Disclaimer: People and stuff belong to Marvel and all that. Just a little, very short vignette that's been sitting in my hard drive doing nothing but gathering dust. Well, not really sitting or really gathering dust, but anyway... Feedback would, of course, be appreciated. Thanks to all the nice people who looked at this at some point or other. And Joannie, this one's for you. :)
Perchance to Dream
by Cosmic
Dreams were a funny thing. But they were an important thing.
She had believed in the Dream for as long as she could remember, for as long as she had been here. The Dream had always been dear to her, the vision, the hope of a better, new world appealing to her. Something inside her had longed to find that dream and the peace that would come with it.
The professor had given her a Dream, something to believe in. That was important. She wasn't a self-proclaimed goddess anymore. Not unless she had to be one.
And she did have to, because that was the only way to stay in command, to keep everyone alive. By distancing herself, by being the weather goddess, who rode with the winds.
_Windrider._ She could almost hear his voice in that. Almost, but not quite. A soft whisper. Like a prayer.
There were some dreams worth having. Some dreams that were worth their price. Even he believed so, even if not quite in the same way as she did.
So she did.
So she dreamed. So she dreamed of him. Of a house and a garden and a dog and a white picket fence. Maybe something else, as well.
Of touches that were but a faded memory, withered by time and space and longing she so often denied. How just the tips of his fingers touching the tips of hers had sent shivers down her spine. Electricity. Like they still did, in her dreams.
Of calm eyes watching her. Loving eyes. Black as the night. The look he gave her causing another set of shivers and tremors. Knowing eyes revealing all he thought and felt, eyes that even in dreams were powerful and a window to his soul. Flickering in the light, dancing with amusement.
Of steady hands, one real and the other artificial, working their way through the knots in her shoulders, every touch calming, yet tantalizing. Healing, yet seductive.
Of strong arms, wrapped around her in a tender embrace, taking all her pain away. Warmth coursing through his veins, chasing away the cold she felt in hers. Strong hands, long fingers, callused by hard work and even harder times.
Of long, silky black hair, brushing up against her shoulders. The sharp contrast of color in his hair and hers. Dark eyebrows, arching up at her in amusement.
Of his voice, the rich contents of speech, the rhythm of the words. Her body turning into mush by his whisper of her name. Like a dream.
But the cruel reality of dreams, no matter how peaceful and loving, or hateful and bitter, dark or light, filled with laughter or tears, was that at some point, you had to wake up.
So she did.
And she tried to forget her dreams and their whispers and chants of memories. She didn't need that. She tried and she failed, and the whispers of memories and dreams chipped her spirit, chipped her interior, waiting for the exterior to crack, as well.
She tried and she failed but still carried on, living, fighting, for a Dream she didn't believe as earnestly as she once did. For a Dream even she knew if not yet in her heart, then in her mind. She knew and she still fought, still kept fighting.
Because she had nothing else to fight for. Nothing but dreams.