You are the pebbles in the current of the stream of my thoughts
I'm posting this because I feel strange and because, out of all of my original characters, these two are the ones that make me feel safe. And I don't know why, but they do. I think I just wanted to share that tonight.
Just a rambly, stream of consciousness story I wrote a while back to get to grips with Sherlock (no, that's not his real name, just a highly referencial alias, because he's always been a fan of drama), which ended up centring around Wolf because a lot of his thoughts do. I... don't know how easy it is to understand. But I'm proud of it anyway.
You are the pebbles in the current of the stream of my thoughts
There's only one thing, he thinks idly, aware as he does so that the thought is both uncharacteristic and unforgivably stupid – and now, apparently, getting away from him before he can even think it – he thinks that there is only one thing, then, that separates her – he wonders, absently, off hand, like he wonders most things, when he stopped thinking of her in the terms he thinks of everyone else – that is, by name, precise and deliberate, sometimes with accompanying occupation and other relevant details – he wonders when she started just being 'her'; but, of course, since he thinks of no one else in such simple, easy, familiarly unfamiliar terms, it doesn't really matter.
… there's only one thing, he really needs to stop getting sidetracked on this one, though it's hardly important to finish the thought when he's well aware of how it ends – he supposes that being able to think ahead of everyone, even yourself, might be considered unusual, but he's always been able to do it – only one thing that separates her, the only her in his life, from the angels. And you don't need wings to fall.
Perhaps it's a maudlin thought – does he think those? He hasn't been aware of it in the past, but it's only a matter of time until he starts, reasonably speaking. There's only so much one person can witness before... but if it is a maudlin thought, it is also a fitting one, that should be what counts. She – the only she, that is – is in many ways like an angel – he won't list them, though he has in the past, while watching her - though obviously not any real one, as he's not sure they exist and in any case, if they did they would never be like her – he's quite sure no one in the universe is exactly like her, and though probability states she can't be totally unique he is nevertheless convinced that she is. Which is an entirely unreasonable thought, and that is odd, because unreasonable thoughts – like maudlin thoughts – are thoughts he very rarely, if ever, finds himself thinking. It isn't like him to deny all sense for the sake – but then, it isn't like him to think of her – he's doing it again, no name attached – like he thinks of her – the sake of... what?
He doesn't know what, and that, too, is odd – it seems a lot of things are odd today, or have been odd for a long time, in which case it is odd that he is just now noticing – it's odd because he'd always considered that he probably knew everything – with no evidence, he realises, had he considered this, but he had considered it anyway, and why not, as there has not, until today, been any evidence to the contrary – he had believed, until this moment, that he knew everything (and even now it can be assumed that he knows most things) so it's difficult to say what to do next. Not that he need do anything of course – the question is mostly irrelevant, in fact, because it's only really inquiring after one word, or one concept, which he recognises and understands but can't quite name.
But all the same, he should prefer to know. It's unsettling to him, this gap in his knowledge, which has obviously always been there without measurable complaint, it's just that now he knows. He's not going to forget he knows that he doesn't know any time soon – he hardly ever forgets, which is probably why he knows so very much – but not this – so it would be better to fill the gap and know that he knows, which he would prefer. But the question, which he has once again wandered away from in the way that his mind wanders – and, in a way, wonders, but he can't abide puns, and neither can she – his mind always wanders away from things so easily, so he finds himself clinging to the things that are real, that exist, which helps. He's wandered – wondered, the pun is in his head now so he'd better use it and hope it goes away – wandered away from the question, which is what is it, exactly, that he is denying reason for, in believing that she is totally and completely unique in the universe when all reason, which he is currently denying, says she is not.
He might ask someone – that's a better idea than he's had in a while, though it's not one he can rely on often, because generally speaking, if he doesn't know something, no one in his general vicinity does, either, but in this case, it might just work. The only thing is to figure out who to ask. That is probably going to be a more difficult task than he currently gives it credit – that's not actually possible, of course, to recognise that something will be harder than you think it will be, as obviously then you think it will be harder than you think it will be, which is an annoying kind of paradox, like all paradoxes – it's hard to know who to ask when you've never asked anyone to fill a gap in your knowledge before – not a gap like this one, anyway. A gap of the relevant facts of a case, perhaps, because he has to get them from somewhere, and he doesn't have the ability of information osmosis – again, impossible, because osmosis is only diffusion that involves water – he doesn't have the ability of information diffusion. That's not the same thing as asking for what essentially amounts to help, which he's never asked for before, not in matters of the mind. In matters of the body, yes, because his body is thin and weak, and overtired and frequently underfed – he forgets about mealtimes, perhaps the one thing he does sometimes forget – and her body is very well kept and strong, not to mention – well, of course, he will mention – extremely attractive.
He could ask her – no, that's terrible. If he asks her he must first explain it to her, and she'll get that look on her face – he knows the one he means, naturally, the one that means she is confused, and not pleased to be confused, and it frustrates him when he displeases her, as he does so often. He'll have to mention his initial thought – that she is like an angel – but not a real angel – he'll have to mention it for the sake of completeness, and past experience tells him she will only be sad to be seen as such, even if that doesn't make any sense to anyone but her. And emotions are not her subject, in any case, so it's quite possible he will finally finish explaining it, and displease her, and make her sad, and she won't even be able to tell him what he needs to know, which will be very rotten.
So he can't ask her.
Emily – he thinks of Emily by name – Emily who is her friend – his friend, too, maybe, but he thinks of Emily as her friend – he tolerates Emily better now she dropped the fake accent – Emily might be able to help. Emily will get confused, too, of course, but Emily never minds – Emily only ever laughs at herself. Only ever at herself; Emily does not laugh at others, except when Emily means well, not spiteful. Unlike her, who does laugh to be spiteful, and never at herself. He doesn't prefer either, never laughs himself – a light chuckle sometimes – she brings him to it, sometimes.
Emily might know, as Emily seems to know more about emotions that he and her combined; after all, Emily has never had to run from her own emotions, or hide from them. It is possible Emily will know why he has thrown aside all reason to believe the unbelievable, for her. Of her. For her? It's... possible. He thinks 'likely' before he can stop himself, and now he can't stop thinking it.
He's been aware for some time of his feelings towards her; more specifically, that his feelings towards her are stronger than anything he's ever felt towards anyone else. He equates her with trust and respect and kindness and warmth and many other small things, things that she provides, things that he did not find himself requiring before her. Or maybe he did, but he found them somewhere else, he isn't even sure of that – it feels different now because it all comes from her, and she is very different. An angel, he was thinking. That was it, wasn't it? That she is an angel – not a real angel – she doesn't have wings, but it doesn't matter. You don't need them, if you're going to fall, and he has no doubt that she has fallen, very far, and that she landed very hard. It is one of the little things he loves about her – he loves her grace and her animal ways, and the way she is forever running on tightropes – that she could hurt so badly, and be so strong, he loves about her. Perhaps she really is unique – he's never loved so many things about someone – but no, he still doesn't think so.
He just feels it. Feels that she is the only one, the only one in the whole of creation – not that he believes in a creator, but words are words, after all, and he frequently finds himself using words that are imprecise just because he likes them better – the only one. The only one who is her, who doesn't need a name because he always knows who he means, who is a perfect combination of just the right kind of faults. The only one who has survived precisely what she has survived in the ways that she has survived it. He could catalogue each tiny thing about her, make her up as a complete human being in a million words – it would take a million, or more, obviously; when people describe other people they never bother to go into the level of detail that this would need. It would have to be everything, after all, even the things that people leave out because they think it's obvious, like 'she has two eyes and two arms and breathes in oxygen from the air, filtering it through her lungs' and so on. He'd list those things too, and put them all together and it would make a person, a unique person – he's more sure of it with every passing thought – that is uniquely her. In every way.
… it might not be unreasonable. It might even be true, though now that seems unreasonable; it could be possible. Not so unbelievable, to think that she is, as they, apparently, so commonly say, one of a kind. To think that everyone is, but right now that thought is coincidental, unimportant – everyone always is, in the face of her – everything is. Even, it seems, his train of thought. Normally so vibrantly steaming ahead, he finds himself stalled by the sudden and certain revelation that she is, as he had always believed and never allowed himself to think, unique.
He thinks, slowly, sluggishly, feeling very strange to do so, that it is a good thing there's only one of her. Such a very good thing.
Wolf touches his shoulder lightly, bringing him out of his thoughts; her palm is calloused and warm, he wants to keep it there, rub against the touch like a cat, but that isn't new, so the thought doesn't worry him. Instead he smiles at her, and she twitches the corner of her mouth in response, close enough.
“Hey, genius.” She greets him, familiar; it occurs to him that she rarely says his name – the name she knows, not his actual name, which she doesn't know, and he doesn't attach any meaning to in any case – she says his name sparingly, the same way he thinks hers, though he says her name very often, almost every time he talks to her. Maybe she thinks his name every time she thinks of him, and then they match without matching at all. He really doesn't know, but he doesn't mind not knowing. “It's not a race, you know.”
He blinks, because she has confused him – oh, he doesn't mind when she does that, it doesn't displease him. Her hand is still on his shoulder – he can feel it through the fabric of his shirt – it feels very nice. Thinking about her is all very well, but it often makes him want to find her, and touch her, to be sure that she is real. He won't like it if she isn't, but he'd like to know.
“What isn't a race?” He asks; she won't tell him, otherwise. She'll know he wants to know and she won't tell him, very devious to get him to talk to her – she doesn't have to be. He'll say whatever she likes, even if it's not true or right or quite precise. He supposes that that's true love.
“Thinking, you moron.” The hand on his shoulder slides up, taps sharply against the back of his skull, and then is gone. He mourns the loss of it, but he knows without doubt it will come back again. “I only have to look at you staring into space to know you're thinking at the speed of sound.”
“Faster, I imagine.” He counters, and she smiles at him, more than just a twitch, and – well, he is quite enamoured with the twitch, of course, it's so perfectly her and so wonderfully subtle and understated, underrated – but when she smiles he almost tells her. That he loves her. He can imagine the way the words will feel coming out of his mouth, sound in his voice, though he's never said them out loud. He wants so desperately to tell her that he loves her – it's not new to him, it doesn't scare him, he knows it's true – but he knows that she, just as desperately, does not want him to. “I'm trying to acquire the ability of information diffusion.” He lies to her very smoothly, pretending she doesn't recognise the lie – if they both pretend hard enough, it's even true – he doesn't want to keep pretending because one day she won't recognise it – no, of course, she always will. Until it doesn't have to be a lie, because he will always tell her the truth, eventually. “People never go into the level of detail I'd really like from them.” He'd have to count every strand of her hair – there's no way some other creature could be identical to her down to the number of strands of her hair, the numbers are too close to zero to even be worth thinking about – but isn't that the point of an infinite universe? His once unshakable conclusion falters. Numbers don't lie; numbers say that anything that can happen in this universe must happen in it, somewhere. Nothing is perfectly unique. If you search long enough, you will find a second, identical, snowflake.
“I'm... really, just checking, genius, you do know that's fucking insane, right?” Her eyebrows go up like a challenge, and she shifts her weight, and she smirks, and he knows that he is in for something wonderful. He can't wait to hear it. Well, literally speaking, he won't die if she makes him wait, but it will feel uncomfortable. He'd rather not. “Diffusion goes with the gradient, you know. High to low?”
Oh. Oh, he loves her. He really does love her. The perfect clarity, the screeching halt of an all consuming thought comes over him for the second time in as many minutes, and before her, before he heard of her and obsessed over her and chased her down and met her, and before she gave him her name and the warmth of her hands and a little twitch of a smile, before all those things, before she even existed to him, before her, he only ever experienced that clarity on average once in every eleven and a half years – and now twice in two minutes his entire mind has simply stopped. It should scare him, but, like her hand, he knows the thoughts will come back.
“Active transport, then,” he corrects, and he doesn't have to wait, this time – it still feels like a wait, though, to hear the words he knows she'll say in her voice; he can imagine it perfectly – she has a very distinct voice, lower than is typical for a woman – her accent is British, but hard to place, just British – he doesn't have to wait to know what she will say, but he waits anyway just to hear her say it.
“What, you mean... having someone tell you the information? Because I am fairly sure you can already do that. You have ears.” He does; she flicks one of them. “Moron.”
She may not be unique but he knows the chance of finding another who is exactly like her is so infinitesimally small that he finds he doesn't care. That's odd, but today is a day of discovering things that have been odd all along. There is only one thing – the thought is still uncharacteristic, but he thinks it must have abandoned idle by now – there is only one thing that he cares about, currently – well, in the grand scheme of things, speaking broadly, because he cares about a few other small things as well, but they are so small that he won't mention them, even to himself – except that her hand has returned to his shoulder, he will mention that – there is only one thing, that he cares about.
He loves her. One day, he will tell her.
One day, she will be glad to hear it.
