fridgetothefire: (Default)
[Filtered Away from Dean]

...so, I seem to have gotten a few presents I distinctly remember sending to someone else. Anybody else have return-to-sender troubles?

[Because if Dean did what she suspects he did, she's not the only one.]

The real question is, do we gather all his presents together and bring them to his door at once in an enthusiastically festive parade, or do we all go one at a time so he doesn't go more than an hour or two without visitors bearing gifts for the next few days?

[Spam, for Dean]

[The barge being busy and disorganized as it is, I assume everyone will settle on option two.]

Knock, knock.

[Performed and then also spoken. At least she isn't caroling. Yet.]


Gift List )
fridgetothefire: (what in hell)
[Spam for Morgana]

[She aches everywhere. The particular, awful lassitude of the deathtoll is unmistakable, like the deformed child of a hangover and a fever. She's cramped and nauseous and alone in the dark. It is, she notes distinctly, less comfortable than the coffin.

Her communicator isn't in her pocket and she can feel - a door, the dryer door, motherfucker, but she can't get it open. She gulps down shallow breaths, and tries very hard not to think about the fact that she's inside a box of metal. She needs to get over this, she needs to be calm, she needs to control herself. She counts her breaths, shallow and thin though they are, her diaphragm crushed where she's nearly bent in half. She gathers what flimsy strength she has, what leverage she can manage, her elbow wedged into her side, and slams the whole side of her forearm against the door.

She feels the thin metal flex, but the door doesn't budge. Breathe in, breath out. Fingertips along the edge, searching for the latch. She can't trip the mechanism from inside. Breathe in, breathe out. Do not focus on the parts of your body in order, do not focus on your body all all. A dissociative meditation: imagine a single object in entire, perfect detail, and think of nothing else. A ball of yarn, simple and detailed, around and around and around. She waits until she hears footsteps, then bangs the door again, weaker this time. She doesn't know how long it's been.]

Let me out. Please let me out.

[Her voice sounds - well, like death warmed over. But the words are distinct.]


[Voice, Filtered to Erik, Charles, Alex, Ben, Cassel, Lua, Jesse, Jean, Riddick, Arthas, Peter, Harvey, Zane, and Dean.]

Someone attacked me. I'm death-tolling, so I'll probably be scarce for a few days.

I accept offerings of soup, cookies, and people willing to hold my yarn while I catch up on last-minute knitting.


Cut for a ridiculously long gift list )

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Anya Lehnsherr | Earth 97400

November 2015

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