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.]

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"It's a stacked deck," he agrees. Out of all of the people who could have found him in the back woods of Pennsylvania, what are the odds that the one who picked him up would be one who voices the arguments that he used to say?

"When every possible move leads to losing, the choice ceases to matter."

And what can you do when there is no choice?

"And these beings who remove the choice from us try to shuffle blame for our actions onto us, instead of placing it where it rightfully belongs. Then they have the audacity to demand our unquestioning obedience."

Edited 2014-12-09 00:50 (UTC)

Whatever similarity Nick's experienced, whether it's an injustice dealt out from fate or from the universe or the hand of God, the obedience induces a tiny shiver.

Daniel wets his lips. "I won't say we don't have choice. I won't say we're pawns, shaped by our fate or our trajectory in this universe or however you choose to define it. But those that -" He has to stop himself from saying Ancients. "Those that came before, or might have. Our power is to not allow them to determine us."

He thinks of countless worlds, burned-out husks because the inhabitants exercised their right of free will and set ablaze their cities. He thinks of the metallic electrical snap of radiation that seared up his hand as he reached out to grasp the thing that would dissolve his body into millions of dying cells. He thinks of formless energy transmuted into physical flesh.

He shakes his head.

"We're not a fixed point."

Lucifer thinks of Heaven, thinks of that exact moment when he realized that God made all angels perfect and complete and he had Fallen and that meant that God wanted him to Fall, remembers that moment when he knew that the Father he had loved above all things made him, brightest and most beautiful, just to cast him down. He remembers lying in the ashes of Hell and knowing that this Hell had been made for him, had been prepared for him before he'd ever looked at his Father with anything but love and obedience. All those times he'd looked at their Father's creation and seen this terrible thing he'd made and thought even this evil thing has a place in my Father's plans, not knowing what it was for--

Not knowing until he lay broken and disgraced in its depths that it had always had his name written on it.

Where was his choice?

"So, you fight against the things that would bend you to their own designs. You fight, in every way that you can, because that's the only way you'll ever be free."

He does-- Lucifer fought for so long and for so hard, fought against everything because he has nothing else left to him. God has decreed that he cannot be both free and good so he'll take the freedom.

"The only problem is," says Daniel, shutting his eyes and sweeping off his glasses to dangle them from a weary hand, "not knowing if fighting is the choice you've been intended make. The self-fulfilling prophecy."

God, he's tired.

Not so much in the purely physical sense. He's fairly certain he's been on the verge of sleep-deprived collapse for hours on end.

Rather, he's tired of the broken string of cosmic misfortunes that get funneled into him, how the shock of each unknowable strike is clearly, plainly meant to disassemble him permanently but he always comes back from it, always, whether it is his logic or his destiny or his fate or the bizarre, contradictory fact that the otherwise indifferent Ancients simply will not allow him to die. Daniel still can't tell if it's out of some twisted sense of obligation, a way to justify their inaction, or if they simply want to punish him for daring to point out the injustice of their sanctimonious apathy.

He's tired.

He drops his glasses on the bedside table and rubs both hands over his face.

"What else is there to do?"

When faced with an indifferent universe, what can you do but struggle against it? Even if there is no way to know that what you're doing is the best thing, or even the right thing? The only other option is to lay down and let it steamroll right over you.

Lucifer stands, walking the step or two needed to bring him to Daniel's bedside. For a moment he looks at him, sitting there with his face in his hands, and feels pity for these sorry creatures that his Father made. There is something about Daniel that reminds him of Sam; a well-meaning man, firm in morals and determined to be good, who is dashed up, again and again, against the rocks of misfortune.

"You should rest. Whatever you're writing will still be there tomorrow."

"Mm." He restructures his thoughts with the shake of his head and the unsteady swipe of one hand through his hair. "Probably right. Got driving to do tomorrow."

He looks up at Nick, the random stranger pulled off the side of the road who speaks and moves and acts with a sense of displacement relative to everything around him, and wonders for the millionth time what his story could possibly be. Also for the millionth time, Daniel concludes it's not likely to become clear to him in any immediate fashion.

"You should too, you know," he says, shifting to align himself in a more comfortable horizontal position over the hotel comforter he isn't going to bother with. He only ever sleeps on top of beds, not in them. "Sleep, I mean. You've been walking a while."

"Yes, I have."

Daniel has no idea how long and how far he's walked and how far he still has yet to go.

He walks over to the window and closes the drapes, blocking out the light from streetlights and cars. The motel is back far enough from the highway that the noise isn't too obnoxious, but there is still traffic going on outside at all hours from truckers coming through.

Lucifer doesn't trust this place to be remote enough that some demon couldn't find him. He will need, at some point, to ward the room, just in case there's something tracking him. Salt and sigils, which will be hard enough to keep from Daniel so that he doesn't ask too many inconvenient questions.

He returns to his bed, sitting with his back propped against the headboard. He can wait.

Nick might not be tired enough yet, but Daniel most certainly is. The exhaustion of the day is overpowering and pretty soon halfhearted Latin musings aren't compelling enough to keep him awake.

Content to stretch out on top of the hotel bed fully clothed, Daniel's breathing gradually deepens until he drops out.

When Daniel is asleep, Lucifer gets up and takes one of the keys and leaves; he walks the short distance to the convenience store, which is fortunately open twenty-four hours. He makes his purchases with the leftover money that Daniel gave him, a bag of salt and a heavy black marker, a few other odds and ends. He returns within half an hour and puts a salt line in front of the door and window. There's a small section of tile just on the inside of the door that has a mat on it, big enough to cover the salt line, and he adds a devil's trap just in case.

He adds other sigils in hidden areas, behind furniture and across the foot of the bed where the bedspread hangs down, additional layers of protection. He stashes the rest of the salt underneath the bathroom sink and lays out the rest of his purchases on the counter.

Chicken bones, graveyard dirt, spider thread, and equal parts lavender and hemp, wrapped up in cotton cloth. A hex bag, one that will hide its possessor from demons-- and from angels, if that had been an issue. He murmurs a few words in Latin as he ties it, sealing the spell inside.

He puts it in Daniel's luggage, buried down underneath his possessions so he won't notice it very quickly and, protections complete, returns to sit on his bed and pass the night.

Edited (this is what happens when I tag on my ipad) 2014-12-09 18:52 (UTC)

Morning. Morning? Morning.

Ugh.

Daniel thinks he releases a noise that sounds vaguely human and not remotely sentient and tries to get up in a movement that lacks motor coordination so intrinsically that it merely ends up flipping him onto his stomach. One hand fists into the underused pillow and half-drags at it for leverage without success.

"Hrrrgh," says Daniel. He unsticks his eyelids to peer blearily at the clock.

How is it seven A.M.

With another grunt, he rolls onto his side, blinking furiously to clear the sleep from his vision, and immediately sees the person sitting directly across from him. Staring at him.

He makes a strangled noise that definitely does not approach anything within the realm of dignified and nearly falls off the bed.

He watches Daniel wake, slowly and reluctantly; he doesn't see the appeal of sleep, personally. It hasn't been pleasant for him any time it happened, and it honestly doesn't look pleasant for Daniel, either. And he snores, too. It's very undignified.

Daniel barely stays on the bed after he notices Lucifer's presence across from him, and the Devil cocks his head at the awkward position he's twisted himself into. Nothing surprising here, Satan is exactly where you left him. And, if it would make him feel any better, it's perfectly possible that he slept-- perhaps he's just an early riser. A very early riser.

"Good morning," he says, because he's fairly certain that's the common greeting.

"Holy shit," pants Daniel, righting himself into a sitting position. One hand presses against the side of his head that's already begun aching a dull, resolute reminder for caffeination. "Don't do that."

At least his adrenaline just got a reasonable boost, making it much easier for Daniel to stand and make his way to the bathroom where the direct application of cold water to face sharpens him up the remainder of the way.

"All right, all right. I get it," he says wearily as he exits. One hand makes a halfhearted attempt to flatten his hair while he crosses the room to the bedside and retrieves his glasses. "We caffeinate and then we're outta here, no lingering." Like they'd want to with this place.

Watching Daniel sleep had been about as boring as it sounds; he's much more interesting when he's awake, not that it's a high bar to pass. And Lucifer was getting tired of being in this fleabag motel, anyway. Every minute that he's sitting there is a minute that he's not getting closer to finding Gabriel, to finding out who is responsible for the angels' Fall.

"Very well," he says, watching Daniel go about his morning routine.

He has nothing to gather and no morning routine that he goes by; he just stands and goes to put his feet back in his worn shoes.

Seeing as Daniel bothered to bring in very little from his car, it's simply a matter of ensuring he's got keys and wallet and the pad of paper from the night before before making a vaguely unsteady pathway out the door.

"Right." The room door closes behind them and Daniel jabs one thumb over his shoulder to indicate the car. "I'm gonna check us out, grab coffee, and then we can -" The last word breaks into a low-pitched yawn, and he doesn't complete the sentence but simply ambles off, presumably to check out.

While Daniel goes to take care of the night's bill, Lucifer goes to acquire the coffee that only one of them really requires; getting on the road quickly is to both of their benefits. The coffee, though at least fresh at this time of day, isn't any better quality than can be expected from a convenience store, and when he returns to wait by the car for Daniel, he has two large cups of it in hand.

He thinks, if he were to lay waste to the Earth as he had once planned, that he would spare the ones who knew how to make coffee. There had to be people to grow it and process it and do whatever it is that they do to make it properly; they could stay. The devil's own personal barista.

It's all a moot point, anyway, because there can be no Apocalypse without a Heaven to oppose.

Daniel's pleasantly surprised to find that Nick's already waiting with coffee when he returns. One thumb worrying at an eye socket, he unlocks the car and climbs in. The tank is already full thanks to his compulsive tact the night before and he'll be starting the day off caffeinated, even if he's waking up at seven A.M. to do it. Not a bad start.

He takes an appreciative sip, as usual with absolutely no care for the heat, then nods to himself.

"All right, then. To New York we go."

Lucifer takes his place in the passenger seat, both hands wrapped around the warmth of the coffee cup, drinking it slower than Daniel. He doesn't drink it like it'll run away from him if he doesn't get it fast enough; he lets the taste linger. It's heavy and bitter and a little burned, a sort of woodsmoke aftertaste.

The hours of rest have done his vessel some good. It hurts less, though the pain of his vessel is something that he knows how to ignore, and he has been able to use the Grace he would normally be burning off to repair some of his damage. By the time they make it to New York, he might even be presentable, if a little too bearded.

"What's in New York for you?"

Nick might be savoring his coffee but Daniel bolts his with an almost absentminded energy, like it's never occurred to him not to down his coffee as quick as he can go. He'll deal with the diuretic aftereffects later - for now he'll watch road and wheel with his intriguing passenger.

"Mm, leftover problems from my inability to deal as a kid," he says lightly, honestly, turning out of the lot and back onto the broad expanse of road. The explanation comes easily before he has time to think much about it, as explanations spawned from dreams will do. "Got some time off work, figured I should focus on those."

"That's ambiguous," he says, carefully prying the lid off of the top of his cup so that he can actually smell something other than plastic when he takes a drink.

"I hope it's not daddy issues-- I think there's only room for one set of those in this car."

And, really, there's no possible way that anything in Daniel's past could possibly trump the sheer magnitude of the issues that Lucifer has with his Father. He is the Ur-example of daddy issues, the metaphorical gold standard by which all other daddy issues are measured.

He can't help but lift a truly impressive seriously?-styled eyebrow at that. Ambiguous - as if his friend Nick here has been anything but.

"Nope," he answers, the fluidity of his tone becoming more than a little forced. "I'd have to have a dad for those. Or, you know, parents."

It's not like he makes a great secret of it, but talking about it is still a bit jarring.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

That's what people say when someone loses family. As far as comfort goes, it's lip-service, as useless as any words are, but--

But if there is anything that Lucifer understands, it's loss. It's not the same as his dead family, it's not even the same as when he thought Gabriel was dead, or the losses during the civil war, but it is still loss.

Maybe he's been staying a little too close to human. Once he finds Gabriel and can allow his Grace to return to a more acceptable level, then perhaps things will be better.

Daniel shrugs.

"I was a kid. I don't really remember."

An easy lie.

Eight years old is enough to remember watching one's parents get crushed to death.

The hotel disappears behind them far too quickly, or maybe time passes in a too-rapid slideaway, or maybe Daniel hasn't been paying attention, but the darkened morning sky is bombarding them with an irradiating, flaring blaze of sunrise, ahead of schedule. Or on schedule. Daniel's coffee is gone, so time must have passed even if he can't fully account for it. He shakes his head in an effort to adjust himself to his surroundings, a motion that's quickly, worryingly becoming familiar.

"Children know more than they're given credit for."

There is a little silence between them for a while, during which-- something happens. Lucifer isn't sure what, but it feels like he's lost time, like it's just gone from pre-dawn to morning without the trouble of going through the time in between. It's something he would have been able to do if he had more Grace, just slip sideways through the lateral flow of the timeline, but he didn't do that. He didn't do anything.

His coffee cup is sitting in the cupholder, empty. He doesn't remember drinking all of it, and he doesn't forget things. He doesn't forget anything.

Lucifer glances over at Daniel, to see if he's noticed the disturbance, or if it was only visible to someone who isn't actually human.

Nick seems similarly thrown. Daniel can at least take comfort in the fact that it's not just him.

"I felt it too," he mutters, grip tense against the reassuring solidity of the wheel. He squeezes his eyes shut in an effort to reorder everything in his head, make sense of a timeline that's suddenly become corrupt. When he opens them again, the disorder has progressed into the spatial as well as temporal - the road flickers in his vision like something out of a mirage, as if it can't decide whether it wants to exist or not. The pressure of reality compounding against itself, barriers folding.

The sunlight is far too close, scintillating in its proximity. And then it - shifts, displacing into a hardened column, stark against quivering roadway, emblazoning white-hot imprints of its formless silhouette against closed eyelids.

Daniel swerves to avoid the thing that he's not sure is really there.

Between heartbeats the road breaks and reforms, scatters beneath tires and organizes back into its recognizable shape.

"What the hell is -" he begins, before the car swings in an unstable arc to slam into something vertical and uncompromising and sickeningly physical.

Oh, good, now the spatial distortions were starting up. That's exactly what Lucifer wants to be dealing with right now, when he doesn't have the mojo to force it to stop. It's really, incredibly dysphoric to be watching it in more than just four dimensions and have all of those dimensions be fucked up.

"Daniel--" Lucifer says as he turns the wheel and the visual disturbances are resolving and they are still on the exact trajectory to hit something. He calculates weight and velocity and the resistant force of gravity and he comes up short as far as power to move the automobile out of the way goes, which is really unfortunate right about now. He almost regrets those times he used his Grace for fixing trivial little things, except that bathroom really had been disgusting.

There is an instant before the impact where Lucifer realizes that he is actually going to be in a car accident right now. This is actually going to happen and he thinks he should probably have put his seat belt on.

Then there is the impact itself, and Lucifer is slammed forward into the dashboard.

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tw: car accidents of a possibly metaphysical nature

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