Can't Stand the Distance, Can't Dream Alone [open to all]

[applesaucemod]

The sleeping rifties might have a difficult time realizing they're dreaming this evening, in part because tonight's dreams are atypically vivid, even compared to the rift's usual efforts. Perhaps that is because it's drawing so heavily from the memories of the dreamers, themselves, and using that information to recreate their home worlds in stunning detail. And that is the real reason the dreamers might not be eager to accept the unreality of the situation: the situation is one that many of them have been hoping for for months or even years. In their dreams tonight, the rifties are going home.

Perhaps they arrive in the same moment that they left. Perhaps months have passed at home, or they might even find themselves arriving before their departure point. But those are small details when compared to the overwhelming realization that they're back where they belong.

They're not alone. Many dreamers will find the rift has given them a companion for the return trip. Well, an uncomplicated return home is probably more than anyone could have hoped for, anyway. And for the unwitting visitor, perhaps another universal displacement will be easier to bear with the addition of a local guide.

[ooc: usual dream party rules apply; all are welcome, and dreamers can remember or forget the events of the dream at the players' discretion. Also at the players' discretion: when their character arrives in their 'home universe,' and how many (if any) locals they'd want to run into.]

Comments

[peacefulexplorer]

The grinding whirr of the naquadah ring and the thunk of engaging chevrons is so sharp and familiar that for a moment Daniel can't find anything wrong with it. It feels completely natural, from the roaring vortical surge of blue-white as it storm-roars outward to the watery snap of the spiraling fluid energy kawoosh reshaping itself into the oscillating, rippling puddle. It only strikes him once he's been hurled through the shrieking tunnel of tearing space-time that he hasn't been through a stargate in weeks.

He gets no time to consider the incongruous timeline before the gate discharges him out on the other side in a far more turbulent exit than necessary; inertia is constant even through gate travel, even through the spaciotemporal fold between two artificial wormholes in separate coordinates of the galaxy. Yet the stargate ejects him at his destination violently and sends him hurtling onto the new planet in a torqued parabola. One shoulder glances off the raised dais but he manages to twist the awkward landing into a partial roll, avoiding injuries worse than simple bruising, then rights himself immediately and unclips the P-90 at his tac vest to bring it up defensively.

Daniel gets about thirty seconds to appreciate the old feel of the gun, disturbing in its familiarity, before his world detonates.

The dais gets rocked by a low, rumbling explosion, a deep and percussive force that sends fragments of debris pinwheeling in Daniel's direction. He ducks behind the DHD for cover, groping for the radio that apparently isn't there. A second impact - are those missiles or energy-based weapons or sonic-based technology he can't tell he can't tell there's too much happening - rocks the gate again, and before Daniel can consider dialing home a third blast smashes into the platform barely several meters away. No form of evasive maneuver would have been sufficient. He tumbles backwards off the dais and scrambles to get back to his feet

Threat assessment: alien planet, unknown coordinates, unknown assailants, explosions very very nearby. Force and magnitude of attack unknown. Gate unsafe.

Get to higher ground.

[powerdealer]

In the midst of all the explosions, barely moments before the gate closes, another man is thrown through. And he's clearly not there intentionally, judging by the fact he's wearing nothing but jogging bottoms and an open flannel shirt.

Last thing Seth remembers, he was in his apartment - doing what? Dozing off, maybe - and now, with no warning whatsoever, he's hurtling through the air, after a spectacularly hallucination-like light show. He lands roughly on his back on what is definitely stone, getting the wind knocked out of him.

And before he has even the slightest chance to orient himself or even get his breath back, something explodes, and Seth has to cover his face, curling around and attempting to get to his feet, figure out where he is, what the hell is going on.

[peacefulexplorer]

Somewhere in the turbulence of the world detonating around him, the unmistakeable liquid compression as the stargate roughly disgorges a second figure rings out clearly between blasts. Immediately afterward, the gate shuts in its whooshing, dissipating pop of destabilized energy. Closed.

Daniel swivels to face the gate, brows drawn down in hard confusion. This man, this person, just showed up out of nowhere. Clearly not an offworlder, not from this planet anyway, very obviously a civilian - an unarmed, unprepared, completely defenseless civilian. What is he doing here?

Daniel ducks back reflexively as another rumbling salvo of projectiles shakes the bunker - bunker? - they're apparently in. He's rapidly gathering that these projectiles are missile-like in nature, and therefore will have a wider blast radius as opposed to an energy-based arsenal. Meaning increase of shrapnel. Meaning increase of general environmental danger. Meaning dialing Earth is not an option until he can draw that fire away.

He stacks together his priorities in an untidy bundle and grabs a quick breath.

First things first. Get himself and the unknown civilian out of the line of fire, and then they can work on dissecting circumstances.

Daniel surges forward, wraps fingers around the guy's arm, and hauls him upright.

"We gotta move!" He has no idea if the words make it past the next thundering growl of weapons fire. The ceiling of the bunker spits thick trails of dust at them in groaning warning. The structural integrity will soon be compromised.

There are no other targets in the bunker. Daniel is the target. Daniel and - possibly this other man, whoever he is. He looks Tau'ri, certainly, right down to the modern dress but this is not necessarily an indication of planetary origin.

"Move, move, come on!" He tugs at the other man, desperation making his grip and unidirectional drive far fiercer than it should be considering the civilian's obvious unpreparedness, but they're left with so few options here. It's move and find cover or die, and Daniel's in no rush to go through that again.

[powerdealer]

There's an additional, entirely unwelcome surge of fear as he is suddenly grabbed and shouted at, by someone very large and very strong and very much wielding a large gun, and this is just so many kinds of horrible. As if he needed to be pushed any further into panic.

It's pure instinct and muscle memory that makes him follow, stumbling a little but barely noticing the pain of hurrying barefoot over all this debris, and he's still barely able to draw breath or see because there's all this dust and shit in the air, and everything seems to be happening at once and his heart is thumping painfully in his chest and he thinks he recognises that voice, which. He doesn't understand. But it's probably the only thing stopping him from trying to pull away or run in the opposite direction, even with how his grip hurts.

Half-formed theories are flitting through his mind, like a terrorist attack, or some ridiculous Rift bollocks, but it's currently entirely impossible to think any of it through because he can barely keep on his feet and take in his immediate surroundings, much less form rational thought. There's stuff fighting to make itself known inside his head, stuff he does his very best to keep buried, stuff that makes him incapable of properly coping with what's going on around him, and he can't do that right now, he needs to be present, he needs to be alert, or else. Well, he has a distinct feeling he won't make it out alive otherwise.

[wildmage_daine]

Daine lands shoulder-first in three inches of snow, the wind knocked out of her and her bow dropping to the ground. Confusion and déjà-vu wash through her in equal measure, and she just lies there for three beats of her heart before an achingly familiar grey face fills her view.

And what sort of move do you call that? Cloud asks her, huffing out an annoyed breath in Daine's face. Were you going to take on a handful of enemy mages single-handed? Idiot foal! Her teeth close around Daine's shoulder, hauling her upright, all the while continuing to berate her. I let you out of my sight for a few weeks, and you get all kinds of foolish notions--what are you clinging to me for? she finishes, her tone taking a turn for the baffled as Daine throws her arms around the pony's neck.

A few weeks? Daine protests weakly as she turns her face into Cloud's mane. Hot tears are streaming down her cheeks. Cloud, I've been gone for months.

She can feel Cloud's confusion at that pronouncement. Nonsense, she mutters, though her tone has softened. You weren't in Carthak that long.

"Not Carthak," Daine says aloud, struggling to her feet, still leaning against the pony for support. She notes that she's wearing the same clothes she was when the rift first took her. "I was--somewhere else." She falters uncertainly. How could she even begin to explain Manhattan to Cloud? She casts a glance at the surrounding wilderness - a real forest, nothing like the Ramble - and shakes her head, overwhelmed. "Is it… is it really the same day I left?" she murmurs, as much to herself as to the pony.

There's a snort from Cloud, who can't seem to decide if she ought to be concerned or annoyed by Daine's inexplicable chatter. You've hit your head or something, she concludes. And you're lucky that's the worst of it. Come on, let's… she trails off, then turns to look at something behind Daine, her ears flattening in suspicion. Who is that? she demands to know.

[peeta_mellark]

Snow crunches underfoot, and Peeta frowns down at it in confusion. Where is he? He tries to think back, to recall how he got to these snowy woods, but the last he remembers, he was in New York.

Cautiously, he takes a few steps forward, listening intently. Almost as soon as he does so, he hears a voice. What's more, it's a familiar voice, and he walks toward it with less care. Less than a minute later, he's staring at a horse - and a very familiar back.

"Daine!"

[wildmage_daine]

Daine spins around at the familiar voice, then gapes. What is he--how can he be here? Did the rift make some sort of mistake? Then again, considering the universe he came from, it might just as well be a mercy.

It doesn't matter. Seeing him standing there drives home just how keen a loss it would have been to never see him again. "Peeta!" Stumbling a little - she's not used to boots and heavier winter gear - she closes the remaining distance between them and throws her arms around his neck. "You're here," she gasps out in astonishment and relief. Then, with tentative joy, "We're really here!"

There's an unimpressed huff from behind her and the crunch of hooves in the snow. If you don't start talking sense, I'm getting the stork-man, Cloud says, giving Peeta an assessing look out of one eye. She has a vested interest in any two-legger who presumes to hug Daine. Or I might just start biting.

"Oh." Daine pulls back a little and offers Peeta a wobbly smile. "Peeta, this is Cloud. She's--well, she's family. Cloud, this is Peeta. He's a friend." She puts a slight emphasis on 'friend' in the hopes it'll put any bitey urges to rest.

Turning back to Peeta, she adds, "We're in Tortall, and it's the same day I left." She leaves it at that for the moment. It's a lot for her to process, and this is her home. She's not sure how well he'll handle the news that he's wound up in a strange universe yet again.

[peeta_mellark]

Peeta stumbles slightly when Daine launches herself into his arms, but returns her hug warmly, even as his confusion grows. It's clear Daine knows where they are, and as she pulls away from him, the pieces start to fall into place for Peeta. By now used to being introduced to animals, he gives Cloud a wave and smile, but the matching "hello" catches in his throat when Daine proclaims that they're in Tortall.

"What? How are we in Tortall?" He glances around, half-expecting to see something that would identify their surroundings.

tw: fantasy gore

[noteasybeingblue]

The rain-spattered streets of this city are coated in water and blood in equal measure. The heaps of demonic corpses are immeasurable, piled between alleyways and quickly trampled beneath the feet of the next oncoming hordes. The Los Angeles has long since crumbled from its former proud metropolitan sprawl, rendered completely unrecognizable. Hellish fissures have erupted from the ground; the sky is become a darkened, bloody smear streaked with stars; the rain has progressed into a hail of fire belched from the choking black clouds overhead; swarms of heterogeneous beasts, winged and tentacled and horned and cloven, scale the formerly mortal-owned buildings of cement and glass and shred them to their foundations.

And it is glorious.

For despite the diversity and number of Hellbeasts, despite their endless ranks, none have come close to laying low the conqueror, the God-King, the Merciless, the eternally triumphant. Illyria strikes down her foes tirelessly, gleefully, and revels in each one's demise.

Finally, this world has become a hair more aligned with the one she knows. Illyria is still a god, still a king, and she still knows what it is to conquer. This world will be hers, and every demon that does not bow will be crushed.

[johnny_truant]

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, what the fuck is happening, WHAT THE FUCK.

It's LA, sort of, he remembers it, but it's not his LA at all, it's all earthquakey and covered in blood and fire and huge fucking monsters. He doesn't have time to contemplate what's happening. He grabs a metal beam and fucking runs.

"FUCK OFF!" he screams, swinging his weapon around at pretty much everything that gets near him. "Holy shit get the fuck away from me!"

He's handling this well.

His blows aren't really doing much damage against the various eldritch-looking foes, but he doesn't care. Most of them seem unconcerned with him, which means they could kill him just as easily as not. He keeps running and swinging, carving himself out a desperate path, only dimly aware that he's getting spattered with blood.

[noteasybeingblue]

The sounds of mortal struggle are distinct and unexpected; what sort of human could have survived so long here, at the heart of the carnage and not at the fringes like all the others?

The noise gives Illyria pause; only briefly, however, as she has not yet completed her beheading of her latest foe. The task takes longer than she expects, possibly due to the overabundance of heads. Finally she eliminates it by crushing the body to jelly, flinging it into one of the many infernal chasms opening up around her, and pinpoints the sound of human struggle. It appears to be fighting in whatever way it is able, though how something so unskilled and so obviously terrified survived for so long is unknown.

Angel tacitly requested she get as many of them to safety as possible. The small slippery creatures are unaccustomed to such battle, she thinks scornfully. This theorem has yet to be unproven in any grand scope. In fact, she believes she is about to see it proven once more, taking note of the large, vicious colossus of a beast that does not seem to be approaching the human with an intent to destroy it, but doubtless will succeed in doing so by trampling it. Fragile things, these vermin. Breakable.

All too eager to intervene for the sake of violence, Illyria cheerfully slings the disembodied head of her last challenger to strike the creature between the eyes.

It roars, rears back on its legs, massive jaws opening in a tearing scream of displeasure, tiny eyes blazing. Illyria lunges at it. When its great maw dips to snap at her, she drives one fist into the side of its head and sends it rolling away from the unintended human target.

Illyria's shell smiles as she plants herself between the monster and its potential prey. She will enjoy this fight. And a mortal capable of lasting this long is worthy of preserving.

[johnny_truant]

Johnny's lugs are burning and his legs are about to give out, and he's only vaguely aware of something thundering closer and closer behind him (he doesn't turn to look for fear of actually shitting himself). He's not really taking stock of anything anywhere around him, so it's a HUGE fucking surprise when a disembodied monster head comes flying near him. He skids to a panicked halt and ducks, but it sails well over him, colliding with whatever it is behind him. He pivots around and, oh, a fucking t-rex, okay. He falls onto his ass and scrambles back in mindless terror even as the dinosaur reels back from the blow.

And then there's a person between them, a tiny blue-haired woman decked out in an incredibly hot leather bodysuit. She dodges an attempted crunch like it's nothing and then hauls off and punches the dinosaur in the face.

So this is happening. He gapes up at her as she plants herself between him and the roaring t-rex, apparently about to save his life for some reason. He's down for this. He is so down.

[rae_of_sun]

Sunshine has been here before. Both in the sense that it's Charlie's, and she's here all the time, and in the sense of returning to work after an absence that involved all sorts of freaky shit better not discussed - not least of all because she doesn't even have an actual temporal absence to account for, so uh, thanks to the rift for that? Except it's not really a favor. This might be easier if everyone understood that there had been an… upheaval. If it wasn't - for all intents and purposes - all in her head.

She's been handling it pretty well, she thinks. Avoiding her mother is perfectly in character, so she hasn't had to deal with that, yet, and okay, maybe she's been getting atypically choked up upon encountering basically everyone, but she has yet to reach Charlie-drifts-absently-into-the-bakery-to-talk-to-her levels of weird. If she can get through her first day back without having a meltdown or twelve, she will count this as a success.

It's not that hot in the bakery - not by her standards, and she handles the heat better than most - but she's still feeling a little bit stifled. So she's taking a break in the little courtyard adjoining the bakery and kitchen, pulling in deep breaths of the late summer air and telling herself: it's okay. You're okay. You're home. This is good. This is good.

this is so big, I'm so sorry

[johnny_truant]

[ooc: courier new text was taken directly from a scene in the book, made present tense and third person for the purposes of this. Apologies to Mark Z Danielewski, and also everyone.]


Johnny wakes up because of the radio, KROQ's Love Line, this time drenched in purple rain, and there's Hailey, he remembers Hailey, disturbed face, incredible body, came over that one time it was a really nice night and then she was gone in the morning for reasons he could never understand? - she's on the radio now, describing to Doctor Drew and Adam Carolla how he--"this guy in a real stale studio with books and writing everywhere, everywhere! and weird drawings all over his walls too, all in black. I couldn't understand any of it."--had dozed off only to start screaming and yelling terrible things in his sleep, about blood and mutilations and other crazy %&#@, which had scared her and had it been wrong of her to leave even though when he'd been awake he'd seemed alright?

An ugly shiver rips up his back then. All this time he's believed the cavorting and drinking and sex had done away with that terrible onslaught of fear. Clearly he was wrong. He's only pushed it off into another place. His stomach turns. Screaming things is bad enough, but the thought that he's also frightened someone he feels only tenderness for makes it far worse.

Does he scream every night? What does he say? And why in the hell can't he remember any of it in the morning?

This has happened before. No. Oh no. It's happening again.

Maybe he does remember. He remembers a dream, or was it a dream? Can't have been; it was too, too real, and he's too different, yes, there it is, the new tattoo on his arm, non sum qualis eram, proof of the point. Something isn't right. He's back. He's home. He's home.

No.

But the thing with Hailey happened ages ago, so long ago, did the rift - did it send him back too far? Is this it? He's just here now, no more Gabriel, no more TARDIS, no more anyone? Just like that?

This is fucking unbearable.

He kicks off the sheets and tumbles out of bed, landing hard on the floor. His instinct is to look for Yarrow but he's gone too. They're all gone. He'd only just been approaching the fourth month of his new life but it was all so much, so good. Better than life has ever been. Even with Zagreus. Even with that.

He picks himself up, breathing too hard, too fast. He checks to make sure his door is locked. Returns a second later to put on the chain. He needs more locks. (He remembers needing more locks.) His heart starts hammering. He retreats to the corner of his room but that doesn't help. Fuck, fuck, fuck--isn't helping either. Better go to the bathroom, try some water on the face, try anything. Only he can't budge. Something is approaching. He can hear it outside. He can feel the vibrations. It is about to splinter its way through the Hall door, his door, Walker in Darkness, from whose face earth and heaven long ago fled.

Then the walls crack.

All his windows shatter.

A terrible roar.

More like a howl more like a shriek.

His eardrums strain and split.

The chain snaps.

He's trying desperately to crawl away, but it's too late. Nothing can be done now.

That awful stench returns and with it comes a scene, filling his place, painting it all anew, but with what? And what kind of brushes are being used? What sort of paint? And why that smell?

Oh no.

How does he know this?

He cannot know this.

The floor beneath him falls into a void.

Except before he falls what's happening now only reverts to what was supposed to have happened which in the end never happened at all. The walls remain, the glass holds and the only thing that vanishes is his own horror, subsiding in that chaotic wake always left by even the most rational things.

Here now is the darker side of whim.

He tries to relax.

He tries to forget.

...He can't forget. He doesn't want this anymore. He left this behind. This already happened and he already wrote it down. What more can he do. What more can he give.

"Gabriel," he whispers, helpless, desperate, pleading, lowering himself gently down to his knees. "Gabriel, can you hear me?"

Long, dusty silence. He stares at his hands on the floor and wills it to open, swallow him up, take him away. He can't. That's gone too now. Good.

Then: footsteps in the hall. Ordinarily Johnny would never go out there. Especially not because of footsteps. But it might be Gabe. It might be.

He gets up, unchains and unbolts his door, opens it. Steps into the hall.

There's someone there, but he can't know if they're real.



[Gabe may indeed answer this prayer but don't let that stop you from throwing anyone else at poor messed up little Johnny. He can meet anyone in the hall and it will probably be terrible.]

[bluesuit_handy]

Andrew sits back in his lounge chair, scratching behind the ears of the little havanese dog curled up against his big, pregnant belly. Before him lies a lake, its water reflecting the triple moonrise above. Behind him lies an adorable, stub-nosed spaceship big enough to house the equivalent of a small flat inside. His expression is troubled; though he ought to be pleased to be home he's instead struck with anxiety over the fact that James isn't here with him. Last time they went through the rift there was a delay between their arrivals, but there's no guarantee that things will happen the same way twice.

The little dog on Andrew's lap and the golden retriever splashing about at the lake's edge snap to attention at the sound of someone approaching, waiting in readiness as Andrew turns to look as well. The third dog, a big wire-haired mutt, leaps to his feet beside the lounge chair and begins barking hysterically, the sound surprisingly high-pitched, like he can't decide if he's crying or barking.

"Oh, hush!" Andrew admonishes him. Then, to the person newly arrived, he adds even as the golden retriever comes dashing up toward them, "Don't mind Harry, he's just an idiot -- Kate, no!"

Lucifer's Adventures in Hitchhiking, or Things Sam Lacks: Good Communication Skills, the AU

[wentdowntogeorgia]

When Lucifer opens his eyes, he is laying on his back in a graveyard, looking up at the watery Kansas sky. He is wrapped up in the familiar flesh of his former vessel, but Nick is not in the same condition that he was in Manhattan; he is battered and broken, a wrecked shell like he was when Lucifer abandoned him in Detroit. The vessel is dying and Lucifer's Grace is barely more than a spark, and it takes most of even that small amount of power left to him to get Nick back into an inhabitable shape. At least with his Grace burning so low, the vessel can contain him without being damaged, but it has left him little more than human.

And his wings.

His wings had been wreckages even after his first Fall, all scars and sinew where he'd been burned and healed and burned again in Hell, but they had at least been functional. Now, they were nothing, just bare bone and ash, and he feels the loss of them acutely. Worse is the pervasive silence all around him, the great yawning emptiness overhead where Heaven stands hollow and abandoned.

Angel radio is silent. He cannot hear his brothers and sisters, feel their presence mapped across the universe in a Grace-light starchart. Knowing Gabriel's warning did not at all prepare him for the awful truth of it.

He is free and Heaven is a tomb.

It takes some effort for Lucifer to get to his feet; he is near powerless, has no idea where Michael might be, no plan and no direction. He does not know where Gabriel is, either, but he can at least take a guess and hope that he's in New York. New York, which is across almost half the entire continental United States from where he is. Had his wings still been functional, twelve hundred miles would have been nothing; he could have crossed it in an instant, at the speed of thought. Now--

Now, he has no choice. He walks.

Lucifer doesn't walk quite the whole way. For a few hundred miles past Indianapolis, he rides in the backseat of a van belonging to a man who'd picked him up off of the side of the road with about half a dozen cats. He thinks of Castiel and how he'd ridden in Dean Winchester's car, and he agrees with him: they are slow and confining. The close quarters and animal reek causes them to part ways in the little town of Bethlehem, West Virginia, and he continues walking.

Sometimes, he stops at gas stations or cheap convenience stores to purchase sustenance with what little loose money is left in Nick's pockets. His Grace is returning to him, slowly, but he has to keep burning it off to keep it down to a level where it won't damage his vessel and to keep himself off of Hell's radar (the angels are dead, and he does not trust the demons not to think that one more dead angel would be to their benefit with him weak and the threat of Heaven gone), and it's too low to negate the body's biological needs. He doesn't know how easy it will be to find another if he ruins this one, so he has to take at least the most basic care of it.

He sleeps, at times, though he thinks that sleep may not be the right word for it; he passes out in places, in stoops and on the side of the road. He doesn't remember actually losing consciousness, just the sick, hard jolt of coming back to awareness hours later.

It takes him some two weeks of walking and hitchhiking to make it to Manhattan.

It takes him a little while even after that just to find evidence of Gabriel's presence, but he knows his brother is alive, so that makes the signs easier to spot. He follows the trail of pagan trickster magic and well-hidden angel Grace back to a warded apartment building. His Grace is so weak that the wards barely even recognize him, and he is able to enter; he likes to think that he has done this on purpose, as a way of passing through, but he knows that isn't true.

He is dust-caked and weary, his ruined wings throb down to the roots; his feet are in an unknown condition, because he simply hasn't taken off his shoes. By the feel of it, they've become two giant blisters, and the muscles of his legs have become increasingly uncooperative. His knees ache, especially on cold mornings, and the idea that this body is past middle-age is an uncomfortable one. In a state of constant decay, and over halfway to dead. He needs to find a way to keep Nick from dissolving around him, or he needs Sam.

Lucifer knocks on the door.

((Technically, he's going for Gabriel, but anyone can find him at any point during his Fabulous Misadventures.))

[has_a_horn]

He's home, but home is empty. Heaven is closed for business, and the voices he had blindly hoped to hear are absent. Sam had been right. All of the angels are gone. Fallen. Johnny's not here, nor the TARDIS. Seth. Peter. Any of them.

His apartment rings with silence for a full week before he goes back to his old tricks. People here have souls, people here can attain heaven, so he can deal out justice like he had before without a tug at his moral center. He kills three businessmen before he gets sick of the game and starts doing other things...sending friendly illusionary dragons into central park, then not so friendly ones, covering every building with frosting like the trimming of a gingerbread New York - keeping himself occupied if only for the moment. He doesn't kill any demons. He doesn't want to be on their radar. They think he's dead; it's easy to let his actions be claimed by others.

He wants to go back, but he knows that this is where he should be. He should be trying to fix things here. He should force his way into heaven and kill the last angel alive. Metatron was the one that caused this and he doesn't deserve to be acting as God.

Nearly a month in, he's scribbling out sigils onto a notebook when he feels who's coming up the stairs. He's stuck to the spot, not moving at all until the knock at the door. When it happens, he pushes himself up and flings open the door, taking in the bedraggled dirty shape of his brother, then pushes forward and sets his hands on his shoulders. He feels a strange mix of emotions. Why is it always Lucifer? What makes him endure to be the only other, besides himself? In New York, before, and in New York, now, back home. He's here again, and it's a terrible relief. "I thought I was alone."

[wentdowntogeorgia]

He doesn't know if Gabriel will answer the door, or, if he does, if it will only be to tell Lucifer to leave; they hadn't been on good terms with each other for a very long time. He doesn't know if his presence will be welcome here, even if he is the one of only two possibly still living angels. He has heard nothing from Michael, technically doesn't know if his older brother is even out of the Cage or if he survived, and he is hesitant to look before he figures out his Grace situation.

He is hesitant to look and find that he is wrong, that their family has shrunk to only two.

When the door opens, he does not allow himself the luxury of hope. He doesn't have the energy for hope, which had been novel when he'd first experienced it, but by now has gotten terribly old.

But when his brother lays hands on him, warm and firm on his shoulders, that at least isn't the worst reception that he could have gotten. It isn't exactly a warm reception, but, really, being the Devil kind of removes the possibility of very many people being happy to see him, and he's long since gotten used to that little fact. And Gabriel hasn't reached for an angel blade yet, so this is already going better than the last time they met in this universe.

"Surprise," he says, his voice so flat you could put a rug on it and call it a floor. "Happy Christmas, I'm not dead yet."

[has_a_horn]

"No shit." He drops his hands and backs up, but he doesn't turn around to walk into the apartment. If Gabriel is going to do what he's planning to do...he's going to need all the help he can get, and another (albeit fallen) archangel would be an asset. He needs his brother. He doesn't suspect Lucifer has any motivation to attempt killing him at the moment, but he's not feeling all that trusting either. He steps aside, allowing entrance, then closing the door once Lucifer is over the threshold.

First things first. "You smell like a dead possum. Do not sit anywhere."

[peacefulexplorer]

There's something to be said about the mindlessness of driving. It's such an inherently mechanical task, especially with such a broad and seemingly unending barren stretch of roadway. It's so endless and mindless and automatic, in fact, that Daniel hasn't even begun to question why he's driving a '97 Volvo that he doesn't remember owning through a state he doesn't have a reason to be in. His subconscious apparently isn't all that concerned about it, however. If Daniel were aware of the true nature of this reality - in that it isn't - he would be pleasantly surprised to admit that this is an unusually relaxing dream.

Well, relaxing up until the point where he notices the bedraggled figure making its way along the side of the road and, ever the humanitarian, Daniel pulls up just beside him.

The man looks awful, whoever he is, probably in need of a hospital in addition to a ride out from the middle of nowhere. He looks distantly familiar in a vague, unplaceable way, though that's hardly what he would consider salient at the moment, not when this guy seems to be so badly in need of help. Daniel can't imagine how long he's been walking here on his own in that condition. Without a second thought, down the window goes.

"Hey," he calls in obvious concern. "You okay there, buddy?"

[wentdowntogeorgia]

Lucifer has been walking down this lonely stretch of road somewhere in the God's own country between Pittsburgh and Philadelphia for a long time now; he has long since ceased to care about the fact that his vessel looks like some kind of ragged transient, that his feet ache and his legs hurt and being basically human is really an awful state of existence. He wants his Grace back-- he wants to be able to let his Grace come back in full. He wants Heaven to not be empty. He wants a lot of things, but all he can do is walk.

He slows when the car comes up near him, its wheels kicking up a little gravel on the side of the road. He stops and looks in the window at the concerned man within; he sees no malicious intent in the man's mind and soul, a useful little piece of his powers that's still intact. This is not the first person who's stopped to offer him a lift since Bethlehem, but it is the first that he might actually consider riding with.

One of those men who stopped will not be found for a few days. He deserved what he got.

"I'm fine," he says, though it's a half-truth at best. "I'm heading to New York. Going my way?"

[peacefulexplorer]

'Fine' is very much relative and Daniel would be inclined to think that according to most sane and average standards, this guy doesn't particularly fall into the parameters of 'fine'. As it stands, he's a few sigmas away from Daniel's central understanding of the concept. At least.

"Yep," says Daniel, with no idea if he's actually heading to New York or not. He's not sure he set off driving this stretch with an actual plan in mind. But the state this guy's in, he could be going to Antarctica and Daniel would still probably take him partway at least.

His head goes to one side, apprehension sharpening. "You, uh, you need a hospital or something?" Not that they're likely to find one out in the middle of nowhere, but the man looks like he needs it.

[bibliophale]

Well, this isn't right at all.

That is, it's not current.

He's standing in a vast expanse of grassland near the bank of what he knows to be the Euphrates, foothills to the east, and a city in the distance. He stares at it in momentary disbelief. The circling gates are not yet in their full splendor, nor the the Hanging Gardens, nor the Tower, which they called the Etemenanki ziggurat. But it is unmistakable nonetheless.

"Babylon," he murmurs, awed and aghast, and his voice comes out nothing like the nasal tone to which he's lately grown accustomed, but deep and rich and thick.

Aziraphale remembers this body - how could he forget it? He kept it for rather a long time. A Sumerian, currently dressed as an infantryman.

This is long before the Arrangement. Before so, so much. He can't tell precisely when - sometime in the 17th century. 1700s BC, that is. Goodness knows what he's meant to be doing right now.

But why is here? Has the Rift put him back? Has it put him back here?

"Bugger," he hisses before dredging up his Sumerian. This is no place for Modern English.

Devoid of options, he walks toward Babylon.

[anguiform]

Well this is... different. Or rather, it really, really isn't.

This is the body he-- or rather she¹-- wore ages ago. Literal ages, in fact. Not so long after the Garden. She remembers this body; she'd first had it when she was busy worming her way into the court of Sargon of Akkad² and for some time after that. It had been a good body; long of face with sharp narrow eyes and a build that Crowley can retroactively appreciate would have made her a hell of a basketball player. But what on Earth is she doing in it now?

Last Crowley checked, she'd been in an alternate universe Manhattan in a more or less male body, certainly not somewhere in the scrublands outside what she's fairly certain is the city of Babylon. Time travel? It's a possibility; the Rift did drag her and Aziraphale four years into the future, but surely any travel backwards in time wouldn't stick Crowley back into the appropriate body.

Bloody weird is what it is. She wrinkles her nose, and then wrinkles it again when the motion brings it up against the short veil she's wearing, weighted with beads of gold and lapis. Ah, yes. No sunglasses in... well. Whatever year this is. Looking down, she sees bare feet (still snake-skinned on their soles) and the fringed hem of a brightly-coloured skirt, and strapped at her waist, a broad-bladed knife. All the trimmings, then.

Not knowing what else to do, she sets off towards the city, running through the events of the past few days in her head to see if she can pin down any possible cause for her apparent time-travelling. She's knocked out of her contemplations as she walks by the sight of an unsettlingly familiar figure some way off. A huge, dark man kitted out in a soldier's gear, quite as alone as she.

She can always tell Aziraphale, even if she didn't already know the shape he's in. There's something about the angelic presence animating the flesh that makes it immediately apparent who he is, and all Crowley can think for a moment is thank fuck she's not alone.

'Oi! Angel!'

And, oh, that's weird, different voice; she'll have to get used to that all over again.

¹ Demons, like angels, are genderless beings. Accordingly, Crowley has never felt especially attached to any particular gender, and has therefore as a matter of course just gone with whichever pronouns people seem most likely to prescribe her in any given body.

² And susbsequently getting to know his daughter Enheduanna, whom history would actually remember, unlike old Sargon. She'd been rather enamoured of her at the time, and in retrospect realised that Enheduanna was just a slightly more pronounced example of why Crowley really quite admired humans.

[bibliophale]

Aziraphale startles¹ at the burst of English, coming so soon after he'd tamped his down, and he blinks over at Crowley. Likewise, he can always tell the demon, especially with her being so very snakelike in these early days.

"Oh," he says, trying to downplay his relief. "Oh, hello." He smiles sheepishly and approaches her, noting how much he clanks in this day's garb - what he would give for a good sweater! though maybe not in this heat - looking her up and down. "Bloody strange state of affairs, isn't it?"

She is - goodness, she is attractive. Aziraphale notes this uncomfortably. When all this had happened before, he hadn't yet learned to notice such things, and really, he only barely notices them now. It's not so much that she is aesthetically pleasing (though that certainly plays a part) as it is that it's Crowley, a Crowley he'd never been able to properly appreciate before, what with them being at odds all the time. They'd had their share of, well, questionable encounters even in those early days, though it had been a rather confusing time, what with the heated emotions and all². He'd never had an opportunity to... enjoy her company.

"Do you think the Rift did this on purpose?" he asks, doggedly pressing on. "I mean, it's rather a large margin to miss by. Some sort of off-color joke?"

¹ Rather an amusing sight in such a large, imposing body.

² You know when you're fighting your sworn enemy all close and sweaty and full of passionate energy, and you get your wires crossed and you accidentally end up having all the wrong feelings about it? No, Aziraphale doesn't know anything about that either. He certainly does not.