7512/A Bad Dream Request

A Bad Dream Request
Date of Scene:	24 August 2021
Location:	Clarice Ferguson's Quarters
Synopsis:	A nightmare leads to Rahne helping Clarice through the night.
Cast of Characters:	Rahne Sinclair, Clarice Ferguson

---

Rahne Sinclair has posed:
Rahne saw people in the waffle bar and there was just...too...many people. She stole past, skipping on treats, and let her tummy rumble. There's some food stashed in her room.

The text she gets from Clarice reroutes her almost without thought. She frowns, reading as she walks toward the girl's quarters, and finds herself at the door filled with concern.

She listens a moment only, then calls out, "Clary?" She pauses, then texts back even though she's standing right there.

at dr pls open

She stands there, wondering if she should knock, or ring, or use some kind of device. Anyone watching probably thinks she needs to pee.

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    It's pretty late by Genoshan time right now - so Cynthia is curled up in her bed, asleep, when Clarice opens the door to let Rahne in - pulling the woman into a hug. She's damp, from a recent shower, and dressed in an oversized t-shirt that says 'Dino Snore' on it - featuring a dinosaur curled up with a pillow. The arm not hugging Rahne is holding into the arm of a tatty looking monkey stuffed animal.
    "Hey," Clarice says simply and quietly, leaning into the familiar and comforting presence of her friend. Girlfriend? Of Rahne.
    "Thanks," she adds quietly.

Rahne Sinclair has posed:
Rahne is padding along in bare feet, something she tends to do at times. It helps her to be quiet, and saves on shoes. She buries her hands into the back of Clarice's t-shirt, just holding her for a moment in the doorway. It may be possible that someone saw, but the hug is just a hug.

The door closing behind them leaves them in the room with sleepy-Cynthia and the soft glow of whatever lights there are. Perhaps just someone's phone. But Rahne releases Clarice enough to let her see the monkey.

It makes her smile up at Clarice, and to nod at the thanks. She shushes, then whispers, "Of course."

She'd been hoping to nibble some kind of food and then try to get past her own nightmares. But she sees that darkness in Clarice's eyes. Oh honey.

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    "Cynthia's been asleep for hours," Clarice murmurs, gesturing towards her sister's closed door. "I think, anyways. And I- I mean, I've been doing fine. Raven was down, you know, from the gas, so I was handling any urgent matters for the Brotherhood, but she's better now, and-" And that meant she had no more excuse to hold back the terrors. Tears start streaking down her cheeks, though she tries to wipe them away.
    No, no, no. All of this is //behind// her now. Yeah? The Pens are //gone//.
    But were they, really?

Rahne Sinclair has posed:
She'd find Rahne guiding her to her bed, then. Not urgently, but definitely firmly. Rahne's soft, strong hands reaching up to touch her cheeks. She isn't denying the tears. She probably has tears of her own, but something in Rahne's face seems different. It's like she has a reason to live, and nothing will do but you.

"Shhh," the little redhead says. "Thaur be nothin' here but you an' me. An ah'll keep ye safe." Okay? Please believe me. She glances at the exit, a fierceness in her suddenly. Death to anyone who tried to get past.

But not to Clarice. She whispers, "Lay down nae. Es okay."

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    "You, me, and Mucky," Clarice agrees, lifting her stuffed animal for a moment - a ghost of a smile flitting across her features. The bedroom door is still open as Rahne guides her through, and the pair fall onto the large bed. The pillow Clarice pulls towards herself is covered by an old t-shirt - and smells worn, used. It smells of Victor Creed.
    "I can't get the Pens out of my head," she admits quietly, as the two settle in together. Even with the help of a few stiff drinks. "I wish I could."

Rahne Sinclair has posed:
Rahne poits Mucky on the nose, her own eyes kind of tired as well at this point. She takes a moment, since Clarice is yoinking her into bed, to bend down and slip out of her pants. You don't wear pants to bed, that's how you end up tangled.

Oh wait, not everyone shapeshifts when they have bad dreams. Well, whatever. She stands there a moment in her shirt and underpants, then slides into bed. "Do ye want me tae try?" she says, softly. "Ah could sing." She sings? Since when does Rahne sing?

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    Clarice hugs her monkey to her chest with one arm - and wraps the other around Rahne, letting the other woman hug her to her chest. She breathes in deeply - the safe scent of her own bedroom, with its potted plants, and Creed's scent, and over it all Rahne so close and comforting. And the feeling of that long lost toy, only recently returned to her.
    "...sure," she agrees quietly. "Yeah. Sure. My mom used to sing for me..." That still feels like a different lift, belonging to a different girl, in so many ways.

Rahne Sinclair has posed:
There's no way Rahne can do this but one. She brushes Clarice's hair from her eyes, then smiles. Close your eyes, she mouths. Because she's never sung for anyone before. Ever. I mean, unless you count God.

She breathes in, and Clarice would feel it. Then she'd softly sing, as if to keep it close where nobody could hear. This is a private thing.

'I wish I was on yonder hill
'tis there I'd sit and cry my fill,
And every tear would turn a mill,
Iss guh day thoo avorneen slawn.'

She lapses into pure Gaelic, and it sounds like the song was meant to be that way. What it means is lost. The song is hers.

'Shule, shule, shule aroon,
Shule go succir agus, shule go kewn,
Shule go dheen durrus oggus aylig lume,
Iss guh day thoo avorneen slawn.'

She pauses. She breathes. She lets Clarice listen, and the song goes on.

'I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel,
I'll sell my only spinning wheel,
To buy my love a sword of steel
Iss guh day thoo avorneen slawn.'

It goes on.

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    Clarice does close her eyes, but tears still fall slowly and quietly as Rahne sings. She concentrates on her own breathing as tries to be present in the moment - tries desperately to let drop away the memories of the past that haunts her. The singing does help, more than she can express of explain.
    There was no singing in the Pens. The only music in her life came before, or came after. The fact that there's music? That in itself means that things aren't all that bad.

Rahne Sinclair has posed:
'I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,
I wish I had my heart again,
And vainly think I'd not complain,
Iss guh day thoo avorneen slawn.'

'Shule, shule, shule aroon,
Shule go succir agus, shule go kewn,
Shule go dheen durrus oggus aylig lume,
Iss guh day thoo avorneen slawn.'

She trails off then, her fingers simply there. Her voice is, like her, fuzzy and soft. But she's obviously sung this many times, where noone would be allowed to know.

Rahne sang for years, in the place under the church. She sang low, so her father could not hear. She sang for her world, because she had no-one to sing for.

She was beaten for singing. This is a better place, and perhaps, a better song.

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    "Don't stop?" Clarice asks quietly, as the silence begins to grow between them. Her eyes are still closed - but for the moment, her tears have dried as she grips gently to the back of Rahne's shirt.
    Please, please don't stop. Rahne is here, and Mister Creed is near, and she has Mucky again, and there is music. This is a good, safe place, and nothing can harm her here. Nothing.
    "Please? What else do you know?"

Rahne Sinclair has posed:
"They be mostly en gellic," she says softly, her pronounciation of Gaelic being the way the Scots say it. "But ah do know a few." She doesn't fall onto the repertoire of religious songs - not the place, not the time. She can go on, into the night. Perhaps she'll repeat one or two.

For now, she sings about a girl wishing for her mother, with a love who took her away. Oh mother, will you be there when I come home?

Her own mother was not someone that she knew. But it's entirely in another language, so...she gets by.

'A ghaoil, leig dhachaigh gum mhathair mi'

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    The words don't matter. The language doesn't matter. Rahne could be singing her church songs - and Clarice would not care one whit. Music was all that was required, and that it was sung on a familiar and cherished voice? It made it all the more powerful.
    Over time, the grip on Rahne's shirt lessens and goes slack, and her breathing grows more and more regular. Periodically, her hand'll grasp at Rahne's shirt again, before relaxing once more, and between that and her eyes being closed - it's hard to tell when exactly Clarice doses off.
    But she does, in the end, lulled to rest by the power of music. Or the strength of Rahne's loyalty and compassion.

Rahne Sinclair has posed:
She sings, long past the time when Clarice has dozed. This is important, and she has to tear this part of herself. Rahne Sinclair, calling out to the world, sings something that is meant to be sung...inward.

She sings a lullaby, but she sings it to herself. She sings it to Clarice. A song you sing, to give good dreams. Because she finds herself confused, frightened, and worried.

But it's when she sings another song, singing of the dark-haired girl, that she herself starts to close her eyes.

'Dheannain sugradh ris a nighean duibh, n'deidh dhomh eirigh as a 'mhadainn...'

I played with the young dark-haired girl, when I woke in the morning...

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    For several hours - it's enough. The power of the music, of Rahne's close, comforting presence. The stuffed monkey in her arms, and the smell of Mister Creed, and Rahne, and the plants - all mingling together. They are strong, and soothing influences.
    But so is the pain in her past. The badly healed scars that were scrubbed raw and reopened by the sight of those collared and submissive children. By the whiff of that gas that urged her to stop. To submit. To obey.
    Those memories, those thoughts, creep back into her mind, and her dreams. The way she'd mechanically, emotionlessly, torn people and animals apart on command. The painful experiments and procedures to heighten and trigger her gifts.
    And the interminable waiting, and silence, and numbness of those times when she was not needed. When she was just a tool, set to the side, not even truly aware of the passage of time between those moments where she was put to use to end Genosha's enemies.
    She can feel them both - the false calm of that lassitude that had kept her trapped for so many years, and the rising panic at the thought of being trapped once more.
    With a frightened cry, she pushes back against the arms that had been a comforting presence before, but now felt like a trap. She struggles against the sheets, and blankets, scrambling backwards until she hits the floor and still, continues to try to escape, until her back is pressed to the wall. "No. No, no, no!"
    At least she doesn't teleport away?

Rahne Sinclair has posed:
Rahne's eyes hurt. She lets go, of course she'd let go. She isn't even completely sure where she is, the very scent of Clarice in the air is oddly ...odd. She's shifted, she's in her hybrid form. Furry, eyes of gold and brains of mush. Desperate for sleep, she fights it enough to ask, "Clary?"

Oh god, I'm in bed. I'm in her bed. She's afraid. Brain stop.

WE DID NOTHING.

Okay. Scent approves this thought. We did nothing, I'd so smell it I mean I smell it every time I....

Clarice and I. Doing THINGS.

THINGS.

Nope. Going back to the real world.

Rahne shakes herself awake, then starts to fumble her way out of the blankets. See, this is why you don't wear pants to bed. She'd be unable to help if someone needed her in a hurry! She looks down at Clarice, from the edge of the bed. Probably looks like a monster in the dark.

But it's Rahne. "Clary?"

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    "No! No no no, I won't, I can't do it again. I won't do it again. No you can't make me!" Clarice gasps out - her mind still half-trapped in her nightmare. Her hands claw first at her arms, as if trying to pull free IVs, or restraints. Then her fingers go to her throat, where a collar would rest. If her finger nails weren't trimmed so short she'd be leaving deep scratches behind, instead of the welts she's currently raising.
    Her heart is racing, her breathing panicked.
    Why isn't there a collar?

Rahne Sinclair has posed:
She's not trying to be scary, but the yawn that hits Rahne is kind of. Or looks kind of. She pauses, not sure what to do. Well, she knows what to do (hug her) but she's not sure (hug her) if it's oh for god's sakes Rahne.

She shifts to human, then drops to the floor. She kneels, she grabs at Clarice's hands. "No, no, no, it's not real," she offers. She expects to be rejected. Pushed away, or more. She knows she will be.

Whatever. Clarice needs someone, right now. "It's not real, it's not real. You're not there again." She tries to get close. She waits to get hurled away.

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    Rahne has to get close to claim those hands as they grasp at Clarice's throat - and at first, she does try to twist, and squirm, and pull away from the other woman, as tears streak down her cheeks, blurring her vision.
    "No, no. I'm not- I'm not a slave. I'm not a slave. I don't want. I can't- I won't go back I won't go back." She'd die first. She won't go back!
    Little by little the quiet, soothing tones of Rahne's voice - with her distinctive brogue- begin to creep into her awareness.
    "Rahne?" she asks in a tiny voice.

Rahne Sinclair has posed:
She pulls...no, she comes closer. She just joins Clarice, where she is, and whispers over and over, "It's me. It's me." She's not singing now, she's not sure she knows any songs at this point. It's all she can do to be there.

Perhaps this is coming from somewhere else, or she needs Clarice as much as Clarice needs her, but she climbs in close and asks for nothing more. "Not a slave," she affirms. "Not leavin' me." That part, she nods to herself. The floor might not be the most comfortable place, but for a bit it's the right place to be.

And honestly, she feels like she's finally with someone who understands. Because she's a neurotic mess too, and if this had gone differently it WOULD have been her on the floor, in the mess. Crying.

She's here.

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    "I'm not a slave," Clarice repeats quietly - but this time it's in agreement as she wraps her arms tightly around Rahne, burying her face in neck. "Not leaving you - not ever," she adds, as tears start trickling down her cheeks. "Don't leave me?" she asks. "I'm not a monster," she whispers. "I love you. I need you. Rahne..."
    She never wants to let go. Never. Nothing can go wrong here - in this moment.

Rahne Sinclair has posed:
"Always love ye," Rahne murmurs. She has no real urge to get them back up on the bed, honestly the floor is pretty comfy to her. And besides, the bed has a serious flaw. One that makes it kinda useless, and not conducive to sleep.

It doesn't have Clarice in it.

The rest of the words will pass. She's been there, wondering if she's a monster. Told that she's going to hell, a demon, all the things. They pass, if you have one thing that you can hold on to. And, she realizes, she's needed to find that one thing too. But she smiles. Because she has to say...one more thing.

"Next time, could y' do thes at a better time o' night though?"

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    "I'm sorry," Clarice answers - because she isn't sure what else to say. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to- I hoped-" She'd hoped to make it through the night.
    "I'm sorry. I'm broken. They- the things they did to me- I- the things they made me do..." She can't shut them all out, try as she might. And she does try, breathing Rahne's scent in deeply, as she continues to cling to the other woman. "I- you make it quieter."

Rahne Sinclair has posed:
She hugs tighter. Not pulling away, not getting up to pee or eat or drink, she just hugs tighter. "Joke, Clary. Ah dinnae care what time it is. Ye need me. Well, ah need you right back." She clings, just a bit more then. Truth.

"An...you don' need t' hold it in. Y' can cry."

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    "I wish, sometimes... I could just forget. But who would I be?" Would she be a better person? Would she be a stronger person, or a weaker one? "Is that wrong?" she asks - tears streaking her cheeks. Her grip on Rahne still hasn't relaxed - but the pounding of her heart, at least has slowed to a considerable degree. The panic was easing, even if the pain still had her firmly in its grips.

Rahne Sinclair has posed:
Rahne yawns again, even though she's so close. She's listening, but she's also failing. "Clary, ah be sorry.." she mumbles a little, wishing she were a better person. One who could do it all, who could help. Who didn't need sleep. "Ah'm passin out. Could you..watch me, for a bit?"

She looks up, just a little, to try and see Clarice's face in the dark. "Ah dinnae want tae be alone." She hasn't let go either, clinging on tight. Clarice's nightmare...she wasn't the only one.

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    It's hard to peer at Clarice's face - when she has it tucked so tightly against Rahne's neck. But as she feels the other girl pulling back a little, she pulls back as well - mostly so she can kiss Rahne with a deep, desperate need.
    When she pulls back again she finally agrees with, "Yeah. Sure. 'course. I- ummm... Yeah. Neither of us'll be alone," she promises.
    "...back to the bed maybe, though?" Sure, much of her youth had been spent in less than comfortable confines. But she has a bed now and she likes it.
    Besides, her Mister Creed pillow is there...

Rahne Sinclair has posed:
Rahne didn't expect the kiss.

She finds herself leading Clarice back to the bed. In fact, she finds herself pulling the girl down with her, her tiredness a little less pressing. Then, with the Mr Creed pillow beneath their heads, she might just put a few kisses onto Clarice's neck, instead of her mouth.

You awaken the wolf, you get the wolf. And Rahne's eyes are golden, in the dark.