though i'm past one hundred thousand miles, i'm feeling very still

[cestrumnocturnum]

Who: Benji Ryans and Bruce Wayne
What: Lest the gods get mad, Benji goes looking for the intended recipient of a swap meet item.
Where: Bruce's brain.
When: An evening not far after the event.
Warnings: TBA.

The room lended to her by Njoki is a small space, but in a comfortable kind of way; shadows that stretch any longer seem deceitful, hiding empty space and thus reducing it. There's still enough light coming in by the window by the time Benji shuts off the lamp and picks her way to bed, tired enough that maybe sleep won't be a struggle.

And the only reason it might have been otherwise is that she's set aside the blockers that the doctor had prescribed her, just for this evening. The fear that she might not have control by the time she shuts her eyes is a very real one, once more dragging the unwilling into her own nightmares in a singularly horrific invasion of privacy she still cringes at in memory. There is, also, always the chance that whoever it is sees she's seeking might not keep these hours, but then, she'll just have to try again. She lies in the dark for a good half an hour, the device set to rest against her chest, fingertips placed against it with the lightness of a resting spider.

She isn't sure that would help. It's not an exact science.

It's set aside again when she feels tired enough, and it's some time later that she finally does succumb to unconsciousness, her will flowing like a psychic current in search.

Comments

[cestrumnocturnum]

"No--"

The English language and her tone both conspire to make that not a confirmation that she doesn't like it, but no, not necessarily. She is briefly hesitant, but distracted from worrying about being assumptive by looking towards the staircase and wondering how much higher one can climb out here without touching on world records. At least in this way, there will be no shortage of new things to see--

But he introduced himself, and there's no question with whether he's lying or not, she assumes he isn't, and he may as well not be, and so she remembers to say; "Benji," before accepting the hand out. It's been about a decade and a half since she's bothered to feel conscious of her name.

[caballero]

"Benji." It's not a double-take at her name, but an affirmation via the rusted habit of old-fashioned manners, the same that prompts him to lead her up the nightmarishly unsafe stairs. (Nightmare being the key word; they need to keep moving for a reason. His head isn't a safe space.) The waterfall looks lovely from a higher vantage point, without a roof over them.

He's sturdy but distant, in that way where dreams offer more sensory input than the real waking world. Once they're up and out, he closes a wooden hatch behind them with one foot, slamming the monastery away. Though there's nothing to see or hear, a sense settles over them like they're being watched. Tom doesn't remark on it.

"I suppose I'll be seeing you."

[cestrumnocturnum]

That feeling of impending doom is sort of a shadow beneath the water, and a lot of people have shadows, some more dangerous than others. She doesn't know the make of Tom's, but it would be very bad manners to assert herself enough to find out, she thinks, for all that she is, as ever, nosily curious. She follows, she admires the view with the obvious open-eyed awe of someone who just-- hasn't seen anything like this place before, she treads as carefully as she can without being too slow, as if lingering on the steps would enable something to toss her from them.

"Yes," she says, simply. She is not concerned that she lacks his number; he has hers and when it comes to dreaming, she can always find her way back where she's wandered. "On the other side.

"Sleep well," she adds, and she's fading then, as if she were a light trick, a hallucination, layers of colours and outline blinked away.