ride out this electrical storm [closed]

[i_jones]

Ianto stares into his teacup and takes a sip of his tea, cold and bitter and blue. The Doctor fusses with the console, purposefully avoiding his eyes. Fitz watches him sadly. Ianto watches himself stare into his teacup. In a rush of realization, he thinks, this is a dream. I am dreaming.

Out of the corner of his eye, Zagreus says, "yes," slowly, obviously, affably acerbic. 

"Good," Ianto thinks, simultaneously enlightened and distracted, and takes a sip of his tea. Zagreus watches him irritably from the other side of the table.

"Good?" he queries. "Had I known you were a masochist, this would've gone differently."

"It means I can wake up," Ianto clarifies, and takes another sip of his tea, but there's nothing left to sip - the dregs have dried to the inside of the cup, cracked and clinging. There's something important he should be doing, but it's slipped away, nebulous and inconsequential. He knows he is alone, although he can't pinpoint how long it's been or how long it'll be. The sun streams through the glass, the wind makes patterns in the grass, quietly. He waits. He knows this is his kitchen in his house, but it isn't at all. It's closed off. It's too old-fashioned, too bright, too cold. It isn't his kitchen, but it is.

"If you had a headache, you only needed to say," Zagreus chides, pouring the bottle of paracetamol down the drain. The pills plink against the steel. He pats Ianto's head fondly. He needs to wash the taste away, but there's nothing left except mold, black and white and blue, and that isn't helpful at all. He stares into his teacup.

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[antitimelord]

It isn't often these days that Zagreus submits to sleep. It was never a need he felt particularly acutely, and he tended to balk at giving up so much control unless absolutely necessary, or absolutely despairingly bored. Being physically defenseless and at the mercy of one's own mind was for lesser creatures. But even monsters get sick of hitting the same brick wall over and over, and none of his frustrated energy of late has earned him anything but fatigue and a short fuse. There was never any place for him in reality, and now, no reprieve from it either.

His dreams are surprisingly mundane at times, and incomprehensibly alien at others. Currently, he vacillates between struggling to swim through a shimmering web of interconnected minds, and searching for a can opener. Except it isn't a vacillation at all, because somehow, these are the same quest, with the same underlying objective. It's absorbing enough he doesn't even notice being cast in the role of himself in someone else's dream; at least in tone it's indistinguishable from what had gone before. Riffling through the silverware drawer with increasing vexation, in a familiar kitchen, seems like the most natural thing in the world. He's only dimly aware of Ianto's presence, though he's already marked his mind for the next target of his search.