' red."

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