![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
[Osborn Plot] Sleep sound, shut out the noise you hear.
There is no concept of time. Seconds, minutes, hours -- all meaningless. (Am I dead?) I'm aware only of pain, white and hot, searing mercilessly through every inch of my body. (Make it stop.) At first the sounds are indistinct -- snippets of hushed conversations, the shuffle of footsteps across the floor, the quiet, unsteady sobs of someone crying. Through the pain, infinite stretches on. (Please, make it stop.) The sounds become sharper -- the scrape of a chair, the catch in a woman's voice, my name on someone's lips. (Shouldn't hurt so much, why does it hurt so much? My God, make it stop.)
The black of the void turns to red. (I'm waking up -- not dead, then. Why?) There's a hand on my own, the pressure, however slight, almost too much to bear. (Don't want to wake up. Let go, let go, let go.) I try to speak, but find I can't. My voice dies in my throat. (Can I die, too?) I can't open my eyes, can't move at all -- I'm bound, constricted. (Listen to yourself.) I need to move. (You need to live, you lucky fool.) Reality comes back to me in dribs and drabs, memories sliding into place like the pieces of a puzzle -- a fall, a fight, a fire. (No, don't want to remember. Don't make me remember. Hurts too much, hurts too much.) My pulse takes a sudden jump, leftover panic pumping adrenaline through my veins, and soon -- at least, I think it's soon, because I still can't tell, there's still no time -- there's more than pain. There's control. (You promised, Peter. You promised her.) With a shallow, shuddering breath that burns my lungs, my eyes flutter open, and I take in my dim, fuzzy surroundings without comprehension. (That's it, push through the pain.)
"Wh--?" It's not speech in the strictest sense, little more than an exhale. (Try again.) Hours, minutes, seconds later. "Where...?"
The black of the void turns to red. (I'm waking up -- not dead, then. Why?) There's a hand on my own, the pressure, however slight, almost too much to bear. (Don't want to wake up. Let go, let go, let go.) I try to speak, but find I can't. My voice dies in my throat. (Can I die, too?) I can't open my eyes, can't move at all -- I'm bound, constricted. (Listen to yourself.) I need to move. (You need to live, you lucky fool.) Reality comes back to me in dribs and drabs, memories sliding into place like the pieces of a puzzle -- a fall, a fight, a fire. (No, don't want to remember. Don't make me remember. Hurts too much, hurts too much.) My pulse takes a sudden jump, leftover panic pumping adrenaline through my veins, and soon -- at least, I think it's soon, because I still can't tell, there's still no time -- there's more than pain. There's control. (You promised, Peter. You promised her.) With a shallow, shuddering breath that burns my lungs, my eyes flutter open, and I take in my dim, fuzzy surroundings without comprehension. (That's it, push through the pain.)
"Wh--?" It's not speech in the strictest sense, little more than an exhale. (Try again.) Hours, minutes, seconds later. "Where...?"
no subject
I swallow again, stalling for time as I try to stop my head from spinning long enough to get out the rest of what I want to say before I pass out again.
"Honestly," I continue after a second, quieter than before, "the only thing that could possibly make this worse is having to get used to this. I just... Please. My mental state's about as messed up as the rest of me, MJ, and unlike a few broken bones, that's something I don't need an army of bored doctors to fix. Just you."
no subject
"Well, you've got me," she murmured, biting her lower lip as she stood, sitting instead on the edge of the bed. She still wasn't quite sure how she could go about doing this without causing any more damage, but it seemed worth it to try. "Just - we've got to be careful, alright? And if anything feels worse at all, you need to tell me right away." That said, she began easing down at his side, eyes on him all the while to make sure she didn't do anything wrong. "I'm right here."
no subject
Now, though, Mary Jane has more of a point than I'd like to admit, and I hold my breath as she settles down next to me, exhaling only once she's stopped moving. She can't hurt me any more than Norman, of course, but I keep that to myself, instead just saying, "Hey."
no subject
Of course, being in bed, she was reminded of just how long it had been since she'd slept, or even laid down at all, the closest being the time she had spent unconscious in a web on the beach of the second island. The memory made any hint of a smile fade, though she hoped it wasn't particularly noticeable. It wasn't anything she wanted to talk about, not yet. "You're sure this is okay, right?"
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
She was not, in fact, anywhere close to fine, but she was relatively uninjured and didn't see any reason to sleep just yet, so it was true enough. Beside him now, she didn't want to be anywhere else, and sleeping in his bed would have just been asking for her to somehow hurt him.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject