touchedgod
in
damned
DAY 59: CAFETERIA
Billy surfaced into wakefulness. Sleep receded like an inky tide, and it didn't say anything to him before it was gone. His dreams had been nothing but the sensation of water, rocking him restlessly in his bottle. There seemed to be an ocean beyond his confines, but he couldn't see it and couldn't reach it. He pawed at the glass, but any progress he'd made had been washed out of his memory.
He tried not to be disturbed by the deja vu, but it wasn't the sort of thing one was in full control of. And yet, his heart didn't race. His nose didn't bleed. His hands were shaking, but with a different tenor than the last time he had concentrated on them. Everything felt still, and whole, and maybe not right, but for the first time in weeks Billy breathed without trouble. There was no weight of a terrified, dying universe crawling over his shoulders and clamoring for attention. He laid there in bed for a long time. Victory. Not his victory, but someone else's, and that was good enough. He hadn't needed to be the one who saved it, he was just doing what he had to. Truthfully, he was glad to have not seen it. There was a lot Billy wished he hadn't seen.
He couldn't bring himself to react much to the fact that he was still here. Billy glanced around a couple times, vision blurred without his glasses, but saw that the room was basically the same. This time lit up, of course, although it didn't help him to gather many precise details. He would have almost said his aimless adventure with Captain Kirk during the night had been a dream, but it was all wrong, thematically speaking. Maybe if Kirk had been a squid dressed in gold lamé, he'd believe it. It really didn't matter what his dreams meant anymore, though.
So it was over, he supposed. The realization that crept up on him was met with very little excitement. He could congratulate himself, but considered crying instead.
Dane. He thought. He's dead. Of course he was dead. He almost wanted to apologize for saying it so coarsely, like it was dangerous to commit to. He knew, though, that it was hope, not wisdom, that was holding him back. Stupid, childish hope. It was hard to avoid when you were talking about a man who had died twice and Billy had still managed to get him back anyway, but this… this was different. He had seen Dane dying, writhing on the ground, and it just went on and on as Grisamentum tore him apart from the inside and undid all that was Dane.
Oh god, why was he awake? He barely noticed the uneasy sound of glass in the back of his head, but he didn't need Angelic interference right now. Why was it still here? Where was here? Billy threw off the covers, again in different clothes, and retrieved his glasses from the nightstand. He nearly knocked them onto the floor in his impatience.
He had already mourned Dane once, sort of. It had just been a frail attempt at preparing himself for the possibility that he wouldn't make it in time, not true mourning. And he didn't make it in time. He knew that. But through the unreality of the reality he lived in now, it had worked out. He was given a second and then a third chance. As it turned out, that earlier attempt to deal with Dane's mortality had just made him more vulnerable. It had made Billy let his guard down. The twice dead martyr shouldn't have been defeated. But Dane had killed himself. He died as soon as he let that fucking squid bite him. He had lingered with Billy for a while, but he had just been circling the bloody drain the whole time and Billy had known it. Dane had known it. He'd given up on the world, and why not? What had it done for him? What had it done for Billy lately? Maybe that was why you could worship a god that didn't care about you, because it was so perfect and so accurate, tentacles or no. No Krakenist would ask why, Kraken, did you allow this to happen? They had strength in knowing and understanding their tragic squid-born existence. And that was how Dane had died.
Billy was less sure, and he couldn't turn his back on the world so easily. He'd threaten, he'd spit anger and questions at the mnemophylax, and then falter at the moment of true resentment. He had never been devout, but now angels watched him and museums were his holy spaces. Dane had been convinced until the end that Kraken, the great uncaring, spoke to him. Billy hadn't had the heart to tell him otherwise.
Any further thoughts were interrupted by a soldier he hadn't noticed entering.
"Get dressed."
Billy stared at the military blues from the night before. Clean and fresh, no sign of any blood, not that he'd been the one injured. There was even a little hat that he had missed the night before. He was going to look ridiculous, he could feel it.
"I think you'll probably find I'm not actually registered here," he tried to tell the guard, who was not impressed by Billy's claim. The soldier wasn't even moved by Billy pointing out that the dog tags didn't have his name on them. (Frederick Aldrich? An eerie coincidence that made Billy quietly comply with demands for a few minutes.) The man spoke in nothing but orders, which were easy to follow when you weren't particularly attached to any final aim. Billy was listless. Flotsam and jetsam. Getting back to London was an eventual goal, but he'd put in a call to someone later, and go back to whatever. His life, he supposed. He was already exasperated by the taciturn and far too serious military man. Once upon a time he would have wanted to gain purchase with him through inoffensive smiles and falsely friendly comments. Today, he could only give the man a tired look and equally brusque answers that didn't hide his irritation. Did he really look young enough to be pressed into a military academy?
He was led down cleaner versions of the hallways he had seen the night before, and into a large cafeteria, basically devoid of anyone beside himself and the assembled guards. Billy uncomfortably found a seat, and took a few seconds to just hide his face in his hands and block everything else out. The tray he had been given was immediately forgotten, just to the side of him, and he blamed his turning stomach on the adrenaline that was still working its way out of his system. It was so fantastically quiet in the large room, he wanted to drown in it. He only peered through his fingers when someone else in powder blue passed close to his table.
[For Castiel.]
He tried not to be disturbed by the deja vu, but it wasn't the sort of thing one was in full control of. And yet, his heart didn't race. His nose didn't bleed. His hands were shaking, but with a different tenor than the last time he had concentrated on them. Everything felt still, and whole, and maybe not right, but for the first time in weeks Billy breathed without trouble. There was no weight of a terrified, dying universe crawling over his shoulders and clamoring for attention. He laid there in bed for a long time. Victory. Not his victory, but someone else's, and that was good enough. He hadn't needed to be the one who saved it, he was just doing what he had to. Truthfully, he was glad to have not seen it. There was a lot Billy wished he hadn't seen.
He couldn't bring himself to react much to the fact that he was still here. Billy glanced around a couple times, vision blurred without his glasses, but saw that the room was basically the same. This time lit up, of course, although it didn't help him to gather many precise details. He would have almost said his aimless adventure with Captain Kirk during the night had been a dream, but it was all wrong, thematically speaking. Maybe if Kirk had been a squid dressed in gold lamé, he'd believe it. It really didn't matter what his dreams meant anymore, though.
So it was over, he supposed. The realization that crept up on him was met with very little excitement. He could congratulate himself, but considered crying instead.
Dane. He thought. He's dead. Of course he was dead. He almost wanted to apologize for saying it so coarsely, like it was dangerous to commit to. He knew, though, that it was hope, not wisdom, that was holding him back. Stupid, childish hope. It was hard to avoid when you were talking about a man who had died twice and Billy had still managed to get him back anyway, but this… this was different. He had seen Dane dying, writhing on the ground, and it just went on and on as Grisamentum tore him apart from the inside and undid all that was Dane.
Oh god, why was he awake? He barely noticed the uneasy sound of glass in the back of his head, but he didn't need Angelic interference right now. Why was it still here? Where was here? Billy threw off the covers, again in different clothes, and retrieved his glasses from the nightstand. He nearly knocked them onto the floor in his impatience.
He had already mourned Dane once, sort of. It had just been a frail attempt at preparing himself for the possibility that he wouldn't make it in time, not true mourning. And he didn't make it in time. He knew that. But through the unreality of the reality he lived in now, it had worked out. He was given a second and then a third chance. As it turned out, that earlier attempt to deal with Dane's mortality had just made him more vulnerable. It had made Billy let his guard down. The twice dead martyr shouldn't have been defeated. But Dane had killed himself. He died as soon as he let that fucking squid bite him. He had lingered with Billy for a while, but he had just been circling the bloody drain the whole time and Billy had known it. Dane had known it. He'd given up on the world, and why not? What had it done for him? What had it done for Billy lately? Maybe that was why you could worship a god that didn't care about you, because it was so perfect and so accurate, tentacles or no. No Krakenist would ask why, Kraken, did you allow this to happen? They had strength in knowing and understanding their tragic squid-born existence. And that was how Dane had died.
Billy was less sure, and he couldn't turn his back on the world so easily. He'd threaten, he'd spit anger and questions at the mnemophylax, and then falter at the moment of true resentment. He had never been devout, but now angels watched him and museums were his holy spaces. Dane had been convinced until the end that Kraken, the great uncaring, spoke to him. Billy hadn't had the heart to tell him otherwise.
Any further thoughts were interrupted by a soldier he hadn't noticed entering.
"Get dressed."
Billy stared at the military blues from the night before. Clean and fresh, no sign of any blood, not that he'd been the one injured. There was even a little hat that he had missed the night before. He was going to look ridiculous, he could feel it.
"I think you'll probably find I'm not actually registered here," he tried to tell the guard, who was not impressed by Billy's claim. The soldier wasn't even moved by Billy pointing out that the dog tags didn't have his name on them. (Frederick Aldrich? An eerie coincidence that made Billy quietly comply with demands for a few minutes.) The man spoke in nothing but orders, which were easy to follow when you weren't particularly attached to any final aim. Billy was listless. Flotsam and jetsam. Getting back to London was an eventual goal, but he'd put in a call to someone later, and go back to whatever. His life, he supposed. He was already exasperated by the taciturn and far too serious military man. Once upon a time he would have wanted to gain purchase with him through inoffensive smiles and falsely friendly comments. Today, he could only give the man a tired look and equally brusque answers that didn't hide his irritation. Did he really look young enough to be pressed into a military academy?
He was led down cleaner versions of the hallways he had seen the night before, and into a large cafeteria, basically devoid of anyone beside himself and the assembled guards. Billy uncomfortably found a seat, and took a few seconds to just hide his face in his hands and block everything else out. The tray he had been given was immediately forgotten, just to the side of him, and he blamed his turning stomach on the adrenaline that was still working its way out of his system. It was so fantastically quiet in the large room, he wanted to drown in it. He only peered through his fingers when someone else in powder blue passed close to his table.
[For Castiel.]