multiversallogs | birds singing in the sycamore tree

birds singing in the sycamore tree

As night falls on Baedal, the city is almost quiet. The streets have a few last minute workers returning home, but by now, most citizens have already gone by the temples and picked up their vurt, ready to lay down and dream.

After placing a not-feather in one's mouth, there's a moment where it fizzes against the tongue before sliding coolly down the back of the throat and pulling the user down into sleep. A series of impressions, more sensation than anything concrete, appears before the user and this is how one chooses which Dreamer to enter.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"We don't have forests like this in Georgia," McCoy returns, though he's clearly more than a little wonderstruck by their surroundings. Lifting a hand, he points at one of the tall trees. "F'r instance, our leaves are leaves, not hummingbirds." He stands on the pedals, briefly, getting a better look, then sits back down. "What did you want to do that this reminds you of?"

"Did you ever see the redwoods, north of the Academy?" They hadn't had forests like that in Iowa, all the land cleared centuries ago for agriculture. He'd been so enthralled with those ancient trees.

"I remembered you talking about how much you missed riding your bike. I was gonna try to arrange a trip for us--camping, bike riding, all that. After graduation. We just didn't get the chance. I really wanted to take you out, though."

McCoy nods, unexpectedly touched at Jim's thoughtfulness. He knows, academically, that Jim does think of other people - usually thinks of them more than he thinks of himself, which drives Leonard crazy - but he gives the younger man so much shit for having such a massive ego that sometimes he forgets.

"This works too," he says, looking up and up and up at the trees. "Never been out to the redwoods, though. We oughta go when we're back."

"We will." Jim's voice is certain as he calls back. He means it. "I'll take you to see them. I promise."

It's important to him. He'd planned on doing it for a long time and he swears he'll do it when they get back. For now, though, this is an acceptable if weird stand-in.

"Where was your favorite place to go biking?"

"My grandma Caroline's place," Leonard replies without missing a beat, because he didn't even need to think about it. "She and Grandpa lived a couple hours out of Atlanta, in the country. There was all this great land to bike on; you could get lost out there for hours."

"Show me."

Jim pedals a bit faster, steering so he's right beside McCoy on the path. He takes a hand off the handlebars and he gestures at the trees whizzing past as they ride. "I couldn't get all the details right but I dreamed at least part of this. It stands to reason that you should be able to change it. So try. Show me your grandparents' place, show me the land."

McCoy frowns, because it doesn't seem like it should be that easy. But, he supposes, it's worth a shot. "All right." He slows, then, bringing his bicycle to a stop on the side of the path, and drops one foot down to keep himself balanced as he does. He closes his eyes, and lets the images return to him. Lifts and falls, sprinkled with the sun through white fluffy clouds, acres of nature just begging to be explored.

Jim pulls up beside McCoy. At first, his gaze is fixed on his friend's face, his profile, his closed eyes. (It's probably for the best that Bones can't see this.)

So it takes him a moment to realize the landscape is shifting. The trees recede, replaced by rolling hills dappled with sunlight that move into the foreground--even if the grass is a bit too garish a green, the clouds skimming past a bit too quickly.

"Bones. Hey, Bones. Open your eyes."

"What?" McCoy opens his eyes, and his jaw drops. Yes, the details are wrong in a way that makes his brain, somehow, feel itchy - the sky isn't a shade of blue he remembers seeing in Georgia, and the hills in the distance almost seem to vanish out of the corner of his eye, but none of that really matters. "Holy shit. Holy shit!"

He can't help it - his mouth is lifting into a grin, and without waiting for Jim, he kicks off and pedals down the hill with a whoop of joy. "C'mon!"

Jim is momentarily left behind in a stunned silence, before he breaks into a bright grin. He gives chase, laughing, zipping down the hill and letting the forward momentum carry him along until he catches up with McCoy on the straightaway below.

"See? I knew you could do it!" He looks out at the landscape, gently rolling out toward the horizon. "I'm glad you're dreaming it, this is a hell of a lot better than Iowa."

"This is better than anywhere!" McCoy's grinning still, looking years younger and a lot happier than he has in a long time, slowing his pace to allow Jim to keep up with him. "Iowa's flat, isn't it?"

Jim feels a bit vindicated by this, like the idea to take Bones out biking in the redwoods would've been an excellent idea. That it would've made him this happy... that's important to him, in some way he doesn't want to think too closely about.

"Yeah," he shouts back. "Flat and either brown or green. Lots of dirt. It'll always be home but I couldn't wait to see other places."

"I need to take you to Atlanta for real sometime," Leonard calls back. "Well, really, this - " he indicates their surroundings - "is just outside Surrency. Whatever. You'd love Georgia."

"I'd love to. I'd love to see it."

He laughs, shaking his head. "You know, I've hardly been anywhere on Earth. There was San Francisco, but we were always so busy studying I never left the area much. Before that was Iowa, and I only ever left once, to go--"

There is the briefest of faltering pauses, because that is not a thought he wants to bring up at all, let alone while he's dreaming. "I went off-world for a few months when I was about to start high school, to this farming colony. There's still so much I gotta see, when we get back. I've been all over the galaxy but hardly seen my own world."

McCoy knows about Tarsus IV. It was in Jim's medical records, and he'd noticed it when he'd been going through all the crew's records on board the Enterprise. He isn't surprised that the captain wouldn't want to talk about it; from what he's heard, it was a mess.

"Well, you're definitely coming to Atlanta," he says in return, pitching his voice over the rushing wind. "You'll love Georgia, and you'll love my mama. She'll feed you all day long."

"Oh, well, I love her already," Jim shoots back, grinning. "Seriously, though, I'd love to meet her, and see Atlanta."

And once again he's glad Bones is Bones, and knows when to bring things up and when to let them go--if anyone on the Enterprise, or even in Starfleet, would know about him being on Tarsus IV, his CMO would. It would be in his medical file, just in case the aftereffects someday caused him grief or difficulty. The entire story, not likely--that was sanitized, but at least the official party line.

Maybe someday he'll be ready to talk, ready to share the dreams that still haunt his sleep.

But not now. Not today. Not in the middle of such a beautiful day.

"I know you already saw Riverside but if you ever wanted to go back, I know my mom would love to meet you."

McCoy's memories of Riverside are blurred at the edges, and that's just the way he likes it. His only distinct memories are getting into a fight with the Starfleet officer trying to get him into an actual seat instead of hiding in the bathroom, and meeting a cocky upstart of a kid once he'd been forced into said seat.

"I'd like to meet her, too," McCoy replies with a flash of smile over at the other man, pumping harder as the land inclines upward. "What's she gonna feed me?"

Jim laughs, considering the question. "She'd want to keep you a week to make sure she made you one of everything she's good at," he says. "The family farm's a wheat farm so anything you can make out of wheat and wheat flour, she mastered ages ago. And she still grows all her own vegetables, and gets fresh eggs and milk from animals on the farm. And she'd get you fresh meat, too--from other farms." He grins, shaking his head. "She never could stand using any animal we raised for food, she gets too attached."

McCoy glances briefly at Jim. That, he thinks, makes a fair few things fall into place.

"Sounds amazing," he replies, then flashes a huge grin over at the other man. "Ready to go down this thing?"

"Hell yes!" he calls back, his smile as bright and happy as his friend's. "I'll be right behind you."

Not out of any fear--god knows that's not Jim's style--but because this is McCoy's dream, so he really ought to get to take that hill first.

McCoy lets out a whoop that few on the Enterprise or at Hellsing would believe could come from the cranky head doctor, then leans forward over his handlebars and flies down the hill. Adrenaline is pumping through him, and he can't fight the grin that's broken out over his face.

The sound surprises and delights Jim--he's sure he's never heard McCoy make a sound like that before, and he wouldn't have expected it. But it makes him happy, makes him let out a similar yell as he speeds down the hill, gravity pulling him down the incline at a dizzying speed.

That yell, he thinks, makes this whole dreaming thing worthwhile.

McCoy feels like he's flying. But not in the terrifying, oh-shit-we're-all-gonna-die sort of way, where he feels like the world and his life are spiraling out of control and he can't breathe. This is an exhilarating, pulse-pounding thrill, one he has control of, where it's just him against gravity, and he knows he can win. Logically, he knows that he could hit a rock and get thrown off his bike and die, and that a hovercraft is about a thousand times safer - but having the rubber grips under his hands and the hard plastic of the pedals under his feet feels so much better than the cold featureless metal.

He knows he's grinning like an idiot, and he's glad Jim's the only one around to see. If anyone has to, he's okay with it being Jim.

This is as good as any other thrill-seeking thing Jim tried--maybe even better, both for being such a pure, physical thing, and for being shared. He feels the same high he gets when he runs, and maybe it's because so much of this is engaging his body. Pulled along by gravity, his hands gripping the handles and instinctively making steering corrections, his body astride the bike, subtly shifting to maintain the right balance as the path bumps along below the wheels. And the wind rifles through his hair, past his cheeks.

And he's glad not to be doing this alone. Glad McCoy shared this part of himself with him.

He pedals faster even though it feels like the forward momentum from speeding down the hill is already propelling him at breakneck speed. He wants to catch up.

McCoy glances over his shoulder to keep tabs on Jim, and he sees the other man leaning down further over the handlebars - to speed up, he guesses. Like hell is he letting Jim overtake him. Turning back, he lowers himself as well, gripping the handlebars tighter, and feels the wind snapping at his cheeks as he raced.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject