ph_logs | the sound is not asleep [closed]

the sound is not asleep [closed]

Who: Father Mulcahy (

not_a_traitor), Zivia Birnbaum (

tehilim127_1), and maybe another
What: Mulcahy has a hard time with the aftershocks of Number 2's visit
When: 4 days after the party; September 25th
Where: His house, Downtown Hollow
Warning(s): Paranoia, ptsd, destruction, eating disorder, others in headers

It all starts simply enough. Mulcahy retreats to his house and entertains no visitors. I need some time, Mulcahy says, and who could blame him? After a night like that, it'd be difficult to deny him some peace and quiet. He's been something of a recluse for more than a year now. (Though perhaps a little worrying is that even Gaeta is denied his company, and he's taken a brief leave off of work. Even in his most reclusive days, he never did that; too committed to the work.)

After a day or two of this, though, his sending stone goes mostly radio silent. For those who do manage to get a call out to him, the conversations are short and strained.

Then, one more day of total silence; and then, one day, Zivia and Gaeta both find themselves tracked down by one of his two companions: Peter, jangling frantically at Gaeta, and Connor, stamping and huffing insistently at Zivia, both demanding they follow them back to the Father's home. When they arrive, the door is locked and the curtains are all drawn--but there are sounds coming from inside. Wooden, mostly--of wood being struck, wood creaking, wood splitting, but none of that seems particularly good. Concussive impacts thud out from the upper floor. Once in a while, there's a grunt and labored breathing.

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The smack doesn't hurt. (Physically.) But it knocks a switch somewhere inside Gaeta; sends the bottom dropping out of all his tension and dread. For a moment, there's nothing left but an odd weightless feeling before numbness settles in like a heavy blanket.

There's nothing he can do.

Slowly, he backs away. Keeps both hands visible as he retreats to Zivia's side. Keeps his mouth shut.

The question hits him like an arrow: so sudden and shocking it just confused him, and then, slowly, he realizes just how much he’s bleeding.

He has to wait for the sudden pain to abate before he answers. (By then, Gaeta is gone, and he’s alone again.) Mulcahy attempts to hoist himself back upright using Connor as leverage; instead he slips off, dropping all the way to his knees.

“I…” Still, clutching the crowbar to his chest, like it’s the only thing keeping him alive and awake right now. “I—haven’t. I haven’t kept anything down for…”

…

Oh. He has no idea what day it is.

“I… I can’t eat.” A day at least. “I want to eat.” A day at least of starving himself over ghosts, and he eats little more than a bowl’s worth of anything on any other given day. “I want to eat. Oh, God.” Five years imprisoned of starving to survive as best he could. Almost two years free and he hasn’t managed to fix it. Six years and his pantries still have dust in the corners, and he halves all his recipes, and half of his grocery budget is just food for the birds and cats and his spirit-pets. Six years of worrying about accepting invitations and letting people see how little he puts on his plate. Six years of hunger pangs and fatigue and feeling sick, sick. To not have enough to eat is one of the most abominable miseries. At least in the Village he had an actual reason. Now he does it to himself, because… because.

His voice is thick. His arms and shoulders shake. Hallelujah; there is still water in him enough for tears. “I—I, I can’t eat, but I want to. I do. Please believe me. I want to eat. I just want to eat.”

Edited (forgot the cw) 2025-10-17 04:03 (UTC)

Her eyes spill over, like a cup filled too quickly, before she's aware it's happening.

I want to eat. The simplicity of it hits her hard, right where she lives. It's anguish on his behalf, and threaded through it is a dismal feeling of uselessness. Of having failed him; of failing him right now, by not knowing how to help. What earthly good is she, if she can't even --?

(All she can think of, suddenly, is the day they met, a year and a half ago, in the galley of that wretched hive-ship. He searching for bread and wine; she able to offer part of what he needed, but falling short.)

There isn't time for this.

Zivia's hand presses to her chest, and a very faint murmur moves her lips, and her shoulders lift and fall again with a deep breath, and her face clears.

"Mulcahy," she says, low and steady, as the last tears slide down her face and fall away. "May I ... will you let me give you something? Like I did at the casino."

There is nothing he can do.

Zivia's doing -- something, at his shoulder. A murmur, a faint charged prickle in the air that Gaeta has categorized (in a somewhat facile way) as the movement of magical energy. Offering something useful as Mulcahy sobs and begs for relief. At least she's here. All his own spells are too practical, and what use is a cup of tea and company when the nightmare has crawled into the waking world and spent days destroying Mulcahy?

Days of this. Gods. I didn't want to push you, said Louis when they talked; I thought you needed time. But maybe if I had...

(And Gaeta told him, softly, there was nothing you could have done.)

There has to be something. He's hungry. He won't eat, but he wants to eat. Maybe -- maybe there's still a little food somewhere in the cabinets. Something easy. A loaf of bread.

Gaeta goes to look, half in a daze.

Peter is there with Gaeta to track down what food is left, but it’s a dim sight. Strewn about here and there are all of the things that can’t consist a meal of themselves, like salt and spices and sugar, but of the things that consist of real food, there’s… the can of peas that’s been around for about half a year, a thing of dried tomatoes, a container of oats, and the very end of a loaf which Mulcahy seems to have already taken a few token bites out of. It’s not stale yet; seems to be from Max’s.

Nothing else, though.

“I—I don’t know,” Mulcahy says to Zivia, and he means it. He doesn’t know. It worked last time, but he still doesn’t want anyone near him (as much as he’s dying to simply be held), and—well, it just might not stick. And he would hate very, very much to go through that cycle again, nevermind to do it while people are there.

The blind rage is beginning to evaporate. Mulcahy seems to be diminishing with every passing minute. “I’m afraid to try. You don’t understand how horrible it is, to, to make the attempt, and a minute later be…”

"No," she says very steadily, "I don't know what that feels like. I can imagine it's horrible."

A beat.

"Is it worse than this?"

Hopelessly: "It leads back to this."

After a point, why bother.

Gaeta tracks the conversation from the kitchen, as automatic as listening to a comm line while plotting the next jump. Oatmeal might work, if thinned out enough, but that'll take time to make. (Frankly he might make something with the peas too just to use them up already.) If Mulcahy already rejected the bread, it doesn't seem likely he'll try it again, but... that's probably the best of their limited options right now, unless Gaeta wants to run out to find some broth.

That involves leaving the house, though. Frak no.

Quietly, he picks up an unbroken bowl from the floor. Rinses it off so he can bring it out to Mulcahy, too, along with the fragment of bread. Then, as an afterthought, he picks up a few more of the intact dishes too to set in the sink for later. As insurmountable as everything feels, he also feels his worst thoughts quieting, a little, as he works his way through the smallest useful tasks. If he returns and Mulcahy still can't tolerate his presence, maybe he can find a broom to start sweeping.

But for now, he eases back to where Zivia and Mulcahy stand, holding the food. Stays silent. Stays at a distance.

Zivia's quiet for a long moment.

"Being back in this state will be bad," she says at length, slowly. "If you don't try to eat at all, it will be worse. I'm trying to think of a way it might get better, even if only a little."

(The effort, now, is all to keep from taking charge and telling him what he should do, or what she's going to do for him.)

(It is entirely the right move to make.)

(Separately, privately, Mulcahy quietly pushes under the carpet the thought that he had been altogether too ready to let himself wither away, if it meant not having to beat his head against his paranoias again. Death has no hold on him yet, after all.

... but he'd made a promise to Gaeta, and it's a bad solution in the long-term.)

He's quiet for a minute. Eyes Zivia; eyes Gaeta in the archway to the kitchen, holding a bowl after he'd been clattering around in there. Clattering around doing God knows what.

The thought of food, of chewing, is almost enough to set him off on its own. He clutches his stomach and sinks down further until he's sitting; Connor is there beside him, lying down, offering his head as something big and soft and warm to lean on. Mulcahy pants shallow breaths. Between the fear and the sheer physical strain, his heart has been utterly racing.

"I... m-maybe... oh, Lord, I'm so tired. I can't think. Maybe... one more try, then. Just one." He wipes haphazardly at his face; blessed be that none of the splinters in his hands end up in his eyes. He looks up at Gaeta. "What were you doing in there?"

Edited 2025-10-20 05:33 (UTC)

Just one. Gaeta hoped, but didn't really expect -- and one try is far, far better than none.

"Looking to see if there was any food that might be easier to keep down." He inclines the bowl enough so Mulcahy can see the partially-eaten bread inside. Apologetic: "This might still be the best we've got. And... after I found that, I put some of the other dishes in the sink."

He hesitates.

"Do you want me to give this to you? It'll, um. Mean I have to come closer for a minute."

Dishes in the sink. Amid all this mess.

He stares for a while; the wheels have a very, very hard time turning when the engine is running on fumes of fumes.

He blanches again then, hunched and shaking. Nothing to be done but abide by the excruciating sharpness hooking under his ribs and deep in his abdomen. When the spasm passes and he catches his breath, he looks up, glancing between them both.

"F-Felix. Please come here."

It takes all of Gaeta's willpower not to slump with relief right there.

He moves just as carefully as before, with little noise besides the quiet tick of his cane against the floor. Slowly, slowly, around and over the scattered rubble, keeping in Mulcahy's line of sight the whole time. At his side, he lowers himself next to him; arranges his prosthetic leg to get comfortable, rather than staying in a position that would let him get up quickly again.

There's still about a foot of distance between the pair. Just in case. (That, too, is taking all of Gaeta's willpower to maintain.)

She stays where she is. And, after a moment, folds herself down to sit on the stoop, in the doorway but not crossing into the house, rather than stay standing and looking down at them both.

And if at any point Gaeta glances her way, he'll get a nod of approval.

Tentatively, even timidly, he reaches out for the bowl; taking it, he retreats that distance again, keeping the foot in between.

And very, very, very carefully, sort of shielding his face as he does, takes a bite. Chews very slowly, almost barely, 'till the thing is more or less porridge in his mouth, and slowly, carefully, pulls it down through his throat. Bit by smallest bit. Like an IV. A drip-feed. He won't risk anything more. He doesn't even know if this will be tolerated.

He has to stop more than once, to cover his mouth and bear the roil of his stomach, his gag reflex. To swallow the flood of hot, liquid spit that forewarns every retch. No, but. He manages. Slowly. Very slowly.

He feels like an idiot, but needs must. He'll risk nothing in front of Felix and Zivia.

Gaeta keeps an iron grip on his composure, unwilling to let it slip like it did before. When his hands tremble, he presses them flat against his knees. (Folding them, or gripping the fabric of his clothes, might be misinterpreted.) He doesn't watch Francis for more than a few seconds at a time here and there. Ostensibly, it's so he doesn't feel any more exposed than he does already.

Selfishly, Gaeta's not sure he can bear to look.

(Days of this.)

For lack of anywhere better, his eyes land on Zivia. There, at least, if his composure cracks a little, it won't hurt anybody.

He'll see her do that same thing again, with the feel that means magic being worked: press an unsteady hand to her chest, murmur a few silent words, grow calmer.

(It only lasts so long, is the thing.)

Her gaze is not quite focused on Mulcahy; it scans slowly across the room and back, lighting on him and moving on. As though he might feel the weight of it, and flinch back.

There. Finally. Eventually, one bite he hasn’t gone ahead and thrown up. Mulcahy just hopes he can manage to keep it that way. He wants water, but he’s not in the mood to push his luck either.

The rest of the minuscule piece is still in the bowl, but he’ll… stop here for a moment. He ought to give it a break, and besides—he hasn’t looked up, but he doubts that watching him struggle was pleasant for either of his friends.

No one likes eating in a bathroom, though.

He evenly, deliberately paces his breathing. No risks. Keeps his head down.

“… What… day is it?”

Gaeta's attention tugs back to Mulcahy. "The twenty-fifth," he says, softly -- then thinks to add, "Of September."

Accidentally implying it's been longer than a few days won't help anybody.

"Thursday," Zivia adds quietly.

(Having some idea, as Gaeta might not, why day of the week might be as important for Mulcahy to know: three days yet to Sunday.)

He looks to Zivia, and looks relieved. He’d done Mass the Sunday immediately after the party of course, but hadn’t shown up for anything before or after since. It’s Thursday, which is… oh… not great, considering how long he’s been not sleeping or eating, but it gives him some time to fix it. Enough leeway to get it together. If he can.

“Oh, good,” he sighs quietly.

And then, eyes wide, dropping the bowl and the crowbar and taking Gaeta by the shoulders: “Oh, your birthday!”

He shakily attempts to rise to get to his bedroom, but his legs give out shortly. Peter chirps, zipping out ahead through the doorway.

Edited 2025-10-22 17:07 (UTC)

Alarmed, "Hey, easy -- "

Gaeta catches Mulcahy by the forearms, helping to ease him back to the floor. The bowl wobbles a brief rotation before settling. "Easy," he says again, trying to soothe, "it's okay. It's okay. We can worry about it later, all right?"

That flicker of hurt a couple of days ago already felt a little ridiculous. Sitting here in the wreckage of Mulcahy's house, when the man himself can barely eat, can hardly walk -- that is not the time for anyone to be worrying about missed birthdays.

"It's okay," Zivia echoes, and shuts her teeth against anything further -- don't try to move that fast, just sit still, try another bite. She has to keep reminding herself not to tell him what to do.

Maybe asking him a question might be all right. If she can find one that won't sound intrusive, or like an interrogation, or, or, or.

(Even with her emotions calmed, she can't stop hearing his desperate shout: I don't know what you want from me, I didn't do anything, leave me alone.)

Her unsaid advice seems to be taken to heart anyway, at least; Mulcahy hangs onto Felix as he carefully eases back to sitting. In the other room, Peter can be seen flitting about, sifting through the scattered debris, looking for something.

“I’m sorry. I can’t believe I’d completely missed it. I—I should have at least called.”

He didn’t think he could feel any more rotten than he did, yet here they are. He takes a slow breath, as deep as he thinks he can risk it before his stomach flips again.

He looks over at Zivia, still across the ruined threshold, and at all the torn-up floorboards and splinters and broken things in between.

He puts his head down, covers his face, and whispers, "Goddamn."

Gaeta can count on one hand the number of times he's heard Mulcahy curse in his presence. It's another twist in his gut; another fracture in his own composure, quickly plastered over.

"It's okay," he repeats, softer. "I already knew you weren't feeling well." He traces Mulcahy's gaze around the room. Not feeling well -- gods, the understatement feels obscene. "And... there isn't anything here that can't be fixed. All right? We can figure it out."

Sitting this close to Mulcahy, and not quite so caught up in his own frantic need to comfort him, Gaeta finally notices just how many splinters dot his hands. He swallows.

"...Francis, do you want me to pull some of those splinters out?"

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