[ Everything gets under his skin these days. It's so easy for words, thoughts, everything to slip past his defenses. A person can only take so many hits before the walls start to come down. Alan's walls are more like rubble now. Rubble, where walls once stood. But somehow, in spite of it all, he's still trying to hold on with whatever he has left. It's not much, but he's still trying. ]
Yeah. Peachy. It's a nice-sounding word, isn't it? [ Better than saying I'm in over my head and just want to run away screaming from everything that looks at me funny.
The gentle touch at his hand and wrist sets off a quiet alarm bell, but Alan manages to suppress it, just barely. He can trust Jesse not to hurt him. He knows that. It's in the pages that he wrote. Scratched out what was written, wrote something else. I trust what I read on these pages. I think. I can hardly trust those anymore. But this is something I trust. I have to be able to trust it. Trust her.
She asks if he did, and he nods. Slowly, but definitively. ] It- It wasn't easy. [ His voice catches and wavers, and he shudders again as a memory flashes into his mind. He hears the narration in his head, but he feels his mouth move as well, echoing the words out loud. Slowly. Hesitantly. Sometimes his voice shakes, but the words just keep on coming.
He's alone in the room with the two ornately decorated windows. He's staring at the windows, looking up at the darkened, cloudy sky. It's always dark here. Cloudy. Stormy.
Wake turned from the window to face the desk. It was empty except for the typewriter, just as he'd left it when he turned to look out the window. But there was a ripple, a flash, and the image changed. A coat hung on the chair as if it had been flung there. Wake was back at the doorway and didn't remember how he'd gotten there.
He approached the desk, one step at a time. His eyes widened. A manuscript sat on the desk. "Return", by Alan Wake. He hadn't written it. Hadn't even started. But it sat there still, looking at him. Staring at him as if the words on the page turned into threatening, mocking eyes. He grabbed the stack of papers and began to read. As he read, he spread the pages out over the desk. There was barely enough room.
No. No, this was wrong. Wake felt a spike of horror. The spikes kept coming. This wasn't the story he wanted. It was a horror story, which made sense. The story had to have a horror element for it to be functional, but this was taking it too far. He rejected the ideas written on the pages. But he hadn't started making his own edits yet. Not until he reached another page about midway through the story.
"No. No, you're not doing that to her. I- I refuse to accept it." Wake's words echoed in the silence of the room. He took hold of a pen that had been placed beside the typewriter. He began to scratch out the words. Slowly at first, but increasing in speed and fever until his movements became wild. Erratic. Uncontrolled. Sometimes a primal scream echoed in the room as Wake's sense of reason and rationality slipped. "I have to change the story. This can't be the story! I promised her I'd..."
The pen stabbed through the paper with the force of Wake's hand as he scratched things out. Crossed out words. Rewrote the words. Drew arrows pointing to where the edits were supposed to go. Had he done this before? Would he do this again with other pages? The manuscript was there. Whole. Complete. Evil. Part of Wake knew he'd have to go through the whole thing, reading it, changing it. Feverishly scratching out the things that were wrong. But for now... for now, it was just this page. This chapter.
He scratched out more words. Wrote other words. Scratching. Writing. Rewriting.
The scene rippled again and the page sat on the desktop. Wake was slumped in the chair. Deflated. Scared, to a degree. But he'd done it. He'd kept his promise.
"I really did it."
Alan's spoken words from the narration echo Jesse's thoughts, but Alan says no more, having reached the end of his own narration. Gray eyes focus once more, zeroing in on her, and he watches her reactions. Wonders how she might feel knowing that he did what he could to fulfill his promise. The story fought him along the way, but he fought back, tapping into an already depleted reservoir of will. The reservoir was emptying, but maybe... maybe it could fill back up again, at least a little.
He watches Jesse, sees the wave of warm tears rolling down her cheeks. Tears because of what he wrote? No, this isn't just because of some scratched in words on a page. It's more than that. Meaningful. Significant. She's letting go. Letting her wall down.
He reaches for her, hands reaching to cover her hands, ignoring the manuscript page she still holds. Not ignoring it. It's important. It's them. But he touches her hands, fingers curling against her hands and the manuscript page both. He squeezes her hands. I've always liked her hands. The thought forms unbidden, but he knows it's true.
With his right hand, he reaches up to touch her face now. Slowly, still hesitantly, but he doesn't wait to complete this action. Fingers brush against her cheeks, wiping away her tears. I- I love her. It's impossible, it shouldn't be happening, but- I love her. Everything about her.
His fingers slide from her cheeks to touch her hair, lightly curling in the strands. But he doesn't push her, doesn't press her to say anything until she's ready. It can just be them in this moment, with no words needed until they're ready to say them. ]
no subject
Yeah. Peachy. It's a nice-sounding word, isn't it? [ Better than saying I'm in over my head and just want to run away screaming from everything that looks at me funny.
The gentle touch at his hand and wrist sets off a quiet alarm bell, but Alan manages to suppress it, just barely. He can trust Jesse not to hurt him. He knows that. It's in the pages that he wrote. Scratched out what was written, wrote something else. I trust what I read on these pages. I think. I can hardly trust those anymore. But this is something I trust. I have to be able to trust it. Trust her.
She asks if he did, and he nods. Slowly, but definitively. ] It- It wasn't easy. [ His voice catches and wavers, and he shudders again as a memory flashes into his mind. He hears the narration in his head, but he feels his mouth move as well, echoing the words out loud. Slowly. Hesitantly. Sometimes his voice shakes, but the words just keep on coming.
He's alone in the room with the two ornately decorated windows. He's staring at the windows, looking up at the darkened, cloudy sky. It's always dark here. Cloudy. Stormy.
Wake turned from the window to face the desk. It was empty except for the typewriter, just as he'd left it when he turned to look out the window. But there was a ripple, a flash, and the image changed. A coat hung on the chair as if it had been flung there. Wake was back at the doorway and didn't remember how he'd gotten there.
He approached the desk, one step at a time. His eyes widened. A manuscript sat on the desk. "Return", by Alan Wake. He hadn't written it. Hadn't even started. But it sat there still, looking at him. Staring at him as if the words on the page turned into threatening, mocking eyes. He grabbed the stack of papers and began to read. As he read, he spread the pages out over the desk. There was barely enough room.
No. No, this was wrong. Wake felt a spike of horror. The spikes kept coming. This wasn't the story he wanted. It was a horror story, which made sense. The story had to have a horror element for it to be functional, but this was taking it too far. He rejected the ideas written on the pages. But he hadn't started making his own edits yet. Not until he reached another page about midway through the story.
"No. No, you're not doing that to her. I- I refuse to accept it." Wake's words echoed in the silence of the room. He took hold of a pen that had been placed beside the typewriter. He began to scratch out the words. Slowly at first, but increasing in speed and fever until his movements became wild. Erratic. Uncontrolled. Sometimes a primal scream echoed in the room as Wake's sense of reason and rationality slipped. "I have to change the story. This can't be the story! I promised her I'd..."
The pen stabbed through the paper with the force of Wake's hand as he scratched things out. Crossed out words. Rewrote the words. Drew arrows pointing to where the edits were supposed to go. Had he done this before? Would he do this again with other pages? The manuscript was there. Whole. Complete. Evil. Part of Wake knew he'd have to go through the whole thing, reading it, changing it. Feverishly scratching out the things that were wrong. But for now... for now, it was just this page. This chapter.
He scratched out more words. Wrote other words. Scratching. Writing. Rewriting.
The scene rippled again and the page sat on the desktop. Wake was slumped in the chair. Deflated. Scared, to a degree. But he'd done it. He'd kept his promise.
"I really did it."
Alan's spoken words from the narration echo Jesse's thoughts, but Alan says no more, having reached the end of his own narration. Gray eyes focus once more, zeroing in on her, and he watches her reactions. Wonders how she might feel knowing that he did what he could to fulfill his promise. The story fought him along the way, but he fought back, tapping into an already depleted reservoir of will. The reservoir was emptying, but maybe... maybe it could fill back up again, at least a little.
He watches Jesse, sees the wave of warm tears rolling down her cheeks. Tears because of what he wrote? No, this isn't just because of some scratched in words on a page. It's more than that. Meaningful. Significant. She's letting go. Letting her wall down.
He reaches for her, hands reaching to cover her hands, ignoring the manuscript page she still holds. Not ignoring it. It's important. It's them. But he touches her hands, fingers curling against her hands and the manuscript page both. He squeezes her hands. I've always liked her hands. The thought forms unbidden, but he knows it's true.
With his right hand, he reaches up to touch her face now. Slowly, still hesitantly, but he doesn't wait to complete this action. Fingers brush against her cheeks, wiping away her tears. I- I love her. It's impossible, it shouldn't be happening, but- I love her. Everything about her.
His fingers slide from her cheeks to touch her hair, lightly curling in the strands. But he doesn't push her, doesn't press her to say anything until she's ready. It can just be them in this moment, with no words needed until they're ready to say them. ]