Characters: Angela Petrelli/Isaac Mendez
Word Count: 916
Spoilers: Season 1
Disclaimer: Heroes belongs to Tim Kring, NBC et al.
A/N: I don’t remember quite where, but at some point someone on my flist was making up all these really obscure pairings to threaten to give to a Sweet Charity person he/she was buying, and “Angela/Isaac – meeting in the dream world” came up. I liked that, so here it is! Also inspired by the movie “What Dreams My Come.”
Summary: Angela has found another person in her dreams, and he sees things far differently than her…
Angela’s dreams are always vivid, as if the future, however wonderful or terrible, cannot bear to be anything less than in deep color. Whether the rich red of blood, the dark black of night, or the shine of accusing eyes, her dreams sear themselves into her mind with shocking clarity.
It’s strange then, when during a dream of fire and pain, when Peter’s skin begins to glow, when her precious baby boy lights up the sky, she finds the colors in her dream being layered on, stroke by stroke, orange, yellow, white, and red, in brilliant paints. Someone was painting in her dreamscape.
She saw it again when the cheerleader, desperate and hunted, was chased through the school, her feet slipping on freshly painted floors and her fingers sliding and blurring the wet walls together. When Nathan was standing in front of the American flag as he accepted the nomination, the colors gleaming and wet. When she saw Noah Bennet, shot and dying, the paint running like tears. New York, exploding, the reds and blacks blurring and smearing as she pressed her hands against them in promise and denial…
This was not now, no, it was at least a year distant, but she had to know who had invaded her space? Who was painting in her dreams? She exhausted herself during the day, hoping her dreams would come, wanting a glimpse of the other who now shared the future with her in such an unusual way. Someone else was seeing exactly what she saw, and she was torn between wanting to find and silence him or her, and wanting to spare the person the burden of seeing ahead.
Arthur thought her daft, pursuing her dreams with single-minded devotion, but she’d pointed out this last year could be crucial, and he’d eventually held his peace. After all, they had more than enough to deal with in real life.
It took months before she could find her fellow dreamer, the artist who drew everything he saw in paint. She barely knew his face, scarcely had any idea of what he looked like in real life, but she’d found him. She’d only seen him with his body chalk-white, like a pencil sketch of a person, with only his dark brown eyes animated and real. They gazed into the visions of the future with rapt abandon, as if called there by a compulsion; so intense she couldn’t look away.
She remembered looking at him, graceful and young, colorless veins under colorless skin, dark eyes with pupils dilated and blind to all but the scenes he created. He didn’t know what was happening to him, poor boy, only that the future forced itself into his eyes, and his artist’s hands had to paint it. Those colorless hands would sweep amongst the black canvases of the dream world, and things were revealed to them in color and oil and heartbreak.
There was, after all, only one future, and if more than one person could see it, then they had to share it. Over the years, Angela had felt more than one pair of eyes looking ahead with her, but she had ignored them, as they had her. She had felt no reason to seek out her fellow travelers, other than this beautiful dreamer. He couldn’t see her, but Angela would aid his tired arms when he faltered, helping him choose the right colors. His eyes grew ever more bloodshot and weary as the months progressed, but she thought it gave him comfort, on an unconscious level, to know he wasn’t alone.
She was an appreciative audience as he directed the future to reveal itself to them in pictures. A face, a place, a dire warning, a death omen, they faced the visions unflinchingly together as time slowly counted down.
When Angela’s memory began to fail her, she still had her artist to keep her company. And when she gained it back, he still remained. He was a constant through Arthur’s death, Nathan’s campaign, and Peter’s slow realization of his destiny.
The drawings were sharper now, more focused, and sometimes she’d dream not just to find her own future, but what he was painting as well, even if it was something that did not touch her life. She remembered planting a kiss on his colorless cheek when he painted a swordsman facing a dinosaur. She hadn’t had a good laugh like that in years.
At the last, she saw him draw himself in sticky red paint, empty horror in wet eyes, a gaping wound in his hollow head. It was the only time she’d seen him in color, and she’d been certain to kiss him good-bye before he left. Her artist, her fellow traveler, her beautiful dreamer… she’d never known his name. He went bravely; that she’d seen for herself.
Later, she caught tiny glimpses of other eyes sharing her visions; once or twice Peter’s, other times a stranger who peered into the ether like a starving wolf. She’d seen the future rendered for them in paint and blood, and then fade into her own colors and visions as the seers went away.
There was no fellow traveler now, only occasional visitors, determined as she to mine the future for answers. Her beautiful dreamer had been unique, a true artist, and had drawn the future uncomprehending and innocently, only wanting the beauty and not the knowledge. He had been her constant companion in the face of a dreadful future. It was lonely without him now. Lonely and gray.