|iron man's number is (atomic26) wrote in rooms,|
@ 2015-09-24 22:45:00
|Entry tags:||!dream, *log, selina kyle, tony stark|
[log: tony & selina]
Who: Tony & Selina
What: A dream, 'cuz he's kinda dead.
Where: Um. His head?
Warning: Unlikely. PG13.
Blue icicles of power dripped down from the shadowed ceiling of the cave. A cold, dry wind came in from the boundless desert mountains just beyond the winding entrances to the maze within, resulting in a howling resonance that echoed a constant background to every shift of pebble and scrape of movement over sandy rock.
Stolen metal tables and stacks of supplies made for furniture. A cot was in the corner, stained a horrible rust color and festooned with dull surgical instruments. In the center of the room a brazier offered some little warmth. A nearly tangible pressure of paranoia came with the environment, sharpened by spats of distant gunfire and foreign voices. The glaring eyes of cameras watched from two angles.
Homey touches suggested a long-term habitation. An empty cooking pot and spoon. A three-legged stool. A metal teapot next to a clay mug. A worn sock stuffed with tea leaves flopped over a saucer. An abandoned backgammon board with a metal nut or pebble instead of pieces. A strangely modern little lamp of Swedish design illuminating thin sheaves of engineering designs.
In his dreams Tony was always younger and stronger; he stood a little bit taller than he did in real life (a very little bit), and his eyes were always less lined. There was a hole in his dark t-shirt, a dripping red one, glistening and real enough to suggest this dream bordered on familiar nightmare, yet his face was calm, resigned. He battered at a piece of metal that refused to take shape under the hammer, turning and pounding with a ringing that held a consistent note of defiance.