(no subject)
Oh, one more thing I forgot to mention about Morroccoverse .... I really really really like a certain TW theory that stems from The Unquiet Dead.
She has dreams she can barely remember whe she wakes, dreams that hover over the border into nightmares. The smell of snow, crisp and cold and clean, tainted faintly with something heavy that she can almost place. Something like the smog of Cardiff, but yet entirely apart from it.
Other times, she wakes up warm, drenched in sweat as if she were burning alive. There are mornings when she wakes safe, feeling oddly protected and watched over, even though the other side of the bed is cooling. But the worst are the times when Owen wakes her in the dead of night, to stop her from screaming.
"What the bloody hell wuz that, Gwen?" He murmurs, once he's calmed her down and she lies nestled against his shoulder. "You woke me up sayin' the strangest things."
"I don't remember," she frets, picking at the hem of the blanket. "Minute my eyes opened, poof. Gone. Like ... like smoke." Nuzzling closer, she curls her knees to her chest, trying to fill the hollow of fear beneath her heart. "Why - what was I sayin'?"
"Some bollocks abou' wolves an' angels," Owen scoffs. "An' elves, maybe. Total rubbish." He smooths a hand over her hair, then fixes her with a wryly stern frown. "No more takeaway Thai f'r you."
She wrinkles her nose, poking him in the ribs. "S'the food givin' me nightmares, is it?"
"Aw yeh," he nods, authoritatively. "Don'cha remember Dickens? 'Bit'a beef or an underdone potato'? Scrooge tellin' Marley off? Wuz allus one've my fav'rite bits... An' don't go pokin' me like that."
"Never liked that story," Gwen retorted. "And I'll poke you whenever I like."
"Thought that was my line," Owen smirks, taking her by the shoulders and pulling her close. "And oi, since you're awake..."
She pouts, ready to protest until his lips touch her neck. And when they're through, Owen soon curled up asleep beside her, she stays awake a while longer, convincing herself she's unafraid to dream.
She has dreams she can barely remember whe she wakes, dreams that hover over the border into nightmares. The smell of snow, crisp and cold and clean, tainted faintly with something heavy that she can almost place. Something like the smog of Cardiff, but yet entirely apart from it.
Other times, she wakes up warm, drenched in sweat as if she were burning alive. There are mornings when she wakes safe, feeling oddly protected and watched over, even though the other side of the bed is cooling. But the worst are the times when Owen wakes her in the dead of night, to stop her from screaming.
"What the bloody hell wuz that, Gwen?" He murmurs, once he's calmed her down and she lies nestled against his shoulder. "You woke me up sayin' the strangest things."
"I don't remember," she frets, picking at the hem of the blanket. "Minute my eyes opened, poof. Gone. Like ... like smoke." Nuzzling closer, she curls her knees to her chest, trying to fill the hollow of fear beneath her heart. "Why - what was I sayin'?"
"Some bollocks abou' wolves an' angels," Owen scoffs. "An' elves, maybe. Total rubbish." He smooths a hand over her hair, then fixes her with a wryly stern frown. "No more takeaway Thai f'r you."
She wrinkles her nose, poking him in the ribs. "S'the food givin' me nightmares, is it?"
"Aw yeh," he nods, authoritatively. "Don'cha remember Dickens? 'Bit'a beef or an underdone potato'? Scrooge tellin' Marley off? Wuz allus one've my fav'rite bits... An' don't go pokin' me like that."
"Never liked that story," Gwen retorted. "And I'll poke you whenever I like."
"Thought that was my line," Owen smirks, taking her by the shoulders and pulling her close. "And oi, since you're awake..."
She pouts, ready to protest until his lips touch her neck. And when they're through, Owen soon curled up asleep beside her, she stays awake a while longer, convincing herself she's unafraid to dream.