Peter Kelly (nylonghorn) wrote in bellumlogs, @ 2010-05-09 12:08:00 |
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Entry tags: | irene adler, jonathan harker |
Who: Iris and Peter
What: Dreamwalking is an interesting hobby
Where: First Iris' nightmare then Peter's beach of win
When: Last night
Warnings: Implied subject matter of rape and physical abuse, but pretty mild considering.
Status: Complete
It was the top floor of a hotel. The air felt thin, and though there were windows, they were dark and showed nothing, as if the building rose too high to be touched by the electric glow of whatever city sprawled at its base. The dream seemed to flex continually, contracting and expanding as if it was breathing, and the inhale, as everything shrank, was far longer than the exhale, where reality seemed to relax. The dream's world was almost entirely in black and white. Splashes of red--in a coat left over a chair, in the carpet, embroidered with the stylized initials "QV," in the furnishings--caught the peripheral and melted away.
At first it was just endless contracting hallways. There were sounds, behind and ahead, two very distinct voices, one male, and one female. The higher female voice, which raised often in fear, always seemed to come from ahead; the male voice, low and amused in a consistent rumble, always seemed to come from behind. There was a feel of being hunted, as in nightmares of the chase, and the fear that seemed to come from the air itself was absolutely smothering.
He caught her, though, somewhere up ahead. It was obvious because the voice from behind was suddenly in front, and the female one, after an angry, alarmed exclamation, went silent.
This wasn't a place Peter ever remembered being, and it wasn't often that he felt this kind of heavy fear in the air. His dreams weren't always great, but this didn't feel remotely the same as those. These weren't the kinds of dreams he was used to having, in fact he was pretty sure that he'd just been sitting on a beach in the Gulf of Mexico with Lena. He stood still for a long moment as the hallways and the room swirled around him.
The unfamiliar situation made him a bit wary, but it didn't stop him from moving toward the voices, he kept looking behind him, it seemed that the direction of the voices was changing around him every time he got close. He heard a shout coming from the left, and turned to look and before he knew it the noise was coming from the right. They weren't voices he recognized, but they didn't sound particularly well either. "Hello?" he hollered out loud. His voice echoed for what seemed like an eternity, almost as if he was yelling into a dark cave. The uneasy feeling was consuming him, but it wasn't his feeling. No, it was much worse than anything he had ever felt himself.
The hallways opened up into a suite. The rooms were spacious but hazy around the edges, as if being seen in a deep fog that only cleared in the exact center of the room. The threat of menace was more constricting here, and a deep, resigned depression clung thicker than the fog.
In the way of dreams, the last room came to him rather than waiting for him to walk in, expanding around him until he was at the door. A bedroom in a state of utter chaos. Little details caught color and almost exploded from the gray of the rest: the gold QV design on the carpet again, the bronze lamp on the floor, the blue cloth on the upturned table. The bed was far too large for the room, unreal in the eye of a fishbowl, and all the bed clothes were on one side--where soft sobs interrupted the silence.
Things often happened to Peter, but they rarely happened around him while he stood idly by. While one could hardly claim to control dreams it felt much different than any other dream he could remember. This one wasn't his. He didn't know how he knew it, he just knew that this dream didn't belong to him. This wasn't his subconscious controlling his surroundings it was someone else entirely, he was the invader here.
He turned a corner and instead of another long hallway he found himself standing in a room, the weight of the emotions in the air was stifling and he didn't feel much better than the room itself looked. It was deadly quiet to him and he was able to pick out the small details, something bad had happened here and the urge to leave was tugging at him but he knew that there was no real way out. His eyes scanned the room which seemed almost to turn with him as he looked around. His survey of his surroundings was cut through by the sound of someone sobbing and he looked immediately in the direction of the bed. He closed his eyes for the smallest moment trying to remember, or perhaps get back, to his beach on the Gulf and while he knew he wasn't instantly transported back he held onto that feeling of serenity to get him through his next moment. Not sure if he ought to disturb this strange place he found himself moving a bit closer despite his better judgment. "Hello?" he said again this time softer and calmer. "Do you need help?" he asked before he had a chance to think better of it.
As soon as he rounded the edge of the bed, the room seemed to realign around him. Every color got brighter, every material more detailed, and there were even smells in the near perfect realism. The bed was so large now, and the wall so high, that it almost seemed like looking down a hallway rather than actually standing at a bedside. The smell was metallic and hard, sharp in a way that was otherwise undefinable.
She was tangled in the sheets not very far away, clearly otherwise without clothing and far beyond caring. If he had known her, it probably wouldn't matter, because she was almost unrecognizable under the quickly coloring bruises that were new enough to be red and white under the harsh light. There were long red marks on the side of her neck and down one visible arm, the grip of fingers in prints that were almost absurd (in the way of dreams) in how well-defined they were. It was the right side of her face that saw the most damage, though her lips were split and bleeding, and she opened the one gray eye that was not swollen shut at the sound of his step.
Clearly conscious enough to react, she could still not do much more than try to sit up, which she did not manage alone. There were streaks of blood on the sheet that she pulled up over her chest.
"Who are you?" She didn't show him her fear, but she didn't really have to--it was everywhere.
Peter took in the sight of her and it pained him seeing anyone looking that way. He didn't let the shock register on his face, he was good at keeping his cool in stressful situations. There were countless times since he'd become a lawyer that he'd spoken to people in bad situations who were looking for someone who wasn't afraid of the dark, someone who would be able to listen without flinching away. He wasn't an expert, but he was personable.
However he felt a certain urgency about her situation and he crouched down just a bit so as not to be standing over her and he gave her a small smile, "I'm Peter," he said simply as if that would be answer enough for anyone. "I don't know how I got here," he answered honestly. "But I won't hurt you."
She just stared at him. It was impossible to tell whether or not she understood him, or whether or not she was even capable of that level of comprehension at this point. At least, judging from her pupil size, she wasn't going into shock, and her next words revealed why. "He'll come back once he's had a drink," she said, dully, reaching one hand up and gripping the edge of a nightstand and using it to drag herself a little upright against it. It was, in its way, a warning. She knew somehow that he didn't belong here--she'd never seen him before, not ever--but she hurt too much to do more than impart the information.
He regarded her carefully as she looked at him, when she spoke he tilted his head to the side for a moment. "Then I think that we should probably go before he gets back, can I help you up?" he asked not making any move to help her until he got permission.
She turned, gray eye changing as she tried to keep him in focus. "...I don't think I can walk yet." She said it like that, simply, 'yet' as if she would, eventually, and probably just end up on the floor again, just as inevitable.
He nodded in understanding and looked around the room for a moment, "Miss, I'd like to help you if you'll let me. You don't have to walk but I think we should probably get you out of here before he does come back," he held out his hand slightly for her to take if she would. "I can help you." He assured her again.
His total calm and urbane politeness went a long way toward reassuring her. Alexei did not play games; that was his brother's area, and if he wanted to hurt her he would just come back and do it, not send someone else to play with her in this way. She took his words at absolute face value, and didn't think it odd that she could put so much effort into calculation in this state. "He might come after you," she told him, having difficulty with the words through swollen lips. Yet almost at the same time, she put her hand out toward him.
He took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, she was going to let him help her, and that was all that mattered. He stood just a bit and leaned forward, "Put your arms around my neck as best you can," he said as he leaned over just enough to pick her up, doing his best to bring the sheet with up with her as he cradled her with one arm under her knees and the other holding firmly across her back, "I'm sorry if this hurts," he said compassion evident in his voice. The way she looked he couldn't imagine any sort of jostling felt great.
Her warning didn't fall on deaf ears, the last thing he needed was a physical confrontation with whoever had done this to this poor woman while he was trying to help her. Urgency was key here and he looked at her, this was her place. Her mind, her dream...Whatever it was he didn't know where to go. He wondered if he could somehow get her back to his dream. He focused on it so hard he almost heard the sound of the ocean and the feel of the smallest breeze. He wondered if she'd felt it at all. "Do you know where we should go?" he asked her finally.
She and the sheet as one big bundle was an awkward burden, but he managed and so did she, with very little protest except for a soft hiss of breath. There were bruises, which honestly, he could hardly worsen, and the real wounds were beyond either aid or aggravation. She put her arms around him too, but she didn't have much energy and it didn't do much to help him with her weight--which, at least, was not excessive. She had shut her vision from the room when she rose from the floor, and the colors began to bleed into gray again. "I don't know," she replied, simply.
His ocean was there, somewhere, in the mist, but something--someone--was, too. A big man, thick shadow, whose fists glinted with gold. He moved just a few yards away, features imperceptible.
He wasn't exactly superman, but here the only thing that mattered was keeping this woman safe. He felt a bit of dismay when she didn't know where to go, and he could feel the air getting more and more tense. "Have you ever been to the Texas Gulf Coast?" he asked carefully not really waiting for or expecting an answer. "That's where I was before I came here, I got up to go for a walk and came around a corner and found you. The coast is beautiful, there are all these little fishing communities and since it's so close to Mexico it's this amazing mix of culture. It's everything that's great about the state of Texas all rolled into some small towns with small town people. Now it doesn't take much to be great in Texas," he was talking as calmly as he could, trying to get her to feel what he felt, to see what he saw, and to go where he wanted to take her. He didn't know if it would help but it was helping him visualize it too even as he started walking, if he could get around the corner he'd first come around and found himself there maybe, just maybe they'd be alright.
"The sand is warm and the air is moist it smells like sunshine all the time there. Even in the middle of a rainstorm, you could sit outside on a porch and listen to hit the tin roof, and it would still be stifling hot and the ocean would still be tolerable to swim in."
She did not reply, even to the point of being completely unresponsive--and the man in the mist seemed to get bigger and the rings on his fingers almost filled the entire black shadow of him at once. Her head dropped down against his chest and her fingers loosened from the back of his neck. She had never been to the place he was describing; she had learned her Mexican-variant of Spanish in the South, however, and slowly, the air began to change.
It turned warm first, just the way he was describing, and the mist became a very green humidity that was American South through and through. It was close to his ocean, close enough that the mist and the man made of shadow evaporated into it, and the dream emptied, then filled up again with what he wished it to be.
He thanked his lucky stars as he felt the air start to change around them, it was like spinning without getting too dizzy and he tried not to let the fear or urgency in his voice dictate whether or not they would stay where he'd found her. He knew that getting her away was the most important thing.
When he opened his eyes again his feet were bare and were sinking into the sand. His clothes had changed he was in a pair of shorts and a tee shirt, he even had sunglasses on the top of his head and he couldn't help but smile as he looked around. There were two chairs, one he was sure at one point had been occupied by Helena, but she was nowhere in sight. An umbrella was set up behind the chairs and a table with a fruity looking cocktail and a cold corona were sitting there. He breathed a sigh of relief and looked at the woman he'd found and smiled a bit. "I don't think I caught your name."
She tipped her chin up to respond, and her face was no long the ruin it had been before. If he looked very closely, he might be able to see a small white mark where the worst of the cuts had been (thanks to the rings, no doubt), but otherwise her features seemed whole. Both gray eyes blinked slowly at him, and then around at the beach. She took his neck in her arms again to steady herself.
"...Iris," she said, finally. She licked her lips where the blood had been before. The sheet was still what she had for garb, but if the injuries on her face were resolved, perhaps the others were too. "What's yours?" Iris never had unfamiliar people in her dreams, and even if she didn't know that she was dreaming, there was something odd about him being there, and she felt it.
The relief that fell across his face and moved through his body when he saw her face was cleared up from the awful damage that had been done put him even more at ease and he managed to walk the short distance to the chairs and did his very best to help her sit down. "Iris, that's a nice name," he said honestly, "I'm Peter, and this is my beach. It's one of those happy places the new agers talk about in situations of extreme stress," he said grinning just a bit.
He didn't know how any of it worked, or how any of this was possible, but he hoped that if her mind ever wandered back to that room he'd found her in that maybe, just maybe, she'd be able to remember this. Or maybe he'd find her again. "You're welcome to it any time," he said as he sat down in the chair next to her and dug his toes into the sand.
She pulled her knees in once she was on the chair, shifting her weight onto one hip and pulling the sheet close around her protectively. "It is very happy," she admitted, and it was. You could practically feel it in the air. She turned her head to look sideways at the other chair, and at the little table with the glasses. "I've known a lot of men who own beaches. But none that actually enjoyed being on them." She turned to look at him once more and raised two perfectly arched brows. "Any time?"
Pete nodded, the beach was very happy, he sometimes even escaped to it during a particularly stressful daydream. He couldn't understand people who had things like this to themselves but not enjoy them. Pete didn't even own a car, but his friends who did just seemed to think it was a hassle. He was pretty sure the same thing with people who owned huge houses and such. Then again he couldn't imagine the son of a bitch that would do to Iris what Pete had found lying in that room. He smiled at her, "Any time you want, you have a standing reservation and an open ended invitation."
She smiled then, and she was a very pretty woman when she did it honestly. "Thank you." She looked again at the other chair, and for some reason, she didn't think that chair was for her. She would have to ask next time, however, because that was when she woke up.