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

Current Music: Evening August 4/Morning August 5, 2013

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

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.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Well, I can see why that'd be a problem," Daniel comments dryly, rubbing his jaw pensively. As someone who's been presumed dead many times - and actually died many more - he can't help but sympathize with both parties. Granted, he's only getting one side of the story here. "Confrontation can be difficult. For everyone involved."

Except evidently Nick, but every confrontation needs a catalyst.

"And addressing issues is good," he adds. "Instead of letting them, you know, fester."

Daniel might be underestimating just how long those issues have been festering. By a couple million years.

Lucifer turns his head, fixing Daniel with a stare so dry that it could dessicate oceans.

For an uncomfortably long time.

"And what would you know about it?"

Oooookay, definitely the wrong avenue to go down there. He'd been trying for a little sympathy, but it must not have come across very well. If looks could kill that - probably wouldn't matter much anyway, if Daniel's going to be speaking from experience.

"Uh." He scrambles for a justifier. "You'd be surprised?"

"Surprise me, then."

He's been sitting here telling Daniel bits and pieces of his personal history, after all, and has gotten hardly anything in return other than the fact that Daniel is an archaeologist who can quote Scripture from memory. That's practically nothing, considering what he now knows of Lucifer's family situation and the clusterfuck thereof.

A clusterfuck that he'd prefer to have not as the center of the conversation, especially if he is going to be spending a few hours stuck in this small space with him.

He parses that subtle little challenge for a moment, wondering how much he can say, how much he should say without breaching on something that's classified.

"Oh, I dunno." He tightens his grip on the wheel fractionally. "Couple NDE's kinda teach you some perspective." That's less alarming than actual real death, right?

"I wouldn't have pegged archaeology as a dangerous profession," he says, because, well. Most people wouldn't think that a guy who goes around looking at excavation sites and reading really old books would be at risk too much.

But, then again, there is something off about Daniel. Something that even Lucifer's nearly nonexistent powers can get a hint of.

"Just what have you been looking at that's brought you to near-death on more than one occasion? Read a Necronomicon or two?"

"It is when you consult for Air Force," Daniel says carefully, which is bound to raise all sorts of questions about what the USAF would want with an archaeologist and a disgraced one at that but, well, cat's out of the proverbial bag now. "Sometimes situations get more, ah," one hand releases the wheel to spin in a rough, equivocal circle, "volatile than necessarily expected."

By which he means sometimes you get shot by murderous alien warlords and then resurrected so he can plan to kill you again for the amusement factor. That wasn't a fun time.

"And the Air Force has much interest in dead, ancient civilizations? Here I thought they only cared about drones and terrorists."

There is definitely more to this story than what Daniel is telling him; then again, there's a lot more to his story than what Lucifer mentioned, so it's really all equivalent. And it's not as though Lucifer has much leverage to force Daniel to divulge it, nor does he want to waste his energy going brain-spelunking in order to find out. Before, it may have been something that he would have been curious about, but he doesn't have the luxury of indulging it now.

"Do you have a specialty? One particular culture or period?"

Nick seems intent on turning the interrogatory game around on Daniel, don't think he hasn't noticed, but Daniel doesn't mind the shifting exchange. He's asked Nick quite a bit about his own family life and if they're going to play this game of ambiguities and sweeping general statements it's only fair that they alternate.

"Egyptology," he says, a little easier, sensing an acceptable segue. "Primarily. I've expanded since." Yes, to alien civilizations that are bizarrely bent on emulating ancient Earth cultures. And also Latin. "Sometimes I get called in to serve in a diplomatic function. When you study that range of languages it can help with -" intergalactic "- international negotiations."

"Still, you're an odd choice. You'd think they'd rather have someone who specialized in international relations rather than dead civilizations. While I'm sure it's lovely knowing all those languages, if that's all they wanted, they could have just gotten a translator. It isn't as though the military wouldn't have plenty of them."

He may be ever so slightly mocking you, Daniel. Don't mind him, he can't help but look down his nose at practically everyone.

"And you must get involved in quite the interesting politics if you keep getting caught in firefights."

The condescending tone isn't exactly endearing Nick to Daniel but he's finding it more worrying as opposed to simply off-putting.

"Archaeology just happened to be my first line of work. It wasn't my only one. Philology turned out to be more, ah, helpful. For that area." Like learning how to say we're friendly! don't shoot! in five different regional variants of Goa'uld.

He offers a tight, self-effacing smile. "Wouldn't believe some of the situations I get into."

"You'd be surprised at what I can believe."

And he's also not so inclined to be merciful in his interrogations, after Daniel literally asked him if his Father is God. Really, the nerve of some people, picking up hitchhikers and asking them if they're angels in disguise. Didn't Daniel know after reading all of that mythology that you're supposed to provide hospitality without suspicion, and then you get rewarded in the end? Or, at least, not killed.

Now what is that meant to signify?

Daniel looks at him warily. He won't bother to mask it this time. That sounded very much like some sort of personal dare. His tangles with manifested mythology are statistically probable to result in death anyway, most frequently his own.

"Got shot once," he offers slowly. Or twice. Or so many times he's lost count. "Right in the chest, point-blank." Which was...also not a first for that part of his biology. One would think it'd be easier to forget once the visible scarring got wiped but no, Daniel remembers most of the unpleasant things he's been through. He just can't remember which ones he survived.

"I suppose that would be difficult to recover from."

Or just outright fatal, depending on where in the chest he was shot. Most people didn't recover from, for instance, a bullet to the aorta, but might if it hit a rib or otherwise didn't manage to get a major blood vessel. Maybe Daniel is just very, very lucky.

"But people get shot every day, Daniel. Some people get shot many times, and not all of them die from it. I don't see how that's particularly unbelievable."

"Don't I know it." This one doesn't quite fit the criteria of a smile. One side of his mouth pulls up, small and pained. "That wasn't the first or last time, or the only time I was shot in the chest. Military work has its risks."

He shivers a little. Once they get out of these mountains, he's definitely going to seek out the first gas station available. Tanking up isn't a strict necessity since the the car's still over half full, but he can't remember the last time he caffeinated which, in Daniel-time, is a grotesquely long interval to have gone without coffee.

"And, apparently, a shortage of kevlar."

You would think that after getting shot in the chest so many times, the military would give him a bullet-proof vest. Either that, or he'd learn to dodge and use cover. Cover is your friend, Daniel-- it keeps you from getting shot in the chest.

And, considering that it was getting a bit late in the day, Daniel might also want to consider the merits of a motel rather than driving through the night to New York. Especially because that would mean driving through the night, sitting next to a guy who smells like a month of back roads and sweat with just a hint of incontinent cat.

Eau de Satan, the newest fragrance by Lucifer.

As it turns out, kevlar doesn't do well against energy-based weapon blasts at point-blank range. It's awful hard to dodge when one is throwing oneself onto swords, literal and otherwise, every time one is provided.

"Eh, not their fault I was just an untrained civilian." Not that the military training actually helped him die any less, mind. In fact, Daniel's pretty sure his rate of death increased after he got lessons on how to reload and fire a P-90, because the universe is just like that he supposes.

"I was thinking of stopping off," he says in a spectacularly ungraceful shift of subject. "Maybe for some always-necessary caffeinated stimulus, though maybe to find a room. You...don't have any place to stay, do you?" Daniel's gathered as much, but it seems polite to phrase it in the form of a question.

"Not until New York."

He doesn't understand what Daniel means by 'caffeinated stimulus', but if it's something he requires, Lucifer will not object. Human bodies require many things that he doesn't know much about, so how could he judge if this is necessary or not? Maybe it's like food and water and sleep, something that, eventually, the body starts to stop working right if it doesn't receive it on a regular basis.

And, even though he could still force himself to continue traveling, there is a great appeal to having shelter. He has not had a proper roof over his head since he got out of Hell, and the ceiling to the Pit probably couldn't really be counted as a proper roof. Or shelter.

"And possibly not even then. So, no."

"All right, that's it." He smacks the side of the steering wheel decisively with the heel of one palm and nods. "Next stop we get, we're finding a motel, we're checking in, and you are getting a room to stay in, buddy."

Daniel is adamant, and this is mandatory. And he keeps his promise; the first (admittedly seedy) motel Daniel sees, he parks in front of.

"Right." He gets out and pulls out his wallet, rummaging until he locates a crumpled twenty. "There's a gas station like a five minute walk away. Have you eaten?"

Lucifer is mildly confused at the force behind Daniel's decision. He understands that his homelessness is considered unusual by human standards and that shelter is a basic need, but most people are content to leave him to his own business. They do not go out of their way to fulfil whatever needs he cannot meet on his own, and he does not expect them to.

Daniel is adamant about his altruism.

He steps out of the car a few moments after Daniel does, the motions slightly stiff from his sore muscles. Ignoring them is difficult, but if he leans against the vehicle, they at least protest his weight a little less. For a few long moments after Daniel speaks, Lucifer looks at him, considering the question.

"Yes," he says. "I have eaten."

This is true; he has eaten before. It's been several days since the last time, but he has, in the past, eaten. It is an experience he has obtained.

"Have you eaten recently," Daniel clarifies with the weariness of a familiar argument he's had to make with certain workaholic colleagues, looking at Nick over the tops of his glasses. "You know what, just - here." He presses the bill into the other man's hand, faintly exasperated. "Go get yourself something, ideally protein. Or coffee. One of the five food groups, you know."

He looks distantly amused with himself but the sharp pain on the side of his head reminds him that, ow, coffee would really be a good idea right about now. He forges bravely ahead.

"I can get us a room. Sound good?"

Lucifer takes the money that's put into his hand, holding it like he only understands the very basic concepts of what its purpose is. Which is fairly true; money can be exchanged for goods and services, but he still has some difficulty understanding how much of this arbitrary currency is of equal value to things he needs. Currency only has value equal to the faith people put in it, and faith is a human concept.

But, this task is simple. Acquire sustenance-- he has done this before.

"Very well."

He will leave Daniel to his task; he turns to start walking in the direction of the convenience store.

Nick carries himself with an uncertainty about basic human principles that's familiarly unsettling. Or, well, endearing, possibly. There's something a little Teal'c-esque about it, like someone who's new at this. It's present in the stilted diction, the careful speech, the precision to the words. Could Daniel have picked up an offworlder, just by chance?

He shakes his head, reaching up beneath his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose. That'd be just his kind of luck, wouldn't it? It might explain the obsession with Judeo-Christian chronology. Being raised by alien conquerors that draw from Earth mythology to create their legacy has that sort of effect.

The room is overpriced for what is almost guaranteed to be a poorly built establishment, but Daniel's too tired to care at this point. He waits just outside with the two suspiciously scuffed room keys, leaning against the car and hoping Nick hasn't simply walked off with the money in hand. Daniel's not sentimental about the twenty, but Nick really did not look in the best shape and wandering through Pennsylvania at night won't do wonders for his current condition.

Lucifer does not leave with the money; he doesn't have much experience with currency, but twenty isn't a high number and he knows from past experience that it wouldn't get him far. He purchases coffee, because Daniel suggested it, one for each of them. He assumes that this is the caffeination that Daniel mentioned before, the kind that he requires, and obtaining it now is the most efficient use of their time. There are many accoutrements that go along with the human ritual of coffee, creams and sugars and things, so he brings a little of each.

Food for himself is acquired not so much according to taste preference as it is what is cheap, will last for a long time, and can be easily carried. Things already in bags that he can put in his pockets, nothing that requires cooking or heating. Almonds, because he requires protein and has no desire to eat the flesh of another creature, and dried fruit and a few other little things. He keeps the food in the pockets of his jacket and carries the coffees back in either hand.

When he returns, he approaches Daniel and wordlessly holds out the coffee.

Oh wow, hey, there he is. Looks like he took the advice.

"Thanks." Daniel accepts the coffee, immediately removing the paper lid and sniffing experimentally at the far-too-hot liquid that promises to be of predictably awful quality, then shrugs and takes an unreasonably large gulp anyway. If it burns on the way down, he doesn't seem to care. His nerves instantly start to settle.

"Got us a double," he says apologetically as he hands Nick a room key and starts for the row of motel rooms. "Coulda gotten two singles but that pricing was atrocious. Hope that's all right."

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