#untitled alan and tim fic

[ilkkawhat]

between what i shared earlier and what i am sharing below...i was so close to almost hitting 1000 words today...amazing what a cup of coffee with a cousin you haven't really connected with before and/or healing from a terribly stressful weak with a climaxed migraine the day before can do to charge your creative outlet...

He foolishly thought he was finally a step ahead, using his newfound power to project himself into New York, a playground he was familiar with. This wouldn’t turn out like Night Springs did, he had a better understanding of the rules. This dart was finally landing on the board and at first, he felt like he hit a bullseye.

Until he woke up in the talk show studio. Until he saw himself on a television, in the Writer’s Room and rambling like crazy. Until he stumbled into that alleyway, confronted by the fictional character he’d done nothing but torture for a full series before sentencing him to his death…and again, as he watched that character die slumped in a pool of his own blood. A murderous shadow stalking him through the streets, with a voice that sounded eerily similar to his own. 

And that was all before he took a downward staircase that somehow led him up to a rooftop.

It had been nothing but a nightmare, but there were pockets of light he was able to hide in, if only to catch his breath. Ragged, hard. Nonsensical, because this body was fictional too, and every time he thought about that his head hurt just a little more. 

What was that stupid breathing exercise Barry once tried to get him to do before his first appearance on a talk show? He still remembered cringing as Barry gripped his hunched shoulders, whispering affirmations to him in the midst of the surprise panic attack that he felt he was above having, short exhaling puffs of anger expelled through his nostrils but Barry advised him to open his mouth, feel the air…Two seconds in, two seconds out. Two seconds in, two seconds out, until it makes the shape of a—

Box. Box breathing.

He remembered how he had tried and failed to lighten the mood with a snippy jab at his agent and best friend, sarcastically feigning that he didn’t understand and asking if he meant “beat boxing” instead. But he also remembered how it helped, and how he was able to just flip a switch as he walked onto the stage and wowed the nation. 

He was trying that exercise again, but was interrupted by a new sound slicing through the howling, growling wind of the city that blew him to the ground. 

Humming. A familiar tune, he but he couldn’t place the name. 

He emerged from his safe haven, waved his flashlight to dispel the shadows as he traced the sound. It got stronger when he saw a piece of yellow tape flapping in the cold wind, and that’s when he realized this voice was unfamiliar to the ones he had heard so far; it wasn’t the oddball janitor, wasn’t the actor-slash-character interviewed by the over-jovial talk show host who he might have liked to watch at a different time in his life, and it wasn’t even himself. 

So who was it?

“Hello?” he asked as he followed the tape up a flight of stairs, pushed a door that was already slightly ajar open further to find a mirror of the sanctuary he just left, except there’s no coffee and shoebox; rather pizza and suitcases. The room felt warm, basked in an orange glow. Instinctively, he wanted to flee as he registered the uniformed man standing in front of a blank whiteboard, holding his chin deep in thought. Still humming. 

“Uhm…hello?” Alan asked nervously.

“What the hell?” the man broke his humming, spun around and shined his flashlight and gun in Alan’s face. Alan raised his hands, dropped his own flashlight just as the unnamed Sheriff lowered his weapon. “Sorry, you scared the daylights outta me…Not that I’ve even seen daylight in this place…” 

“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, Sheriff—?”

“Breaker. Tim Breaker.”

That named sounded familiar…vague memories of a woman with a good heart who just tried to help him, even when he wasn’t completely honest with her…a pang of guilt, having forced Barry to keep her away. 

“—Sheriff Breaker, but…are you real?”

“Well, uh, I hope so?” Tim chuckled awkwardly. “Could ask you the same thing, Mr…?”

“Wake. My name’s Alan Wake, I’m a writer.”

“Yeah, I…know who you are. Everyone does. But you…you disappeared years ago. How did you end up here? Wherever ‘here’ is…”

He could tell the truth. Tell this Sheriff how he dove into a lake to save his wife, after she was held hostage and he had to write a story that almost destroyed the town of Bright Falls, and now he was trying to write another story to get him out of this nightmare realm, and this man could very well be just another character that he’s made up, making a cameo in Initiation or maybe just another trick the Dark Place is playing on his mind. More bait to make him think that he has a chance to escape. 

But something about Tim Breaker seemed…more genuine than he could ever write up.