⟪ the odd thing is, dream usually keeps his hands to himself. touch is complicated, and holding the entire collective unconscious at his core more or less forces him to remain implacable. he isn’t, truly. his capacity to feel is as potent as the wildest figment of any dream, its terrible depths and its fantasies, and that is exactly why he can’t afford to let his emotions bubble to the surface, a threat not only to himself but to all dreamers. it’s the reason why he usually appears so collected despite his struggles, so distant, lest he be consumed. and it’s an every day fight.
for some reason, he allowed his guard to lower here, reaching out for something of hers. there was no need to touch, and he’s paying the price of his distraction — she is, anyway, pale anguish twisting her expression, her voice strained under the assault of unknown troubles.
dream withdraws immediately, always gentle in the way he moves, gestures ethereal. and he searches her gaze for an answer he doesn’t find. he struck a nerve, that much is certain, but why. two hours ago she had no qualms about getting all up in his space, and dream catching one corner of the sugar packet between his fingers has visibly upset her. ⟫
My apologies. ⟪ there’s an ugly thing here, underneath her brave façade, something she battles every second of her waking life. dream doesn’t pry, knowing all too well what it’s like to be prodded when you feel uncomfortable. what’s more, she’s already been defensive once before, and clearly he’s stepped where he doesn’t belong. his mouth thins, pursed pensive. the chair scrapes the floor as he prepares to rise, a vague shadow of regret in his gaze. ⟫
I bid you farewell— ⟪ and then he stops, his lips holding the shape of his last word as he finally thinks to ask — considerate for the first time tonight, maybe. ⟫ You have many names. What do you wish to be called?
[ No. What did she just do? She allowed him to see a part of her she always keeps buried deep, showing the world a mask instead of the fragile girl inside, and look where it's gotten her. He's leaving, just like everyone always does when she doesn't meet their expectations, and it's breaking something inside her that she's had to repair so many times before.
Cold floods through her as she watches his chest instead of his face, trying so hard to keep her expression blank when some part of her wants to break apart right there in this place she's come to think of as safe. She doesn't want to speak, she might not be able to keep her voice steady, but he asks her a question that is so important that she can't let it go unanswered. ]
Daisy. [ It's whispered like a vow, or perhaps a plea, and then she looks down at the tabletop where his hand had been just a few moments ago. ]
I'm sorry, I didn't mean— [ The apology rushes out of her and she has to bite it off, forcing herself to remember they only just met. If he leaves now and she never sees him again, she'll be fine. She's always fine when someone leaves. ] Call me Daisy.
⟪ softly spoken, each syllable deliberately articulated like he was just given the key to a treasure she’s long hidden from the world. he knows of its significance, of what it must mean to her — or he thinks he does, but he has already assumed a number of things he probably shouldn’t have, so. still, the name pleasantly rolls off the tongue, and dream thanks her silently, a nod wreathed in subtle reverence. ⟫
You need not apologize. ⟪ none of this — whatever this is — is her fault. he misread her, plain and simple. he didn’t think, and her previous statement from a few hours ago rings even heavier now. ⟫
You claim that I do not know you… ⟪ if he vaguely agreed earlier, he fully accepts her verdict now; the ghost of a smile touches his lips, though it’s more tentative than anything else, barely there — maybe even a trifle timid. ⟫ …and I fear you may be right. ⟪ despite his reluctance to admit his failure, there’s intent in the way he speaks, in the unspoken promise that he still means, genuinely, to remedy it. that he’s willing to learn. he doesn’t mean to leave out of disappointment — or forever for that matter. he’s just wary of himself now, and the boundaries he overstepped. ⟫
But the threat is contained, for now. And I must return to the Dreaming.
[ The way he says her name... He treats it like she's given him a gift, and she has to wonder if he understands how much it means to her. To grow up not knowing anything about herself, and to finally find those pieces of who she was supposed to be — her name, her birthday, the place she was born... Does he know how important such simple things can be to a person like her?
That smile on his lips is nothing like it should be. She's never seen a brilliant grin light up his face, but she knows it's what he deserves to wear. And as crazy as it seems, she wants to be the one to give it to him, to make up for the mistakes she's made today.
That unspoken promise feels like too much to hope for. Why would he want to fix it? He's... something she can't fully comprehend, and she's just Daisy Johnson. Why would he want to expend the energy to get to know her like that? (But she wants him to. It makes no sense whatsoever, but she wants him to come back and try again.) ]
When will I see you again? [ It's another vulnerability, letting him see that she wants to see him again, but after everything else tonight, might as well go all in. There's not much else to lose. ]
⟪ dream, per the definition of his function, is always more appealing than reality. it might explain his overall magnetism, and perhaps the reason why daisy wants him to come back again. he knows his purpose, and what he is; hope and desires. fantasies and fears. ideas and stories and ambitions. he’s used to his dreamers basking in every single thing he encompasses, but being wanted by the fully awakened object of his fascination strikes a chord he’d long forgotten, buried deep where he tends to repress all the things that threaten to drive him mad.
they surge all at once, stirred alive; daisy wants to see him again, the hesitance in her voice a hint of concern that she might not, and dream has to reach deep within the confines of his self-imposed inexorability to rein himself in, overwhelmed in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. for what feels like a small eternity, he simply stares, a wary glint in his eyes that soon dissolves into the reflection of all that warmth spreading through his chest, new galaxies bursting to life.
get it together.
his chest rises full, his nostrils flare, and then the tempest abates, leaving in its wake an agonizing little thing in the space between each heartbeat. he exhales soft, slowly coming back to his senses, but it’s already painted his expression more hopeful than it should be, ⟫
Look for me, when next you close your eyes. ⟪ and he wonders, not without a modicum of quiet excitement, what her dream will be like.
he rises at last, a bow of his head. and he leaves, in desperate need of a distraction. ⟫
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
⟪ the odd thing is, dream usually keeps his hands to himself. touch is complicated, and holding the entire collective unconscious at his core more or less forces him to remain implacable. he isn’t, truly. his capacity to feel is as potent as the wildest figment of any dream, its terrible depths and its fantasies, and that is exactly why he can’t afford to let his emotions bubble to the surface, a threat not only to himself but to all dreamers. it’s the reason why he usually appears so collected despite his struggles, so distant, lest he be consumed. and it’s an every day fight.
for some reason, he allowed his guard to lower here, reaching out for something of hers. there was no need to touch, and he’s paying the price of his distraction — she is, anyway, pale anguish twisting her expression, her voice strained under the assault of unknown troubles.
dream withdraws immediately, always gentle in the way he moves, gestures ethereal. and he searches her gaze for an answer he doesn’t find. he struck a nerve, that much is certain, but why. two hours ago she had no qualms about getting all up in his space, and dream catching one corner of the sugar packet between his fingers has visibly upset her. ⟫
My apologies. ⟪ there’s an ugly thing here, underneath her brave façade, something she battles every second of her waking life. dream doesn’t pry, knowing all too well what it’s like to be prodded when you feel uncomfortable. what’s more, she’s already been defensive once before, and clearly he’s stepped where he doesn’t belong. his mouth thins, pursed pensive. the chair scrapes the floor as he prepares to rise, a vague shadow of regret in his gaze. ⟫
I bid you farewell— ⟪ and then he stops, his lips holding the shape of his last word as he finally thinks to ask — considerate for the first time tonight, maybe. ⟫ You have many names. What do you wish to be called?
no subject
Cold floods through her as she watches his chest instead of his face, trying so hard to keep her expression blank when some part of her wants to break apart right there in this place she's come to think of as safe. She doesn't want to speak, she might not be able to keep her voice steady, but he asks her a question that is so important that she can't let it go unanswered. ]
Daisy. [ It's whispered like a vow, or perhaps a plea, and then she looks down at the tabletop where his hand had been just a few moments ago. ]
I'm sorry, I didn't mean— [ The apology rushes out of her and she has to bite it off, forcing herself to remember they only just met. If he leaves now and she never sees him again, she'll be fine. She's always fine when someone leaves. ] Call me Daisy.
no subject
⟪ softly spoken, each syllable deliberately articulated like he was just given the key to a treasure she’s long hidden from the world. he knows of its significance, of what it must mean to her — or he thinks he does, but he has already assumed a number of things he probably shouldn’t have, so. still, the name pleasantly rolls off the tongue, and dream thanks her silently, a nod wreathed in subtle reverence. ⟫
You need not apologize. ⟪ none of this — whatever this is — is her fault. he misread her, plain and simple. he didn’t think, and her previous statement from a few hours ago rings even heavier now. ⟫
You claim that I do not know you… ⟪ if he vaguely agreed earlier, he fully accepts her verdict now; the ghost of a smile touches his lips, though it’s more tentative than anything else, barely there — maybe even a trifle timid. ⟫ …and I fear you may be right. ⟪ despite his reluctance to admit his failure, there’s intent in the way he speaks, in the unspoken promise that he still means, genuinely, to remedy it. that he’s willing to learn. he doesn’t mean to leave out of disappointment — or forever for that matter. he’s just wary of himself now, and the boundaries he overstepped. ⟫
But the threat is contained, for now. And I must return to the Dreaming.
no subject
That smile on his lips is nothing like it should be. She's never seen a brilliant grin light up his face, but she knows it's what he deserves to wear. And as crazy as it seems, she wants to be the one to give it to him, to make up for the mistakes she's made today.
That unspoken promise feels like too much to hope for. Why would he want to fix it? He's... something she can't fully comprehend, and she's just Daisy Johnson. Why would he want to expend the energy to get to know her like that? (But she wants him to. It makes no sense whatsoever, but she wants him to come back and try again.) ]
When will I see you again? [ It's another vulnerability, letting him see that she wants to see him again, but after everything else tonight, might as well go all in. There's not much else to lose. ]
no subject
⟪ dream, per the definition of his function, is always more appealing than reality. it might explain his overall magnetism, and perhaps the reason why daisy wants him to come back again. he knows his purpose, and what he is; hope and desires. fantasies and fears. ideas and stories and ambitions. he’s used to his dreamers basking in every single thing he encompasses, but being wanted by the fully awakened object of his fascination strikes a chord he’d long forgotten, buried deep where he tends to repress all the things that threaten to drive him mad.
they surge all at once, stirred alive; daisy wants to see him again, the hesitance in her voice a hint of concern that she might not, and dream has to reach deep within the confines of his self-imposed inexorability to rein himself in, overwhelmed in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. for what feels like a small eternity, he simply stares, a wary glint in his eyes that soon dissolves into the reflection of all that warmth spreading through his chest, new galaxies bursting to life.
get it together.
his chest rises full, his nostrils flare, and then the tempest abates, leaving in its wake an agonizing little thing in the space between each heartbeat. he exhales soft, slowly coming back to his senses, but it’s already painted his expression more hopeful than it should be, ⟫
Look for me, when next you close your eyes. ⟪ and he wonders, not without a modicum of quiet excitement, what her dream will be like.
he rises at last, a bow of his head. and he leaves, in desperate need of a distraction. ⟫