The Tell Tale Dream - Part One
Title: The Tell-Tale Dream
Author: aneuhaus
Rating: NC/17 (but not yet)
Pairings: That would be telling!
Warnings: Slash
Author notes: The dream related in the story is, word for word, one that I had a little over a year ago. I started looking at dream dictionaries in an effort to decipher it, but got so confused I just ended up interpreting it myself. As I studied, however, I began to realize that much of the symbolism could relate to someone who was repressing feelings for someone else so, since the main subject of the dream was DMc, I gave the dream to Napoleon. Every interpretation in this fic, with the exception of the ones that clearly state they are surmised or assumed, are taken directly from the cited sources. Of course, I picked and chose the ones that applied, but that is all.
I don’t typically write (or read) fics in parts, because I am always so disappointed if the author loses interest and doesn’t complete it, but this one simply insisted. Don’t worry, the other parts are waiting in the wings.. I hope you like it.
Part One
“Mr. Solo, this is a surprise,” Dr. Palmer exclaimed as he shook Napoleon’s hand and pointed him toward the uncomfortable looking, orange vinyl chair. “I can’t remember the last time a Section Two agent actually sought out the services of the psychiatric department.”
“Yes, I know,” Napoleon chuckled, “I’m afraid that you guys rank just below THRUSH on Enforcement’s list of people to avoid.”
“So,” the bespectacled, older man asked as he sat down behind the cluttered desk, “what is it that I can help you with on this auspicious occasion?”
“I, uh, suppose that I should tell you I’m here on behalf of a friend.” Napoleon grinned impishly. “The truth is, Jason, that I’ve had a recurring dream for about the past three months.”
“And have you had these before?” Palmer queried; all business now.
“Well, yeah,” Napoleon replied, “nightmares mostly; but those are always just reenactments of previous events and they eventually go away.” He didn’t bother telling the doctor that the incidents that brought on these nightmares were usually more gruesome and frightening than the dreams themselves. “This is different, though; it’s very vivid, and always exactly the same, but it doesn’t make any sense. I’ve tried reading books on the subject, but I just get more confused with all the symbolism. I, uh, suppose I was hoping you could help me figure it out.”
“Well, dream interpretation isn’t exactly my field, but I will be happy to do what I can.” Jason Palmer leaned back in his chair and smiled slyly. “Of course, you understand, my responses depend entirely on which ear I listen with.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Napoleon responded, tilting his head to one side like a confused puppy.
“You see,” Palmer explained, “my Freudian side will construe that you wanted to kill your father and sleep with your mother. On the other hand, my Jungian bent will, no doubt, explain that you are simply trying to get in touch with your femininity.”
Napoleon chortled again. “I didn’t know psychiatrists were allowed to have a sense of humor.”
“We just aren’t allowed to show it,” answered Jason, his voice grave but mirth twinkling in his gray eyes. “It may give the mistaken impression that we’re human.”
The two men shared a moment of mutual appreciation: Napoleon, for the doctor’s successful attempt to put him at his ease; and Jason Palmer, for Napoleon allowing him to do so.
“Well, Napoleon,” Palmer’s voice was suddenly deep and sonorous, “let’s get started. Tell me about this dream of yours.”
Napoleon looked around the small, drab room as though seeking an escape route. Then he took a deep breath, crossed his legs, and folded his hands in his lap.
“It begins with me, coming out of a store. The feeling is that I am vacationing, in an exotic locale, with someone else, although I never see them. The store is built high off the ground and I am walking down wooden steps to the sidewalk, so I think it must be a beach or tropical location.”
“I am dawdling, looking at the crowd of people going by, because I am waiting for this other person, who is still inside. I glance down at the steps and then up again; and, suddenly, it is near dusk; where before it was bright daylight. I look across the street and there, walking down the sidewalk, is a man. He glows as though he is lit from within; and I am compelled to follow him.”
“I suddenly forget my companion, along with everything around me; my only desire - no, need - to pursue this man. I race down the steps and across the street, heedless of the crowd and the traffic.”
“I follow him for several blocks, unable to keep my eyes off him. Finally, I begin to catch up with him; but then, he makes a right turn into an alley. This is where it really gets weird, Jason.”
“At first, the alley is deserted. Then I see a crowd of people standing in front of, what I can only describe as, a long bank of metal lockers; except that there are all different shapes and sizes of doors, and there are even some large drawers. I join the crowd, and quickly discover that there is a man who is, obviously, selling things out of these lockers; although I never see what they are. I notice that one of the drawers is partially open, but no one else seems to be aware of it. I look into the drawer, and it is filled with a jumble of stuffed, furry pillows that are all red and pink. For some reason, the sight makes me uneasy; and, just then, someone slams the drawer closed as though I wasn’t supposed to see what was inside. Suddenly, I turn, in a panic, to look for my glowing man; and I can barely see him further down the alley.”
“Now I am overwrought with the need to reach this man, certain that something terrible is going to happen. When I finally draw near him, he is standing and looking at the front of a house, and I am overwhelmed by the feeling that he is planning to leave. I try to tell him, beg him, not to go; but I am unable to speak.”
“All at once, I notice a small opening in the front wall of the house; it’s a sort of hole with a cover over it, such as a mail slot would have. I have this sudden knowledge that he intends to enter that opening, although it seems impossible because the opening is so small. Before my brain can fully process the incredibility of the situation, he sort of glides into it and disappears. No, that’s not right. He doesn’t disappear. Somehow, I know that he has gone up.”
“Up?” Dr. Palmer looked from the notebook he was scribbling in, to Napoleon’s face, with raised eyebrows.
“Yeah, up; like to the roof or an upper story. The really funny thing is that, even though he is gone, I still know he’s there; I just can’t see him any more. The very thought of it breaks my heart. I want to be where he is, but it is physically impossible.”
Napoleon heaved a great sigh, as though the weight of the entire world was planted directly on his shoulders. Dr. Palmer wasn’t surprised to see a far away look in the tired eyes, but it quickly cleared. For long minutes, the only sound in the room was the breathing of the two men sitting across from each other.
“Wow,” Palmer declared, at last.
Napoleon just smiled and nodded his head in response.
Palmer removed his glasses, leaned his elbows on the desk, and steepled his fingers. “Well, first of all, let me tell you that I have found that dreamers usually tend to only recall and relate the elements of the dream their conscious mind recognizes as important.”
Napoleon looked puzzled, so Palmer stopped to explain.
“You see, Napoleon, there are different types of dreams. The nightmares you spoke of are your mind’s way of dealing with emotionally difficult situations, by allowing your subconscious to re-experience them while your conscious mind feels safe and relaxed during sleep. It’s sort of like watching a war movie. You know all the guns and bombs can’t hurt you, and that the men that are being ‘killed’ aren’t really dead, so it doesn’t frighten you the way a real battle would.”
“There are those who believe that there are also premonitory dreams, which foretell future events; but that is a topic we could argue all day.”
“I believe that your dream is of the informational type. In other words, your subconscious is trying to relay a message to your conscious mind - something that you are repressing. Do you understand?”
Napoleon nodded slowly. “Yes, I think I do. I wouldn’t be surprised, considering what I’ve seen and done over the past few years, if there were several things I would choose not to recall.”
Jason continued, “Your depiction is very detailed, though; which indicates that you know, deep inside, that whatever this is, it is something that needs to come out into the open. As I said, though, this is not my field. I will need to do some research. How about if we meet again tomorrow; say, about nine am?”
Napoleon quickly searched his brain for any prior commitments, and then answered, “I think tomorrow will be fine. If I don’t show up,” he quipped, “you’ll know I’m not here.”
With a smile and a handshake, the meeting was over.