Participants:
| Scene Title | Pasts and Patience |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Sable calls on Delilah after receiving troubling news about Magnes. She receives reassurance, as well as a lengthy tale, but at the end of the day she's still left waiting. |
| Date | July 14, 2010 |
Octagon: Else and Delilah's Apartment
The apartments of the Octagon are among some of the most prime pieces of rental real-estate in New York City. Bright, open, and clean, these apartments are all painted an eggshell white and feature floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a sweeping, unobstructed view of the East River and Manhattan skyline. Hardwood floors spread from wall to wall and through the spacious bedrooms and private laundry rooms complete with washer/dryer utilities.
The open-concept kitchen in the apartment features stainless steel appliances, polished granite countertops, cherry finished cabinets and ceramic floor tile with all the convenience of a modern kitchen. The bathrooms are finished with classic subway wall tile and porcelain floor tile in bathrooms with elegantly designed corner-set curved showers wproviding more spacious shower area along with porcelain pedestal sinks.
Each apartment comes in two or three bedroom designs, each with spacious walk-in closets with individually controlled heating and cooling. The apartment is also set up with free Cable TV and Internet hook-ups in multiple locations.
There's little warning and no stopping her. Sable would have burned rubber to get to Delilah's place, but as she can't drive, she's forced to rely on what feels like the excruciating slowness of the city buses. The entire ride she's glaring at other passengers, mostly regardless of age or gender, though no real trouble starts, much thanks to her badly not wanting to get kicked off the bus, stranded halfway to her destination. She doesn't listen to music. The only music she'd be able to stand would only serve to channel her anger, and then it would need a vector, a direction, and maybe an object. And no one needs or wants that.
She fairly bounds off the bus. She's wearing her black spaghetti strap from the gig at Tartarus, along with cargo shorts that don't match, but hey, whatever, wrong kind of gay. She scoots past doorways and, after waiting a moment for the elevator, decides 'fuck it' and takes the stairs, two at a time (which is like three at a time for normal sized people). When she finally gets to Delilah's door, then, she's panting a bit, though not wheezing or out of breath. She thuds her head against the door, three times, to announce her presence.
As she waits, she tries to restrain the wildness in her eyes, replace it with something more presentable, something less likely, she hopes, to bother or Delilah. She tries, instead, to look tired.
The usual series of events occurs after Sable's improvised knocking; Samson barking, Dee's footsteps on the other side of the door. When she opens it, it is in a pair of basketball shorts and a too-big white shirt. It's not a glamorous day, it seems. Even her hair is just pulled back into a lazy knot, little makeup.
"Was that you thumping around?" Comes the immediate question, Delilah leaning out to peer into the hall. "Sounded like a stampede for a second."
Sable's eyes find Dee, and thanks to her suppression of wildness, the vacuum self-induced fatigue leaves produces makes room for what comfort seeing an unglamorous Delilah can bring. Which isn't small. Reckless acts of emotional investiture have their upsides. "Jesus, am I glad t' see you, darlin'," Sable says, sounding one hundred percent genuine about it. She glances in the direction Dee looks, as if expecting to see some other culprit. But no.
"Yeah," she admits, "That w's me. I'm… I guess I'm pretty shook up. Mostly 'cause I dunno how shook up t' really be, so, like…" she gives a helpless shrug, "Y' know me. Gonna choose the wildest 'f fuckin' options, when in doubt." She tries peeking around Delilah. "C'n I come in? 'n'… mebbe get somethin' like an embrace 'r somethin'? Promise I'll explain my damn self, given half a second 'n' a place t' set down my sorry ass."
Delilah laughs, warily, hooking her arm behind Sable as she turns back inside of the doorway. "Come on in. You seem like you're going to lose what marbles you have left." Samson, doing his doggie duties, comes to give Sable a sniff and a lick on her hand before trundling away into the apartment again. Deems her worthy! Harumph harumph. When she has nudged Sable in, the door clicks locked behind them.
"Have a seat, yeah, you want some water or something? You feel anxious."
Sable slips both her arms around Delilah and gives her a quick squeeze, a motion that seems to anchor her somewhat, enough that she can plop onto the couch, shoving off her shoes with the tips of her feet and crossing her legs, socked ankle to socked ankle. She lets out a long 'oof' and then states: "Magnes got involved with some, like, blowin' shit up type activities.
"Which I'm guessin' ain't hardly th' first time," yellow eyes move up to Delilah, expecting confirmation from her on this supposition, "But I thought he'd put a stop t' it. 'n'… aw, hell. Okay. Lemme start from what I know f'r sure," she rubs her brow, "He got mixed up with these, like, Messiah types. As are on th' news 'n' all. Which I dunno how recent he joined up, but now he's gone and quit. 'cept he says now, as these are bad dudes he's dealin' with, he says now that mebbe he'll have t' go on the run. 'n' I dunno what t' do, 'cause I dunno even what's goin' on 'n'…"
She halts her ramble. She bites her lip, sharp canine pressing a divot in her flesh. "Y've known 'im better. 'n' y' know 'bout all this… this heavy shit, right? Th' things buried deep beneath, that I know I'm treadin' 'pon? Those coffins y' spoke 'f. Well, I feel like th' dead 'r' stirrin'. I feel like I'm on unsound ground, hon. So… I come t' you," she smiles, helplessly, "Mixin' metaphors… y' know yer my port in th' storm."
Delilah is able to listen while she pours Sable a glass of water. When she gets back to hand it over and sit down, her eyes are practically threatening to roll right out of her head. "This happens like, what, every few months, he finds something else to stick his nose into. Sometimes he gets it caught in the door, but nothing ever happens. If these people are so bad, and are the ones that did all the stuff on the news-" The redhead sounds very certain of this.
"If they haven't killed him already, I wouldn't worry about it. Maybe they think its too much trouble, maybe the CIA will steal him again, who knows." Delilah sits back, shoulders shrugging and eyes on Sable. "If he's freaking out, he does that a lot too when he gets into trouble. I almost wonder if he's a running joke sometimes, you know?"
Sable shuts up and listens to Delilah. She came to her for a reason - she trusts Dee's opinion on matters Magnes to be definitive. She takes the glass of water and peers into it for a moment, like maybe it's part of the information Dee's conveying, that perhaps there's an object lesson in there. Nope. Just a glass of water. She takes a small sip, mostly just because it's there. She doesn't feel particularly thirsty. The gesture of hospitality, in and of itself, is what does her the most good.
The yellow eyed girl turns in her seat to better face Delilah, shifting ninety degrees. "So th' worst I gotta worry 'bout is maybe losin' my bassist f'r a while?" she says, which is about what she gleans from all this, "What does he just have a sorta luck on the balance? Gets himself int' shit, but it don't ever come t' nothin'? How's that work? Nothin' comes t' bite him in th' ass?" She wrinkles her nose, feeling free to be a little more mad at Magnes now that she's less worried, "'cause he'd fuckin' deserve a bit of that, seein' what worry he puts his near 'n' dear through. Tryin' to dash off t' fuckin knows where. Offered the whole band ticket, I guess, which is fine but Jesus, like I don't have things here I wanna stay close t'…" Her eyes dart up to Delilah at this. The implication is obvious, if not directly stated. "Glad t' hear y' don't figure it'll come t' much. But damn… I'd like t' know a little better whatall is goin' on, or has gone on, y'know? I feel like… I dunno… like I walked int' a movie bein' made, halfway through. They gimme a script fer, like, the wacky fuckin' friend 'r comic relief 'r somethin', tell me t' figure it out m'self. I wanna be in the know a little."
"He gets bitten enough, trust me." Delilah puts a hand on Sable's knee for the length of a pat or two. "This isn't the first time he's gotten in trouble, is what I'm saying. He doesn't know how valuable he can be. If he does run off, I don't see him being gone long. Especially if we all stay here, he'll think he has to stay and protect us. His knight thing is nice and all, but it's as predictable as buttering both sides of the toast."
Samson rambles on over, putting himself between both pairs of knees, his big head on the cushions. "If you wanna know about things, we can do that. But some stuff even I'm not really supposed to know, so-"
Sable blinks at this particular metaphor. Who butters both sides of their toast. She presumes this is a British thing to say. She immediately becomes very fond of the expression, as Delilah uses it. Such is the emotional economy of the besotted. She even smiles.
"Arright," she says, sounding finally properly reassured. Her eyes move down to Samson, and her smile slants to one side. "Know what you want, dontcha, hound?" She reaches out to scratch Samson vigorously between the ears. "Easy bein' a dog, ain't it? Yer a lucky boy with a lovely mom, aincha? Thass right. Thass right, y' sure are." Dog talk. Therapeutic.
When Sable lifts her eyes to Delilah again, she looks ready. "What y' can tell me, darlin', please do tell me. 'n' know, 'f course, that loose 's m' lips may be in th' day t' day, I won't say a word 'f it t' any soul if y' bid me keep quiet 'bout it."
"I'm going to get a glass of juice before I start, this is going to take a longass time. Hope you have an empty afternoon." Delilah begins by saying just this; as she goes to get herself a drink, she trusts Sable to settle in with Samson for a nice, big, storytime.
And she was not understating it. Sable wanted to know the history of how Delilah got into this particular world, and of MAgnes' many run ins with trouble, and what came of them. They are there for quite a while, and time seems to be measured by how many cookies or leftovers they can munch down while it happens. A box of the former and all of the week's leftovers later, the storyteller, as Delilah is, comes to the present- to at least around the point that she entered the boy's life, and even after it. Sable is wily enough to be able to fill in certain blanks on her own, and be completely blown away by the parts she would have never known otherwise.
If she ever regrets knowing something, it will be safe to say that it would be Delilah's fault for telling her. She does, however, leave out some more sensitive and personal things, at least on their mutual friend's behalf. But even without, the time they spend is a hell of a tale.
You kidding? Sable skipped work today for this. She's wiiide open. And she's attentive. For all that she never once really paid any attention in school, she seems to be making up for lost time by attending to Delilah's long narrative. She's not a bad audience, either. Gaping at the right points. 'Refusing to believe' for just long enough to be stunned by the truth. Snickering when things get funny, become somber when they are anything but. Having something of a badly checkered past her, and being absolutely devoted to both the main characters in this tale, Sable forgives anything that might possibly require forgiveness, and seems to regret no knowledge gained. This is her initiation, best as she can manage it, and she is, above all else, honored. And so she expresses, when the tale is over, though only after s brief period of dumbstruck silence.
"I'm fuckin' honored, hon," is precisely what Sable says, full of cookies and things nearly learned. She scoots closer to Delilah on the couch, reaching out to drape her hands over the other girl's shoulders. Her gaze is inquisitive, and to a purpose. She's trying to see if Delilah looks any different to her, for what she's learned. Her features somehow cast in a new light, better explained in their formation. She very slowly smiles, wide, feckless. "Thanks, darlin'," she says, "I know mebbe it's nothin' special y' tellin' me. Yer an open sort 'f person, which I admire 'n', like, relate t'. But just t' take th' time, rehashin' all that…" she bites her lip again, but this time the gesture means something very different.
"Y' think yer clear 'f it all, now?" Sable asks, "Y' think y' know what y' want 'n' 'r goin' 'bout gettin' it, livin' as y' are?"
"I will do what I have to, if it comes to that- but right now I'm concentrating on me and my own." Delilah has to take a few extra moments to translate for herself. "I'll never forget some of it, but that seems to help me before hurting me. Her hand has long been on Samson's skull, fingertips rubbing at the sleek brindle fur of his forehead. "I can't just ignore it if it happens these days, and I do try to do little things."
"We'll be in textbooks one day, I'm sure. Best to remember how it actually went, before other people screw it up. I'd want you to know the real deal anyway. It's all easier to live with than living with lies."
"Dang…" Sable says, easing back a little, hands slipping closer to Delilah's neck, thumbs lifting to gently brush against the sides of it. Her head tilts, she smiles, she shakes her head, laughing a little. "'n' now my own story, which I figured was halfway interestin' in its way, seems awful drab in comparison. Guess I gotta live life twice as excitin' from here on out. Gotta catch up t' y'." She leans forward to kiss Dee on the tip of her nose.
"If ever y' should need a rightly written history," Sable assures Dee, very serious about the offer from the sounds of it, "I'll write it up in song. If y' should want it sung. Just th' parts folks need t' remember, t' keep their hearts 'n' minds free."
Her eyes flick down to Samson, then lift to the kitchen door, then return to Dee, "I took th' day off work. Mind if I stuck around?" she sounds hopeful, "I c'n help out with what needs doin'. Clean dishes 'r help with dinner 'r take this feller," she tips her head, indication Samson, "Out 'n' about." That smile again, lacking all guile. "I'd like t' spend th' day with y'."
"A stay at home date, then?" Delilah smiles, patting Samson once before she picks up the pair of emptied glasses to take them to the kitchen. "Song is one medium where times like these are never lost, or left behind. Everyone remembers the songs when they think of rough patches. Even the Star Spangled Banner is like that." If Sable wants to follow her around, she doesn't seem to mind it.
"You'll have to share some of your stories with me someday. If you're not willing today…" Wherever Sable is, Dee finds her with a curious little look of her own.
An unkind soul would call Sable dogged. And, to be fair, some of her mannerisms are a touch canine. Loyalty, at least, is a virtue she can claim in kind. But so, too, a certain avidness. She pads after Delilah, into the kitchen, and tries to scoot around to the sink before Delilah can get here, trying already to make good on her offer to 'help out'. If Sable could see herself objectively, she'd facepalm in an instant. She knows this isn't good game on her part. But game went out the window long ago with regards to Delilah. She's an unaccounted-for factor.
The yellow eyed girl snags the nearest sponge, setting about to hand wash the glasses. That there may be a dish washer never once occurs to her. She's not used to such technological devilry! Plus the gesture of putting glasses into a machine is somewhat less indicative of her willingness to be useful. As she scrubs the edges, she wrinkles her nose. "Mostly my story's the same old one, over 'n' over. Get a job, lose a job. Get a girl, lose a girl. 'n' all one long trek up north." The sponge slides in soaping the bottoms of the glasses, "Before that… be in school, skip school. Get drunk, get sober. Most 'f what y' might call interestin' 'r notable ain't so nice t' hear of," she rinses the glasses, sets them out to dry, "But anythin' y' ask, darlin', I'll tell y'. Ain't interested in keepin' nothin' from y'. Nor really from anyone. I ain't lived life t' keep my livin' locked away."
Delilah doesn't mind Sable's washing of things one bit. In fact, she takes one of her dry handtowels to buff the glasses with. "Sounds like you've always been quite the vagabond. What a little rogue, eh?" She smirks, momentarily picturing Sable IE rogue garb. It fits. Roll for stealth! Lockpicking +2! Detect traps! Well, some more likely than others.
"Where are you from, exactly? I seem to know a lotta people from down south."
"Aw, well, darlin'," Sable says, grinning crookedly at the roguish attribution. She'd insist on being a bard, if she knew the terms. Charisma modifier as high as she could get it. A hit at parties, favorite with the ladies. Playing a Song of Valor. "I've sworn off th' worst 'f such things. Last thing I stole was those roses I gave y'," she winks, "Figure that makes a good end t' my career 's a thief, eh? Makes it all seem a touch more noble."
Washing done, Sable turns and hikes herself up onto the rim of the sink, balancing herself there. "Georgia," she says, "Atlanta in particular. 'n', like, its surroundin' neighborhoods. In 'n' out of different foster homes 'til I was fifteen, when I split. Reason I never went t' high school 'r nothing," she pauses, considering whether or not she should bring up what she's thinking of bringing up, "'s why," she says, deciding to just go for it, "I ain't so good at writin' 'n' all. As y've seen f'r yerself."
Her head tilts, and she tosses a question back. "Whoall d' you know from south of Mason-Dixon? Met a couple m'self. Mother Superior Abby, for one. 'n' the preacher man."
Oh. Delilah looks a little forlorn now, though that is almost expected with such a lonely story. She smiles softly, however, afterward. "Most of the same, some others that have come and gone, you know the drill." Her arm bumps a little against Sable's, reassuring. Maybe this is why Sable was so interested in Dee's family- not one of her own?
"And you just kinda…wandered all the way here? That's a long way."
"Took me what I figure is 'bout… four years t' manage it," Sable agrees, nodding. She reaches out to poke Delilah's hip with a swinging, socked foot after the bump, answering touch for touch. "Some of it on the street, squattin' in buildin's, staying in shelters. Sometimes it was better, if I landed a job I could stand t' keep, 'r found a lady who'd take me in," her grin, both smug and a little rueful, indicates the sort of arrangement this would imply. "Movin' itself's not so slow, if y' can raise money f'r a bus. It's the money raisin' that keeps you stuck," she wrinkles her nose, "Won't say it was easy. But I'm not sore 'bout any of it, not really. I refuse t' regret, y'know?" She scoots over, reaches out to brush Delilah's cheek. "Honest, I don't regret any step that's manage t' bring me t' be right here, right now."
Delilah shies away, only as an act of faking ticklish. "You're such a sweet-talker, but I'm sure you know that." She nudges Sable back with the edge of her hip. "Are you really happy about this new leaf? In one place?" Sable is sort of a natural wanderer, right?
"Sweet talker, sure," Sable admits, sounding more proud than caught-out, "But never dishonest 'bout it. I mean what I say, no matter how it is I say it." She shifts, her small frame managing to recline on the countertop, her legs spanning the gap of the sink, her elbow supporting her head as she reclines like an Odalisque.
"Figure I've got, like, wanderlust?" the yellow eyed girl says, grinning. She sings a low tune, "Lord I was born a ramblin' man - Tryin' t' make a livin' and doin' the best I can," mercifully brief, and she has a nice voice, a little husky in that rendition, "Naw. I mean, I gotta move, sure. But movin' comes in all sorts. I'm happy, makin' some cash, makin' progress with my band," she bites her lip, reaching out to run her index and middle finger in a walk up the curve of Delilah's belly, "Chasin' my girl."
Delilah sticks her bottom lip out a little, peering down at Sable's hand. "You're making me feel- traversable." She tries to not laugh. "I'm not a mountain yet. But actually I think one time someone had a toy car on me- I don't know if it was one of the kids, or Teo, or what." Her hands go up to cover her face, giggling. "And you haven't chased me much lately. Not especially."
The not-yet-mountain climbing fingers find the spot just between the twin peaks of Delilah's bust, then pause. Sable looks down at her fingers, then up at Delilah, brows lifted in surprise, alarm. Her fingers tremble, apparently daunted by the task before them.
Sable's headtilt, with her resting lengthwise, almost tips Delilah upside down in her vision. World going topsy-turvy. Her hand flattens, pressing lightly against the redhead, rubbing up and down. "How's that, darlin'? Have I been lettin' the ol' speed needle sag what I wasn't lookin'? Whatall d' y' think I'm doin'?"
If anything, Dee lifts her hands to nudge Sable's away from The Girls. Belly is fine. Though the touching and fluttering from the inside don't add up well- there's an alien moment where the skin under Sable's hand wriggles just a little. Well, hello there. Samson, by now has wandered to the kitchen, checking things out.
"I think you're making friends, I'm not sure." Delilah hums, thoughtful, putting a hand on her hip and leaning back a bit more.
Sable's eyes move down to the source of the strange disturbance, that third member of the gathering. She squints. Hey. What do you think you're doing, buddy? Her hand slips away, dangling over the edge of the counter. "Figure mebbe they're the same thing, darlin'?" she suggests, "A lover's fine, but love's finer, 'n' if y' ain't friends with yer lover, love's outta reach." With Samson they are four. Sable gives the dog a nod of recognition, before returning, as ever, to Delilah.
"Far as I c'n figure, hon," Sable says, swinging herself back into a sit, "Y' don't fall easy. Y' roll easy. Y've got love t' give, 'n' y' give it. But there ain't much I do - ain't much I offer y' - that y' don't just seem t' take in stride, y'know? Like… like it's much as y'd expect. Sweet, but nothin' too special," she quirks her lips, "I wanna be special. But that's somethin' I know I gotta earn, 'n' not quick. Not rushin'. Patient-like. 'n' while I ain't patient by nature, darlin'… yer somethin' worth waitin' for."
"I'm sorry, that sort of sounded like poetry." Delilah only seems to react a few seconds into the silence after Sable, rubbing at her belly over the t-shirt. "I zoned out. Oops. Sorry." A second apology, if haphazard. "Can we practice? Chords or something? I'm feeling kinda musical. Or we can just- turn something up?"
Sable frowns slightly, not upset, but thoughtful. She nods. "Never a moment wasn't improved by music," she says, agreeably. She slips down from the counter, landing in front of Delilah. She smiles up at the girl, then offers her hands. "We c'n have it both ways. Listen 'n' practice with what we listen t'. Some easy stuff. Power chords. Basic rock 'n' roll."
Her latter statement remains unanswered, unaddressed - the matter of specialness rests by itself. So it goes. Patience is something she'll continue to cultivate.