River Tam (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
river_meimei) wrote2010-06-09 04:39 am
river_meimei) wrote2010-06-09 04:39 am
Entry tags:
SPN AU some more
Nothing in room 919 is something Tig will have seen before. Everything that's here comes from Milliways; River brought nothing here but the (ghost of the) clothes on her back, and she got rid of those a few days into her stay.
But the style of it -- the framed posters on the walls, the duvet in swirls of blue and purple, the heap of semi-matching pillows on the papasan chair and the dance bag tossed in a corner -- will be wholly familiar. River picked these decorations, and she picked them to make this room hers.
Of course, there are a few new touches. The salt line surrounding the room, for instance. (The holy water in Poland Springs bottles, the iron horseshoe on the door, the devil's trap painted under the rug -- but only the salt is an obvious anomaly.)
But the style of it -- the framed posters on the walls, the duvet in swirls of blue and purple, the heap of semi-matching pillows on the papasan chair and the dance bag tossed in a corner -- will be wholly familiar. River picked these decorations, and she picked them to make this room hers.
Of course, there are a few new touches. The salt line surrounding the room, for instance. (The holy water in Poland Springs bottles, the iron horseshoe on the door, the devil's trap painted under the rug -- but only the salt is an obvious anomaly.)
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She just holds River close.
She'll hold her as long as she needs her to.
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It's been months since River had anyone to hold her when she cried, months in which she never told this story to anyone; this has been building a while. And it's the middle of the night, when defenses are low.
(And River hasn't been sleeping so well. It wears you down.)
But there's only so many tears you have in you. Eventually, gradually, River's sobs quiet to exhausted sniffles.
She's twisted even closer to Tig now, cradled in a tangle of limbs and sheets and hair. Her cheek rests against a thoroughly wet patch of pillow, and she desperately needs a tissue -- but not quite enough to move away to reach for one, just yet.
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If she does, this dream could crumble.
(Maybe you can't fall asleep in a dream; that ought to make her feel better.
She's already done it once, and is drifting towards a second time.)
She can't really tell if it's morning, but it feels like morning. Tig takes in her surroundings, of which the most notable feature is River.
She woke up next to River.
And it's because of that, and despite the dried up tear-tracks streaking her cheeks, that Tig begins to smile.
In a very soft, very firm voice-- the tone she usually reserves for serious points of geopolitical import-- she says:
"If they do pancakes around here ... I'm really going to think this is heaven."
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"Bananas and everything," she promises, that suppressed laughter bubbling under her voice, and pulls Tig in for a kiss, just because she can.
It's Tig, and she's here, and in spite of why she's here and in spite of everything, right now, River almost feels like everything's really going to be all right.