Rorschach is "Mike Caulfield" (whisper_no) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2010-09-26 22:58:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | rorschach, sarah williams |
Who: Sam and Rory
What: Rory saves the day! Erm. Night.
Where: Hamartia, 505
When: Late night/early morning after the Vigilante Meeting
Warnings: Angst. We’d warn on Rory-hugs but he’s had a bath semi-recently.
Her plan was simple and a good one. Rory would leave for his meeting, she’d wave him off and wait for five minutes. She’d make three wishes for quietness, invisibility, and for poofing downstairs before following him. How could he get away with magic on her side? She wouldn’t have to spend another night alone, half-asleep and likely to be consumed by nightmares. And besides, she wasn’t going to let Rory get himself shot and she’d like to have seen Corbinian in the real world.
Of course her plan of camping out on the couch didn’t go too well. She kept up the pretense of studying as Rory shuffled about, attempting to remember why Euripides was the greatest of the tragedians while fighting off sleep. Caffeine pills and coke only went so far when Sam was already running on empty. She yawned once, then twice. She shifted her position on the couch, moving from an upright position to laying on her stomach. It wasn’t comfortable enough and she laid down on her back. By the time Rorschach walked out the door, Sam’s book had fallen on chest and her eyes had drifted shut.
It took a while to reach the land of dreams but it was enough for her to shift about. She’d not reached a deep enough sleep for ages and when she finally reached it, it was deep. Her book slid to the floor, spine up in the air as her arms curled inward. Her long sleeved pajamas, chosen to hide cuts and wounds as much as to fool Rory that she would stay in shifted. Scabs ripped open beneath band-aids and band-ages, while others that were older were visible as her shirt hiked up to her belly-button. Her sleeves rode up revealing newer marks – fresher – and her hands were webbed with necks and marks. Sam wasn’t the type to try and kill herself but one could be fooled.
Occasionally, as the dream carried on and familiar scenes replayed a sound escaped her. A whimper or a half-strangled shout. As footsteps moved down the hall she pulled her legs struggled to break from sleep, red lines seeping from beneath her pajama pants. The cuts didn’t go through her pajamas, merely forcing themselves into her skin as she fought to get away in her dream.