Participants:
| Scene Title | (Nothing's) Meant To Be |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | What others don't know hurts worst of all. |
| Date | October 2, 2010 |
Gun Hill - Rooftop
When I tell you that I need you
You don't believe me
When I tell you I won't leave you
You don't believe me
When I tell you it's forever
You don't believe me
When I tell you it's not over
Oooh-ooh-ooh
You don't believe me
The volume on Sable's battered old CD player is set to maximum, the layered, frenetic sounds of an astoundingly modern band shiver and shake through the rising green of the rooftop garden. And those sounds are not alone. Shimmying and sidestepping, boogying and bouncing, the beats are matched by a slight figure with dark hair and eyes a shade of yellow to compliment the blushing orange of a sun beginning its last bow before exiting stage west.
You don't know what you do to me
(You don't know what you do)
Girl
You don't know you do to me
(You don't know what you do)
You got that right. Sable's dancing, and singing, a dirty trowel as makeshift microphone.
On occasion she will stoop, descending on the offending fronds of a young weed with the plunging grace of a cormerant. The trowel finds earth, enacting its intended purpose as it draws free the rogue vegetant, roots and all.
What do you see…
(What do you see?)
When you dream about the future?
Do you see me?
What do you see
(What do you see?)
When you dream about your heart?
What do you see
(What do you see?)
When you dream about the future?
Each such operation does not end in the weed's disposal, however. Rather, Sable grapevines, foot over foot, to a plastic flowerbox, where the extracted plant is placed among a variety of fellows, a refugee camp for these exiles and undesireables. And then she's back in the garden, a wiggle and shake of her hips causing tomato plants to sway, however briefly, in time with the music.
Dream about the future…
As the music slows and swells for a moment, the lyrics making a grand declaration, an imperative perhaps, Sable pauses, lifts her arms up and, with eyes closed, smiles at the sky. Looks like she's in a good mood, even though she's just killing time. Waiting. Seeing if she'll show.
She did show, for what it's worth. About ten minutes ago.
That Colette is suddenly visible in Sable's periphery, seated on one of the emptied wooden benches that once held the carrots that were harvested last week, Colette Nichols has been watching for a while now. Coming up to the roof to think, alone, is something that's been happening more and more over the last few weeks. That today happen to coincide with a bout of Sable's mania is perhaps wholly unintended but entirely what both have needed.
It's easier to come upstairs, to be alone on the roof, when no one else knows you're around. It wasn't voyeurism that made Colette come up here invisible, but it was fascination that made her stay that way, even if just for a little while. "Boo," is her softly-stated greeting, extending the overall attitude of apologetic guilt spread with the smile that's painted across her face. Mismatched eyes squared on Sable convey a guarded sense of intimacy, in the way that one person gets to become close to another by knowing them for their entire life.
Colette may not have been there in the middle, but as of late she's been in Sable's life on two very far divided ends of it. Her greeting comes with a gust of cool wind over the rooftop, disturbing their dark hair, pulling at the unzippered front of Colette's navy blue hoodie, sending ties blowing over her shoulder when her bangs are blown back from her face.
"Sorry, too, I guess… for bein' nosy." Colette's legs cross at the ankles, her boots knocking together in the motion, brows furrowed and eyes averting down to her lap.
Sable doesn't start, doesn't frighten. She spins to face Colette at once, a perfect reaction to the sound. There is a manic gleam in her eyes, an excitement Colette can't not have seen before, the tinge of the unhinged. It's not scary so much, not true mania, but it's certainly intense. She lifts an arm and points at Colette. Trowl lifted to a face already smudged a little with dirt, high on her cheek, and in a train along her jaw, she continues to sing along with the song. Hey, if Colette's gonna be her audience…
When I tell you there's no other
You don't believe me!
When I tell you there's no lover
You don't believe me!
With a hop and a skip, she's at the wooden edge of the garden, perched with what are… definitely bare feet, darkened by soil and it looks like there may be a leaf caught between two of her toes. Sable tosses the trowel to the side with careless flourish, letting it skid over to the flower box full of weeds, then bends over to dial the volume on her CD player down before padding up to her watcher.
The yellow eyed girl halts two paces in front of Colette. "Never apologize f'r that," Sable says, shaking her head, "Ain't nothin' I care t' hide, nothin' I think's worth hidin'. Part 'f why I wanted t' talk t' y', even." She rocks back and forth in her feet, still in time to the song as it continues, remaining just a little in its grasp. "Real nice t' see y', though. I've… really needed t' talk t' y'."
"I kind've had the same feeling…" Colette offers with a quiet tone of voice, her eyes halfway lidded and expression still apologetic. It may not entirely be for the voyeurism now. "I um," squinting slightly, Colette breathes in deeply and exhales a slow sigh through her nose, "I— wanted to apologize for— for what I did to you." Letting her tongue flash out over her lips, Colette's mismatched eyes shift askance to look down at the empty wooden bench's top, one hand moving down to sweep away a dusting of potting soil still on the wooden surface.
"I shouldn't have made you…" Colette's eyes close fully, a sigh escaping through her nose before she looks up to Sable again, then away towards the sunset's colorful glow. "It was selfish of me t'put the choice I did in front've you. I mean— about your memories. That— " one hand lifts up to Colette's face, scrubbing at her cheek.
"You didn't need t'have any've that on your conscience," Colette says in a hushed tone of voice, letting her hand fall back down to her lap, fingers wringing together. "You didn't need t'have that kind've burden."
"Y'all said it wasn't my fault I hurt those people," comes Sable's answer, forceful enough to be sincere but not so sudden as to seem defensive, "I know what it is folks c'n do t' other folks, what they c'n drive them too. Y'all told me that wasn't me… I believe it wasn't. I was a stupid fuckin' kid, but I never been angry like that, never in m' whole life."
The dirty footed girl moves over to take a perch next to Colette, the span of two hands between them. "See… I remember. But it's like… it's not like I known all along. It's… far away, kinda. Some 'f it, 't least." This is addressed to the garden, which seems to have taken over Sable's dancing, the wind rippling leaves in part-time with the music.
But Sable's next question is pointed at Colette, if a little glancingly. Yellow eyes cut over and the question is set sidelong. "I toldja who Adelaine is, eh? Who she was t' me?"
There's sympathy in Colette's expression at the reliving of a memory in distant quality, but Sable's question distracts Colette enough from sharing her own experiences, and from her perspective mercifully so. "Yeah I… maybe?" There's a narrowing of Colette's eyes, her brows furrowing and head shaking. "I'm— I remember you saying the name before, but like, I don't really remember who she was. I mean, except for your guitar." Dark brows furrow as Colette looks up, a goofy smile spread across her face.
"I figured— I dunno— being your guitar seemed like a good idea." It's the mistake of so many of Colette's actions, good intentions with little forethought. Looking away from Sable and down to the rooftop, then up to the horizon, there's a distance that overcomes Colette's eyes. "I'm sorry if… if sayin' that's who I was went over some sorta' line. I dunno who she was t'you really."
Or, more likely, she just forgot.
"Well, first thing Elaine said when she got back, b'fore I even found out y'all, like, saved me 'n' always had, was… well, like, I can't remember her exact words, but she asked me basically whysit I never talk 'bout my, like life, what I been through," Sable says, and we must trust that this is on topic somehow, "'n', like," she gives a small snort of a laugh, "y'all sorta didn't know nothin' 'bout me, knew 's much even then. Like… I saw y' recognized me, but it was all… I dunno. Strange."
And all this to what purpose? Sable shrugs, like maybe she doesn't even know. Only then: "What I mean t' say, darlin', is that, like, I don't blame y' 'r nothin'. I don't talk 'bout my past 'cause, hell… it's past. But that don't mean I want t' hide it. So, like… hell… If there's things y' wanna know, know y' c'n ask…"
Sable has the good manners to wipe the dirt on her hand off on her pant leg before reaching over to clasp Colette's. "Y'all have been there, since b'fore I knew y'. All I am… it's owed t' y'all. Nothing that I am c'n I keep from you. Dig?" She's serious about this, voice intent. At touch of that intensity, redirected, tamed somewhat.
Then her nose twitches, and she adds: "Adelaide's th' first gal I ever loved. She's, like… I dunno how t' even call it. Everythin' I am… it's 'cause 'f her, too."
The color of embarrassment flushes Colette's face, and relatedly the table as the wood grain beneath her turns a soft rosy shade of reflesive color mimicry. Colosing her eyes on realizing that she's reddening everything around herself, Colette exhales a breathy "Oh, God," closing her eyes and nervously laughing. "I— I'm sorry, it— that wasn't— that was…" one of her hands lifts up to cover her face, a noise in the back of her throat indicating the displeasure at her own choice of monickers.
Smiling through her embarrassment, Colette closes her eyes and bubbles with nervous laughter, letting her hand come down as her brows lift up. Mismatched eyes finally open, squared on Sable and not the horizon as Colette turns to regard her more fully, twisting at the waist and leaning back, one hand planted ont he bench-top behind herself.
"I ain't really the kind've person who pries into how other people lived their lives," Colette admits reluctantly. "M'not like…" she exhales a huffed sigh, "I got my secrets too, y'know? It's just— s'kind've the nature of our beast, ain't it?"
Sable watches the world blush around Colette, and there is a faint crease in her brow, a furrowing of her pale skin that, combined with the slight quirk of her lips, approximates a vague unhappiness. The unhappiness is twofold, really. First, at how shamefully easy it is for her to either see beauty or read beauty into this moment, second, at the fact that such seeing and reading could ever be cause for unhappiness. What she feels, more than anything, is an ache.
She looks away, not because she wants to, but because it is the wisest, simplest way to try and stem the sensation, and the sensations that come with it. It's for the best, she's sure. And it helps her actually hear Colette when she speaks - important. Though it demands her eyes return to her companion, unhappiness replaced by slight consternation.
"That's just wrong, though, darlin'," Sable says, and she's pretty emphatic about the point, "I ain't never one f'r secrets. Never have been. Colette…" she actually rarely uses the other girl's name, not even now, when the half-taboo has mostly passed, "y' didn't tell me that y' were goin' back with Elaine. Elaine said so, all worked up, 'cause she was troubled by how little she know me. Know what she said y' said as th' reason why y' didn't tell me?
"Y' didn't want me t' worry. Darlin', don't that sound familiar? What's th' reason y' didn't tell Tasha 'bout gettin' plugged in that bus, even though yer arright now? Y' didn't want her t' worry. How you go 'bout lovin' her is yer own business, I ain't got no place advisin' y', already overstepped m' bounds too many fuckin' times… but Colette, darlin'," this is crucial, one can tell by the near-hushedness of her tone, the way Sable leans forward, not much, not consciously, but compelled by the importance of her own words, as if they had weight, and lifting them to her lips causes an imbalance that tips her.
"Don't never keep no secrets from me, arright? Not 'nless they aren't yers t' give. Don't never do that. I told you, nothin' I am c'n be held from you. 'n' nothing do I fear so much 's not knowin' y'."
Colette's silence during all of that lingers awkwardly past the end of Sable's sentence. There's a shift of her focus away from the other brunette, fingers curling as she rests her knuckles against the playwood surface she's sitting on, Body posture says everything, and that she's slouching forward and hunching her shoulders implies all of those insecurities. "There's a lot've stuff that's better off not bein' said. Like, just— shit that can't be changed anymore, s'better not t'like…" her tongue presses against the inside of her cheek, nose wrinkles and eyes angle down to the concrete rooftop.
"Stuff that happened when I was little, and just… it's all past now." When Colette finally upturns her mis-matched eyes to Sable, her brows are creased and worry painted across her face. "Don't be mad at me because I didn't…" the words fail, like they always do, and Colette lifts up a hand to scrub over her mouth, then immediately wrinkles her nose and makes a spitting noise from getting dirt on her lips.
Scrubbing her palms on her denim-covered thighs, Colette stares off in the distance past the rooftop. "Ain't nothin' anyone could do about me getting shot, and it'd just make people worried about me. There's no point in telling people about stuff they can't fix…" Swinging her legs forward, Colette hops off the bench, boots clacking against the concrete as she touches down.
"M'sorry if I upset you or somethin'," is a little defensive, but only just. "I just," Colette exhales a breath, turning to look back at Sable. "I wish I didn't have to remember what we did. I was wrong t'make you have t'live with all've this shit too."
She's getting up? Sable reads the cue, rightly or wrongly, as an indicator that Colette is trying to escape the conversation, perhaps bodily. Understandable, maybe, consider the topic, considering Colette's visible discomfort. But Sable isn't having it. There's a certain kind of desperation revealed by the haste with which she leans forward and grabs Colette's wrist, not tugging, not yet, but with a firm grip. Not letting her go anywhere.
"Y'all wait up!" Sable exclaims, sounding maybe more abrupt than she'd like, "y'all don't listen t' me properly, y' know that? Darlin' I ain't mad," her brows lift, "y'all would know if I was mad. I'm askin' y' maybe t' look at what yer sayin', 'n' listen t' what I got t' say 'n' maybe just think a little 'bout mebbe me havin' somethin' worth hearin'. So sit on down, arright? We don't talk, 'n' I know that's my fault f'r being th' way I am 'n' not bein', like, master 'f my own heart but…
"But goddammit Colette, I c'n only be yer friend if y' let me. Siddown. Y' ain't right in th' head, 'n' y' know it. So rest that shit on my shoulder 'n' lemme share yer burden a bit, arright? 'nuff of this carryin' everythin' f'r everyone bullshit."
Mismatched eyes angle away from Sable, but the grip around Colette's wrist keeps her firmly anchored in place. She's awkwardly in place, one arm out and the rest of her body pitched forward as if she would simply topple forward were Sable to let her go, but there's no real tug from Colette to indicate that forward intent. Her eyes shut as she sighs, and when the muscles in her arm relax, Colette is taking a half-step back towards Sable, wariness in her expression.
"I don't know what you want," Colette quietly informs with a slow shake of her head, free hand coming up to brush her bangs from her face that the wind had thrown into disarray. "I don't— you can't help with what I'm doing. I tried," and there comes some more of the emotion, "I tried so hard, and you did help, a little. You— you got some of those tapes, you— " throat closing up, Colette looks away and moves her arm with half-hearted attempt to pry herself free from Sable's grasp.
"If I don't make things right I'm dead anyway," is grated out through her teeth, jaw tense and brows furrowed. "I didn't tell anyone what happened because— because it doesn't matter if I got hurt. I might only have a few weeks left to live. I can't wait to count on other people for this."
Half-hearted attempts can't overcome the fullhearted way Sable keeps her grip on Colette. Her muscles tighten a little as she overcomes Colette's resistance, then grow tauter as she starts applying a little force, compelling Colette backwards as gently as she can while still making her insistence clear. She's not sitting yet, and Sable told her to sit, dammit.
"Y'all are too smart t' think that excuse is anythin' more than horseshit, girl. I know y' ain't insultin' me by lyin' like that, thinkin' I'd believe it, so it's an embarrassment that y'd say it 'n' think it's true," Sable's words are… harsh, but her tone isn't angry - Colette would know if she were. But still, this is more ferocious than she meant. Maybe she needs to give a little.
So she does. Sort of. She stands, steps around to block Colette bodily, not much of a roadblock, being just five-foot-nothing and inconsequential-pounds, but she's there. The wrist is released, but Colette's hand is taken hostage in exchange, and in a daring second prong attack, her other hand is claimed. There. Got her right where she wants her.
Sable's eyes find Colette's, and do their best to capture them. "What if I say I jus' wanna listen, darlin'? What if I agree, from th' top, that I can't help, and won't worry y' tryin'? Colette, I just wanna know. Shit, not even that. I want y' t' tell me. When somethin's eatin' y' away deep inside, y' can't just keep in there an' hope it loses its appetite. Y' gotta spit it th' fuck out. Every love song, darlin', is sung too late. But that don't mean y' shouldn't sing it. All there is t' do, if nothin's t' be done, is t' speak yer fuckin' heart and mind. Darlin'… let me be that f'r y'. Y'all don't wanna worry Tasha? Fine. Worry me."
Cornering does what it is intended to do, even if like cornering any undomesticated animal it winds up with them in a position of apprehension, waiting for that opportunity to scramble into the low brush. Colette may not be a stray cat, but she has much the mannerisms of one, even if Sable's the one with the eyes for it.
Tension eventually bleeds away, eyes angle to the side and Colette refuses to make proper eye-contact with Sable. But then, of course, comes the impetus of trust, even if in small measure. "It's not about that," isn't clearly explained, but As Colette lets her fingers curl against Sable's, it seems like the explanation of what is bothering her is finally going to come out.
"It's not about the Flash or— or what I saw. It…" Colette exhales a sharp breath, then looks up to Sable with her brows lowered and lips pressed together. The sternness in her expression isn't quite delivered as a warning, but as an example of how serious she's trying to be. "You don't tell anyone about this… okay? I— I mean it. Nobody. Not Tasha, Not Tamara, not even my sister."
Looking back to the bench she was sitting on just a moment ago, Colette slouches her shoulders. It's not from being burdened, but rather the unusual sensation of relief that potentially letting go of some of her buden offers.
"I don't know if Elaine told you," Colette's mismatched eyes lift up to yellower ones staring back at her, "but I didn't come back home right away after… after what happened. I had to go to the hospital, and…" mismatched eyes dip from Sable's eyes, and Colette's insecurities draw her back, threaten to pull her away from the conversation.
Getting someone on the spot successfully is all about not freaking them out so much as to make them unwilling or unable to speak, while applying just enough social pressure to make them feel compelled to speak, even if just to escape that pressure, and get permission to leave.
But Sable hopes for more, hopes that Colette will speak and stay, and it seems like maybe, maybe she might just get what she wants. For once, an unworthy part of her adds - unworthy and unrealistic; Sable knows well she's gotten more from this city and the people around her than she ever could have imagined. But desire invents lack where there is none. That is its nature.
"Whatever y' tell me, darlin'," Sable replies, adopting the solemn tone Colette sets, "I'll take t' my grave, if y' bid. Better damned than do you wrong, I swear." And to make the point clear, she rises up and sets a small kiss between the photokinetic's brows.
"Now sit," Sable urges, squeezing Colette's hands for emphasis, "y'all tell me all 'bout it. Don't you spare a detail. I wanna know. Yer gonna tell me, dig?" This is not up for debate, apparently.
Tense and wide-eyed until she's certain it's only her forehead Sable is after, Colette offers an awkward smile when the brunette pulls away, the color on her cheek brought about from memory of a time that seems so long ago when they shared much closer and more intimate time together, even if only fleeting. Clearing her throat as she feels the squeeze to her hands, Colette chooses not the bench she'd been bosted up on before, but instead slowly extricates her hands from Sable's and moves to one of a pair of old lawn chairs set out on the roof adjacent to where the carrots had been growing in their flowerbox.
Sinking down to sit, Colette doesn't lay back, but instead sits with legs swung over one side, hands folded in her lap so she can face the chair adjacent to her. "The… the guy who took me back to see you," Colette begins with a shaky foundation, "he… he brought me to a hospital after I'd been shot. I— I wanted to see someone. It was a fortunate coincidence, I mean…" Sliding her tongue over her lips, Colette shakes her head slowly from side to side.
"I asked for a favor," letting her mismatched eyes wander the spattered dots of paint on her boots, Colette seems uncomfortable. "I know you… didn't know your parents, really. So it— it feels stupid complaining about mine, or just…" a frustrated sigh escapes the teen, and it is evident that she's not used to being open.
"My mom died, back in 2006. She… she didn't die in the explosion. She died've cancer," there's a crease of Colette's brows, her focus down on her folded hands. "I wanted to say goodbye."
It's with an easy pace that Sable moves over to join Colette on the lawn chairs. There's a instinct to hover, but one Sable is good at suppressing. No need to make Colette feel henpecked or further cornered. She's opening up. Sable needs to respect that. And so she does, taking a careful seat and leaning forward, elbows on knees, her posture like a slouch but intent rather than lazy. The yellow of her eyes doesn't gleam like that of a cat's, but instead take on a soft tawny color in the fading light. She listens. She nods, very slightly, to indicate her understanding. But she doesn't speak. Not until Colette is done.
Even then, she grants a brief pause. As far as she's concerned, this is really for Colette's benefit. It's not the hearing that matters, at least not first and foremost. It's the telling.
"Y' don't have t' worry 'bout seemin' stupid or any other sort 'f damned thing," Sable assures Colette, "y'all just speak yer mind. I'm hear t' hear, not t' judge 'r nothin', arright?" Her hand lifts and she scratches the side of her nose with her thumbnail, brow furrowing as the details emerge.
"Oh, darlin'," she says, softly, "'course y' did. Jesus. 'course y' would if y' could," a pause, "didja get to? How'd it go?"
That Colette already looks on the verge of tears is one answer. Withdrawing away from Sable by way of folding one leg up beneath herself and scooting a little further back on the lawnchair, Colette closes her eyes and lifts up hand up, wiping her eyes with the heel of her palm, throat working up and down in noisy swallowing motion. "It went great," is Colette's sarcastic and exasperated answer, a nervous smile crossing her lips followed by a hiccup of laughter that sounds forced.
"I used t'blame her for everything when I was growing up," and she deftly dances around the heart of the matter, "I hated her. I hated my dad, I— " with jaw trembling, Colette lifts up a hand to wipe her eyes dry again. "She died when I was recovering from bein' too close to the explosion, when I was out in the hospital after the bomb." One foot jittering on the ground, Colette's nervous energy begins building.
"I apologized, and she told me not to. She knew," and Colette lurches after the words, "she knew and she didn't— she wouldn't— " one hand comes up and Colette braces her hand against her forehead, sucking in a sharp breath. "Jesus Christ, I can't— I can't talk about this." Both of her hands lift up, as if trying to show just how hands off of the conversation she is.
"I can't, I'm sorry I— this isn't— I can't." There's a lot more wrong with Colette beneath the surface than she lets on.
These are the moments, the instances of import, when the smallest things can dictate the outcome not just of this encounter, but of all that follow. Sable knows this, feels a stirred of anxiety deep within her, a growing swell of nervousness that send not gentle butterflies but powder-winged moths, their wings marked with alien eyes, battering against the interior of Sable's stomach. She can either find a way to let them out, let them go, or they will die in there, rot and make her ill for days. And the worst of it is, it's beyond her power to know which way any action will go.
So she acts on instinct. The rise from the lawn chair has a certain loping grace to it, as does the settling onto Colette's opposite. Sable settles right next to the other girl, arms slipping around her and drawing her into an embrace that has a gentle steadiness to it. Not a grip by any means, but not merely an invitation. An urging, however, subtle. One arm around Colette's waist, the other rising up her back, between her shoulder blades, so her hand can press against her dark hair.
"Come 'ere, darlin'," is all she says. She asks, right now, just for the closeness. No more admissions are demanded. Sable senses that would be more than cruel.
Once more like the stray cat, Colette squirms and struggles when she's confined. But there's only so much that she can run on broken legs before they too give out, and as far as Colette Nichols' emotions are concerned, she's been hobbled all her life. A few months ago, she'd never have done this, the touch of her head against Sable's shoulder and the lack of self-control in that she simply breaks down crying against the other girl is a measure of trust that impossibilities alone were able to reinforce. Maybe there was something sobering about seeing Sable's younger self. Or, maybe it was the sight of losing her, even if some sort of echo of things that never were.
Letting her arms snake their way around Sable's waist, there's a certain desperation in the emotional catharsis here. But even in this invited embrace, Colette is still apologizing. A choked sounding, "I'm sorry," against Sable's shoulder doesn't have any context, but she's likely apologizing for herself.
Like any raging fire, though, the hottest ones burn out the fastest. While Colette's emotional breakdown seemed inevitable, there are signs she's starting to pull herself together into a better shape, even if that shape had puffy red eyes and excess snot.
The language of the body is well known to Sable. In touch and in vision, she is familiar with its finer points. She can react with skill and celerity… when she's not too badly caught up in the chaos of her own thoughts and desires. For all that her feelings for and about Colette remain tangled at best, she is good to her word that she is here to hear, even when it comes to listening to the tension of Colette's muscles and the rhythm of her sobs. The weeping causes Sable to hold Colette tighter, being steady where the younger girl cannot, and once the worst has passed and Colette starts to regain herself, Sable's embrace loosens by tiny degrees, ceding control back to the other woman step by step.
The apology is answered with a light nuzzle of Sable's nose into Colette's hair. "Don' be," she murmurs, "never be. Not with me." Finger curl a little, scritching lightly at the back of Colette's head.
"That puts me to sleep," is said with a breathy and awkward laugh, one admittedly lacking context until Colette manages to find the rest of her words. "The— scratching. It'll put me right t'sleep…" She's quick to try and extricate herself from Sable's shoulder, as if worried that her head would soon wear out its welcome. Their's is a perilous relationship pockmarked with misunderstandings and lost opportunities. Breathing in deeply, Colette lifts up a hand to rub at her eyes, soon rolling down the sleeve of her hooded sweatshirt to dry where tears had dampened everything.
"God I— I am so sorry about that," she says anywaym despite the chiding last time. "I'm— I don't like… being like that." Sliding her tongue across her lips, Colette looks up to Sable, her brows furrowed. Nervousness tickles the pit of her stomach, and as Colette looks down to her hands trapped between her knees, she's talking to her feet.
"When I was a little kid," Colette starts in a small voice, "my dad abused my sister. I… I never knew 'bout it till I was older. When she moved out on her own 'round College age, he moved t'me." Turning a nervous look up to the stairwell, Colette seems infinitely paranoid about eavesdroppers. But the fast cadence of her speech seems to imply that she is hustling to try and get it all out.
"That… went on until I was about thirteen, when Nicole came back and took me away. She— we moved t'New York where she'd been livin', an' she got me out've all… all've that." Looking aside, Colette's eyes close and her hands slide out from being trapped by her knees, only to wrap around herself. "Seein' my mom brought back all've that… an' she said— she knew. An' she didn't do nothin' because she was afraid've losing my dad. Breaking up the family." Bitterness, there, in each word. Her eyes glass over, emotion restrained this time, but only just.
"You don't tell nobody. Only— only Tasha knows. I ain't— I don't want nobody else t'know about that." Mismatched eyes alight back to Sable, and Colette's jaw is unsteadied again. "Nobody."
Sable's brows lift just a little as Colette tells her about the effect of that scratch. That's a very small but very tender detail of the body. It intimacy, or rather Sable's interpretation of it as intimacy, makes the older girl feel momentary very… odd. Like the world beneath her shifted for a moment. A roll of the stomach.
"D- uh," give her a second, "don't you worry 'bout it, darlin'. Y' feel no shame with me…"
But feeling drops out of her stomach entirely when Colette goes on. This is a world she's brushed up against, but never had the misfortune to experience. There is a line she has not been pushed over, a dark territory she has only heard the howls from. She can't know what it is Colette, feels. She can only just feel for Colette, and ever insufficiently.
Sable slides up to Colette, leaning over and close, but not trying to hug her again. Colette is holding a delicate equilibrium, Sable presumes. She wants to be present with her, but not to risk upsetting her balance. She doesn't want to dishonor Colette's courage.
"To my grave 'n' final fate," she pledges, softly, "a secret, unt' eternity." Where she picked up that phrasing is anyone's guess. There is a lapse into silence. Sable could speak… but this is still Colette's time. She doesn't want to interpose too soon.
"There's someone out on Staten Island," Colette suddenly jerks the conversation in a seemingly unrelated direction, "found out about it a while back when me, an' Chuckles were unloading some supplies at the Lighthouse." At first the things dont' seem related, and with her brows furrowed in consideration, Colette's expression does not belie the unfortunate thread of similarities.
Time spent thinking about how best to frame what she's saying brings a look back up to Sable, Colette's reddened eyes having an intensity in them that wasn't there a moment ago, defiant. "People who like… sell people. Fucking— kids, sable. Little kids, t'sick motherfuckers like— " like her father isn't said aloud, but for all the sting her words have it may as well have been.
"It's been bugging me, I'm— going to see someone later about it. Somebody who knows shit, I— I don't have time to fucking— deal with this sort've stuff but…" one of Colette's hands rises, this time bracing her palm against her forehead, fingers raking back through her hair. "I can't let that shit slide. I just— I don't want to tell Tasha about it. If she thinks I'm— " Colette looks up to Sable quickly, worriedly.
"I don't know what t'do. All've this' been screwing with me for months. The visions, the fucking knife, the… I dunno," and Colette's sharp sigh punctuates that ambiguous end to her sentence. "I dunno…"
For all the Sable promised just to listen and not to advise, she can't help but feel an impetus towards action. She has a fierce if slightly off kilter sense of justice herself, tending towards the defense of people she loves. And the hate of her love is her hate in turn. Not that she would need much reason to hate such people, but it takes on the force of the truly personal, and nothing matters so much to Sable as the personal.
"Y'all don' worry 'bout that now," Sable says, affecting something like calm and comfort, though there is a tension underlying, "y'all have too much on yer plate. Y' gotta take some time t' figure it out."
Not all of it she understands. She hasn't seen all the vision recordings compiled, and she isn't sure what knife Colette is talking about, but none of it is good and none of it is anything Sable thinks it smart to ask about now. The do so might compound Colette's anxiety, which is the last thing she needs right now.
"Y'all should mebbe think long 'n' hard 'bout what Tasha'd want t' know, though, darlin'," Sable suggests, as gently as she can, herself pushing down the immediacy of her outrage, needing to practice what she preaches, "she 'n' me… we ain't precisely twins in nature or manner, but we both 'f us, I know, wanna be everythin' we can f'r y'. So… don't you do nothin' t' increase yer worry, 'n' keep t' yerself whatever y' need t'… but I'm sure, just fuckin' positive, that Tasha would help y' through this.
"Either way, though, darlin'… I'm here for you. Whenever y' need me. Any time at all. I pledge it."
"Thanks," Colette whispers as she initiates unexpected contact, reaching out to lay a hand down on Sable's knee. When not in moment of desperation or poorly thought out affection, touch remains the single most important of Colette's senses, despite how she chooses to view the world, or perhaps because of it. "I— I mean that. I don't— I dunno why you wanted t'talk t'me so bad, it's not like…" at the fear of sounding rude, Colette cuts herself off, shakes her head, and looks over to Sable. Round about that time, the sun dips down behind the westernmost skyscrapers, casting a long shadow across the rooftop of Gun Hill.
"I dunno how t'do it, Sable. I dunno how t'tell people what it is I'm doing, without everyone worryin' that I'm not gonna' come back, or— " eyes shut, Colette shakes her head from side to side, slowly. "When they open again, it's to an honest smile offered out to Sable. "I guess I'm just worried nobody trusts me. Spent all my life not being' able t'take care've myself. I guess— I sort've have t'prove to everyone else that I can."
That smile turns wry, if perhaps a bit self-deprecating, and in that there is an awkward, though thoughtful, silence.
"Ain't easy, darlin'," Sable says, a brow slightly quirked, not in incredulity but rather in a sort of irony, a sort of self-deprecation of her own, "sortin' principle from pigheadedness. Spent many hours tryin' t' make sense, see if there's any difference y' c'n rely 'pon. Can't even trust others t' see. All I know, darlin', is that th' only causes worth takin' up 'n' th' only things worth doin' anythin' f'r, got love at their heart. Th' only truth for certain in th' world is that. Y'all follow yer love…"
Self deprecation totally banished for most of this speech, it sinks in after a brief pause. "Now, figurin' out what love is… that's a fair sight harder. But it gets easier with practice," she huffs, "just wish practice weren't so fuckin' tough. Shit hurts."
It's a sort of patter she's got going. Comfort and then something approximating humor. Sable wants to draw Colette away from the grim realities for a bit. She's asked her to face enough of that for a lifetime, let alone an evening. "Whaddya mean? I wan'ed t' talk t' y' 'cause… like… yer…" a murky sort of pause - how can she put this, "yer… meant t' be. Like… we are. Not, like, in any particular way, not necessarily. 'r, like, I dunno what that particular way is 'cause th' signs are sorta real confusing but this… us… it's what's s'pposed t' happen. 'n' I'm sure this moment… is one 'f th' real important ones.
"Y' c'n tell. Can't y'?"
It has Colette nervous, all this talk of supposed to be and predestination. Hair on the back of her neck rises in a tickle only she can feel, translated in a dawning look of worry that crosses her face. "Sable— " comes too quick, too sharp, and Colette is trying to self-censor herself more as of late. Tugging the sleeves of her sweatshirt over her hands, she looks down to her lap, sheepishly, then back up to the brunette sitting next to her.
"I don't believe in stuff like that," which is to say she refuses to. "Fate or, whatever? S'bullshit, what— what I saw back then, back in Georgia, it— there's just no such thing." Though frustrated as she is, Colette doesn't let her expression show it for very long. "Doesn't mean I'm not glad I've had you in my life, though. I— even for all the frustrating moments, you've been one of the bes people I've ever met. You— you helped me through a really confusing time in my life, an' you're infinitely patient with all my bullshit."
Colette waves one hand in the air around herself. "Case in point."
"But, don't say nothin' like anything was meant t'be. It cheapens that we're all the results of the choices we made. I put myself here, and you put yourself here. It's good, an' that's really all the world needs." There's a smile that crosses Colette's face as her head dips down. "S'all I need."
"Naw, naw, darlin'," Sable says, "y' misunderstand how Fate works. When I say we're meant t' be, it don't mean we had t' be, 'r that we always was gonna be. Fate don't work that way, that'd just be silly. Things havin' t' be one way 'r 'nother. Fate's, like, where a choice matters. It's where th' universe tells y' what it wants from y', 'n' if yer clever, y' hear, 'n' if yer wise, y'll listen up good. Signs aren't what's sure t' come, they're what may come if y' know how t' read it right. 'n' if y' read it right… y' do th' right thing."
Sable dips her head, "Adelaide changed my life, saved my soul. Broke my heart, too. Fuckin' still hurt, still feel a pain that'll never go 'way. But at least there's a deepness in me that far down enough t' feel pain there. An' there wouldn't be if I hadn't learned t' love… which Adelaide taught me. Darlin', that name means somethin', and it means somethin' that y' used it, way before I knew it meant anythin' at all. That's Fate, talkin'. But it ain't takin' away our choice. It's just helping us make it."
Normally argumentative, Colette is surprisingly quiet when she's countered. Instead, there's a dawning look of brief uncertainty in her eyes, if only for a moment. A nervous twitch of Colette's brows comes a moment after, mismatched eyes angled up to Sable and a worried expression crossing her face, even as the faintest hint of color pinkens her cheeks. "Yeah, well…"
Shifting forward, Colette pushes herself up to her feet with hands on her knees. "When'd you get so philosophical an' book smart n'stuff?" One black brow rises and a crooked smile glides easy across Colette's lips. One of her sleeve-shrouded hands sweept up and brushes dark locks of hair away from her eyes as she looks down to the other girl.
"It's gonan start gettin' dark soon," is Colette's dismissive way of trying to avoid a conversation she isn't sure how to handle yet, though not for lack of enjoying it. "M'gonna cook dinner, s'my turn, y'know?" One black brow lifts, and Colette tilts her head towards the stairs. "I'd— I mean— you're welcome t'have dinner with me an' Tasha. Tamara might stop by too, never know."
Dipping her head down and tucking her hands into the front pouch of her sweater, Colette offers a sheepish smile. "Unless it ain't meant t'be or something." And that's just teasing.
"That ain't books, darlin'," Sable says, folds her arms across her chest and lifting her chin, "thass jus' what I learned from th' world. 'n' what music taught me. Harmony, darlin'. Verse and chorus. All beautiful things got somethin' 'f music to 'em, and beauty's our best way 'f seein' good as it is." This last little bit is borrowed, but it sounds less poetic to say 'what I learned from the world, music, and ex-girlfriends'. Though those are her three chief sources of knowledge.
Sable gets to her feet as well, toddles over, and puts her arms around Colette. "Thank you, darlin'" she says, a bit hurried, the hug maybe little awkward now, as if all her good, well timed hugging was used up in the past minutes, "y' dunno how y' honor me. 'n' y' dunno what y' mean t' me, 'n' my life. But I do. I'll know f'r both 'f us if I gotta."
Sable releases Colette and clasps her hands behind her. "I'll come on by, sure," she sniffs, "wear a rain poncho this time, though." She grins, "y'all get along t' yer lovely lady. I'm gonna give these poor weeds a good home, save 'em from destruction." A nod tipped in the direction of the flower box she's claimed for the weeds she's uprooted.
There's a moment where Colette considers the weeds, brows furrowed as the cool breeze blows across the darkened rooftop, toussling her hair and blowing chill through her sweatshirt. Reaching behind herself, Colette tugs a pair of dirt-stained gardening gloves out of the back pocket of her jeans where they'd been tucked.
"I can wait a little bit t'eat," she offers with a faint smile, taking a few booted steps towards Sable, her smile growing some. "It'd tbe a lot less harder," she admits with a look down to the plants, brows creased and eyes angles back up to Sable, "if we didn't have to do all our work alone."
And in that offer, it's as if Colette has said; see, I can learn.
It's a long ways from being perfect, and a lot harder to open up to the people she truly cares about. But at the very least, that's progress. "C'mon," she says with a slap of the gloves against Sable's shoulder, moving to walk past the brunette with a cheerful smile.
That's progress, and that's something.