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[not_a_traitor]

["Felix Gaeta speaking."]

visits + mail deliveries: 371 S. High Street, Downtown Hollow

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Mid-May

[be_seeing_you]

Between his illness and that flood, Number 6's delivery of this is far more delayed than he would have liked. But, as they say, better late than never. He knocks on the door to Gaeta's residence with a brown paper-wrapped package tucked under his arm.

"It's Mr. Starr. I have your prosthetic leg for you to try. I'd like to see if the final measurements are correct. May I come in?"

[not_a_traitor]

A muffled voice inside calls, "One second!"

Equally muted scuffling follows, for maybe fifteen or twenty seconds, before Gaeta wrangles the door open. "Mr. Starr, hello," he says, sounding a touch winded. "Yes, please, come in -- "

He hobbles aside so Peter can enter. While Gaeta's apartment is more or less returned to order after the flood, that's probably because there wasn't much in it to begin with. The furniture's still the basic set that comes with every apartment; there are no decorations on the walls, nor anything out of place except for a coffee mug near the couch. Clearly, Gaeta hasn't shaken off the asceticism of military life yet.

"Can I get you anything?"

[be_seeing_you]

"No, thank you, no need to trouble yourself for anything just now. I shared a late lunch with Ava before I came."

He enters and looks around in what seems to be a casual enough way, despite the fact that he's quietly checking what he's seen of this interior before against how it looks now, searching for any changes. Hardly any to speak of.

"How has the healing progressed? I hope that business with the flood didn't set you back too sharply."

[not_a_traitor]

"No, not too badly," he says. He shuts the door behind them both. "It wasn't pleasant, but, uh, I'm fine now. I think everything is as healed as it'll get."

The scabbing and swelling from his old prosthesis are pretty much gone, and the only time his stump really hurts out of the blue is when it's about to rain. (Ask him how the first week and a half of April went. Ugh.)

He's trying to be a little subtle about eyeing the package under Peter's arm, but without much success.

[be_seeing_you]

Number 6 smiles and brings the package to the table, fully aware of where Gaeta's attention is focused. Who can blame the man? Number 6 doesn't intend to keep him in suspense.

"Good. Then I think the time has come to get you fitted once and for all. Come look."

He unwraps the bundle to reveal a carved oak calf and foot connected by a ball hinge to allow some flexible movement. The base of the leg is carved hollow and lined first with leather, including straps, and then filled in with rabbit fur for cushion. The whole thing still smells slightly of linseed oil.

"Now, you will have to keep up some maintenance on this. You'll have to keep the joint oiled and occasionally check that the screws are staying tight. And I've included some beeswax, as well. You'll need to use it from time to time to reseal the wood and protect it from water damage long-term. It will help if you keep it enclosed inside a boot or shoe to protect it from wear." The food has been carved specifically to fit Gaeta's shoe size so he can wear the set.

"What do you think of it?"

[not_a_traitor]

"It's..."

It's beautiful. That's all he can think at first. Battlestars are utilitarian by nature, inorganic alloy hulks riveted together for one purpose above all else: to let their crew survive in the vacuum of space. There's not a lot of room for form over function. Hell, he's not even sure he saw anything this nice on the Colonies, aside from fancy artisan shops.

It's obvious, too, how much care Peter took with the project -- and by extension, that he took with Gaeta, when Gaeta still isn't really used to anyone showing him care and consideration. He doesn't expect the sudden lump in his throat as he rests a hand on the prosthesis.

"This is incredible, sir," he manages, finally. "Thank you. I promise I'll take good care of it."

He doesn't want to see all that hard work gone to waste.

day after ari goes home, sending stone.

[abhorrently]

Gaeta? It's Fever. Have you seen Tayrey around? She's not picking up when I call, and she's not at Stellar Company.

[the next course of action is her house. if Ari's ill or injured and unable to ask for help? that possibility is very real, given how strange this plane is and how determined their friend can be when she sets her mind to things. or she worked herself into a collapse over this demon debt, and Fever will have to improvise a contract that allows her to receive some care.]

[not_a_traitor]

Fever? [a little groggy, like he just woke up, but the fog rapidly clears as he goes on:] No, I haven't seen her in a few days. I figured she was busy with the new building. None of the company employees have seen her around recently, either?

[he's guessing not. she wouldn't be calling him otherwise.]

[abhorrently]

No, that's why I'm searching. She'd have said something to them if she planned any trips, I'm sure.

[so that rules out Paradesium, thankfully. searching that would be a nightmare.]

If she's got some illness or otherwise where she can't reach out...

[she wants to try anything before she jumps into we might have to go into her house unannounced. it'd be an invasion of Tayrey's privacy, but right now her concern is only growing.]

[not_a_traitor]

Frak.

[he's already reaching for his prosthesis to strap it back on]

What about the clinics? I can check there if you haven't yet.

[abhorrently]

Not all of them, now that you mention it. If you can call John Watson or any of his associates, I'll reach out to Hawkeye. Those are the last two to check with.

[and if neither of them have any answers? that's when they're going to need to start truly worrying.]

[not_a_traitor]

[great. he's pretty sure that's the clinic with the robot. Gaeta grimaces, but reminds himself he only has to talk to Dr. Watson -- and for Tayrey, he'd even hold a clipped conversation with the robot, too, if he had to.]

Copy that. Give me two minutes.

[he breaks off their call and pings Dr. Watson on his sending stone. the promised two minutes later, his voice pitched with fresh worry -- ]

She's not there.

september

[lovethyneighb_or]

A letter appears in the mailbox, the hand looping and neat, sealed with blue wax. There's no design; it's been pressed by something simple and flat. (It was his salt shaker.)

My stalwart Gaeta,

I don't know how to properly thank you for your nighttime company these last few months, or if I even can. You were there for a man who was half-crazed and needy. What you have done goes beyond just companionship. I think, I truly think, that you, Peter, and Angel were the only things keeping me from going entirely mad.

For all of this, I believe I at least owe you an explanation for everything. When you have time, give me a call on the sending stones. We'll have lunch together.

Your grateful friend,
Fr. Francis John Patrick Mulcahy

[not_a_traitor]

Stalwart. The salutation stirs up an odd little ember in Gaeta's chest; he reads those three words over and over, for several minutes, before he can move on to the rest of the letter. When he reaches the end, he smiles, small and pained.

It's instinctual for him to think you don't owe me anything -- to duck his head and try not to be a burden. Yet he also knows if he were in Mulcahy's place, he would want to repay a kindness, too. Especially a kindness of this perceived magnitude.

And, less charitably, under all his concern for a friend... he's curious. He won't deny it.

Gaeta picks up his sending stone.

"Hi, Father? It's Felix Gaeta. I, ah, got your letter."

[lovethyneighb_or]

“Ah, Gaeta!” His tone today is relatively cheerful. “Yes, yes, nh. I hope I wasn’t too forward. But I really would like to have that conversation with you. I should be available in… about an hour or so if you are, but I understand if you’d like to wait for another day.”

[not_a_traitor]

"Not too forward at all," Gaeta reassures him. Reflexively, he checks the clock. "I'll be free then, yeah. Should I come to your place, or somewhere else?"

Letting Mulcahy set the venue seems extremely prudent, given everything.

[lovethyneighb_or]

"My house will do well enough. I'll put a kettle on for tea. When should I expect you?"

[not_a_traitor]

He hums, considering. "An hour and a half from now?"

And true to his word, exactly an hour and a half later, there's a knock at Mulcahy's door.

givingstide

[lovethyneighb_or]

When Gaeta opens the box, it's mostly a flat plane of cloth. Picking it up shows, in fact, an even bigger plane of cloth; it's a blanket, thick and heavy, and one edge reveals the button fasteners of a liner, soft fleece over a wool core. It's proportioned just slightly awkwardly for a bed, but is great for a couch. Slipped between the folds is a note.

Happy holidays, Gaeta. I know the cold has not been treating you well, so I thought I should go ahead and get you this. The core blanket is wool. The liner is fleece. Wool can be difficult to take care of, but with the fleece protecting it, it should only need to be washed once a year, and it makes it warmer.

I did not think I would make it out of the Village. I did not think I would live for long if I did, and I did not think I would live to see another Christmas as a free man. Thank you, Gaeta, for being there all the time. You are one of the reasons I've found enough peace to enjoy it.

Your friend for all hours,
Francis John P. Mulcahy

[not_a_traitor]

Oh. Oh, Mulcahy. Even as he holds the blanket, his hands partially wrapped in the fleece covering, Gaeta can feel his fingers beginning to warm.

Though it's a touch small, he doesn't hesitate to add it to the quilts heaped on his bed at home. And from then on out, whenever he visits Mulcahy at a time when an overnight stay is warranted, he packs the blanket in his kit.

mid-december

[lovethyneighb_or]

As has been his habit for a little over a year now, Mulcahy mostly spends his days off from work in the house. He's gotten a little freer about going out to run errands, but otherwise, he's content enough to spend his reading or tending the house. The weather isn't even a part of this; Winter doesn't bother him anymore.

Despite the recent snow, he's out in the yard tending to the doves with hardly any attention paid to the chill or the wind except to wear waterproof boots. "Hello there," he coos, patting their heads as they land on him, holding out a dish full of seeds. "How have you been today? Not too cold in the dovecote, I hope."

Gaeta will be home soon. There's already a kettle on the stove.

[not_a_traitor]

At least the snow isn't anywhere near on par with August. Nothing like a horrifying supernatural freeze to grant some perspective on ordinary winter weather!

Which doesn't mean Gaeta enjoys it any better, but at least he doesn't grumble so much anymore. The walk from the library to Mulcahy's house is downright tolerable under enough layers. Even... pleasant, with the clean, quiet cast fresh snowfall brings. Already moving slowly to navigate any icy patches, he finds himself lingering here and there to admire the view. Peace has been hard to come by lately; here, there is a small slice of it.

He doesn't notice when a tiny pink snowflake tumbles down among the others to land on his nose.

But he feels so much warmer, all of a sudden, thinking of how he'll be near to Francis soon.

He picks up the pace a little. Rounding the corner, he spots Francis in the backyard, and -- oh. Oh, there he is. His heart, his love, beautiful in the snow, like he stepped out of a storybook with all the birds perched on him. It's ridiculous how the warmth swells in Gaeta's chest just to look at him.

And that's all he can do for a minute: lean against the fence, smiling, utterly besotted as he watches Mulcahy feed the birds.

[lovethyneighb_or]

He spots Gaeta soon enough; it's in Mulcahy's habit to look over his shoulder, and as soon as he sees him, the requisite fear of Spiders twists in his heart. But wrapped around it, in great heavy draping threads, are all his fond and hard-won affections.

"Oh, hello!" he calls, patting a dove in his arms. "My, I didn't notice you were back already. There's a kettle on the stove for you. I'll be inside in a minute; I'm just feeding the birds."

[not_a_traitor]

Of course he already has the kettle on. Oh, he loves this man.

"You sure you don't want me to bring some out for you?" Stirred to action, he unhooks the gate. A few of the doves eye him warily, but none of them fly off when Gaeta kisses Mulcahy on the cheek. "I don't mind."

Anything for him.

[lovethyneighb_or]

His eyes shut contentedly with a bashful smile. The kiss is a little unexpected with how distant the two of them have been lately, but it's not unwelcome. Francis did miss him so.

"I won't make you stand out here in the cold any more than you have to," he says with some knowing slyness, as he glances over to check that the gate was locked properly. Facetiously: "Unless you mean to tell me that the spirit of the holidays has warmed your heart so that it doesn't bother you anymore?"