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crossing_lostrp[OOC: This takes place later that night, after everyone has gone to sleep. Faith started coming so clearly that I had to get it out and posted.]
Meditation had not worked. Tai Chi had not worked. And there wasn't anything to read. Her copy of A Wrinkle in Time, battered and dog-eared, but given and not taken from a fellow inmate was back at her and Mara's makeshift camp, so Faith could not even turn to that as a distraction from the press of insomnia.
The insomnia wasn't anything new to Faith. She couldn't just curl up in bed and go to sleep on a good day; on a bad one, like this one where she was stranded on a desert island, sleep was even more difficult to find without some way of burning off steam first. In prison, there'd been time for exercise before lights out. Sometimes, that hadn't been enough but there were things that could be done in the privacy of her bunk that took off that Slayer edge, that driving pressing need to hunt and run and just move without boundaries and with freedom.
Truth is, she'd gotten used to the lack of freedom in lockup. Her body adapted and so did her mind; that's what she'd come to believe. Before crashing here, when she was handing a plastic bag containing her belongings and dressed in a dress that looked more like a funeral gown than anything anyone in their right mind would wear, the Slayer beast surged forth, instinctively smelling that elusive freedom. Faith, and her two Watchers, Ms. Blake and Mr. Verlin had spent the first three nights in a posh hotel – Closet Gay Guy, as Faith had dubbed Verlin had his own room of course. The second night, Faith left the hotel to roam the streets, looking for a fight. Finding one hadn't taken long, and when the vampire was dust under her heels, Faith breathed a sigh of relief, thinking, (I'm still me. I’m still a Slayer.)
Blake and Verlin had been less than happy with her nocturnal run. She wondered many times over the course of the next few weeks how it was that they could be Watchers when they clearly didn't even understand what a Slayer was. Only the threat hanging over Angel made her stay with them and do her best to abide by their rules. She pretended it was prison again; it helped.
Seven days ago, the Slayer had finally been set free. Free to roam, free to jump, free to hunt, free to be. Even limiting her roaming to daylight hours after the first close encounter with the Creepy Stalkers because she didn't dare leave Mara unprotected at night, hadn't completely calmed the need and the itch to hunt. The Slayer was a nocturnal creature because her prey moved at night.
Now the awareness of night pressed in on her, a heavy weight pressing upon her chest and her mind. The Slayer felt it and crawled around inside of her skin, clawing and itching to get out, to touch the night and become one with it. (To hunt.) On every level, from the conscious to the subconscious, Faith's being knew that it was night and knew that it was the first night she could completely be the Slayer with no holds barred and still, there was no freedom. Willingly, eagerly, she'd come to this ship and it had been a good thing – she learned who these people were and that they were just as stranded as she was – but she should never have agreed to stay when they bedded down for the night.
Faith was trapped inside this spaceship and as fascinating and cool as it was, it didn't lessen the feeling of entrapment.
The room she'd chosen to sleep in was all leather and suede, hard and polished, yet still felt feminine and had that air of woman to it, and right now it only intensified the itch.
Giving up on capturing illusive sleep, Faith swung her feet to the floor and stalked across the room. The corridor outside was deserted, because no normal person would be awake this time of night, and Faith hovered between relief and disappointment. Someone to actually talk to might be a pleasant distraction.
(Shoulda dragged Ash into the shower with me,) Faith thought, then shelved it. Not now, not yet, she wasn't going that road again, wasn't going back to the time in her life when everything had been divided into the fight-it-or-fuck-it/slay-it-or-lay it category; even her relationship with B had those undercurrents of charged sexual energy and frustration to it. Faith could admit it, wouldn't deny that soft womanly curves every now and again did the job just as well as a man; fortunately, B had never picked up on it so it was one less thing for The Slayer – the first one and foremost – to not hate her for.
She stopped and drew back her hand when she realized that her feet had carried her right to the room that Ash occupied. Unthinkingly, she had approached his room, knowing that a way to cure the itch was right there – and her heart pounded, blood roaring in her ears, her hand trembling as she stared down to where it hovered just over the door. Faith cursed herself, jerked her hand back and back pedaled as quickly as she could. Flirting was safe, playful teasing was all good, but crossing that line – going back to the dirty bump and grind with not a care for anyone's feelings or needs – wasn't. It was a part of her that she'd left behind, a part of her that she'd hated, but had cultivated out of "self-protection" according to her shrink.
It was an instinct that still reared its head when she wasn't careful, something to fall back on that was easy, that didn't require thought or control or attachment.
"It's harder on the outside."
(Yeah, yeah, Angel, I know. I get that. Would be easier if I could talk to you.) Faith gave a soft, rough laugh. (How many fucking slayers need a vampire as their grounding base?)
She found the kitchen and began mechanically going through cupboards. (Fridge is off limits.) Faith found coffee, she found mugs and she found an old Mr. Coffee which actually made her giggle. (Time traveling alien still uses the old reliable.)
Coffee brewing, she sank into a chair and watched it drip down. (Worse thing for insomnia, but it's not like I'm gonna sleep anyway.)
The dripping coffee entranced her. So much so that she was on her feet, back tensed and dropped into a defensive crouch, every predatory instinct in her body on alert when a voice asked from the doorway, "You can't sleep either?"
Meditation had not worked. Tai Chi had not worked. And there wasn't anything to read. Her copy of A Wrinkle in Time, battered and dog-eared, but given and not taken from a fellow inmate was back at her and Mara's makeshift camp, so Faith could not even turn to that as a distraction from the press of insomnia.
The insomnia wasn't anything new to Faith. She couldn't just curl up in bed and go to sleep on a good day; on a bad one, like this one where she was stranded on a desert island, sleep was even more difficult to find without some way of burning off steam first. In prison, there'd been time for exercise before lights out. Sometimes, that hadn't been enough but there were things that could be done in the privacy of her bunk that took off that Slayer edge, that driving pressing need to hunt and run and just move without boundaries and with freedom.
Truth is, she'd gotten used to the lack of freedom in lockup. Her body adapted and so did her mind; that's what she'd come to believe. Before crashing here, when she was handing a plastic bag containing her belongings and dressed in a dress that looked more like a funeral gown than anything anyone in their right mind would wear, the Slayer beast surged forth, instinctively smelling that elusive freedom. Faith, and her two Watchers, Ms. Blake and Mr. Verlin had spent the first three nights in a posh hotel – Closet Gay Guy, as Faith had dubbed Verlin had his own room of course. The second night, Faith left the hotel to roam the streets, looking for a fight. Finding one hadn't taken long, and when the vampire was dust under her heels, Faith breathed a sigh of relief, thinking, (I'm still me. I’m still a Slayer.)
Blake and Verlin had been less than happy with her nocturnal run. She wondered many times over the course of the next few weeks how it was that they could be Watchers when they clearly didn't even understand what a Slayer was. Only the threat hanging over Angel made her stay with them and do her best to abide by their rules. She pretended it was prison again; it helped.
Seven days ago, the Slayer had finally been set free. Free to roam, free to jump, free to hunt, free to be. Even limiting her roaming to daylight hours after the first close encounter with the Creepy Stalkers because she didn't dare leave Mara unprotected at night, hadn't completely calmed the need and the itch to hunt. The Slayer was a nocturnal creature because her prey moved at night.
Now the awareness of night pressed in on her, a heavy weight pressing upon her chest and her mind. The Slayer felt it and crawled around inside of her skin, clawing and itching to get out, to touch the night and become one with it. (To hunt.) On every level, from the conscious to the subconscious, Faith's being knew that it was night and knew that it was the first night she could completely be the Slayer with no holds barred and still, there was no freedom. Willingly, eagerly, she'd come to this ship and it had been a good thing – she learned who these people were and that they were just as stranded as she was – but she should never have agreed to stay when they bedded down for the night.
Faith was trapped inside this spaceship and as fascinating and cool as it was, it didn't lessen the feeling of entrapment.
The room she'd chosen to sleep in was all leather and suede, hard and polished, yet still felt feminine and had that air of woman to it, and right now it only intensified the itch.
Giving up on capturing illusive sleep, Faith swung her feet to the floor and stalked across the room. The corridor outside was deserted, because no normal person would be awake this time of night, and Faith hovered between relief and disappointment. Someone to actually talk to might be a pleasant distraction.
(Shoulda dragged Ash into the shower with me,) Faith thought, then shelved it. Not now, not yet, she wasn't going that road again, wasn't going back to the time in her life when everything had been divided into the fight-it-or-fuck-it/slay-it-or-lay it category; even her relationship with B had those undercurrents of charged sexual energy and frustration to it. Faith could admit it, wouldn't deny that soft womanly curves every now and again did the job just as well as a man; fortunately, B had never picked up on it so it was one less thing for The Slayer – the first one and foremost – to not hate her for.
She stopped and drew back her hand when she realized that her feet had carried her right to the room that Ash occupied. Unthinkingly, she had approached his room, knowing that a way to cure the itch was right there – and her heart pounded, blood roaring in her ears, her hand trembling as she stared down to where it hovered just over the door. Faith cursed herself, jerked her hand back and back pedaled as quickly as she could. Flirting was safe, playful teasing was all good, but crossing that line – going back to the dirty bump and grind with not a care for anyone's feelings or needs – wasn't. It was a part of her that she'd left behind, a part of her that she'd hated, but had cultivated out of "self-protection" according to her shrink.
It was an instinct that still reared its head when she wasn't careful, something to fall back on that was easy, that didn't require thought or control or attachment.
"It's harder on the outside."
(Yeah, yeah, Angel, I know. I get that. Would be easier if I could talk to you.) Faith gave a soft, rough laugh. (How many fucking slayers need a vampire as their grounding base?)
She found the kitchen and began mechanically going through cupboards. (Fridge is off limits.) Faith found coffee, she found mugs and she found an old Mr. Coffee which actually made her giggle. (Time traveling alien still uses the old reliable.)
Coffee brewing, she sank into a chair and watched it drip down. (Worse thing for insomnia, but it's not like I'm gonna sleep anyway.)
The dripping coffee entranced her. So much so that she was on her feet, back tensed and dropped into a defensive crouch, every predatory instinct in her body on alert when a voice asked from the doorway, "You can't sleep either?"
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[Mara] The Messenger (tag Doctor/Rose, open)
Date: 2006-04-20 11:44 pm (UTC)/Well, crap, at least it has his attention./
When he asked his question, she smoothed her hair back self-consciously, leaving several colorful streaks. "I didn't see them anywhere," she said in a tiny voice.
They were waiting for more. She blinked, looked at the painting like it held an explanation, and then said softly, "I don't see with eyes or hear with ears or learn these things from books. I didn't look at a photo album. I d-don't even know what any of it means or who these people are, mostly. I'm just the messenger. As...as usual." She started gathering up her things, leaving the painting behind.
"Yes, but who was the message from?" the Doctor asked gently.
She shouldered her bag and started limping for the hallway, hoping she'd at least get a chance at another shower and an hour's nap before they had to go. She paused and looked the Doctor in the eyes for a moment. "A friend of yours, who doesn't have a voice of her own these days," she said simply. Then she turned to go.
[Rose] The Messenger (tag Mara, open)
Date: 2006-04-21 03:07 am (UTC)Mara's parting words had been a bit enigmatic. Rose knew the Doctor knew lots of people, and she hadn't met many of them. But she had to wonder what friend would send a message through the shy artist... or even could.
She made her way to the kitchen. Coffee she could make, even if it had to do without cream. She eyed the refridgerator with care. Why was she thinking of the locker aliens in Men In Black? Would the sentient mold be blinded if the door ever opend and the fridge light came on?
Oh well. The bread was a week stale, as were the bagals. Not that the toaster would cook them anyhow. So she dug out the pop-tarts, as that was all the rewired chrome contraption would deign to cook. Coffee and Pop-tarts were not the best way to start a morning sure to lead to a long walk. There were crackers and peanut butter. Some wheetabix, but no milk. The milk was apparently evolving into some sort of curdled politician. Would it want to negotiate for ownership of the fridge?