feels like i'm falling into a world i can't control (♫)
Sleep is not kind to Daisy Johnson. It never has been. As a child, she dreamed of parents who never came to rescue her, of mean scary nuns who showed little kindness to her, and of the foster families who no longer wanted her. The loneliness of her waking life was infinitely better than the life she found in dreams — something that did not change as she got older. With each new tragedy, the arsenal of nightmares stacked against her grew both in number and strength. Betrayals and losses, emotional and physical trauma, she was plagued by the original memories as well as twisted versions of them that were often even worse than what she experienced firsthand.
The solution to this problem is, obviously, to sleep as little as humanly possible. Coffee is her best friend, helping her stay awake and alert through the deprivation, and when she does have to finally get some rest, she works out until she's on the verge of exhaustion in the hopes of collapsing into a dreamless nothing for a few hours. It works sometimes, but more often than not she's waking up crying or shaking or screaming in the early hours of the morning, the room shaking from her powers activating as her body's instinctive reaction to fear. Sleeping anywhere but her own quarters is never a good idea for that very reason — she needs the power-absorbing panels lining the walls of her bedroom or she might bring the building down.
Tonight, it's the barn that haunts her, except this time Malick turns his attention to Sousa first. She has to watch as the SHIELD legend is dragged out of the room, powerless to help him, and then his screams fill the building. When they dump his body back in the room with her, there's nothing she can do except hold on to him as he slips into unconsciousness. And then they come for her.
Daisy wakes with a scream in her throat, each shuddering breath like razors as she struggles to calm her racing heart, the ringing of her cell taking a few moments too long to register. It must be what shook her loose from the nightmare's hold — usually, she'd have been trapped there a while longer. The adrenaline spike leaves her shaking as she climbs out of bed and rushes to get dressed. Most nights like these, she'd be headed to the all-hours diner down the street with not-too-terrible coffee to wait out the hours before she could head to HQ without drawing too much attention, but duty calls and she'll have to forego the much-needed caffeine. There's an evacuation going on across town that needs her help.
⟪ dream of the endless stands stoic before the burning church, its once-proud spire now ablaze, tendrils of smoke spiraling into the starless night. around him, firefighters wage their futile war against the flames, the townsfolk living nearby ushered to safety by officials. the wind picked up a little while ago, and it’s sheer chaos down here, a cacophony of screams and too many loud conversations at once; dream remains unaffected by the heat, by the noise, immobile as his gaze sharpens on ancient stone and stained glass.
can’t say i expected you to show up. constantine, seemingly surprised beside him, pleasantly so. figured it might be beneath your notice.
and yet she called. dream doesn’t budge, a furtive sidelong glance in lieu of a verbal answer. he’s here because of her. mostly. he’s here because she asked, wondering whether the dreaming might be involved somehow. there have been… incidents, lately, similar patterns etched in terror that only a nightmare could induce. reports of various victims all indicated the same thing: worst fears made tangible, and some have already succumbed to them. but it’s not the purpose of nightmares to harm, and dream knows, without the shadow of a doubt, that no creation of his has gone astray, all of them accounted for.
what’s more, the stench of sulfur in the air is unmistakable and, quite frankly, pretty incriminating.
lucifer’s taunted him enough times already — has their grand devastating plan finally been set into motion? perhaps. but dream’s noticed something else. lucienne, actually, a curious knot between her brows as she skimmed through one book in particular, over and over. the conversation occurred years ago. dreams, like everything else, should be balanced, but one dreamer drew the lord of the dreaming’s attention, assaulted by nightmares night after night, never fading in intensity. it’s been worse, lately — not just hers but the entire slumbering state of the waking world, and with constantine’s growing concerns towards recurrent and unusual demonic occurrences…
well. here he is.
and he’s not alone.
matthew’s been appointed as daisy johnson’s personal… watcher. for lack of a better term.
…okay, fine. he’s pretty much stalking her, peering through her windows, observing from high above. sitting and walking closeby, sometimes. he serves as dream’s eyes, essentially, a means to understand her better, to dissect the wretched nature of her dreams. it’s hard to tell whether the nightmares that plague her nights are at all related to constantine’s apprehension, but dream’s already taken an interest in her. call it curiosity, or fascination, maybe; without his intervention, the scales should have tipped over already. the universe demands balance, and daisy remains an anomaly.
as the church burns brighter, matthew flits between the trees as daisy exits her home across town. he likes to think himself stealthy, though his aerial grace can’t measure up to the smoldering ashes drifting in the wind. the caustic sting on his glossy feathers immediately throws him-off balance, a curse on his tongue as he plummets earthward in a panic. he never hits the ground. he does collide with something relatively solid, and leathery; daisy’s coat, his beak stuck in one of her zippers as he frantically flaps his wings.
he croaks once, twice, his voice half-muffled. ⟫
Uh, lady? A little help would be appreciated here? ⟪ please don’t mind his semi-sardonic tone. ⟫
[ It's fairly unusual for Daisy to be caught off-guard. Between years of work as a spy and her power that allows her to feel the frequency of every vibrational frequency around her, there have to be exceptional circumstances to slip past her defenses and take her unawares. Unfortunately, a bird falling out of the sky while she's studying the map on her phone is just one such exceptional circumstance. ]
Holy shit! [ The SHIELD-regulation phone slips from her grasp and drops to the ground as her hands instinctively try to grasp the struggling creature, trying to fit underneath its body to help fight the pull of gravity until she can get it free. ]
Okay, just hold still so I can— [ Her words cut off abruptly as her mind catches up with what's actually happening. Not the bird practically dive-bombing her, and not the gentle but firm way she'd spoken to the animal as if it could understand her. No, it's the fact that she understood it that's throwing her for a loop. ]
I'm talking to a bird. [ Her hands work while she mutters to herself, balancing him with one while the other hovers over the offending zipper. ] But the bird talked first...
[ Right? The bird definitely spoke first. Maybe this is a Rocket the Racoon situation, an animal experimented on to gain sentience. Or maybe one of the sorcerers across town is trying out a new spell; she's never dealt with them before, but she's heard they can be a real handful.
Or, much more likely, her usual three hours of sleep a night is catching up with her and she's hallucinating. Cool, cool, cool, this is just what she needs.
Whichever it is doesn't really matter, though. What matters is getting him free. The zipper's teeth vibrate ever so slightly as she uses her ability to widen the gaps between those tiny metal spokes enough to release him. The change is almost imperceptible, but she knows she'll have to mess with it later if she wants to ever use the zipper again. ]
⟪ listen. sometimes you’re just no match against a dreamling raven that has all the grace of a ballet-trained goat. one of you had to out-spy the other. one of you had to make an utter fool of themself. in matthew’s mind, he’s probably winning both games here, but let him have his metaphorical balm; it’s a lucky thing his master’s pride remains intact.
but yes. holy shit indeed. the bird talked first, and… ⟫ Yeah. And now you’re talking to yourself. ⟪ it’s okay, though. he does that too, a habit that grows pretty fast when your lord is dream of the endless. beak unstuck, matthew slowly glides to the ground and flaps his wings to test the pain, its head tilting three different ways as he studies her from various angles. ⟫ Aren’t you, like, a superhero or something? I’m sure you’ve seen waaaaaaay weirder stuff than a talking bi—
⟪ the rest of whatever he was going to say is swallowed in a sudden sharp wind. across the pavement, a shadow stretches long and dark from a tall silhouette that wasn’t there just seconds ago.
dream.
the sting. the panic. the mortification. dream of the endless’ seen it all, felt it all, a sharp twinge in his chest as he left constantine without a word. demons and the fires of hell are her business; matthew is his to protect, and the death of jessamy has left a sour, rueful tang in the back of his mouth. it’s been years — he hasn’t forgotten, even though humans like to say that time heals everything.
well. it doesn’t.
there’s an austere air about him as he watches from a dozen feet away, sand dust trickling down his black coat. but matthew’s fine, hopping towards him, and dream drops to a crouch to accept the bird, long and pale fingers delicately exploring the wing that’s been burnt. barely.
dramatic corvid. ⟫
I see you’ve found my raven.
⟪ dream rises, matthew perched on his shoulder as he returns his attention to the woman who saved (helped) the raven. daisy johnson, in the flesh, most likely on her way to help with the evacuation. the church continues to burn a couple of blocks away, and dream slowly walks towards her, halting a mere foot away to crouch again and grab the device on the ground. he doesn’t spare a second to examine the thing, all gestures deliberate and unhurried as he straightens up and lets his gaze drift to her face, a gentle scrutiny. ⟫
Thank you.⟪ he doesn’t smile, but there’s a soft little thing in his eyes, unnamed as he extends one hand to give her back her phone. ⟫
[ This bird has an attitude, that's for sure. But he's not exactly wrong. She has seen weirder than a talking crow or raven or whatever he is. Still, this is completely out of nowhere, and she's honestly not sure how to respond to the situation, so it's a good thing that Mr Bird is interrupted by that suspiciously well-time wind.
Her brown-eyed gaze finds that silhouette immediately, the streetlights making it all too easy to notice that shadow that seems almost alive as it stretches into existence. And somehow, she isn't afraid. There's no spike of adrenaline that would normally accompany such a sudden change in surroundings, no wariness or mistrust of a possible adversary. She's self-aware enough to realize how odd it is, wondering what exactly has triggered the instinct to be okay with all of this, but then off goes the bird, hopping across to the stranger with purpose.
Oh. She stands there feeling a bit like an idiot, just watching the man examine the bird as if making sure it's alright. And then he speaks and comes close, closer than people usually would, just walking right through any personal bubble without hesitation. Her hand automatically moves to accept the phone, her eyes moving from those hands to his coat and that strange, beautiful face that defies explanation. If she were to try to describe the person in front of her, no words would ever suffice, and that both bothers and intrigues her. ]
You're welcome. [ Why is her voice so soft, as if she's afraid of waking the slumbering world around her? Clearing her throat slightly, she forces herself to sound a bit more normal, the lightest joking tone wrapped around the syllables. ] I would say you should probably try to keep him from dive-bombing anyone else...
[ She looks back at the bird, the raven, and a ridiculous wave of affection rolls through her. Animals and children just have that effect on her. ] But it seems he has a mind of his own.
⟪ intrigued is a nice term for it — a sentiment they share. dream has been watching her for a while. her nightmares, anyway, their nature not quite abnormal but still worth observing. she’s a magnet, almost, drawing them to her like flies to honey, and though some aspects of them are mere memories, the emotional violence wove into them is slightly alarming. he has yet to intervene, curious to decipher the enigma she represents — one of the reasons why he decided to watch her in her natural habitat.
and the way she seems at ease, looking altogether unafraid in front of him, intrigues him even more.
it probably shows on his face, a hint of curiosity in the crease between his brows, his stare lingering as he searches her gaze unabashed. he’s probably too close for comfort, crowding her space uninvited — he does that. whether it’s because of all his time spent with no one in his vicinity, or because humans tend to fascinate him more than he wishes to admit, it’s anyone’s guess. she does, though. fascinate him, the vicious content of her mind clashing with the genuine kindness that emanates from her.
and up close, he can confirm what he’s noticed in her dreams; she’s not disagreeable to look at.
on his shoulder, matthew grumbles: sure. just. talk about me like i’m not even here, it’s fine. dream’s mouth stretches ever so slightly in response, his sigh exasperated but undeniably fond. ⟫
Yes. ⟪ his voice drops lower, not quite a whisper but a string of words solely meant for her. ⟫ I suppose he does. ⟪ all of his acquaintances do, in a matter of fact. he’s not the king of much, honestly, when he can barely get anyone to really listen. but daisy is listening now, and dream’s eyes sharpen soft, a hint of burning stars flickering in them. ⟫ As do you. ⟪ it sounds like it could be praise, fact, or even the semblance of a question. mind your own business, dream of the endless. but he doesn’t, crimson motes around them as the fires farther away roar more insatiable.
dream slowly tilts his head, peering over his shoulder. constantine is most likely dealing with a demon — or ten — and daisy is heading straight to the lion’s den. the wind catches his voice first, his face still angled towards the church. ⟫ You were called upon to assist the relief effort. ⟪ a pause, and then: ⟫ I can’t ensure your safety if you choose to join them.
[ It's been a long time since Daisy felt an immediate pull toward another person, but it's there now like a string has been tied around her, gently tugging her in the direction of the man still standing far too close. His proximity isn't uncomfortable, though; if anything, she wants him to stay there, to reach out and grab hold of that coat that seems ready to melt into the darkness around them and—
Yeah, no, she needs to shove those thoughts right out the proverbial window. Already, she can smell the smoke in the air and feel the energy of the fire raging. That is too close for comfort, and that is what she needs to put her attention to. Not the enigmatic man in front of her who seems to be saying so much with so little that she doesn't fully understand.
And then he says something that breaks the spell a little, bringing her back to the here and now with startling clarity. How does he know where she's headed? Does he recognize her from the news or the old days when she was the literal postergirl for a new SHIELD? It should bother her more than it does, only the mystery itself scratching at her mind, though it too is put immediately out of her mind when he follows it up with something entirely unexpected.
She can't help it: she smiles, a bright thing that stretches across her lips, and there's an echo of a laugh in her voice as she shakes her head and replies. ] I can take care of myself.
[ It's not bravado or arrogance, nor is she shrugging off the idea of a man protecting herself for the idea itself. She's a SHIELD agent, she can take care of herself. But more than that, she's Quake, and she knows precisely what she's capable of.
Taking a step back that almost aches, then another, she lifts her chin to gesture at the grumbly raven perched on his shoulder. ] You just worry about him.
daisy rebuffs him like he’s been rebuffed a thousand times before, even though she wished not even 10 seconds ago to bury herself in his coat. the duality of human beings, probably. he knows she can take care of herself. the many pages of her own personal story tell as much, some of them creased from countless perusals. he’s spent hours studying her, which is an odd thing to say when it feels like there is so much left to uncover.
but no. she’s not having it, him, and dream looks back just in time to catch the smile pursing her lips, a faint trace of laughter scurrying in her eyes. it doesn’t look like arrogance. it’s homegrown confidence, if nothing else, and the reverberations lodge themselves somewhere between his ribs. the sting is soft and bitter; he ignores it because of course he does, rehinging his jaw with an audible click. ⟫
And what of your nightmares?
⟪ there. can she handle them? he says it before she withdraws too far, absolutely intent on catching her unaware. dramatic effect, and all that. he couldn’t possibly just introduce himself and speak plainly. that’s too simple.
taking back the step she’s forgone, dream nurtures a pause, his eyes sweeping across her face like searchlights. for once, he doesn’t mean to be terrifying. this is unknown territory, more or less — someone somewhere is pulling strings that have no business being pulled, and daisy is dealing with enough nightmares as is. her waking hours shouldn’t be troubled with unidentified horrors that could very well make her life a living hell. literally. so he holds her gaze, a silent plea in his otherwise stern expression. ⟫
There are forces at play here that even I cannot fully grasp. Not yet.
[ And what of your nightmares? He might not mean to be terrifying but he is, a chill racing up her spine as her psychosomatic response to emotional distress kicks in. That smile slips from her face and she stares up at him as if expecting him to tell her the world has ended and she has failed to save it.
Because that is what she fears, not her own torment. She's lived with pain long enough to accept it as her due, something she cannot escape no matter how hard she might try. Part of her still believes she even deserves it for the mistakes she's made in the past. No, what she fears most is that terrible future coming into being, where the world is torn apart and she is powerless to stop it. Her purpose is protecting the people of this planet; nothing else will ever matter as much. ]
Who are you? [ The taste of smoke fills her mouth as the wind picks up, and her fear adds a strained edge to her voice as she demands answers to questions she hadn't cared to ask until this moment. ] How do you know anything about me?
⟪ she could be condemned to witness the false destruction of her world. over and over. helpless. hopeless. so tangibly she wouldn’t be able to differentiate reality from delusion. though dream is the prince of stories, lucifer morningstar doesn’t lack in imagination, and their domain doesn’t forgive.
neither does dream. there’s a myriad of implacable entities out there… and then there’s dream, but truth be told, some of his harsher edges have considerably softened in recent years, and this is probably one of the very few times he has ever resented his tendency to frighten. she doesn’t fear him, exactly. she fears whatever his words have evoked in her memory, and the sudden loss of her smile is a stone breaking the surface of a lake in his stomach, sending ripples up his spine and scratching at his throat.
he doesn’t have to peek. he can surmise, more or less, what she must be imagining, and her overall panic, laced with a great deal of confusion, prompts him to retake that step back. telling most mortals about the who, and the what, and the how often winds up complicating things; so he shows her instead. ⟫
You know me. ⟪ each syllable lands precise and meaningful, always mindful of their weight, of their power. he’s never meddled with her nightmares, but he’s watched, many times, unbeknownst to her. it’s that barrier he lifts now, so that she can remember as he holds her gaze the reassuring presence in her dreams, the little push she sometimes needed to wake up faster, starlight in the dark. ⟫
[ When next she closed her eyes turns out to be many hours later, one thing after another pulling her attention and keeping her from much needed sleep. She had to shower, washing her hair twice in an attempt to get rid of the smoke smell clinging to her like a second skin, and then started laundry for the same reason. Not wanting to risk forgetting about the load of wet clothes, she made more coffee and got to work on her report, sitting at the little table in her kitchen because the chairs were the lease comfortable in the whole apartment.
And then Kora called, and she couldn't pass up the opportunity to catch up with one of the most important people in her life who was halfway across the galaxy. It was like they'd known each other forever, the years since their first meeting helping to forge the bonds they should have always had. By the time the conversation ends, Daisy's heart is light and full of happiness.
Given all of that, it's not surprising when she closes her eyes to sleep and opens them again in Afterlife. The Inhuman sanctuary looks just the way it had when she'd first visited it so many years ago, the mix of Asian architecture and plentiful greenery calling to her in something that could only be described as nostalgia for something she'd never had. This was never her home, but it should have been, and seeing it whole again is both soothing and bittersweet.
She walks up the path at the edge of the oddly empty settlement to the gazebo with the stunning view of the mountains all around them. This is all she's ever seen of Nepal, but she's certain the rest of the country must be just as beautiful. The wind grabs at her hair, drawing her attention to the incongruence of her appearance. Her clothing is what she wore that day so long ago, but the memory has been layered on top of her current self, her hair still dyed blonde and the fresh bruises mottling her forearms. It's a dream she's had before, but she can feel that this time, it will end differently. ]
⟪ moonlight filters pale through the stained glass windows, casting a ghostly glow upon the rows of bookshelves in the library. dream’s slender fingers glide over leather-bound spines as he meanders pensive, each one beckoning his touch with old and new stories alike. it’s been hours since he came back. hours since lucienne welcomed him and inquired about the threat, and then innocently pretended ignorance when he mentioned daisy. which can only mean that she knows, more than he’s willing to admit to himself, and the disquieted frown that knitted his brows then still twists his face.
the gentle flapping of matthew’s wings steadily follows him; the bird clears his throat every ten steps or so, and dream ultimately sighs defeated, just short of rolling his eyes. ⟫
What is it, Matthew?
I don’t know, boss. You tell me.
There is nothing to tell.
No? Are you sure. You look kind of nervous.
⟪ how absurd. the glare he shoots him says as much, but the uneasy knot in his chest grows even larger, if possible, softening the harder edges of his expression in unsettled awareness. is he nervous? why should he be. it’s not like he’s been pacing or anything, even in his typical unhurried gait, unable to silence his mind. because he’s faced with a tiny problem; how does one get to know someone else without intruding upon their dreams, their lives, even, or without peering into the pages of their subconscious? it’s a challenge he hasn’t met in eons, and daisy made it clear, perhaps in spite of herself, that spying on her wasn’t exactly welcome.
it’s a little distressing. ⟫
Do… you… want… ideas?
For what?
I don’t know, starting off on the right foot? If you were planning on wooing her—
I harbor no such intentions.
But if you did... you could start by asking her about the things she likes.
⟪ the things she likes. like what. her favourite color? dream’s jaw clenches at the thought the second he realizes he’s even entertaining the notion. blasted bird. but just as dream opens his mouth to order him to leave, one of the many volumes hurtles from its resting place, only to land with a resonant thud on the wooden table next to him. unity kincaid. that shuts him up. whatever message the library is trying to convey is completely lost on him, eyes fixed on the tome like it might take flight again, only to hit him across the head. some might say it’d be absolutely deserved, but then the walls tremble and dream cranes his neck towards the entrance, instinctively knowing that daisy has just fallen asleep.
enigma left behind, dream strides forth, the hem of his cloak trailing behind like a comet tail through the night sky. crossing the threshold of her dream is effortless, but he does hesitate, stepping into it with a shred of apprehension. he doesn’t have to make himself known if he doesn’t wish to, but the ambiance is rather comforting, a paradoxical blend of liminality and permanence; she might truly be waiting for him.
so he moves forward, the same path she’s taken, halting only a few feet away. you look nervous, matthew said, and maybe he had a point. his mouth’s a little dry, though he forces himself to speak before the stoicism he wears like armor decides to completely crack. ⟫
[ It's absurb how happy the sound of that simple hello makes her. Completely, utterly ridiculous. But here they are, with him standing there like he belongs and her turning to offer him a relieved smile. Leaning against one of the gazebo's support beams, she crosses her arms and greets him almost playfully. ]
I was wondering if you'd actually show up.
[ He looks... good. She hadn't been able to properly notice before, what with him dropping a bombshell of information and turning her world on end, but now she's able to get a proper look at him. There's still something otherworldly in the way he moves and holds himself, and his hair absolutely has a mind of its own, but instead of being off-putting, that indescribable nature just makes her more interested.
Which is also a ridiculous thought. He is literally the stuff of dreams, but that doesn't mean he's her dream. The only reason he's probably paying her any attention at all is because the demons or nightmares or whatever have been having a field day with her trauma. Once all of that is properly settled, she'll probably never see him again.
⟪ she’ll probably never see him again… oh boy. she should share that thought with lucienne, and watch her laugh for the next thousand years. in fact, the entirety of the dreaming is probably clutching its collective belly and cackling loud enough to aggravate the nearest realm. you don’t just get rid of dream of the endless. you endure, you suffer, you put up with his presence. but if you’re lucky enough, you thrive in it and find yourself craving more.
sometimes, it’s a mix of both.
the smile on her face catches him off-guard. his own threatens to crack in turn, but her remark mildly vexes him; he pouts instead, for the entirety of a few seconds. he didn’t exactly give her a chance to trust him yet, his word, and judging by the glow in her eyes, she is, probably, teasing him. so he swallows his pride, coming to stand beside her with a faint quizzical line creasing his forehead. ⟫ I came as soon as you entered my realm. ⟪ so he’ll take that impatience to see him again as a compliment… even though his own admission absolutely denotes similar eagerness. ⟫
I did wonder what your mind would conceive. ⟪ free of nightmares, able to roam in peace. he cocks his head towards her, his arm brushing against hers with the motion. ⟫ This is a memory, is it not?
[ There's a part of Daisy Johnson that would welcome a practically immortal being she couldn't get rid. After a lifetime of being abandoned and left behind, there would be something comforting in the knowledge that he would always stay. But even acknowledging the possibility of such a thing would take a hell of a lot more trust on her part.
She has no trouble acknowledging how adorable that brief pout is, though. Or the warmth that spreads through her at how quickly he came to see her. She doesn't draw attention to that light brush of his arm, but she is wholly aware of it. ]
Sort of, yeah. But it's... [ Her voice trails off, her gaze moving from him to those majestic mountains. Realizing she could feel them had been incredible. Suddenly, her powers weren't something to be feared, but rather to be embraced. Just think of all she could do with them.
She takes a shuddering breath that is let out slowly, calming her emotions. Control is important. Even here in this peaceful setting, the wrong trigger could end in damage in the waking world. Not to her apartment building, thankfully, the power-absorbing panels saw to that, but she isn't keen to deal with even more broken bones right now. ]
This place was full of people back then. They were happy and safe. But Afterlife is in ruins now and most of those people are dead. [ It's not so much sadness as weariness in her voice as she talks about the home she'd lost. It was just one of many, after all. ]
⟪ the telltale signs of self-restraint are a little hard to miss. dream knows them well — for different reasons — though it seems that the both of them could create all sorts of disasters if they didn’t exert caution. dream notices because while she turns her gaze to admire the mountains, he looks at her. the twitch in her jaw. the tension in her shoulders. the yearning for something lost in the corner of her eyes, and his endless heart sinks with hers. the veil of nostalgia is wide, and it almost feels like daisy has never really had anywhere to go. never forever.
chilly blue eyes warm with distant wistfulness, half-shielded by a set of long lashes. after a moment of silence, he speaks. ⟫
More than once the Dreaming fell. ⟪ he doesn’t know why he tells her, exactly. to relate. to soothe. to sow an obscure seed of hope. angling his face down, the glimpse of wrath in his gaze is plain to see, though it fails to shroud his melancholy. ⟫ Assaulted. Ravaged. Left to rot, and in such poor conditions my subjects scarcely recognized their master. ⟪ especially the last time, still too fresh, a downward curve twisting his mouth. but it doesn’t last. for all the damage burgess wrought, dream prevailed — the dreamers prevailed — and his kingdom stands proud once more, able to offer daisy a modicum of solace.
the soft glint in his eyes as he glances up again almost makes him look boyish. ⟫ Perhaps you could rebuild your home. ⟪ like he did. it’s what dreams are all about, after all. ⟫
[ The Dreaming fell. Those words draw her attention immediately, pulling her gaze to watch him speak, those emotions flickering so familiarly in his expression. She knows all too well what it is to be angry and sad and full of so much feeling that it just aches. And her heart aches for him that he's had to endure such a thing more than once. Afterlife had only been the idea of home, where this place is a part of him. The closest comparison she can come up with would be if she were to lose her powers, that essential element that defines her existence, and that would be a truly terrible fate.
The look in his eyes when he makes that suggestion nearly takes her breath away. For a moment, she just stares at him, expression unreadable, and then she nods. ]
I hope to one day. It's been a— [ she smiles and shakes her head, giving pointed emphasis to the next word ] a dream of mine for a long time. But I'm not sure I'm ready yet.
[ She leans more heavily against the pillar and tightens her arms around herself to keep from reaching for him. That's not the kind of comfort she's even remotely prepared to ask for. ]
I've only been back once since it happened, and that was to bury my mom again.
⟪ loss of powers… ah, yes. been there, done that, and he wouldn’t wish the frailty that comes with it upon his worst enem— no, scratch that. he absolutely would, and without remorse, too, but that’s another conversation for another time, perhaps. there is so much about him that she doesn’t know — so much she might not even care to know, but the subtle changes in her eyes when she looks at him sometimes evoke the barest suggestion of interest, and that’s enough for dream to pursue his ambitions.
which aren’t at all brimming with motives of courtship.
he doesn’t offer his condolences, at least not verbally; he simply nods, solemn, the little smile she inspired at the mention of dreams dissolving into polite acknowledgement. the task he suggested seems overwhelming, her losses too fresh, maybe, her life still too chaotic, but there might be a solution in the meantime, and he’s already offered to keep her nightmares at bay, so.
slowly scanning their surroundings, his decision is quickly taken. ⟫ This could be yours to mold and shape as you wish. ⟪ every night. its structures. its colours. its people, even. a little piece of the dreaming. his gaze flickers over her face, both curious and hesitant. ⟫ Would you enjoy it? ⟪ you could start by asking her about the things she likes, and dream has to clamp down on the wayward thought, unwelcome; it’s just a question, and for good measure, he adds: ⟫ Until you are ready. ⟪ you know. for the real thing. ⟫
[ It's honestly so damn refreshing to not have someone say I'm sorry when they hear about her mom. Or to not be faced with the awkward exchange when they know what happened between them in the end. There's too much there for anyone to understand; even her team sometimes didn't know how to treat the subject.
This could be yours. She blinks quickly, trying to comprehend just what he means and being overwhelmed by the very idea of it. Is he seriously offering... But how? And why? There's something in his expression that tells her the offer is genuine, that he means something by it, but she can't guess what. ]
I don't know. [ He deserves an honest answer, even if this one reveals how she feels a bit like the lost little girl she used to be. ] I've never really had anything of my own to...
[ Make her own? Her van was her first home, and everything since has been SHIELD-supplied. Sure, she's finally started decorating her apartment after living there for a few years, but most of it is still Kora's doing. ]
⟪ just look at it this way; dream provides the canvas, half the paint, and dreamers bring along with them brushes and drop cloths. they’re all artists in their own right here, but the memory of their craft rarely crosses the threshold of the waking world. even daisy’s sketched her own landscapes before, myriad tapestries of drowsy reveries, so it’s not the gift he offers; instead he proposes something more tangible, lucid, so that she may be fully aware of the colours she invents, the pillars she erects, and the people she brings back to life.
what was it that hob gadling said, once? ⟫
There is no time like the present… or so I’ve been told. ⟪ time is a little abstract when you’ve lived for so long — unless you’re stuck in a fishbowl, that definitely alters certain perceptions — and without an eternity before her, all of her seconds count. one corner of his mouth lifts gentle, a graceful twist of his wrist; in the palm of his hand, a spark, swirling blue and glittery until a small figure takes shape. it’s a simple thing to encourage her to do the same, to create, just from her will alone. baby steps. she doesn’t need to overhaul the entirety of afterlife in one go. ⟫
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
won't you wake me up —
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⟪ dream of the endless stands stoic before the burning church, its once-proud spire now ablaze, tendrils of smoke spiraling into the starless night. around him, firefighters wage their futile war against the flames, the townsfolk living nearby ushered to safety by officials. the wind picked up a little while ago, and it’s sheer chaos down here, a cacophony of screams and too many loud conversations at once; dream remains unaffected by the heat, by the noise, immobile as his gaze sharpens on ancient stone and stained glass.
can’t say i expected you to show up. constantine, seemingly surprised beside him, pleasantly so. figured it might be beneath your notice.
and yet she called. dream doesn’t budge, a furtive sidelong glance in lieu of a verbal answer. he’s here because of her. mostly. he’s here because she asked, wondering whether the dreaming might be involved somehow. there have been… incidents, lately, similar patterns etched in terror that only a nightmare could induce. reports of various victims all indicated the same thing: worst fears made tangible, and some have already succumbed to them. but it’s not the purpose of nightmares to harm, and dream knows, without the shadow of a doubt, that no creation of his has gone astray, all of them accounted for.
what’s more, the stench of sulfur in the air is unmistakable and, quite frankly, pretty incriminating.
lucifer’s taunted him enough times already — has their grand devastating plan finally been set into motion? perhaps. but dream’s noticed something else. lucienne, actually, a curious knot between her brows as she skimmed through one book in particular, over and over. the conversation occurred years ago. dreams, like everything else, should be balanced, but one dreamer drew the lord of the dreaming’s attention, assaulted by nightmares night after night, never fading in intensity. it’s been worse, lately — not just hers but the entire slumbering state of the waking world, and with constantine’s growing concerns towards recurrent and unusual demonic occurrences…
well. here he is.
and he’s not alone.
matthew’s been appointed as daisy johnson’s personal… watcher. for lack of a better term.
…okay, fine. he’s pretty much stalking her, peering through her windows, observing from high above. sitting and walking closeby, sometimes. he serves as dream’s eyes, essentially, a means to understand her better, to dissect the wretched nature of her dreams. it’s hard to tell whether the nightmares that plague her nights are at all related to constantine’s apprehension, but dream’s already taken an interest in her. call it curiosity, or fascination, maybe; without his intervention, the scales should have tipped over already. the universe demands balance, and daisy remains an anomaly.
as the church burns brighter, matthew flits between the trees as daisy exits her home across town. he likes to think himself stealthy, though his aerial grace can’t measure up to the smoldering ashes drifting in the wind. the caustic sting on his glossy feathers immediately throws him-off balance, a curse on his tongue as he plummets earthward in a panic. he never hits the ground. he does collide with something relatively solid, and leathery; daisy’s coat, his beak stuck in one of her zippers as he frantically flaps his wings.
he croaks once, twice, his voice half-muffled. ⟫
Uh, lady? A little help would be appreciated here? ⟪ please don’t mind his semi-sardonic tone. ⟫
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Holy shit! [ The SHIELD-regulation phone slips from her grasp and drops to the ground as her hands instinctively try to grasp the struggling creature, trying to fit underneath its body to help fight the pull of gravity until she can get it free. ]
Okay, just hold still so I can— [ Her words cut off abruptly as her mind catches up with what's actually happening. Not the bird practically dive-bombing her, and not the gentle but firm way she'd spoken to the animal as if it could understand her. No, it's the fact that she understood it that's throwing her for a loop. ]
I'm talking to a bird. [ Her hands work while she mutters to herself, balancing him with one while the other hovers over the offending zipper. ] But the bird talked first...
[ Right? The bird definitely spoke first. Maybe this is a Rocket the Racoon situation, an animal experimented on to gain sentience. Or maybe one of the sorcerers across town is trying out a new spell; she's never dealt with them before, but she's heard they can be a real handful.
Or, much more likely, her usual three hours of sleep a night is catching up with her and she's hallucinating. Cool, cool, cool, this is just what she needs.
Whichever it is doesn't really matter, though. What matters is getting him free. The zipper's teeth vibrate ever so slightly as she uses her ability to widen the gaps between those tiny metal spokes enough to release him. The change is almost imperceptible, but she knows she'll have to mess with it later if she wants to ever use the zipper again. ]
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⟪ listen. sometimes you’re just no match against a dreamling raven that has all the grace of a ballet-trained goat. one of you had to out-spy the other. one of you had to make an utter fool of themself. in matthew’s mind, he’s probably winning both games here, but let him have his metaphorical balm; it’s a lucky thing his master’s pride remains intact.
but yes. holy shit indeed. the bird talked first, and… ⟫ Yeah. And now you’re talking to yourself. ⟪ it’s okay, though. he does that too, a habit that grows pretty fast when your lord is dream of the endless. beak unstuck, matthew slowly glides to the ground and flaps his wings to test the pain, its head tilting three different ways as he studies her from various angles. ⟫ Aren’t you, like, a superhero or something? I’m sure you’ve seen waaaaaaay weirder stuff than a talking bi—
⟪ the rest of whatever he was going to say is swallowed in a sudden sharp wind. across the pavement, a shadow stretches long and dark from a tall silhouette that wasn’t there just seconds ago.
dream.
the sting. the panic. the mortification. dream of the endless’ seen it all, felt it all, a sharp twinge in his chest as he left constantine without a word. demons and the fires of hell are her business; matthew is his to protect, and the death of jessamy has left a sour, rueful tang in the back of his mouth. it’s been years — he hasn’t forgotten, even though humans like to say that time heals everything.
well. it doesn’t.
there’s an austere air about him as he watches from a dozen feet away, sand dust trickling down his black coat. but matthew’s fine, hopping towards him, and dream drops to a crouch to accept the bird, long and pale fingers delicately exploring the wing that’s been burnt. barely.
dramatic corvid. ⟫
I see you’ve found my raven.
⟪ dream rises, matthew perched on his shoulder as he returns his attention to the woman who saved (helped) the raven. daisy johnson, in the flesh, most likely on her way to help with the evacuation. the church continues to burn a couple of blocks away, and dream slowly walks towards her, halting a mere foot away to crouch again and grab the device on the ground. he doesn’t spare a second to examine the thing, all gestures deliberate and unhurried as he straightens up and lets his gaze drift to her face, a gentle scrutiny. ⟫
Thank you. ⟪ he doesn’t smile, but there’s a soft little thing in his eyes, unnamed as he extends one hand to give her back her phone. ⟫
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Her brown-eyed gaze finds that silhouette immediately, the streetlights making it all too easy to notice that shadow that seems almost alive as it stretches into existence. And somehow, she isn't afraid. There's no spike of adrenaline that would normally accompany such a sudden change in surroundings, no wariness or mistrust of a possible adversary. She's self-aware enough to realize how odd it is, wondering what exactly has triggered the instinct to be okay with all of this, but then off goes the bird, hopping across to the stranger with purpose.
Oh. She stands there feeling a bit like an idiot, just watching the man examine the bird as if making sure it's alright. And then he speaks and comes close, closer than people usually would, just walking right through any personal bubble without hesitation. Her hand automatically moves to accept the phone, her eyes moving from those hands to his coat and that strange, beautiful face that defies explanation. If she were to try to describe the person in front of her, no words would ever suffice, and that both bothers and intrigues her. ]
You're welcome. [ Why is her voice so soft, as if she's afraid of waking the slumbering world around her? Clearing her throat slightly, she forces herself to sound a bit more normal, the lightest joking tone wrapped around the syllables. ] I would say you should probably try to keep him from dive-bombing anyone else...
[ She looks back at the bird, the raven, and a ridiculous wave of affection rolls through her. Animals and children just have that effect on her. ] But it seems he has a mind of his own.
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⟪ intrigued is a nice term for it — a sentiment they share. dream has been watching her for a while. her nightmares, anyway, their nature not quite abnormal but still worth observing. she’s a magnet, almost, drawing them to her like flies to honey, and though some aspects of them are mere memories, the emotional violence wove into them is slightly alarming. he has yet to intervene, curious to decipher the enigma she represents — one of the reasons why he decided to watch her in her natural habitat.
and the way she seems at ease, looking altogether unafraid in front of him, intrigues him even more.
it probably shows on his face, a hint of curiosity in the crease between his brows, his stare lingering as he searches her gaze unabashed. he’s probably too close for comfort, crowding her space uninvited — he does that. whether it’s because of all his time spent with no one in his vicinity, or because humans tend to fascinate him more than he wishes to admit, it’s anyone’s guess. she does, though. fascinate him, the vicious content of her mind clashing with the genuine kindness that emanates from her.
and up close, he can confirm what he’s noticed in her dreams; she’s not disagreeable to look at.
on his shoulder, matthew grumbles: sure. just. talk about me like i’m not even here, it’s fine. dream’s mouth stretches ever so slightly in response, his sigh exasperated but undeniably fond. ⟫
Yes. ⟪ his voice drops lower, not quite a whisper but a string of words solely meant for her. ⟫ I suppose he does. ⟪ all of his acquaintances do, in a matter of fact. he’s not the king of much, honestly, when he can barely get anyone to really listen. but daisy is listening now, and dream’s eyes sharpen soft, a hint of burning stars flickering in them. ⟫ As do you. ⟪ it sounds like it could be praise, fact, or even the semblance of a question. mind your own business, dream of the endless. but he doesn’t, crimson motes around them as the fires farther away roar more insatiable.
dream slowly tilts his head, peering over his shoulder. constantine is most likely dealing with a demon — or ten — and daisy is heading straight to the lion’s den. the wind catches his voice first, his face still angled towards the church. ⟫ You were called upon to assist the relief effort. ⟪ a pause, and then: ⟫ I can’t ensure your safety if you choose to join them.
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Yeah, no, she needs to shove those thoughts right out the proverbial window. Already, she can smell the smoke in the air and feel the energy of the fire raging. That is too close for comfort, and that is what she needs to put her attention to. Not the enigmatic man in front of her who seems to be saying so much with so little that she doesn't fully understand.
And then he says something that breaks the spell a little, bringing her back to the here and now with startling clarity. How does he know where she's headed? Does he recognize her from the news or the old days when she was the literal poster girl for a new SHIELD? It should bother her more than it does, only the mystery itself scratching at her mind, though it too is put immediately out of her mind when he follows it up with something entirely unexpected.
She can't help it: she smiles, a bright thing that stretches across her lips, and there's an echo of a laugh in her voice as she shakes her head and replies. ] I can take care of myself.
[ It's not bravado or arrogance, nor is she shrugging off the idea of a man protecting herself for the idea itself. She's a SHIELD agent, she can take care of herself. But more than that, she's Quake, and she knows precisely what she's capable of.
Taking a step back that almost aches, then another, she lifts her chin to gesture at the grumbly raven perched on his shoulder. ] You just worry about him.
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⟪ WHY IS NOBODY EVER TAKING HIM SERIOUSLY.
daisy rebuffs him like he’s been rebuffed a thousand times before, even though she wished not even 10 seconds ago to bury herself in his coat. the duality of human beings, probably. he knows she can take care of herself. the many pages of her own personal story tell as much, some of them creased from countless perusals. he’s spent hours studying her, which is an odd thing to say when it feels like there is so much left to uncover.
but no. she’s not having it, him, and dream looks back just in time to catch the smile pursing her lips, a faint trace of laughter scurrying in her eyes. it doesn’t look like arrogance. it’s homegrown confidence, if nothing else, and the reverberations lodge themselves somewhere between his ribs. the sting is soft and bitter; he ignores it because of course he does, rehinging his jaw with an audible click. ⟫
And what of your nightmares?
⟪ there. can she handle them? he says it before she withdraws too far, absolutely intent on catching her unaware. dramatic effect, and all that. he couldn’t possibly just introduce himself and speak plainly. that’s too simple.
taking back the step she’s forgone, dream nurtures a pause, his eyes sweeping across her face like searchlights. for once, he doesn’t mean to be terrifying. this is unknown territory, more or less — someone somewhere is pulling strings that have no business being pulled, and daisy is dealing with enough nightmares as is. her waking hours shouldn’t be troubled with unidentified horrors that could very well make her life a living hell. literally. so he holds her gaze, a silent plea in his otherwise stern expression. ⟫
There are forces at play here that even I cannot fully grasp. Not yet.
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Because that is what she fears, not her own torment. She's lived with pain long enough to accept it as her due, something she cannot escape no matter how hard she might try. Part of her still believes she even deserves it for the mistakes she's made in the past. No, what she fears most is that terrible future coming into being, where the world is torn apart and she is powerless to stop it. Her purpose is protecting the people of this planet; nothing else will ever matter as much. ]
Who are you? [ The taste of smoke fills her mouth as the wind picks up, and her fear adds a strained edge to her voice as she demands answers to questions she hadn't cared to ask until this moment. ] How do you know anything about me?
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⟪ she could be condemned to witness the false destruction of her world. over and over. helpless. hopeless. so tangibly she wouldn’t be able to differentiate reality from delusion. though dream is the prince of stories, lucifer morningstar doesn’t lack in imagination, and their domain doesn’t forgive.
neither does dream. there’s a myriad of implacable entities out there… and then there’s dream, but truth be told, some of his harsher edges have considerably softened in recent years, and this is probably one of the very few times he has ever resented his tendency to frighten. she doesn’t fear him, exactly. she fears whatever his words have evoked in her memory, and the sudden loss of her smile is a stone breaking the surface of a lake in his stomach, sending ripples up his spine and scratching at his throat.
he doesn’t have to peek. he can surmise, more or less, what she must be imagining, and her overall panic, laced with a great deal of confusion, prompts him to retake that step back. telling most mortals about the who, and the what, and the how often winds up complicating things; so he shows her instead. ⟫
You know me. ⟪ each syllable lands precise and meaningful, always mindful of their weight, of their power. he’s never meddled with her nightmares, but he’s watched, many times, unbeknownst to her. it’s that barrier he lifts now, so that she can remember as he holds her gaze the reassuring presence in her dreams, the little push she sometimes needed to wake up faster, starlight in the dark. ⟫
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— scene ideas.
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— timeline.
— notes.
— visuals.
no one can hurt you now —
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⟪ moonlight filters pale through the stained glass windows, casting a ghostly glow upon the rows of bookshelves in the library. dream’s slender fingers glide over leather-bound spines as he meanders pensive, each one beckoning his touch with old and new stories alike. it’s been hours since he came back. hours since lucienne welcomed him and inquired about the threat, and then innocently pretended ignorance when he mentioned daisy. which can only mean that she knows, more than he’s willing to admit to himself, and the disquieted frown that knitted his brows then still twists his face.
the gentle flapping of matthew’s wings steadily follows him; the bird clears his throat every ten steps or so, and dream ultimately sighs defeated, just short of rolling his eyes. ⟫
What is it, Matthew?
I don’t know, boss. You tell me.
There is nothing to tell.
No? Are you sure. You look kind of nervous.
⟪ how absurd. the glare he shoots him says as much, but the uneasy knot in his chest grows even larger, if possible, softening the harder edges of his expression in unsettled awareness. is he nervous? why should he be. it’s not like he’s been pacing or anything, even in his typical unhurried gait, unable to silence his mind. because he’s faced with a tiny problem; how does one get to know someone else without intruding upon their dreams, their lives, even, or without peering into the pages of their subconscious? it’s a challenge he hasn’t met in eons, and daisy made it clear, perhaps in spite of herself, that spying on her wasn’t exactly welcome.
it’s a little distressing. ⟫
Do… you… want… ideas?
For what?
I don’t know, starting off on the right foot? If you were planning on wooing her—
I harbor no such intentions.
But if you did... you could start by asking her about the things she likes.
⟪ the things she likes. like what. her favourite color? dream’s jaw clenches at the thought the second he realizes he’s even entertaining the notion. blasted bird. but just as dream opens his mouth to order him to leave, one of the many volumes hurtles from its resting place, only to land with a resonant thud on the wooden table next to him. unity kincaid. that shuts him up. whatever message the library is trying to convey is completely lost on him, eyes fixed on the tome like it might take flight again, only to hit him across the head. some might say it’d be absolutely deserved, but then the walls tremble and dream cranes his neck towards the entrance, instinctively knowing that daisy has just fallen asleep.
enigma left behind, dream strides forth, the hem of his cloak trailing behind like a comet tail through the night sky. crossing the threshold of her dream is effortless, but he does hesitate, stepping into it with a shred of apprehension. he doesn’t have to make himself known if he doesn’t wish to, but the ambiance is rather comforting, a paradoxical blend of liminality and permanence; she might truly be waiting for him.
so he moves forward, the same path she’s taken, halting only a few feet away. you look nervous, matthew said, and maybe he had a point. his mouth’s a little dry, though he forces himself to speak before the stoicism he wears like armor decides to completely crack. ⟫
Hello.
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I was wondering if you'd actually show up.
[ He looks... good. She hadn't been able to properly notice before, what with him dropping a bombshell of information and turning her world on end, but now she's able to get a proper look at him. There's still something otherworldly in the way he moves and holds himself, and his hair absolutely has a mind of its own, but instead of being off-putting, that indescribable nature just makes her more interested.
Which is also a ridiculous thought. He is literally the stuff of dreams, but that doesn't mean he's her dream. The only reason he's probably paying her any attention at all is because the demons or nightmares or whatever have been having a field day with her trauma. Once all of that is properly settled, she'll probably never see him again.
And isn't that a sad thought... ]
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⟪ she’ll probably never see him again… oh boy. she should share that thought with lucienne, and watch her laugh for the next thousand years. in fact, the entirety of the dreaming is probably clutching its collective belly and cackling loud enough to aggravate the nearest realm. you don’t just get rid of dream of the endless. you endure, you suffer, you put up with his presence. but if you’re lucky enough, you thrive in it and find yourself craving more.
sometimes, it’s a mix of both.
the smile on her face catches him off-guard. his own threatens to crack in turn, but her remark mildly vexes him; he pouts instead, for the entirety of a few seconds. he didn’t exactly give her a chance to trust him yet, his word, and judging by the glow in her eyes, she is, probably, teasing him. so he swallows his pride, coming to stand beside her with a faint quizzical line creasing his forehead. ⟫ I came as soon as you entered my realm. ⟪ so he’ll take that impatience to see him again as a compliment… even though his own admission absolutely denotes similar eagerness. ⟫
I did wonder what your mind would conceive. ⟪ free of nightmares, able to roam in peace. he cocks his head towards her, his arm brushing against hers with the motion. ⟫ This is a memory, is it not?
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She has no trouble acknowledging how adorable that brief pout is, though. Or the warmth that spreads through her at how quickly he came to see her. She doesn't draw attention to that light brush of his arm, but she is wholly aware of it. ]
Sort of, yeah. But it's... [ Her voice trails off, her gaze moving from him to those majestic mountains. Realizing she could feel them had been incredible. Suddenly, her powers weren't something to be feared, but rather to be embraced. Just think of all she could do with them.
She takes a shuddering breath that is let out slowly, calming her emotions. Control is important. Even here in this peaceful setting, the wrong trigger could end in damage in the waking world. Not to her apartment building, thankfully, the power-absorbing panels saw to that, but she isn't keen to deal with even more broken bones right now. ]
This place was full of people back then. They were happy and safe. But Afterlife is in ruins now and most of those people are dead. [ It's not so much sadness as weariness in her voice as she talks about the home she'd lost. It was just one of many, after all. ]
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⟪ the telltale signs of self-restraint are a little hard to miss. dream knows them well — for different reasons — though it seems that the both of them could create all sorts of disasters if they didn’t exert caution. dream notices because while she turns her gaze to admire the mountains, he looks at her. the twitch in her jaw. the tension in her shoulders. the yearning for something lost in the corner of her eyes, and his endless heart sinks with hers. the veil of nostalgia is wide, and it almost feels like daisy has never really had anywhere to go. never forever.
chilly blue eyes warm with distant wistfulness, half-shielded by a set of long lashes. after a moment of silence, he speaks. ⟫
More than once the Dreaming fell. ⟪ he doesn’t know why he tells her, exactly. to relate. to soothe. to sow an obscure seed of hope. angling his face down, the glimpse of wrath in his gaze is plain to see, though it fails to shroud his melancholy. ⟫ Assaulted. Ravaged. Left to rot, and in such poor conditions my subjects scarcely recognized their master. ⟪ especially the last time, still too fresh, a downward curve twisting his mouth. but it doesn’t last. for all the damage burgess wrought, dream prevailed — the dreamers prevailed — and his kingdom stands proud once more, able to offer daisy a modicum of solace.
the soft glint in his eyes as he glances up again almost makes him look boyish. ⟫ Perhaps you could rebuild your home. ⟪ like he did. it’s what dreams are all about, after all. ⟫
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The look in his eyes when he makes that suggestion nearly takes her breath away. For a moment, she just stares at him, expression unreadable, and then she nods. ]
I hope to one day. It's been a— [ she smiles and shakes her head, giving pointed emphasis to the next word ] a dream of mine for a long time. But I'm not sure I'm ready yet.
[ She leans more heavily against the pillar and tightens her arms around herself to keep from reaching for him. That's not the kind of comfort she's even remotely prepared to ask for. ]
I've only been back once since it happened, and that was to bury my mom again.
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⟪ loss of powers… ah, yes. been there, done that, and he wouldn’t wish the frailty that comes with it upon his worst enem— no, scratch that. he absolutely would, and without remorse, too, but that’s another conversation for another time, perhaps. there is so much about him that she doesn’t know — so much she might not even care to know, but the subtle changes in her eyes when she looks at him sometimes evoke the barest suggestion of interest, and that’s enough for dream to pursue his ambitions.
which aren’t at all brimming with motives of courtship.
he doesn’t offer his condolences, at least not verbally; he simply nods, solemn, the little smile she inspired at the mention of dreams dissolving into polite acknowledgement. the task he suggested seems overwhelming, her losses too fresh, maybe, her life still too chaotic, but there might be a solution in the meantime, and he’s already offered to keep her nightmares at bay, so.
slowly scanning their surroundings, his decision is quickly taken. ⟫ This could be yours to mold and shape as you wish. ⟪ every night. its structures. its colours. its people, even. a little piece of the dreaming. his gaze flickers over her face, both curious and hesitant. ⟫ Would you enjoy it? ⟪ you could start by asking her about the things she likes, and dream has to clamp down on the wayward thought, unwelcome; it’s just a question, and for good measure, he adds: ⟫ Until you are ready. ⟪ you know. for the real thing. ⟫
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This could be yours. She blinks quickly, trying to comprehend just what he means and being overwhelmed by the very idea of it. Is he seriously offering... But how? And why? There's something in his expression that tells her the offer is genuine, that he means something by it, but she can't guess what. ]
I don't know. [ He deserves an honest answer, even if this one reveals how she feels a bit like the lost little girl she used to be. ] I've never really had anything of my own to...
[ Make her own? Her van was her first home, and everything since has been SHIELD-supplied. Sure, she's finally started decorating her apartment after living there for a few years, but most of it is still Kora's doing. ]
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⟪ just look at it this way; dream provides the canvas, half the paint, and dreamers bring along with them brushes and drop cloths. they’re all artists in their own right here, but the memory of their craft rarely crosses the threshold of the waking world. even daisy’s sketched her own landscapes before, myriad tapestries of drowsy reveries, so it’s not the gift he offers; instead he proposes something more tangible, lucid, so that she may be fully aware of the colours she invents, the pillars she erects, and the people she brings back to life.
what was it that hob gadling said, once? ⟫
There is no time like the present… or so I’ve been told. ⟪ time is a little abstract when you’ve lived for so long — unless you’re stuck in a fishbowl, that definitely alters certain perceptions — and without an eternity before her, all of her seconds count. one corner of his mouth lifts gentle, a graceful twist of his wrist; in the palm of his hand, a spark, swirling blue and glittery until a small figure takes shape. it’s a simple thing to encourage her to do the same, to create, just from her will alone. baby steps. she doesn’t need to overhaul the entirety of afterlife in one go. ⟫
Your turn.
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(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
an era later