[Speak Out] The Secrets That You Keep
She knows she’s dreaming.
[ Dreaming of another time, another place. Somewhere she does not need to worry about the consequences of being a broadcasting empath. A time when she does not have to wonder if she has developed pheromones capable of overriding good sense.
Maybe even she’s even found someone who loves her in spite of who and what she is.
She knows she eventually has to wake up, but the dream is beguiling. Sleeping, wrapped in each other - the fit is not perfect, the only off note to her dream. She’s vaguely aware that he is restless unless he can keep one arm free, but then he rests it on her shoulder. Oddly enough, he’s all right with her legs twined around his.
With her face tucked into the crook of his shoulder, she breathes in his scent. Under the sharp tang of his aftershave and traces of the soap he used that morning, there is the warm skin scent, with tones dictated by his MHC profile. It’s different from what she knows, but pleasant and appealing.
Still, she’s surfacing from the dream. Instead of the feeling of being held fading as she woke, it was getting stronger, more solid. The memories start to fall into place.
This wasn’t Atlanta. The dream was inside a nightmare. A closed system psychological experiment, or just a torture town, she has been here three months. In the stormcloud, there’s been one silver lining, and he was holding her now.
Wonder of wonders, when the urge to speak the truth had gotten its teeth in her, he hadn’t called her crazy, hadn’t asked the skeevy questions and he hadn’t rejected her. He even had a partial solution to the problem. ]
[ She stretches, opening her eyes to find he's watching her. The chili-chocolate color of his eyes is startling without his glasses in the way, but wonderful to see first thing. ]
Mm, I could get used to waking up this way.
[ Dreaming of another time, another place. Somewhere she does not need to worry about the consequences of being a broadcasting empath. A time when she does not have to wonder if she has developed pheromones capable of overriding good sense.
Maybe even she’s even found someone who loves her in spite of who and what she is.
She knows she eventually has to wake up, but the dream is beguiling. Sleeping, wrapped in each other - the fit is not perfect, the only off note to her dream. She’s vaguely aware that he is restless unless he can keep one arm free, but then he rests it on her shoulder. Oddly enough, he’s all right with her legs twined around his.
With her face tucked into the crook of his shoulder, she breathes in his scent. Under the sharp tang of his aftershave and traces of the soap he used that morning, there is the warm skin scent, with tones dictated by his MHC profile. It’s different from what she knows, but pleasant and appealing.
Still, she’s surfacing from the dream. Instead of the feeling of being held fading as she woke, it was getting stronger, more solid. The memories start to fall into place.
This wasn’t Atlanta. The dream was inside a nightmare. A closed system psychological experiment, or just a torture town, she has been here three months. In the stormcloud, there’s been one silver lining, and he was holding her now.
Wonder of wonders, when the urge to speak the truth had gotten its teeth in her, he hadn’t called her crazy, hadn’t asked the skeevy questions and he hadn’t rejected her. He even had a partial solution to the problem. ]
[ She stretches, opening her eyes to find he's watching her. The chili-chocolate color of his eyes is startling without his glasses in the way, but wonderful to see first thing. ]
Mm, I could get used to waking up this way.