applesaucedream | Sweeter than the First Time [Open to All]

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Sweeter than the First Time [Open to All]

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Hello, dreamers of Manhattan. The Rift knows that things have been kind of rough, lately. The last dream didn't go as well as it had hoped. Consider this an apology of sorts, and a hearkening back to the good times you've shared.

It's a grand old (and potentially familiar) cabin house that the dreamers will find themselves wandering. The furniture is plentiful and comfortable, the floors are strewn with cushions and blankets, and there are cheerful fires burning in the grates. It seems a little odd that the house still manages to be on the chilly side despite looking so warm, yet it is.

Oh, well. You'll just have to find another dreamer or two and ~~spoon up and fall asleep like little baby cats~~ get cozy. It shouldn't be difficult; most of the dreamers (excepting those with strong telepathic defenses or deeply ingrained cuddle-averse personalities) will find themselves feeling friendlier than usual, along with an almost overwhelming desire to snuggle up to someone. How convenient that the house seems designed for that very purpose!

~~And if some of the cushions are Hello Kitty themed, well, that's just coincidence.~~

[OOC: Standard dream party rules apply. Characters will be affected by the dream-whammy to whatever degree makes the most sense for them, and will remember or forget the events of the dream at the player's discretion. Backtag into infinity.]

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Seth nods, and flips through them. It's good though, practicing his power. Who knows, at some point it might be very useful. Like sending secret messages without appearing to, if he can manage to make them appear with writing. Or a call for help if he's in trouble.

"Or you could make one of those little flip-book comics," he suggests, flipping rapidly through the blank pages.

"I feel like that might require more precision than I actually have so far." He makes a halfhearted attempt to generate some post-its with writing on them but comes up with another blank stack in his own palm, which he pockets with a disappointed grunt. "I'll make it a milestone. Maybe start my own flipbook business. There's probably a lucrative market for this sort of thing, right?"

"Think you may be overestimating the monetary value of your power. And I should know, I used to attach monetary value to powers for a living," he answers, pulls off a post-it from the stack, and sticks it on Daniel's shoulder. Would be funnier if he could write something on it, but Daniel hasn't materialised any writing utensils yet.

"And here I thought that'd be easy money." Though as soon as he says it he quickly tries to steer his mind away from the subject. He still hasn't worked out what to do about a more permanent living space or even a job, and for two very high priorities it's embarrassing how lost he feels in scoping those out. But it's such a bizarre shift, going from saving the world twice a week to something so much more mundane. He has no idea what it is linguist-archaeologist-intergalactic-explorers who are pretty much honorary members of the USAF are meant to do with themselves without a literal galaxy to save.

Maybe he should take up bookkeeping.

Not to be deterred, Daniel peels a post-it off his own stack and presses it firmly on Seth's forehead, utterly deadpan. "Watch it. I've got a seemingly infinite supply of these things and I'm not afraid to use 'em."

"Oh." Well, considering what Andrew and the Balladeer used to do - travel through time and space with apparent ease - maybe it's not so surprising that someone might have the ability to travel between worlds just as easily. Or feel confident enough to try it, anyway.

It's Iman's last sentence that gets the strongest reaction. Greta turns toward her, eyes wide, and clasps the other woman's hand. "Really? You'd do that for everyone?"

Seth smiles, eyes crossing a little as he tries to look up at the post-it on his forehead. Then he sighs defeatedly.

"I didn't want it to come to this, but I can't back down now," he says, peeling off another and sticking it onto Daniel's glasses. But if Daniel tries to return the favour again, he won't find Seth as solid and tangible as he usually is.

He pulls off the offending object and tries to stick it back but his arm passes straight through the other man without resistance. Disgruntled, Daniel leans back and folds his arms.

"Well that's just not fair." He almost makes a joke about Seth always resorting to that little party trick before quickly recognizing that the last time it happened hadn't exactly been a shared experience. Whoops.

"I take it you're, you know. Still...?" He simply trails off meaningfully with a vague gesture at his arm.

It's always a pretty strange experience to see someone pass right through you, but it's kind of worth it for Daniel's expression and "winning" the post-it contest. He grins cheerfully and peels the post-it off his own forehead.

His cheer doesn't last quite that long though. "Oh. Yeah," he answers, glancing down, then looking cautiously up at Daniel again. He's not entirely sure how Daniel feels about that. Pity, presumably, but...

Edited 2015-01-29 18:56 (UTC)

For a minute Daniel's fingers drum incomprehensibly over his own crossed arms as he tries to communicate some meaning he hasn't yet delineated to himself. In the end he doesn't settle for eye contact at all. There's such a turbid slew of emotional associations there for both of them, and sorting through all of it is still something of a work in progress. Daniel's still conflicted over how he feels about being the one Seth apparently decided to entrust with this information over Gabriel, not to mention the idea that Daniel is now more or less keeping secrets from the archangel without honestly meaning to and despite not truly knowing him all that well.

"Is there," he begins, then stops, frustrated. Then again, "do you know where you're going with that?" Awkwardly phrased, even more awkwardly said aloud with Daniel's arms crossed and his shoulders creeping a little higher in his private, muddled indecision and a small, ridiculous aversion to meeting Seth's eyes for fear of what kind of judgment or disapproval he might unintentionally communicate.

Seth lowers his eyes again, fiddling with the stack of post-its. At least he has something to occupy his hands with? Because this is not a terribly comfortable conversation, even if it's probably one that they should have. After helping him through it, Daniel deserves to ask questions.

The question is valid even if it's a bit oddly put. "Not really," he answers after a moment. Not beyond just continuing as he has, taking precautions and coping and managing it. Which he realises is not ideal, but he still has problems seeing the permanence of his situation. He has trouble really envisioning a future, and so it doesn't seem like that much of a big deal.

They're being so deliberately vague about all of it, tiptoeing around the subject like it might bite. Daniel takes a breath.

"Have you considered, you know," but he can't bring himself to bring the sentence to its completion for a minute, "stopping?"

Of course he has, he definitely has, that's not something one doesn't consider under those circumstances, so Daniel plows on hastily, "I just mean, well. You're not defenseless, not anymore. Maybe you don't, you know, necessarily need to hang on to...that."

At first, Calliope thinks she must have stumbled into another one of the TARDIS' splendid rooms. Everything seems bright and welcoming, there is an abundance of pillows and books, and the window she finds herself next to doesn't show a distinct landscape. But something rubs her the wrong way about this assumption, chiefly the fact that it is bloody cold. Immediately upon that realization, she becomes a little smaller and tenser, wrapping her arms around herself to not much avail. Really, it's never been this nippy in the TARDIS, and she doesn't remember exploring new rooms anyhow, she remembers... her bed.

Her bed? Could it be...? She'd all but given up hope of ever dreaming again, what with her grave lack of a dream self, but... by jove, that's what this must be!! Calliope's spirits lift instantly, despite the heavy chill in her bones. She has finally joined a dream bubble again, or made one of her own, though if she'd dreamed this up it would definitely be a lot warmer. In fact, the chill seems notably stubborn and resistant to her tentative attempt at reshaping things just a little. Quite similar to the scary forest's frightful ambiance, actually, so perhaps there are other dreamers close by, muddling up the fabric of this space with their memories and emotions. She will just have to make do with what she can find here.

Which, as it turns out, is a mercifully large amount of blankets piled up on a sofa. She grabs one, but almost drops it at the sight of her own sharp claws. Oh shoot, she'd nearly forgotten. As usual, she pictures her much preferred troll shape, expecting to look at soft grey hands in the blink of an eye. But, dreadfully, she only succeeds in changing into her Prospit gown. The chill in her gut solidifies into dread as she tries harder to be presentable and fails yet again. Just like in the forest, too. Why can't she have a nice dream, if she's getting to dream at all? It seems rotten and unfair, to be stuck looking horrendous in such a beautiful dream bubble, but she is too cold to stand here and agonize about it. So she drags down several blankets, burgundy and orange and midnight blue on top, covering herself in them like a multi-layered hood. It helps a little, and she pulls the 'hood' down all the way over her eyes, hiding her ghastly appearance as well as she can manage.

The let-down of this dream and the stiffening chill make her just about want to curl up in a heap until she wakes up, but she's too glad to be dreaming at all to let it go to waste. Especially since she can now hear the faint sounds of other people in other rooms, the murmur of conversation and laughter. She would really very much like to be a part of that. And she still wears her true appearance quite often, when she's too tired before bedtime to be a troll (that's how the Doctor knows it's bedtime; she's begun to suspect he would never make her go to sleep if she could just hang onto her horns). Granted, it's only the Doctor who sees her then, but that isn't so bad. And he would insist she'll be fine now too. Reluctantly, she shuffles closer to the door, even dares a peek into the next room. But it's still an awfully big step to take on her own, so for now she remains an oddly shaped blanket pile by the doorjamb.

Seth takes a moment to answer, chewing it over. Well, yes, of course he has. And he's not sure he can even create a proper argument for why he shouldn't, beyond that he doesn't want to. He's not defenseless, and he also knows that they aren't actively looking for him, presumably because they know he's not defenseless. But the idea of not having any powers of his own... He doesn't like being dependent on someone.

"I know, but..." he trails off, and reaches up to rub at his arm. He doesn't know how to answer without just saying he's scared. And if he were 100% honest, he'd probably have to admit that he wouldn't like to live without the occasional escape from reality being high grants. But he likes to pretend that's not true.

He shakes his head a little. "It's not like I didn't have friends the first time. Didn't do me much good."

Well Iman isn't wrong; she is definitely under scrutiny. That 'next time' she mentioned isn't as sure as she seems to think, and may in fact be decided right now. But the TARDIS wouldn't get an accurate response if she pointed that out.

Sensible questions about her body are allowed, encouraged even, and she folds her hands behind her back, a slightly less forbidding stance. "It is an organic body in the waking plane. I occasionally use a manifestation of it in the telepathic network. Though I don't need to, as I function primarily telepathically."

"Yeah, but." Daniel's head goes to one side meaningfully, eyebrows climbing. "You got a literal archangel in your corner, plus a guy who gives a whole new meaning to the phrase 'bringing down the house' and an archaeologist who apparently has profound difficulties with shuffling off the mortal coil."

He tries for another smile, fleeting and small but hopefully encouraging. "You know we'd watch your six, right?"

Seth returns the smile, though it's equally fleeting and small, if not more so. He wants to comment on how archaeologist isn't really the most impressive word Daniel could've chosen to describe himself, but he's not really feeling the playful banter right now.

"I know..." he answers, sinking a little in his seat, his shoulders hunching. "I just... I don't want that to be the only thing standing between me and..."

He lets the sentence end there, as they both know what he means. Daniel's already seen what kind of hopelessness the thought of imprisonment fills Seth with, and what lengths he'd go to to avoid it. He knows he's not being entirely rational about this, but he has good reasons for it.

Satan's seeming inability to leave Daniel alone has driven him from his favored armchair by the fire and the bookcase the dream had thoughtfully provided, forcing him to start weaving throughout the cabin's various rooms in an effort to keep out of the Devil's sights. It's crossed his mind that it probably doesn't matter, and Lucifer can probably pop into the dream anywhere and anytime he pleases regardless, but the constant movement makes Daniel feel better, all right, so he keeps at it. A refusal to stay might keep the Devil away? Who knows.

This plan falls flat on its face the same time Daniel does, walking briskly into a new room only to trip over the heap of blankets piled just inside it. For an instant he wonders if someone left those there specifically to unbalance people entering before he realizes the little bundle is squirming, and there is in fact someone in it.

"Oh god." Daniel makes a mostly unsuccessful, flailing effort to disentangle himself from the knot of blankets and stop disturbing whoever might be within. "I'm sorry, I didn't, didn't see!"

Yes, well, and that's the core of it, isn't it? Seth doesn't want to be helpless, he doesn't want to be dependent on others, even if that means becoming dependent on substance rather than the company he keeps.

"I know," Daniel echoes quietly, eyes dropping again. He's seen the interior of Seth's mind and the ripples of his remembered trauma, the hollow kind of despair of being kept in walls dull and gray for months on end. "And that'll never happen. You wouldn't let it, and neither would we."

Fierce reassurances can only take one so far in hypothetical circumstance. Daniel's tone softens as he goes on, "It just - this doesn't have to be your life. You can't spend it existing in a constant state of fear that they'll find you again. That's just not tenable and, and what's more is - it won't happen."

Seth remains quiet in the face of Daniel's reassurances. He knows he can't really argue against it. But that doesn't change the way he feels. It doesn't make it all that easier. Tenable or not, it's difficult for him to envision anything different. That all his decisions won't be informed by the possibility. That it won't stop him from becoming complacent, or content, or optimistic. It might be part of the reason he can't bring himself to do anything about his feelings for Daniel. He shoulders draw up further as he chews on his lip.

"D'you know, uh," he starts, staring at the floor. "Just last week, the amount of time I've been free finally surpassed the time I spent working for the rebels..." He's counting his voluntary involvement in that as well, but that's how long they benefitted from his power. He doubts they've forgotten about him in that time.

"It just... It hasn't even been half a year since I got out." Which may seem like a long time, but he feels like he's spent a lot of it just becoming functional. Which, really, he still isn't reliably. He doesn't feel ready to give up his crutch. People spend that much time getting over a singular traumatic event. He needs to get over several months worth of traumatic events and conditioning.

Worked for is a very specific form of phrase that in Daniel's mind really only applies to the time before Seth was held against his will. It's said without enthusiasm or pride or relief or anything, just empty words and a meaningless date.

"But it's been longer since you have," Daniel reminds him. "Most people wouldn't even have the strength to put themselves back together after going through that, but you did." It's the praise that people who have been damaged seldom recognize, but that doesn't mean Daniel won't still point it out, as long and as often as he needs to for Seth to start believing it. "Do you understand how brave that is?"

If he notices the little signs of nerves, the Balladeer shows no sign of it. "Great!" he says cheerfully. This should be fun! He's always happy to meet new people, even if they're just someone he randomly encountered in a collective dream.

At the question, he smiles. "Of course."

And lets have some more music, shall we?

Seth shakes his head a little. Whether it's him disgreeing or just answering is up for interpretation. He doesn't feel particularly brave, and he doesn't feel particularly put-together. He might take some pride in managing to have gotten one over them, or rather having gotten out from under them, but brave? He's not sure about that.

He realises suddenly he's been slowly ripping apart a post-it note, and stills his hands. The desire for physical contact is slowly becoming overwhelming. He knows it's because of the dream, but the conversation isn't exactly helping. They're still sitting shoulder-to-shoulder but somehow that's not really enough.

"Maybe," he answers finally, though it's in response to an earlier question, so he clarifies. "Maybe I'll find some other way to deal with it. Just... not yet, okay?"

He's just gone through about half a withdrawal, he has no desire to go through a full one anytime soon. And not without first making assurances and backup plans. And, well. He'd have to tell Gabriel. It's that or lie to say he's given his powers away, because if Gabe's gonna help protect him, he surely needs to know about Seth being defenseless. And he doesn't want to lie to Gabriel any more than he has, and it would just bring up a load of questions about why.

The TARDIS weathers his vexed outburst stoically, noting that his remorse takes on a distinct flavor of resentment directed at himself. Well, good, he should feel like he made a fool of himself.

"I do not require it," she corrects him sternly. "Using a humanoid form is simply a form of entertainment for me, both here and in the waking plane. My nature is wholly telepathic." And apologies are never redundant.

Despite Johnny's obvious discomfort, she is relieved to hear that it wasn't anything really worrisome. As he tries to find the words to explain, it sounds rather more like a human problem she may not be able to offer much help with, but she can certainly do her best.

And indeed, his quiet confession is... odd, to say the least. It's not something she would likely think to say to any human, but Gabriel has more experience interacting with them on their level and offering them words that would make them happy. All the more curious, then, that Johnny doesn't seem happy at all. "Is that not what you would like to hear?" she asks gently, trying not to let the depths of her confusion show.

The post-it note Seth's been steadily shredding gets a brief look but Daniel says nothing. Maybe is hardly a set-in-stone guarantee, but it's also still rather soon since Seth's withdrawal scare. Putting some distance between himself and that unpleasant affair might be the first step to accepting that he doesn't need to be dependent.

"Not hopeless," he says with another, slightly more successful smile that he hopes comes off as supportive. "It might not feel like you're brave to have gone through what you did but that's the truth of it." He lays his hand on Seth's shoulder in a motion that can't seem to decide if it wants to be comforting or a display of manly camaraderie, so it simply rests there in confused indecision for a minute. "And I'll keep saying it until you to believe it."

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Sweeter than the First Time [Open to All]

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