Where were we? Oh, right - we weren't at *all* thinking about tentacly evil bitey things that used to be real sweethearts and used to be married to our friends but are now trying to kill our friends. We were also not at all pondering demon lords trying to turn the city into a portal to hell, or friends turning out to be, you know, terrorists - *or* friends losing their hands and being unable to play guitar anymore and - oh god. Lindsey. Won't inflict it on you. Won't buy. Can't justify it without income, anyway. But can certainly play in the store. It's early evening, about an hour before the guitar shop closes, and it's a Wednesday night so it's not really all that busy, and Wisdom's half-propped up on an amp in the back of the store, distractedly playing a black Telecaster. And staring at the floor about three feet in front of him. Some people go up on Mount Caith and shoot things to unwind. Other people find their local Sam Ash and pretend that they're Roger Daltry. Dressed in a cheap men's shirt that would look right at home within a cheap men's suit, as well as a pair of patched khaki cargo pants, loose as hell, a woman who looks very much like Sera might, in a handful of years, wanders into the guitar shop, barefoot, looking stoned out of her mind. Her dark eyes are barely focused, and her smile is sweet but not all there; she's deftly avoids employee notice... somehow... and her long, artistic fingers trail over things as she makes a meandering but unerring line toward Pete. She doesn't say a word, but approaches, ready to reach out and touch the Pete's cheek without so much as a hello, twilight eyes dark and seeing so much. ...and Pete strikes a dischord. Recovers quickly, switches from idly playing Behind Blue Eyes to playing Last Dance With Mary Jane. Makes a studied effort not to step back, but there's a fraction of a flinch away from the touch. I don't know you. Do I? Amateurish strumming. "I don't work here, you know," he says very quietly, eyes locked on hers. Body tense, manner pleasant. Somehow he doesn't think she assumed he did. Her eyes are so familiar, she looks so much like - Seravina. "Found," Claire whispers, not reacting to the flinch. Her voice is girlish and sweet; it doesn't fit the face of a woman who, by all rights, looks somewhere around 30. She's so terribly thin, with masses of long, dark hair, and large, dark eyes--twilight eyes that will hold right to his--and her smile is innocent and knowing, all at once. "Wisdom," she says, and her voice is almost laughing, and her hand points to where the medallion would be, if it rests around his neck, somewhere around the middle of his sternum. "He'll play again, someday," she says softly. "These things take time." Oh. Oh. Kitty had said. And the bloody /voicemail/. Yes. The momentary panicked shock behind Pete's eyes passes, and he relaxes somewhat. He - yes. His strumming hand drops, though he holds the chord with the other, then reaches up to take Claire's hand gently away from pointing at his chest - at the medallion. Knows it's all right, but doesn't like pointing fingers, for some reason. "Yes, you've found me. Claire? I don't see how he'll play again, unless he learns like that thalidomide bloke did, plays with his toes. Or gets a new hand. Which isn't impossible, considering this place. And. Well, me. All right, love?" Calm, a little concerned - but he's placed her, and he knows to expect a little strangeness, and - he can remember the language. It came easily to him there, he can try and speak it here. He can try. He can try not to flip out in the middle of a guitar store. It's good that he can try, because many times what she says induces panic and fear and complete misunderstanding. Claire nods, letting Pete move her hand away from pointing; she's got cold, slim fingers; they tremble like frightened birds might. "All things are possible," Claire murmurs. "You know this now. You see." And then, her eyes seem to focus once, briefly, looking /at/ Pete, before looking right through him, and to something else entirely. "/I/ see. What do I see?" she whispers, and then laughs aloud, gentle and soft, shaking her head. "It's... it's like a dance. You must remember your steps, and if you trip up... The music will catch you. She'll /catch/ you," Claire whispers, almost fiercely. "It... it /hurts/," she murmurs. "Where it isn't." Frantically recording, catalogging and crossreferencing everything she says, trying to organize and come up with matches in the back of his head, behind an intent expression, behind blue eyes watching carefully, not panicking. Listening. Trying to understand. "Can't help but see - I have eyes, don't I? Fuck normality, normality wouldn't have given her to me, would it? There're a lot of dances. There're a great many songs to keep track of, make sure you've got the right rhythm. If the music catches you - well. You see how that goes, don't you? But I think I'm all right - I think I am. Because /she'll/ catch me, she's got my back. No worries, Claire." There's a brief pause; he's still watching. Finally, his hand comes back up, strums four chords in time. E minor, A minor, D7, G. Changing the subject back. Do you know him, Claire? "There's rather a lot missing. And all of it hurts." Changing the song. G, D/A, B, C. The world has turned and left me here. "Not her," Claire whispers. "You're not hers, and it stings. And if the butterflies ever come... to take it /back/ from him, what they gave--they gave it so very long ago, you know--to him, oh, when he was a little boy. If they ever come, he'll be so lost. What a laugh, then. What a laugh they'll all have, at his expense. If they even remember his name." Her eyes focus back to him, centering, and she says, "They'll try and put me back. Please... please don't let them. I want a piece of every season, at least. At least a snowflake on my tongue." Tears are in her eyes, and she swallows roughly, blinking them away. "I was just... a girl. And now? My song is in refrain, searching for the coda." Her eyes fade away again, so dark, and she pales, murmuring, "/All/ her angels. And he didn't even /know/. The red... it stains him. He won't let go. None of them will. And it... it clings. Stone remembers. Death... walks again." Her eyes widen, and she whispers, "Temptation. Oh... /oh/, but it would... it would've been so... easy." "And you speak to me like the chorus to the verse, drop another line like a coda with a curse." Oh Britpop you bastard, you bleed us dry. Gravity sucks. Pete reaches out, finally, the guitar strap over his shoulder holding it there well enough, puts his hands on her shoulders lightly. Hands so very, very warm, especially compared to hers. Fevered and solid and very much real and there. "I *will* be hers. Found. Remember? Found. I can live with it - I'm not waiting for 'now', not looking at what's behind either of us. Not letting any ghosts bother me, I know people who do, and they'll never get to now. I know you're not out to hurt anyone, and if there's a way I *can* help, I will." The hands drop again, and Pete carefully pulls the strap over his head, sets the guitar down on the stand. "You sounded as though you were talking about the Goblin Market." Trying to open up wider, trying to pry his mind open wider, trying to grasp. How does she do it? How? Butterflies? Angels? Wings. Staining red, not letting go, clinging, stone remembering, death walking. Temptation. "This isn't one of the times when letting go is bad, is it." A coda with a curse. See the stone set in your eyes, see the thorn twist in your side. Pete's eyes widen. "Red /ribbons/?" "Ribbons of blood, of flesh, of power and control," Claire murmurs. She lets her eyes fall shut as he touches her shoulders, so very frail and thin, as though she were starved, the frail ghost of remembrance of so many things so long ago. "He... he /promised/," she says, and tears spill over her cheeks. "Farther," she pleads, reaching out to try and touch Pete once more, his face or shoulder, or anything at all. "/FARTHER/," she says, and her eyes snap open as the world lurches, desperately attempting to move. "No, no. This way, Wisdom. Open your eyes," Claire urges. "So close." Her breath is faltering, hitching, and so pale, she seems as though she might faint, here and now, and fall to the floor of the guitar shop. "Won't you... join the dance?" She sways, as though her knees might buckle, and even through all her odd behavior, no one gives a whit of care, as though she isn't there. And someplace very much like here, maybe even here, overlaid over it all, Pete Wisdom never stopped playing Behind Blue Eyes. He's looped on endless, staring at the floor, three feet in front of him. Another metaphor for life. He lets Claire touch him, he doesn't flinch away; when she sways, when the world lurches beneath them, his hands go up again to catch lightly at her sides, try and stop her from falling, from collapsing in on herself. 'I bailed you out when you were down on your knees'; 'but if we are wise we know that there's always tomorrow - lean on me, when you're not strong'. Can't be Atlas, but can certainly try. Can certainly try. If the store's not paying attention, all the better. That's just fine, everything's just fine. I know 'em all pretty well. "I'm trying to open my eyes. And I try not to make promises, because I'm never sure I can keep them. Can I help, Claire? Help me open my eyes; I think I know the steps, but I don't want to tread on your toes, and you don't float in the air. Further up and further in? Or farther from you every day? Show me. Please." Holding her up, braced. It's all right. You were there, even if you weren't. You can't help but see everything connected, you can't help it. God help you. "She doesn't want to think she can think for herself, does she? Her hands are tied. Nothing to win, nothing left to lose. That's what she thinks. We're trying to keep her with us." Gentle fingers trace over Pete's cheek; Claire nods, slowly, a faintly pained smile returning to her sharp, striking features. "Walking in and out of inbetween, we see all there is; we see the unseen," she murmurs. The world smoothly shifts this time, first one thing, and then another. There is no guitar shop; there is no guitar. Here is a beautiful valley, green and golden, caught somewhere around what could be sunset, light filtering past the hills and secret hollows. Far down below, there is what looks like a small town, and in the distance, the hintings at the winding of a brook. "Rememberings," Claire says, softly. "When you see this place again, ask him how Sarah is. Not the one like /me/, the one like /him/. It's important. The bluebells are ringing, and she can't be allowed to hear their song." Laughter, once more, and Claire brightens. "She was /real/." All at once, it's as though lucidity catches up with Claire; she snaps into herself, a thousand times more vivid, alive, undreaming and bright, hands seizing to hold to Pete, desperate, frantic. "It's hard to hold on," she says. "But please stay with me, a little longer. I need these moments, or I... I forget the words. I forget how to use them at all." This is not my beautiful house, this is not my beautiful wife. How did I get here? Same as it ever was - mutable, malleable. Adaptable. Like water - as long as he has his lifeline, he can always find his way back. If reality changes around him, it's just a shifting view, isn't it? Unconsciously, one hand reaches up to briefly touch, clasp the pendants at the end of the silver chain around his neck. Not an angry star - a navigational star. "I'll remember to ask. I'll make sure. If she hears them, will she stop being real? I have to keep using the song, Claire, or when you fall back in I'll have trouble following. Keeping time." She's holding tight to him in the green day, talking *with* him, with him. So make the best of this test and don't ask why. "But I'm here." He lets the chain fall back to his chest, warm and reassuring, and brings his hand back to hold on to Claire. Holding on. "So take the photographs, and still frames in your mind. Hang it on a shelf of good health and good time. /You can keep them/, Claire, they're yours. They'll never stop being yours. They have your name on them. That's how you can tell which ones belong to you, and which ones don't. Just don't forget who /you/ are." "You can't stop being real," Claire says gently, falling away from the speech patterns she had held so tightly. Here in a land that shifts slightly, with each breath, she's at rest, far and away from where she stands, touching the cheek of a guitar-playing Brit. To the eyes of the world, they aren't even there any longer. "I know; I remember. I see, Pete. I see it all, and I can only show you fractions. I'd sound like some... some pretentious genius claiming you couldn't understand, and it's not that you... 'couldn't', so much as you simply aren't /built/ to. Not as you are now. This shard of you can construct the hotknives. You're not built to contain the possibilities." Her voice has become low and sweet, the voice of a woman, honeyed and raw; here, Claire is no longer a trapped child, she is the woman she became, for 15 years away from sun and moon, trapped in a room with all the brilliance of her mind as companion. Radiant, on the hillside, the woman murmurs, "I won't keep you long, Pete. There's just one more thing I need to show you." A pause, and her dark eyes move to meet his as she whispers "I can't have you thinking it's not real, Pete. But I can't have you panic. Do you understand?" "'Yume wo mite namida shite kizutsuite mo, genjitsu wa gamushara ni, kuru shi, jibun no ibasho sonzai kachi wa nakusenai jibun wo mamoru tame ni.' Yes. I don't think you're pretentious for saying I'm not built to understand - for godsake, I'm marrying Kitty Pryde. But I can't help trying. I meant if I stop using your words, it'll be hard trying to understand you at all. I'm sorry." His expression is intent, still, focused - feels like a child in the snow, putting small feet in the impressions made by an adult, following them and trying not to fall in, trying to keep up, trying not to lag too far behind or get stuck, but the prints are far apart and too big - come closer and see, see into the trees, find the girl while you can. Come closer and see, see into the dark, just follow your eyes. "I won't panic. Thank you - I won't panic, if I do, I might hurt you. Show me." "Don't let go," Claire whispers, and takes one last look around as she reaches for Pete. She sinks into herself, those large eyes widening impossibly, twilight eyes, they are, starry nights, like those Van Gogh painted. Lucidity melts away, almost tangibly so, and the woman sighs, the vague look having descended upon her once more. For a moment the world has seemed to remain the same, and then it peels back, layers falling away, rotted and dusty, moldering, festering, burning and charred, brittle and broken. It is the world. It is Beacon Harbor, where a cancer grows that it seems nothing can fight. This losing battle, this damaged world. Voices whisper, laughter, accusations. "Who will pray for him, now?" "Take my hand. Don't be afraid. I'll look after you." "Once upon a time..." And then Claire's, answering, the worlds flowing, rolling, so easily offered. "I'll go my way. Modorenai sorezore no michi wo erabu toki ga kuru mae ni konnanimo. Konnanimo tisetsuna omoide... Tokihanatsu yo." Drawn back to a flat, a familiar flat, the sight of dreams and nightmares, and a tiny dog whimpers, sitting by the door, a lonely howl uttered from its throat. The reason for its misery? The sweet, rich smell of blood pours from everything, here, and the source lays upon the floor. Two women. Over and over, the memory comes, like flashes, like pain, like fire and lightning. Over and over it plays, from moment one, from moment one and to the present. Twisting over one another, flashes. Knives. Flashes. Reality, warped and changing. Flashes. Sera and Kitty, laughter and love and friendship talking. Discussing. Flashes. Favors. So much blood. Fear and loathing. Closure. Flashes. Slashing, a sweet arc of forgiveness. Which of you lays bleeding? Fear. Collapsing as the world shudders, shivers, becomes confused. Blossoms of red. It isn't /here/, though, where the poppies bloom over breast and throat. It isn't here at all. The trees belie indoors; it cannot be that the ceiling is painted so, to look like the nighttime sky. She lays dying, just off a path, startled at the bullet holes. Almost amused. She lays here, and yet Sera is tangled with her, breath hitching, holding on so tightly, black tendrils creeping like shadows reaching for her lips, for her eyes. Somehow, they are in both places. Somehow. The world is coming undone, not in dreams, in pieces, in shards, but this moment. Decisions made are peeling it away, and friends and loves are faltering, falling, wounded and bleeding to death. They don't even know it. In one hand, Kitty clutches a feather, too large to come from a bird; the pinfeather of something tall and dark and heaven sent, but black as sin, shining and cold. They came. Out of dreams, curiousity, fear, wondering. They came. Tried to take her from you. They have her, even now. Who do you need? Flashes, like lightning. Who do you love? Everywhere. Nowhere. It's so very hard to hold on. Flashes. When you come undone. If you want to destroy my sweater, hold this thread as I walk away. Watch me unravel, I'll soon be naked, lying on the floor, lying on the floor I've come undone. Who's trying to take her from me? Who would do such a thing? Mixed with the horror is bewilderment, helpless and freezing cold. Your hands are cold, your eyes are fire. I need your inspiration tonight. Is that Kitty? No, that's not Kitty, is it? It's Sera - no, Sera's holding her, Sera who /had/ been shot, Kitty found her there and called and asked for Ray's number - it's Kitty - whose feather is that? A black feather - who has black feathers? The raven, Matthew - but that makes no sense. Is it only a dream? Nothing Claire gives, nothing from the place they were in, none of it's only a dream - reach out your hand, hold on to hers, but when we wake it's all been erased. And so it seems - only in dreams. Trouble breathing - but she told him not to panic. She told him she needed him not to panic. Comes down to choices, doesn't it? Choose not to panic. Choose to accept. Choose to bring it back and bring it up and hold closely - kept her too tightly by my side, and then one sad day, she went away and she died. Cold fire. I run between the shadows, some are phantoms some are real. Won't sound like Scott again. No calling 'KITTY!' at the top of my lungs. Hasn't happened yet. *Won't happen*. Talk to her and maybe it won't. Ask her things, ask her everything. Ask. Pete clutches at Claire clutching him, eyes open wide. One hand reaches up, fishes the medallion out, turns it over - triskellion in, eye out. Who do you need? Lightning - but, who do you love? Who does she love? That one's easy - what did I ever see in you? Simple, my feet are warm in bed, yours are like plates of ice. Not going to let them take her. "The known and the nameless, familiar and faceless, my angels and demons at war. Which one will lose depends on what I choose, or maybe which voice I ignore." Pause. "Claire. Claire? I'm not panicking. I'm /not panicking/. But I'll admit that if you tell me I can't change this, I might." Voices behind the door. The charred building - the flat changing into it - them lying there, all the blood, whose is it? I'll go my way - pft. Pete might well pull the Bing Crosby out. Oh, but it wasn't Sera who was shot, though from moment to moment the blood seems to well up from either of the women's chests, and then both, and then neither, and then back to one or the other, violently red roses sprung to life from their flesh. Sera wasn't shot that night, but beaten and shaken and nearly raped, and that is when Kitty found her, after she saw Marley punch a man, right through. The feather is too large to be a bird's... far, /far/ too large. It could've belonged to Deimos, were his feathers not so purely white. Speaking of angels and demons. One detail, perhaps just another record skip, perhaps a telling tale. The round of Sera's belly is more noticeable, as she attempts to pull Kitty closer to her, blood suddenly running from he corners of her eyes, like tears as she snarls, demanding, "You /stay with me/, damnit. You /stay/." Smiling so very faintly, Claire whispers, "It's already happened. It is happening. It will happen. It doesn't /have/ to happen." One hand releases clutching so tightly to Pete, to reach out and trace the line of the medallion. "Oh, Wisdom, in the land of the blind... The one eyed man... is king," she says, and sounds so terribly, terribly /sad/. "Tired of livin' as a blind man... I'm sick of sight, without a sense of feeling," she adds. "These five words in my head." A pause, and then her laughter bubbles up, sick and deranged, childlike and not at all sane. "Are we havin' fun yet?" "Schroedinger's a fuckwit. Cat can't be alive and dead *in one reality*. It hasn't happened yet, it /hasn't/. And the one-eyed man is stoned to death, he is. He's stoned." He's talking in monotone, Pete's talking in monotone and quickly, keeping something in check, something - and his hand on Claire's skin isn't overly warm anymore, isn't overly warm at all, is normal. "Said I love you and I swear I still do. I hate Nickelback. And it must've been so bad, 'cause living with him must've damn near killed you. Claire - what's she doing? What did she - will she do? She went to Sera? She went to Sera - are they both hurt? It's later, much later - why's she going to go to Seravina this time, what's happened? I'm not hers. Living with whom? Only one person I know she lived with. *I'm not wrong*. I'm not wrong, Claire, she loves me." A pause, and then he's very pale, quiet. Show me no more of this, spirit. Whose feathers are black? Stay with me, dammit - roses, roses and cut chest, the damn anime, the ass-kicking and the rose bride and /she has too much personality/, it won't happen, it won't. "Who shot her?" "WISDOM!" Claire shrieks, laughter tearing through her, sobs shaking her as she reaches for him, like some stable piece that she simply must cling to, in order to remain standing, or remain here at all. "Oh, I've waited too long; yes, I'm dying, smash into me someone and hold me. Speed into this shell and now hold me," she pleads. Can you tell me, will I ever dream again? Now, in you arms I now know that I'm home again. I'm home again. "I'm home again," Sera whispers, choking back sobs, perhaps, or bile. "Don't make me," she says, looking up at the ceiling, and perhaps through, toward the heavens, taking no note of Pete and Claire, who are there, and close enough to touch. One of Sera's hands is now splayed over the round of her belly. Life within life. "DON'T MAKE ME CHOOSE!" she shrieks, reaching to pull Kitty closer, her twilight eyes slick with bloody tears. God... where are you? Where are all my angels, now? Oh, fuck. Those are so very much his words. No, don't you dare. Pete's holding Claire steady, unable to look away from Kitty and Seravina, but very much not ignoring the woman who's showing this at what's apparently considerable cost to herself. "Yes. YES. Yes, me, Peter Wisdom, you, Claire St Thomas. I'll stop this. I'll stop it from happening. I won't make her have to choose. A life for a life is *bollocks*." Pete, remember that. Remember that when you find out your mother's alive. "No one should ever have to choose that." He's gone past horror and come out the other side, where lavender's purple and sometimes people disappear and sometimes they don't, and if you don't roll with life then you get moss taking over your brain. It's like taking all the songs you know and throwing them into the sea, you and me. "All these years and no one heard, I'll show you in spring, it's a treacherous thing. We missed you." "Bollocks," Claire repeats, laughing a bit more gently now, and nods. "Bollocks. I hope I haven't given you too much time. You'll see the signs, Pete. You... you might get backed into a corner, and lose Control," she murmurs, her fingers brushing that medallion one more. Hopefully Pete will remember that Claire's sentences don't necessarily follow one another as one might, in a normal conversation. Then again, how could anyone have mistaken this for a normal conversation? She seems to have calmed, perhaps, though she is trembling now, like a leaf in a gale. Claire leans up, and into Wisdom's arms, and she moves--oddly enough--to gently brush her lips over his; he could, of course, stop her if he so chose. There's getting kissed, and there's kissing back. He hasn't stopped Claire from doing anything but pointing at him, has he? And, well. Pointing. Bad. Pete lets Claire brush her lips over his, pulling back slightly after a second. "I'll keep thinking. You keep living. No martyrs, right? No martyrs. I'll look, both eyes open." Might lose control? Control. No, keep it in perspective. Could apply so many ways, could mean so many things, like everything else. "I'll see the signs. The first sign is that you'll see an old and dear friend. Make sure you talk to him, and you'll have good help throughout." A pause. There's madness lurking behind a door, it's so easy to see it when you look the wrong way. "Thank you, Claire." "Don't forget the valley," Claire murmurs, twilight eyes going glassy as she releases him, ceases holding to him. "Remember to ask him." She looks almost afraid, so terribly lost, but then there's a loud crash; one of the employees knocked over the entire display of strings, and the rack, to boot. The guitar feels warm and solid in Pete's grasp, and if he should look back for Claire, for Sera or Kitty, none of them are to be found here. It's late, and they're attempting to close up shop, really. It could have been a daydream, the product of an overactive imagination? But the medallion is out, is flipped, and Pete's lips will still taste so faintly sweet and of lavender from the very briefest kiss.