Who: Peter Vincent, Andrew Wells, and a couple of ghosts. and some dream people, but they don't technically count. What: Peter wakes to a dream, Andrew to a nightmare Where: Peter’s apartment at the complex When: around 9 am or so Friday morning, Sept. 14 Warnings: Fairly high - mild gore, Peter’s foul mouth, and aaaallll the feeeeels in the woorld omg. Possibly more TBA Status: Incomplete
It was cold in the basement, but their hands and teeth and tongues were colder. He couldn’t see them, but god he could fucking feel them all up and down and over and under and holding him still, and he could feel them laughing against his skin. How they were laughing when they had their mouths full of his flesh he didn’t know, but it didn’t matter because oh god they were fucking eating him, tearing at his skin to get to the hot blood underneath.
He could feel his heart tearing free of his chest, beating and beating and flying away until all he could feel was a cold emptiness in where it used to be, some strange black void. Out of that void he could smell the whispers in that cold voice, amused and bored and cruel, murmuring mocking words into his ear. Paired off with the deceptively gentle fingers grazing razor-edges of claws along his scalp, it sent chills running down his spine that he could feel in his core. He was here. He was here.
And then Charley was there, and scowling at him, standing there with his crossbow and his stupid jumpsuit. He had ashes in his hair, but they weren’t fucking done yet, because Peter’s shotgun was in his hands, his bandolier hanging heavy against his chest. He looked up at Charley, and the kid said “Get up, you dumbass. We’ve got work to do.”
Couldn’t let Charley down now. Peter reached out to touch him, and Charley smiled, humming, and reached back and all at once the claws were back, twining around his limbs like ropes and dragging him back and he screamed, and Charley‘s face broke. Then he was Andrew, looking at Peter with his eyes full of hurt and turning away. “No!” Peter gasped, his hands stretching not quite far enough, and that voice was back.
“Andrew!” Peter called out, panicky and desperate because he couldn’t fucking do this alone. But he was alone, and fingers curled back through his hair, yanking his head back and leaving his throat open. He could feel a wound there, gaping and choking him and he couldn’t fucking breath with his windpipe torn open but he could feel teeth there, tips of fangs just teasing along the edges of torn flesh.
He wasn’t quite sure when the dream started to fall away. The deep blues and grays of the basement lightened, shadowy shapes becoming recognizable as his still sparse bedroom furniture and boxes of equipment stacked against the wall. The dizziness from bloodloss swirled to a stop, leaving him solid and real and whole on his bed, bare chest heaving as he gasped for air. There was no more mockery to the gentle fingers carding through his sweat-soaked hair. He could still hear a voice, but it was nothing like the hateful murmuring of the vampire who had so completely ruined him. This voice was lighter, sweeter, and humming some familiar melody he could not quite recall. Then the voice spoke, the timbre of it shocking remembrance through him like electricity. “Hush, love. You’re only dreaming. Hush now.”
His brain still sleep-fuzzed and limbs not quite fully coordinated yet, Peter jerked up onto his elbows, twisting around to gape at the figure sitting on the edge of his bed. Her hand jerked back, away from where his head had lain on the pillow, and it stayed up in the air between them as they stared at each other, stared into matching, wide, brown eyes.
He couldn’t believe it, couldn’t think that this was anything more than another part of the dream. But then Olivia Vincent smiled, a lock of chocolate brown hair tumbling down to brush against one pale, perfect cheek. Her smile was warm; her eyes, Peter’s own eyes, gazing back at him with a shattered kind of love. His mouth worked soundlessly; he felt utterly blank, unable to process the image of this woman sitting there at the head of his bed. His mind flashed back to innumerable times, long forgotten until now, of this same vision of comfort and love and home and finally, finally, with his voice strained and cracking and strangled, he managed to whisper, “…Mum?”
Her smile widened a bit, a little sob making her shoulders shake. “Hello, sweetheart.” Her image swam and blurred, and he blinked and suddenly she was visible again and there was something wet trailing down his cheek. His chest felt tight, and his throat too, choking him, and a distant part of him realized he was crying, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Instead, he looped his skinny arms around her waist, tugging her closer, and buried his face in her lap, just shaking and breathing in her scent. Warm fingers tangled in his hair again, soothing and stroking, and he could hear her voice whispering above his head. Peter didn’t even wonder why or how she might be here. All he could think was that if this was still a fucking dream, then he never ever wanted to wake up again.