Re: Dream: Janus/Atticus
"Got them from families. Was working on a book once, a collection of war letters. Families didn't want their loved ones to die without existing. Publication is a way to remain alive. But-" A lazy flop of his hand that was intended to become a wave, but that never did. "Didn't follow through. Sure that surprises you. Do love correspondence, though. More than other things, I'd say. Bought a bunch of letters about laundry recently." His laugh came with a cough so deep that it made the dream shake and rattle like old bones.
Atticus's rheumy hazel eyes focused a bit. Or, rather, attempted to focus. "Was a deal that got you out, wasn't it? How long until you got the smoke?"
Another wave of his hand, or an attempt to do so. But he forced himself to sit up a moment later. It was an awkward and ugly affair, that movement. He coughed, and his stomach muscles didn't want to help him sit up with any real lack of slouch. But he did what he could, and then he cleared his throat and caught his breath, hands wound in blankets that weren't really there. Clutched. "The one that's real. This isn't you. Don't care," he slouched back. "As long as it's real. You think I mind the blonde? I don't. But you weren't born with her." He attempted a lazy approximation of a shrug. "Act too male not to have been born that way." A longer pause. More honestly. "Were on the front lines. Had to be born male." Another lazy lift of shoulder.
And he really wanted that smoke. Atticus had more control than he realized over the haunts. Asleep, he wasn't thinking. He just asked, and there was the little girl. Pigtails, hopscotch, very dead. A pack of Reds half-used, zippo WWII era and tucked in. Atticus took the pack, and the little girl took the cold air with her, a giggle echoing in her wake. He tapped the pack on the couch-bed, and he held it out in offering. "Want one?"