applesaucedream | Better to Receive than to Give [open to all]

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Better to Receive than to Give [open to all]

Somewhere in the cosmos, there is something bright, and young, and playful. Somewhere, this being watches over their little flock and does their best to make those people safe and happy. Somewhere, that godling and their flock celebrate the winter holidays in the happiest of dreams.

And somewhere closer at hand, a sleeping giant stirs.

The bright tapestry of dream threads gathered by Zephyr is suddenly yanked hard enough to pull it from its temporary mooring. Something entirely unlike the little godling reels in the dreamers so neatly gathered and packaged up for it, bringing its own toys back to their proper place and taking all the others it can with them. Unsatisfied, it reaches out again and again, dragging in dreamers from all across the multiverse. It will snare them, all of them, and then it will possess them completely.

Perhaps it's fitting that when the stolen dreamers arrive in this new shared mindscape, they'll find they've been designated the Rift's Christmas gifts to itself. Each might awaken inside a dark box, or cocooned in…is that tissue paper? When they claw their way out they'll be greeted by the sight of an enormous evergreen tree laden with twinkling lights and kitschy knickknacks looming overhead. Beyond the shadow of the tree the rest of the world -- that is, the living room -- is just as large. Or is it that the dreamers have just become very small? Giant packages wrapped in bright paper form an obstacle course, but the wooden floor of the room is wide open between the tree and the hearth where an enormous plate of cookies and glass of milk await a cataclysmic Santa Claus.

All in all, things are fairly normal as far as the rift's dream gatherings go…at least on the surface. The more telepathically sensitive among the dreamers may notice an undercurrent of something darker, more urgent, and more possessive than normal. The rift isn't just sampling the wares of other worlds tonight; this time it means to play for keeps.

[OOC: This is the second part of our crossover with

wethelost! Part one can be found here. Usual dream party rules apply: all players and characters are welcome regardless of whether they are currently in the game, and characters may remember or forget the events of the dream party at the discretion of their players.

For reference, characters of average human height are roughly four inches tall according to the scale of their current surroundings. There is an entire giant house beyond the living room; characters will find a kitchen and dining room on the same floor, a staircase outside the door of the living room that leads up to a second floor with two bedrooms and a bathroom, and another staircase off the kitchen that goes to an unfinished basement. Feel free to add details as needed!

This event takes place on evening of August 8th/morning of August 9th in Applesauce time, and December 31 in WtL time.]

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Aziraphale listens with bemusement to his apparent hero scrabbling around up above him. An Englishman, and from the sound of it the sort he might have got on well with in an earlier part of the century. He quirks a half-smile, which fades immediately at the the suggestion.

He's not thrilled about the idea of being tipped, but if it gets the job done... "I'm rather densely packed in," he says, "so I think I'll be all right. Just do try and be delicate."

Unlikely, he suspects.

Bertie eyes the box and considers how to make this more delicate. Well, if he can drag the scraps from those two thingummies that people have already escaped from over for the other man's box to fall on, it might soften the blow. "Right! Certainly, my dear fellow. Hold tight to, um... whatever you're packed into. Won't be two tics and a toc before we'll have you out."

It might be a bit longer than two tics with the odd toc thrown in as Bertie collects and piles his makeshift cushion, then it's over to the other side of the box, shoving at the top and trying to get a toe under the thing to give him a bit more leverage. About half a minute of rocking later, Bertie can feel the package beginning to tip. "You're going now!" he calls out in warning before the present tumbles and goes over... completely missing his carefully-procured pile.

Bertie's not even sure how that was possible, but to make up for it, he makes haste to the top of the box and goes to work with gusto on it. It's only a few minutes later that he's dragging the bow and wrapping paper to one side and prying up the top of the box.

"Are you all right? I'm really so sorry!"

"Oof!" Aziraphale grunts loudly as he is suddenly sent crashing over onto his side, buffeted by bubblewrap and tissue paper. He struggles clumsily to right himself as his dubious savior opens up the top. He reaches up and adjusts his glasses, peeking out as light finally shows in.

"Quite all right," he assures the man, and reaches up a hand. "I appreciate your efforts. Give us a lift, would you?"

Bertie grabs the man's outstretched arm and hauls him out of the wrap, cocking his head in confusion at the material. "I say," he I-says once the other chap's been freed from his clinging prison, "what on God's green E. did they have you wrapped in, man?" The gentleman can't help prodding at the stuff with a shoe, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"It's like they've got... packets of air stuffed into plastic." If there was any doubt of Bertie's time of origin, that might have cleared things up. There are more important things to worry about here, though. "Sorry, that's not- I'm Wooster. Bertie Wooster. Sorry that wasn't a bit more gentle, getting you out, old sport. Missed the mark on my tipping."

"Aziraphale," he says, smiling faintly and giving Wooster's hand a shake. What a charming and quaint human. Early twentieth century sort of chap, 20s or 30s, he'd guess. "Don't give it a second thought, I'm just glad to be out." He glances down at the packaging. "It's, er, well it's called bubblewrap, sort of a... recent invention." Relatively? All right, not really, but for Wooster's benefit, sure enough. "Keeps things cushioned, so they don't break. See?" He rests one foot on it, bouncing slightly to show its sturdiness, then leans a little too hard on his heel and pops one of the bubbles thunderously. He winces and draws his foot back.

"Although that can happen," he says apologetically. "I think most humans find it more appealing when it's regularly sized. They like to play with it. Er, we. People."

Smooth.

Bertie starts badly at the sound of the pop, arms coming up immediately in a defensive posture as he jumps back, ready for some sort of attack. Of course, when no Underlings come raining down from the branches above or the presents around, he feels like a right silly ass and forces his guard down. He's still stiff, though, on alert, looking about ready to leap like a coiled spring the moment anything goes awry.

"O-oh. Right!" He's telling himself to calm down, calm down, calm down because nothing sets off another man's defenses like a loon who snaps at the slightest provocation. Focus on the words Aziraphale's saying, instead. "So, you're not human, eh?" Even Bertie's sharp enough to have caught that slip. "Are you a Time Lord?" He looks human enough to be one, anyway.

Aziraphale winces at Wooster's little jerk - he doesn't blame anyone for being startled by the noise, at this height, in this situation, and never having encountered bubblewrap before. But he's barreled on before Aziraphale can offer any support, and now he's got to account for himself.

"A what?" he blurts bemusedly, but wait, that sounds familiar, doesn't it? He hesitates, thinking back with a thoughtful frown, and then remembers him - that tall madman with the owl in the woods. That other dream, not so long ago. The 'Doctor', wasn't he? How odd that Bertie should know that species as well. But then, with a name like Time Lord, it sort of accounts for that, he supposes. "Oh - no, no. I'm, well." He fumbles for a moment, though it's pointless; he's not going to lie, and it's not like he's in the habit of obfuscating this fact about himself anyway, for better or worse. "I'm an angel," he says, only a tad sheepish.

"You're a what?" The fear of attack is momentarily displaced by complete and utter confusion. And then fear of a much more metaphysical sort. "Th-that is when you say 'angel,' you don't mean, um... messenger of the Lord, member of the Choir Eternal, one of those winged chappies that descend from on high? Right?"

Bertie very much needs Aziraphale - and doesn't that sound like an angel, now that he's thinking about it - to not be that sort of angel. He's been trying to make his peace with God not existing the past several months.

"I, erm." Aziraphale feels a bit mortified by this response. The people he's met in Manhattan have seen such a variety of odd things that they tend only to be disbelieving, or indifferent, which isn't pleasant, but it turns out that raw incredulity is even worse. "Yes, rather exactly, yes."

He hasn't missed the note of - is that terror? not quite the word, more like trepidation? panicked anxiety - in Bertie's tone, in his expression. Surely this should be good news, shouldn't it? For someone who actually knows about and believes in angels and Heaven, surely. Oh dear, perhaps he's an agnostic or something, wouldn't this be a dreadful shock. Too late to backpedal now. Awkwardly, he says, "Iiis that all right?"

No. It's really not all right in the slightest. Oh, dear God. He exists. That means God exists, and Bertie's done rather a lot that's frowned upon in the Good Book since birth, not to mention all the unpleasantness carried out in the Incipisphere and the... pleasantness carried off with Ienzo. It's one thing to be a sinner and have every bally person you know telling you you're an ass for believing in a God that hasn't lifted a finger to help a body out in hard times and has more than a few rules that seem just a touch off. It's very much another to have a representative of the fellow standing there, polite as you'd like.

"Fine! Fine! It's perfectly brilliant!" the gentleman assures Aziraphale, though, plastering on a bright grin. His words are quick, his voice is high, and he's laid any concerns about the bubblewrap and impending battle to one side. There are more important things to fret over, after all. "I've never met an angel. Don't you belong at the top of the tree, old prune?" He giggles nervously and clamps down on that before it can get out of control. "So, I suppose you'll have an idea what the devil's going on here, eh?" A pause before Bertie hastens to ask, "Is it the Devil? He wouldn't... th-there's no need for him to be hanging about, right? During the Lord's day." He gesture's to the tree. "Not a thing to be on about. I didn't ask him along, I promise."

Aziraphale is not, in the best of times, the sharpest knife in any drawer, but even he can see that this is obviously not fine, and he feels quite guilty for having apparently shattered this man's convictions. Before he can say anything about that, attempt some awkward reassurance, perhaps, or press a little further for why this is an upsetting revelation, poor Mr. Wooster drops that incredibly unfortunate question on him.

He stiffens very slightly, and can't keep from casting a nervous glance around. "N-no, I - I wouldn't think so," he says nervously, similarly quick and pitched. "Anyway I'd, I'd know, of course, if he were about. Hah."

He wouldn't, though. Not right now, not in his powerless state. Lucifer could be lurking around any corner, and there are a lot of them. Or in any box, for that matter. Dear goodness, Lucifer in a box. Aziraphale has a particular feeling he wouldn't enjoy that predicament, and Lucifer not enjoying things is never a good situation for any radial bystanders.

Still. Even like this, he has a duty to this poor alarmed human. He straightens himself out feebly and says, "I, er, that is. We're dreaming. So it's quite all right, of course. Just an unusual dream."

Yes, it's not as though anything terrible ever happens in dreams, he thinks, only a little bitterly.

A dream? That's an odd place for an angel to come to somebody, isn't it? Then again, Bertie's fairishly certain he never heard anything about angels coming wrapped in bubble wrap under the Christmas tree. He might have missed that bit from church, granted, but it would seem unlikely.

"Ah! Like those ones we've all been having." Which may mean nothing or everything to the chap depending on who he's been keeping the heavenly eye on. "Sorry, um... it's just that we- the people I'm living with at the mo. -we've been having the strangest dreams. Pleasant sorts put out by the resident"- Not god. He won't say god. Zephyr's not a god. They're not God. -"host in the Meadous. I-I suppose this is more of the same?"

It doesn't look particularly like the other dreams he can think of blundering into. Those had all seemed much more intimate than this. But if Aziraphale says it's all right, it's probably all right.

Zephyr again. Aziraphale frowns. He remembers hearing about this from - another dream? Was it earlier that night? Time seems strange right now, he can't quite recount. He'll never get used to this bloody dreaming thing.

"It would seem to be," he says cautiously. "Only where I'm from it's a Rift, not Zephyr. I've met a few of your people before, I think. They also mentioned a Zephyr." He scans around thoughtfully. "I wonder if this is one of Zephyr's or one of the Rift's. There seems to be some - back and forth happening."

"I thought it might be..." he trails off a moment, realizing he's about to sound completely mad. But he's standing with an angel beneath a giant Christmas tree in a house that's patently impossible. Bertie coughs to clear his throat and give himself an excuse for the interruption. "Zephyr's, um... We had a week a little more than a month ago when they sort of turned the entire Meadous into Wonderland. Like from the books. You know the ones with the little girl? Alice. There were cookies and milk to make us taller or smaller."

The gentleman glances over at the giant plate of cookies and glass of milk by the hearth. "I suppose this could be something like that again. They do get a bit excited once they've got a notion in their head, but I don't remember anybody telling them they get shrunk down for the holidays and stuffed into presents." Then again, Zephyr's... not the sharpest knife in the drawer when it comes to understanding customs. Bertie's wondered at times if he hasn't got more common sense than the little god.

"That's what all those other dreams were about. We told Zephyr how we celebrate holidays where we're from, and they wanted to give them all to us. I don't suppose you could get in touch with the Big Chappie Upstairs and ask Him to sort of wrap up the business here? It's a little odd." Not to mention disconcerting.

"Er-" Aziraphale tries his best not to look perturbed by the question, which, to poor Mr. Wooster's mind, must seem only reasonable. "Well, no, I can't, rather." Assuming He had time to take every little personal call - but that's not worth dwelling on. Aziraphale would rather do another long stint in the 1930s Rhineland before facing Him after all he and Crowley have done. "I'm cut off, just as everyone the Rift takes. No way to contact the Authorities, for me or my - counterpart. And there isn't, well..." He can't quite form the words there is no God, not even in the most specifically conditional sense. "This universe is... different. No Heaven here, from what I can tell... no one to contact. At least if there is, they aren't listening to me."

Much as he'd like to wrap things up here. He sighs. "The other problem is I seem to have, erm... been de-powered, as it were," he says, rather embarrassed. "It happens to me sometimes, in dreams. Not sure why. Can only assume it's the Rift having a laugh." Not a very funny one, he thinks.

"You can't... you mean He's really not here?" There's more than a hint of hope mixed in with the surprise and confusion. Bertie's not entirely sure what he ought to be feeling at the moment. Relief if vying for chief among the available emotions. But that's absolutely wretched. If he's having trouble and he's just a human, what must it be like for an angel not to sense the presence of God? Aziraphale must be at his absolute wit's end! Seems to be bearing up under the weight of it, though. Good man.

Bertie decides sympathy is a much more appropriate stance to go with. Sympathy and not a bit of remorse. Woe to the man and angel who have lost their God! That's much more the stuff any right-thinking Christian would be on about. "I'm so sorry, Azi, old prune." The nickname slips out without much thought. "That's awful." But if the Rift can de-power an angel, what might that mean for the rest of them? "We'll get you out of here, never fear! I'm sure we can manage it! We'll, um... we'll just need to..." Do something. "Wake up?" That won't properly solve the issue for the man if he's stuck in Manhattan like that Rashad chappie.

Aziraphale doesn't miss Wooster's hint of relief, though it quickly shifts to sympathy, which he appreciates. What he does not appreciate is the nickname. What is it with humans and their absolute refusal to pronounce the full thing. His expression twists slightly in displeasure at the childish shorthand, followed up by 'old prune', dear lord. He wishes Crowley were here, no, strike that, he'd only laugh in the poor fellow's face, and then he'd probably start calling him Azi all the time. He still hasn't figured out how to correct people when they do this, so he lets it sit rather awkwardly.

And then that suggestion. Another thing he should be able to do, and can't. Wooster obviously does mean well, but he keeps tripping over these unfortunate remarks. Aziraphale sighs woefully.

"I've tried," he says. "I should be able to, but..." He makes a weary gesture, signifying what's already been talked about, his unhappy de-powering. "I'm afraid I'm not much help to you, myself, anyone." This comes out a little more piteous than he intends, and after saying it his expression contorts again, this time looking like he's eaten something sour.

"There is someone I'd like to find, if we can," he says after a moment. "A little girl, about yea high, fair hair - her name is Melanie, she's... rather in my care." He expects Melanie would be able to free herself, but he doesn't like the idea of her wandering through this mess all alone.

Dash it all! Well, it can't be helped. No doubt, Aziraphale's trying his very best. They'll just have to figure something out together. Proper chaps working hand-in-hand to solve the mysteries and wonders of the massive Christmas. All of these righteous and fraternal thoughts are halted at the name and description of the girl.

"You know Ms. Melanie?" Bertie's eyes widen. In the dream, at least, he can recall her with perfectly reasonable clarity. "I met her! Not... not here, but she was in another dream with me. We were-" He cuts off abruptly, face paling. Bertie had promised her that Zephyr would help, that they were in the real Meadous, and she'd be human.

"Oh, dear... yes. Yes, we've got to find her!"

Aziraphale stiffens when Wooster reacts with familiarity, but he seems only just as concerned for her, which is encouraging. "I'm her caretaker," he reiterates, giving Wooster a serious look over the top of his glasses. "Understand, she's quite capable, but I don't want her to be alone here." If only he could just reach out and sense her - but there's no helping it. He sighs and plants his hands on his hips, looking over the towering pile of presents. She could be in any one of them, and so could Lucifer. He takes a tentative step forward, trying to figure out how to approach this puzzle.

"It could be disastrous if someone else found her first," he explains cautiously. "Dangerous, I mean - for her, potentially for them, and possibly for me. I am not without enemies here." Not that his safety is remotely prioritized above Melanie's, more that he wants to be honest about this. He can't protect Wooster if they encounter anyone, and he can't protect Melanie either.

The girl's question, 'Are you an angel?' suddenly makes a striking amount of sense with news that Aziraphale's the one looking out for her. "She told me. I..." he gulps. "I was trying to help her in her dream. We were in the Meadous, and I flew her to our wishing pond. We were going to wish her human."

Bertie is worried for the girl, but he's perhaps more worried for the populace at large. If this really is a dream, then she can't do too much damage, but he still doesn't relish the idea of setting loose what he assumes is a little vampire girl who has trouble controlling herself on the unsuspecting realm of dreamers. Dying in one's dreams is rarely pleasant, and he can imagine it would be equally unfortunate to die in a place controlled by some other villain apart from Zephyr.

"I think I must have gotten her hopes up terribly."

Aziraphale turns slowly to look at Wooster, re-assessing. This information is troubling. He doesn't like the idea of Melanie being given false hope, and further doesn't like anyone entertaining the idea that she needs to be fixed. The way she's always behaved with him, it seems she's accepted what she is - that it isn't a disease, it just is. But maybe he doesn't understand. He obviously means well.

"Let's hope not," he says, a bit stilted. "I don't think she can be 'wished' human. I can perform miracles, you know, if this were simply something to be overcome-" He shakes his head. "She is quite safe. I mean, to others. Despite what she says. I trust her implicitly."

This goes in direct opposition to what he just said about it being possibly dangerous to others, but that wasn't giving her enough credit anyway. He's concerned about her, and the possibility of Lucifer finding her. He begins climbing back up onto the boxes, thinking a higher vantage point might help.

Melanie had had the same arguments, Bertie remembers. He's much more hesitant calling attention to Zephyr's miracles with an angel than he is a scared little girl, though, whatever her stripe. Should he mention it? Rather the blasphemous sort of thing, carrying on about other gods being better than Aziraphale. But then... the chap is only an angel. Wonderful sorts of blokes, awesome in power and all that, but they're under the Lord for a reason. Not that Zephyr's likely on par with God, but...

"They've done it before," Bertie calls up to Aziraphale before his mind can go spinning away in circles any further. "Um... turned someone who wasn't human into one. A chappie who was a sort of... bug monster thingummy who'd been meant to sort of... conquer Earth. He got better - I mean to say, about the conquering bit. Zephyr made him human when he wished for it. That's why I thought Ms. Melanie..."

He trails off, feeling not a little foolish for trying to contradict the angel. "I'll just-just look around down here, shall I?" It might stop his nerves getting the better of him, and it's likely more help than standing about babbling.

Aziraphale hesitates, looking back down at him. He has met some very powerful entities now, and if the Rift is capable of changing people, then Zephyr might be as well. Now, instead of his almost ~~definitely~~ paternal protectiveness, he feels a pang of guilt and regret, that Melanie can't go with this kind man, perhaps to wish herself better.

"I see," he murmurs. In response to Wooster's suggestion of searching he nods and replies, "Yes, all right." After another moment he offers a gentler, "Thank you for trying to help her, Mr. Wooster."

"A gentleman never leaves a maiden in distress, my dear fellow," he returns with a brief smile and a hand placed over his heart. "Thoroughly un-preux. And I'm sure we'll find her yet in this mess. Brave heart! I'll give a shout if I spot her."

Off he goes into the festive jungle of presents. He's focused on finding the little girl, but he'll keep an ear out for any other distressed damsels - or chaps - that might be clamoring for a hand, as Aziraphale had.

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Better to Receive than to Give [open to all]

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Think we can wrap it up here to avoid continuity issues with your Melanie thread!