stilljustandrew | Dreaming.

Dreaming.

[ooc: Previously...]

*It starts as an ordinary dream ... well, as ordinary as dreams ever really are ...*

* * * * *

"Here, hold this." Anya hands him a large wire cage with two black-and-white rabbits inside, and turns back to the supply shelves. "We have to hurry."

Andrew takes the cage and peers into it. One of the rabbits looks back at him, and gives a distinct resigned shrug.

Arms full of random implements, Anya strides past him, and he breaks into a jog to keep up with her as she speaks. "Okay, we've got the Really Big Sword and the plus-three Boots of Buttkicking. Now all we need is a dungeon. Where's Xander?"

"Xander?" He was here a moment ago, wasn't he?

Anya turns to face him, scowling. "Andrew, did you lose Xander again? Really, that's just carelessness."

"You'll have to go back for him, Andrew," says Scorpius, taking the cage -- there are six rabbits in it now. "We'll wait here. And order the pizza."

"Hurry!" Anya calls after him as he turns back, heading deeper into the Magic Shop.

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*Meg sits there for a few minutes, her eyes fixed on Andrew's face, watching warily for the telltale signs of the horror he'd predicted for his sleep. But he looks calm - calmer than she's seen him ever look when awake; sleep lends his face a certain relief from the guilt that he always seems to display, even when he's happiest. Meg wonders if perhaps this isn't how he'd look if that thing he keeps dancing around had never happened . . .

Feeling it is perhaps safe to look away from him for a second, she glances around the room. It's a fairly average Milliways room - bed, blankets from Andrew's vigil the previous night, desk, book, lights -

Meg's glance veers back from the lights to the book.

Curiosity has always been one of Meg's fatal flaws - she knows it, accepts it, is rather proud of it even. And now, all the more, it's important to indulge Meg's fatal flaws, as opposed to somebody else's. Isn't it?

So she tells herself, anyways, as she gently disengages her hand from Andrew's - she'll know if something happens, she won't miss it - and heads over towards the book.*

* * * * *

It's dark. The floor's sticky this far back in the shop, and there are tiny pairs of glowing eyes in the shadows. A package of chocolate snack cakes lies forlornly on the floor next to an empty bookshelf; Andrew picks it up and keeps moving.

"You know what that means, don't you?" Tim Hunter takes the package gingerly, and peers at it. "They've been here before us. We're going to have to go in and do the big dance number."

"Right." Andrew wipes sweaty palms on his black jeans. "Dance-trance."

"You could be anybody." Tim winks at him, and conjures a walkie-talkie. "Communications check?"

Andrew grabs his own walkie-talkie. "Check."

"Check check. You take the right hallway, I'll take the left." Tim turns to go. "We're counting on you, Andrew."

*She realizes as she stands over the desk that it isn't a novel, some story of someone she knows, as she'd rather thought it might be.

Well, it is a story of someone she knows - but not who she expected.

It's Andrew's journal, and it's open to his most recent entry.

She hesitates a second before looking at the page - but only a second. After all, she's been trying to help him, right? And how can she help him if she doesn't know what she's helping him against?

Besides, there might be things about her in it. And Meg is one of those people who can never resist reading about herself.

She peers down intently. It is, as she had half-expected, an account of last night's encounter with Dream, and she finds herself, rather unexpectedly, raging again. How dare - but that doesn't do any good, so she forces herself to continue reading, after a guilty glance at Andrew. His dreams still seem peaceful, though. Maybe he really did get the bunny rabbits and ponies she'd predicted. Maybe it was all just a bluff, a scare tactic. After all - she hadn't dreamed last night, had she?

She reads down the page, and smiles ruefully at the next bit. She had thought she could save him from Dream, hadn't she? Funny, that. In a way. Considering.

The right-hand hallway is lined with student lockers, gray and menacing. One of them has the phrase VENKMAN BURN IN HELL painted across it in red letters.

Andrew edges down the hall, moving as silently as he can. He hates this place. He's always hated this place.

Warren is there next to him. Andrew isn't sure how long he's been there.

"I've always been here," Warren tells him, quietly.

"Oh." Andrew tugs at the straps of his backpack, uneasily, and glances back at the graffiti'd locker. It now reads YAY, I'M A LLAMA AGAIN! in blue paint. "Are we almost there?"

"Almost."

*Meg turns the page backwards, begins to read the entry - and has a sharp intake of breath. It's not a normal Meg mannerism, but she doesn't notice.

She had wanted to read about herself - well, this one is all about her.

A smile curves across her face as she reads - a real smile, which then fades. All these things he'd said of her - but then, he didn't know what she'd done in the past, either. He obviously couldn't guess anything even remotely similar to the truth, and Dieu only knew what he'd think of her when - if he knew. Not that it had seemed to matter to Fleur or Raph, but Fleur was a sex demon, and Raph a turtle. Things were a little different.

Besides, the Meg-self he'd written about is now hanging by a thread, a product of conscious effort. Although having read this, it seems to be a little more sure of itself, a little more grounded . . . but that might just be an illusion.

She grimaces, glances back over her shoulder at Andrew, and turns the page.*

Someone's down at the other end of the hallway, a short figure in the same black clothes Andrew's wearing, bobbing away in the flashlight beam. He squints at it, but it refuses to come into focus.

"You know the plan," Warren is saying. "You throw me the idol, I throw you the whip."

"Warren ..." Andrew stops walking, and Warren takes another few steps before turning to look at him. "I don't want to do this."

"Hah. Bit late for that, isn't it?" Warren hands him the shovel, and claps him on the shoulder. "We're there. Go get 'im, tiger."

The stairs are there, leading down.

* * * * *

*Outside the dream, Andrew whimpers, just a little.*

*Meg, with ears sharpened extra by a judicious dose of guilt, turns around with a start upon hearing the whimper - but he seems to be calm again, and the amount of sleep he's had is not nearly enough to do him any good. So, with an inner sigh, she turns back to the page she's on.

It's short, but as she reads it, she can feel herself grinning at the memory of that night.

Maybe there's hope after all.

* * * * *

Stocky figure in black, crouching, his hands busy with the equipment pack as he stows the last shovel, downturned face intent on the work. Banks of freshly turned earth form a neat circle around him, and at the bottom of the circle is an intricate metal seal like a giant manhole cover.

Wait. Wait, I know this part...

Your hand falls on his shoulder, and he twists to look up at you, then rises to his feet. Still calm and intent, now slightly puzzled: what is it?

No. No, please --

The seal is uncovered, and right there at his feet. Warren's watching. The hilt of the knife is cool and solid and ready in your other hand.

It's easy, shockingly easy. The blade just ... goes right into him.

And Jonathan doubles over, and a tiny sound comes out of him -- it's not even a cry, it's a sort of choked grunt --

please no, please, I don't want to be here again --

-- and he looks up, into your face. Not accusation, not betrayal: plain bewilderment. It never crossed his mind that something like this could happen. His mouth opens, the tiniest bit, as though he's trying to say something but doesn't know what yet.

Your aim was good. Right up under the ribs. Just like in the books.

*The next entry is longer - not as long, though, as the enormous one she sees on the first page. She reads quickly through the new one, and feels momentarily indignant - after all, he had met her too that night, and she had made it very clear that he was not the only one who knew there was something wrong with Crichton, and yet not a mention of her - before grinning rather ruefully at her own folly. Of course he wouldn't mention her. She wasn't one of his heroes of legend, was she? Probably the only person in the bar who wasn't, come to that. She sighs, passes that entry quickly, and moves on to the next one.

And stares.

This is what he had been talking about - the destroyed town, the fight against evil - this is it.

This is Andrew's story.

She leans closer and begins to intently read.*

Jonathan's gaze as he begins to realize what's happened ... is surprisingly painful. But Warren's there, right there behind you, and he said to do it, he said it was all part of the master plan. He's looking on now, watching with approval, and that feels right, that approval -- right and rare and fine and so seldom felt that your heart has been clutching for it desperately, starving --

please, don't do this to me --

-- and that makes it right somehow, it can be made to make it right, even as Jonathan crumples to the floor from under your hand. He lands on the seal, on his back, arms outflung, staring sightlessly upward.

Death doesn't look anything like sleep. You don't know why books say it does.

His blood is filling the crevices of the seal now. So much blood; it seems like too much to have all come out of his small body. The seal begins to glow, surrounding Jonathan with a faint misty radiance. Your heart clutches at that too, twisting it into place in the story: he's ascending to the higher level of being like Obi-Wan Kenobi, just like Warren, just like Warren said, this is right, this is what's supposed to be happening --

-- except Warren isn't really there, and he never was, and you know it --

oh god, please, let me out of here!!

*I killed the only friend I ever had.

I killed Jonathan.

Meg, who has been reading through this with more concentration than she's ever read anything before, stops at this. She is still looking at the page, but she doesn't see it.

No wonder - oh, Dieu, no wonder -

And then she hears Andrew's scream, and, leaving the book in disarray, scrambles over to shake his shoulders frantically, all the more so now that she knows what he is seeing, what he must be seeing.*

Andrew wake up wake up oh Dieu Andrew wake up -

*Andrew thrashes wildly for a moment, and in a sudden convulsive movement he wrenches upright, eyes wide and glassy, and screams:*

NOOO!

*Meg, completely out of her depth, tightens her grip on his shoulders and shakes them again, frantically.*

Oh merde don't - it's over you're not there you're just asleep - wake up please wake up -

*He sees her, now. He's awake.*

Meg. Oh god.

*Meg's voice, though small, is so squeaky it's nearing the pitch of dog whistles.*

That was - worse than I thought it would be.

Are you - are you all right?

*He's breathing hard, and he has to swallow before he can speak again.*

Yeah.

...no.

*Meg swallows.*

Yeah, I - didn't think so.

*She lowers her eyes.* But it's over now. You've just got to - it's over now . . .

That's just it. It's not over. I'm going to dream about this every night for the rest of my life until I do something I don't know if I can do --

*His voice is scaling upward, into panic shrillness.*

*Meg tries to keep her voice regular, in counterpoint. It doesn't work very well.*

He can't be - you won't. That won't happen, I promise.

And I know - I know it's horrible. But after this - this had to be the worst. It can't get worse than this . . .

Just --

*He holds up a hand front of his face, in a half-defensive, half-defiant gesture.*

-- just stop it, okay? It can be that bad. It can get worse. It's going to.

*Meg sighs and slumps to the floor, with her back against the bed and her forehead buried in her knees.*

All right. Maybe. But you can't blame me for trying.

. . . I hate this.

Me too.

*He moves closer to that edge of the bed, leaning over to look at her.*

But if I ... don't ...

*and he trails off, a very odd note coming into his voice as he does so.*

*He's spotted the desk, and his notebook lying on it, open to the first page.*

*Meg gives a small, dry laugh.* Well, yeah. You even more than me, I'd have to guess. But -

*She stops, breaking off at the sound of his voice, and looks up. And blanches.*

Er.

Did you -- Meg, did you --

-- how m --

oh god.

*Meg looks rather shifty.*

Well, I mean, it was just there, and you were asleep, and -

Er.

*Her voice gets very small.* I read - er - lots.

I'm -

*Andrew raises a shaking hand against her gaze, and twists away to the other side of the bed. He staggers a little as he stands up, catching himself on the bedpost again.*

*Meg gets slowly to her feet, looking helpless. She twists her hands nervously.*

Andrew, I'm sorry -

*choked voice*

Don't --

don't look at me --

*Unable to meet Meg's eyes, barely able to move without falling over, Andrew gropes behind him for the doorknob and flees the room.*

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Dreaming.

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