Participants:
| Scene Title | No Words |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | After having her injuries tended to by Judah, Tamara retreats into Colette's arms. |
| Date | August 30, 2009 |
Le Rivage, Judah and Colette's Apartment
Sleep.
It was the last words murmured to Judah by Tamara before she wound her way out of his presence, towards a room that one year ago was his private office. Now, the small coffee-colored room is occupied by entirely different baggage belonging to the detective. When the door creaks open, it's the soft glow of a single lamp left on at its lowest illumination setting that greets the Sybil, just like the dozen or so other times she saw this moment playing out — except for the moment in which Colette remembered to turn the lamp off, or the moment where the lightblub was blown, or that alternative moment where it's a candle instead.
The room is spartan in furnishings, but what is there is, expectedly, as messy as a teenager's bedroom is wont to be. Clothing lies strewn across the floor in heaps likely dedicated to different days of the week, differentiated between clean piles of dirty laundry and dirty piles of dirty laundry with some inscrutable selection process that probably requires little forethought on the part of the occupant.
She, in question, lays with her back to the door on the queen sized bed near that entrance. Blankets are in a tangle around her legs, dark hair tousled in a manner that says she probably forgot to comb it at all that entire day. But the serene rise and fall of her shoulders while in sleep is a comfortable familiarity here in the coffee colored warmth of the bedroom, a comfort in the fact that she still sleeps with a night light on, a comfort in the fact that she's here and that all-knowing presence of mind that she's already gotten four good hours of sleep, and a creak of the bed that will — undoubtedly — stir her from slumber won't come as an unwelcome surprise.
After all, if there's one unexpected surprise that will always go welcomed by Colette Nichols, it's the blonde girl standing in the doorway of the bedroom.
She could walk across the room without ever evoking the wordless voice of a floorboard, if she chose. The bullet-wound to her thigh wouldn't hamper that. The struggle to hold enough self together for the time it takes to walk across the room, to talk with Colette as she knows she will have to — this makes Tamara's progress less than silent.
The four feet following just behind her heels, graying muzzle pressed against the girl's uninjured leg, add their own element of noise.
Tamara looks at the bedroom, gaze flat in the manner of someone clinging to wakefulness by nothing more than determination; eyes the piles of things on the floor with a reluctant expression. It's not that she cares about the mess — except inasmuch as it's work to pick her way through them. The teen stops at the door instead, leaning heavily against the post.
Jupiter, well enough aware of the object of this procession, merely looks up at Tamara for a moment — then he pads into the room and snuffles at Colette's bare, uncovered feet.
It's not the first time she's unintentionally booted Jupiter in the snout for that very offense, but thankfully much like Judah, Jupiter's got a thick skull. He makes a whine of protest more than anything, nudging her fot back with renewed vigor as if it were some sort've game — let me show you how hard I can hit you back! A murmur of frustration comes from Colette, slurred words and a groggy wipe at her eyes as she curls her legs back beneath tbe brick red comforter, sitting up with one hand wiping at her face, "S'not funny…" she says with a snort, head tilted to the side and eyes shut.
It's only then, feeling without seeing, that she knows the colors in the room are wrong — or perhaps very right. Jerking her head around and opening up eyes in a manner that, could she see, would be less vestigial of a gesture than it is now, Colette stares blankly at Tamara, not quite yet noticing what's wrong with the picture of oil paint and smudged colors she sees.
Sliding up onto her bare knees, she slouches to the side, lays across the foot of the bed and lightly grabs Jupiter's head by the sides of his snout and plants a kiss on his furry forehead, "thank you," she whispers to the dog, as if it were some sort've special delivery — one sybil, no tax.
Sitting up straight and unconsciously flattening down her hair, Colette affords Tamara a half-waking smile, soon finding herself moving on hands and knees again to the edge of the bed. It's only here that perspective allows her to take in the white of gauze bandages where there shouldn't be any. Her brows furrow, an inscrutable look of confusion crossing her face — Tamara's not supposed to get hurt, she can't it says in wordless innocence. Immediately, Colette swings her bare legs off and over the side of the bed, immediately more awake then she was a moment ago as she starts kicking messy clothing out of the way with one foot while weaving her way towards Tamara. "What— what happened?" Her focus diverts over Tamara's shoulder, to the hall leading to the living room, then back again.
Tamara is content to lean and observe as Colette rearranges the room's contents, where 'observe' has little to do with actually watching what the girl does and what objects land in new positions. Little to do with paying attention at all; it's a sort of chaos, and her perceptions shy away from that tonight.
Words are chaos thinly veiled beneath syntax and structure; a frown slowly builds as they're spoken, the girl turning meaning over and over as if it were a kaleidoscope in hand. Typically, she'd deflect the question with a reminder about perceptions and direction. Nothing tonight is so mundane as typical. "Black in the trees, dark, always eyes. Watching. Winking. Away. Wind… pulling. Water falling; something… drops. Rain. More than rain. Noise."
An answer, and no answer; it doesn't entirely seem to register with Tamara that she's making even less sense than usual — typically, she's aware of the frown before it starts and at least apologizes for her opacity.
Stammering doesn't even happen, not with the confounding juxtaposition of the babbling of the river and what is clearly an injury. Colette's bare feet clear the distance between she and Tamara, neck muscles tense and colorless eyes saucer-wide. She doesn't truly stop until she gently collides with the older girl, one arm immediately looping around Tamara's waist, the other one going up around her shoulder with a hand finding its way to the back of her head. Fingers wind into blonde hair, and Colette hisses out a breath against Tamara's cheek when her lips find it. She doesn't try to talk again, ask questions, words aren't going to solve anything that grounding her in a moment can't.
There's a touch of Colette's nose to Tamara's temple, moving aside and into her hair, eyes fluttered shut and the gentle squeeze of arms around her. "It's alright." Her reaction is like day and night to Judah's, and in a way still sharing that same thread of concern. "You— you don't need to explain any more." There's another light brush of lips to Tamara's cheek, and Colette keeps the older girl held fast in her arms. "I'm here."