stilljustandrew (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stilljustandrew) wrote2004-09-15 01:03 pm
stilljustandrew) wrote2004-09-15 01:03 pm
Waking.
*Andrew sleeps. And dreams.*
*There's an earlier, confused part to the dream -- something about a hotel and rain and loose bricks on the sidewalk -- but it ends, as all the dreams have done for weeks, in the darkened basement of Sunnydale High School.*
* * * * *
Warren stands there, glowering a silent warning at you (hurry up, almost time, do it now) as Jonathan kneels to pack up the shovels. Your hand closes over the hilt of the rune-engraved knife, cool and solid and ready.
Say no. Tell him no--
Buffy shoves you to the brink of the pit, and the knife's in her hand now, and the stories and pretendings are draining away like blood from a mortal wound, and truth is spilling out like tears. "It might save the world. What do you think about that? Does it buy it all back? Are you redeemed?"
--this is how Jonathan felt --
You grip the knife hard, down behind your hip, out of direct line-of-sight, and step forward to put your other hand on Jonathan's shoulder. He turns, looks up at you, rises to his feet with a question in his eyes.
There is nothing here but you, and him, and the story. Nothing at all.
You drive the knife forward, hard, into him. He doubles over, a choked-off sound escaping his lips, his dark hair hanging into his eyes.
And Meg looks up, Meg in black shirt and pants like the ones you're wearing, Meg with bewilderment rising in her already-glazing eyes, Meg with the hilt of the knife standing out from her gut and your hand still on it.
And she falls, her shoulder giving way under your hand, all grace gone from her slight body as it tumbles to a rest atop the seal, and her blood begins to spread about her like the fan of her fair hair.
And you stumble back, hearing that same choked cry coming out of your own throat, and desperately look over your shoulder for Warren --
But it's not Warren. It's Peter Pettigrew. And he looks at you and says quietly: "Come now, lad, you know this isn't what happened."
His eyes. For a moment, he has Dream's eyes.
The knife is still in your hand; you drop it, and it clatters to the floor. He picks it up and holds it out to you, hilt first, face still calm and gentle and Dream-eyed, and you back away but the knife's in your hand again.
And you stare at it, and at him, and you whisper: "I killed him." And Peter looks at you, and says, just as quietly as before, "Yes."
You look at him, pleading. "What does that make me?"
"You."
You stare down at the knife again, hating it, and in a sudden convulsive movement you reverse it and aim the rune-marked blade for the soft spot up under your own ribs --
-- and Jonathan's hand is there, closing over yours, stopping you.
"Think, McFly," he says dryly. "How the hell do you figure that's going to help?"
Weeping in frustration, you try to shake his hand loose. It won't shake. "Let -- go --"
He shakes his head, soberly. "Never gonna happen."
"...I killed you!"
That small smile again. "Well, I still care about you. That's why I'm doing this."
The dark underground room around you has been steadily brightening, details lost in the diffuse glow; all you can make out now is the seal at your feet. Which looks ... different somehow, shimmering as though through a thin curtain of rain. Or maybe it's just your eyes.
"It's funny," says Meg's soft voice beside you. "We really never learn, do we?" She's looking down thoughtfully at the increasingly indistinct figure sprawled across the seal. "I used to be so sure I was real."
You turn to her in swift concern. "You are real. You are."
She looks at you with that gently impish smile. "So what does that make you?"
* * * * *
*Andrew opens his eyes.*
*Daylight is streaming in through the window. The fact that this room didn't have a window last night ... isn't much on his mind, as he sits up with a wondering stare like a newborn infant.*
*There's an earlier, confused part to the dream -- something about a hotel and rain and loose bricks on the sidewalk -- but it ends, as all the dreams have done for weeks, in the darkened basement of Sunnydale High School.*
* * * * *
Warren stands there, glowering a silent warning at you (hurry up, almost time, do it now) as Jonathan kneels to pack up the shovels. Your hand closes over the hilt of the rune-engraved knife, cool and solid and ready.
Say no. Tell him no--
Buffy shoves you to the brink of the pit, and the knife's in her hand now, and the stories and pretendings are draining away like blood from a mortal wound, and truth is spilling out like tears. "It might save the world. What do you think about that? Does it buy it all back? Are you redeemed?"
--this is how Jonathan felt --
You grip the knife hard, down behind your hip, out of direct line-of-sight, and step forward to put your other hand on Jonathan's shoulder. He turns, looks up at you, rises to his feet with a question in his eyes.
There is nothing here but you, and him, and the story. Nothing at all.
You drive the knife forward, hard, into him. He doubles over, a choked-off sound escaping his lips, his dark hair hanging into his eyes.
And Meg looks up, Meg in black shirt and pants like the ones you're wearing, Meg with bewilderment rising in her already-glazing eyes, Meg with the hilt of the knife standing out from her gut and your hand still on it.
And she falls, her shoulder giving way under your hand, all grace gone from her slight body as it tumbles to a rest atop the seal, and her blood begins to spread about her like the fan of her fair hair.
And you stumble back, hearing that same choked cry coming out of your own throat, and desperately look over your shoulder for Warren --
But it's not Warren. It's Peter Pettigrew. And he looks at you and says quietly: "Come now, lad, you know this isn't what happened."
His eyes. For a moment, he has Dream's eyes.
The knife is still in your hand; you drop it, and it clatters to the floor. He picks it up and holds it out to you, hilt first, face still calm and gentle and Dream-eyed, and you back away but the knife's in your hand again.
And you stare at it, and at him, and you whisper: "I killed him." And Peter looks at you, and says, just as quietly as before, "Yes."
You look at him, pleading. "What does that make me?"
"You."
You stare down at the knife again, hating it, and in a sudden convulsive movement you reverse it and aim the rune-marked blade for the soft spot up under your own ribs --
-- and Jonathan's hand is there, closing over yours, stopping you.
"Think, McFly," he says dryly. "How the hell do you figure that's going to help?"
Weeping in frustration, you try to shake his hand loose. It won't shake. "Let -- go --"
He shakes his head, soberly. "Never gonna happen."
"...I killed you!"
That small smile again. "Well, I still care about you. That's why I'm doing this."
The dark underground room around you has been steadily brightening, details lost in the diffuse glow; all you can make out now is the seal at your feet. Which looks ... different somehow, shimmering as though through a thin curtain of rain. Or maybe it's just your eyes.
"It's funny," says Meg's soft voice beside you. "We really never learn, do we?" She's looking down thoughtfully at the increasingly indistinct figure sprawled across the seal. "I used to be so sure I was real."
You turn to her in swift concern. "You are real. You are."
She looks at you with that gently impish smile. "So what does that make you?"
* * * * *
*Andrew opens his eyes.*
*Daylight is streaming in through the window. The fact that this room didn't have a window last night ... isn't much on his mind, as he sits up with a wondering stare like a newborn infant.*
no subject
Andrew - you look -
no subject
Real.
no subject
Well, it's about time!