[ 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. ⟫
[ If he'd given this little demonstration earlier, it likely wouldn't have ended well. His watching her at her most vulnerable in her dreams is still something she's grappling with, firmly pushing the knowledge aside until she can properly process what it means for her personally. But this is different. Somehow, it doesn't bother her that he knows about the tiny piece of her life that's been a constant throughout the years.
Daisy loosens her arms to reach out and carefully pluck the figure from his hand, cradling it gently between her own. It feels like a gift all on its own, and she gives it a little nudge to set the girl swaying. ]
My turn... [ She murmurs the words distantly, turning options and ideas over in her mind. Material objects have never been very important to her; for so long, her life had fit into a duffel bag and a single cardboard box. This is different, though, because she's not creating her own haven, but one for every Inhuman who just wants to feel safe and welcome.
That makes it easier for her to decide on a first step. Practical rather than fantastical planning. Turning to face the interior of the gazebo, her arm briefly brushing against his, she thinks, imagines, and tries to form. A few moments pass with nothing happening, and then there's a trickling swirl of light and color that wraps around and over and on top of itself until it forms a simple rocking bench in the same style and color as the gazebo itself. She'd always thought it so odd there wasn't anywhere to sit within the structure, especially when the view was so beautiful. ]
⟪ look at her go. dream watches in near-wonder, a spectacle that doesn’t occur as frequently as most dreams shaped by wild and abstract fantasies. lucid dreamers in high numbers would prove to be a threat he doesn’t particularly wish to contend with; thankfully, they are few and far between, and daisy is a potential menace he’s absolutely willing to tolerate.
or embrace. whichever. it’s just a word.
it’s a simple thing, what she creates, and it suits her. the ghost of a smile touches dream’s lips as he quietly approaches, studying the bench first, and then her. ⟫ You are now the master of your own realm. ⟪ it’s a tease, more than anything else, notes of approval in his tone. he’ll make sure she finds the path to this fragment of the dreaming easily, though that would require a very specific kind of efforts on her end.
he leans a bit more into her space, half-chiding, good-humored. ⟫ Should you allow yourself brief moments of reprieve. ⟪ can’t reshape this world if you don’t sleep, daisy johnson, no matter how busy your schedule. no matter how reluctant. but no nightmares will bother her here — at least for now. he can’t banish them forever, but. for a while, at least.
[ Damnit, she likes it when he does that. The gentle teasing that wraps around his approval of her choice. The chiding that could have been harsh and pointed but was instead soft and almost playful. These are the tones she's always responded well to, her personality meshing well with people who utilize these approaches in communication.
Maybe they just got off on the wrong foot earlier. Maybe they can be... friends? How does one go about being friends with an incredibly powerful, ancient being with a talking bird for a companion?
Well, as he said, no time like the present to find out. Stepping away from the pillar, she crosses the short distance to the bench. She pauses for a moment to reach out and assure herself it's solid, her hand pressing into the bar holding up the seat, and then she plops herself down onto it, settling the hula girl in her lap. ]
Sit with me? [ It's an invitation, not a demand, and she looks up at him with hesitant hope in her eyes. She's offering him a chance, taking a risk by opening herself up to rejection, and his response will shape whatever is to come between them, whether he realizes it or not. ]
⟪ it’s kind of cute, how she makes sure the bench she just created is actually there, like she doesn’t quite trust her artistry just yet. dream notices with a little pull tugging at the corner of his lips, and he wants to tell her; how this little microcosm is already so rich with complexity and emotion, and how it’s already more than just a memory. the bench is no exception, though his awe-inspired wish to reassure is cut short when she finally sits and looks at him with an invitation on her tongue and something in her eyes that momentarily knocks the air out of his lungs.
there’s no air, really, to be expelled, but he feels the sudden lack of pressure there, replaced by a pleasant little pang. it swells warm, the same hesitation in his gaze as he stares quiet; above, clouds slowly disperse, allowing the sun to shine even brighter.
dream of the endless isn’t often invited to just be in his own realm, to enjoy little nothings, especially by dreamers. there’s something happening here, and it’s in her eyes, mostly, like his answer could either trigger splendors or calamities. but his mind’s already made up, even as he stalls a little, until he finally moves.
the simple act of sitting beside her, in her dream, where he reigns supreme yet chooses to be a guest, speaks volume. and there he goes, with the same regal poise that defines him, claiming the space next to her with a delayed nod, stars sparked awake. ⟫
[ He watches her for so long after the invitation that she can practically feel the rejection coming, a dark pit creeping closer to swallow her whole. Bracing herself for it is physically painful because of how much she'd hoped he would take this little step. Hoping for something and losing it hurts more than never hoping for anything. Hope it dangerous; it can give you strength just as easily as it can rip it away.
She hates how her world brightens both literally and metaphorically when he finally moves to sit beside her. How does this man who is so much more already have such a hold over her? Is this part of who he is? Part of what he is? Her dark eyes study him like he's a work of art with mysteries hidden in his depths, taking in the contours of his face, the wild state of his hair, and those eyes that at times seem to hold entire worlds. ]
What do you dream of? [ The question falls from her lips without thought, though it's posed in genuine curiosity. Whether he sleeps is something she's unsure of, but everything dreams in some way. Hopes for the future. Things they wish they could do. An imagined life they can't yet reach... ]
⟪ but as matthew so eloquently explained, dreams don’t fucking die, and neither does hope. allow yourself to hope, daisy. even if it stings, even if it takes a while to spread its wings. at the end of the day, it’s the only thing that can conquer just about everything — even the devil — though that’s another conversation for another day. or maybe another hour, should daisy sleep long enough and keep asking questions that catch him a little off-guard.
has he ever been asked before? he can’t recall, and though he suspects she might not necessarily mean the way that she dreams, the curiosity behind what might be considered trivial otherwise denotes a hint of interest that beats a little harder in his chest. he does dream. of worlds within worlds and the boundless realms of the dreaming, ever-changing. of the quiet moments when the boundary between dream and reality blurs, a wish to connect with the countless souls whose rêveries he shepherds. he dreams of release, too, from the eternal responsibility that anchors him here. he dreams of forgiveness and reconciliation, of companionship and understanding, a respite from the solitude that comes with the burden of his permanence. but above all, he dreams of change, the perpetual and inevitable transformation that governs all existence. even as a constant in a universe of variables, he dreams of evolving, of being more, perhaps, than he was conceived to be.
and he doesn’t know if it can ever be a possibility for him.
the question is loaded, unbeknownst to her — and the response even more so. a hint of melancholy creases his face as he looks upward, like he might find a proper answer there, somewhere amidst the evanescing clouds. ⟫ I am both sentinel and scribe, the architect of your hopes, your fears. I do not sleep... ⟪ his chest rises full and then falls slowly, his gaze gradually dropping to meet hers. ⟫ …but yes. I suppose I do dream, in some measure. In the silent spaces between words unspoken, the echoes of what is and what might never be. To dream is to yearn. To lose. To change. ⟪ a shadow flickers in his eyes at the mention of the word, lips pursed. ⟫ But I am immutable.
[ He starts off so strongly, almost as if he's trying to keep himself on that mighty pedestal of being something great and powerful, above so much of the rest of the universe... But then he looks at her and he's different again, back beside her instead of far away. And somehow, he's made more real for what he shares with her.
Turning in her seat so she's facing him better, her knee brushes against him as she tucks one leg under her, the bench swaying slightly with the movement. This moment between them feels important, and she doesn't want to waste it. ]
Everything can change. Look at those mountains over there. They were formed thousands of years ago, and they'll stand for thousands more, but that doesn't mean they'll be the same for all that time. Something might come along and cause an avalanche, and they'll always be a little different after that. [ She pauses for a moment, a smile creeping its way to the corners of her mouth. ]
Something, or someone. [ If she looks a little playful at that, a little pleased, it's because she is. She'd been that someone once for the mountain, shaking it up as likely nothing ever had before. And while she doesn't think herself powerful enough to make a lasting impression on everyone she meets, she knows she has made an impression on some — Coulson told her as much in a letter she still cherishes years later. So, perhaps, she might be able to provide that for Dream as well.
⟪ his eyebrows raise at that, half-amused. in some ways, she reminds him of his sister, wisdom imparted on the master of one realm from another. the truth is… he has changed. there was a time when he even adored desire, for instance, less guarded, and less withdrawn, perhaps, until his sibling decided to break his heart. intransigence slowly crept into everything dream thought after that, and made, and said, and here he is now, on the brink of change again and missing the largest piece of the puzzle to make it happen. he just doesn’t know what it is, or what it’s supposed to look like.
and he’s tired.
but she has… somewhat of a point. to an extent. her smile makes it easier to want to indulge her, too, if only for a moment. ⟫ Perhaps you speak truly… though unlike mountains, my essence is bound not to the whims of nature but to the unyielding principles that govern the universe. ⟪ while mountains are etched and altered by the passage of time, dream exists beyond temporal currents, shackled by a plethora of truths, of laws. sure, they can be broken, but the price to pay might not be anything he can afford.
or maybe it is.
daisy is an avalanche all on her own. dream contemplates her optimism for a moment, curiosity piqued. ⟫ Tell me. If Dream of the Endless were to change… would you not fear for the stability of this realm? Could it sustain such a shift, or would it fray at the edges?
[ That hint of amusement is exactly what she'd been hoping for. Even a flicker of emotion feels like a prize from him, intuition telling her he's usually more stoic than anything else. She'll work hard to pull out those emotions in him and endeavor to give him only the best ones. (And she will purposefully neglect to consider why it matters so much to her that he experiences more of the good than the bad.)
She's quiet for a moment as she considers his question, turning it over in her mind to examine it from all possible angles. Each one presents the same conclusion, though, and her answer comes out plainly stated as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. ]
The dreamers change, and so does what they dream of. Why shouldn't this place change with them? Why shouldn't the one who holds all of this together?
⟪ she makes it sound terribly simple. could it be? simple. or is a clean slate absolutely required. one of his sisters changed, became something else entirely. even despair changed, but she had to die first, and beyond minor differences, she remains mostly the same. that’s the thing with them. they were born the way they were for specific reasons. specific purposes. and to change would defeat them.
so why shouldn’t the dream lord change alongside his dreamers? ⟫
Because… ⟪ he sways closer, his voice dropping a little lower, like he’s about to tell her a terrible secret. ⟫ I am not human. ⟪ it’s an easy concept for such volatile creatures, a notion he mourns even without having experienced it. never thoroughly. there’s a hint of it in his eyes, a flat smile that flashes a little sad in their depth, chilly blue. ⟫ I exist only because you dream… ⟪ and as such, he was made to serve them, but.
what if.
what if he stopped being what he is.
the thought is both dreadful and soothing, and he’s quick to chase it away, a solemn nod to acknowledge his gratitude for her answer. ⟫ But you have given me much to ponder, Daisy Johnson.
[ He moves closer and everything goes still inside her. I am not human. That should scare her, right? Or at least unsettle her? But it doesn't, not in the slightest. It's not even that she's more intrigued because of it the way some might be, she just...
What he is a piece of the puzzle of who he is, and the who is what pulls her to him. Who is what has her wanting to lean in and—
She looks away from those star-filled eyes she'd been falling into, turning to face front in her seat again and slouching down until her head is on the back of the seat. Nudging the ground with her foot, the bench starts to gently rock. ]
Good. [ That's it? Come on, Johnson. Get it together. She glances at him, nerves skittering about inside her as she scrambles for one of her many questions, and then things go still again as she finds one. Hesitantly, she asks and tries not to be afraid of the answer. ]
⟪ she seems nervous. not quite afraid, but dream does notice the slight shift in the air, something a little tense about her. maybe you’re just too close, dude. but instead of relinquishing some of her space, his scrutiny marginally sharpens; unblinking, he studies her through a squint, something curious in the way he refuses to let his focus wander away. it’s a test, maybe. for him, for her. subconsciously. there’s something satisfying in the way he seems to be able to destabilize her, perhaps as much as she can destabilize him. there are boundaries not to cross, somewhere. and he wants to find them.
he rocks with her, willing the bench to move on its own without their help. it’s oddly serene, and peace has been rather sparse lately. he straightens up, angling his torso a little more towards her, at ease.
that answer is an easy one. ⟫ Dreamers have existed long before humans did. ⟪ long before earth existed, even. dream is impossibly old, though emotional maturity clearly doesn’t come with age.
a knowing gleam briefly darts through his eyes. ⟫ I believe you are already familiar with extraterrestrial life.
[ Peace is something she hasn't known in a long time either, and it feels so indescribably strange to find it now within a dream. For so long, dreaming has been something she's worked hard to avoid as much as possible, and it feels surreal to have even a brief period of restful sleep offered to her, never mind the ethereal creature doing the offering.
Turning her head to look at him fully, she can't help the very unladylike snorting laugh that comes out of her at that last part. She offers an amused retort with a grin stretching across her lips. ] And I believe you're already aware that I'm part-alien, so yeah, I'm familiar.
[ Her expression sobers slightly as she turns her gaze back to the sky, wispy clouds moving slowly across the crisp blue. After a moment, she shrugs one shoulder and explains her question. ]
I was just wondering because sometimes I go out there. Into space. I was gone for a year the first time, and it would be— [ The words cut off as her mind catches up with her mouth. Whatever she'd been about to say (it would be sad not to see you for so long) is replaced by something less emotionally revealing. ] Hard to get used to this place and then leave it like that.
⟪ that brief second of hesitation before the rest of her explanation spills out of her mouth doesn’t go unnoticed. it’s subtle but it’s there, a hint of hope that has no business existing blooming in the already attentive way he’s observing her. his fingers stiffen, brushing lightly against the cool wood of the bench — a distraction from the unexpected jump in his pulse. it almost sounds like she might miss him — and in the grand scheme of things, it shouldn’t matter. but it does, for reasons he doesn’t want to explore, already too warm where his endless heart stupidly stutters.
get a grip, dream.
it’s a good thing she’s not looking at him. he can’t be sure what she’d see in his eyes if she was, and somewhere in a vast array of decisions yet to be made, one surges higher than the others, almost of its own volition.
he reaches into the folds of his cloak, all deliberate movements as he draws out a small luminescent stone, deep blue. it gleams a soft azure shade in the crook of his palm, infused with a miniscule fragment of his power — nothing to endanger him. and daisy isn’t john dee. his own hesitation halts the rise and fall of his chest, a faint shimmer rippling through the air around them, shifting with its master’s contemplation.
his hand hangs open in front of her, the swirl of stars in his eyes glowing slightly guarded, almost timid but not quite. ⟫ To ensure that you never stray from the path that leads you here. ⟪ in other words: that she remains lucid at all times, and find her way. ⟫
[ Her peripheral vision catches his arm moving and she turns her head slightly to watch as he withdraws a stone that can't possibly be natural. A question forms on her tongue, but then he offers it to her with an explanation and she... doesn't know what to do with it.
Does he understand what that certainty would mean to her? The girl who's spent her life being abandoned and left behind, the woman who is always afraid of being unwanted. Could he possibly realize what this might symbolize?
Taking a deep breath, she looks up from the stone to meet those beautiful, strange eyes with her own that are full of hope and hesitation. But then she reaches out with one hand to carefully pick up the stone with her fingertips, her skin brushing ever so lightly against his—
And then her other hand wraps around his before he can lower it, and she rises from a bench in a smooth motion born of years of physical training. ]
Come on. I want to show you something. [ It's the first thing she can think of to thank him.
⟪ of course he doesn’t understand. he barely grasps what it means for him. them. he’s dumb, despite all appearances of grandeur and might… or maybe it’s more like he does understand, and just chooses to ignore its significance, letting it simmer below the surface.
still dumb, though — of the struck variety, too, when daisy decides to hold his hand, apparently refusing to leave it there, useless and empty. it’s a rare thing for anyone to touch dream of the endless — especially without an invitation — but there’s been an onslaught of odd incidents in recent years, all of which blindsiding him without truly invoking his wrath. he discovered genuine friendship, for one — after a very dramatic exit, and a hundred-or-so years. he allowed too many to disrespect him, too, mortals included, without striking them down. or wanting to. he might have recoiled, once upon a time. glared, or snarled. his body does still, and his shoulders rise, like hackles on a threatened and angry cat, but then he just looks at her confused, tension draining as he catches himself standing back up, ready to follow her.
her hand is warm. his skin tingles, all the way up to his elbow as he tests her grip and turns his palm, loosely curling his fingers around hers. he spends a ridiculous amount of time just staring at their intertwined hands — it feels like it, anyway — until he huffs a little sheepish. through his lashes, his eyes flicker up to meet hers.
show him something. in the dreaming? color him intrigued and vaguely amused, beyond the fiery little thing burning between his lungs. ⟫ Am I to be made a guest in my own domain?
[ Daisy has never shied away from physical contact. Hugs from friends, a comforting touch offered to a stranger, a sparring match — she is equally comfortable with all of them, though they all do, of course, carry different weights to them. But each is precious to someone who grew up feeling completely alone in the world and constantly tried to convince herself that it didn't matter. She could do just fine on her own.
She couldn't, though. Being on her own is the worst thing for Daisy Johnson. And while she isn't lonely anymore, she carries the scars of those years and uses that remembered pain to help others. Even if all she has to give is a hand held in a moment of need, it's what she'll do without hesitation.
The look Dream gives her tells her that his need might be very different from any she's ever encountered. That confusion that flickers across his expression makes her heart ache for him despite the fact that he's an all-powerful ethereal being, and the long look he gives their joined hands cements her instinct of how to approach whatever this is.
He might be older and more powerful than she'll ever understand, but she's not going to treat him like some deity to be feared, worshipped, or obeyed. That's not who she is, and honestly, any reason she might have to do any of those things has absolutely nothing to do with what he is. ]
Well, I seem to remember you saying this was mine to mold and shape, so... [ She draws out the word playfully, a light teasing in her voice as she fails to hold back a smile. ] Yeah. Try it on for size. You might find you like it.
[ And without waiting to see his reaction, she turns and gently tugs him toward the path they'd followed that led back to the settlement. ]
⟪ you might find you like it… yeah. and it’s a problem. stir the embers, fan the flames, and burn. he should be tugging at her hand to halt her steps, to anchor them in the same invariability he suffers. there’s a certain sense of comfort in stability, but there’s also a terrible lack of excitement — essential, among other things, to create dreams and nightmares. daisy is the embodiment of an eagerness that dream does his very best to quench on his worst days, but sometimes it just flares up and…
well. he burns.
her memory is phenomenal. everything that surrounds them is crystal clear, a perfect replica of a place that once thrived. and it’s gorgeous. from the stone stairway edged with classical balusters to the pathway bordered by lush potted plants and flowering bushes in the near distance — the settlement, aesthetically eastern-inspired. he sees all of it… and he also doesn’t, because his gaze is riveted on her as they walk, amused, curious, and then just a hair's breadth from spellbound, an itch stuck in his throat as he feels the entirety of his beating heart in the palm of her hand.
dreamers often conjure crooked or blurred memories, jumbled or just outright bizarre. this is seamless, and dream is positively impressed, but it’s her he’s looking at and the word that forms on his tongue isn’t what he means to say. ⟫
Morpheus. ⟪ instead of acknowledgement, a compliment, or even just a question, he tells her his name, no context. like a secret finally earned, a crack through his shell, his eyes lethal-tender. ⟫
[ The first time she came to Afterlife, it was only for a short while, a handful of days during which she struggled to learn about her new powers and grappled with the realization that she had her parents back. They were far from perfect, but they wanted her — and they'd wanted this to be her home. So yes, she remembers it all, every little detail engraved in her memory, and relived in bitter nightmares of it all crashing down around her.
But this isn't one of those nightmares. This is a dream, and she can make it beautiful if she wants to. They're almost to their destination, the building not very far into the settlement, and she can feel him watching her, see his face turned to her from the corner of his eye when he—
Morpheus. It's a name, one she's only heard before in movies, but she vaguely recalls it being attached to the god of dreams. A name for someone who controls dreams. He'd told her to call him Dream, so for him to offer something else now... Her steps falter as she turns to look at him, taking in that tenderness in his eyes, and her chest tightens like he's wrapped his hand around her heart and squeezed. She doesn't even have to think about how to respond. ]
Thank you for telling me. [ A smile blooms across her face like the sun coming out from behind clouds, and she squeezes his hand before tugging him forward again. Both her hands are occupied, the other holding the blue stone he'd gifted her, so she carefully tucks it into the pocket of her jeans as they reach the old painted doors, opening them and moving down the elaborately decorated hallway. Jewel tones in terracotta, green, and gold are everywhere, and she stops them at an open set of green double doors.
There's a table inside set for three, with fine china, a floral centerpiece, and an array of gold-rimmed stem glasses. And there at one of the places is a simple bouquet of daisies. ]
⟪ wisps of memories flicker around the table, ghost-like silhouettes that once gathered there. it’s blurry at best, barely visible, and dream doesn’t do anything to fine-tune them; it is daisy’s pocket-realm to shape the way she wishes to, and so he’ll wait, allow her to reclaim every nook and cranny at her own pace. her smile still shines with gratitude, and her hand withholds his still; he notes, not without a little chill whispering down his spine, that she deliberately chose to sacrifice her other hand in order to push open the doors.
somewhere in the distance, mervyn is probably shaking his head.
and lucienne is most likely rolling her eyes.
groaning, both of them.
no matter. ⟫
Our final destination, I assume. ⟪ a cozy room, a table for three. and daisies, which dream spots with a hint of warmth tugging at the corner of his mouth. he tilts his head towards her, aware of her fingers still laced around his and barely loosening his grip. ⟫ Was this your favourite room?
[ It feels right to hold on to him as if she needs him to anchor her to this place when really she just wants to be anchored to him. Somehow, he's worked his way under her skin in the short time since he and his bird waltzed into her life, and the longer he's there, the less she minds. The imaginary weight of him there is even comforting in a way. ]
I don't think I really had a favorite. [ She admits this fact without hesitation or regret; too many years have passed for those sorts of feelings. After all this time, she is able to approach these memories with only the lingering echoes of the grief that followed these events. ] I wasn't here for that long. But it is the one that meant the most. This is where we had our first family dinner.
[ Her voice quiets and the grief is a little more pronounced now. ] Our only family dinner.
⧼ the one that meant the most. and she willingly brings him here, with her grief and her vulnerability, even after berating him for spying on her dreams, for intruding where she claimed he didn’t belong. it was just hours ago — and she wasn’t entirely wrong, despite his trespass being another part of his purpose. but he’s no longer a voyeur. he’s welcome, not as a king but as a guest, and it hits him in all the right ways; he hears the shift in her voice, shell cracked, and doesn’t fight the cold warmth that splits his chest open.
she wants him here. beyond the nostalgia, the pain. and it’s one of the most intimate invitation he’s ever received.
there’s an apology on the tip of his tongue, to soothe her sorrow. but he doesn’t say anything. she knew the impact it would have on her, to be here — and she didn’t bring him along for sorries. but he can soothe her in different ways, maybe; first, by giving her hand a light squeeze, a slow stretch of fingers to lace them a little tighter. and then he leans closer, no trace of pity in his eyes; there’s warmth, mostly, and a good dose of gratitude. ⧽ Thank you. ⧼ for allowing him here at all. he’s touched in weird ways — it doesn’t happen often. ⧽
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no 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. ]
no subject
⟪ 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.
no subject
Daisy loosens her arms to reach out and carefully pluck the figure from his hand, cradling it gently between her own. It feels like a gift all on its own, and she gives it a little nudge to set the girl swaying. ]
My turn... [ She murmurs the words distantly, turning options and ideas over in her mind. Material objects have never been very important to her; for so long, her life had fit into a duffel bag and a single cardboard box. This is different, though, because she's not creating her own haven, but one for every Inhuman who just wants to feel safe and welcome.
That makes it easier for her to decide on a first step. Practical rather than fantastical planning. Turning to face the interior of the gazebo, her arm briefly brushing against his, she thinks, imagines, and tries to form. A few moments pass with nothing happening, and then there's a trickling swirl of light and color that wraps around and over and on top of itself until it forms a simple rocking bench in the same style and color as the gazebo itself. She'd always thought it so odd there wasn't anywhere to sit within the structure, especially when the view was so beautiful. ]
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⟪ look at her go. dream watches in near-wonder, a spectacle that doesn’t occur as frequently as most dreams shaped by wild and abstract fantasies. lucid dreamers in high numbers would prove to be a threat he doesn’t particularly wish to contend with; thankfully, they are few and far between, and daisy is a potential menace he’s absolutely willing to tolerate.
or embrace. whichever. it’s just a word.
it’s a simple thing, what she creates, and it suits her. the ghost of a smile touches dream’s lips as he quietly approaches, studying the bench first, and then her. ⟫ You are now the master of your own realm. ⟪ it’s a tease, more than anything else, notes of approval in his tone. he’ll make sure she finds the path to this fragment of the dreaming easily, though that would require a very specific kind of efforts on her end.
he leans a bit more into her space, half-chiding, good-humored. ⟫ Should you allow yourself brief moments of reprieve. ⟪ can’t reshape this world if you don’t sleep, daisy johnson, no matter how busy your schedule. no matter how reluctant. but no nightmares will bother her here — at least for now. he can’t banish them forever, but. for a while, at least.
he doesn’t have to decide how long just yet. ⟫
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Maybe they just got off on the wrong foot earlier. Maybe they can be... friends? How does one go about being friends with an incredibly powerful, ancient being with a talking bird for a companion?
Well, as he said, no time like the present to find out. Stepping away from the pillar, she crosses the short distance to the bench. She pauses for a moment to reach out and assure herself it's solid, her hand pressing into the bar holding up the seat, and then she plops herself down onto it, settling the hula girl in her lap. ]
Sit with me? [ It's an invitation, not a demand, and she looks up at him with hesitant hope in her eyes. She's offering him a chance, taking a risk by opening herself up to rejection, and his response will shape whatever is to come between them, whether he realizes it or not. ]
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⟪ it’s kind of cute, how she makes sure the bench she just created is actually there, like she doesn’t quite trust her artistry just yet. dream notices with a little pull tugging at the corner of his lips, and he wants to tell her; how this little microcosm is already so rich with complexity and emotion, and how it’s already more than just a memory. the bench is no exception, though his awe-inspired wish to reassure is cut short when she finally sits and looks at him with an invitation on her tongue and something in her eyes that momentarily knocks the air out of his lungs.
there’s no air, really, to be expelled, but he feels the sudden lack of pressure there, replaced by a pleasant little pang. it swells warm, the same hesitation in his gaze as he stares quiet; above, clouds slowly disperse, allowing the sun to shine even brighter.
dream of the endless isn’t often invited to just be in his own realm, to enjoy little nothings, especially by dreamers. there’s something happening here, and it’s in her eyes, mostly, like his answer could either trigger splendors or calamities. but his mind’s already made up, even as he stalls a little, until he finally moves.
the simple act of sitting beside her, in her dream, where he reigns supreme yet chooses to be a guest, speaks volume. and there he goes, with the same regal poise that defines him, claiming the space next to her with a delayed nod, stars sparked awake. ⟫
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She hates how her world brightens both literally and metaphorically when he finally moves to sit beside her. How does this man who is so much more already have such a hold over her? Is this part of who he is? Part of what he is? Her dark eyes study him like he's a work of art with mysteries hidden in his depths, taking in the contours of his face, the wild state of his hair, and those eyes that at times seem to hold entire worlds. ]
What do you dream of? [ The question falls from her lips without thought, though it's posed in genuine curiosity. Whether he sleeps is something she's unsure of, but everything dreams in some way. Hopes for the future. Things they wish they could do. An imagined life they can't yet reach... ]
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⟪ but as matthew so eloquently explained, dreams don’t fucking die, and neither does hope. allow yourself to hope, daisy. even if it stings, even if it takes a while to spread its wings. at the end of the day, it’s the only thing that can conquer just about everything — even the devil — though that’s another conversation for another day. or maybe another hour, should daisy sleep long enough and keep asking questions that catch him a little off-guard.
has he ever been asked before? he can’t recall, and though he suspects she might not necessarily mean the way that she dreams, the curiosity behind what might be considered trivial otherwise denotes a hint of interest that beats a little harder in his chest. he does dream. of worlds within worlds and the boundless realms of the dreaming, ever-changing. of the quiet moments when the boundary between dream and reality blurs, a wish to connect with the countless souls whose rêveries he shepherds. he dreams of release, too, from the eternal responsibility that anchors him here. he dreams of forgiveness and reconciliation, of companionship and understanding, a respite from the solitude that comes with the burden of his permanence. but above all, he dreams of change, the perpetual and inevitable transformation that governs all existence. even as a constant in a universe of variables, he dreams of evolving, of being more, perhaps, than he was conceived to be.
and he doesn’t know if it can ever be a possibility for him.
the question is loaded, unbeknownst to her — and the response even more so. a hint of melancholy creases his face as he looks upward, like he might find a proper answer there, somewhere amidst the evanescing clouds. ⟫ I am both sentinel and scribe, the architect of your hopes, your fears. I do not sleep... ⟪ his chest rises full and then falls slowly, his gaze gradually dropping to meet hers. ⟫ …but yes. I suppose I do dream, in some measure. In the silent spaces between words unspoken, the echoes of what is and what might never be. To dream is to yearn. To lose. To change. ⟪ a shadow flickers in his eyes at the mention of the word, lips pursed. ⟫ But I am immutable.
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Turning in her seat so she's facing him better, her knee brushes against him as she tucks one leg under her, the bench swaying slightly with the movement. This moment between them feels important, and she doesn't want to waste it. ]
Everything can change. Look at those mountains over there. They were formed thousands of years ago, and they'll stand for thousands more, but that doesn't mean they'll be the same for all that time. Something might come along and cause an avalanche, and they'll always be a little different after that. [ She pauses for a moment, a smile creeping its way to the corners of her mouth. ]
Something, or someone. [ If she looks a little playful at that, a little pleased, it's because she is. She'd been that someone once for the mountain, shaking it up as likely nothing ever had before. And while she doesn't think herself powerful enough to make a lasting impression on everyone she meets, she knows she has made an impression on some — Coulson told her as much in a letter she still cherishes years later. So, perhaps, she might be able to provide that for Dream as well.
If he allows her to. If he wants it. ]
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⟪ his eyebrows raise at that, half-amused. in some ways, she reminds him of his sister, wisdom imparted on the master of one realm from another. the truth is… he has changed. there was a time when he even adored desire, for instance, less guarded, and less withdrawn, perhaps, until his sibling decided to break his heart. intransigence slowly crept into everything dream thought after that, and made, and said, and here he is now, on the brink of change again and missing the largest piece of the puzzle to make it happen. he just doesn’t know what it is, or what it’s supposed to look like.
and he’s tired.
but she has… somewhat of a point. to an extent. her smile makes it easier to want to indulge her, too, if only for a moment. ⟫ Perhaps you speak truly… though unlike mountains, my essence is bound not to the whims of nature but to the unyielding principles that govern the universe. ⟪ while mountains are etched and altered by the passage of time, dream exists beyond temporal currents, shackled by a plethora of truths, of laws. sure, they can be broken, but the price to pay might not be anything he can afford.
or maybe it is.
daisy is an avalanche all on her own. dream contemplates her optimism for a moment, curiosity piqued. ⟫ Tell me. If Dream of the Endless were to change… would you not fear for the stability of this realm? Could it sustain such a shift, or would it fray at the edges?
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She's quiet for a moment as she considers his question, turning it over in her mind to examine it from all possible angles. Each one presents the same conclusion, though, and her answer comes out plainly stated as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. ]
The dreamers change, and so does what they dream of. Why shouldn't this place change with them? Why shouldn't the one who holds all of this together?
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⟪ she makes it sound terribly simple. could it be? simple. or is a clean slate absolutely required. one of his sisters changed, became something else entirely. even despair changed, but she had to die first, and beyond minor differences, she remains mostly the same. that’s the thing with them. they were born the way they were for specific reasons. specific purposes. and to change would defeat them.
so why shouldn’t the dream lord change alongside his dreamers? ⟫
Because… ⟪ he sways closer, his voice dropping a little lower, like he’s about to tell her a terrible secret. ⟫ I am not human. ⟪ it’s an easy concept for such volatile creatures, a notion he mourns even without having experienced it. never thoroughly. there’s a hint of it in his eyes, a flat smile that flashes a little sad in their depth, chilly blue. ⟫ I exist only because you dream… ⟪ and as such, he was made to serve them, but.
what if.
what if he stopped being what he is.
the thought is both dreadful and soothing, and he’s quick to chase it away, a solemn nod to acknowledge his gratitude for her answer. ⟫ But you have given me much to ponder, Daisy Johnson.
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What he is a piece of the puzzle of who he is, and the who is what pulls her to him. Who is what has her wanting to lean in and—
She looks away from those star-filled eyes she'd been falling into, turning to face front in her seat again and slouching down until her head is on the back of the seat. Nudging the ground with her foot, the bench starts to gently rock. ]
Good. [ That's it? Come on, Johnson. Get it together. She glances at him, nerves skittering about inside her as she scrambles for one of her many questions, and then things go still again as she finds one. Hesitantly, she asks and tries not to be afraid of the answer. ]
Are you only connected to dreamers on Earth?
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⟪ she seems nervous. not quite afraid, but dream does notice the slight shift in the air, something a little tense about her. maybe you’re just too close, dude. but instead of relinquishing some of her space, his scrutiny marginally sharpens; unblinking, he studies her through a squint, something curious in the way he refuses to let his focus wander away. it’s a test, maybe. for him, for her. subconsciously. there’s something satisfying in the way he seems to be able to destabilize her, perhaps as much as she can destabilize him. there are boundaries not to cross, somewhere. and he wants to find them.
he rocks with her, willing the bench to move on its own without their help. it’s oddly serene, and peace has been rather sparse lately. he straightens up, angling his torso a little more towards her, at ease.
that answer is an easy one. ⟫ Dreamers have existed long before humans did. ⟪ long before earth existed, even. dream is impossibly old, though emotional maturity clearly doesn’t come with age.
a knowing gleam briefly darts through his eyes. ⟫ I believe you are already familiar with extraterrestrial life.
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Turning her head to look at him fully, she can't help the very unladylike snorting laugh that comes out of her at that last part. She offers an amused retort with a grin stretching across her lips. ] And I believe you're already aware that I'm part-alien, so yeah, I'm familiar.
[ Her expression sobers slightly as she turns her gaze back to the sky, wispy clouds moving slowly across the crisp blue. After a moment, she shrugs one shoulder and explains her question. ]
I was just wondering because sometimes I go out there. Into space. I was gone for a year the first time, and it would be— [ The words cut off as her mind catches up with her mouth. Whatever she'd been about to say (it would be sad not to see you for so long) is replaced by something less emotionally revealing. ] Hard to get used to this place and then leave it like that.
[ Okay, so it's still kind of revealing. ]
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⟪ that brief second of hesitation before the rest of her explanation spills out of her mouth doesn’t go unnoticed. it’s subtle but it’s there, a hint of hope that has no business existing blooming in the already attentive way he’s observing her. his fingers stiffen, brushing lightly against the cool wood of the bench — a distraction from the unexpected jump in his pulse. it almost sounds like she might miss him — and in the grand scheme of things, it shouldn’t matter. but it does, for reasons he doesn’t want to explore, already too warm where his endless heart stupidly stutters.
get a grip, dream.
it’s a good thing she’s not looking at him. he can’t be sure what she’d see in his eyes if she was, and somewhere in a vast array of decisions yet to be made, one surges higher than the others, almost of its own volition.
he reaches into the folds of his cloak, all deliberate movements as he draws out a small luminescent stone, deep blue. it gleams a soft azure shade in the crook of his palm, infused with a miniscule fragment of his power — nothing to endanger him. and daisy isn’t john dee. his own hesitation halts the rise and fall of his chest, a faint shimmer rippling through the air around them, shifting with its master’s contemplation.
his hand hangs open in front of her, the swirl of stars in his eyes glowing slightly guarded, almost timid but not quite. ⟫ To ensure that you never stray from the path that leads you here. ⟪ in other words: that she remains lucid at all times, and find her way. ⟫
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Does he understand what that certainty would mean to her? The girl who's spent her life being abandoned and left behind, the woman who is always afraid of being unwanted. Could he possibly realize what this might symbolize?
Taking a deep breath, she looks up from the stone to meet those beautiful, strange eyes with her own that are full of hope and hesitation. But then she reaches out with one hand to carefully pick up the stone with her fingertips, her skin brushing ever so lightly against his—
And then her other hand wraps around his before he can lower it, and she rises from a bench in a smooth motion born of years of physical training. ]
Come on. I want to show you something. [ It's the first thing she can think of to thank him.
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⟪ of course he doesn’t understand. he barely grasps what it means for him. them. he’s dumb, despite all appearances of grandeur and might… or maybe it’s more like he does understand, and just chooses to ignore its significance, letting it simmer below the surface.
still dumb, though — of the struck variety, too, when daisy decides to hold his hand, apparently refusing to leave it there, useless and empty. it’s a rare thing for anyone to touch dream of the endless — especially without an invitation — but there’s been an onslaught of odd incidents in recent years, all of which blindsiding him without truly invoking his wrath. he discovered genuine friendship, for one — after a very dramatic exit, and a hundred-or-so years. he allowed too many to disrespect him, too, mortals included, without striking them down. or wanting to. he might have recoiled, once upon a time. glared, or snarled. his body does still, and his shoulders rise, like hackles on a threatened and angry cat, but then he just looks at her confused, tension draining as he catches himself standing back up, ready to follow her.
her hand is warm. his skin tingles, all the way up to his elbow as he tests her grip and turns his palm, loosely curling his fingers around hers. he spends a ridiculous amount of time just staring at their intertwined hands — it feels like it, anyway — until he huffs a little sheepish. through his lashes, his eyes flicker up to meet hers.
show him something. in the dreaming? color him intrigued and vaguely amused, beyond the fiery little thing burning between his lungs. ⟫ Am I to be made a guest in my own domain?
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She couldn't, though. Being on her own is the worst thing for Daisy Johnson. And while she isn't lonely anymore, she carries the scars of those years and uses that remembered pain to help others. Even if all she has to give is a hand held in a moment of need, it's what she'll do without hesitation.
The look Dream gives her tells her that his need might be very different from any she's ever encountered. That confusion that flickers across his expression makes her heart ache for him despite the fact that he's an all-powerful ethereal being, and the long look he gives their joined hands cements her instinct of how to approach whatever this is.
He might be older and more powerful than she'll ever understand, but she's not going to treat him like some deity to be feared, worshipped, or obeyed. That's not who she is, and honestly, any reason she might have to do any of those things has absolutely nothing to do with what he is. ]
Well, I seem to remember you saying this was mine to mold and shape, so... [ She draws out the word playfully, a light teasing in her voice as she fails to hold back a smile. ] Yeah. Try it on for size. You might find you like it.
[ And without waiting to see his reaction, she turns and gently tugs him toward the path they'd followed that led back to the settlement. ]
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⟪ you might find you like it… yeah. and it’s a problem. stir the embers, fan the flames, and burn. he should be tugging at her hand to halt her steps, to anchor them in the same invariability he suffers. there’s a certain sense of comfort in stability, but there’s also a terrible lack of excitement — essential, among other things, to create dreams and nightmares. daisy is the embodiment of an eagerness that dream does his very best to quench on his worst days, but sometimes it just flares up and…
well. he burns.
her memory is phenomenal. everything that surrounds them is crystal clear, a perfect replica of a place that once thrived. and it’s gorgeous. from the stone stairway edged with classical balusters to the pathway bordered by lush potted plants and flowering bushes in the near distance — the settlement, aesthetically eastern-inspired. he sees all of it… and he also doesn’t, because his gaze is riveted on her as they walk, amused, curious, and then just a hair's breadth from spellbound, an itch stuck in his throat as he feels the entirety of his beating heart in the palm of her hand.
dreamers often conjure crooked or blurred memories, jumbled or just outright bizarre. this is seamless, and dream is positively impressed, but it’s her he’s looking at and the word that forms on his tongue isn’t what he means to say. ⟫
Morpheus. ⟪ instead of acknowledgement, a compliment, or even just a question, he tells her his name, no context. like a secret finally earned, a crack through his shell, his eyes lethal-tender. ⟫
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But this isn't one of those nightmares. This is a dream, and she can make it beautiful if she wants to. They're almost to their destination, the building not very far into the settlement, and she can feel him watching her, see his face turned to her from the corner of his eye when he—
Morpheus. It's a name, one she's only heard before in movies, but she vaguely recalls it being attached to the god of dreams. A name for someone who controls dreams. He'd told her to call him Dream, so for him to offer something else now... Her steps falter as she turns to look at him, taking in that tenderness in his eyes, and her chest tightens like he's wrapped his hand around her heart and squeezed. She doesn't even have to think about how to respond. ]
Thank you for telling me. [ A smile blooms across her face like the sun coming out from behind clouds, and she squeezes his hand before tugging him forward again. Both her hands are occupied, the other holding the blue stone he'd gifted her, so she carefully tucks it into the pocket of her jeans as they reach the old painted doors, opening them and moving down the elaborately decorated hallway. Jewel tones in terracotta, green, and gold are everywhere, and she stops them at an open set of green double doors.
There's a table inside set for three, with fine china, a floral centerpiece, and an array of gold-rimmed stem glasses. And there at one of the places is a simple bouquet of daisies. ]
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⟪ wisps of memories flicker around the table, ghost-like silhouettes that once gathered there. it’s blurry at best, barely visible, and dream doesn’t do anything to fine-tune them; it is daisy’s pocket-realm to shape the way she wishes to, and so he’ll wait, allow her to reclaim every nook and cranny at her own pace. her smile still shines with gratitude, and her hand withholds his still; he notes, not without a little chill whispering down his spine, that she deliberately chose to sacrifice her other hand in order to push open the doors.
somewhere in the distance, mervyn is probably shaking his head.
and lucienne is most likely rolling her eyes.
groaning, both of them.
no matter. ⟫
Our final destination, I assume. ⟪ a cozy room, a table for three. and daisies, which dream spots with a hint of warmth tugging at the corner of his mouth. he tilts his head towards her, aware of her fingers still laced around his and barely loosening his grip. ⟫ Was this your favourite room?
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I don't think I really had a favorite. [ She admits this fact without hesitation or regret; too many years have passed for those sorts of feelings. After all this time, she is able to approach these memories with only the lingering echoes of the grief that followed these events. ] I wasn't here for that long. But it is the one that meant the most. This is where we had our first family dinner.
[ Her voice quiets and the grief is a little more pronounced now. ] Our only family dinner.
an era later
she wants him here. beyond the nostalgia, the pain. and it’s one of the most intimate invitation he’s ever received.
there’s an apology on the tip of his tongue, to soothe her sorrow. but he doesn’t say anything. she knew the impact it would have on her, to be here — and she didn’t bring him along for sorries. but he can soothe her in different ways, maybe; first, by giving her hand a light squeeze, a slow stretch of fingers to lace them a little tighter. and then he leans closer, no trace of pity in his eyes; there’s warmth, mostly, and a good dose of gratitude. ⧽ Thank you. ⧼ for allowing him here at all. he’s touched in weird ways — it doesn’t happen often. ⧽