Father Francis John Patrick Mulcahy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lovethyneighb_or) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ph_logs2025-10-12 04:48 pm
lovethyneighb_or) wrote in ph_logs2025-10-12 04:48 pm
the sound is not asleep [closed]
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.
lovethyneighb_or), Felix Gaeta (not_a_traitor), Zivia Birnbaum (tehilim127_1), and maybe anotherWhat: 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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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.
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A long beat. "It wasn't a suicide, though. It was a car accident. Like four blocks from our house."
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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."
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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."
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"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.
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But does, after a few seconds, pry his attention from Mulcahy to meet her eyes again.
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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.
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"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.
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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.