not_a_traitor | IC Inbox

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)

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