Something Is Gonna Come


delilah2_icon.gif sable_icon.gif

Scene Title Something Is Gonna Come
Synopsis The future is inevitable. Which one? That remains to be seen.
Date April 13, 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..

When you dream deeply, waking up can be like rising from another life. Good dreams can be crueler, in this way, than nightmares. Nightmares frighten, terrify, and assail, but a sweet dream twists the knife. You wake up, believing for a moment that you're not alone, trusting for a second that she isn't really gone, and finding the bed beside you, cold.

Sable does not wake up to a cold bed. That particular unkindness is not visited upon her. But she does wake up from another life, for there is nothing else to call it. The once dead, still living, older. The now living, living still, but soon to die. And a child. A one year old child with a familiar name. An impossible one.

"Adel?" comes out hoarse, almost whispered.

And so Sable is suddenly Zhuangzi, not sure if she's a butterfly dreaming she's a rock lesbian, or a rock lesbian dreaming she's a butterfly.

A single turn and the material warmth of Delilah Trafford proves to Sable that this is very much real. Dreams can never do justice. But this isn't quite comfort enough, not in this state of confusion. The dark haired girl nudges up behind Delilah and bumps her face against the redhead's shoulder once, twice, three times. Wake up. Wake up. Please.

"Samson, get outta the bed…" Delilah's response isn't the most heartfelt, but it does tell her companion that she is being disturbed. A couple more nudges gets a disgruntled whine, and then Dee is turning herself over, tangled in blanket as she tries to move. "Ugh, what time is it? Sable…" It comes with a sigh, exasperated at the moment of waking. The redhead finally finds Sable's face, eyes squinting against sudden dryness.

"What is it? Did Walter wet his diaper again? I swear this rain hates his bladder…" It takes a short time, of her trying to find a reason, before something does occur to her- the whole thing where they were asleep, and now they aren't- and that it has happened once this week already. Uh oh.

This face is most definitely at least kissing cousins with the face she wore just the night before last: confounded as she rarely is, her peculiar brain straining against signs it desperately wants to interpret. Worry is etched deep, causing the smooth slope of her brow to furrow.

"Happened again," almost goes without saying, but Sable can't be sure with Delilah having just been so rudely awoken, "one 'f them dreams. Memories. Fuckin'-" she closes her eyes tight, "it w's Adel, our- our," her voice shifts into a higher key, the octave of incredulity, "our fucking drummer. Adel w's there. She w's," her eyes open, and her tone tempers, "a little baby. It was her goddamn birthday party. One year old. She called me 'mama'," and distempers again, "only- she was Elaine's kid, too. 'N' Magnes' f'r chrissake."

Sable takes hold of Delilah's hand in both of her own, her finger-tangling grip a resonant match for when she took her hand at the Winters residence. "That none 'f it makes sense. Can't be," and then she recalls, "it really can't be. Some girl who was dead, wasn't dead no more. That little 'n'-" she searches for the name, "Mala! And Lucy, too!"

Delilah isn't able to register much until Sable mentions Adel- a person that is neither here nor there. After which, there is an awkward, nervous silence as Sable begins to elaborate. When she grabs Dee's hand, it is limp between her fingers, for both lack of energy and having no idea how to react. From such a close distance, Sable can see the confusion seeping around behind brown eyes, brow knitted in the center, fine lines of narrowed eyelids between there and her cheeks, flushed with the effort of being roused.

The first dream of Elaine was something she only heard about. The recent one, with the blonde woman and the newborn, was something else- and now this, so soon afterwards- and so close to home. She told Sable, when told first about the wedding, that even if it were true, it wouldn't matter. Her friends would be happy. Sable seems to think something entirely different, judging by how desperately she grasps at her. Which really, Dee does not mind either.

"Wh- They're-" Dead, yes, last she knew. But the thing that bothers her so much… "Adel? You- Adel?" It isn't angry, but confused even more. Dee bolts up in the bed, feet kicking at the tangle of blankets. "These dreams are too real- it was Adel? Oh god, these things- nothing is- why are we having these? If they are not dreams, but memories…" Like they said at the meeting.

Limpness is, to be honest, not really what Sable was hoping for. But you can't always get what you want, especially when some other world, some different sequence of events, is butting up against everyone's dreaming mind. In truth, Sable's whole problem is that she doesn't know how to react, either. Sureness is hard enough to come by in living present. Strange futures and changed pasts don't make things much easier.

Sable pops her shoulder trying to catch up when Delilah suddenly sits upright, not quite ready to relinquish her grasp. The yellow eyed woman scoots around to better face Dee, peeking at her face in the dark, trying to discern her expression, her emotions. Looking, honestly, for a cue.

"I thought I had this all figured out real clear but-" Sable's lips tug down at the corners, "I don't got a fuckin' clue, Dee. It ain't even like it's jus' some future. If all us are dreamin' th' same- like- thing, then it's past and future both, since them girls are still alive. But- but shit, Adel- it was- it was our Adel, I jus' know it. But she's here, 'n' she's gotta be how old, eh? Might be older than me f'r chrissake."

The squeeze at Delilah's hand is imploring. "What're we bein' told? Who's doin' this t' us?"

A cue does come, eventually, when Dee's hand grasps firmly into Sable's slightly smaller one. She doesn't say anything, but the warm hand in Sable's seems to tell her that they feel much the same. Distressed, bewildered, lost in cause. The redhead close to her whispers, the barest light in from the window casting a dull outline over her features. "If it is the same one, if you're not jumping the gun, it explains so much about her, about what she's told us, but how did she…" Delilah pauses.

When she continues, it is with a somewhat terrified breath. "There's only one way for something like that to happen." And both of them have experienced it before.

The tenor of Sable's pique lowers by some degrees, her worry by no means gone, but at least shared. And shared by her. Yellow eyes blink in the dark, dusky gold rather than luminescent like a cat's. "Fuckin' time travel," said as if the expletive were necessary for a full description, "but then what th' hell is she doin'? If that kid knows us, 'r as good as- why th' hell come back here? Why come int' our goddamn lives? Ain't that th' first rule 'f screwin' around in time, don' meet yer parents?"

Even when they are dark, Sable's eyes give Dee a bit more certainty. She lets out a laugh as it is described via cuss word, the nervous sound piercing in the otherwise quiet. "Don't bloody ask me, I'm not a full Tardis Cadet." The words are littered with apprehension, even though Lilah is trying quite desperately to settle her heartbeat down again. To calm herself. It doesn't work, apparently. Not yet. "I haven't seen hide nor hair of Hiro or his stupid sword-wielding arse since last year when he was coming around buggering at everyone-"

Something that comes out of her mouth simply makes her stop, abruptly and completely, peering with a furrowed brow at Sable.

The twin spirits of that laughter, what it wants to be and what it manages to sound like, pluck harmonic chords on her heartstrings. Sable slides up closer to Delilah, free hand rising to brush back Dee's sleep frazzled hair, before settling to clasp the nape of the redhead's neck. She keeps a steady gaze on Delilah, watching for the signs from big brown eyes. The brow-furrowing peer is not, however, a communiqué she expects. Though such an abrupt stop makes it seem as if Delilah has just struck upon something. Sable had made great efforts to keep her young heart still, learn some patience, but it's hard for her to demonstrate that just now.

"Dee? What is it? Whatall's goin' on?"

She doesn't say anything, rather, Delilah leans in to peck Sable on the cheek before wriggling away from her. She nearly topples off of the king size bed, somehow catching herself on the edge and slowly slipping down the side, taking the blanket with her. Oops. It might be cute if she wasn't in a hurry, and this wasn't tonight of all nights. Sable could have even found it kind of distracting, because now Delilah is wiggling her backside out of the blanket and trying to get off the floor.

Once she does, however, she is rushing over to the closet and yanking it open. It takes just a minute for her to dig around and push it shut again. Then she is off, padding out into the hallway.

Let there never be a crisis so grave that it prevents Sable from being distracted by Delilah's booty; that is an circumstance so extreme she wouldn't dare posit a scenario, leaving it a disaster unimaginable. And said distraction does buy Delilah time to get up, plunder the closet, and leave the room before she manages to say - "Hey! Where-" but that tread looks purposeful, and Delilah is wasting no time, so instead of finishing the question she slides off the bed and goes to see for herself great white tee billowing over her bare legs as she jogs to catch up with Dee.

Dee is apt to wear those satiny slips to bed since she has someone to share one with- talk about distracting. On one hand- Delilah- on the other- her mission. She opens up the hall closet now, quieter, leaning in to rifle through it, only to lean back out, swearing under her breath. "Where is that goddamn thing."

She almost slips feet first down the stairs when she whirls around the banister to step down. Delilah has one hand on the rail, and as she holds herself from falling down she gives Sable a determined glance. She keeps going, stepping on down the stairs on bare feet. In no time she is rooting around inside of the cupboard under the stairs, disappeared into it.

"Goddamn-" Sable huffs, play panting with exertion as she comes to a halt at Dee's next stop, "finicky women and their- notions…" She's lifting her head to give Delilah a wide grin, but her tomfoolery goes unnoticed as Dee heads for the stairs. Sable gives a cry of alarm as Delilah's form begins to suggest a too-rapid descent, her strange eyes doing her no service as they predict - nay promise - a painful fall. She's at the bannister, desperate to prevent the inevitable - and then Dee recovers herself. That look cutting short all the concerned fussing that would otherwise have fallen on Delilah's head. Delays.

There's no use, Sable figures, in pelting after Delilah. Sable pads down the stairs at a less hurried pace, a decision that grants an added boon - time enough to eye Dee in that slip. "Sure I can't help?" is said wryly, with no expectations. When a woman must do what a woman must do, after all.

"AhHah." Delilah's noise of triumph precedes her backing out of the cupboard. Unfortunately, when she comes out, she is brandishing a sheathed sword at Sable, wagging it menacingly at the smaller girl and looking somewhere between disturbed and irritated. As if to double check its authenticity, Delilah curls one palm around the ray-skin hilt and draws it out, steel shimmering in the cool colors of midnight.

"Nobody's gonna one up me." She tucks the blade nearer, pushing it back down into the sheath. "Not Samson, not Hiro, not anyone else." Air comes out through her nose, and Dee finally fixes Sable with a neutral look again, pulling the katana against her torso.

She won't lie, some breakups were pretty damn ugly, but never once has a girlfriend of Sable's come at her with a freaking sword. "Holy shit!" is about right. Sable teeters back on her heels, watching dumbstruck as Delilah has some sort of conversation with- herself? Neutrality meets simple befuddlement. Far from picking sides, Sable's spinning right 'round (much like a record). Eyespirals, in graphic depiction.

(It doesn't help that she thinks Delilah is talking about the Samson Sable knows best.)

"Dee, darlin'?" tentative, edging forward carefully - she's still armed! "That there-" Sable recognizes it, but- "that there's real?"

"Oh! No- Oh- I'm sorry." Delilah might drop the thing like a hot potato if she wasn't set on holding onto it. "I didn't mean it like that- gosh- 'm sorry." She is caught between telling Sable that she doesn't want to cut her up, and trying to not sound totally crazy. About now, the Samson she knows best ambles into sight at the top of the stairs to peer down and listen. He was sleeping, they can tell. What's going on down there?

"Yes- yes it's real. Why wouldn't it be real? I got it from a serial killer. Who spawned another one. Why would he give me a fake sword and a blessing? Come on, that's absurd."

Okay, so, Delilah, honey. About 'trying not to sound totally crazy.

Maybe you want to give it another go?

There are only so many loops Sable can be thrown for before she starts to get queasy. As if dreams from the future were not enough, add to this swords from serial killers being flashed in your face and maybe it's better Sable just go with the flow. Her smile is wide and uneasy, her hands slowly lowering from their 'don't shoot' position - though she supposes in this case it's 'don't stab/slice/slash'.

"Well- uh- pleased t' know I c'n keep m' life…" Sable says, stepping forward with some residual gingerness, "dare I fuckin' ask whatall yer doin' with that there real-life ninja-type sword?" The clack of claws alerts Sable to Samson's arrival, and she looks back up at him. Then back to Delilah. "He wants t' know, too." So she really ought to explain herself.

"That old guy at the shower, remember?" The one that gave this to her. Delilah looks increasingly harassed, glancing up the stairs. "Not the dog. Samson Gray. Teo told me he was Sylar's old man. I haven't seen him since, but god knows if I do, I'm not going to be happy about it… I think he wants my son." Breathe.

"Now, I don't know why he was so interested, or why he gave me this thing in October, or why Adel is who she is, supposedly. But you can bet your ass that I'm going to beat up any Hiros that come around lookin' for trouble, or for this thing, or for my baby." Delilah's rambling is punctuated by her shaking the katana at sable, holding it by the sheath.

"I've had it up to here with everything, and I am not in the bloody mood for Hiro's stupid bloody shenanigans."

All this makes Sable think of, at first, is having the misfortune of seeing an old man at a public shower, all wrinkled and horrifically naked, a nightmare like only a someone who eschews men as she does can have.

A few beats later she remembers the sword's provenance properly, the strange old man (//I'll be seeing you again, my dear) who gave it as a gift, the bid for the future it seemed to represent. None of this really makes full and proper sense to Sable, late to the great unfolding drama and rather hopelessly solipsistic, the Ongoing Saga remaining her preoccupation.

However, the Courtship of Dee comprises a lengthy and increasingly central chapter in and of itself, and ignorant of details as Sable might be, she doesn't require full knowledge to assign her loyalties. The yellow eyed girl steps up to Delilah, reaching to take hold of Delilah's sheath-grasping hand but not to still her or sooth her. Instead she squeezes, affirming the grip. She looks up at Delilah, determined and intent.

"What future there is, darlin', I wanna be there with y'," Sable intones, "any sumbitch intends ill 'pon this house, sumbitch got me as an enemy."

Being not awake for terribly long, Dee is still in part of a world where sleep is an option. Her head hurts, her eyes hurt, her back aches. She gives Sable an apologetic look before hooking her other arm around the shorter girl and hugging her close, sword at their side, pinned between their hands and standing there like a third entity. "I'm always scared of what people can do, but I always need to be the strong one… When people can turn into smoke or stop time, tell me it's okay to worry."

"Cause I never know if something is gonna come for me. Or for Walter. I know too many dangerous people."

There has never been any reason not to get closer. Cast adrift in a world where people can turn into smoke, where they can in fact stop time, and travel through it, and channel it through dream and memory, Sable has music and love to rely on, and the music she loves best is the music about love.

Never an embrace quite like this, a sword braced between them, but this is an uncommon house in an uncommon time, and Sable slips her arms around Delilah and squeezes, like the clasp of her hand, defying time and refusing destiny.

"Yah, gal, it's okay t' worry," she must admit, for she must never be less than honest, "but y' don't gotta do it alone."

Sable always bounces onto her tiptoes to kiss Delilah. This time she uses her grip on the sword to prolong her ascent, letting it last. A tender metaphor. She eases down, and steps back, bringing Delilah with. "Come on, love. Y'all'll be fitter f'r the fight with some sleep," her eyes squint with her smile, "I'm sorry I had t' wake y'."

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