kittenscribble (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kittenscribble) wrote2004-12-07 11:54 pm
kittenscribble) wrote2004-12-07 11:54 pm
Entry tags:
december dreaming
Lightning outside makes me instinctively want to turn off the computer, even though it's a laptop and would be perfectly fine.
I lurch from deadline to deadline. Nanowrimo is done (a winner is me!), and now I have cards to send out, people to call, a month's backlog of Lost to watch. Not to mention shopping for presents, which I always put off until it becomes inconvenient.
Online shopping is always an option, I suppose. Otherwise, I'd never find things like the Legolas Ken doll.
I had a vivid X-Men dream the other night. I'd been reading comic books before bed, but in the dream I was movie!Rogue, poor useless Anna Paquin. Pity; I would've liked to have been able to fly.
--
Everyone else is busy. They're creating fireworks, levitating, walking through walls. Sometimes you get tired of watching.
So you corner Alex by the kitchen doorway, touch him with a gloved hand. Tease him until he laughs, leaning towards you, reaching out to - almost - stroke your hair. Seems as good a time as any to lean forward, casually, and ask if you can touch him, skin to skin.
Not so easily done, it seems. He snatches his hand away and presses back against the wall.
Just a little, you say. C'mon, just a little, just my fingertips, you'll barely feel it and you can move away any time you want. C'mon, please. Please?
Tilt your head and smile up at him, prettily.
He swallows, and you take silence for assent. His eyes widen when you pull off a glove, but he doesn't move away. He has fire, after all. He could summon heat, flame, burn you to ashes in a blink.
It is that refuge of confidence, of power, that you resent the most.
If you were kinder, you would calm him down, speak reassurances. But you're too hungry. You reach out, run your fingers lightly over his flinching face.
He swallows again, throat cording. Release him; you have what you want. Turn away, take a breath, feel the brightness unfolding. Tiny embers spring to life in the air before you, shifting, leaving trails of fire. You guide them in their dance, power flowing down your arms, pouring from your hands, and you surround yourself with stars.
But it is only borrowed power, and quickly fades.
That was beautiful. Alex comes up from behind you, closing a careful hand over your clothed shoulder.
His hand is bare. You sense it, naked, inviting, the fire beneath the skin.
I never tried to do anything like that, he continues, oblivious. And they're my powers, too!
Jerk away. Well, don't rub it in. His expression is hurt but you leave him there, walking quickly to the next room.
The kitchen is full of students.
To steal powers is wrong, but at this point you could care less. You tug off your gloves, push up your sleeves, bare both arms to the shoulder. Your skin tingles at the unfamiliar feeling of exposure. Keeping your head down, you plunge into the crowd.
Your fellow students are absorbed in conversation. They move aside for you as they would for anyone else, leaving barely enough room to squeeze by. You wade through them, deliberately clumsy, your arms and shoulders bumping others, skin to skin. You feel a constant tingling as your body plucks at their powers, but you pass by quickly enough that no one notices you.
And then you're out the far door, breathless, excited, brimming with stolen energy. You concentrate, waiting for the new powers to manifest.
For a long moment, nothing happens, and you realize that you have no idea what to do.
It's frustrating: you have power, you can feel it, but you don't know whose, or what. It could be anybody's, it could do anything. Godlike energy hovers at your fingertips, but you don't know how to use it. You could cry.
You stop groping after the power; perversely, that is when it comes for you. It leaps up into your throat, stealing your breath, crowding your mind. It's too unfamiliar, too strong, and you don't know how to fight it. You've stolen from too many strangers. The room spins, and you grab for the doorframe with both hands.
The wooden frame melts like wax under your fingertips. You're too distraught even to try to remember who that ability belongs to, much less figure out how to control it. You release the doorway, blind and reeling, choking on power. Firm hands catch your hips, anchoring you. You look around, then down, and meet the steady gaze of the Professor.
He doesn't look away, and you feel the storm within you calming, seeping away, leaving you alone with your guilt.
He is still looking at you, waiting for some unknown cue. You stand stiffly, ashamed.
Come, Rogue. His smile is infinitely kind. Come and sit with me.
You nod, tugging down your sleeves, pulling on your gloves, trying not to look at him. He seems to understand and places you beside him, both of you facing the far wall. You brace yourself for the lecture.
Amazingly, his first words have nothing to do with the crime you had just committed. Have you thought about how you'll fight in the practice battle?
You are stunned; you'd forgotten about the battle, scheduled for that afternoon. Hadn't even thought about it, sir. What could you possibly do in a free-for-all of mutant powers? All of the other students know your ability; you wouldn't be able to touch anyone, wouldn't be allowed to get close. And even if you did -- the helplessness comes back to you, the terror. You can't just go about randomly touching people; it would drive you insane.
I have a strategy for you, he says. You have a gift, child. You have a very special gift, a powerful weapon. A mutant power beyond compare. Do you know what it is?
Even though you hadn't touched him, you feel as if you've acquired his telepathy. What he expects from you is surprisingly clear. Everybody's, you say, the word drawn out of you. But you don't want to disappoint him. You owe him your life, your sanity. How can you not give him what he wants to hear?
Exactly, he says, with a parent's pride. Everybody's. Whoever you touch, his power is yours.
But Professor --
Listen. He points towards the kitchen. Alex, there: his power is fire. He controls it through his fingertips.
You appreciate the advice, but the lesson you just learned is too raw. Professor? Sir?
Next to him, Elizabeth. Her powers would be useful, if you could control them: localized explosive bursts of energy. I believe hers are also focused through the hands, but you'll find out, eh?
Wait, Professor.
But he does not listen, pointing out student after student, confusing you with a jumble of information. You wait patiently for a break, to tell him of the chaos you experienced in the kitchen, but he talks unceasingly.
He finally winds down, but before you can say anything, he smiles at you and wheels away. You feel guilty because you hadn't even listened to his lecture, and part of you is still surprised that he apparently expects you to be a thief.
Professor X raises his voice. Time for the practice battle, students! Please clear the classroom.
Everyone sets to work, pulling tables to the edge of the room. The students shelter behind the tables in impromptu alliances, laughing with anticipation. You stand alone, exposed, feeling sick. With no defenses, you'll be the first one down.
Hey, Rogue. One of the girls beckons to you. Don't worry, huh? I'll look out for you. She holds up a fist, crackling with electric sparks.
You smile your thanks, and duck behind the table with her.
Professor X can be heard counting down. 10, 9, 8...
All around the room, powers come to life. The students grin cheerful mayhem at one another. The girl beside you charges up, creating a field so strong that your skin tingles with static.
You look sideways; the bare skin of her arm is inches from your hand.
5, 4...
Behind your back where she can't see, you peel off a glove.
--
I always wake up when the dreams are about to get good.
I lurch from deadline to deadline. Nanowrimo is done (a winner is me!), and now I have cards to send out, people to call, a month's backlog of Lost to watch. Not to mention shopping for presents, which I always put off until it becomes inconvenient.
Online shopping is always an option, I suppose. Otherwise, I'd never find things like the Legolas Ken doll.
I had a vivid X-Men dream the other night. I'd been reading comic books before bed, but in the dream I was movie!Rogue, poor useless Anna Paquin. Pity; I would've liked to have been able to fly.
--
Everyone else is busy. They're creating fireworks, levitating, walking through walls. Sometimes you get tired of watching.
So you corner Alex by the kitchen doorway, touch him with a gloved hand. Tease him until he laughs, leaning towards you, reaching out to - almost - stroke your hair. Seems as good a time as any to lean forward, casually, and ask if you can touch him, skin to skin.
Not so easily done, it seems. He snatches his hand away and presses back against the wall.
Just a little, you say. C'mon, just a little, just my fingertips, you'll barely feel it and you can move away any time you want. C'mon, please. Please?
Tilt your head and smile up at him, prettily.
He swallows, and you take silence for assent. His eyes widen when you pull off a glove, but he doesn't move away. He has fire, after all. He could summon heat, flame, burn you to ashes in a blink.
It is that refuge of confidence, of power, that you resent the most.
If you were kinder, you would calm him down, speak reassurances. But you're too hungry. You reach out, run your fingers lightly over his flinching face.
He swallows again, throat cording. Release him; you have what you want. Turn away, take a breath, feel the brightness unfolding. Tiny embers spring to life in the air before you, shifting, leaving trails of fire. You guide them in their dance, power flowing down your arms, pouring from your hands, and you surround yourself with stars.
But it is only borrowed power, and quickly fades.
That was beautiful. Alex comes up from behind you, closing a careful hand over your clothed shoulder.
His hand is bare. You sense it, naked, inviting, the fire beneath the skin.
I never tried to do anything like that, he continues, oblivious. And they're my powers, too!
Jerk away. Well, don't rub it in. His expression is hurt but you leave him there, walking quickly to the next room.
The kitchen is full of students.
To steal powers is wrong, but at this point you could care less. You tug off your gloves, push up your sleeves, bare both arms to the shoulder. Your skin tingles at the unfamiliar feeling of exposure. Keeping your head down, you plunge into the crowd.
Your fellow students are absorbed in conversation. They move aside for you as they would for anyone else, leaving barely enough room to squeeze by. You wade through them, deliberately clumsy, your arms and shoulders bumping others, skin to skin. You feel a constant tingling as your body plucks at their powers, but you pass by quickly enough that no one notices you.
And then you're out the far door, breathless, excited, brimming with stolen energy. You concentrate, waiting for the new powers to manifest.
For a long moment, nothing happens, and you realize that you have no idea what to do.
It's frustrating: you have power, you can feel it, but you don't know whose, or what. It could be anybody's, it could do anything. Godlike energy hovers at your fingertips, but you don't know how to use it. You could cry.
You stop groping after the power; perversely, that is when it comes for you. It leaps up into your throat, stealing your breath, crowding your mind. It's too unfamiliar, too strong, and you don't know how to fight it. You've stolen from too many strangers. The room spins, and you grab for the doorframe with both hands.
The wooden frame melts like wax under your fingertips. You're too distraught even to try to remember who that ability belongs to, much less figure out how to control it. You release the doorway, blind and reeling, choking on power. Firm hands catch your hips, anchoring you. You look around, then down, and meet the steady gaze of the Professor.
He doesn't look away, and you feel the storm within you calming, seeping away, leaving you alone with your guilt.
He is still looking at you, waiting for some unknown cue. You stand stiffly, ashamed.
Come, Rogue. His smile is infinitely kind. Come and sit with me.
You nod, tugging down your sleeves, pulling on your gloves, trying not to look at him. He seems to understand and places you beside him, both of you facing the far wall. You brace yourself for the lecture.
Amazingly, his first words have nothing to do with the crime you had just committed. Have you thought about how you'll fight in the practice battle?
You are stunned; you'd forgotten about the battle, scheduled for that afternoon. Hadn't even thought about it, sir. What could you possibly do in a free-for-all of mutant powers? All of the other students know your ability; you wouldn't be able to touch anyone, wouldn't be allowed to get close. And even if you did -- the helplessness comes back to you, the terror. You can't just go about randomly touching people; it would drive you insane.
I have a strategy for you, he says. You have a gift, child. You have a very special gift, a powerful weapon. A mutant power beyond compare. Do you know what it is?
Even though you hadn't touched him, you feel as if you've acquired his telepathy. What he expects from you is surprisingly clear. Everybody's, you say, the word drawn out of you. But you don't want to disappoint him. You owe him your life, your sanity. How can you not give him what he wants to hear?
Exactly, he says, with a parent's pride. Everybody's. Whoever you touch, his power is yours.
But Professor --
Listen. He points towards the kitchen. Alex, there: his power is fire. He controls it through his fingertips.
You appreciate the advice, but the lesson you just learned is too raw. Professor? Sir?
Next to him, Elizabeth. Her powers would be useful, if you could control them: localized explosive bursts of energy. I believe hers are also focused through the hands, but you'll find out, eh?
Wait, Professor.
But he does not listen, pointing out student after student, confusing you with a jumble of information. You wait patiently for a break, to tell him of the chaos you experienced in the kitchen, but he talks unceasingly.
He finally winds down, but before you can say anything, he smiles at you and wheels away. You feel guilty because you hadn't even listened to his lecture, and part of you is still surprised that he apparently expects you to be a thief.
Professor X raises his voice. Time for the practice battle, students! Please clear the classroom.
Everyone sets to work, pulling tables to the edge of the room. The students shelter behind the tables in impromptu alliances, laughing with anticipation. You stand alone, exposed, feeling sick. With no defenses, you'll be the first one down.
Hey, Rogue. One of the girls beckons to you. Don't worry, huh? I'll look out for you. She holds up a fist, crackling with electric sparks.
You smile your thanks, and duck behind the table with her.
Professor X can be heard counting down. 10, 9, 8...
All around the room, powers come to life. The students grin cheerful mayhem at one another. The girl beside you charges up, creating a field so strong that your skin tingles with static.
You look sideways; the bare skin of her arm is inches from your hand.
5, 4...
Behind your back where she can't see, you peel off a glove.
--
I always wake up when the dreams are about to get good.