not_a_traitor | IC Inbox

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?"

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?"

"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."

"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.

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?"

"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.

Number 6 smiles knowingly. He went into this project with the aim of restoring more than Gaeta's utilitarian function. This is no mere accessory; the man deserves the dignity of a well-made limb, because it truly will become a part of him. It's gratifying to see the admiration in Gaeta's expression. He knows, already, that he's achieved his goal.

"I'm glad you like it. I have no doubt that you will care for it well. Of course, if there is ever an issue, should it be damaged or destroyed, you had better come right back to me and let me see to it. I guarantee my work for a lifetime."

Gaeta chuckles. It's a little hoarse; the lump hasn't entirely gone away. "Hopefully we won't need to put that to the test," he says.

He moves his hand to touch the rabbit fur lining. Gods, it's so soft.

"Here, um -- " He glances over his shoulder to locate the nearest chair. "Show me how the straps work? With my old one, we just sort of..." He pulls a wry face. "Put a bunch of socks over my stump and hoped for the best."

No wonder the damn thing hurt so much.

Number 6 grimaces in sympathy. "That's no good. This one should be far more comfortable for you. Here." He takes it upon himself to pull one of the kitchen table chairs over so Gaeta doesn't have to try to hobble to a seat.

"Now, I would still recommend regularly using and replacing a sock as a barrier to catch any sweat or dirt; that's far easier to wash. But the rabbit's fur should be the primary cushion. We want it good and snug. There should be less chafing that way."

Gaeta settles onto the chair with the requisite tiny groan and thank you. "Of course," he agrees with a swift nod. "Not much different from a shoe, that way."

(Though try telling that to some of his rackmates back on Galactica. How anyone could tolerate not wearing socks with their boots, between the chafing and the stench, Gaeta will never know.)

"Yes, exactly."

Number 6 stoops to show Gaeta the two leather straps on either side meant to cinch him snugly into the leg like belt buckles. He will guide Gaeta through the process of stepping into the prosthetic, securing it, and then checking that it all looks and feels good once it's in place. All that's left after that is to test it.

"Are you ready to take your first steps on your new leg?"

"Ready as I'll ever be."

A flutter of nerves tightens his belly. What if it still hurts? What if Peter did the best he could, made this astonishing thing in the hope of improving Gaeta's life, and it isn't enough, because nothing will ever be enough? There are so many things that could go wrong. The damage to his lower leg was irreparable to start with, and what Doc Cottle left behind -- what if that's truly irreparable, too?

Stop it, Gaeta tells himself, as firmly as he can, and grasps Peter's hands to pull himself to his feet. Feet, plural.

It's... to be honest, a little uncomfortable. His right leg hasn't supported his weight in months. It aches in multiple spots. He feels kind of wobbly, like someone could kick his whole leg out from under him with the slightest tap.

And you would never know any of it from the way he's beaming as he takes a careful, careful step forward.

"Well done," Number 6 says encouragingly. He's keeping his hand in Gaeta's to help balance.

"Now, there may be a period of adjustment still. I'd recommend at least using a cane while you acclimate. I wouldn't sleep in it if I were you. How does it feel? Is it pinching anywhere?"

"No, no pinching -- " He laughs, giddy, and the suddenness of his joy seems to take even Gaeta himself by surprise. "Hurts a little, but it's not the prosthesis, it's just because I haven't walked in a while. Gods, look at that."

Another tiny, bright laugh as he stares down at his feet. He takes another cautious step with Peter's help.

"I'll keep using my crutches a little longer, yeah. And I never tried sleeping in my old one anyway; I'm used to that."

Number 6's eyes are warm with joy as well. This is what he's wanted to do for so long, to make a tangible difference, one he can be there to witness--not from the shadows, not as an anonymous spy, but as a friend and member of the community.

"Just be sure to give it plenty of rest starting off. As you know, you'll have to get the nerves used to it. But, from here it looks to be distributing your weight evenly. Something tells me you won't be needing those crutches for long."

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.]

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.]

Edited 2024-06-20 03:02 (UTC)

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.]

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.

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.]

[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.

Not at Hawkeye's either.

[there's a slow exhale over the phone, and she decides to make the call.]

Will you come with me out to her house? If something's gone wrong, better that there's two of us.

Yeah, of course.

[not that he can do much. especially not compared to fever. but when the alternative is doing nothing at all --

that's never an alternative.]

It's, ah, it's going to take me a while to get there. But I'll be there as fast as I can.

I can meet you wherever you like.

[she needs to not go there immediately, or she'll be there prying open the door before she can be stopped.]

[a tinge of relief] All right. Outside the library? I'll be there in ten.

[the calculations are second nature: it's a good pain day, he's reasonably well-rested, and he's moving faster overall since he got his new leg. if it takes him longer than ten minutes, it won't be by much.]

Got it.

[she's outside on time, leaned against the wall and half staring into space, trying to talk herself down from jumping to conclusions like the demons took Tayrey physically to work off her debt, or other things. there's a reason. there's always a reason. only when Gaeta gets very near does she snap herself out of it, greeting him with a nod.]

Thanks for being willing to come. If something's happened, it'd probably reassure her to see us both there.

[to know she could count on them both in a crisis, to know she was searched for in her absence.]

Of course. [an awkward, half-a-smile] And if it's nothing, we'll apologize for inviting ourselves over unannounced.

[he rubs a hand down his face]

I've -- never actually been to her house before. [way too far to walk, until pretty recently.] Could you lead the way?

Yes. I've got the address - was trying to map it out in my head, before you showed up. Shouldn't be that hard.

[off they go, her careful to match his pace. it's a mental exercise as much as courtesy, making herself keep breathing.]

I just don't want this to be linked to the demons. If they've laid so much as a single finger on her...

[whatever plane they're on, she'll have to break into it. the idea of not going to that extent doesn't cross her mind.]

[unhappily] Yeah.

She didn't tell me a whole lot about the contract she made. I know she would've negotiated it well, whatever it was, but...

[that doesn't mean the demons would've. obviously. they're demons.]

I don't like them.

[bluntly said, as they carry on.]

With the disclaimer that I haven't met too many, every demon I've met so far is selfish, double-dealing, and always on the lookout to make you regret your choice. Whatever fair deal you think you're getting, you're always the loser. I've been contemplating how to break into the hells, ever since Tayrey told me about this, in case someone needs to go there and destroy the contract.

I haven't met any, and that's the impression I got, too.

[someone is still clueless that Efrain was in charge of the worst karaoke night ever back in March! at the rest, he throws Fever a slightly startled look]

That's actually possible? Uh, breaking into the hells, I mean?

Yeah, if you figure out the right method. I mean, demons can come here and go back, so there's a method to travel between realms, right? All you'd have to do would be to somehow hijack it for yourself.

[she shrugs.]

That makes it sound easier than it is, but if it's for one of my friends? I'll figure it out.

[quieter] Yeah.

[a pause.]

Look, ah... hells, magic, demons, that's not exactly my skill set. Not like physical fighting is either. But if you need any backup I could provide, tell me. I'll be there.

Thank you.

[there's something heartfelt in that, even more so when she looks at him.]

That matters more than any knowledge. Whatever comes, we can figure it out - just as long as we keep going. For her.

[she can explain all these as best she can over time, but what matters is being willing to dive into the unknown, into horrors untold, and having others willing to slog through it all for a goal.]

[Gaeta nods. that's where he's at his best, he thinks. a larger cause. point him at a goal bigger than himself, and so long as he believes in it, he will jump to the ends of the worlds -- and beyond -- to ensure it succeeds.

he hopes to the gods this is just idle talk, and that Tayrey's all right. they'll get to her house; find her laid up with the flu, maybe, sleeping through all her calls. she'll be bewildered, and probably a little cranky that they dropped by with no warning, but fine. they'll laugh about it at poker night when she's better.

it's not self-delusion to hope for the best for a close friend, is it?

they keep walking, slow but steady. Gaeta doesn't say much else en route. when his leg starts to ache, he pointedly ignores it.]

[there's the house, and Fever just barely stops herself from breaking into a run - the expression on her face is that of a hound forced to stay at heel, and her eyes flick over the windows instead. no movement she can see. it's quiet, as it might be.

finally, they're up at the front, and Fever wastes no time rapping on the door, firm knocks to hopefully get her attention.

seconds pass. nothing.

she'll try again.]

[Gaeta steps to the side, shading his eyes to try and peer through the nearest window. no luck there, either.

he returns to the front stoop to add his own staccato of knocks]

Lieutenant? You there?

Tayrey, if you don't answer within the next twenty seconds, I'm going to unlock your door by force.

[that, called out, feels like enough warning. with no response forthcoming, Fever pulls out the letter opener in her pocket, crouching down to work at the lock. it's not magic, so she doesn't fear it blowing up in her face - it just needs to be jostled loose enough to slide free. ugh, she should have been practicing this.]

[when there's still no sound from inside -- not even a creak of movement -- that feels like an answer in and of itself.

Gaeta feels his insides curdle. he swallows, eyes fixed on the lock as Fever works. still, he tries one more time:]

Tayrey?

[there's no answer, and Fever feels a certainty creep over the back of her neck. the last time she felt like this, it was gazing into a bloodied, broken pod, and a vision was on the edges of her mind.

the lock gives, jostled into working. she turns the door handle, and opens it.

silence. she doesn't want to cross the threshold, but she will if he can't make himself go.]

[he tries to tell himself again: you're winding yourself up over nothing. there is no material difference between a house where a person has only stepped out for an errand, and one where the person has vanished altogether. it's an empty room either way. it does not -- it should not -- feel as if Fever has opened the door to a tomb.

and yet.

Gaeta has spent his life buried in the rational, focused on it so intently that he lost all sense of instinct. he let hundreds of people die because of that impulse. his brain might insist there is no material difference, but his gut knows that's a lie. and if he doesn't listen to his gut for once, then Tayrey --

so he makes himself listen. his breath shakes, but he frakking listens, and steps inside the empty house.]

...

[a pause just a few feet past the threshold. a whisper:]

She's gone.

[she knows he's right. but there's an emotion that tears itself from her, unwanted and unknown, until it asserts itself fierce and sudden.]

No - no she's not-

[darting in behind him, unclipped from her own leash, running in, into every room. opening the doors, even to the closets, as if she'd open one and find Tayrey right there, eyes wide and confused and wondering what all the fuss was about. anywhere. even in the strangest place.

where she falters is when she sees the pack that Tayrey had for emergencies. supplies, in case of anything. there's no reason for that to not be with her, and her not to be found. she wouldn't have left it behind, she was too prepared for that.

still full.

Fever doesn't know when she sunk to the floor. and still, there's thoughts in her head - we're messing up her order, we have to put it back - and it never, never gets easier. unless she took out whatever passed for her heart and got rid of it along with every other feeling. it's the same ache that she had to bear when she wrestled that one night with the idea of never seeing her companions again.

her chest feels so full. nowhere to put any of it. no way to let it go.

Tayrey's slipped away again.]

[everything feels curiously distant. he registers Fever moving past him like a whirlwind, but she only seems to be moving at half speed, her voice muffled as she goes from room to room. he turns his head to look around at the sparse, utilitarian space: he's never seen it before, but it's so familiar he could instantly mark it as military. as Tayrey.

some moments pass before he realizes her muted footsteps have stopped. he wonders, in the same detached way, if she's rounded a corner and found a body. if so, it's probably good he wasn't following her. he doesn't think he could handle that happening to him again.

(Dee and Tayrey were nothing alike, but he'd be lying if he said he'd never seen his dead friend looking back at him sometimes. when they laughed; when they drank. when they commiserated about things nobody else on the damn island would ever understand.)

maybe he should move anyway. as careful as if he were walking on the beach, Gaeta moves toward where he last heard Fever.

...it's not a body, but it might as well be.

he doesn't quite hear low, anguished noise he makes as he lowers himself to the ground next to her.]

[no one talks about how heavy an absence is. she had taken it for granted that they'd have more time, that before Tayrey left back to the Tradelines, there would be time to learn more about her world, her happiness - to be able to look at the stars the way she does, a little bit. everything that wasn't said piles up and up, and Fever closes her eyes.

in her mind, she writes out a name that she'll have to put to paper when she returns home. things will need to be done for her. this house shut up. someone might try and claim it and-

she can't allow it. not for a while.

Fever doesn't know how long it is before she speaks again, low and brittle.]

...did she tell you how we got out?

[the probe. the mission. the fight for a message from someone, anyone.]

[he can't speak right away. even if his mouth and throat would let him form the words, no language surfaces. just grief. that sinking, hopeless cloud of loss again, made all the worse because the island had begun to feel like a respite. even for all the horrors of this place -- at least if you die, you come back.

you're supposed to, anyway.

at last, in a cracked whisper:] Of the Eterna? Once. Said she put out a distress beacon behind the captain's back. [a convulsive twitch of his mouth] But she never wanted to talk about the ship too much. I didn't push.

She was clever. Risked everything for it. Without it, we may never have gotten free. Even though she knew it would piss a lot of people off. And she was brave enough to keep the names of those who were helping her to herself. Her entire team remained shielded, because of her.

[her words are still distant, but a little stronger. trying, trying to get this out and give shape to what's in her chest.]

I was on that team. I helped with sending out the beacon. And even though I questioned her, backed her into a corner several times, she never made me leave. She let me keep working on the project. Promised when we reunited that I wouldn't have to worry about any ill will that might have followed us here for it, even though the mission was over and done with.

[she exhales slow. no one gives a shit about that anymore - not when the results are here. no one has the energy to hold onto those grudges, those squabbles that were born of them eating each other alive to stay fractionally steady.]

I still think of her as our commander.

[it's a story Tayrey should've had the chance to tell him herself someday. not like the pieces she shared before, when the weight of their pasts crushed them until they could do nothing but gasp out the worst moments of their lives. something gentler that could've only been granted if she'd been allowed to frakking live for more than a few months.

she was so much better than he knew, and he should've been allowed by the universe, the gods, or whatever the frak, to learn it firsthand.

gaeta's so furious all of a sudden. his eyes burn. he tightens his fists against the unfairness of it all; tries to smother the sparks before they turn into a conflagration.]

[low:] I told her a couple times I would've been proud to serve alongside her. I would have been proud to call her "Commander," too.

I think you can. I think you've earned that right.

[the words are too loud in the empty room. all she can do is breathe, letting the silence resettle like the dust that will inevitably come to this place.]

...Godsdammit. It's not fair.

[it's no logical argument, but it isn't. it isn't fair that someone who could have been happier here, in a world that makes sense, isn't. it isn't fair to not get the chance to say goodbye, to have everything conclude abruptly, to just have items left and not a person theirself. no pictures. just memories.]

[for some reason, it's the plural that does it. gods. she's not even talking about the same gods, but it drops like a pebble in the stillness; ripples outward with its borrowed familiarity. it washes over the fury and extinguishes it as fast as it began.

another breathless, broken sound rips out of him, and Gaeta buries his face in both hands in a futile effort to stop it from becoming worse.

of course it's not fair. it's never been fair. absolutely nothing will make it all right that people can vanish so quickly, their whole existence wiped out between one second and the next. maybe Gaeta should be used to it by now, but he's not. he's not.]

Edited 2024-09-01 17:42 (UTC)

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

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."

“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 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.

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

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.

A patter of feet on the stairs, the telltale jingling of keys. The door swings open.

“Ah, Gaeta!” he chirps. “Thank you for coming. Come in. Make yourself comfortable in the kitchen.”

The house is still pretty austere and undecorated, but the disturbances from Gaeta’s stay have remained. A blanket folded on the arm of the couch, a few things rearranged in the kitchen. There’s already some pastries on a plate on the table and a cup of tea Mulcahy’s poured for himself. While he’s going about and getting place settings for Gaeta, Peter takes it upon himself to hover suspiciously close to his pockets for anything metal.

“How have things been for you? Not terrible, I hope?”

There's something new in Mulcahy's bearing that makes Gaeta take a closer look. Not merely fatigue, like the last few months; almost like part of him is -- erased, somehow. Washed out. The light doesn't seem to illuminate the color in his face and clothes very well.

"No, not too terrible," he says. Gaeta throws a tolerantly amused glance toward Peter. As if in offering, he fishes out a piece of Brass and holds it out in his palm. "I'm afraid to say calmer -- I think I might jinx it. But it's been easier than I expected."

The vague unease of the Visitor's Center can't compare to a full-on plague, after all.

"What about you?"

Peter is delighted and scoops it up immediately, dashing to perch with its treasure in the cat bed that Mulcahy has left on top of a bookshelf.

"Oh, it's been alright." Which is still a little bad, and as good as it ever gets for him. "Same as you, really. It's funny--some days it feels a little like being back in the military. Long stretches of quiet, up until another flood of wounded, or friendly fire shelling, or someone cooks a bad Thanksgiving turkey."

He sets down Gaeta's tableware. "I know I already did in the letter, but I really must thank you again for staying with me for those two months."

Night terrors, screaming, the occasional sleepwalk. Sometimes the only reason Mulcahy doesn't end up in the street is because of Peter or Gaeta. So often Mulcahy would tell him that he's under no obligation to stay, and every time he did. How anyone could tolerate him like this is beyond him, and yet.

(It was not just that. It was also tea at night; it was also waking each other up, being there for one another, it was company in the dark.)

"Before I start explaining myself, I... well, I don't really know where to start. Were there any questions about this that you had in mind? Anything particularly bothering you?"

Edited 2024-10-09 01:51 (UTC)

"If you are, then I should thank you, too," he says: quieter, but completely sincere.

They never spoke of what transpired in their respective dreams, during those late night talks. But Mulcahy was not the only one who woke up screaming sometimes. Panicking, gasping hoarsely for air that could not seem to make it into his lungs, shivering hard enough that it sometimes took multiple blankets and a good twenty minutes before Gaeta's hands were steady enough to hold a cup of tea. He'd become so used to bearing it alone that the simple gesture of someone shaking him awake -- hearing a voice not his own, grounding him in reality -- almost undid him the first couple times it happened.

And so the cautious trust he placed in Mulcahy settled to a comfortable weight. Familiar. Welcome. He didn't expect it to come so easily once it began, but it found the grooves worn deep in Gaeta's nature, cleared out the debris left behind by Raptor 718... and here they are now.

"Mm." He thinks it over. "When you first mentioned the basics, that it was a home invasion and kidnapping, I thought it might be a POW situation. But... it was more than that, wasn't it?"

His voice doesn't quite tip up into a question, but it's there.

“Ah, yes.”

He sits, clasping his hands together. “It’s not a complicated story, but it is a rather bizarre one. I’ve been… displaced from my home world for many years, even before I came to Pumpkin Hollow. The place I ended up in was a prison ship that ran on suffering, and it…”

He shakes his head, as if it’ll loose the words. It’s another few moments before he finds the right ones. “Every month it was some new and torturous game. Death was temporary. Even outside of those excursions, people became very prone to violence, I suspect out of desperation. After almost a year, the Captain wanted to dispose of us. A man named Number Two said he could save us, and led us into a pocket world beyond the ship.

“He lied. The world was a limited place called the Village, and he was its tyrant. It was his utopia in which we were all dolls to be beaten into shape. By hook or by crook.”

Edited 2024-10-14 20:58 (UTC)

Gaeta breathes out a curse. It's too easy to take Mulcahy's behavior and line it up against this new information, filling in the gaps with the worst possibilities. Beaten into shape alone -- frak.

"I knew about the ship," he says. "Some of my other friends were aboard; they explained what happened on there. But nobody ever mentioned a Village as part of it."

Mulcahy looks upwards in thought. "The thing is... this Captain had summoned and disposed of many groups of people throughout many thousands of years. My 'voyage' disappeared into the Village five years ago. Many of the former voyagers you see now are from a more recent group."

Another, longer pause. His brow furrows. "For some reason they were sent by the Captain to the Village, where my group still was. Any significant rebellion of ours was long gone, but their arrival... invigorated things, so to say. It was a month before they somehow managed to destroy Number 2 and his world. The bubble popped. All of their group spilled back safely onto the ship. Of mine..."

He swallows. "There was me, the Arrayer, another Father, and the Ancient Fuelweaver. There were only four of us. The Arrayer and the Father... they disappeared. When the prison ship was destroyed and we were scattered on this island's shores, there was only me and the Fuelweaver, who had been turned into an object that I carried out with me."

He hasn't touched the food.

Gaeta hasn't touched much of his, either. He has both hands clasped in front of his mouth, listening intently, as he ignores the nausea twisting around his gut.

Six years of torture, a prison break, and in the end, fewer people made it to freedom than can be counted on one hand. Yes, he knows Hawkeye's from Father Mulcahy's unit; so is that good-natured (and scarily efficient) kid Gaeta's spotted around town sometimes. But how can that compare? It would be like Gaeta's family washing ashore, parents and cousins and all his other loved ones ignorant by design of everything the Fleet endured. He'd be overjoyed, of course he would, but how could he ever explain? How could anyone who wasn't there ever relate?

The colorless affect to Mulcahy seems worse, for a moment, as if the light has shifted again. (I wasn't there, either, Gaeta hears himself think. What right do I have to compare or relate?)

"I've seen him around. I think." A grapple at hope; at something to say that isn't a meaningless, worthless I'm sorry. "The... giant skeleton? Did Mortanne transform him back?"

“Oh, yes. He was turned into some kind of quaint little ornament. The giant shadow skeleton is how he normally looks.” He laughs a little. “We used to be assigned roommates. We became very good friends, but he frightened the stuffing out of me the first time I saw him.”

The thing about lonelinesses this absolute is that he would hope that Gaeta could never relate. To be able to be known down to the marrow, to bare the whole of his hideousness and still be cared for, that is the wish of his soul—but he has the Fuelweaver, and first he wants to be known at all. To be considered. To be accommodated without asking. For someone from outside to look at what happened to him and say, You’re right, that wasn’t fair. I’m sorry.

It starts with this. Gaeta will never look at him the same way again; good. He doesn’t mean to horrify, but there’s no way to say this without doing so.

It doesn’t make him feel any less bad about it. Reflexively, “I’m sorry. I know it’s… unpleasant to hear, but it’s… simply true.”

"What?" Honestly, this is the most shocked Gaeta has looked since the conversation started. He lowers his hands; goes on, with a quiet vehemence, "Mulcahy, you don't have to apologize, gods. It's not like you were responsible for what happened. You didn't do anything, it -- was done to you. That's not your fault. You're just sharing facts, like you said."

He reaches across the table to clasp one of Mulcahy's hands between both of his own. Tethering, grounding, a gesture he repeated dozens of times while they shared space.

"I've handled a lot of unpleasant facts before now."

"It's a lot for someone to handle." ~~(I'm a lot for someone to handle.)~~ "I just thought--I..."

Gaeta takes his hand.

The world moves from under him.

(Because why not apologize? Why not be sorry for being messy, for not handling it--why not be sorry for failing to keep it together, for saying things that upset people--for constantly reviving the Village's memory and wanting people to listen--for being the thing that killed Hawkeye, that killed Powell--for the fact of himself--for deserving it--)

(But is Gaeta wrong? Does Gaeta not see him in all his screaming nightmares, and does he not forgive him for it?)

"... I don't understand."

He keeps hold of Mulcahy's hand, unflinching, and does not look away. The world shifts -- and maybe, for a moment, the light shifts with it.

"Every person I knew back home," he says, still with that quiet, firm certainty, "had something awful happen to them. Usually something even worse than the baseline of our worlds being destroyed. If I turned away from them because of that, I wouldn't have said a word to anybody in four years."

Carefully, he draws his thumb along Mulcahy's knuckles, just once, skating over a little of the discoloration that marks the back of his hand. "I think everybody has their times where they're a lot to handle. But just saying, 'this is what I lived through,' shouldn't be one of them." A small huff. "I know I don't exactly talk about it much, either, but gods, I'd hope someone wouldn't walk away from me just because I told them about the Colonies or the Cylons."

For other reasons, sure. For Gaeta's actions, they would be within their right. But not because he was acted upon.

"That's a part of my life, too. Who I am."

It’s funny. Nothing Gaeta is saying now is particularly fascinating; these are all things he knew very well already. When Gaeta told him about the Colonies and the Cylons, he offered his shoulder; during that terrible cult dream, he offered his own strength. It was and remains the most natural thing to do.

“Of course. I accepted that when I became your friend, and you were hardly the first.” His eyes are still downcast as he gently squeezes Gaeta’s hand, almost burning warm against his, always cold. “I care for you in your entirety.”

There has to be a reason why he feels like this. Like he’s an exception, or… or… what is the difference in the way they see their pasts? Is it just the difference in how they see themselves? It feels a little beyond a matter of mere ego. Is it only because apologizing has become so habitual? He meant it then, though, just as he does every time.

How his skin itches at such kindness.

He doesn’t know what to say, so he uses his free hand to dejectedly stick a tea cookie in his mouth instead.

"So can you see how I'd care for you the same way?"

Gently said. He means it as a genuine question, not a push in one direction or the other.

(And he tries not to think, as he so often does: you only say that, Father, because you don't know the entirety of me yet. What a frakking hypocrite he's become. Reassuring a friend he'll stay after hearing about his worst moments, and never offering him the same chance. Expecting he won't receive any kindness from one of the kindest people he knows.)

"You don't -- have to answer that." Since the deflection with the cookie is pretty clear. "But think about it. All right?"

(There's no getting out of the fact that it goes both ways. That if one can be forgiven then so must the other, and if one can't, then so can't the other; and that if he has his way, Mulcahy will bury what his own hands have done in his own grave.)

Once he's done chewing, "Alright," he says, softly. "... Alright. Yes, I see what you're saying."

He has no more left in him to argue it. "Thank you, Gaeta." And he does mean it.

Edited 2024-12-20 10:10 (UTC)

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

Edited 2024-12-31 23:19 (UTC)

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.

IC Inbox

Mid-May

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day after ari goes home, sending stone.

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september

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wrapping?

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