applesaucedream | A Time to Rise and a Time to Fall [Open to Multiple]

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A Time to Rise and a Time to Fall [Open to Multiple]

Greta dreams of falling (again, and again).

The path ends abruptly. Maybe there never was a path, only a deceptive stretch of ground, free of any undergrowth, that looked like it could be one. Either way, she's left standing on the edge of a sheer cliff, looking down at the leaf-strewn forest floor far below her. A small rock tumbles down, as if for the sole purpose of illustrating the length of the drop. It seems to take ages to reach the bottom, clattering off exposed roots and finally thudding to the ground.

There's a roaring in her ears like a great wind, but it isn't the wind. The earth shudders beneath her feet. She reaches out wildly for something on which to steady herself, knowing even as she does so that she'll miss; she always misses, it's so stupid. Maybe she deserves whatever comes next.

But she doesn't miss. Her hand closes around something - not a branch. An arm? Whatever it is, she isn't letting go.

[ooc: whoops, Greta's dropped into your dream. Or you've dropped into hers. Whether you want them both to be in her giant-plagued forest or in a setting more familiar to your character is up to you. Poor Greta's just gonna have to roll with it either way.]

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"Really?" Sara Jane drops the compact into her lap, rapt. "Have you ever MET a prince? Oh, wouldn't that be something?"

The Balladeer coughs something that sounds suspiciously like 'number six'.

Sara Jane laughs, a little. "Well, you wouldn't catch me divorcing a PRINCE easy. And don't you get too comfortable, I'm not finished with you yet." She points at the Balladeer, in a way that would seem like a joke if everyone here didn't know that she's armed and potentially dangerous.

Well. Greta never imagined she'd be on the receiving end of any questions about the Princes (let alone that she'd have anything to say). "I, er… I have, actually," she admits. She might be blushing. Scratch that, she is definitely blushing. 'Met' is an awfully forgiving term for it. "There are two in the kingdom, but I've only, er, met one."

Honestly, she wouldn't be saying any of this at all, but if she can distract Sara Jane from whatever plans she might have for the Balladeer, it might be worth the embarrassment.

"Really?"

Sara Jane leans forward, having obviously seen the blush. The Balladeer's raising an eyebrow as well, glancing between the two of them. He has a vague feeling that he's watching Greta get thrown under the bus. At the very least, the lady assassin does seem utterly distracted. "Was he cute? I bet he was cute."

"Sara, I don't think - "

She flaps a hand at the Balladeer's attempt at interference. "You hush. This is between us women."

Oh, dear. She might be distracting Sara Jane, but at what cost? Greta shoots the Balladeer a look that lands somewhere between 'you owe me' and 'for goodness' sake help,' then reluctantly turns back to the other woman, cheeks practically crimson.

"He was very charming," she says diplomatically, fiddling with her husband's scarf. Altogether too charming, really. "And… handsome, yes."

"Aaaaaaaaand?" Sara asks leadingly, leaning in closer.

Okay, that's clearly been enough of this. "So!" The Balladeer says brightly, and loudly. "What brings you here, Sara Jane? Not going to go help Hinckley out?"

"Johnny? Pfffff, no. He's fiiiiiine." If nothing else, Sara Jane Moore seems pretty easily distractable. She reaches for her large bag again and starts to rummage around in it, talking as she does. "We were all looking around for you after you ran off, and we figured hey - there's ONLY so many places he could have gone! Squeaky said we didn't need the both of us in one place, so I thought I'd just come over here and help out. Don't look so grim, I'm not going to kill you right now." She snorts, as if the idea is ridiculous. "John'd be pissed!"

Oh, thank goodness. Greta lets out a breath when the subject shifts away from the Prince… and back to visiting violence upon the Balladeer. Does it have to be one or the other with these people? Honestly.

"I don't understand why you'd want to kill him at all," Greta protests, frowning. 'Talking back' doesn't seem like a severe enough offense - not that she ought to be expecting any kind of sense from any of these people, but still. "Don't you need him to tell your stories?"

"That's what I said," the Balladeer agrees, though perhaps he didn't say so in quite so many words. He'd always thought it was understood. If not for that, after all, Booth probably would have shot him a while ago. "Come on, you know what I do. If it weren't important, I wouldn't be here. It's more for YOUR benefit than mine."

Sara Jane takes no immediate notice of either, still digging through her bag. "I know, I know. But John's got to have something in mind! He's been talking with that guy who sells the guns lately - oh, no, that isn't it..."

Something in mind? What could he possibly have in mind? They can't just hire a replacement - and anyway it's hardly his fault history looks poorly on them. "You're really just shooting the messenger," the Balladeer says, and instantly regrets his choice of words. "Nothing you do is going to change history. It just doesn't work like - what are you looking for?" She's obviously not really listening to him...is she going for her weapon?

"Oh, you know. There's just so much crap in here..." With a deafening bang, a hole explodes out of the side of the bag, and blood spurts from the side of the Balladeer's shoulder. "Ah! Found it!"

The downside to the conversation moving away from her is that Greta's rather left behind, unable to entirely follow what's going on. It seems she and the Balladeer are in agreement, at least - it even sounds as if Sara Jane sees their point regarding his importance, here - but Booth is still… what, planning something? Ugh. She is really not a fan of Mister Booth.

The gun's report is a terrible shock, far louder and more alarming than the ones outside. Greta lets out a little scream - she can't help herself - and scrambles halfway to her feet before tripping on her own skirts and sitting back down heavily. It's only then that she registers hot dampness on her sleeve and thinks to look down.

There's blood on her dress.

She touches her fingertips to it in bemusement. Is she hurt? She doesn't feel hurt, but with her ears still ringing and her heart still racing, it's possible that she could be and the pain just hasn't registered, yet. But there's no pain, and the blood is the only damage to her dress. Nothing has struck her - no 'slug' or what have you. Where on earth is the blood coming from?

She looks to the Balladeer for guidance - it's becoming something of an automatic response, now - and it's only then that she sees the crimson stain soaking into his shirt. It was never her blood to begin with; it was his. He's hurt.

"Oh, no," she breathes, floundering over to him. "Oh, no." She hesitates for only a moment before gritting her teeth and pressing her palm over where she guesses the wound must be. It will hurt, and she is sorry for that, but she has to slow the bleeding. Turning an accusatory glare on Sara Jane, she snaps, "Why did you do this?!"

The Balladeer is already holding a hand over the wound, blood seeping between his fingers as he stares wide-eyed at Sara Jane. "You shot me." He sounds shocked, and Greta will feel that he's starting to shake.

"I didn't MEAN to!" Sara Jane squawks in return. She got the gun out now, but is holding it in her lap, not pointed at them yet. "I mean not NOW - shit, is he okay?"

She shifts, leaning forward to try to look at the injury, and the Balladeer tries to scoot backwards away from her attentions. "No! You just SHOT me!"

No no no, this is awful, how did this happen? Greta rests her other hand against the Balladeer's back, hoping to offer some small comfort. He's trembling, she can feel it plainly, and a sudden swell of protective fury rises within her. Her child isn't here, but her instinctive desire to keep him safe is quick enough to attach itself to the Balladeer, instead. She rounds on Sara Jane, holding her bloody hand out like a ward. "Stay away from him!" she barks, with such force that she's distantly surprised with herself.

Well, there's no time for embarrassment. She tears at the hem of her skirt, removing a wide strip of cloth and folding it over itself several times into an impromptu bandage. "It's all right," she insists in an unsteady undertone, tugging off the scarf. "Look, we can bind it." That will work, right? It has to.

"Je-sus!" Sara Jane rocks back on her heels. "You don't need to be like that. I don't want to kill him either."

"Right now," the Balladeer says, trying to keep an eye on her while watching Greta bind the wound. He doesn't think the bullet is still in there; it's grazed him, strange as that is to think with how much it hurts, and how much blood there is. He has a sudden flashback to Garfield's long, lingering death. Thank god it just grazed him. "You don't want to kill me right now," he insists. "You don't even know what Booth wants - Greta, come on." He tries to get to his feet, though rising makes him feel abruptly light-headed. "We should go."

Her hands are shaking, but they move with swift surety as she keeps the bulk of her attention on Sara Jane, making sure the woman keeps her distance. She only looks back at the Balladeer's shoulder to knot the ends of the scarf together, and then she's vaguely surprised at how quickly she put it together. It all looks a bit slapdash, and her skirt and the scarf are dark enough that it's hard to tell how much blood might be soaking through, but at least it's something.

Greta can't say she approves of the Balladeer lurching to his feet, but she also very much likes the idea of them getting out of here. She moves to stand beneath his uninjured arm, propping him up a bit with one hand at his back and the other on his chest. "Yes, we should," she says quietly. "But where?" That place where he goes to rest? Is that too obvious? She doesn't want to suggest anything where Sara Jane might overhear.

The Balladeer lets her prop him up, leaning on her for a few seconds until his vision clears and he can steady himself. That can't possibly be blood loss, can it? Maybe it's shock. But he's fine now, he's totally fine. Yep.

"I don't know," he admits, thoughts racing as he tries to consider their options. Between is right out; if there's any assassins not out looking for him, they'll be waiting there. The Exposition? They might be able to hide in the crowds for a while.

"There's not too many places you can go," Sara Jane agrees, rising to her feet as well. She's holding the gun loosely in her hand, but makes no moves towards them. "But look, if you wanna take him up to a room and clean up, you go right ahead. John's already not gonna be too happy about this." She frowns contemplatively. The Balladeer can understand - the man's got a temper - but he rather viciously hopes Booth is annoyed.

It's a relief when he straightens, but she sticks close and keeps her arm at his back in case it doesn't last. She doesn't think he's lost that much blood, but heaven knows what else getting hit with a gun might do to someone.

Oh, this is an inn. Greta looks around the lobby with that helpful bit of context in mind, and… yes, there's a stairway that must lead to rooms. There might be clean towels and running water up there - and they'd be getting away from Sara Jane and whoever else might show up in the meantime.

"Right. We'll do that." She steers the Balladeer toward the staircase. At least he seems steadier on his feet, so he should be able to climb with only a little assistance. As they mount the stairs, she mutters, "Can you still do the whole travel thing? Even when you're injured?" She has no idea how that works, either.

But at least she knows how inns work, and when the first door that she tries opens easily, she guides the Balladeer into the - oh, look, there's an entire bathroom. Perfect. "Sit," she orders, cranking on the hot water and letting it run, "and let's have a look at you."

The Balladeer is, indeed, steady enough to manage the stairs without much help. It's really lucky that he was hit in the arm and not the leg; that would probably make it nigh-impossible for both of them to escape anything. "I'm not sure," he replies, voice strained with pain. "I've never tried. Don't see why I couldn't."

It isn't exactly a physically taxing endeavor. At least, he's pretty sure it's not. True, he's never tried it injured, or even multiple times in quick succession, but then he's never had cause to do that either. This will be a day of experimentation.

He sits on the toilet lid, turning to check the wound again. It's hard to tell how bad it is with the dark bandage wrapped around it - but it hurts like hell. "We need to disinfect it," he says, once again flashing back to Garfield. This is not anywhere near as bad as that bullet wound. He's just seen an awful lot of fatal shootings.

Greta gives her hands a quick rinse under the tap - the bloodier of the two had started to get unpleasantly tacky - then sets about unpicking the knot she'd tied in the scarf and unwinding her hasty bit of binding. His shoulder looks a mess, but it might not be that bad beneath all the blood and the torn sleeve. She tsks quietly, then soaks a washcloth so she can start cleaning away the blood. It'll be easier to pull his shirt away from the wound when it's damp, too.

Truth be told, having something practical to do is a bit of a relief. Greta's not a healer by any stretch, but she has a good enough grasp of basic first aid. She winces sympathetically at the sizable graze along his arm, once things are clean enough for her to make it out. Poor fellow; that really must hurt.

She carefully peels his sleeve away from the wound, lips pursed in general disapproval. "This might need to come off," she says, giving the shirt a pointed tug, "at least until we've bound it properly." Under less dire circumstances, she'd probably be embarrassed by the idea; as it is, she's too busy being worried (and quietly furious) to care about anything as currently trivial as propriety.

As for disinfecting, she barely knows what that means. "What would work for that?" she asks as she rinses out the washcloth.

The Balladeer nods, already in the process of unbuttoning his shirt. It's a hell of a lot easier than trying to keep the sleeve free. "I guess we can just use the soap," he says as he slips his good arm out of its sleeve, nodding towards the sink where he figures there should be some. That's probably going to sting, but he'd rather that than infection.

Speaking of stinging, he hisses in pain as he carefully extricates his wounded shoulder from the rest of his shirt. Once it's off, he tosses it into the tub and peers down at the wound with a grimace. Lucky he's never been squeamish about blood, though he'd kill for some painkillers. "We're not going to be able to stay here forever."

Greta nods, a little bemused but mostly reassured: soap was part of the plan, anyway, so this just means she won't have to rummage around for anything extra. Once the washcloth is as rinsed as it's going to get, she gives it a brisk rub with the soap.

"This might sting a bit," she warns, probably needlessly, before she starts washing out the wound as gently as she can while still getting the job done. "And no, we're not." She glances up to his face, brow furrowed, before returning her focus to the job at hand. "You said they could follow you to your… resting place." Is there any way to say that phrase without making it sound like some inhuman thing's lair as opposed to the closest thing to a home he has? "I don't suppose there's anywhere you could go where they can't follow you."

Another rinse of the washcloth, another careful wipe-down to clear away the soap. That's as clean as the wound is likely to get. She hands the Balladeer another folded-up washcloth to press over the wound while she tears up a hand towel for more bandages. What options do they have? There was the memorial, and before that, the gallows, and before that, the Woods...

… Wait.

Greta freezes mid-tear, looking up at the Balladeer. There's some sort of important revelation hovering at the edge of her awareness. "How are we both in your world in the first place?" she asks. "I was… I was in the Woods before I met you at the gallows." Did the Rift bring her here? Why would it do that?

The Balladeer hisses as the washcloth meets his shoulder, but holds himself still to let Greta work. Resting place, he needs to work out a real name for it now that there's other people involved. That makes it sound like he's some kind of subterranean monster. "No. I follow them more than anything." Unless someone shoots a president there, he's not likely to just hop to a new location.

He takes the second cloth and presses it over the wound. "Were you?" He HAD been wondering that - he'd asked her how she got here, he remembers, but then Guiteau came along and they both got caught up in all this. "I don't know. This..." He frowns, brow furrowing in thought. "This shouldn't happen. This doesn't happen, random people getting caught up in this. Sara Jane had a point, I don't talk to people outside of them."

"And we were in Manhattan - we met there." She finishes tearing up the hand towel in a few brisk motions, mind attempting to race and managing more of an excitable limp. Why is thinking so difficult? She frowns as she rewraps his shoulder. "So… either the Rift decided to bring us both home, and--and changed its mind to bring me here, or…"

Or? There's another option. There has to be. And it's just there. She ties off the last bit of bandaging, her gaze going distant as she straightens and gives the Balladeer an absent-minded, maternal pat on the head (all done, there's a good lad). There was some other situation, nothing like this one except for the part where it didn't make any sort of sense. Greta turns back toward the bathroom door, the back of her hand pressed to her forehead as she thinks.

Giants. Everything was giant. And there were those cats.

"Dream!" she says, whirling back around in excitement. "We're dreaming, it's all--that's what this is!"

The Balladeer gives her a slightly bemused smile at the pat, then turns to inspect his shoulder, touching it cautiously. Yep, still stings, but a careful shrug hurts less than it did before. He can move all he needs to; he'll just have to make sure not to sling his instrument over...

"Wait, what?" He turns to face her, brows raised almost to his hairline. "A dream? I - I guess that's not actually much weirder than everything else," he mutters. Why not a dream? "How did you get in my dream?" It must be his, after all; she didn't know about any of this.

Greta considers his question for a beat, then shrugs. "I don't know. This has only happened to me once before. The Rift?" That seems like a safe enough guess.

Anyway, the 'how' doesn't seem as important as what they're going to do with this information. "If it's your dream, maybe you can change it," she suggests, retrieving his shirt from the tub and handing it to him. "So we could go anywhere at all. We wouldn't just be limited to your usual places." Right? She honestly has no idea how this works, and her last dream experience didn't exactly strike her has malleable. But it hadn't seemed like her dream, either, whereas this time, it's clear enough who's in charge (so to speak).

That makes as much sense as anything.

He takes the shirt, turning it over to frown at the bloodstains soaked through one side of it. "Right..." he says thoughtfully, running his thumb over the darkened cloth. Maybe it's a nightmare. "Right. That makes sense. I would never have thought to try that, but - "

There's a pounding at the door, and without thought he grabs for her hand and pushes again. He doesn't know where he's going; he's never been anywhere but his usual places, and of course Manhattan now. So he just aims away, past his 'resting place' and sidestepping anything that looks familiar.

The blackness lasts longer this time, and feels heavier, but when they emerge they're ankle-deep in water, standing on the bank of a wide, unknown river. The sun is high, and all that's visible around them is the bright green of a forest - not a Wood, but more wild at least than Central Park. The Balladeer stumbles a little in surprise - that water's cold - but then laughs in delight as he looks around them. That's it! He's done it! "I have no idea where we are right now!"

Greta starts when someone pounds on the door. The Balladeer's hand closes around hers, and she sucks in a breath as she looks for where she set down the scarf - it's there, by the sink, just out of reach, but before she can even try to grab for it, they're somewhere else entirely.

It's just a dream. It doesn't matter. It isn't even real; the real scarf is safe in her apartment. There's no cause for her to be upset. Still, she presses her lips together tightly, relieved that the darkness hides her expression.

She staggers a bit upon landing, both pulled by the Balladeer's stumbling and by the sudden tug of a cold current around her ankles. Goodness. It's a good thing they didn't show up a bit deeper in the river; they might have been bowled right over. "You did it," she says, a bit breathlessly, as she looks out across the river, then towards the nearby shore. It's not the Woods, but it is a wood, and that puts it well above the other places they've been. She slogs up onto the little strip of rocky beach between the water and the undergrowth. "They shouldn't be able to find us here."

She has no idea if that's true, actually, but maybe saying it will make it true.

"No!" He's breathless with relief and pain all at once, sharp cold lancing up and down his arm. "They shouldn't. How could they?"

Slower, he turns to follow her to shore, staring up in amazement at the sky and the trees. It's not such a feat; this IS just a dream. If he ever ends up back home, he doubts he'll be able to replicate this for real. But it's nice to have for now. The Balladeer finds a rock and sits down, his shirt still crumpled up in one hand.

"Should I...try to wake up?" he asks, unfolding it to stare again at the bloodstain, then at his shoulder. If he imagines himself better again, will that work. "Or you could? This looks nice, but it doesn't look like my dreams are always the safest place."

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