Just a quick response piece that I had to write in wake of last night's mind-blowing episode. Really just filler. Sorry.
Also, Ive reverted back to writing in second person. It's my favorite of all the perspectives. Forgive me if it confuses you.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Quite unfortunately.
This is just a bad dream. Nothing else. Nothing else.
Your fists clench and relax at an uneven pace. It's the only thing belying the rampant panic coursing through your veins. Fingernails drive further and deeper into calloused palms until you're sure they've drawn blood.
You don't notice.
Hyponotized, you stand watch, helpless, as a myriad of colors flashes across her face, casting shadows and darkening already existing ones. Still, she sleeps, and for that small favor you are grateful.
It takes all the self-control you can muster to stay where you are as her breathing begins to quicken, eyes moving to the commands of REM instruct. Rooted, groundless, as always.
Please…
Her sudden moan of what could only be sexual pleasure races along your spine, settling in your fingers and pooling in your stomach, heavy with shame. You turn your gaze away.
This isn't how it's supposed to happen.
You're by her side before you realize you've even moved. Your hands itch, vibrating in their unresolved.
Touch, of all the senses, seemed the most intoxicating. And when denied… was quite consuming.
Your breathing shallows, unintentionally mimicking her own. The lights continue in their pattern, coloring your face in passing.
You can taste the protest rising in the back of your throat, like a bitter wine, opened before its prime. But still you remain, silent and steady, ever the guardian. Tension, that ever-elusive companion, knots its way into her once-peaceful features, almost begging you to reach out, to brush them away.
Somewhere in the back of your mind you can hear your father's voice. But the words are muted, distant somehow; drowned out by the dulled echo of her erratic movements against the steel table.
Wake up, Olivia! Wake up!
Urgency threatens to override composure, and you have to bite your lip to keep from speaking.
"Peter…"
Yes?
"Help her… help her calm down."
The words come to you from a different time, a world not of your own. A memory. Fleeting in its passing. But you have no time to chase after it, and it slips away. Later, you vow. Later.
Her hands are warm within your own. Warm and alive and familiar in a way you always knew they would be.
And as her countenance softens, you allow yourself to breathe.
You know you want to review *wink*