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Jul. 6th, 2006 01:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wordslingingTitle: Time To Dance
Fandom: Twin Peaks/Sandman
Characters: Delerium, Leland and Sarah Palmer
Rating: PG-13
Summary: I have a thing for writing appearances of the Endless in other canons, where such appearances suggest themselves to me. This one didn't so much suggest itself as take my brain hostage. Slight warning for dark themes and general creepiness. (Also, to give credit where it's due, Del's method of tAlKiNg LiKe ThIs is blatantly stolen from![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
chaos_pockets.)
It’s a nice house. She and her sisters like it.
The one who’s only sometimes a sister has been here a long time. But when the nicest sister went to visit the train car in the woods, the sister with the hook came to stay here, at the house.
And now it’s her turn. She. Herself. The sister with the eyes.
She likes it here. It’s all clean and neat on the outside and filled with secrets on the inside. Like a dead girl wrapped in plastic. Or a chocolate filled with liqueur. Or blood.
And there’s music. Always music. Sometimes only she can hear it (and sometimes only she can smell it, but that’s a different story and people don’t like it when you tell more than one story at a time (she doesn’t know why, it’s fun)), but right now the father man can hear it too.
“WoUlD yOu LiKe To DaNcE?” she asks him, holding out a hand, and then giggles. “yOu WiLl AnYwAy. WhEtHeR yOu WaNt To Or NoT. bUt It’S, uM. pOlItE tO aSk. GoOd MaNnErS.”
He doesn’t answer, and doesn’t take her hand, but he picks up the picture of the dead plastic girl and spins with it around the room. It’s not very good dancing, not yet, but it’s okay—they’re going to dance together a lot. He’ll get practice.
“Leland?” It’s the mother woman, the one who sounds so funny when she screams. The girl sitting by the phonograph giggles again, clapping her hands with
(not delight she’s not Delight anymore and she wouldn’t be Delight here now)
glee.
“wE’rE dAnCiNg!” she calls. “CoMe On, He NeEdS a BeTtEr PaRtNeR tHaN tHe PiCtUrE.”
And there’s dancing, and blood, and the mother woman screams some more and it’s even funnier than last time. And while the dancing father man decorates the smiling dead girl picture with blood (it’s like art class, but it tastes saltier), the screaming mother woman pulls the needle off the phonograph, but the music doesn’t stop. Not if you’ve got the right kind of ears to listen. Or maybe the wrong kind of ears. She forgets.
“What is going on in this house?” the mother woman shouts, and the girl with the different colored eyes smiles as she answers, her voice low, conspiratorial.
“I aM. dOn'T bE sAd AnYmOrE. iT's TiMe To DaNcE.”
Fandom: Twin Peaks/Sandman
Characters: Delerium, Leland and Sarah Palmer
Rating: PG-13
Summary: I have a thing for writing appearances of the Endless in other canons, where such appearances suggest themselves to me. This one didn't so much suggest itself as take my brain hostage. Slight warning for dark themes and general creepiness. (Also, to give credit where it's due, Del's method of tAlKiNg LiKe ThIs is blatantly stolen from
chaos_pockets.)It’s a nice house. She and her sisters like it.
The one who’s only sometimes a sister has been here a long time. But when the nicest sister went to visit the train car in the woods, the sister with the hook came to stay here, at the house.
And now it’s her turn. She. Herself. The sister with the eyes.
She likes it here. It’s all clean and neat on the outside and filled with secrets on the inside. Like a dead girl wrapped in plastic. Or a chocolate filled with liqueur. Or blood.
And there’s music. Always music. Sometimes only she can hear it (and sometimes only she can smell it, but that’s a different story and people don’t like it when you tell more than one story at a time (she doesn’t know why, it’s fun)), but right now the father man can hear it too.
“WoUlD yOu LiKe To DaNcE?” she asks him, holding out a hand, and then giggles. “yOu WiLl AnYwAy. WhEtHeR yOu WaNt To Or NoT. bUt It’S, uM. pOlItE tO aSk. GoOd MaNnErS.”
He doesn’t answer, and doesn’t take her hand, but he picks up the picture of the dead plastic girl and spins with it around the room. It’s not very good dancing, not yet, but it’s okay—they’re going to dance together a lot. He’ll get practice.
“Leland?” It’s the mother woman, the one who sounds so funny when she screams. The girl sitting by the phonograph giggles again, clapping her hands with
(not delight she’s not Delight anymore and she wouldn’t be Delight here now)
glee.
“wE’rE dAnCiNg!” she calls. “CoMe On, He NeEdS a BeTtEr PaRtNeR tHaN tHe PiCtUrE.”
And there’s dancing, and blood, and the mother woman screams some more and it’s even funnier than last time. And while the dancing father man decorates the smiling dead girl picture with blood (it’s like art class, but it tastes saltier), the screaming mother woman pulls the needle off the phonograph, but the music doesn’t stop. Not if you’ve got the right kind of ears to listen. Or maybe the wrong kind of ears. She forgets.
“What is going on in this house?” the mother woman shouts, and the girl with the different colored eyes smiles as she answers, her voice low, conspiratorial.
“I aM. dOn'T bE sAd AnYmOrE. iT's TiMe To DaNcE.”
