Dreams
AU Wimsey fic. In between The Other Way Round II and And They All Lived Happily Ever After
Peter woke in the night, rigid, motionless, mouth clamped tight. It was one of the more recent dreams. He was on a cot in a vast dormitory. Soldiers in jackboots and long coats walked among the men, listening to their thoughts as they slept. He did not know what he knew, but he knew something. He had to remain awake, or they would sense it, and torture him to know the rest.
Gradually the contours of an unfamiliar bedroom came into focus, and his body relaxed somewhat. He sensed rather than saw the sleeping form beside him. Harriet. Good God! Harriet! He dimly remembered in a mind drugged with sleep and bad dreams how he had come to be in a bed in a strange room with Harriet beside him. There was something at the edge of his consciousness that niggled him about the scenario, but he could not remember exactly what it was. Luckily it had been that dream, and not one of the other dreams, where he woke screaming because men were dying horribly, and it was his fault. The perfect bed-fellow, as long as he remained awake, he thought bitterly. And not even that, now? Was that what was niggling at him?
He slid quietly from the bed, wrapped himself in Harriet's dressing-gown which hung on the back of the door, and padded down the passage to the sitting room. He sat some minutes on the sofa shivering. The MI doctor had instructed him to focus on something unrelated to his dreams in order to calm himself. He had been dubious, but it seemed to work. And just as he wanted to regain his security clearance, he did not want to risk presenting himself in a state of utter prostration to Harriet. So he forced himself to get up and look around the room. In the long-past years when he had courted Harriet, he had been careful never to pass her threshold, so the surroundings were unfamiliar.
Unsurprisingly, there were many books. The classics. Modern popular literature. Several shelves organized by specialist topic: Poisons; Tides; Motorcycle maintenance. Spanish history - the research for various novels, he recognized. In a corner, low down, were her own novels, in order of publication. They took over most of a shelf, now.
Scattered around the room were several framed photographs. With an obscure sense that he was doing something furtive and ungentlemanly, he examined them, realizing as he did so that he knew very little about important aspects of Harriet's life, and in fact had never known, even in the days when he had thought he knew her well.
A mustachioed gentleman of the last century, Harriet's father, no doubt. Beside him, a dark-haired woman, younger, with a familiar forthright gaze. Harriet's mother. He vaguely remembered (from where? the trial perhaps?) that her mother had died when she was young, and that she had been raised mostly by her father and a spinster aunt. There was a graduation photograph, a younger Harriet, with a familiar air of defiance, on the arm of her father. There were several more recent photographs of tennis players. Evidently Harriet played quite a bit of mixed doubles these days. A vision of a tennis racquet in the entrance hall yesterday suddenly lit up in his mind's eye, and he felt again beneath his fingers the muscle in her upper arm. A photograph of Harriet in hiking gear, relaxed, smiling, beside a woman friend, with the Alps behind her. Had that one been taken during her European trip in the period when he had known her? Another photograph, most likely taken in the Lake District, with the same woman. Somewhat mysteriously, there was a recent photograph of an infant, unframed. He turned it over and read the inscription on the back: "To darling Aunt Harriet, from John, Phyllis and Lydia."
He sat back down on the sofa, the photographs arranged in front of him. They were evidence of a full and busy life. How would he fit into this life, with his bad dreams and his insecurities? Ten years ago, he would not have asked that question. He would just have presumed that her life would change as necessary to accommodate him.
He confronted head-on the thought that had been niggling him and that he could no longer push aside. Harriet was obviously a more experienced woman than the woman he had known ten years ago. She knew what she wanted, and how to ask for it. So had she slept with him out of a feeling of obligation or pity? What else could it have been, given how little he had to offer? With a jolt to his solar plexus, he realized suddenly that this was how she had felt, long ago, about him. Well if there was one thing he did know about Harriet - had always known - it was that she was honest. So he would just have to work up the courage to ask her. He would do it, he promised himself he would. In the morning.
He put the photographs back in their places and shuffled back to bed.
Peter woke in the night, rigid, motionless, mouth clamped tight. It was one of the more recent dreams. He was on a cot in a vast dormitory. Soldiers in jackboots and long coats walked among the men, listening to their thoughts as they slept. He did not know what he knew, but he knew something. He had to remain awake, or they would sense it, and torture him to know the rest.
Gradually the contours of an unfamiliar bedroom came into focus, and his body relaxed somewhat. He sensed rather than saw the sleeping form beside him. Harriet. Good God! Harriet! He dimly remembered in a mind drugged with sleep and bad dreams how he had come to be in a bed in a strange room with Harriet beside him. There was something at the edge of his consciousness that niggled him about the scenario, but he could not remember exactly what it was. Luckily it had been that dream, and not one of the other dreams, where he woke screaming because men were dying horribly, and it was his fault. The perfect bed-fellow, as long as he remained awake, he thought bitterly. And not even that, now? Was that what was niggling at him?
He slid quietly from the bed, wrapped himself in Harriet's dressing-gown which hung on the back of the door, and padded down the passage to the sitting room. He sat some minutes on the sofa shivering. The MI doctor had instructed him to focus on something unrelated to his dreams in order to calm himself. He had been dubious, but it seemed to work. And just as he wanted to regain his security clearance, he did not want to risk presenting himself in a state of utter prostration to Harriet. So he forced himself to get up and look around the room. In the long-past years when he had courted Harriet, he had been careful never to pass her threshold, so the surroundings were unfamiliar.
Unsurprisingly, there were many books. The classics. Modern popular literature. Several shelves organized by specialist topic: Poisons; Tides; Motorcycle maintenance. Spanish history - the research for various novels, he recognized. In a corner, low down, were her own novels, in order of publication. They took over most of a shelf, now.
Scattered around the room were several framed photographs. With an obscure sense that he was doing something furtive and ungentlemanly, he examined them, realizing as he did so that he knew very little about important aspects of Harriet's life, and in fact had never known, even in the days when he had thought he knew her well.
A mustachioed gentleman of the last century, Harriet's father, no doubt. Beside him, a dark-haired woman, younger, with a familiar forthright gaze. Harriet's mother. He vaguely remembered (from where? the trial perhaps?) that her mother had died when she was young, and that she had been raised mostly by her father and a spinster aunt. There was a graduation photograph, a younger Harriet, with a familiar air of defiance, on the arm of her father. There were several more recent photographs of tennis players. Evidently Harriet played quite a bit of mixed doubles these days. A vision of a tennis racquet in the entrance hall yesterday suddenly lit up in his mind's eye, and he felt again beneath his fingers the muscle in her upper arm. A photograph of Harriet in hiking gear, relaxed, smiling, beside a woman friend, with the Alps behind her. Had that one been taken during her European trip in the period when he had known her? Another photograph, most likely taken in the Lake District, with the same woman. Somewhat mysteriously, there was a recent photograph of an infant, unframed. He turned it over and read the inscription on the back: "To darling Aunt Harriet, from John, Phyllis and Lydia."
He sat back down on the sofa, the photographs arranged in front of him. They were evidence of a full and busy life. How would he fit into this life, with his bad dreams and his insecurities? Ten years ago, he would not have asked that question. He would just have presumed that her life would change as necessary to accommodate him.
He confronted head-on the thought that had been niggling him and that he could no longer push aside. Harriet was obviously a more experienced woman than the woman he had known ten years ago. She knew what she wanted, and how to ask for it. So had she slept with him out of a feeling of obligation or pity? What else could it have been, given how little he had to offer? With a jolt to his solar plexus, he realized suddenly that this was how she had felt, long ago, about him. Well if there was one thing he did know about Harriet - had always known - it was that she was honest. So he would just have to work up the courage to ask her. He would do it, he promised himself he would. In the morning.
He put the photographs back in their places and shuffled back to bed.