[ There's a weight to those words, a hard hitting oomph that Alan swears he can feel. His grip on the mug grows tighter for a split second, hands flexing in response. The air feels uncomfortable, heavy like humidity. ]
Charlie, I... [ Alan trails off. He what? He's not sorry he found it. The contents aren't what he was expecting, sure, but he doesn't regret it. ]
[ It occurs to Charlie to drink some of his own coffee, because normal, boring actions lead eventually to a normal, boring state of mind, most of the time. His hand jerks instead, spilling coffee on itself. It hurts. He narrows his mouth and blinks.
Ah, there's the shakes. And here's a cheerful tone coming back into his voice, and a new edge to that cheerfulness: ]
[ this feels to deep. Too personal. There's something in the back of his head that's fighting with something else, undercurrents of thoughts warring with each other.
This is great material, one part says. Charlie's clearly got some PTSD and he needs to back off says the other. But guilt is easily buried - Alan needs this. Maybe Charlie does, too. Alan knows what it's like to be trapped with nothing but yourself. He can relate, if not fully, than more than most people on the barge.
Or maybe Alan's bending things to suit his narrative. The writer reaches to the table next to him to pick up and hand Charlie a napkin for the coffee, takes note of how the spill seems to snap the detective back and use that too cheerful tone. Alan keeps his face fairly neutral. ]
[ Charlie takes the napkin, mops up his scalded hand more roughly than necessary. Comes back to the extent that he's starting to suppress anger rather than being void of it. The outward difference is that his expression is deliberately closed instead of vaguely, hollowly closed.
So Alan got this fucking vision and, what? Decided to come and surprise Charlie with it and see if he could find out more?
Charlie doesn't often get the urge to punch somebody, and in this instance it surprises him. He breathes in carefully, and breathes out carefully, quite tense, and he reminds himself: they aren't just two guys talking on the same footing. They're two guys here for specific, different reasons, with specific, different responsibilities. Maybe this can be a teachable moment (the lesson: not being a shithead).
And anyway, Charlie's been being pulled, stunned, around the conversation. So he plants his feet and pulls instead. ]
How about you? You get trapped anywhere nice? [ Like they're comparing summer holidays. ]
Look-- [ Alan's not sure he even has the footing to tell the other guy look, considering, but he has one hand raised in a slightly in what he hopes is a nonconfrontational gesture. ] --I know it's a lot. But it's better for both of us I told you.
[ And here's the next part, Charlie moving the conversation along perfectly. Alan takes a sip, leaning against the counter. Tries to curb the part if him that's starting to get a little defensive to mild success. Makes a mental note to go to the infirmary for the barge equivalent of a bottle of extra strength Tylenol. Easier to do that then to dwell on some of the stuff he kind of owes it to Charlie to say now. ]
[ That gets a laugh out of him. It's humourless but there, and physical act a strange sort of relief. If anyone's going to get it, it's going to be this guy. The edge of the counter is sticking into his lower back, but Alan doesn't move. It's kind of nice to have something to ground you, as vaguely uncomfortable as it is. ]
Alright. [ He contemplates for a moment, but it only takes a second. One of his hands moves to push some of his hair out of his face, index and middle finger pausing a brief second in the middle of his forehead. ]
It is dark and cold, but it's more than that. It's alive. Everything about it is alive, not flesh but a presence. It chokes you, twists you and what you know, what you think you know, what you believe, your sense of self, it slowly saps you, drains your sanity like it's feeding itself. It's--it feels like you're diving into an abyss, and when you try to swim to reach surface, you never can.
[ Alan pauses, taking a sip of his coffee. A chance to breathe. ]
The feeling that you're drowning never really goes away. Even when I found a way to navigate the currents, even when I forgot everything, I still--
[ Alan grimaces again, another flash or bared teeth as he abruptly cuts himself off. The coffee tastes bitter than it should. He glances down, then back up. There's no light in his voice. ]
[ Charlie listens with a flat, serious face. Lets Alan talk. Takes each new piece of information like Alan's revealing a new bullet wound. It's hard to pinpoint how his face has changed by the end of it: it's still serious, still flat, but something in it speaks to dread and something else to understanding. He isn't annoyed any more. ]
Jesus.
[ Low. ]
Yeah. I do.
[ He hesitates, and exhales slowly and thoroughly, pushing and pulling his own tongue around a question: ]
Does the name 'the King in Yellow' mean anythin' to you?
[ This place is full of coincidences. What's one more? ]
[ Alan's perfectly content to brood. It's his default state, and he's fairly certain it's Charlie's, too. The lack of doe-eyes and sympathy is nice: they both Get it, capital G. No need to press. No need to push. He was genuinely expecting a fist in his face with all of this, so he's counting his blessings when the other speaks again. ]
The stories? Yeah. Huge influence for me, right up there with Stephen King.
[ Charlie has encountered, briefly, the concept that some people here are from worlds that exist as stories in others. Fair enough, fair enough, one more card in the weirdness deck. But he hasn't thought about it in a while, and he definitely wasn't expecting to be on the wrong end of it.
So Alan gets a one-word, surprised response. Another doom-laden wham line. How many is too many for a single scene before it gets hokey? We'll leave that question up to him. ]
[ Ah, fuck. Alan winces from both his own phrasing and the oncoming migraine. He tries to keep his words vague enough they don't start another stare-off, hopefully remaining focus on the subject on hand. ]
Spooky stories pretty embedded in the collective horror consciousness, yeah. I'm guessing they were real for you.
[ He doesn't need his vivid imagination to paint this particular picture. He glances over, watching the other. ]
[ A huff, then a heh, then Charlie rubs his hand across his face, grinning unhappily. It's not dramatic, but by his standards it's practically an outburst.
His time in the Dreamlands already seems unreal enough, so this makes him feel a kind of way. ]
You're gonna hafta forgive me, Mr Wake, I-I guess I wasn't ready for all that to be someone's fiction. Yeah, uh...
[ He wonders if Wake has met John yet. Or, jesus, Edwin. ]
The King is real, or was. I... was taken to his realm, for a time. It was... not unlike the experience you described.
[ It's only now that he realises he didn't question Alan's description of the pits as dreaming. That was a slip-up. That means he needs to be more careful with himself. ]
[ Maybe it's not such a bad thing they're paired for now. At the very least, the common ground they share with this alone is practically a football field. Alan nods grimly at the fiction quip, trying to gage Charlie's reaction. He's not sure if he should press for things or back off--hell, he's not sure he knows how to handle people in the first place, not after being so alone for so long.
He lapses into silence for a bit, wishing the coffee was just a little bit stronger, or at least had the tiniest amount of whiskey in it. ]
[ There's a colourful array of bottles on a high shelf that suggest Charlie definitely isn't a tetotaller, if Alan wants to make any suggestive glances towards them.
There's another pause after Alan's question, during which Charlie has to figure out whether he wants to answer at all. If he's ready to dig any more of this up right now, even to someone who'd know what it's like.
But it's probably not coincidence that Alan was paired with someone who'd know what it's like. Charlie's here to do a job. A job that goes back to a promise he made to a person who he owes everything. He's existed for a long time now for the sake of a job. He can pull this scab off again if he thinks of it as part of the job.
He breathes in, breathes out. Tense: ]
You've got three years up on me. It was a decade.
[ Beat. ]
Time ran... strange, there, but it was '22 when I went in, '32 when I came out.
[ He rotates his coffee cup, and forces his voice to stay slow and steady, though he can't force himself to relax. ]
It was, uh, confusing. No real continuity. I'd forget and remember where I was, off and on, you know.
Forgetting's nice until you realize what's happening.
[ He's helpful in supplying the words, if only because Charlie's describing exactly what he went through. He remains nodding ever so slightly, actively listening. When his cup is done he sets it to the side, glances around the too-impersonal cabin, gaze resting on the bottles. Still tempting, if only for the social lubricant aspect of it all. ]
I'm not going to tell anyone. [ Just in case he needs some security. Alan opts for not telling him that he's written what he's seen down, though. That'll stay close to his chest. ]
[ Charlie nods at that first observation. It's true, but it's easier to agree with it than to be the one to say it out loud. ]
And I'd better not see it on a blackboard either.
[ It's not aggressive; in fact, he successfully hits dry. He also follows Alan's gaze, trying to gage what the other is thinking about this, falling upon an unsurprising answer. He can't pretend he isn't tempted too, after the fucking week he's had. ]
Him and his brother made it. Might as well have been a hallucinogen.
[ It's banter. Small talk. Necessary, but something that's still vaguely uncomfortable to Alan as he shifts his weight, watching Charlie go through the motions. ]
[ He doesn't comment out loud on the slip. And he doesn't stop getting out glasses, or pouring. He blows out air in a pantomime of thinking about it. ]
Only easy questions, huh. It, uh...
[ Actually, he does pause, bottle suspended over an empty glass, amber liquid gathered at the neck. Lands on an honest answer. He'd have valued honesty, if there'd been someone in New York for him to ask the same question. ]
There's good days and bad days. [ He pours. ] I got a job that'd keep my... my mind occupied. It helps to make some rituals, uh, things you do to...
[ Another pause over the other glass, while he tries to figure out a selection of words that don't sound nuts to him, fails, and goes on anyway: ]
...to keep knowin' what room you're in, when you start feelin' like maybe you're back there. You know.
[ He holds out a drink for Alan, and shrugs. ]
I came through the Great War too, and the same thing more or less holds true. Time's a shitty healer, and she works slow too, but you notice the difference.
This is the ritual to lead you on. Feels like all I've had is time and it's still not enough.
[ It's the honesty that Alan hones in on. Nice to have someone who doesn't mince words. Saga doesn't either, but this is different. Feels more tangible than conceptual, like hard, solid proof. Here's Charlie Dowd, filled with grit and offering a dry smile. Veteran, detective, to-the-point. Hardly a man Alan would describe as weak, even though they've only talked a few times. He's not bullshit.
Alex Casey comes to mind, too, but that thought is something Alan sets on a shelf for later. This is advice he needs to heed. It's good, too, palatable in a way Alan will mull over. Saying thank you feels incorrect. 'Great job with handling the horrors of your world, and world war one, and then some cosmic shit. Anyway, hold my hand, would you?' ]
Having light helps. Me, at least.
[ His experience is new and old, the past thirteen years of his life folding and weaving together in a way that's nearly indescribable. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Charlie, I... [ Alan trails off. He what? He's not sorry he found it. The contents aren't what he was expecting, sure, but he doesn't regret it. ]
How did you get there?
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Ah, there's the shakes. And here's a cheerful tone coming back into his voice, and a new edge to that cheerfulness: ]
You wanna know?
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[ this feels to deep. Too personal. There's something in the back of his head that's fighting with something else, undercurrents of thoughts warring with each other.
This is great material, one part says. Charlie's clearly got some PTSD and he needs to back off says the other. But guilt is easily buried - Alan needs this. Maybe Charlie does, too. Alan knows what it's like to be trapped with nothing but yourself. He can relate, if not fully, than more than most people on the barge.
Or maybe Alan's bending things to suit his narrative. The writer reaches to the table next to him to pick up and hand Charlie a napkin for the coffee, takes note of how the spill seems to snap the detective back and use that too cheerful tone. Alan keeps his face fairly neutral. ]
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[ Charlie takes the napkin, mops up his scalded hand more roughly than necessary. Comes back to the extent that he's starting to suppress anger rather than being void of it. The outward difference is that his expression is deliberately closed instead of vaguely, hollowly closed.
So Alan got this fucking vision and, what? Decided to come and surprise Charlie with it and see if he could find out more?
Charlie doesn't often get the urge to punch somebody, and in this instance it surprises him. He breathes in carefully, and breathes out carefully, quite tense, and he reminds himself: they aren't just two guys talking on the same footing. They're two guys here for specific, different reasons, with specific, different responsibilities. Maybe this can be a teachable moment (the lesson: not being a shithead).
And anyway, Charlie's been being pulled, stunned, around the conversation. So he plants his feet and pulls instead. ]
How about you? You get trapped anywhere nice? [ Like they're comparing summer holidays. ]
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[ And here's the next part, Charlie moving the conversation along perfectly. Alan takes a sip, leaning against the counter. Tries to curb the part if him that's starting to get a little defensive to mild success. Makes a mental note to go to the infirmary for the barge equivalent of a bottle of extra strength Tylenol. Easier to do that then to dwell on some of the stuff he kind of owes it to Charlie to say now. ]
It was dark where I was. Cold.
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[ He leans against the counter again and sips his coffee as if to spite any nervy part of him that wouldn't be able to do that. ]
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Alright. [ He contemplates for a moment, but it only takes a second. One of his hands moves to push some of his hair out of his face, index and middle finger pausing a brief second in the middle of his forehead. ]
It is dark and cold, but it's more than that. It's alive. Everything about it is alive, not flesh but a presence. It chokes you, twists you and what you know, what you think you know, what you believe, your sense of self, it slowly saps you, drains your sanity like it's feeding itself. It's--it feels like you're diving into an abyss, and when you try to swim to reach surface, you never can.
[ Alan pauses, taking a sip of his coffee. A chance to breathe. ]
The feeling that you're drowning never really goes away. Even when I found a way to navigate the currents, even when I forgot everything, I still--
[ Alan grimaces again, another flash or bared teeth as he abruptly cuts himself off. The coffee tastes bitter than it should. He glances down, then back up. There's no light in his voice. ]
You know how it is.
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Jesus.
[ Low. ]
Yeah. I do.
[ He hesitates, and exhales slowly and thoroughly, pushing and pulling his own tongue around a question: ]
Does the name 'the King in Yellow' mean anythin' to you?
[ This place is full of coincidences. What's one more? ]
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The stories? Yeah. Huge influence for me, right up there with Stephen King.
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[ Charlie has encountered, briefly, the concept that some people here are from worlds that exist as stories in others. Fair enough, fair enough, one more card in the weirdness deck. But he hasn't thought about it in a while, and he definitely wasn't expecting to be on the wrong end of it.
So Alan gets a one-word, surprised response. Another doom-laden wham line. How many is too many for a single scene before it gets hokey? We'll leave that question up to him. ]
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Spooky stories pretty embedded in the collective horror consciousness, yeah. I'm guessing they were real for you.
[ He doesn't need his vivid imagination to paint this particular picture. He glances over, watching the other. ]
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His time in the Dreamlands already seems unreal enough, so this makes him feel a kind of way. ]
You're gonna hafta forgive me, Mr Wake, I-I guess I wasn't ready for all that to be someone's fiction. Yeah, uh...
[ He wonders if Wake has met John yet. Or, jesus, Edwin. ]
The King is real, or was. I... was taken to his realm, for a time. It was... not unlike the experience you described.
[ It's only now that he realises he didn't question Alan's description of the pits as dreaming. That was a slip-up. That means he needs to be more careful with himself. ]
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He lapses into silence for a bit, wishing the coffee was just a little bit stronger, or at least had the tiniest amount of whiskey in it. ]
How long were you trapped?
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There's another pause after Alan's question, during which Charlie has to figure out whether he wants to answer at all. If he's ready to dig any more of this up right now, even to someone who'd know what it's like.
But it's probably not coincidence that Alan was paired with someone who'd know what it's like. Charlie's here to do a job. A job that goes back to a promise he made to a person who he owes everything. He's existed for a long time now for the sake of a job. He can pull this scab off again if he thinks of it as part of the job.
He breathes in, breathes out. Tense: ]
You've got three years up on me. It was a decade.
[ Beat. ]
Time ran... strange, there, but it was '22 when I went in, '32 when I came out.
[ He rotates his coffee cup, and forces his voice to stay slow and steady, though he can't force himself to relax. ]
It was, uh, confusing. No real continuity. I'd forget and remember where I was, off and on, you know.
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[ He's helpful in supplying the words, if only because Charlie's describing exactly what he went through. He remains nodding ever so slightly, actively listening. When his cup is done he sets it to the side, glances around the too-impersonal cabin, gaze resting on the bottles. Still tempting, if only for the social lubricant aspect of it all. ]
I'm not going to tell anyone. [ Just in case he needs some security. Alan opts for not telling him that he's written what he's seen down, though. That'll stay close to his chest. ]
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And I'd better not see it on a blackboard either.
[ It's not aggressive; in fact, he successfully hits dry. He also follows Alan's gaze, trying to gage what the other is thinking about this, falling upon an unsurprising answer. He can't pretend he isn't tempted too, after the fucking week he's had. ]
...Yeah, coffee's not doin' it, huh.
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[ He looks up and pretends to read the labels. ]
Whiskey.
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Were you here for the concert? The old guy on the drums?
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[ Answering the one part, while he pulls a bottle down from the shelf, on the assumption that it'll lead to an explanation of the other. ]
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[ It's banter. Small talk. Necessary, but something that's still vaguely uncomfortable to Alan as he shifts his weight, watching Charlie go through the motions. ]
Can I ask you a personal question?
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[ He lifts the bottle just enough to draw attention to it. ] How d'you like it?
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You've spent some time outside of the Dark Pl--the Dreamlands before arriving here.
[ A quick glance to see if his observation is right or not before he's back to staring at the coffee cup. He taps his wedding ring against it again. ]
Does it.. get easier?
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Only easy questions, huh. It, uh...
[ Actually, he does pause, bottle suspended over an empty glass, amber liquid gathered at the neck. Lands on an honest answer. He'd have valued honesty, if there'd been someone in New York for him to ask the same question. ]
There's good days and bad days. [ He pours. ] I got a job that'd keep my... my mind occupied. It helps to make some rituals, uh, things you do to...
[ Another pause over the other glass, while he tries to figure out a selection of words that don't sound nuts to him, fails, and goes on anyway: ]
...to keep knowin' what room you're in, when you start feelin' like maybe you're back there. You know.
[ He holds out a drink for Alan, and shrugs. ]
I came through the Great War too, and the same thing more or less holds true. Time's a shitty healer, and she works slow too, but you notice the difference.
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[ It's the honesty that Alan hones in on. Nice to have someone who doesn't mince words. Saga doesn't either, but this is different. Feels more tangible than conceptual, like hard, solid proof. Here's Charlie Dowd, filled with grit and offering a dry smile. Veteran, detective, to-the-point. Hardly a man Alan would describe as weak, even though they've only talked a few times. He's not bullshit.
Alex Casey comes to mind, too, but that thought is something Alan sets on a shelf for later. This is advice he needs to heed. It's good, too, palatable in a way Alan will mull over. Saying thank you feels incorrect. 'Great job with handling the horrors of your world, and world war one, and then some cosmic shit. Anyway, hold my hand, would you?' ]
Having light helps. Me, at least.
[ His experience is new and old, the past thirteen years of his life folding and weaving together in a way that's nearly indescribable. ]
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