It's up for debate just how long Daniel had been standing there in front of the fire. Seeing it without seeing it, entirely unmoving, barely even blinking-- mentally checked out. In a place where nothing and no one can touch him. Considering he'd been dead before this, it likely isn't a surprising reaction. And he looks a fright, too: he obviously hasn't slept in days. But, like every other time before, Daniel comes back to himself eventually, shifting his gaze from the fire and up to the mantle. The room still doesn't completely register.
The painting is what snaps him back into focus, squinting at it. He's seen it before, making it at least something familiar. "Death and the Maiden," he murmurs, the small facts starting to filter in. Thirteen works of art. Looking around? Thirteen glasses, the face of that clock entirely off, thirteen seats. It's everywhere. Even the walls.
All right, Daniel supposes this isn't nearly as bad as far as dreams go. It can't exactly be anything else, right?
Daniel finds himself sitting down in one of the chairs with a long exhale, rubbing at his tired and aching eyes. His head felt like it was going to split in two.
Daniel will hear a sudden sound - a small clink of a nearly-full glass being set upon a coaster on the end table beside him, along with the rattle of two ibuprofen settling in the space next to it.
The gaunt looking man standing a few feet from him gives him a slow and formal nod, before turning away to sit in the seat across from him. He seems to be wearing a formal suit with two yellow roses gently attached with black ribbon as a corsage - a decidedly Russian funeral custom, even-numbered yellow flowers.
The only thing that keeps him from jumping is the exhaustion in his bones. They feel like stones, now, his head lifting almost slowly to look between the offering and the man across from him. The little things don't go unnoticed-- like the two yellow roses. (Funny, that. Surrounded by a number meant for good tidings, but the symbol there is of separation.) It's just that... well, Daniel doesn't know what to make of it yet.
He gives the ibuprofen another look after dropping his hands. The offering tempting, but paranoia wins out, and he leaves it be, though doesn't make any obvious gesture of rebuffing it. This time, when his eye move back to observe the man's thin face, his expression is certainly more alert.
"What? You the ghost of Christmas Past, or something?" Daniel asks, nose wrinkling slightly in irritation. "Come here to tell me to relinquish my selfish ways before I die alone and miserable?"
"My appearance much more befits the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, wouldn't you say, Mister Cross?" The man quirks the corner of his lips in a poor attempt at a smile. "But no. I am not here to change you, nor am I here to lecture you. And I'm certainly not here to kill you after I spent so much effort reviving you. I am here to answer your questions, to... give advice." He waves a bony hand almost absently. "I've gone by many names over the cycles, but this cycle I've chosen the name Mortimer. Death will also suffice, if you prefer formality."
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The painting is what snaps him back into focus, squinting at it. He's seen it before, making it at least something familiar. "Death and the Maiden," he murmurs, the small facts starting to filter in. Thirteen works of art. Looking around? Thirteen glasses, the face of that clock entirely off, thirteen seats. It's everywhere. Even the walls.
All right, Daniel supposes this isn't nearly as bad as far as dreams go. It can't exactly be anything else, right?
Daniel finds himself sitting down in one of the chairs with a long exhale, rubbing at his tired and aching eyes. His head felt like it was going to split in two.
no subject
The gaunt looking man standing a few feet from him gives him a slow and formal nod, before turning away to sit in the seat across from him. He seems to be wearing a formal suit with two yellow roses gently attached with black ribbon as a corsage - a decidedly Russian funeral custom, even-numbered yellow flowers.
no subject
He gives the ibuprofen another look after dropping his hands. The offering tempting, but paranoia wins out, and he leaves it be, though doesn't make any obvious gesture of rebuffing it. This time, when his eye move back to observe the man's thin face, his expression is certainly more alert.
"What? You the ghost of Christmas Past, or something?" Daniel asks, nose wrinkling slightly in irritation. "Come here to tell me to relinquish my selfish ways before I die alone and miserable?"
no subject