InsaneJournal

Who: Clara and Jack
What: A dream
Where: Clara's version of Wonderland
When: Tonight
Warnings: Nope

Clara, having offered her services to the National Guard early on during the Reaver infestation, returned home to Aubade late on Monday. The construction crews were still working, even though the sun was low in the sky, and she was in a bit of a haze as she walked up the stairs. She’d turned feverish partway through the experience, but she’d kept it to herself, and now she was well again. Well, but tired and fuzzy around the edges. She needed sleep, haven, and she was glad to see her apartment door was still standing, untouched, when she reached it.

She opened the door to the quiet, still apartment, and she wandered through the empty places until she found her set of rooms. She didn’t make it to the bedroom before finding somewhere to lie down. The couch was soft and familiar, and she was asleep almost instantly, Dinah crawling up beside her and curling into a purring white ball of fluff.

The dream was Home.

The field she awoke in was blue-green grass, too bright to be real, in a dark, canopied wood. Her dress was blue, high wasted with a white undershirt, and she walked on shiny black shoes toward the small house that she knew existed at the edge of the clearing - the same articles of clothing she’d worn when she’d fallen asleep on the couch. She could smell the wood furnace in the distance, and she knew there would be tea once she got there, and she moved faster. This was her space, and she knew she was asleep, and she knew she was safe. Well, safer. There were still dangers here, but they were her dangers, and she could best them.

The house at the edge of the wood was small, two rooms and blue and white trim. It used to be a windmill once, and it looked cheery. She walked past a table set out for tea to go inside. It was empty, because it had been since she was a child, and she closed the door behind her with a grateful sigh.

Jack didn’t fall into the dreams of others very often, though it had happened before, and he had stopped anticipating or expecting it. He only fell asleep after Gwen left the warehouse and he was alone again, and though he didn’t usually require much sleep he had begun to feel the lack of it. Beyond physical exhaustion, which he rarely if ever hit, there was the emotional. He’d seen a lot of people die over the past few days, people who had done nothing worse than not get to safety quickly enough, or be taken unawares. A quick check on the computer told him that the borders to the city were being re-opened though the list of the dead ran long, and he granted himself permission to sleep, finally. There wasn’t much else to do, not yet anyway. He wasn’t going anywhere.

He laid down on the bed and was asleep almost immediately, before he even had a chance to take his boots off. Right away, something felt strange about the dream. It was comfortable, with a feeling of safety, shrouded in the sort of shadow under the trees that soothed instead of hiding monsters. He climbed to his feet, following the scent of woodsmoke until he saw the small house.

He thought he might like to live in a house like that, away from everything and quiet, but it was only a passing fantasy. If anything, his stay in the warehouse, still in its short stage, had taught him that he couldn’t stand not being useful somehow. He walked up to the front door of the house and he knocked. There was smoke coming from the chimney, so he assumed it had an inhabitant, and there was nothing gained by not being curious.

Clara had just finished stirring a sugar cube into a dainty teacup when the knock came, and she wiped her hands dry on a kitchen towel before opening the door. The dream felt real in a way dreams did not, and it came with the sort of solidness that real life had. The house was tangible, and there were no fuzzy smoked edges like the kinds that lived in dreams.

In the doorway, she was as real as he was, blue dress to her black shoes and head cocked to the side, blonde curls tumbling everywhere without care or concern to her appearance.

In her dream world, everything was real and everyone was real, and he was no different, though she’d not met him before. But that didn’t surprise her either, because she didn’t actually create this place, not this one, though she could leave here and create others. Here, people came and went without her help. He, she assumed, was one of them.

“If you come here for trouble,” she said, accent slow South, “you best get on,” she said, assuming him a knight from the castle past the woods, the one she stayed away from at all costs.

Everything seemed strangely crisp in this place, but he didn’t linger on it too long. “No trouble,” he said, taking her in. “Just curious to meet the owner of the house.” He glanced off to the side, into the trees, at the dark, smooth shadows and strange, brightly colored grass.

He didn’t feel like a knight, nor did he much look like one. But he looked more solid and more whole than he did in reality, no scar and no face paint, only a dark shirt and jeans and the boots he’d neglected to take off when he fell asleep.

She looked him over, as if she was trying to determine the truth behind his words, and in the end she threw the door wide and leaned against the edge. “Come on in, then. It ain’t real gentlemanly to talk to a girl from outside her door,” she said, her expression a playful smile that was just on the edge of teasing.

Inside, there was a kitchen to the left, with a wood table and a wood stove. To the right, there was a bedroom with a large bed and colorful quilt, which could be seen from the door. In the center of it all, there was a couch, and a cozy fireplace, and it was all warm-gold lit and shadows as the fire crackled.

He walked in past her with a nod, surveying the room. This was the sort of place you rarely found outside of rooms, idealized comfort, the sort of home people pictured when you said the word. “What a warm place,” he said, meaning more than just the fire in the grate. “Do you like being out here by yourself?” As far as he could tell, there was nothing close by. No neighbors, no friends to visit. It was fairly isolated for a woman who, at least on first meeting, seemed open and friendly. She had invited him in, after all.

She looked at him, surprised. Did he know he was sleeping? She hadn’t been in Seattle long enough to have someone walk into her world yet, and his question and lack of familiarity of the place made her realize he was a stranger here. Normally, she found the strangers and brought them, but this one had wandered in on his own, and that was strange, too. “What makes you think I’m all by my lonesome?” she asked, motioning to the table. “Sit down a spell. I’m making tea.”

"Thank you," he said, and sat at the table, watching her still. "I didn't see any neighbors close by, not within sight at least. And maybe you do live with someone, someone who will be home any minute, but this looks like a place set for one, not for two." He found her surprise interesting. Was it such a strange assumption? He did, on some abstract level, know that he was dreaming, but he knew it in the way they you knew you were not dreaming in reality, and accepted it as a fact without making it the focus of his thoughts.

She brought over two teacups, and she set them on the wooden table and took her seat across from him. “It’s set for two,” she correctly, putting her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. “You don’t look like this normal, do you?” she asked, a knowing sort of question that said there was some discrepancy for her, even if it was just a sensory thing. “My name’s Clara. What do you go by?” she asked, and she glanced over her shoulder toward the door. “No one else lives here, but there’s houses all around these woods, and there’s the castle beyond, but you don’t wanna be going there, not if you can help it.”

"Maybe you were waiting for me to arrive," he said, smiling a little. She was pretty, this dreamy blonde with her head in her hands.

He shrugged. "I have no idea," he said. "I haven't looked in a mirror." He wasn't projecting anything on purpose, and there was no planned artifice in it. This place felt real enough, and unlike some dreams he wasn't outside himself, had no idea how he looked. "Jack," he said. "What's wrong with the castle?"

She smiled. “Might be,” she said, a little bit of flirting in the way the corners of her mouth lifted. “Folks don’t normally come here, to my place, but when I see them in others, well, they look like they’d like to look, most times. Less it’s a nightmare, but I don’t weave those, not if I can help it,” she said. “But this ain’t a dream. It’s real, least for me,” she explained, even though she knew he wasn’t going to understand. “I can tell you what I see, Jack, since you ain’t got a mirror?”

She didn’t answer about the castle.

He wasn't sure that he fully followed what she meant, unsure how something could be real and a dream, but things did feel sharper here than they should have - maybe she meant that. He didn't press again about the castle just yet, but he noticed that she avoided the subject. "Go ahead and tell me then," he said. He had a good guess of what she might say, but he was curious to hear her impression.

“I see haunted eyes,” she said, pushing the teacup aside and stretching one arm out across the wooden tabletop. “Haunted eyes, and hollow things aching,” she added. “Right ‘round my age, and smile lines from being happy.” She reached for his hand and she turned it over in her smaller, paler one. “Trusting some,” she added, looking up at him. “But it’s the haunting that’s the main thing, least now. It’s why I thought you from the castle. Everyone there’s like that, chased by something they can’t never outrun.”

He let her take his hand, listening and looking unsure for the first time since he'd walked into the little house. "There's some haunting," he said quietly, after a moment, looking at her small hand over his before looking up again. "I'd be lying if I said there wasn't." His thumb closed over the back of her hand. She had soft skin, surprisingly real for a dream girl. "Is that what the castle is? A place people go when they find there's nowhere to run from the things that follow?"

“Oh, no. It ain’t anything as romantic as all that,” she said, her voice dipping lower and the legs of her wood chair scratching the floor as she leaned forward. “It’s where the Queen lives, and she’s a horrible sort. Keeps all kinds of things trapped, and she loves trapping hurt things. They’re her favorite. You can’t be going over there, ‘cause she’d keep you, sure as the day is long.”

“Then I’ll have to stay here,” he said, watching her eyes as she leaned forward. He didn’t know how he felt about being described as a hurt thing, but he did know that he’d fought hard to avoid jail in reality and had still managed to find himself in a version of it. He couldn’t let that happen in dreams, too. “I find myself trapped more and more, lately. I wouldn’t want to make a habit of it.” He withdrew his hand, finally, and picked up the tea she’d poured for him. “Has anyone ever tried to save the things she has trapped?”

“Yes, there’s people who’ve fought, but she’s stronger. I think there’s supposed to be a certain group of folk to make it work, but that’s just a gut feeling, not a certain thing.” She left her hand on his a moment longer, the touch linger-soft, and then she sat back. “Being trapped ain’t no fun, and you’re a sight too handsome for it. She likes handsome things, which don’t help much. Rumor is, she has her husband locked up somewhere, too.”

“Sometimes it does take a good group of people to fight evil where it lives,” he said, his thoughts drifting to Max and Rorschach, the Bat and Sentinel and everyone else. “Too handsome to be trapped?” he asked, smiling, amused at how apropos that thought was, the detachment of the dream from reality keeping bitterness out of it. “I didn’t realize that was a requirement. If that’s the case, I have news for some people when I wake up. Does anyone know why she locks people up?”

“She’s evil. Rumor says she has a sister that was everything she wasn’t,” she said, “but that’s just a rumor. If she exists, I ain’t seen her, the sister. I ain’t seen the queen either, not since I been here,” she said, and it wasn’t very clear where here was, at least it wouldn’t be to him. She sat back in her seat, and the tipped her head and gave him a knowing look. “I bet you think I’m plum mad,” she said, taking her teacup and having a sip. “Ya can say if ya do,” she told him, and then she smiled. “You locked up when you’re awake?” she asked, having confirmation now that he thought he was dreaming a normal dream. “You dream women like me often?” she asked, a flirty smile touching her lips.

“I don’t think you’re mad at all,” he said. “I’m a stranger here, and you know the land well. I believe you. If you say there is a queen, even if you haven’t seen her, there is a queen. Or there is an idea of one, and that’s all that matters, really.” He tried the tea at last, and found it strangely flavorful for dream tea.

“I am,” he said, because this was a dream, and what could it hurt to say? “I don’t know for how long.” He set the cup down, smiling a little. “No, I really don’t. You’re one of a kind, I think.”

“Did you do something real bad?” she asked, even as she pushed the chair away and stood, holding her hand out to him, as if she didn’t think he’d done anything bad at all. “Come on, now. Don’t be shy,” she said, smiling.

"I suppose I did," he said, after a moment's pause to think about how he should answer that. He stood and took the hand she offered him without hesitation. "Shy? Never. That is one trait I can't count among my faults." Clara seemed trusting in a sweet, strange way, and he felt sure that she wouldn't understand what he'd done or why. No one ought to bring darkness to hang heavy over a girl like this one. He didn't know if she was part of this sharp, clear dream or something more, but either way he found himself disliking the idea of her pulling her hand from his.

She tugged on his fingers, and she pulled him outside without saying a word, leading him through the strange green forest and high on the hill that overlooked the destroyed forest (flame red) and the castle beyond. “Just so ya don’t think I’m crazy,” she told him, nudging him a little with her shoulder as she stood beside him. She didn’t sound like she thought there was anything particularly wrong with being crazy. No, she just knew she wasn’t, and she squinted up at him as she waited for him to ask questions.

He walked with her, looking through the trees until they came up to the rise before the castle. "I didn't, but it's even worse than I expected." He looked over at her. "This has been going on since you came here?" It seemed wrong, horribly so. The forest behind them was comforting and quiet, the sort of place that ought to be left undisturbed. "Tyrants can only rule because no one challenges them," he said. "Maybe the people who went up against her before have failed, but someone should try again."

“You’re acting like you think this is more than a dream,” she said, looking back out over the forest. “Do you want to save things in your dreams regularly?”

“You don’t think dreams are important?” he asked, watching her. He was still facing the castle, looking at her with that stark, desolated landscape behind her. The second question hit closer to home than she likely intended, halting him for a moment. He thought of the sort of dreams he usually had - dreams of things the way they were once, dreams of things the way they could have been. “When you put it like that, I guess I do. I have a lot of dreams about saving things gone wrong.” He clasped her hand a little tighter. “Don’t you ever want to fix things?”

“No,” she said. “Everyone always thinks things need saving and fixing. Maybe things are how they’re supposed to be,” she said thoughtfully. “Maybe we’re just messing with things where we shouldn’t.” She looked up at him. “You’re one of them savior types?”

There was no denying that. “Yes. That is a flaw I can admit to. I can’t accept that people who need help should be left alone, that it’s just the way the world is. Not everything can be saved, but I can’t help but want to try.”

She nodded decidedly. “You’re definitely one of them hero types,” she said, but it didn’t sound like a bad thing, regardless of what she’d said moments before. She slipped her hand from his, and she touched his smooth cheek. “You feel awful real,” she said, “for not really being here.” She knelt on the too-green grass, and she tugged up a blade. “Come on down here and touch this,” she said.

“So do you, for a dream,” he said. He watched as she tugged on the grass, unsure of why he needed to start abusing the bright green ground cover, but he humored her, kneeling beside her and running a hand over it. “What am I supposed to be feeling?”

“I want you to remember it,” she said, “so next time you’re dreaming, you can touch the grass wherever you are and tell me if it feels as real,” she said, looking up into his dark eyes as she smiled, tugging out a patch of green and sprinkling it over the back of his hand, the grass tickling skin.

“I’ll have to find you again to tell you,” he said, speaking it as a warning, smile widening a touch as she let the grass scatter over the back of his hand. He plucked out a blade and presented it to her as if it was a flower. “For you.”

She took it with a sly little smile, and she twirled it between her forefinger and thumb. “I’m just a dream, darling. How you planning on getting back to me?” she asked, and it was a teasing thing of a question, somewhere between a small laugh and a warm, rich smile.

He decided then that he liked it here, in this dream, and that he wished he didn’t have to leave. It was peaceful here, even with devastation in the distance, and this girl was all warmth in a way he missed, in a way that resonated against lost things like the clear strike of a bell. “Wishing,” he said. “That works in fairy tales, doesn’t it?”

“This ain’t a fairytale,” Clara said, “but you can wish, if ya want. Maybe it’ll work,” she reasoned, and she leaned forward to give him a kiss on the cheek, the press of lips giving him the sensation of falling, falling, falling, until he was gone, awake.