(no subject)

[flybywash]

Since Sunday, Wash has been reluctant to sleep.

He finds excuses: little things that need tinkering on the bridge, checking and double-checking flight plans, insisting that he hears some worrisome rattling in the unnatural quiet. He goes through their store of reprocessed coffee until his head pounds and he's a little too shaky for his own good. When he has nothing left to do, he takes to pacing the ship in a slow circle.

Every time the bridge door opens to Milliways, he slams it shut.

Eventually, though, sleep must come. And when Wash drops into bed on the second night, he dreams.

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[white-dream.livejournal.com]

Is it a dream? Or is it simply somewhere else?

Its a wide field of flowers, like you never see on a ship and rarely on planets. Nothing Wash has seen before, that is certain.

And there is a figure as large as the universe, or the size of a tall man, dressed in white with a green stone on a necklace and stars for eyes,



His smile is gentle, perhaps even slightly warm. It is more approachable than the one of the Dream Lord of Milliways, and yet the same.

[flybywash]

Wash pulls in a breath as he looks around the field, wide-eyed and overwhelmed. And yet, despite the staggering beauty of it, the awe of gazing into the black for the first time, it takes a fraction of an instant for his eyes to be pulled away toward the figure.

The same, yes. He knows instantly.

"Dream," he says, and lowers his gaze. "Uh. Hi, sir."

A beat, and he glances back up without moving his head. The words fall out before he can censor himself: "How're you feeling today? Good, I hope? Not -- uh, not going moonbrained again or anything?"

Never hurts to check, part of him insists feebly as the rest slinks away in quiet mortification.

[white-dream.livejournal.com]

He sounds amused, quite amused,

[flybywash]

Amused is good. Amused is better than violence or general creepiness, anyway. Wash relaxes by a degree.

"Right. Okay. Daniel." He nods, looking around the field again. "Sane Daniel. I like this."

And he swallows. "So, uh..." Falters briefly, looks back into the starfield eyes. "If I ask why nine separate people all dreamed about the same horrifyingly creepy thing a few nights ago, would you be mysterious and withdrawn and say something like 'that's not for a mere mortal to know?' Maybe complete with a scoff?"

[white-dream.livejournal.com]

And, unlike Morpheus, he doesn't stop there. Daniel is closer to human.

[flybywash]

"'The one they call Chloe's Beam will break.'"

I have only loved you for your beauty as you once loved me for mine....

He shuts his eyes. Quietly, "You mean it's true."

[white-dream.livejournal.com]

Is there, really, a need to speak?

He nods, slowly, and apologetically.

[flybywash]

And somehow he perceives the nod, even though his eyes are still closed. There's a shaky breath, and an even shakier laugh. It's tinged with desperation.

"I thought they were exaggerating. I-I mean. End of the 'verse. That ain't -- last I heard we still had a couple billion years. Wasn't supposed to happen this soon."

And things don't just end like that, he wants to say, though he knows it isn't and never has been true. Not something this big. Not like this.

[white-dream.livejournal.com]

There is silence, and then,

[flybywash]

Wash nods.

More silence, for a stretch.

But his breathing doesn't waver, and soon he raises his chin and opens his eyes. A steady, quiet calm's settled over his face. There's more stillness there than there's been in days -- weeks, even.

No longer a question of want, or can: just what is needed.

"Xièxie nĭ, Daniel. Guess I better hope I can still fly like hell."

[white-dream.livejournal.com]

Dream. Inspiration. Thought.

[flybywash]

He smiles, faintly, and turns.

The wildflowers blur into long streaks of colour, like he's turning into a Crazy Ivan two feet above ground --

and he blinks awake.



Serenity hums around him. For a long time Wash simply lays there, listening. But eventually -- quietly, so as not to disturb Zoe -- he slides out of bed and goes upstairs to the bridge: not to avoid sleep this time, but merely to think.