[ Something in Alan's mind urges him to keep pulling, to keep fighting against the door that won't budge, but something makes him pause: not stop, just pause. Jesse's fingers against his wrist causes him to pause. He can feel her; he can feel the brush of her fingers even through the door that separates their realities.
I can feel her. She's real, and she's here.
He opens his mouth to say something else, to give a desperate description of a desperate man who's sabotaged himself when everything was on the line, but he cuts off when she barks out the order for him to stop. He doesn't just stop; he freezes in place, a startled look falling into place in his eyes. He's not afraid of her, but she surprised him with the force behind her words.
Slowly, he stills and grows quiet, the words he was going to say fading in response to her order to just stop. His eyes shift to her hand that's tugging hard on his wrist; if getting his attention was her goal, she succeeded, as every sense, every inch of him is focused on her. Almost automatically, he moves as ordered, moving to the side of the door, doing his best to get into position. Once there, he waits too, waiting to see what she'll do next... waiting to see what will happen next. He'd be a fool to think that the Dark Presence will simply let her pull him out of this prison, out of this dark realm, but he can't lie and say he doesn't hope that she'll manage it.
His breath catches in his throat the second that he sees her move and notices the door beginning to move as well. It's slow, barely an inch at a time, but it's moving. It's really moving.
But no sooner does that thought form in Alan's mind than he feels something else, something terrible and terrifying and- No... We're so close, why now?
A chill moves down Alan's spine as well, and his gray eyes suddenly widen in fear. He can feel the darkness coming, and he can feel how angry it is. It suddenly forms into a dark menacing cloud and pushes against the door, aiming to close it and keep it closed. ]
I won't let you do this, not when we're this close!
[ The darkness senses Alan's anger and his stubborn will to fight back, and it doesn't like that. It doesn't want the writer to fight. It wants him to just stay still and let it pull him back under its enticing dark waves. Dark tendrils seem to try to circle themselves around Alan in order to pull him away from the door and away from the source of the resonance on the other side. The darkness doesn't like the resonance; it doesn't like the brightness. It can't lose the writer to that cursed brightness. He belongs in the dark; he's always belonged in the dark.
Once again, Alan seems to be caught in the middle, a pawn that the darkness wants, but he desperately tries to reject the darkness in an effort to break its hold. I don't want the darkness anymore; I don't want to be its pawn... I don't want to be a character in this insane story!
The darkness screeches through the Hotline, and while Alan may not be able to hear that specific screech, he registers another one, an angrier, more violent one. The darkness is angry, and it's not about to let Alan slip from its clutches.
The door has moved, and it's open wide enough now for a man to slip through. Alan can slip through, and as soon as he feels her reaching out, trying to pull him through the opening in the door, he moves. He tries to force himself through the gap in the door, knowing this is their last chance. This opening won't stay an opening forever, and so he has to move now.
But the darkness doesn't like that; it senses that it's about to lose the writer, and it dials up its efforts to 11. Well, if a dark entity can do that, anyway. Thick clouds of darkness form, swirling around and through Alan, trying to lure him back in. Luring him back to the sleep-that-isn't-sleep that waits for him under the waves.
Come back home, Alan. I'm waiting for you.
A voice that's not screeching or yelling echoes in his mind. It's eerily calm, almost too calm, but it needs the writer to come back. To stay.
Alan coughs as the darkness seems to grow thick around him, and he knows if he doesn't make it through the door soon, it'll be too late. It'll be over. He'll be gone and the darkness will be in control again: Scratch will be at the wheel, and that just can't happen.
More coughing echoes around the Writer's Room and carries through the gap in the doorway as Alan desperately tries to fight his way through to join Jesse on the other side. It's less joining her and more her trying to drag him from one reality into another, but he's doing his best to fight.
He feels something strange, as if Jesse's been pushed away from the door and further into wherever she is (the motel, probably, if his memory is still correct.. Not likely, these days...), but somehow, her grip on his wrist hasn't been broken. It's the last bit of hope that he has, the last thing connecting him to her, and armed with that last hope, he pushes himself forward, through the door, and-
Thud.
He feels himself colliding with her, propelled forward by the force of the momentum of his movements, and the door slams shut behind him with an almost colossal boom. He bends over, hands coming to rest against his knees as he tries to catch his breath, barely resisting the urge to shut his eyes against what he's certain he'll see: dark clouds expelling themselves from his lungs with each shaky breath.
Before he's really ready to speak again, he manages to say just one thing, and it sounds like more of a gasp than a spoken name: ]
no subject
I can feel her. She's real, and she's here.
He opens his mouth to say something else, to give a desperate description of a desperate man who's sabotaged himself when everything was on the line, but he cuts off when she barks out the order for him to stop. He doesn't just stop; he freezes in place, a startled look falling into place in his eyes. He's not afraid of her, but she surprised him with the force behind her words.
Slowly, he stills and grows quiet, the words he was going to say fading in response to her order to just stop. His eyes shift to her hand that's tugging hard on his wrist; if getting his attention was her goal, she succeeded, as every sense, every inch of him is focused on her. Almost automatically, he moves as ordered, moving to the side of the door, doing his best to get into position. Once there, he waits too, waiting to see what she'll do next... waiting to see what will happen next. He'd be a fool to think that the Dark Presence will simply let her pull him out of this prison, out of this dark realm, but he can't lie and say he doesn't hope that she'll manage it.
His breath catches in his throat the second that he sees her move and notices the door beginning to move as well. It's slow, barely an inch at a time, but it's moving. It's really moving.
But no sooner does that thought form in Alan's mind than he feels something else, something terrible and terrifying and- No... We're so close, why now?
A chill moves down Alan's spine as well, and his gray eyes suddenly widen in fear. He can feel the darkness coming, and he can feel how angry it is. It suddenly forms into a dark menacing cloud and pushes against the door, aiming to close it and keep it closed. ]
I won't let you do this, not when we're this close!
[ The darkness senses Alan's anger and his stubborn will to fight back, and it doesn't like that. It doesn't want the writer to fight. It wants him to just stay still and let it pull him back under its enticing dark waves. Dark tendrils seem to try to circle themselves around Alan in order to pull him away from the door and away from the source of the resonance on the other side. The darkness doesn't like the resonance; it doesn't like the brightness. It can't lose the writer to that cursed brightness. He belongs in the dark; he's always belonged in the dark.
Once again, Alan seems to be caught in the middle, a pawn that the darkness wants, but he desperately tries to reject the darkness in an effort to break its hold. I don't want the darkness anymore; I don't want to be its pawn... I don't want to be a character in this insane story!
The darkness screeches through the Hotline, and while Alan may not be able to hear that specific screech, he registers another one, an angrier, more violent one. The darkness is angry, and it's not about to let Alan slip from its clutches.
The door has moved, and it's open wide enough now for a man to slip through. Alan can slip through, and as soon as he feels her reaching out, trying to pull him through the opening in the door, he moves. He tries to force himself through the gap in the door, knowing this is their last chance. This opening won't stay an opening forever, and so he has to move now.
But the darkness doesn't like that; it senses that it's about to lose the writer, and it dials up its efforts to 11. Well, if a dark entity can do that, anyway. Thick clouds of darkness form, swirling around and through Alan, trying to lure him back in. Luring him back to the sleep-that-isn't-sleep that waits for him under the waves.
Come back home, Alan. I'm waiting for you.
A voice that's not screeching or yelling echoes in his mind. It's eerily calm, almost too calm, but it needs the writer to come back. To stay.
Alan coughs as the darkness seems to grow thick around him, and he knows if he doesn't make it through the door soon, it'll be too late. It'll be over. He'll be gone and the darkness will be in control again: Scratch will be at the wheel, and that just can't happen.
More coughing echoes around the Writer's Room and carries through the gap in the doorway as Alan desperately tries to fight his way through to join Jesse on the other side. It's less joining her and more her trying to drag him from one reality into another, but he's doing his best to fight.
He feels something strange, as if Jesse's been pushed away from the door and further into wherever she is (the motel, probably, if his memory is still correct.. Not likely, these days...), but somehow, her grip on his wrist hasn't been broken. It's the last bit of hope that he has, the last thing connecting him to her, and armed with that last hope, he pushes himself forward, through the door, and-
Thud.
He feels himself colliding with her, propelled forward by the force of the momentum of his movements, and the door slams shut behind him with an almost colossal boom. He bends over, hands coming to rest against his knees as he tries to catch his breath, barely resisting the urge to shut his eyes against what he's certain he'll see: dark clouds expelling themselves from his lungs with each shaky breath.
Before he's really ready to speak again, he manages to say just one thing, and it sounds like more of a gasp than a spoken name: ]
... Jesse?