Of Wolves


unknown13_icon.gif kincaid_icon.gif

Scene Title Of Wolves
Synopsis Kincaid dreams some pain away.
Date January 9, 2011


Drip drop.

Drip drop.

Somewhere, it sounds like there's a leaky pipe in the distance. Light streams down from a long slit of a window, too thin to allow for even a hand to pass through it, but enough for birds to occassionally perch and peck on the glass. Enough for light to sneak in, when the sun, or the outside lights are in the right position. Cutting through the shadows on the wall, the light brightens, brightens, brightens, then seems to dim, as if sweeping past slowly.

The dripping comes from the sink, pipes leaking. A square mirror reflects the light cast on the opposite wall occassionally. The bed sits against a wall, uncomfortable, bolted to the side, barely large enough to comfortably fit a person. The few blankets on the bed are thin and frail, and stained in various places.

The occupent sits against the edge of the wall, head resting back against the cold concrete, knees pulled up close to his body, with right arm resting on top. There's a second drip drop, drop drop, hollow and soft, but in time with the water dripping from the sink.

Kincaid's right hand is bleeding, again. The blood only hits the sheets on his bed in a whisper.

Sounds seep through the walls that seem to have no doors. Arguing, angry voices, someone crying…

Soft, but loud at the same time, only covered by the incessant dripping.

There are no accidental details, in dreams, whether it be a raging storm or the steady impact of dripping liquid. Sound is relative, subjective, and Jasmine can cup a dream in its entirety in her hands and know its every texture. She smears blood between her fingertips, before tugging on a thread to unravel herself a place within the art of Kincaid's dreamscape. Which is of no consequence to a dreamer, save for the immediate setting becoming a little more real. A little more textured.

A little more crowded.

There is a certain strength to this room, however, that means that in tune to the steady drip of fluid, there's the soft click of shoes creeping along the hallway outside. Not the commanding snap of stiletto, but it lacks the solid thump of authority as well. There's a metalic creak as the window is slid back at eye-height to Kincaid's door, and pale fingers hook like spider legs through the opening. Jasmine rises on her toes to peer inside.

She doesn't say anything, at first, manifest as painted nails and blue eyes peering through the window and into the gloomy, lonely cell. She's on the verge of a yoohoo? but something has her hesitating. Like appropriate behaviour.

The background sounds through the wall seem to change, or quiet, with the soft thump of shoes drowning them out. Kincaid's eyes open and his head lifts away from the wall, glancing toward the source of the sound, seeming to immediately know where to look. The small slit, the fingers and eyes peering in on him. There's a grimace as he shifts his hand to stand up, leaving a slow trail of blood behind.

The door seems to be unlocked. There's no coincidence. It had been locked a moment ago.

But some crowds are more welcome than others, and this one, perhaps most of all. Blood smears as he opens the door, with a handle that hadn't been there before, and the sting of pain seems to darken the light that peeks through, reddening it.

"I really hope no one's been kidnapped this time," he says after a moment, the familiarity and teasing still in his voice, but also… dry. Like someone who hasn't drank in a while. "It's good to see you, though," he adds, words genuine, despite the seemingly closed off setting.

Blue eyes widen a fraction at this show of lucidity — caught, if you will — and she shuffles back a step as Kincaid opens the previously damning door, a hand gripping her other arm as the creak of hinges fills the air. Mingles with the echoes of others in their cells, sending a squirrely glance down leftwards just as the door swings open under the guidance of the man it had been imprisoning, the draft of air tugging at lank, auburn locks before she readies a smile. Swamping her frame is olive green wool in a wide-necked sweater, legs in a clinging, indefinite black fabric, foot sunk into slip shoes that raise half an inch at the heel.

Some sort of struggle, between how she might have wanted to appear to him, and what this place dictates she do instead. As is the nature of dreams. Jasmine flows forward the two steps necessary to enwrap Kincaid into a much needed hug, tucking her chin on his shoulder and uncaring for the bleed at his hand possibly smearing her clothing. They aren't exactly fine materials anyway.

"No one's kidnapped. All is well. I just thought I'd— " And she leaves it there.

Closing dark eyes, Kincaid leans into the hug a little more than he might have expected to. Places like this, hugs don't come often, and when they do… Some of the tension seems to settle within the dream, the dripping from the faucet slows, those whispered groans fade even more, until there's the soft sound white noise tickling at their senses.

The bleeding on his hand doesn't stop, though, but in some ways he seems to not notice it. A familiar throb that just hangs there, as if waiting to be recalled. He doesn't pull back, even when she speaks.

"Thanks," he whispers, genuine and quiet. She didn't need to finish. No emergencies means personal visits. And they can't get much more personal than subconscious. Only when he asks his next question does he start to pull away, but not completely. "Is she okay?"

Jasmine turns her head to lay it against his shoulder for the last few seconds of the embrace before backing off an inch, smoothing down the crinkles of— you know— prison garb with a pat of her hand against shoulder, tilting a look up at him. "Oh, yes," she says, with another smile. "So I hear. You know. The old rumour mill." Her other arm slides down off the broad slope of the man's shoulders, giving him space and another smile, dimmer than the first, especially as she inevitably tracks her gaze down to bleeding hand.

The focus of dreaming, a draw not unlike gravity. Her hands rest on his forearms, and she steers a step around him, circular, dance-like, and guiding him back into the cell as the door seems to shut on its own accord. But this time, it seems more like it's keeping the potential bad things at bay, as opposed to trapping him inside.

With a relieved seeming nod, Kincaid keeps contact at least of an arm against back as he's beckoned into the cell that only now seems safe. This is when he makes note of her attire, oddly enough in the dim reflection of the mirror. It matches his. Soft shoes, simple cuts, dull colors that have been washed too many times. "Those don't really fit you," he has to comment, not implying the size or cut, but…

The bed is still the only place to sit, so the further they step in, the move he moves in that direction. It's long enough to seat two, though the matress itself could not be called comfortable. What springs it has pushes up against too thin fabric with little cushioning, and even pokes through with metal in a few places. An unpleasant surprise for the sleeper. With his left hand, he pushes the blankets to make a more comfortable seat for her, but notices the stains and hesitates.

"And are you doing okay too? Things haven't exactly been going as planned— you haven't been overworking yourself, have you?"

She steps back as Kincaid fusses with the blankets, fidgeting with the hem of her sweater where it falls mid thigh. "This place doesn't fit you," is her only response on the subject of how she's dressed, before she's moving to sit on the edge of the bed, stains and all. "All work and no play makes Jasmine a dull girl. I had adventures with Calvin's kidnapper. He's a sweet man. Strange, what people do. What they're like in their heads." Like she's catching a moth from the air, Jasmine's hands swiftly cup Kincaid's right.

The pad of her thumb brushes over his knuckles. "Wolves dream of being puppies," she says, tilting a look up to Kincaid. "Puppies dream of being wolves. The good dreams, of course. If we were in a better dream, I'd wear floral. And heels."

"Sometimes I'm tempted to kidnap Calvin. My boss even said it earlier— gingers creeping people out," Kincaid says, though his voice seems to have a tease to it, as if he's not sure how much he really means it— though he's never been a fan of that particular ginger. "So I can see how a good guy would think he might be a danger to a princess in the waking world." And his dreams could reflect it.

With that, his eyes settle on the hand she's holding, the blood still dripping down from the broken skin on the palm and back of his hand. It seems like it may be the first time he's noticed it, but the red tint tossed across the room and texturing their skins with a pale color doesn't stop. It even seems to catch in his eyes, too light to be the same.

"My dreams were never very good," he states quietly. "Though I always did like the snow globe dreams… Never went well with your florals— one of yours would probably infitely better than any of mine." Or so he'd like to think.

Jabs about gingers has her raising an eyebrow, but her blue eyed focus remains on wounded hand, fingertips navigating light around ruined flesh and broken bone. Unable to avoid the brush of blood here and there, it smears her hands, the woolen sleeves of her sweater. "I wish I could take you somewhere nicer," Jasmine says, voice distracted but no less sincere. "Unfortunately, that's quite impossible at the moment. I think this needs medical attention.

"And Brian wasn't being a good guy," she adds, almost admonishing, if gently so. "But his soul is nice. It should guide his actions more frequently."

There's a forced 'I was kidding' smile on his face as she raises an eyebrow, Kincaid's own eyes darker than normal, but not so much as they have often been. A deep blue, from the looks of things. "It needs attention, but— I didn't hurt it again, I promise," he says, looking back down at it and wincing as he flexes the fingers.

"Remember when this happened? If it wasn't for you— every night would be like this, worse, if I managed to sleep at all. I think you have the nicest soul of any of us." There's a hesitant pause, as if he's tempted to tack on something else, but opts not to. The way he glances at her, he expects her to know what he would have said— if he would have said it.

Even in the dream, as he concentrates, his eyes darken even more. The red cast dims, and even the blood flow slows, but the wounds don't quite close.

There's a head tilt of discomfort at his assessment of her soul, but mostly a smile and otherwise releasing that comment into the wild without so much as verbal acknowledgement. As Kincaid properly focuses on the bleed, Jasmine opens her palm against the glowing red, watching it wan against the crosshatch texture of skin. "Your eyes look like buttons," she muses, driftily, encouragement in her own unusual way — the gentle, plucking reminder of power use, of injury.

Of course, that doesn't mean she can't help. Though the red light is certainly a visual cause of the pain he experiences, it's also something she can toy with easier than his bleeding hand. She watches it reflect blue, instead, against her palm, saturating all the way into the rest of the illuminating cast. The colour of ice. Of numbness.

"Everyone needs a good night's sleep."

The icy light makes Kincaid smile, and for a moment, his breath is visible. The icy blue light was enough to remind him of another dream, another place. A single frozen over pond, cold and oddly comforting to him. Even if nothing else in the dream really changes too much, the chill in the air does—

"I'll try to dream something better next time," he states simply, lifting his uninjured left hand to lightly grip her lower arm.

Then he suddenly laughs, a delayed reaction to what she said. "Buttons. Sounds like a name for a puppy, that."

A puppy that dreams he's a wolf.

She smiles broader, as she had upon first sight of him, and in the time it takes for her to stand, wool and cheap cotton seem to fall not in fabricy shreds, but silken threads drawn away as if on an unfelt wind as she sheds it with barely a thought. Material of creams and greens and pinks, depicting gardens neither found in this place nor particularly able to thrive in ice, unfurl beneath into something that fits her a little better, lengths of shimmering fabric from bust to ankles. Hair shines a brighter red upon a subtle headshake, and she clasps either hand to cup his jaw.

Jasmine tugs him enough to press a kiss on his brow, the smell of her namesake flower mingled in with the danker notes of water damage, rock, blood. "Sometimes dreams aren't always good," she says, once she pulls away again, studying him. "Sometimes bad dreams are necessary. A purging. A catharsis. But there's always a line, between that, and unnecessary pain."

She disappears in the way that light tricks against stressed retinas kind of gradually fade, saturating in the air. Lucidity is beginning to pull back out from under him, but not sudden, not wishing to startle him, trigger bad dreams, her presence still felt, if— expanded.

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