Fanfic: Dreams, 1/1
Nov. 23rd, 2005 03:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dangermousieTitle: Dreams, 1/1
Fandom: Dark Angel
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A ficlet about sleep. Max, Logan, Alec and Zack. Set in the second half of S2 (but before the S2 finale). Incredbily vague spoilers for S2.
A/N: I am really not super pleased with Max's section, no matter how much I work on it, so any feedback on how to improve the story (any of its sections) is really welcome.
Zack
There is a dark-haired girl in his dreams and there are guns. There is pouring rain, and alleys with tall buildings shutting in narrow dirt. There is purpose and focus and a hint of something else...loneliness? Desire? He can never unravel it before it slips away and he is lost in the maybes. Sometimes, there is pain, and darkness, and loss, and his heart pounds in his chest as he sees restraints, or needles, or a pale face framed by long hair, fingers sticky with blood. He thinks he remembers her name. Max. Those dreams leave him gasping for breath. Sometimes there is order, and orders, and orderliness. And of course more guns. But it doesn't matter if he he dreams of determination, or obedience, or pain. He never remembers his dreams when he wakes.
Logan
Logan always walks in his dreams. He strides, he ambles, he runs. When he wakes up, he has to quell a half-familiar impulse to swing his feet over the side of his bed and stand up. He's learned the hard way that it doesn't work, and that it never will, but in that brief moment between sleeping and waking he sometimes finds himself thinking that if he wishes hard enough...maybe this time? But of course not. He used to think that this was the worst of it. Some kind of cruel irony. Or sick joke. Or some other cliche, banal phrase that explained everything and reflected nothing. Of course, that was before. Now, when he dreams, he dreams of Max and him holding hands. He dreams of Max's hair on his face, the warm smooth texture of her mouth on his. Sometimes, he dreams of Max and him and other things. He doesn't feel bad any more about not being able to get up on his feet in the morning. Sometimes, he'd rather not wake up at all.
Alec
Bad dreams are really for a mind that isn't properly disciplined. He doesn't dream of Manticore, and missions, and experiments, and before. Alec is not some sort of maladjusted, angst-is-good-for-the-soul type, thank you very much. When Alec dreams, which isn't very often to begin with, his dreams involve pretty women, or good bars, or sometimes, boringly, something to so with Jam Pony. Often, he isn't in his dreams at all. All he dreams about is normal, adjusted, and fine. And maybe, if he repeats this to himself enough, it will be true.
Max
Max doesn't sleep. Not today, not yesterday, not last month. She won't sleep tomorrow either. The few times she's ever napped she's been:
a. shot
b. drugged
c. sick
d. all of the above.
She used to love the feeling of freedom from restraints of sleep. Used to love to explore the night, not to waste time she won't ever get back and wouldn't remember. Of course, that was before she realized that sleep can be an escape. Max has always been good at escaping. So she closes her eyes briefly, but as always, this is a respite that is denied her. And when she thinks about it, and the momentary madness passes, and it always does, she is glad. She has little enough hope to fight reality with, never mind squander it on false fears and joys of dreaming.
Fandom: Dark Angel
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A ficlet about sleep. Max, Logan, Alec and Zack. Set in the second half of S2 (but before the S2 finale). Incredbily vague spoilers for S2.
A/N: I am really not super pleased with Max's section, no matter how much I work on it, so any feedback on how to improve the story (any of its sections) is really welcome.
Zack
There is a dark-haired girl in his dreams and there are guns. There is pouring rain, and alleys with tall buildings shutting in narrow dirt. There is purpose and focus and a hint of something else...loneliness? Desire? He can never unravel it before it slips away and he is lost in the maybes. Sometimes, there is pain, and darkness, and loss, and his heart pounds in his chest as he sees restraints, or needles, or a pale face framed by long hair, fingers sticky with blood. He thinks he remembers her name. Max. Those dreams leave him gasping for breath. Sometimes there is order, and orders, and orderliness. And of course more guns. But it doesn't matter if he he dreams of determination, or obedience, or pain. He never remembers his dreams when he wakes.
Logan
Logan always walks in his dreams. He strides, he ambles, he runs. When he wakes up, he has to quell a half-familiar impulse to swing his feet over the side of his bed and stand up. He's learned the hard way that it doesn't work, and that it never will, but in that brief moment between sleeping and waking he sometimes finds himself thinking that if he wishes hard enough...maybe this time? But of course not. He used to think that this was the worst of it. Some kind of cruel irony. Or sick joke. Or some other cliche, banal phrase that explained everything and reflected nothing. Of course, that was before. Now, when he dreams, he dreams of Max and him holding hands. He dreams of Max's hair on his face, the warm smooth texture of her mouth on his. Sometimes, he dreams of Max and him and other things. He doesn't feel bad any more about not being able to get up on his feet in the morning. Sometimes, he'd rather not wake up at all.
Alec
Bad dreams are really for a mind that isn't properly disciplined. He doesn't dream of Manticore, and missions, and experiments, and before. Alec is not some sort of maladjusted, angst-is-good-for-the-soul type, thank you very much. When Alec dreams, which isn't very often to begin with, his dreams involve pretty women, or good bars, or sometimes, boringly, something to so with Jam Pony. Often, he isn't in his dreams at all. All he dreams about is normal, adjusted, and fine. And maybe, if he repeats this to himself enough, it will be true.
Max
Max doesn't sleep. Not today, not yesterday, not last month. She won't sleep tomorrow either. The few times she's ever napped she's been:
a. shot
b. drugged
c. sick
d. all of the above.
She used to love the feeling of freedom from restraints of sleep. Used to love to explore the night, not to waste time she won't ever get back and wouldn't remember. Of course, that was before she realized that sleep can be an escape. Max has always been good at escaping. So she closes her eyes briefly, but as always, this is a respite that is denied her. And when she thinks about it, and the momentary madness passes, and it always does, she is glad. She has little enough hope to fight reality with, never mind squander it on false fears and joys of dreaming.
