fic: Creation Myths
CREATION MYTHS
1970 words, gen (or Pete/Patrick pre-slash, if you put on a tinhat and squint)
America's Suitehearts video AU; pretty much just the written equivalent of a doodle.
Mr. Sandman sits on the edge of the carousel, swinging his feet and bumping his heels against the rotting gilded wood of its base. He can see the camera flashes again, off in the distance, and he wonders who they're Turning this time. He supposes it doesn't matter much, though, in the end. It doesn't matter who you are Before, because you're never the same After.
He would know.
He used to be different. But then again, everything used to be different.
He shades his eyes with one hand as he squints at the flashes on the horizon, and he can just barely pick out the shape of a woman. She's stumbling down the all-to-familiar path towards the carousel, her hands in front of her face to try to block out the flashes of light ringing her like a swarm. But she gives in, because they all give in, always, and soon enough her hands fall limply at her sides.
Mr. Sandman watches her change, watches the flicker that surrounds her, the shimmer that's not from the flashes but isn't separate from them, oh no, not at all.
She stumbles closer, dazed and dazzled, her eyes wide as she turns her head from side to side, taking in the endless stretch of too-perfect green around them. She keeps moving towards the carousel as if she's being drawn to it by threads tied to her fingers, like iron filings to a magnet, like a moth to a flame.
Her fingers are stretched wide in front of her and she stares through them, wide-eyed and unblinking. They make eye contact, their gaze held tight within the frame of her stiff fingers, and they hold it as she draws ever closer.
Mr. Sandman can see the carousel reflected in her eyes.
He thinks he can almost see his face staring back at him from her pupils, and wonders if maybe she's the one he's been waiting for.
But then she trips over nothing, over her own feet, and falls up the little hill to tumble into the green moat ringing the carousel in, barely making a splash as she goes.
He smiles as he watches the ripples smooth out once more, because he's always smiling, all too-big teeth and lips pulled back so far it's practically a grimace.
* * *
They got Mr. Sandman in his sleep. They came through his dreams and got him, just like that. He'd been having the same dream every night for a week, a dream about headlines and flash photography, and on the seventh night when his dream-self blinked his eyes to clear away the too-bright afterimage, he saw their faces.
Leering cartoon eyes stared at him from under bowlers and porkpies, and they started calling his name. He had a different name then and that's what they were calling. Quietly at first, but then louder and louder, until it became a deafening cacophony and it lost all sense under the weight of repetition.
He doesn't answer to that name anymore.
When they grinned and beckoned him forward, he followed, totally rapt. He was only barely aware of passing through a red door before he found himself standing in green, green hills that stretched on forever, climbing up into the sky, higher and higher until they were lost behind the clouds.
"Hello?" he called out, and took a few tentative steps down the path that was suddenly stretching out from his feet.
"Hello?" he called again, even as he let his feet carry him forward. He rounded a bend and then stopped dead, stumbling slightly as his momentum knocked him off balance.
Rising up in front of him was a carousel that seemed hauntingly familiar. The sagging top with its fluted edges, the blank ovals lining the inside where there should be portraits, and the pale horses trotting in endless circles all echoed in the back of his brain, spinning around tauntingly until he finally pinned them down a moment later.
He used to see this carousel, this very same carousel, in his dreams as a child. Not often, but often enough that he recognized it easily now, knew its curves and angles.
He just barely managed to jump over the green moat, catching onto the nearest horse to steady himself. He only had his balance for a moment before losing it again when the carousel jerked to life, groaning softly as its gears ground together and the floor began to move into its wobbly circles.
Mr. Sandman walks all the way around the platform twice, inspecting each horse with a critical eye, before he finds one he likes enough to sit on. The wood is strangely warm under his legs, and when he looks down at it, the paint seems less faded than it was mere moments ago. He keeps looking, and right before his very eyes the colour keeps intensifying, growing bolder and richer as he watches.
A skeletal bird flies by, then, swooping once around Mr. Sandman's head before disappearing between the hills. He slumps in his seat on the back of the carousel horse and watches it go, because he can't follow it.
He's stuck on the carousel, and he can't shake this nagging feeling like he's missing something.
* * *
The photographers come by the carousel sometimes. They're always in groups, packs, herds; they're never alone. They keep their cameras held high and they keep moving. When they come by they look up at Mr. Sandman, meeting his eyes one at a time as they move past.
The last one to go by pauses for a moment to lift his camera.
Mr. Sandman smiles, purely out of reflex, and blinks a dozen times after the pop of the flashbulb to help clear the afterimage from his eyes.
When they leave, the grass seems greener where they stood.
Green is the only real colour Mr. Sandman sees anymore.
The hills are green and so is the moat around the carousel. The horse he's sitting on is white and bright, but everything else is grey.
Including his skin, now, apparently.
Mr. Sandman doesn't believe his eyes at first, but he keeps staring at his hands, looking and looking, and his flesh has lost the healthy golden-pink it's always had. Now it's just the colour of cheap newsprint.
There aren't any mirrors on the carousel so Mr. Sandman peers at his reflection in the moat around it. He stares back at himself, wobbly and green.
All he can see is his mouth, with its too-big too-white teeth and lips pulled wide into a fake, fake smile.
* * *
Mr. Sandman is getting lonely. There aren't many people around. He sits on the carousel--he's starting to think of it as his carousel, now--and spins around in sad circles while he waits for other people to arrive.
Sometimes the photographers come by, and that helps. Mr. Sandman's figured out that when he gets up and starts moving around, the photographers are more likely to appear. There are certain horses he can sit on that make it more likely still.
When they show up he waves at them, trying to get their attention. They nod at him and lift their cameras. He smiles every time, his grin getting wider and wider until he can feel the actual flesh of his face pulling and stretching and holding fast.
And every time they leave, the world is a little greener in their wake.
More often, though, and more and more often as they days go by, other people arrive through the same red door that Mr. Sandman did, blinking and covering their faces and stumbling down the path until they start walking taller, straighter. Mr. Sandman watches from a distance as their forms flicker and change from one second to the next.
They're all drawn towards the carousel. Some fall into the moat and others stop just before it, spending their time walking circles around it, staring at it with wide eyes. Others still wander off into the hills, following paths that Mr. Sandman can't see.
He feels this weird twist in his chest as he watches them veer off away from where he's sitting, almost like he's unconsciously waiting for them to do something that they never do. He can't put his finger on what it is, so he's left to sit and wait and wait and wait.
But nobody ever makes it over the moat to join him on the carousel, and Mr. Sandman feels the loneliness like an ache in his chest, like a hole where something was but isn't anymore.
* * *
The first time he sees Dr. Benzedrine, Mr. Sandman knows right away that he's different from all the other people who have stumbled through the red door in a flurry of flashes.
For one thing, he seems resigned right from the get-go when he starts walking down the path, his head high and his shoulders relaxed.
For another, he's the first person to make it over the moat.
Mr. Sandman feels his heart beating in his throat as he watches the stranger step back to get a running start at the jump, and he can't explain why he's so overwhelmingly relieved when the stranger clears the moat and lands ungracefully in the space between two horses.
"Hey," Mr. Sandman says, and then gets to his feet for the first time in days. He keeps one hand on his horse. He doesn't know why, but it feels like the right thing to do.
"Hi," the stranger says, looking at Mr. Sandman for a moment before turning his head to look around at the carousel, taking in the details that are suddenly sprouting from the faded wood, more and more every passing second. "What is this place?"
"I don't know," Mr. Sandman says.
"Who are you?" the stranger asks.
"I'm Mr. Sandman," he says. "I didn't used to be, but I am now."
"Oh." The stranger looks at him for a moment, considering, and purses his lips.
Mr. Sandman watches as the stranger's lips bloom red in the middle, but doesn't say anything about it.
"I don't know who I used to be," the stranger says slowly, "but I think I know who I am now."
"Who?" Mr. Sandman asks, because he has to, after a line like that.
The stranger frowns for a moment, and then says, "Dr. Benzedrine," his lips shaping the words carefully.
"That's you?" Mr. Sandman says, consideringly.
"I'm not a real doctor," Dr. Benzedrine says, spreading his hands palm-up and shrugging helplessly.
"You just play one on TV?" Mr. Sandman suggests dryly.
"Something like that," Dr. Benzedrine agrees.
Mr. Sandman smiles as best he can around his too-big teeth, and then beckons Dr. Benzedrine forward, gesturing at a nearby horse.
Dr. Benzedrine sits, and the horse's pale flanks burst out into technicolour luridness in the blink of an eye.
"Oh," Dr. Benzedrine blinks, goggling at his horse. "Do they do that often?"
"Not really," Mr. Sandman says. "Actually, pretty much never. Or at least, not fast like that."
"Didn't yours do it?"
Mr. Sandman looks down at the horse he's been sitting on. "It took a while."
"How long?" Dr. Benzedrine leans forward, like the answer is some secret they'll be sharing.
Mr. Sandman shrugs. "A while." He realizes then that he has no idea how long he's actually been there, but for some reason he can't bring himself to admit that out loud.
"Anyway, it's nice to meet you," Dr. Benzedrine says, sounding like he means it. He sticks out his hand and smiles.
Mr. Sandman takes a deep breath, then reaches out to take it.
And then, when their hands meet, the world around them erupts into a riot of colour.
1970 words, gen (or Pete/Patrick pre-slash, if you put on a tinhat and squint)
America's Suitehearts video AU; pretty much just the written equivalent of a doodle.
Mr. Sandman sits on the edge of the carousel, swinging his feet and bumping his heels against the rotting gilded wood of its base. He can see the camera flashes again, off in the distance, and he wonders who they're Turning this time. He supposes it doesn't matter much, though, in the end. It doesn't matter who you are Before, because you're never the same After.
He would know.
He used to be different. But then again, everything used to be different.
He shades his eyes with one hand as he squints at the flashes on the horizon, and he can just barely pick out the shape of a woman. She's stumbling down the all-to-familiar path towards the carousel, her hands in front of her face to try to block out the flashes of light ringing her like a swarm. But she gives in, because they all give in, always, and soon enough her hands fall limply at her sides.
Mr. Sandman watches her change, watches the flicker that surrounds her, the shimmer that's not from the flashes but isn't separate from them, oh no, not at all.
She stumbles closer, dazed and dazzled, her eyes wide as she turns her head from side to side, taking in the endless stretch of too-perfect green around them. She keeps moving towards the carousel as if she's being drawn to it by threads tied to her fingers, like iron filings to a magnet, like a moth to a flame.
Her fingers are stretched wide in front of her and she stares through them, wide-eyed and unblinking. They make eye contact, their gaze held tight within the frame of her stiff fingers, and they hold it as she draws ever closer.
Mr. Sandman can see the carousel reflected in her eyes.
He thinks he can almost see his face staring back at him from her pupils, and wonders if maybe she's the one he's been waiting for.
But then she trips over nothing, over her own feet, and falls up the little hill to tumble into the green moat ringing the carousel in, barely making a splash as she goes.
He smiles as he watches the ripples smooth out once more, because he's always smiling, all too-big teeth and lips pulled back so far it's practically a grimace.
* * *
They got Mr. Sandman in his sleep. They came through his dreams and got him, just like that. He'd been having the same dream every night for a week, a dream about headlines and flash photography, and on the seventh night when his dream-self blinked his eyes to clear away the too-bright afterimage, he saw their faces.
Leering cartoon eyes stared at him from under bowlers and porkpies, and they started calling his name. He had a different name then and that's what they were calling. Quietly at first, but then louder and louder, until it became a deafening cacophony and it lost all sense under the weight of repetition.
He doesn't answer to that name anymore.
When they grinned and beckoned him forward, he followed, totally rapt. He was only barely aware of passing through a red door before he found himself standing in green, green hills that stretched on forever, climbing up into the sky, higher and higher until they were lost behind the clouds.
"Hello?" he called out, and took a few tentative steps down the path that was suddenly stretching out from his feet.
"Hello?" he called again, even as he let his feet carry him forward. He rounded a bend and then stopped dead, stumbling slightly as his momentum knocked him off balance.
Rising up in front of him was a carousel that seemed hauntingly familiar. The sagging top with its fluted edges, the blank ovals lining the inside where there should be portraits, and the pale horses trotting in endless circles all echoed in the back of his brain, spinning around tauntingly until he finally pinned them down a moment later.
He used to see this carousel, this very same carousel, in his dreams as a child. Not often, but often enough that he recognized it easily now, knew its curves and angles.
He just barely managed to jump over the green moat, catching onto the nearest horse to steady himself. He only had his balance for a moment before losing it again when the carousel jerked to life, groaning softly as its gears ground together and the floor began to move into its wobbly circles.
Mr. Sandman walks all the way around the platform twice, inspecting each horse with a critical eye, before he finds one he likes enough to sit on. The wood is strangely warm under his legs, and when he looks down at it, the paint seems less faded than it was mere moments ago. He keeps looking, and right before his very eyes the colour keeps intensifying, growing bolder and richer as he watches.
A skeletal bird flies by, then, swooping once around Mr. Sandman's head before disappearing between the hills. He slumps in his seat on the back of the carousel horse and watches it go, because he can't follow it.
He's stuck on the carousel, and he can't shake this nagging feeling like he's missing something.
* * *
The photographers come by the carousel sometimes. They're always in groups, packs, herds; they're never alone. They keep their cameras held high and they keep moving. When they come by they look up at Mr. Sandman, meeting his eyes one at a time as they move past.
The last one to go by pauses for a moment to lift his camera.
Mr. Sandman smiles, purely out of reflex, and blinks a dozen times after the pop of the flashbulb to help clear the afterimage from his eyes.
When they leave, the grass seems greener where they stood.
Green is the only real colour Mr. Sandman sees anymore.
The hills are green and so is the moat around the carousel. The horse he's sitting on is white and bright, but everything else is grey.
Including his skin, now, apparently.
Mr. Sandman doesn't believe his eyes at first, but he keeps staring at his hands, looking and looking, and his flesh has lost the healthy golden-pink it's always had. Now it's just the colour of cheap newsprint.
There aren't any mirrors on the carousel so Mr. Sandman peers at his reflection in the moat around it. He stares back at himself, wobbly and green.
All he can see is his mouth, with its too-big too-white teeth and lips pulled wide into a fake, fake smile.
* * *
Mr. Sandman is getting lonely. There aren't many people around. He sits on the carousel--he's starting to think of it as his carousel, now--and spins around in sad circles while he waits for other people to arrive.
Sometimes the photographers come by, and that helps. Mr. Sandman's figured out that when he gets up and starts moving around, the photographers are more likely to appear. There are certain horses he can sit on that make it more likely still.
When they show up he waves at them, trying to get their attention. They nod at him and lift their cameras. He smiles every time, his grin getting wider and wider until he can feel the actual flesh of his face pulling and stretching and holding fast.
And every time they leave, the world is a little greener in their wake.
More often, though, and more and more often as they days go by, other people arrive through the same red door that Mr. Sandman did, blinking and covering their faces and stumbling down the path until they start walking taller, straighter. Mr. Sandman watches from a distance as their forms flicker and change from one second to the next.
They're all drawn towards the carousel. Some fall into the moat and others stop just before it, spending their time walking circles around it, staring at it with wide eyes. Others still wander off into the hills, following paths that Mr. Sandman can't see.
He feels this weird twist in his chest as he watches them veer off away from where he's sitting, almost like he's unconsciously waiting for them to do something that they never do. He can't put his finger on what it is, so he's left to sit and wait and wait and wait.
But nobody ever makes it over the moat to join him on the carousel, and Mr. Sandman feels the loneliness like an ache in his chest, like a hole where something was but isn't anymore.
* * *
The first time he sees Dr. Benzedrine, Mr. Sandman knows right away that he's different from all the other people who have stumbled through the red door in a flurry of flashes.
For one thing, he seems resigned right from the get-go when he starts walking down the path, his head high and his shoulders relaxed.
For another, he's the first person to make it over the moat.
Mr. Sandman feels his heart beating in his throat as he watches the stranger step back to get a running start at the jump, and he can't explain why he's so overwhelmingly relieved when the stranger clears the moat and lands ungracefully in the space between two horses.
"Hey," Mr. Sandman says, and then gets to his feet for the first time in days. He keeps one hand on his horse. He doesn't know why, but it feels like the right thing to do.
"Hi," the stranger says, looking at Mr. Sandman for a moment before turning his head to look around at the carousel, taking in the details that are suddenly sprouting from the faded wood, more and more every passing second. "What is this place?"
"I don't know," Mr. Sandman says.
"Who are you?" the stranger asks.
"I'm Mr. Sandman," he says. "I didn't used to be, but I am now."
"Oh." The stranger looks at him for a moment, considering, and purses his lips.
Mr. Sandman watches as the stranger's lips bloom red in the middle, but doesn't say anything about it.
"I don't know who I used to be," the stranger says slowly, "but I think I know who I am now."
"Who?" Mr. Sandman asks, because he has to, after a line like that.
The stranger frowns for a moment, and then says, "Dr. Benzedrine," his lips shaping the words carefully.
"That's you?" Mr. Sandman says, consideringly.
"I'm not a real doctor," Dr. Benzedrine says, spreading his hands palm-up and shrugging helplessly.
"You just play one on TV?" Mr. Sandman suggests dryly.
"Something like that," Dr. Benzedrine agrees.
Mr. Sandman smiles as best he can around his too-big teeth, and then beckons Dr. Benzedrine forward, gesturing at a nearby horse.
Dr. Benzedrine sits, and the horse's pale flanks burst out into technicolour luridness in the blink of an eye.
"Oh," Dr. Benzedrine blinks, goggling at his horse. "Do they do that often?"
"Not really," Mr. Sandman says. "Actually, pretty much never. Or at least, not fast like that."
"Didn't yours do it?"
Mr. Sandman looks down at the horse he's been sitting on. "It took a while."
"How long?" Dr. Benzedrine leans forward, like the answer is some secret they'll be sharing.
Mr. Sandman shrugs. "A while." He realizes then that he has no idea how long he's actually been there, but for some reason he can't bring himself to admit that out loud.
"Anyway, it's nice to meet you," Dr. Benzedrine says, sounding like he means it. He sticks out his hand and smiles.
Mr. Sandman takes a deep breath, then reaches out to take it.
And then, when their hands meet, the world around them erupts into a riot of colour.