hope you don't mind...backseatangelJanuary 13 2010, 07:32:07 UTC
She's on a roof, but she doesn't know where it is. She's also acutely aware that this isn't her mind, her dream. She's been in more than enough human's dreams to recognize the tang of another's memories, the sharp edges of hope and disappointment. She takes a moment to orient herself, it's a challenge without reference, but there's something... familiar about the place. Something she can't quite place.
There's a choked-off sound nearby and she crosses the roof, finally seeing who's mind she's invaded, who's pain she can almost smell. She approaches slowly, with a grace she can't quite manage with a human body. Because here she's closer to what she was, what she will be and there's more of the sublime about her. Still graceless, but... more.
"Peter?" Her voice says soft, even, not wanting to intrude is she's not wanted.
hope you don't mind...justdoingmyjobJanuary 13 2010, 08:22:30 UTC
Anna's voice rings through as something full enough of grace, something kinder than the cutting edge that seems to embody Angela Petrelli, or what Angela has become. Turning, he crosses his arms again, bowing his head and then lifting his gaze to her as though expecting her to not be there anymore. When she still is, his brow knits and he takes a few steps forward, lips pressing together as he peers at her, scrutiny his last reference for any sign of reality.
Re: hope you don't mind...backseatangelJanuary 13 2010, 16:17:30 UTC
"Hey, yourself."
She moves to stand next to him, looking out at the view. It must be his home, New York if she remembered correctly. It seemed lonely, emptied of the normal bustle. More a reflection of how the dreamer felt than any sense of reality. The light jacket she's wearing has deep pockets and she places her hands inside, a gesture to ward of the metaphoric chill.
"You know you're dreaming, right?" Sometimes they didn't, and sometimes they did, either way, it was only polite to be clear. If this was another of her old abilities coming back it was something she'd have to adjust to again.
hope you don't mind...justdoingmyjobJanuary 20 2010, 01:33:31 UTC
"Yeah I got that feeling," he smiles a little at her. His eyes wander to her hands as they dip into her pockets and then he's looking at the city again like it's real even though he knows very well that it isn't. Dreams feel different from reality despite the rush of thinking they could be real, and when he presses his palms harder to the concrete ledge he thinks even this feels hollow, like if he was at the foot of the building he could pick it up in one hand.
"I'm surprised to see you here," he says and that's true. He doesn't yet understand this to be the result of a curse, though as the night goes on he'll catch onto it.
tell me something that'll save methesecondslayerJanuary 13 2010, 07:44:39 UTC
This isn't her mind, Faith's pretty sure. Seems the night for it. And she's never been a roof girl; it's too high. Too close to open, to sky, to rising above. Underground's her speed. Under the ground, down with the roots and the dirt and the bodies.
"Gonna make a wicked mess if you jump, babe. Might wanna think twice." Her boots are soundless on the rooftop as she approaches. Hunters can't make noise, it defeats the whole purpose.
tell me something that'll save mejustdoingmyjobJanuary 13 2010, 08:22:28 UTC
The interrupting thought does not belong to him even though he hears her words as though they are indeed trapped inside of his own head, and to an extent, he supposes they are, for this is still his dream, his stop in time. When she comes into his peripheral vision he shakes his head and steps back with the push off of the palms of his heels.
"I'm not jumping." Almost, he laughs. "But thanks." And then he pauses, before finally looking at her. "...Faith, right?"
And really, he knows he's right, but asking is habit.
tell me something that'll save methesecondslayerJanuary 13 2010, 08:36:23 UTC
"Whatever. Just saying." The view's pretty tempting; maybe she should hang around here for a while, get used to being up high. Cats land on their feet, right? That's what all the books she's never read say.
"Depends what you're asking." She hops up on the ledge, smooth and easy, muscles bunching and relaxing, easy as breathing. (Easy as the knife slid in.) "Pretty up here."
run for your children, for your sisters and brothersadamantinedJanuary 13 2010, 07:50:10 UTC
Down below, another window bursts open and throws Claire out of it, the last dream she left leaving her with the hard taste of gasoline in her mouth and the sound of squealing tires ringing in her ears. She wonders if it wasn't Sam's dream, but dismisses it just as quickly as it comes to her when she remembers that Sam doesn't drive pink monster trucks. There's glass in her hair, but she brushes it out with little care or consideration, tiny tinkling sounds like music against the cold metal of the fire escape. The air tastes like New York, and Claire's breath fans out in front of her face even though she doesn't necessarily feel cold. She knows that Peter's up there without even having to look, and the careening excitement she'd carried with her from the last tumble slowly starts to dissipate as she puts one hand on the railing while she climbs up the stairs
( ... )
run for your children, for your sisters and brothersjustdoingmyjobJanuary 14 2010, 05:27:24 UTC
The name isn't right, but the words that follow are, and he would know Claire as friend and family anywhere, but the dream world has him seeing and hearing and being in a sharper sense than reality allows for. Not everyone understands--he knows--that sometimes dreams carry the weight that gets shoved away and pushed down in the everyday. Like right now, he doesn't even need to see her to know the set of her face, the set of her stature, the set of her name and her way and everything she could possibly be thinking
( ... )
run for your children, for your sisters and brothersadamantinedJanuary 14 2010, 05:36:09 UTC
She's reflected that smile back at enough people to know what it takes to wear it, the amount of energy it requires to muster it up, to bring it to life, to wear it and pretend like things are actually as bad as they feel, as they are. Claire reflects it back at him now - sad little smile, painfully smooth angles - and it feels as natural as breathing, as waking up in the morning, putting on socks and brushing her teeth. Peter has rubbed off on her in ways that she never imagined anyone would, and she's only sorry that she's rubbed off on him in return, in ways that no one ever should
( ... )
run for your children, for your sisters and brothersjustdoingmyjobJanuary 20 2010, 02:22:06 UTC
Arms that link with ease are a comfort, just as Claire herself is, and if it wasn't Claire at his side he knows the comfort wouldn't be the same either, wrapped up in colors that only go together sometimes and words that say the right thing with even less frequency; histories that simultaneously explain a lot and very little about where they are now. Night gives way to sunrise, because Peter finds it easier to remember the world isn't a lost cause when control seems like it is only one facet of making things work, like he can leave many pieces up in the air and still come out standing
( ... )
there are tunnels through the stone where weaker hearts have made a homeworksmartJanuary 13 2010, 11:58:22 UTC
It doesn't take a native to know the skyline. New York is one of those places that no longer belongs to itself, syndicated through films and picture postcards, branded and sold to the world so that even a tourist from the other side of the globe can step off the plane and feel like he's walked the streets before. At fourteen it had held some cachet among his friends to have been there, though he saw more sights from the airport taxi than the rest of his trip. At twenty eight he'd done the tourist trail as a matter of course, choking on the air and thinking they did this better back home. Cleaner, anyway. At thirty he's standing on a rooftop facing a skyline he knows and a figure he'd like to say he knows better, but sometimes he's not sure
( ... )
there are tunnels through the stone where weaker hearts have made a homejustdoingmyjobJanuary 18 2010, 05:40:39 UTC
Saying Nathan would be too easy, too dramatic for the bite of how real the loss is to him, but saying anything else would be a lie, so Peter says nothing, just sending a look in the doctor's direction before shrugging, which maybe says more than words would anyway. Dreams are weird for him, as he has not ever been able to get out of the habit of thinking they must mean something. Once, they really did, though plenty of people told him how silly it was even then to think such a thing. At present, he supposes they were not right at the time but would be now, and he wonders if that should mean anything to him before deciding that it doesn't
( ... )
everyday has a night, every night has another fightjustdoingmyjobJanuary 18 2010, 05:47:21 UTC
Angela's appearance on the roof is both a surprise and a relief, but he isn't sure he should let it be either one of those things even as soon as he feels them, offering a trace of a smile because he doesn't want her to worry.
"I'm not going to jump," he positively forces a laugh because he doesn't think one can negatively force one, though the thought has certainly occurred to him before. His exhale is a puff of white into the winter air and without pause he slips the black suit jacket off of his shoulders and tosses it at the next-door neighbor and artist in residence. He knows that's not the right term, the latter, but he thinks of her that way regardless. Placing the jacket over her shoulders would be the wrong gesture, he feels, or thinks, or both, that of a companion who is more than a friend, and that he is not. But it's polite, and she is his friend, so hopefully she catches it and puts it to use
( ... )
Comments 23
There's a choked-off sound nearby and she crosses the roof, finally seeing who's mind she's invaded, who's pain she can almost smell. She approaches slowly, with a grace she can't quite manage with a human body. Because here she's closer to what she was, what she will be and there's more of the sublime about her. Still graceless, but... more.
"Peter?" Her voice says soft, even, not wanting to intrude is she's not wanted.
Reply
"Hey," he says and tries to sound like he's okay.
Reply
She moves to stand next to him, looking out at the view. It must be his home, New York if she remembered correctly. It seemed lonely, emptied of the normal bustle. More a reflection of how the dreamer felt than any sense of reality. The light jacket she's wearing has deep pockets and she places her hands inside, a gesture to ward of the metaphoric chill.
"You know you're dreaming, right?" Sometimes they didn't, and sometimes they did, either way, it was only polite to be clear. If this was another of her old abilities coming back it was something she'd have to adjust to again.
Reply
"I'm surprised to see you here," he says and that's true. He doesn't yet understand this to be the result of a curse, though as the night goes on he'll catch onto it.
Reply
"Gonna make a wicked mess if you jump, babe. Might wanna think twice." Her boots are soundless on the rooftop as she approaches. Hunters can't make noise, it defeats the whole purpose.
Reply
"I'm not jumping." Almost, he laughs. "But thanks." And then he pauses, before finally looking at her. "...Faith, right?"
And really, he knows he's right, but asking is habit.
Reply
"Depends what you're asking." She hops up on the ledge, smooth and easy, muscles bunching and relaxing, easy as breathing. (Easy as the knife slid in.) "Pretty up here."
Reply
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"I'm not going to jump," he positively forces a laugh because he doesn't think one can negatively force one, though the thought has certainly occurred to him before. His exhale is a puff of white into the winter air and without pause he slips the black suit jacket off of his shoulders and tosses it at the next-door neighbor and artist in residence. He knows that's not the right term, the latter, but he thinks of her that way regardless. Placing the jacket over her shoulders would be the wrong gesture, he feels, or thinks, or both, that of a companion who is more than a friend, and that he is not. But it's polite, and she is his friend, so hopefully she catches it and puts it to use ( ... )
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