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

[tehilim127_1]

"Yeah," she says, keeping her voice low, and shifts to get to her feet. "Just one moment, I'm gonna cover the couch first, then tell me how to help you up."

There's a curtain on the floor that's been torn from its rod and had its hem ripped loose at the edges, but otherwise left intact; it'll do. The fabric's thick enough to keep stray springs from poking through, and smooth enough not to scratch a sleeping man.

[not_a_traitor]

Once the couch is covered, Gaeta softly walks Zivia through the best way to get both him and Mulcahy off the ground. It's tricky, with Francis practically dead weight and Gaeta loathe to let go of him for long, but they manage. One careful, awkward step at a time, they make it to the couch and settle Mulcahy there as comfortably as possible.

Gaeta heads to the bedroom and comes back with the blanket Mulcahy gave him for Givingstide last year: warm fleece and wool, sized to match the couch. He tucks it around him. Smooths a hand over his hair; cups his cheek, briefly, before kissing his forehead again.

And then he sits down on the floor again, back propped against the couch, and drops his face into his hands.

[tehilim127_1]

Zivia sinks down next to him, tilting her head back and letting out a long sigh.

"Hey," she says after a moment or two of silence have gone by.

[not_a_traitor]

Gaeta raises his head; runs both hands over his hair, with a similarly long sigh that catches against the thickness in his throat. He looks out over the destroyed room.

"I didn't know it was this bad," he whispers. "I should've checked on him sooner."

[tehilim127_1]

"I didn't know either. I don't see how either of us could have. Thank god for Connor and Peter."

She rests her mouth and chin against one loosely curled hand for a few moments, then gives him a closer look.

Gently: "Hey. Are you all right?"

[not_a_traitor]

"I'm," he starts to say automatically -- because fine is relative, anyway, and what right does he have to say he isn't fine while Mulcahy's passed out behind them and Zivia's a wreck too? -- and then finishes, with great calm: "No. I'm really frakking not."

Of course, now that he's admitted it, he needs to fix the problem. Or ignore it. Gaeta picks up his cane and clumsily pushes himself back to his feet, ready to go find a broom and start sweeping the debris.

[tehilim127_1]

"Listen," she says, looking up at him, "you're allowed to not be. Under the circumstances."

cw: discussion of suicide

[not_a_traitor]

Gaeta pauses.

Slow, and painful, he moves to lean against one of the walls. If it lets him keep a closer eye on Mulcahy while he's talking to Zivia, so much the better.

...

"My best friend killed herself," he says, low and abrupt. "Maybe two or three weeks before I got here. It wasn't anything like this. Kind of the opposite, actually. She was -- fine. Happy. Or so I thought. We'd all just been through the most recent terrible thing, and I didn't want to bring the mood down if she was actually feeling okay, so I left the room, and thirty seconds later..."

He mimes a gun, taps it to this temple. He hasn't taken his eyes off Mulcahy.

"That's all it took. Thirty seconds when I wasn't looking." His voice shakes a little. "He's been here four days. It could've happened at any point. Maybe it did and he already came back. I-I didn't want to push, but maybe I should have, maybe it wouldn't have gotten this bad -- "

Story of his frakking life. If I'd only known how bad it was.

[tehilim127_1]

Her eyes widen in dismay at his first words, but she stays silent except for an indrawn breath, and lets him finish talking.

"Hell," she says quietly, in full evident sincerity. "Felix, how awful. I'm so sorry."

And there's probably more to be said, but that's got to stand by itself first: just acknowledging what he's told her, and that it was awful.

[not_a_traitor]

Gaeta shuts his eyes, trying to wrest himself back under control. I shouldn't have said anything, he almost tells her, because how is it fair, either, dropping that on Zivia when she's already helping to carry Mulcahy's burdens? But maybe it makes sense now why he kept trying to approach Francis. The desperation when he said, We can't just leave him here.

(All he wants is for people to understand him.)

He stays silent.

[tehilim127_1]

She takes a long breath. "I don't think it's likely to happen in this case. For a couple of reasons. But I'd hate like hell to assume that and be wrong, and even if I could be sure I was right, that wouldn't necessarily do anything for your peace of mind. The trouble is, though ... watching him constantly could be really bad for his, and I don't know how to square that circle."

With a grimace, she unfolds from her cross-legged position on the floor and gets to her feet (in a movement much smoother than one might expect from her age and shape), and comes closer to Gaeta so she can lower her voice and still be heard.

"So I've talked with him a little, about the Village. I don't know how much you know, it might be more than me."

[not_a_traitor]

"I know enough," he says, similarly low. He drags a hand down his face. "And I don't know how to square it, either. You're right, I know I should've backed off, but -- " A helpless gesture around the room with the same hand. "Back off too far and this happens."

[tehilim127_1]

"Honestly," she says, "under the circumstances, I think we balanced it about as well as anybody could have. You did back off when he needed you to. And, listen -- I get it. I get why it was that much harder for you to do it."

[not_a_traitor]

"Do you?"

It's an honest question. They're friends by association; she's been an open, gently frank presence in his life, moreso since he and Francis grew close. But Gaeta doesn't know a lot about her history -- mostly because he doesn't want to be seen as prying, when he tends to be so closed off himself.

[tehilim127_1]

"Yeah." Soberly. "I've had ... I can't say the same experience. But that same feeling of, if I hadn't taken my eye off the situation, if I'd been there when it counted, they'd still be alive."

A long beat. "It wasn't a suicide, though. It was a car accident. Like four blocks from our house."

[not_a_traitor]

Gaeta exhales. "Shit. I'm sorry."

He moves to rest both hands atop his cane; readjusts against the wall, absently, to get more comfortable.

"It's... not a feeling I'd wish on anybody."

[tehilim127_1]

"Same, honestly. But having had it ..."

She draws a deep breath. "I can tell you that most of the time it's a lie. I mean it's a real feeling, and it makes sense in context, but it's telling you that you screwed up by looking away. By not being there. And that part's a lie."

[not_a_traitor]

Ah. Well. Put it like that.

"Wouldn't be the first time I believed a lie, I guess," he mutters tiredly. He can't look away from Mulcahy, as if Zivia giving voice to the idea only made his hypervigilance kick up a notch.

[tehilim127_1]

"Hey." Just a little emphasis, hoping to make him look at her. "Felix. I didn't tell you that so you could beat yourself up with it."

[not_a_traitor]

He presses his lips together, chagrined. Doesn't answer.

But does, after a few seconds, pry his attention from Mulcahy to meet her eyes again.

[tehilim127_1]

She meets his gaze steadily. "I think you're gonna do okay. And I'm here to help, either one of you."

[lovethyneighb_or]

It's then that Peter comes floating back in from Mulcahy's bedroom, jingling for his attention with his prize clasped in his small, wiry hands: a cross-stitched patch of the symbol of the Fleet, according to Mulcahy's memory.

Peter's got scraps of thread and fabric tangled all about his keys. He's been digging for a while, it seems, and probably this wasn't Francis' first attempt at it, either. Gaeta's never known him to stitch after all. Nor would the last few days have helped, especially with the arthritis in his hands.

[not_a_traitor]

What -- ?

"Oh," whispers Gaeta, an involuntary sound like someone just squeezed his chest. And here he thought he might actually pull it together in the next few minutes. Visibly overwhelmed by the tenderness behind such a gift, he covers his mouth, then reaches to take the patch from Peter like it's the last scrap of tapestry in the whole universe. "He -- ?"

All this for him. How long has Francis worked on it? He presses it to his chest, struggling not to break down all over again, and looks back to Mulcahy.

[tehilim127_1]

Zivia can't suppress a tiny, almost soundless oh herself.

It would feel like an interruption to say anything else, in this moment. So it's only in her head that she says Yeah. You're gonna be okay.