not_a_traitor | IC Inbox

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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