while the whole wide world is fast asleep

[forthsofar]

The combination of relief and exhaustion after her rescue meant that Rosie slept without dreams at first, safe within the warmth of the apartment and giving in to the driving need it seemed all of them had just to be close now that Nick and Sabrina's plan had worked and they were free. But--too soon--she moves from something deep and dreamless to a more fitful slumber. She dreams then, a nightmare that feels all too real and finds her a prisoner once more, surrounded by the glittering, leering eyes of the goblins. She tries to sing; knows somehow that she has to to save herself and Charlie and all the rest, but no notes come.

Pretty bird's been broken, laughs one of the goblins, its hand latching around her throat. Only one use for broken birds. All at once, they're in the hot, filthy kitchens, the goblins holding her down on the worktable as one of them raises a cleaver, honed to a razor's edge. Its voice was sweet but its flesh is sweeter, it taunts as she opens her mouth in a silent scream, as the blade starts its downward arc and the other creatures cheer.

Rosie wakes with a gasp, alone and trembling in the middle of Nick's bed. She sits there for a few minutes, trying to calm her racing heart and convince herself again of her safety. Hearing the faint sound of something from down the hall--a laugh track, maybe, or piece of music--she gets up and wanders towards it.

Comments

[forthsofar]

"And I'm only ever Rosalind when I'm in trouble," she says, though she thinks, too, of her time in Anterwold; how familiar she'd become after only a short time with being the Lady Rosalind and all it seemed to imply. "So, alright. I'll call you Nick. Even if you do end up trying to make me blush terribly on occasion."

Ordinarily, Rosie dislikes embarrassment almost as much as she hates being frightened. Now, comfortable and safe after several days of terror, the idea of some future provocation--especially from the boy holding her close and warm--doesn't seem entirely bad.

[awickedtime]

"It's a pretty name, though," says Nick, smiling at her, still playing with her hair. "Better than plain old Nicholas, anyway." He shifts against the sofa, reaching back with his free hand to adjust the cushions under his head.

[forthsofar]

"I didn't always think so," she admits, smiling again at the unexpected compliment, the continued run of his fingers in her hair and the way she's curled, so comfortable and safe, against him on the couch. "It seemed like the kind of name grandmothers had. I kept wishing I'd been named something more exciting, like..." Rosie laughs, soft and low, at the memory. "Like Sandra. I thought that was so much more interesting than Rosalind."

Nick shifts and pulls the cushions up, and she looks up at him, lifting her head a little, not enough to dislodge his hand from her hair. "Is this...I'm not crowding you too much, am I?"

[awickedtime]

"Sandra?" says Nick, huffing out a laugh through his nose. "That just...feels really old fashioned these days. I think I like Rosie. It suits you." He shakes his head, keeping a firm hold around her. "Absolutely not. Just settling in."

[forthsofar]

"Good," she says, to all of it--the way she's nestled close, his arm around her, especially. After so many days of discomfort, it's simply nice to be kept safe, together in this apartment with the three people she's come to trust most in the world. "I'd have moved if you needed me to, but..."

Rosie yawns again, closing her eyes. "I'm glad I don't have to," she murmurs.