Power Outage Chapter 2: 2of2, a witchblade fanfic

Disclaimer: It's been a year; Witchblade still does not belong to me.
Author's Note: I like Sara's apartment from the movie/pilot, so keep that in mind. There may be a leap of imagination with fitting the blackout of August 2003 into the Witchblade storyline, but try it and let me know the feasibility. Finally, for the usual crew (WH, MK, FK, etc.).
Summary: He knew the power outage affecting the city was a show of the true power of the Witchblade.
Rating: PG/K/FRT for one dirty word.
Archive(s): Mine; anybody else, email me.
Pairing(s): Ian/Sara
Spoiler(s): All episodes are a fair bet, especially the Pilot/movie.

xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx

Title: Power Outage
Author: Adrianna AEternalis

(2/2)

Sara woke abruptly when the air conditioner began to groan with the power back on for her apartment building. The waving air currents from it and the open window caused the candle's flame to dance wildly. Shadows were thrown about the room until she reached out and doused the light.

Confused, she guessed at the time only to wonder why she had not showered before falling asleep. The fact that she was on the sofa was something she chose to ignore.

She finished her nightly routine efficiently though she chose to keep the lights off. Her eyes were adjusted to the dark; besides, her bed looked real friendly from her previous spot on the sofa.

Sliding between cool, smooth sheets, she registered that they were new. A gift from Ian, obviously, but why?

It did not matter because already Sara crossed the threshold between lucidity and dreams.

xxxxx

It began on another summer evening like the night of the blackout. The night was still, this time from the late hour rather than enforced darkness. The air was heavy with humidity; the ground begged for relief from its thirst, but the rain refused to fall.

Sara remembered that night as taking place in the summer before she started at the Academy. She had graduated the previous spring from community college, a grueling two year affair but smiled as proudly as her father whenever she thought of it. The summer was meant to be one of pleasure: to do things she later would not have the chance. Her father knew first-hand that the career of a police officer would be demanding; he insisted that she take the break.

So, she explored the museums--more to escape the heat than anything else--and attended concerts. Those she enjoyed, even if she went alone most of the time.

However, this particular night had been different. She had gone to the concert alone but returned with company. They sat beside each other due to the randomness of the seating assignments on their tickets.

Conversation was easy with him during the intermissions. He was smart and intriguing, with a unique turn of phrase Sara later would learn came only from living in Europe for a period of time. Like her, he also was between stages in his life for, come autumn, the military would "own" him for the next few years.

The hours had passed so quickly that Sara had felt like she had blinked and they were leaving the concert area. Though the air was heavy, they had opted to walk instead of taking a taxi or the subway.

Fifteen years later, Sara wondered why she had done it: walking with a complete stranger in the city in the middle of the night. She could not explain it except it had felt right; she trusted him.

It hit her, then, what the Witchblade wanted to tell her with this memory. All those years ago, she had walked with him because her instincts had told her that she was safe with him. He could no more harm her than he could injure himself.

Shivers crawled through Sara's body when she remembered; they focused her attention on the man who walked beside her.

He was taller than she was, his face all angles, and his eyes were warm. It was too dark to see their color but she could guess his hair was black regardless of light.

Sara substituted several changeable physical characteristics in her mind: she gave him hazel eyes and grew his hair. Somehow, she was certain that it would grow in slightly wavy.

Sara stared at the familiar face.

How had she managed to forget him?

She laughed at herself. That was a stupid question since she had blocked out nearly every memory she had from when her father was still alive. It had made things easier to deal.

Twisting her wrist to eyelevel, Sara wondered if there were other memories of him that she had forgotten. She should have known the answer would be yes.

xxxxx

Fully awake, Sara watched the sun peak over the skyscrapers of the city's skyline. The light illuminated the bed's new sheets, matching pillow covers, and duvet.

Their smoothness told her they were expensive and similar to her parents' wedding gift. Her parents' bed set had been green, to remind them of nature amidst all the concrete. Her set was pale white; when wet, they could be translucent. There was a slim gold ribbon and a silver ribbon forming a border.

The colors were no accident: silver was an homage to the Witchblade and gold was what he had said her eyes reminded him when lit by the moon.

How was it that, even after all the torture and abuse Irons had put him through, Ian remembered Sara's confession of loving the feel of her parents' bed set?

The more she thought of that newly remembered night and their other shared experiences, the more she began to feel her control over her life slip away. It disturbed her how, even fifteen years ago, Sara had exactly the same amount of free will as she had now: close to none.

Yet, what did it mean that Ian had come the night of the blackout to give her this gift? Did it mean anything at all?

Sara snorted; of course, it meant something. There was, after all, no such thing as a mere coincidence in her life. There was as much a reason to why Ian had sat next to her at the concert and walked her home afterwards as there was to them both being in between stages in their lives. She just had to find it.

She glanced at the red eye of the Witchblade, hoping the swirling patterns would give her an inspiration, someplace to start. Instead, it darkened, becoming lifeless, as though it wanted to rest.

Annoyed at its lack of help, she said, "Yeah, and I'd want a break from you, too."

Then, it seemed that the world stopped again. Not twenty-four hours ago, the blackout had started, which had stopped the city in its tracks. The driver of the wagon had said something about partying the old-fashioned way. Was that what the Witchblade wanted her to tell her?

xxxxx

His personal cell phone rang, and Ian answered it without looking at the display.

"Hey, Ian."

Automated reaction had him checking the display to verify the voice to the number. He dismissed the unbidden thought that technology could lie.

Ian replaced the phone against his ear and took the plunge: "Hey, Sara."

"You left last night before I could thank you for the sheets. But it does bring a question to mind."

He waited, almost not daring to breathe.

"Why'd you remember such a stupid thing? I'd even forgotten."

"Do you not remember our conversation during the blackout?" he asked into the microphone.

"Remind me, unless you mean the part where the Witchblade curses and leaves each man waiting and wanting."

Ian did not bother to stop the grin on his face.

"Sara, I know better than to answer that."

Her laughter was the most welcome sound he had heard in many years.

"Alright, then let me try to get an answer about something else."

"Anything."

"Why last night?"

Rising from his chair, he walked to a window that faced the approximate direction where he knew Sara to be. His hand touched the cold glass; the hard metal of his ring connected dully with it.

"I am not sure."

"That's what I thought." She breathed out audibly over the connection of the phone. Her voice was hesitant when she asked, "Have you ever known the Witchblade to gift its Wielders, Ian?"

"Like how?"

"When I was patrolling last night, people kept saying that things were like a big party."

"The news said likewise throughout the day."

"What if it was more than that?"

He thought over the implications in silence while Sara continued a verbal exposition.

"What if the blackout was a way to remind people that there was another way to do things? Something we've forgotten in the way we live our lives now. There were no riots, no looting, no spike in any criminal behavior during the entire time. What if something was telling us to slow down?"

"Something," he repeated. "Like what?"

"Okay, okay. The Witchblade, in my case."

Ian bowed his head, wanting for her to finish the proof to its end without his help.

"Ian, crazy as this sounds, I think you brought the bed set to me last night because the city was blacked out. There are no coincidences, you said."

"And I stand by that."

"So, the blackout was supposed to remind us of the time we met at the concert. That time in both our lives when we were between finishing one thing and starting another. We're in between things now, aren't we? Because I don't know whether you're on my side or against me."

He smiled. One more step in the process of becoming who she was meant to be had been accomplished. At her peak, she would be an awe-inspiring sight to see.

"I do believe that there has been at least one report of the Witchblade gifting its Wielder."

"Who?"

"Sara Pezzini."

Even separated, Ian knew she smiled as well.

"May I ask, Sara, something of you now?"

"Quid pro quo?"

"Not quite; you do have the advantage over me with Witchblade knowledge."

Sara snorted into the phone. It was simultaneously an eloquent reply and permission.

"How did you get this number?"

The answer was flippant: "I asked the Witchblade."

xxxxx

Pleased with herself, Sara ended the phone call. She had not managed to find all the information she wanted, but her instincts told her that she was closer to finding the one question that mattered the most. Its answer would be the clue to unlocking her destiny and showing her the path she needed to walk. That, ultimately, was the reason behind everything the Witchblade did whenever it manipulated her or Ian. Or the power grid of an entire city.