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You Are Not On Solid Ground
May. 30th, 2014 11:10 pmThey're in Stiles' blue Jeep, sitting in the car by the abandoned trailer that had been his home not so very many months ago. It's not where he needs to go, not where they're heading to, but he needed the solace; a moment's rest after coming back here to let the memories surge and settle. He's talked- vaguely- about what had happened. He hasn't told Stiles the hard parts, the important things. Part of it is because it's still too new, too raw, too much pain and hurt. The other part is that Stiles never made him feel like he had to. Eventually he sighs and jerks his head toward the road.
"Just follow this road through town. It's the big fucking mansion -- pretty hard to miss."
He hadn't been able to get Roman out of his head. Even with three thousand miles between them, he'd still been in his dreams. He'd still had those dreams that rang with that prescient glimmer, that truth that he'd whispered to Destiny: we dream the same dreams. And then he'd dreamed of him the night before he'd tried to sneak off alone, and it had been dark, and filled with terror. Corridors and mirrors and skeleton's hands crooked like they meant to strangle. Something was wrong. Something was rising from the dirt and the roots of the Hemlocks. He'd felt it there before: an old power, darker than Christina's rage, but it had seemed less immediate at the time.
Now, suddenly, it was imperative because Roman was here, he was alone, and there was this feeling clutching in his gut like he needed to be here. Even if it was the last place he wanted to be. He'd run. He'd left him behind, without so much as a sorry or I can't. He'd left him, left him to find the trailer stripped bare and the threads of his hair in the sink as his only farewell. It had been shitty, unforgivable, but if he'd tried to say good bye, Roman would never have let him leave.
At least, that's what he told himself.
"You might... not want to come in," he admitted when they pulled up in front of the towering house, Peter scratching fingers against his jaw. "I don't think he's going to be very pleased to see me." His blue eyes a little bleak as he looked over at Stiles.
"Just follow this road through town. It's the big fucking mansion -- pretty hard to miss."
He hadn't been able to get Roman out of his head. Even with three thousand miles between them, he'd still been in his dreams. He'd still had those dreams that rang with that prescient glimmer, that truth that he'd whispered to Destiny: we dream the same dreams. And then he'd dreamed of him the night before he'd tried to sneak off alone, and it had been dark, and filled with terror. Corridors and mirrors and skeleton's hands crooked like they meant to strangle. Something was wrong. Something was rising from the dirt and the roots of the Hemlocks. He'd felt it there before: an old power, darker than Christina's rage, but it had seemed less immediate at the time.
Now, suddenly, it was imperative because Roman was here, he was alone, and there was this feeling clutching in his gut like he needed to be here. Even if it was the last place he wanted to be. He'd run. He'd left him behind, without so much as a sorry or I can't. He'd left him, left him to find the trailer stripped bare and the threads of his hair in the sink as his only farewell. It had been shitty, unforgivable, but if he'd tried to say good bye, Roman would never have let him leave.
At least, that's what he told himself.
"You might... not want to come in," he admitted when they pulled up in front of the towering house, Peter scratching fingers against his jaw. "I don't think he's going to be very pleased to see me." His blue eyes a little bleak as he looked over at Stiles.
