Hypnopompic Hallucination, a lost world fanfic

Disclaimer: The characters from "Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Lost World" are owned by Telescene, NewLine Television, The Over the Hill Gang, Coote/Hayes, etc. No profit is being made from this story. No infringement upon copyrighted material is intended.

Setting: That would be telling, but I think you'll figure it out.

Description: A scene we'd like to have seen inserted where memory and reality become intertwined.

Spoilers: Brothers in Arms, End Game, Tapestry.

Thanks: To Ariadne for the conversation that put this scene in my head and then of course it had to be written. Of course, as always, thanks to her and CMS for the beta reading.

Hypnopompic Hallucination.
by rann

He could only see her slim, elegant back, the gentle flare of her hips. Rich dark hair piled on top of her head. The fashionable hat perched precariously, with its enticing veil dropping over her face. The tall, dark-haired, muscular officer was trapped in that small room unable to reach her. He was stood enthralled; staring through the one way glass as she deliberately picked her way across the room. The red of her dress matched the heat that was building in his blood. He swore only the glass that separated them kept the air between them from being set on fire. The dull faded office brightened immeasurably when she entered. Major Lord John Roxton was intrigued.

He strained to her voice. All that filled the small room was static. He longed to see her face. He felt a little guilty over this yearning. He knew somehow, that now, there was someone else. Someone who meant the world to him. The only woman in the world he cared about. But still this vision in red pulled at him.

The two men in the room with his prize kept harping on something. Demanding something. But unexpectedly they left. Maybe to see what caused the gunshots he heard. She stood, her back to him, facing the wall opposite him. Now he could hear her voice as if in the distance. "Come back here, I haven't finished with you yet."

Suddenly she turned. His fantasy, his heartfelt desire came to life. She had become the person he most wanted to see. The glass dissolved and he was in front of her.

Her smile was seductive. Her voice dearly familiar. "John." She reached up with her so properly gloved hand and stroked his face. She traced his jawbone. He felt her fingers at his neck as she whispered, "Thank God." Her slow smile touched her eyes as she delicately traced the collar of his uniform. He swallowed convulsively.

With a boldness he didn't question, he reached up and pulled the hat from her hair. A careless flick of the wrist sent her elegant finery across the room. His fingers ran through her hair, scattering hairpins with equal abandon. The loose mass of curls brought a smile to his face. He ran his fingers through the tousled locks as he often longed to do, but she seldom permitted. This time she was basking in the attention. "Marguerite." She smiled as he murmured her name.

She reached for his face again and this time he took her hand, removing the glove. He placed a kiss on her palm and heard her breath catch. Her worried voice came to him. "You'd better be right…"

"I'm always right, Marguerite." His confidence brought the mischief to her eyes. He'd grown to love that look. He stripped off her other glove with enticing slowness. He reveled in the feel of her hands against his face, slipping around his neck. The feel of her slim form stepping close sent a tremor through his body. Her arms encircled him, supporting him as if her slender strength could handle his larger frame.

"Please let this be all right." Her hands were on his shoulders. He nearly laughed. How could it be wrong?

Suddenly she was holding a glass of champagne to his lips. Her hand was soft against his cheek. He willing sipped the nectar she offered.

"That's it, my love." She held his eyes with hers as the ambrosia slid down his throat, easing the dryness. But it was her words that went to his head, not the alcohol.

He reached out to take her lips.

She offered more champagne with a smile that promised his heart's desire. Denied his preferred activity, he sipped again. Suddenly he coughed and his eyes fluttered. His vision went out of focus. The drab room resolved itself into the vivid green of an Amazonian forest. The vision at his side was still as beautiful, but her brown hat and pale blouse were the practical grab for a jungle trek, not the stylish London wear.

His eyes gleamed as he looked at the vision from his dream. It had seemed so real. Maybe it wasn't all a delusion or wishful thinking. "What did you just say, Marguerite?"

"Nothing! Nothing. You must have been dreaming."

Her atypically flustered looked convinced him he'd heard right. He smiled smugly. "Oh." Memory came flooding back. The details of his dream faded. Once again his love life would have to wait. It was time to go rescue Challenger and Malone.

finis

Author's Notes: In Brothers in Arms, the three men are shot with poisonous darts. We know what Challenger dreamed of and we know what Malone relived, but what went on in Roxton's mind? From the way he came out of his coma and managed to apparently hear Marguerite's comments, perhaps it went like the above scene.

Malone and Challenger each were affected in different ways by the darts, so it made sense that Roxton's reaction might be a bit different as well. I decided Roxton's subconscious could make the connection between the Black Widow and Marguerite, even though at the time of this story he doesn't consciously know it, yet.

Marguerite's dialog was taken from BIA.

hyp·no·pom·pic (hîp´ne-pòm¹pîk) adjective
Of or relating to the partially conscious state that precedes complete awakening from sleep.

[From hypno- + Greek pompê, a sending away. See pomp.]