the sound is not asleep [closed]

[lovethyneighb_or]

Who: Father Mulcahy (lovethyneighb_or), Felix Gaeta (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.

Comments

[not_a_traitor]

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.)

[tehilim127_1]

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.

cw almost emeto

[lovethyneighb_or]

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.

[not_a_traitor]

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.

[tehilim127_1]

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.

[lovethyneighb_or]

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?”

[not_a_traitor]

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.

[tehilim127_1]

"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.)

[lovethyneighb_or]

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.

[not_a_traitor]

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.

[tehilim127_1]

"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.)

[lovethyneighb_or]

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."

[not_a_traitor]

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?"

[lovethyneighb_or]

“Hm?” He holds them out to look—oh, right. Yes. Odd, isn’t it, how even with his arthritic hands he can barely feel the sting.

“Um… yes, that’s… that’s alright. Thank you.” He’d hold them out to Felix, but he’s too shaky, and lies them down in his lap instead.

[tehilim127_1]

"I've got a handkerchief," she says, "if you need one." If any of the splinter wounds need cleaning.

(If they were back home, she'd have hand sanitizer. And bandaids. And -- and it's pointless to think about.)

[not_a_traitor]

He looks up at Zivia. "Yeah, I think that's a good idea. Thanks. -- There might be some tweezers in the bathroom, too." To Francis: "Is it all right if she comes in to look?"

It seems likely the bathroom was ripped to shreds along with the rest of the house, but still. Maybe, if they're lucky, some of the toiletries will still be intact.

In the meantime, he gently cups one of Francis's hands, tugging it closer for a better look. A fair number of the splinters are big enough that he can pick them out without tweezers. Gaeta starts with those, focusing on the ones lodged near Mulcahy's fingertips.

cw emeto implied

[lovethyneighb_or]

A second's delay too long before he looks up at her and seems to be thinking about it. "Alright," Mulcahy says, and nods.

The bathroom is as sorry a sight as the rest of the house. There had been a first aid kit of sorts, but the contents are scattered God knows where. The walkways, at least, are open. A mostly-empty glass with tap water sits near the sink; his toothbrush and toothpaste are intact, sitting in a cleared little spot; a sour, bitter smell hangs in the air. Mulcahy's spent a lot of time in here.

He lets Gaeta handle him. He doesn't flinch or wince as the splinters are pulled out, piece by piece. He stays very still, ruminating on the tender touch of someone doing healer's work, and closes his eyes.

Quietly: "I'm sorry. For raising my voice. For... all of this." A breath. "Did I frighten you?"

[tehilim127_1]

Zivia nods back in acknowledgment, murmurs thanks, and moves through as unobtrusively as she can.

In the bathroom, she does a quick once-over of the mess, then finds a mostly intact towel, clears a space on the floor to spread it out flat, and starts picking things up and laying them down on the towel in something like order. No tweezers in the first sweep; she keeps looking.

At one point she very briefly runs cold water onto her fingertips, presses them to her eyes, and resumes working.

[not_a_traitor]

"A little," he admits, just as quiet. Honesty seems like the best recourse right now: no lies, not even little white ones. The small pile of splinters next to them grows. "But just because I'm worried about you. Not because of anything you did to me specifically."

He's dealt with much worse than raised voices or a broken dish chucked at his head. The rest, though --

I wish I'd been here earlier. But would it have helped at all? Would Gaeta have been able to stop the whirlwind in its tracks, or only make it worse?

[lovethyneighb_or]

He's quiet for a while, staring down at his hands and the splinters as they're pulled. Every little wood shard is a warning. An omen. A sign of what's to come for him, just beneath the safe veneer of the present, behind the blindness to their future.

There is darkness, and it's going to eat him whole.

"I considered myself free," he murmurs. "But I don't feel as though I am. I feel like a—a wretched dog whose master has suddenly died, still loping alone around the ruining house while the corpse rots in the kitchen. He's gone, but... I'm still living like this, as if he's always over my shoulder. I wish I knew why."

[not_a_traitor]

Gaeta nods. Briefly, he rubs his thumb over the center of Mulcahy's palm, in one of the few splinter-free spots.

"I think it's like adjusting to anything after spending so long in different circumstances," he murmurs. "Worse, this time, but -- similar. It's only been a year and a half. I still hoard food; I still half-expect a Cylon ship to jump into orbit someday, even though nobody in the whole frakking system has space travel yet. And that's without me running into any Cylons at the gala."

He turns over Mulcahy's hand. Gets to work on his knuckles.

"It takes a while to learn that you're somewhere else." A soft sigh. "And I guess it takes longer to forget where you used to be. Doesn't help when the worst reminder possible suddenly shows up again."

[tehilim127_1]

She pauses in the doorway back into the living room. Not at all sure she should be hearing this from Gaeta; hesitating to join them while he's still speaking.

So it's only when he falls silent that she steps in, holding up the tweezers. "Here," she says. "All right if I bring them over?"

Trying to keep the question light, as though it's perfectly normal to ask permission before approaching.

[lovethyneighb_or]

Mulcahy looks up. "Y-yes. Thank you."

He turns Gaeta's words over in his head. Oh, leave it to these two to be able to make his most frantic, rabid anxieties sound sane again. Yes, it's true; he's in good company among the haunted. He wonders how many of them have destroyed their own houses because of it, though.

He goes quiet again.

[not_a_traitor]

Gaeta murmurs a thank-you of his own, accepts the tweezers, and begins to pick out the smaller fragments he couldn't get with his fingers alone. He lets the silence pass by unremarked.

"I don't know how long it'll take," he says eventually. "I wish it was faster. For both of us. But I hope someday it isn't a, a reflex anymore, to look over our shoulders, or doubt, or -- be this afraid. Because we'll finally know for sure we're somewhere else."

[tehilim127_1]

Zivia's taken a seat on the floor, just over an arm's length away, tucking her skirt under her legs with the ease of unconscious habit.

"What I've heard," she says quietly, "from people with reason to know, is that it does pass. There isn't a simple or fast fix, but it does pass."