merry christmas; i could care less [ open ]

[postictal]

Who: Real Tim, Mirror Tim + YOU / Real Frisk, Mirror Frisk + YOU
Where: All the heck over my guys
When: 12/13 - 12/20
Rating: PG to start with, will edit for anything higher
Summary:
The Story:

[Just kidding starters are in the comments.]

[Let me know if you want something closed cooked up special, etc., or hit me over at arrpee. I will match prose or brackets!]

Comments

REAL TIM ; ANIMAL CRACKER ; you owe me the best gift i will ever ask for

[postictal]

He knows better than to just pick up stuff lying around in Wonderland. Honestly, he does. He remembers the way things played out during Halloween of last year, all right? People were scarfing down candy and getting turned into ghosts, and it just wasn't a real good time for anybody.

So how it is that he ended up taking a bite of one of the cookies lying in baskets is beyond him, frankly. One minute he was walking past, staunchly telling himself that he wouldn't be going anywhere near the thing, and the next minute there's a bird-shaped cookie with white icing on the floor and his shoulderblades are itching with a fierceness that has him almost doubled over.

The problem with doorways, and just about everything in the mansion, Tim is learning, is that they're not really constructed to fit to people who have spontaneously sprouted wings. And not just any wings, either, no.

Immense, plumy, gray-white turtledove wings.

The appendages are just unwieldy enough to make just about every singular task a trial unto itself. They flop this way and that, fluff and flutter and need to be folded back, make it harder to get around him in the hallways, knock over anything that might be unfortunate enough to be perched on tables and flat surfaces, and just generally make an absolute nuisance of themselves. When he finally manages to work his way to the roof and breathe a sigh of relief that he's no longer in danger of impeding everyone else's day, he's confronted with the next problem - one with an obvious but terrifying solution, given the fact that he's yet to learn how to manage his new growths in any practical way.

How the hell does he get down?

...couldn't resist.

[burntvideocassette]

There's an instinct tugging him up, up, even as his back aches and itches, pinpricks crawling across and up the back of his neck. He's tired. He's sick and tired of this stupid event and these stupid cookies and these stupid irresistible urges plugged into his head that weren't there before.

He forces open the door at the top of the stairwell one-handed, the other gripping his camera like a lifeline. At least he won't forget. The world's freezing cold and dipped in chocolate and the mirrors are cracking open and someone's hosting a party and he knows he's acting wrong, but at least he won't forget. It'll make sense later, when he edits the entry. No, no, that's wrong, too. Limited network means no more entries means spooling back through the raw footage for anomalies (few and far between) before dumping the whole thing on the server. Replication, backups in triplicate, locked away and hidden somewhere the Mirrors won't know to look.

God, it's cold out. He scratches furiously at his neck as several flimsy tubes of translucent something fall away, leaving something soft and downy and what the hell's happening to him?

There's someone else up here with him. He doesn't recognize the shape of the silhouette.

time to die and be dead

[postictal]

Of course he doesn't recognize the silhouette. Who would? Does Tim look very much like an angel to anybody, even the most optimistic of viewers?

Tim's heart thuds in his chest in the brief window of time in which he seriously contemplates the merits of throwing himself off the roof of the mansion and just seeing what happens from there, because the roof has no other conceivable hiding space and he feels ridiculous with these stupid things stuck to his back, and whatever the hell kind of inane commentary Jay has to shed on the matter, he doesn't want to hear it.

God, he just - doesn't.

When it reaches the point that there's no way in hell that Jay isn't not going to notice him, he has a limited scope of options at his disposal. He takes the least drastic but potentially most embarrassing one, which is to clear his throat and try to fold his wings across his back - mostly failing, as the wind chooses that particular moment to pick up and stretch one of them out like a billowing sail.

"Uh," says Tim. "Hi."

REAL TIM ; WINTER MELODY ; one awkward silence

[postictal]

Myriad noises will start to work their way around doorways and down the halls at nearly any point in the day and at nearly any location within and without the mansion, all varied and most relatively amateur. Someone plucks at a banjo outside the library. Someone in the kitchen tinkers with an electronic keyboard. Someone on the roof smokes a cigarette as he noodles on a ukulele. While equipped with a certain degree of musical talent, Tim's never really sat down to learn anything in particular. Nothing aside from something of a pretty basic nature, that is.

That won't stop him from trying. Whatever he ate has him wanting to fill Wonderland with something that might make someone else smile, even for a little while.

He even sort of looks happy as he does it.

[burntvideocassette]

He told himself he wouldn't get anywhere near those cookies after the first one wears off, but he's sitting in his room, scratching patterns in the flimsy gingerbread top of what used to be his desk, and it's nearly a full minute before he realizes what's in his hand, half-eaten.

At least he's not filled with an overwhelming sense of good cheer, this time. He drives himself nuts trying to figure out what happened, what's different, but all he succeeds in doing is becoming aware of just how barren his room is, even with the candy coating. He's bored. He's bored enough to pull his electric bass out of the case, bored enough to switch on the tiny portable amp, bored enough to wander down to the library with the guitar slung across his back to find some tabs, maybe work on his sight reading.

It's only when he sees Tim with a goddamn banjo that it sinks in.

His initial instinct is to run, to rip the stupid thing off his back and lock himself back in his room before he makes a fool of himself a second time.

He doesn't.

He sits down next to Tim and listens.

[postictal]

It's not false cheer. It's not a giddy sense of holiday happiness, as false and painted-on as a smile would doubtless look on his lips. But it is something in his chest that feels almost like contentment, an ability to sit still for a little while and just let the notes pick their way out from beneath callused fingertips.

He's wrapped up enough in the meandering tune to not really register who it is that's sitting next to him for several minutes, but when he does, the music peters to a stop.

Jay has a bass slung over one shoulder. He remembers, from June, that Jay knows how to play, but...

"You just carrying that around for show, or what?" A good deal more teasing than is typical for him, but it's not like there's a whole lot he can do about that, now, is there?

[interpersonal]

And make someone smile it does.

Elena spends a lot of her time in the library. It's a comfort to her, however illusory. She spent her first night in Wonderland going through its stacks, and she's even made her own makeshift little nook whenever she's in an investigative mood -- not that this place ever wants her to find some decent answers. It just never stops her from trying, because who will she be if she doesn't?

Anyhoo. Elena's close enough to hear Tim and his banjo. The sounds make her curious enough to follow the source, and she's quiet until the song concludes. At which point it's probably obvious she was standing there the whole time. "Sorry. I didn't mean to snoop, but you're pretty good."

[postictal]

Hey, no one's told him to shut up because libraries are supposed to be quiet yet, and that's all the incentive he needs to keep playing, that patina of holiday-cookie cheer smoothing some of his edges, easing some of his corners, relaxing the tension clasped in his shoulders and lining his face.

And thus, having an audience isn't as unwelcome as it would normally be. He still glances up with something like shock - that someone would find him worth listening to, and that someone would stick around after.

He doesn't quite smile, but he does almost look...

Touched, maybe?

"Didn't know anyone else was here," says Tim, an apologetic twist to the side of his mouth. "Didn't, uh...I mean, I know libraries are supposed to be quiet, yeah?"

librarby

[punful]

There's music coming from somewhere nearby, and Sans is following it in an attempt to get out of his current...predicament. Things are dark and a bit cramped, and everything smells too strongly of sugar and ginger to find his way out. He could eat his way out, but he's pretty sure that would just make him sick at this point.

"hello? hey, if you can hear me, keep playing."

His voice doesn't carry as well, either, plus it's muffled by all the gingerbread. But he's getting closer, he knows he is. The music is coming from just on the other side of this last layer of cookie. He braces two small paws against the cookie and pushes his way through, creating a hole just big enough.

An ermine head pops out of the wall across from Tim, several feet off the ground. Beady black eyes squint against the sudden light.

"finally."

He looks around and spots who was playing.

"oh, hi, tim. it's, uh, sans."

[postictal]

Someone else got the short end of that deal, he sees. Only instead of a partial growth of wings out of his back, blooming like grotesque flowers from just between his shoulderblades and spreading wide in the parody of something angelic, it's little white ferret-like creature with ink-dark eyes.

The low, bass rumble sounds a bit funny coming out of a creature that small, but Tim continues plucking idly at the stringed instrument in his hands. He's not about to leave someone scampering around without any direction, no matter how poorly their last meeting went.

"Real, or Mirror?" he says idly, like it's no big deal. "I mean, not that I can prove it one way or the other. Pretty sure I'd remember if I'd met the Mirror before now."

[choosetruth]

It's a lot easier to make Georgia smile right now than it usually is, and while she hasn't had the musical cookies, at the moment, the good cheer that's settled in is enough. It propels her up to the roof and when she recognizes the melody, she smiles and starts to sing along.

Her voice is actually really nice, which is funny since when talking she keeps it sharp and hard. But her singing voice is lovely. That's part of why she so rarely uses it. Melodic is not an adjective she's looking to have associated with herself.

When the song concludes, she says, "I didn't know you were musically inclined."

[postictal]

It's only due to the power of something Wonderland's imbued in his bones that he doesn't drop his instrument at the mere sight of George smiling, and by the time she starts to sing, he's a little bit slack-jawed. The hell did this whole season do to her, and where's the real Georgia Mason?

"I didn't know you could sing," he manages, once the song has petered off and he's stopped staring in quite as pronounced a fashion.

MIRROR TIM ; FESTIVE CHEER ; and i'm of good cheer

[pseudological]

It might not be completely evident that this isn't the Real Tim - after all, all sorts of people are smiling as though in high spirits, even the grumpiest of all Wonderland grumps. The Mirror in question still walks with a spring in his step that's very unlike Tim's usual slouch, chin up and shoulders back, his grin broad and his heart light.

Free rein of the Real side? A party to look forward to? A mansion fragrant with the wafting scent of gingerbread?

He has everything to gain from this, and he's of even better cheer than usual.

He knocks around Tim's ordinary haunts. He pulls an instrument or two from the closets. He smokes. He breathes in the warm scent of baking gingerbread.

...or maybe he breaks into your room and starts going through your things, all with a tremendous grin on his face.

Just because he's cheerful doesn't mean that he's good.

REAL FRISK ; WINTER MELODY ; 'cause i've been checking my list

[determinedest]

All told, they're going to call this Christmas an improvement over last year's.

Almost anything would be an improvement over last year. They spent that winter mostly alone but for the writing on the other side of the glass, and the whispers of someone searching for a Rabbit Hole to wind all their cares away. And the way through to the Mirrorside may be open, free of charge, but - Frisk seems staunchly uninterested in pursuing that route.

This year, they're going to bring some cheer.

Mostly, they do this in the form of trying to learn some new songs on the ukulele in time for the Winter Ball. One new song in particular, which they will then plan to use with deft aplomb to charm just about anyone.

There's more than one way to mash a * FLIRT button.

[deadshapes]

Mae loves the snow, and somehow it's even better when you can just sit around in it and not even get cold. As soon as she got over the fact that she is now literally a cat--albeit a badass one--she took to the outdoors. These big ol' paws are perfect for bounding through the snow.

She's taking a rest, lounging on the front steps, when she hears someone playing the ukulele nearby. When she sees who it is, she scrambles to her feet, promptly forgetting that she has four of them and proceeding to tumble down the steps into a snow drift.

"Frisk! Hey Frisk, I'm an actual cat now!"

She rolls her way out of the snowdrift, waving her paws in the air.

"It's hard being a cat. Hey, how are you? Haven't talked to you in awhile, huh? Dude, you are killing it on that ukulele. If I had hands I'd go dig out my bass. Even though I kinda suck at it."

[determinedest]

They can recognize her voice, no question, even if her shape is considerably...different. Larger, four-legged, and much spottier. There's something to be said for catlike grace and precision, but there's even more to be said for the incredibly amusing sight of a large cat tumble-rolling down the powdered white of a snowbank, kicking up spurts of the stuff as she bundles to her feet.

It's a little hard to keep playing when you've got fingerless gloves, but they peter off their song to strum cheerfully along regardless.

"I guess I just feel the music today." The same way that Mae feels very...catty. "You've got dots."

[romsapience]

For a little while, the robot hears the familiar plinks of a ukulele and is determined to find who is playing. It doesn't take long for Turing to follow the music straight to Frisk. Oh, that's right! They play the ukulele! How could they forget?

For the first few minutes, Turing doesn't say anything - they just take in the music, swaying back and forth a little bit in the process. Once they're certain that Frisk has finished playing their song, they start clapping.

"That was excellent, Frisk!" they encouraged. "I haven't heard you play that song before, it's very catchy!"

[pleasereset]

The music draws out one curious goat monster, who looks more reindeer than goat at this point. Antlers have sprouted from his head, and instead of his snout, it seems like he's grown a red nose. He's trying to be less self-conscious about the changes - but it'd really help if his new nose would stop lighting up.

He listens to Frisk for a little bit without saying anything, waiting for Frisk to finish one of their songs before speaking.

"That was really good, Frisk!"

He's... just gonna pretend the antlers and red nose aren't there.

[voidfished]

Lucretia met Frisk at an interesting time- really, coming in just before that event was rather odd, as it became her first meetings with many people- but she hasn't been doing much of a good job in actually reaching out to those connections. It's still a little odd for her to be reaching out to people at all. But the music sends her looking, ducking her head through a doorframe and giving them a gentle smile.

"You're rather good with that." She straightens herself up, keeping her posture with her staff and holding herself rather aloft. "Enjoying yourself?"

MIRROR FRISK ; EAT ME ; and two hopes you cry yourself to sleep

[dustiest]

The Mirror, on the other hand, is considering this a significant downgrade from last year's festivities. They'd gotten full ride of their Real, every opportunity to twist them awry, and even that had failed in the end.

This year?

This year, they're four inches tall.

You might hear them before you see them, snarling words a bit filthier than should be standard for a twelve-year-old as they scale the gingerbreaded legs of tables, scramble atop chairs, and just generally dart about underfoot in an effort to not get stepped on. Or you might feel the odd sting at your ankles, much akin to stepping on a thorn or a nail, followed by a quiet snigger as the offending child streaks away with a miniature Worn Dagger in hand.

They might be tiny, but they're still going to do their best to make this holiday as unbearable for everyone else as it is for them.

I said I was going to do this and I shall Deliver

[mettatonvevo]

Mettaton would like to think he is above holding grudges. At least at this stage in his life. After all, that's so petty and silly and childish! He's an adult. He's a grown monster with mature thoughts and feelings and dreams and he won't be held down by such rigmarole!

And yet when he sees a tiny Frisk trying to climb a gingerbread chair cursing up a storm, he has a couple of thoughts. The first of which, this is probably not the Real Frisk, the second of which, this is probably the Mirror, and the third of which is payback.

"Well hello darling, you seem to be in quite a... pickle!"

He reaches out a hand and picks them up a bit by the back of their shirt to look at them a bit more. Oh. Oh this is wonderful.

"Do you need help?"

He says that so sweetly. Who was he kidding when he thought he was above grudges and pettiness?

CLOSED to MIRROR SETH ; you never wanted the nice boys anyway

[postictal]

In between the cookies and confectionaries, Tim picks his way through the sweeter-than-average mansion without much direction. Mostly he's looking for Jay, to deliver a rather unexpected gift that ended up on his doorstep some time ago. So he has a particularly fancy box in hand as he wanders along the sweet-scented halls, occasionally stopping to glance into one room or another.

He's not looking out for any Mirrors just yet. As far as he can tell, everyone's been on more or less good behavior. But either way, he needs to find Jay - and he needs to find George on top of everything else.

And so it is that he isn't particularly keeping an eye out for Seth, or any variations thereof.

[satanas]

It's almost frightening the way the Reals react to the changes that seem to be happening throughout the mansion. The entire place being gingerbread, cookies that have turned people into animals and the bastards keep singing, and they know their mirror selves are wandering about and they are all acting like this is normal.

No wonder the damn place keeps killing them. They pretty much deserve it.

And now there is gift giving. Boy, that shouldn't surprise him in the least. No one knows jackshit about one another, and they know they're all going to die here violently, time and again, and they just go around celebrating holidays and throwing parties. Yeah, this place is going to get fun, fast.

Despite the long hair and thick beard, he is dressed in Seth's best suit that he has no plans of returning as he comes striding up beside Tim.

"You're really playing along with Christmas gift giving? Here?"

CLOSED to MIRROR JAY ; and all i want this year is for you to dedicate your last breath to me

[postictal]

So where the hell is Jay, anyway?

This isn't something you deliver to someone's doorstep with a cute note and a Christmas tag, no matter what the gift-giver - whose identity he sure as hell suspects, don't get him wrong, though some confirmation would be nice before he goes around thanking people for it, as well as chewing them out for selling their memories in equal measure - might have seen fit to do in the first place. This is gonna take some buildup, he knows, because for all of Jay's belated admissions that he maybe needs some help, that's one massive step that might not be without significant regression to the mean.

He needs to find Jay. The Real Jay.

It's high time he got his hands on something that might help him.

[unwoundtape]

It's dizzying, this new, candy-coated Mansion. He keeps finding himself wandering the wrong way down hallways, distracted by the thick, cloying miasma of sugar syrup, by the spices strong enough to set his eyes watering, by the overlapping voices, and god, the color.

He has a purpose, however. He has a purpose, and it helps school his thoughts into straight lines. Step one, step two, step three.

He has to be quick. Has to be silent. He slips into his Real's room while he's shaving, bathroom door closed and locked and just enough time to slip his sweatshirt off the hanger. He hides when the door creaks open, pressed flat in the shadow the door creates, snakes a hand out to grab the camera just as his Real sets it down. He's quiet, he's precise, and he's back through the cracked candy-glass mirror in the moment it takes for his Real to realize his precious security blanket's missing.

He could have asked the closets for his own. The one he aims to fool wouldn't notice, almost certainly. But this is more fun.

Brown hoodie over gray shirt, tablet stashed away in his own room (just for a moment, just for the time it takes to get what he needs), feeds sent to his communicator screen, bulky camera in hand. He crosses back over, takes a moment to admire his handiwork in one of the few mirrors still intact. God, he looks very nearly Real. It's hilarious.

He brings up a hand to his mouth, forces out a false cough. Practice makes perfect.

Now to find the other Tim, the Wrong Tim to match Tim Wrong. He grins, thin and wide.

It's high time they became acquainted.