Nothing about this place seems to be right, or function as one would expect. We found ourselves in a sun-lit version of Beacon, yet found records of all of our existence inside an old, abandoned lab.
I found schematics for a tower in the lab. It looked vaguely like a lighthouse. There wasn't much sense I could make of it, but it appeared like an incomplete plan for a control center.
Talk to me. And if you require healing, tell me. I'mnot sure linger after effects of the dreamscapes could be healed through my grace, but I'd sooner try.
[ Despite the fact that it's freezing outside and she should be inside like any sane person. Despite the fact that she's already done two patrols on her own today and the scythe is probably a bit overkill. Despite the fact that she's tired.
Despite it all, she's sat at the little picnic table beside the rusted, creaking swings, listening for anything that might be beyond the pitiful reach of her lantern's light. ]
[ He doesn't appear with a flutter of wings, no prayer to pull him along. The walk doesn't take too long either way though. It's easy to find her, the light of her lantern visible through the impossible darkness. Castiel hasn't come here often yet. Back in his world, he's enjoyed taking moments to sit on park benches or by playgrounds, observe natura and humanity at play. Joy is a bright spark within souls, grand for all that they're still small.
He approaches her quietly, eyes skimming ahead, senses outstretched. He doesn't need to rely on sight quite as much as she does, even though his senses are dulled here. Still, he knows she's aware of his approach.
[ She hears him moving, of course she does, but she doesn't look up from here her hands rest on the handle of the scythe. The long, deadly weapon laid out on the table seems so... out of place here, yet she knows there are monsters waiting in the woods. So many of them, watching and searching and biding time until they can kill every last person in Beacon. Kill their spirits and truly destroy them.
At least, that's what she's assuming from everything she's put together. What she learned at the lighthouse certainly hasn't disproven the notion. ]
Hey, Castiel.
[ She's quiet but the name is pronounced just as it should be. She really had taken the time to remember it for his sake. ]
[ It's a stark contrast, all muted colours where her soul is usually bright pain on any canvas. Expressionism at its finest, if he had to compare her to art. That, he's found, isn't hard to do with humans. Most of them are hymns and poetry and bright brush strokes. Some of them, however.
Well, he's heard that some humans put garbage cans into galleries and call it art. There's that, too.
The point being that she's muted where she isn't normally, and while the canvas or emotional wellbeing on humans tends to be very fluid, Castiel can see the core of someone, the true nature of their colours. Buffy, right now, looks to him the way he feels.
So he stands for a moment, gaze on the line of darkness, senses trained on her. She can't see his wings, right now. The way one is tucked close, the other stretched out and curled over and around her narrow frame.
Some things, humans just don't need to be aware of.
When he sits, he does so next to her rather than opposite, and doesn't ask when he puts a hand on her, pulls her sleeve up to curl his hand around her forearm, fingertips on the wrist, on the pulse. The way he sits, his lantern is half-concealed by his body and his coat. He'll draw from it, empty it a little further. There's a lightless glow in his palm. It's healing - he cannot fix, he thinks, the pain of the dreams, but he can try and fail, hoping the attempt brings her some comfort at least. It's warmth, if nothing else, seeping from his hand into her.
Finding words, he will leave to her. He can sit in silence with her if that is what she wishes - and pull his hand away long before his lantern runs out, despite that part of him that...
[ Buffy has met some of the garbage-souled humans, the ones who see the world as their playground and smear darkness all across it in order to create their twisted version of art. There have been times when it's been so easy to understand how Faith had been able to give in to that darkness, to use their power to do whatever they want to the people who 'deserve' it, and it's been so tempting to take matters into her own hands... But human life is precious, and even bad art is still art that deserves to exist.
What Castiel is... isn't art. He's something so much more. As he sits and sets his hand on her, she can feel the warmth that comes from his touch, a warmth that brings tears to her eyes because of the memory of the last time she'd felt it. That comforting embrace she'd felt in death when she'd felt done and finished. When she'd felt so loved.
No, Castiel isn't art. He is color itself, an entire palette ready to create and shape all around him, and she instinctively understands that he'd use every drop of it within him without hesitation if that's what it took. And just as surely as she knows that he would, she knows that she can't let him. So after a few moments of basking in that warmth, letting it fill her up and ease the aches that shouldn't be there, she reaches up with her other hand to gently remove his from her arm—
Only to hold it between both of her own. Looking up at him, there's a peace within her that hadn't been there before, even if it still surrounded in pain. ]
[ Castiel returns the gaze for a moment. He's reminded of the way he held Sam's hand a few years ago.
Years that fly by like nothing for something as old as him, and yet the last few years have felt like lifetimes even to him.
It catches him by surprise, almost visibly so, that way she looks at him, as if he'd intended to do good and is now shocked to discover that he did good. The expression flickers through his eyes, even as most of his face remains impassive, as it usually does.
It's good to know - that the reminder helps her. He filters that knowledge away for later. In response to her gratitude, he inclines his head. ]
[ She holds back the automatic response that wants to fall from her lips. Yes, she does, she's always been on her own when facing the true darkness out there. But... that was before. She's not the Slayer here, where there's nothing to slay that she can easily find and understand. So maybe things can be different now. Finally. ]
Neither do you.
[ His story is still a mystery to her beyond the basics but she knows what their kind of life is like. And with the way he offers himself without hesitation — he could probably use someone on his side too. ]
[ That gets her the full weight of those too blue eyes again, a head tilted to the side a little, as if she, like so many humans, is a great big mystery that he's both inexplicably endeared towards, and hopelessly perplexed by. ]
An agreeable arrangement.
[ He's not sure why she'd make that offer, but it's... oddly soothing aches that he sometimes forgets he carries. It feels like 'I'd rather have you, cursed or not' rather than 'No one cares that you're broken'. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
[ The sentence isn't finished. ]
no subject
no subject
It wasn't just my foot.
no subject
no subject
Something killed me. I've never seen anything like it before. But it was
bad.
no subject
[ Not a request, that one. ]
no subject
[ Despite the fact that it's freezing outside and she should be inside like any sane person. Despite the fact that she's already done two patrols on her own today and the scythe is probably a bit overkill. Despite the fact that she's tired.
Despite it all, she's sat at the little picnic table beside the rusted, creaking swings, listening for anything that might be beyond the pitiful reach of her lantern's light. ]
text -> action
He approaches her quietly, eyes skimming ahead, senses outstretched. He doesn't need to rely on sight quite as much as she does, even though his senses are dulled here. Still, he knows she's aware of his approach.
She died. He got someone else killed.
This place... ]
Hello, Buffy.
no subject
At least, that's what she's assuming from everything she's put together. What she learned at the lighthouse certainly hasn't disproven the notion. ]
Hey, Castiel.
[ She's quiet but the name is pronounced just as it should be. She really had taken the time to remember it for his sake. ]
no subject
Well, he's heard that some humans put garbage cans into galleries and call it art. There's that, too.
The point being that she's muted where she isn't normally, and while the canvas or emotional wellbeing on humans tends to be very fluid, Castiel can see the core of someone, the true nature of their colours. Buffy, right now, looks to him the way he feels.
So he stands for a moment, gaze on the line of darkness, senses trained on her. She can't see his wings, right now. The way one is tucked close, the other stretched out and curled over and around her narrow frame.
Some things, humans just don't need to be aware of.
When he sits, he does so next to her rather than opposite, and doesn't ask when he puts a hand on her, pulls her sleeve up to curl his hand around her forearm, fingertips on the wrist, on the pulse. The way he sits, his lantern is half-concealed by his body and his coat. He'll draw from it, empty it a little further. There's a lightless glow in his palm. It's healing - he cannot fix, he thinks, the pain of the dreams, but he can try and fail, hoping the attempt brings her some comfort at least. It's warmth, if nothing else, seeping from his hand into her.
Finding words, he will leave to her. He can sit in silence with her if that is what she wishes - and pull his hand away long before his lantern runs out, despite that part of him that...
But that is neither here nor there. ]
no subject
What Castiel is... isn't art. He's something so much more. As he sits and sets his hand on her, she can feel the warmth that comes from his touch, a warmth that brings tears to her eyes because of the memory of the last time she'd felt it. That comforting embrace she'd felt in death when she'd felt done and finished. When she'd felt so loved.
No, Castiel isn't art. He is color itself, an entire palette ready to create and shape all around him, and she instinctively understands that he'd use every drop of it within him without hesitation if that's what it took. And just as surely as she knows that he would, she knows that she can't let him. So after a few moments of basking in that warmth, letting it fill her up and ease the aches that shouldn't be there, she reaches up with her other hand to gently remove his from her arm—
Only to hold it between both of her own. Looking up at him, there's a peace within her that hadn't been there before, even if it still surrounded in pain. ]
Thank you.
no subject
Years that fly by like nothing for something as old as him, and yet the last few years have felt like lifetimes even to him.
It catches him by surprise, almost visibly so, that way she looks at him, as if he'd intended to do good and is now shocked to discover that he did good. The expression flickers through his eyes, even as most of his face remains impassive, as it usually does.
It's good to know - that the reminder helps her. He filters that knowledge away for later. In response to her gratitude, he inclines his head. ]
You don't have to face the darkness on your own.
no subject
Neither do you.
[ His story is still a mystery to her beyond the basics but she knows what their kind of life is like. And with the way he offers himself without hesitation — he could probably use someone on his side too. ]
no subject
An agreeable arrangement.
[ He's not sure why she'd make that offer, but it's... oddly soothing aches that he sometimes forgets he carries. It feels like 'I'd rather have you, cursed or not' rather than 'No one cares that you're broken'. ]