Work Text:
Most often he dreams of Father.
When Magnus closed his eyes, he could see the blue marble suspended in black, from which the great golden presence of his father bloomed. He spoke to him, sometimes, though he was not sure his father could hear it. There was a vast stretch of the void between them. But sometimes, he would see his father, and, he thinks, his father saw him back.
Other times he dreamt of a dark, amniotic place, where he could speak and hear and see. There were others nearby, and he tried to speak to them, but they acted as if they could not hear him. When he glossed their thoughts, he found only pictograms, blooms of emotion, swathes of color. When he reached further, sometimes, there was the golden presence that he would come to know as Father, who would speak to him. He remembers a hand on the glass, a smile...
And then other, rarer times. He would dream of her.
She was blue. If Father was all shades yellow and gold, this was blue in all forms; an indigo so dark it was nearly black, the seafoam spray so light it was almost green, the powder blue of ancient flowers that no longer grew on Terra's vast plains, sky blue, starry blue, blue so rich men once spent their daughter's dowries for the chance to paint with it.
She did not smile, then, but he knew she must have before. She had smile lines. She had old eyes, ocean eyes, fathomless blue. She walked between the tanks, he remembers this. She walked between them and stopped at each and every one. She was looking at them, assessing them. She has a familiar presence, but he cannot place how. He could feel her blue mind, Hello, hello, hello, she said to each and every one.
When she comes to Magnus, he says +Hello+, back.
She starts.
Hello. She said, and pressed her hand to the glass. That made Magnus happy. Go back to sleep.
So Magnus slept, and when he awoke, he was cradled in Amon's arms.