Disclaimer: I do not own, lay claim to or make money from Dark City, the characters, or anything else covered under copyright law. The following is a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only.
Author's Notes: This fic has been edited to fit your all ages website.
Originally this was supposed to be a small drabble about what one might be able to do with a sheet and telekenetic powers. Then I started thinking about the whole River Tam syndrome and whether someone with sudden omnipotent abilities would be entirely mentally stable, and, well... 500 words turned into 10K.
Enjoy!
Love with Eyes Closed
He hadn't seen John Murdoch in weeks, not since the night they took back the city, since the dawning of the first real day the city had ever seen. Since Murdoch had walked away without hardly a word, leaving him for the sunshine of Shell Beach. It had hurt, more than a little. But it couldn't be helped. Daniel Schreber was a leftover, the last relic of the Stranger's now dead empire, and had no place in this world. Especially not when it came to the city's new master.
Still, he pressed on. What else was there to do? He had little hope of a successful re-integration with society around him, not when all he saw were the imprints he'd created, saw their experiments on every corner, in every face. He wasn't sure himself why he'd started studying his old trade again, reading through books and manuals, sometimes even taken notes. He certainly would never practise again, not when he couldn't even fix himself.
When strange things started to happen around him, he thought at first that it all had finally gotten to him - that he was going insane. It was a perfectly logical deduction, based on his isolation and the extensive trauma he'd been through. But none of these happenings seemed destructive, so he made himself sit back, set aside his fear, and watch logically like any good scientist would, writing down neat observations in a small leather-bound notebook that slipped easily into his coat pocket.
At first, things were so small that it was fairly easy to write them off as mere coincidence. If he went out in the rain or cold, the weather would clear up within 5 minutes, without fail. The morning paper would appear daily at his apartment door, neatly centered in the middle of the mat, regardless of the fact that he didn't have a subscription. The traffic lights were never against him when he went out walking. Then things started to turn up in his apartment - items that had been lost for ages, like his spare pair of spectacles, or a missing cuff link. His apartment and office were always spotless without him ever having to clean them, and the places in his suits that had been worn or damaged seemed to disappear almost overnight.
By the time the morning came when he had found a full breakfast waiting for him on his kitchen table, he was familiar enough with these things happening that it didn't shock him, not all that much, in any case. In fact, it rather confirmed the strange hypothesis his mind had begun to contemplate.
John Murdoch was, somehow, watching him. He could feel it sometimes, feel the hair on the back of his neck prickle, feel shivers on his skin. He wasn't quite sure how to react to it yet. But he ate the breakfast anyway, and continued to do so when it appeared every morning after that. After all, John made a very nice cup of tea.
Then the flowers started coming. At first, they were delivered, a bouquet of simple white daisies brought to his door with no note brought by a florist who couldn't - or wouldn't - tell him who had sent them. It was more than a little unsettling, though he was beginning to see a bit of a pattern, and it further confirmed his suspicions. They couldn't possibly have come from anyone but John. No one else in the city knew him, not one bit. But the man in question was still strangely absent.
The next day was chrysanthemums, the day after that a tropical bouquet. And then there ceased to be deliveries, and the flowers just started to appear inside his house - beautiful lush house plants, Blushing tea roses, elegant calla lillies, and even an arrangement of bamboo. If he was anyone else, he reflected, he most definitely would have checked himself into an institution by now. But he supposed that this was the only advantage of having been under the Strangers collective thumb for so long - he was used to very strange things happening, things that defied the normal laws of reality. The only thing that really made him uneasy was a feeling of being watched that he couldn't shake no matter how he tried.
He started trying to find John, the morning the daisies arrived. He checked Shell Beach, travelling over every inch of the peninsula, but there was no sign of him, and the house from John Murdoch's childhood stood abandoned and run down. He tried asking after him in town, but no one had heard his name, or seen a tall man with dark curls and piercing green eyes. He ran into Anna, almost by chance, and she remembered John, she told him, her voice bitter and angry to futility cover the tears she couldn't hold back. She remembered how he'd waltzed into her life, full of life and charm and intensity, then quickly grown distracted and distanced until one day he stopped coming to see her all together. She hadn't seen him for weeks.
The next few days were spent going over every inch of the city, even returning to that horrid motel where he'd failed to imprint him, where John had woken up. But the answer was always the same. No one knew him, no one had seen a man matching his description. John Murdoch was no where to be found.
Finally, he tried one last thing, almost on a whim. One last test, one last attempt to contact John. Taking a sheet of paper from drawer of the desk in his home office, he cleared the wood surface entirely except for the sheet in the middle, and a fountain pen. Staring at it silently for several moments, he forced himself to pick up the pen and write, neatly and simply, 'I like tiger lilies.'
It looked silly, even to his eyes. But he capped the pen and placed it neatly next to the paper, then went back to his bedroom, stripping down to his undergarments and climbing into a pair of soft flannel pajama pants, more for warmth than anything else. He'd always gotten cold too easily, and the cold made his bad leg ache.
The feeling of being watched was strong again, and he closed his eyes, feeling a whisper of air on his skin, like a breath, teasing over his face. It was almost, almost as strong as a touch, a gentle caress, and he shivered despite himself. His body remembered touch, somehow, even if his mind didn't, and craved it, needed it so badly that just this suggestion of it was enough to make him tremble, bury his face in his hands. "Please don't...." he whispered, but somehow knew that no one could hear him. Taking a few soft breaths, he slipped into bed, pulling the blankets tightly around him, and he didn't feel the whisper again until he was just at the edge of sleep, when a soft, gentle caress, almost like a kiss, brushed gently against the corner of his poor scarred eye, and a warmth settled over him, gentle and comforting.
He dreamed of Murdoch that night - random, disjointed images and scenes provided by his subconscious, with little rhyme or reason. But they were decidedly sensual, something that made him groan under his breath when he woke the next morning. Attraction to males, considered by most experts of his former trade to be a sexual deviancy somehow comparable to zoophilia or necrophilia, had always been something he'd quietly accepted in himself and then set aside, though he'd always thought that classing it as a paraphilia alongside so many deviant or harmful behaviours was a bit of an unnecessary exaggeration. Regardless, there had been no reason for him to explore it further, not when he had not, and could never be a member of society under the Stranger's rule, not when everyone around him was a subject with no permanency, something he had trouble dealing with even now. The Strangers had also made it very clear that meddling in the experiments in any fashion, even in friendship, was a serious offence with extreme repercussions, so on the occasions such as this morning when nature saw fit to remind him that yes, he was still human, Daniel generally did as anyone else would in his situation and quietly took care of things on his own.
The thought of doing so with the uncertainty of Murdoch watching, however, completely took that option out of the picture.
He gave a soft groan and reached to the bedside table, fumbling for his glasses, freezing as his fingers encountered something smooth, hard and cool. He sat up, pulling the wire frames around his ears, and looked toward the unfamiliar object, eyes meeting a veritable explosion of orange and red. Tiger lillies in a glass vase.
He stared at them for a long moment and let out a soft breath, feeling somehow both relieved that he'd been answered, and more ill at ease with the knowledge that Murdoch could most definitely see very well inside his apartment. But how? And more importantly, why?
Noting that there wasn't really any other option for dealing with the state his dreams had left him in, he slipped into his housecoat and disappeared into the bathroom, running the shower much colder than was comfortable. It made his leg ache, but at least it took care of other things. He didn't even bother bringing towels into the bathroom at this point, they were always there when he stepped out, and this morning was no exception. How closely was Murdoch watching, anyway? Close enough to see all his scars? The thought troubled him, just as much as the idea of John's eyes on his bare skin, though for a very different reason. So he dressed quickly, letting his hair air dry in soft blond tufts around his face, and went out for breakfast.
If he'd had any question as to whether or not his message had been received and understood, there was no doubt in his mind now. All the flowers in the apartment, regardless of their state of freshness, had been replaced with huge bouquets of tiger lilies, like the one by his bedside. He let out another soft exhalation and sat down at the kitchen table, pouring himself a cup of tea from the pot that sat there waiting for him, perfectly brewed, perfectly hot. Just like the breakfast, eggs sunny side up and perfectly soft, though he had no clue how John knew he liked them that way. He let himself focus on the simple task of eating, then reading the paper that now appeared on the table every morning with breakfast, trying to let his brain calm down. Finally, he re-folded the paper, setting it neatly back on the table, and went back to his office, back to his desk.
The paper and pen still sat there, though the paper was surprisingly blank. He uncapped the pen and paused, thinking for a long moment before writing. 'Thank you. This is all very kind of you. I would like very much to talk to you. Please tell me how to find you.' He capped the pen and placed it down, staring at the paper for a long moment, as if the reply would appear, or the pen would write by itself. Nothing happened, however, and eventually he gave up, sighing and leaving his desk to read. If John was to contact him, to answer his request, it would be in some other way.
The day came and went, and no reply came. Trying to bank down disappointment, he went to bed. The whisper of breeze teased his skin again, and he tried very hard to push away the shiver of pleasure that it sent through him, to think too much about what this all meant. Why was Murdoch doing all of this? What was it to him, a game? Some kind of twisted courtship? The thought was absurd, but every time he tried to explain it he returned again and again to the flowers. What other reason would anyone have to send someone flowers daily?
Sleep, when it finally came to him, was troubled and restless.
His thoughts were still focused on the strange occurrences when he woke the next morning, and showered, trying very hard not to imagine the steaming water as touch on his skin, fingers stroking over his poor aching back, over his waist and hips, sliding down his skin as he washed. That, he was sure, was definitely his imagination, a product of wishful thoughts he was trying very hard not to think. He tried to push away the other thoughts he was having as well, the ones that involved the possibility of John watching him shower, because if he dwelt too much on that, he'd end up feeling very self conscious and more than a little aroused.
He finished showering and quickly dried himself and dressed. As he did so, he felt the air move around him, too strong to ignore, slipping through the strands of his hair and leaving them sleek and dry, leaving no doubt in his mind of how very skillfully and powerfully John could control anything he wanted.
Breakfast once more smelled mouth-wateringly delicious, but the paper on his desk was again blank, to his intense disappointment. He stared at it for a few minutes, ignoring the food, and wondered if he'd missed the message. He checked the mailbox, all the drawers in his desk, even the entire paper, hunting for some sign of his request being answered, but came up blank. He hadn't replied.
'Please tell me how to find you, John,' he tried again, sitting down behind his desk and writing down the words. 'I'm not frightened or angry, but I need to speak with you. Please.' He was almost certain that the answer wouldn't come immediately, if it even came at all, so he went out into the city again, searching for him, blue eyes scrutinizing everywhere he went, looking for the man with the dark curls and the piercing green eyes.
When he finally returned that night, it was late, and already dark out. He'd had a bite to eat out in the city, so he went straight into his bedroom, starting to undress. When he glanced at the bed, he paused, regarding it curiously. There was a long piece of white silk sitting on top of his dark coloured comforter, neatly folded, and he tried to guess why it was there. He changed into his pajama pants and tied them securely around his hips before picking it up and letting the folds fall out, the delicate fabric billowing as he shook it, still not knowing the purpose. Then, as he stood there trying to figure things out, he felt the fabric slip slowly through his fingers, felt it move of its own accord, curl around his wrist, and he dropped it as if he'd been burned, ripping it away from his arm and darting back from the bed, staring with wide eyes.
Surely John couldn't mean to... surely there was no way he intended....
Slowly, cautiously, he approached the bed again, carefully reaching out to lift the piece of silk where it had fallen back onto the comforter in a crumpled heap. But it simply hung, limp and smooth in his fingers, and he realized that John had not been telling him what he would do, but just what he -could- do.
The thought was a little unsettling, along with the reaction it awoke in a libido long kept prisoner. He pushed it away firmly, chiding himself, and climbed into bed, leaving the fabric pooled on top of the blanket on the other side of the bed. But as he drifted off, he sleepily reached to tangle his fingertips in the silken folds.
Sometime in the night, he was vaguely aware of pulling it under the covers with him, crumpling it to his chest. It had a rather comforting scent to it, warm and spicy and masculine, that lulled him back to sleep, back to dreams that were most definitely sensual, his subconscious reacting to the tension and uncertainty of recent events during the only time his rational mind couldn't resist.
When he awoke the next morning, there were several realizations that hit him all at once, leaving his mind reeling and disoriented. The first and foremost was that he was very aroused, and that had very much to do with the second, which was that the piece of white silk was wound and tangled firmly around his hips and thighs. But that was all that was happening, other then the sensation of the silk sliding slowly, unthreateningly against his stomach, and he bit his lip. This strange, absent Murdoch, who apparently had no qualms about watching him daily, about getting him into such a state, apparently had no desire to do anything to someone unwilling, and he drew a soft, shuddering breath at the realization that he would have to choose, have to either extract himself from the folds of fabric, or....
His body ached to move, ached to feel the shivery slick sensation of the silk on his skin elsewhere. He closed his eyes tightly, trembling at the thought, completely unsure if he had the strength to do either, to do anything but lay here and hope that the choice was made for him. But the longer he held still, the more he wanted it, the more he ached for it, for this bizarrely strange affection after being so long with nothing, so long on his own. Then he felt the fabric whisper over his skin, feeling very much like a gentle caress, and felt the very edge brush his mouth. That was what broke his resolve, the simple, sweeping touch to his lips that intensified, feeling achingly like he was being kissed through the thin fabric, warm and sweet. That was what made him moan, soft and trembling, made him stretch out on his back and arch his hips up against the constraints of the fabric.
It seemed to be the sign of consent that John had been looking for, and he felt the fabric move over him, like hands, silken smooth against his skin. Teasing and arousing him, slowly but surely, until he almost believed himself that John was here, pleasing him, and finally he abandoned himself to it, taking the pleasure that he craved from a lover who wasn't even in the room.
He kept his eyes closed long afterwards, almost afraid to look, to face the reality of his empty apartment after such a thing. He slowly caught his breath, realizing as he did that the length of silk had slipped to pile in soft folds on top of his stomach and hips, lifeless once more. Finally he found the strength to leave the bed, to shower, trying very hard not to think about anything at all, and failing. Perhaps today he'd get some reply, some indication from John that he could meet with him. Perhaps the man was finally ready to come out of hiding.
He couldn't look at the bed as he dressed, not wanting the reality of what he had done - what he had allowed to happen - to hit home. The more he thought about it, the more unsettled he was, torn between the ache of remembered pleasure and the uncertainty of not knowing what it all meant, what exactly John wanted from him.
When he went out of his bedroom into to the apartment, he had to fight down a quiet wave of disappointment. Again there was nothing, nothing but the same, and all the time, the feeling of being watched. The new flowers, the breakfast - but still no word from John. Still the blank paper, no waiting notes or letters. He ignored the breakfast and sat down at the desk, suddenly angry, feeling strangely little betrayed after what had happened.
'If you will not have the decency of telling me how to find you, to stop ignoring my requests, please stop doing all of this immediately.' He wrote, his normally perfect copperplate heavy and a little messy with frustration. 'Send me a note or a telegram or create an ad in the paper, just let me know that you're all right. Please.' And there was more, so much more that he wanted to say, to write, but he held back, hurt and abandoned, blinking hard against the sting of tears.
He stayed away from his apartment all day, stayed in crowded places as if the presence of others could somehow help him. He didn't bother asking after John, not now. If John Murdoch didn't want to be found, he realized with a sickening lurch of disappointment, John was not going to be found. This thought did nothing to push aside the feelings of anger and betrayal he'd felt since that morning, and going home finally, to a spotless apartment full of tiger lilies, was no better.
His note from earlier was gone, and unanswered. In a sudden surge of anger, he started to pull the lilies out of their vases, opening the apartment windows and flinging them out into the night air. When he went to catch up the vase in the bedroom, he froze. The bed was neatly made, though he hadn't done it, and the length of silk once again sat neatly folded on top of the comforter.
He threw away the rest of the lilies and returned to the room, standing in the doorway and staring at the silk, chest heaving as his lungs took in their painfully shallow breath. The simple length of fabric brought back all the feelings of hurt, of betrayal he'd felt that morning, and the ache of desire, of wanting so badly to feel it again, which only made him feel more helpless, more hurt.
He stepped forward suddenly, catching up the folded silk and throwing it across the room toward the wall, the folds slipping open, fabric billowing to the floor. "Why won't you -- answer me?" he yelled at it, something inside him breaking suddenly, all the emotion coming out, even though he knew no one could hear. "If you want me -- why won't you answer me? Why won't you -- see me? Dammit, John!"
He stumbled backward to lean against the door frame, his head falling back against the frame with a dull thud, drawing shuddering breath, trying very hard not keep back the tears of frustration that stung his eyes. Perhaps he was going mad, after all. Then straightened, poured himself a good stiff drink and let it put him to sleep.
When he woke the next morning, the lilies were still gone. He dressed quickly, too angry to chance giving John the satisfaction of watching him shower, and left his bedroom. No lilies, but breakfast was still there, and at the top of his plate sat a single, perfectly formed long stem red rose.
His hands clenched on the back of his chair, trembling, staring at it for a long moment. Then he forced himself to move, to tour the apartment, to once more check every place where there might be some kind of reply. But he found nothing. He ripped open the paper that sat on the table, scanning every page, every column, ripping each page away as he did and crumpling them, throwing them behind him as they revealed nothing. There was nothing, no reply, and he seized the edge of the table in a fit of helpless rage, lifting it up and pushing it away from him as hard as he could, the table tilting, dishes smashing against the hardwood floor. There was an empty vase from the lilies nearby, and he grabbed that too, sweeping it off the counter to shatter on the floor, continuing with each one until he was surrounded by destruction, spilt water and broken glass, gasping for air in what were almost sobs.
He crossed into his office, glass crunching under his shoes, and sat down, picking up the pen with shaking hands.
'You have three choices,' he wrote, quickly and evenly, before he lost his nerve. 'One, leave me the hell alone. Two, come here and talk to me, or if for whatever reason you cannot, at least tell me how the hell to find you. Because if you can do all of this, you can damn well send me a letter. Three, continue to watch me, to haunt me like this, and you will end up watching me hang myself.'
There. It was written. He raked his hands through his hair, letting out a shuddering breath, then stood, catching up his coat and hat. He needed to clear his head, to think about something other than this insanity, and it would be much easier outside of this cursed apartment.
He took the elevator downstairs, lost to the agony of his thoughts, and was about to leave the building when a thought struck him. He turned his eyes back toward the door to the stairwell that he had glanced past, and he slowly stepped away from the apartment door, walking faster as he entered the stairwell, taking the stairs down to the basement. It was the one place he hadn't checked, the last place on earth he would ever expect John Murdoch to be, and yet... maybe there would be something. Some clue.
The basement was sectioned into small storage areas for the building inhabitants, that were blocked off by chain link fence. His was almost empty, as it always was, and the padlock on the the gate was a little stiff as he turned the key in it. He entered and locked it behind himself - more out of force of habit than anything else - then carefully moved aside the tall, empty boxes that sat flush with the back wall.
There was a door there, small, nondescript, with no handle, only a keyhole. He found the worn, unmarked key on his keychain and opened the door, taking a deep breath and stepping inside, pulling and locking it behind him. There weren't many of these in existence, and this one could very well be in fact be the only one left, but they had made this for him, a way to get into the underneath without Tuning, without their needing to let him in.
He followed the stairs down carefully, eyes adjusting to the dim light, down flight after flight until he finally reached the bottom, damaged lungs heaving, gasping for breath. Then he opened the door and stopped dead.
Everything had changed, and there was no doubt in his mind now that John Murdoch was, or at least had been, here. The maze of steel girders and pipes, the cold white lights and machinery he remembered from the strangers was gone, replaced with crumbling walls of concrete and brick, rubble like he'd last seen in the city the night John had taken over, and rusted copper pipes. A vision of the city in desolation, dying. When he looked off in the distance, he could see the dark silhouette of a broken wall against the slightly lighter black of star-studded space, and he shuddered, remembering the hole in shell beach, remembering the Inspector as he fell into nothingness. Surely John couldn't have done that? He pushed away the thought immediately despite the bolt of fear that shot down his spine. John had to be fine, how else would the rose have been there this morning?
He made his way through the maze of concrete and rubble by memory, hoping that all though the decor had changed, the layout would be somewhat the same. And thankfully after a few false turns and a little backtracking, the walls opened up into the center area underneath the city, the area that held the machine that made everything tick.
As he approached the machine, he realized that their meeting place, where the consensus came together, where he had finally injected John Murdoch - that too had changed. Of course it would have changed. It was all but destroyed in the fight against Book, something Daniel was still surprised to have survived himself. But why had John rebuilt it? The area had sunk down a little, and was ringed with walls, and he couldn't see what was inside from where he stood, so he moved closer. As he crossed the now concrete bridge from the walkway he was on toward it, taking the steps down through a doorway into the little area, he suddenly realized that it was an almost exact replica of the hotel bathroom where John had first woken up so many weeks ago, right down to the hanging light, the end of the cord so far above him in the high vaulted ceiling that he couldn't even see it. Right down to the tepid bathwater, though he couldn't explain flash of gold he saw in the somewhat murky water, that he realized, stepping closer, was a goldfish. He could see a bedroom off through the opposite doorway, the form of a motel bed in darkness, and he looked away quickly, remembering all too clearly the dead hooker that he hoped wouldn't be there this this time.
Everything was there, but still no John.
He sank weakly onto the rickety wooden chair and gave in, burried his face in his hands and wept silently - wept for the frustration of everything that was happening, of not knowing, of not being able to find him. Wept for the incredible loneliness and desolation of this place, where the man who would be his suitor had, in all appearances, exiled himself. Wept at the possibility that he might never find him, might never see John Murdoch again.
Then finally, softly, so soft that he almost thought he had imagined it, he heard his name. "Doctor Schreber...."
His head jerked up with a sharp gasp, wiping at tears that quickly dried on his cheeks as he looked around. "John?!"
"Here," came the whispered reply, and he turned back to the doorway he'd come through, toward the source of the voice, who stepped forward out of the shadows.
Daniel stood, and all the words he'd planned to say froze on his lips. John Murdoch was what could only be described as gaunt, skin so pale it was almost translucent, sickly white against his dark curls. Green eyes that were once so vibrant were shadowed darkly, looking almost bruised, and carried an expression that looked more than a little haunted. "My god, John...."
The dark haired man gave a tiny, mirthless smile at his words. "I know I've been avoiding you," he said softly, "I'm sorry. I didn't ever mean to upset you." He leaned against the edge of the doorway, gaze turning sorrowful. "I never wanted to hurt you. I just... didn't want you to see me like this. I didn't think you'd look for me here."
"John, there was no place left -- to look," he said gently, moving closer to him, but then hesitating, stopping a few steps away. "What happened to you? Why are you hiding down here? And why..." he stopped, wondering where he should even start about everything else that had happened.
John looked around him almost fearfully, then stepped back, sitting down hard on the concrete steps. "I didn't... there wasn't anywhere else to go," he said finally. "I hoped it would be quiet down here..."
"How do you mean?" He asked gently.
"I mean that it's too noisy in the city, but not sound, not here." He pointed to an ear, then moved the finger to his temple. "It's noisy here."
Daniel gave his head a little shake. "I'm sorry, John. I don't -- understand."
John was silent for a long moment. "I suppose I owe you an explanation, after everything I've done," he said softly. "In the beginning," he started slowly, that haunted look coming back into his eyes, his shoulders hunched up as if against the cold, "I think I went a little mad. I am still a little mad. I made Shell Beach, I went back there, met Emma... Anna. And I really tried just to be John. But...." He stopped giving a little sigh of frustration, as if reaching for words that weren't there. "The more I tried to be John, the less I was John, the more I was... everything."
"Everything?" He asked softly, questioning.
John nodded, slowly, pointedly. "When I made Shell Beach, it was easy. I just had to reach out and do it, I knew where it was, where the edges of the city were, how to move and form the cliffs and houses and trees and the sand. I wasn't there, but I could see it, see all of it so clearly in my mind. It was the same when I fixed everything around me, my mind could see it so clearly, even if I wasn't looking. I thought it was the most amazing, liberating thing...." He closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling in a long shudder. "But then I realized that I couldn't turn it off. And the more I tried to stop, the more I saw. And even now if I try to sleep...." he shook his head slightly, the haunted look to his eyes turning into fear, into horror. "I'm everywhere, I can see everything, I can - every rock and brick and grain of sand, every person, every breath they take and I can't turn it off, it just gets bigger and bigger and I - "
"John." Daniel spoke to break through his near hysterical tirade, easing to his knees on the concrete in front of him, ignoring the complaints of his spine. He took the man's face firmly in his hands, tugging it up to look at him. "John, focus. John. Listen to me."
Green eyes blinked, owlishly, shallow breathing gradually slowing, deepening. "Doctor Schreber."
"I think after all that -- has happened, you should call me -- Daniel. Yes?"
A little more clarity came into his eyes, which closed for a moment, and then opened again. "Daniel," he repeated softly. "Yes. Thank you. I - I'm sorry, I can't... it's hard to control, sometimes. Most of the time. I - " He stopped, then let his head fall back and laughed, unsettlingly loud. "I haven't slept in a month," he said, lowering his head to look at him with a strange intensity in his eyes, almost like a challenge. "In a month, Daniel," he said again, as if to punctuate. "I lose control, when I try to sleep."
"Is there anything that -- does help you keep control?"
Shadowed eyes regarded him evenly for a long moment. "Yes. You."
It took a moment for his mind to process that answer. "... me?"
A slow nod. "Only you. I'm sorry. It's why I've been..." he gave a little shrug, "watching you. I tried with other people, Daniel. I really did. I tried so hard with Emma - Anna - and even just random people. But...." John's dark eyebrows knit together in worry, gaze helpless. "You're the only one that I can actually focus on, where it shuts out all the background noise. Even if I can't sleep, at least things are quiet when my mind is with you."
Daniel felt his lips part, taking in his words but not quite hearing them as a horrible realization came over him. Book had said it took several human lifetimes to master the ability to tune. Master, not develop. Clearly it took that long for the mind to be able to cope with the abilities. "Oh god, John. It's because of me. Because I did this -- to you."
Green eyes looked up sharply. "What?"
"It's my -- fault," he said softly, feeling a shudder of horror run through his veins. "The memories I made -- for you. They taught you how to -- access these powers, and now you can't -- control it. I'm so sorry, John."
The sorrow broke from John's expression briefly to show firm determination. "No, you saved my life, Daniel."
"And I've made you go -- crazy."
"No. No, it would have come to this eventually, if they hadn't killed me. You know it would, I was already doing it on my own, and before your lessons, I had hardly any control over it at all. You gave me a voice of reason, helped me understand it. I'd be entirely lost without the memories of your lessons."
"It awoke these abilities that -- are making you lose -- your mind."
"It developed them." John said, surprisingly calm. "And where would I be otherwise? Dead, or worse. One of them."
Daniel sank back to rest on his heels, thighs trembling, not able to support the position any longer, watching him helplessly. "John. Come back with me. Let me -- help you."
"You can't help me," he murmured softly, giving a little shake of his head. "But thank you all the same."
"Please, let me at least -- try. Please."
"I'm not stable. It's not good for you to be with me," John said, still displaying the same strange calmness, which Daniel suddenly recognized as a shield against hysteria.
"I will be fine." He reached out to gently place a hand on John's forearm, hoping it would ease him. He could feel the other man shudder under his touch, muscles tense and trembling.
"You don't know what it's like," he replied, voice low and raw. "You can't know. And you can't help me. It won't stop, no matter what I do, and so that's all I'll be...."
"John - "
He drew a long, shuddering breath, continuing, panic quickly breaking through the thin shield of calm. "I'll just be a hollow husk with my mind in every part of the city -"
He tried to stop the tirade again, frightened at the look in his eyes. "John. Please - "
" - because I won't be able to come back to myself, I'll get lost in the grains of sand sand on the beach, in all this noise, in everything that's around me, mind running through the streets with the traffic like blood through the veins of the city, John Murdoch made of brick and mortar instead of flesh, and I - "
Not knowing what else to do, Daniel took the simplest option that came to mind. Kneeling up, he caught John's face in his hands, leaned in and pressed his lips against his.
There was a moment of silence, of stillness as he drew away, John's eyes wide. ".... you kissed me."
Daniel searched his face, suddenly wondering if he'd somehow misread this whole situation, then glanced away self consciously. "Yes. I -- if I was not supposed to, I -- apologize."
John was silent for a long moment, and Daniel looked back to him finally, fearfully, to find the dark haired man still watching him, looking more than a little puzzled. "I didn't think you would want to," he replied finally, voice slightly incredulous.
Feeling the need to do something with his hands, he fished a cloth out of his vest pocket and took off his glasses, polishing the lenses nervously. "John. What you -- did to me... I would not have -- allowed it if... if I did not want it." He said, feeling his cheeks heat up as he spoke, and put his glasses back on.
John wet his lips, expression nervous, but somehow intense. "Wanting that is different then wanting me," he said slowly, but Daniel shook his head, meeting his gaze calmly.
"No. Not for me. It was still -- you."
John reached out with one hand, tentatively, hesitating a moment before letting his palm cup Daniel's cheek. "Kiss me again," he whispered urgently, and drew Daniels face into his, latching on to the touch desperately, kisses yearning and trembling and breathless, claiming and tasting his mouth with an intensity that was almost overwhelming. Daniel couldn't help but moan against his mouth, pulled so tightly to John that he had to free a hand to support himself on the step behind him to keep from falling on him entirely. He couldn't help but lose himself to it, all the feelings of need and desire rushing back to him, and all of it centered on John.
It seemed with great effort that the dark haired man finally broke contact, panting softly, fingers laced tight in Daniel's hair. He let his forehead rest lightly against his, eyes still closed. "That was the single greatest moment of clarity I've had in weeks," he breathed softly, wonderingly, and suddenly something in Daniel's mind clicked into place.
He pulled back to look at him, forcing his thighs to straighten, to support him, and let his hands rest on John's shoulders, commanding his attention. "John. Tell me why people -- close their eyes when they -- kiss."
John watched him confusedly for a moment, dark eyebrows knitting together slightly. "Because... because it makes it feel better?"
He nodded. "Cutting off the dominant sense -- allows the others to take -- control. Which is why if one wants to hear, or to -- feel -- more accurately, more clearly -- we close our eyes."
"What are you trying to say?" John asked softly, though from his expression Daniel could tell he was starting to get the idea.
"When you.... when you kiss me," he said softly, feeling a little shiver of pleasure run down his spine at the words, "You don't think about closing your eyes. It just -- happens. The mind initiates the action -- automatically. To focus. And for you, it -- also shuts down your... your other sense. So all we have to do is -- teach you how to -- close your eyes." He felt John's fingers stroke through his hair slowly, his eyes falling closed on their own accord, leaning into the touch with a soft sigh. "... just like that...."
"You make it sound so simple...."
"I will not lie, John. It may be very difficult. I can only guess at -- where to start. But if you -- allow me... I will be here with you. Whenever you -- need me."
"You'll be my teacher again?"
"The first time -- for me. I hope you can forgive me if I -- am not experienced. But yes... I will." He got to his feet carefully, moving slowly so as not to show how much his body ached with the movement. He held out a hand to the other man. "Come with me."
John's fingers found his, but hesitated. "You really think you can help me?"
He nodded, feeling his cheeks flush. "If science fails, well... at least I can think of -- a few ways to distract you."
John stood slowly, leaning in close to him bringing his free hand up to trace his jaw with his fingertips, brush his lips. "I never assumed that you'd want me. I just... wanted to please you. That's why... the silk...."
"I would rather have -- you," Daniel managed to whisper, closing his eyes against the rush of desire and nervousness that came with his words.
He heard the other man give a soft, incredulous laugh. "Not sure I'll ever understand why. But you have me, Daniel. For as long as you want, for whatever you want. Is that all right?"
He nodded, slipping his arms around the other man's waist and leaning into him, words still soft. "Take us home, John. Please."
He wasn't surprised to find the apartment spotless again when he arrived, all of the broken glass and destruction gone as if it had never been, though he didn't ask John when he had done it. It did remind him of the missed breakfast, however, and that it was almost lunch. He looked over at the other man as they entered the apartment. "John. Have you been eating?"
The dark haired man looked a little guilty. "When I remember."
Daniel thought that probably had a lot to do with him looking like death warmed over, but didn't say anything. "Will you have something -- with me now?"
"Anything you would like, Daniel. Just say the word."
It was a little strange, naming off dishes and watching them appear on the table as he did, along with two place settings. He turned back to John, feeling a little self conscious. "I - I am sorry about -- this morning, John."
"No, I'm sorry," he replied, taking one of Daniel's hands and squeezing for emphasis. "You had every right to be angry with me for... ignoring you." He smiled, softly vulnerable, meeting his gaze. "Thank you for finding me."
He felt a shy warmth inside him, and smiled. "Let's have something to eat," he said softly. "You look very much like -- you need a good meal."
John chucked softly, sitting down with him, and displayed a hearty appetite as they ate, something that the doctor inside Daniel found very relieving. He was just as concerned about John's physical state as his mental one, and even though he knew that the first was caused by the second, he was only learned in matters of the mind, and would have to hope that rest and TLC would improve his physical health as they worked on the mental. He watched John carefully throughout lunch, speaking to him softly about anything that he could think of any time it looked like the man's attention was wandering.
What he really needed before anything else, Daniel realized, was sleep. It was a bit of a daunting proposition, to figure out how to quiet his mind enough to allow sleep. In fact, there was really only one way he could think of that had a good chance of success, and it wasn't that he didn't want to try it - far from it - but that he wasn't quite sure how to bring it up.
"What are you thinking?" He heard John ask, interrupting his thoughts, and he looked up to find the man watching him.
He swallowed, trying to act calm, rather than the fumbling virgin teenager he rather felt like. "There's something I'd like -- to try, after you're finished. To help you, ah, relax...." He could feel the tips of his ears heat up, and cursed his choice of words silently. How cliche. "I mean....."
He heard a soft chuckle, and glanced back to find John smiling, leaning back in his chair. "You're really cute when you're embarrassed, you know."
He felt the flush spread to his cheeks. "I am trying to be -- professional about this."
"Why?" he leaned on the table, reaching out to touch his hand lightly, and Daniel thought that he looked rather healthier already, just from a good meal. "There's no one here, no one involved in this but you and I." He watched him seriously for a long moment, fingertips stroking the back of his hand. "You really want this, Daniel? You're not just saying it to be kind?"
He looked back at John seriously, cheeks still warm, and forced himself to speak softly. "You could have anyone you like, John. I do not want -- to limit you. You certainly deserve someone -- much better than I."
"I don't want someone else," his friend said softly, but Daniel continued, feeling the need to say this before things got even more out of hand.
"It is considered -- sexually deviant, you know," he found himself saying. "A fetish. Not a healthy, natural sexuality. It is not something to -- engage in lightly."
"Is that how you really feel?" came the questioned reply, and Daniel shook his head.
"No. But it is what the rest of -- the city will think."
"I think the rest of the city would find it a bit stranger that I built the entirety of Shell Beach in five minutes," he replied simply. "So fuck them all."
The profanity was a bit of a shock, and Daniel found himself laughing despite himself, shaking his head. "All of them, John -- or just me?"
The other man choked. "That's not what I meant!"
He stood, still chuckling softly, and once again offered his hand. "Come with me."
John took his hand and stood, pressing his lips to the back of his fingers. "I hope you'll still let me spoil you."
He started toward his room, leading though he knew John knew the way already. John probably knew the apartment better than he did. "I don't need to be -- spoiled...."
"Not even in bed?"
"No tuning in bed," he said firmly, turning to face him at the side of the bed. "Only, ah... I haven't -- done this in a while, so..." he lowered his face self consciously, feeling John's arms slip around him, face nuzzling his hair. He tried to say that 'a while' was at least before the Strangers came, that he could never actually remember doing this, and that he was more nervous than he'd been in a very long time. But nothing came out, and he let his eyes fall closed as he felt John start to trail kisses slowly along his jaw. "Ohh...."
Soft lips pressed just below his ear, John's breath warm on his skin, making him shiver, sucking his poor scarred earlobe between his lips and tugging on it lightly. "Shhh... it's ok... don't worry about anything. Just relax and let's enjoy this... I won't hurt you."
"It can be a little -- awkward," he tried again, turning his face toward him only to have John catch his mouth again, more hungrily this time, sucking Daniel's bottom lip between his and worrying it lightly with his teeth. John's hands slipped around his hips to cup the curve of his ass, pulling him closer so his hips pressed tight against him, driving all coherent thought from his mind. "Oh - !"
"Don't worry," John murmured again against his mouth, voice low and promising, fingers massaging slow circles at the very top of the back of his thigh. "We're not the only ones in the city with... what did you call it? Sexual deviancy?" A soft chuckle, warm and low and throaty, which somehow translated to a thrumming shudder of arousal in Daniel's groin. Then his mind replayed John's most recent words, and he pulled back, just a little.
"You...." His lips parted slightly, disbelieving. "John... have you... been watching people...have sex?"
"It was unavoidable, sometimes," came the reply, straightforward and accompanied by a smirk. "And no, I didn't watch you shower. Mostly. But out of the shower was fair game."
He felt his face heat and couldn't do anything but hide it in John's shoulder. "Oh god...."
He heard another soft chuckle, lips pressing to his hair in soft kisses. "Shhh... nothing to be shy about. I'm still here, aren't I?"
"But...."
John's hands caught his face, pulling him up gently, pressing his lips gently to his forehead, voice soft. "I've seen the scars, Daniel. I still think you're beautiful."
He closed his eyes against a shudder of emotion. "John...."
"Shhh," came the soft reply, and John's lips found his again, doing a very thorough job of driving all thoughts of shyness and insecurity from his mind.
Daniel had expected passion, a voracity to match the way John approached everything else, and he wasn't disappointed in the least, John's passion so overwhelming it near took is breath away. What he didn't expect was the tenderness, how completely focused he was on him, an intensity that won Daniel over completely, made him forget everything but kisses and touch, sensation and stimulation, until the pleasure reached a fever pitch and Daniel's world was completely remade around him, in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with Tuning, but everything to do with John.
They curled together afterwards, warm and sated, silent but for the pulse of slowing heartbeats. Daniel found himself gathered up securely, wrapped in John's embrace, his lover's lips pressing gently to his forehead. When John spoke, finally, his voice was soft, and a little awed. "There is... so much clarity in this, in being with you... thank you. So much."
Daniel reached up to kiss him, slow and languid, smiling against his mouth. "You're amazing, John."
John returned the smile, green eyes watching him calmly - a real calm now, not just a shield. "There's a lot that I could say in reply to that, after watching you these past few weeks. But I'll just say that you have it the wrong way around."
He felt his cheeks heat up self consciously, glancing away. "John...."
"Don't dismiss my words so quickly," his lover murmured, pressing lips softly to his ear. "You don't see it, and I'm not sure I can properly explain it, but... there's something incredible about you, about your determination, about your intelligence, your courage...."
"I am -- none of that," he inturrupted, closing his eyes with a little shiver.
"No? Daniel... you put your life on the line to save me. And I certainly didn't deserve it back then. For that reason alone, you should never doubt your strength."
"Self preservation," he murmured softly, lowering his head a little at the admittance. "You were my only chance to -- get away from them, and everything they -- did to me. So I -- set fear aside...."
"Isn't that the definition of courage?" His lover seemed undaunted by his protests. "And regardless, would you still be helping me now if you cared so little for me?"
He curled his body more towards him and nestled his face against John's dark curls, not used to such kindness, not quite sure how to deal with it. "... no," he whispered finally, feeling John's hands stroke comfortingly up and down his back.
"No one else in the city would have reacted like you did to my gifts," John said softly, still stroking, nuzzling just below his ear. "Certainly no one would have thought to start writing me letters. And I could tell you were afraid. But not only did you not run from it, you actually started to try and find me." He gave a very soft laugh, voice hardly above a whisper. "It's what made me fall in love with you, you know. Beyond the initial need I felt, beyond all this craziness." He was silent for a long moment. "Sorry if that's... if I'm overstepping boundaries...."
Daniel forced himself to move, swallowing agaisnt the shivering knot of emotion in his stomach, finding John's lips with his own for a trembling kiss. "John," he murmured softly, trying to keep his voice steady. "I would not -- be here if I -- did not love you."
A smile, warm with joy, and John leaned in to kiss him gently, voice hardly above a whisper. "Thank you, love. Oh god, thank you."
Daniel smiled, returning his kisses softly, suddenly feeling rather weary. He nestled his face against John's chest, resting silently for long moment, comfortable in the warmth and safety of his embrace, listening with a little smile as John's breathing grew deeper, slower. "Do you mind if I -- rest?" he asked softly, fingers gently stroking his chest. "If you need anything -- just wake me immediately."
There was a soft, murmured reply, but that was all. John Murdoch was finally fast asleep.
~~~finish~~~~
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