IC inbox (pumpkin hollow)

[lovethyneighb_or]

Mulcahy here! Leave a message.

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june

[lovethyneighb_or]

The day on the delivery of the letters, Mulcahy is called upon to join an investigation.

A notice is posted to the door of his home.

Hello!

I've gone to investigate something strange and concerning that has come to my attention. I am in the good company of John Jay and Gaeta. Please wish us luck. If I do not return after morning in two days, I apologize. Please check on the key-ring spirit who lives in my home.

Be well,
Father Mulcahy

November, Post-Casino

[blindwatchersees]

It’s a beautiful evening for a stroll. The leaves have really reached their peak, and the countryside is in its splendor of reds and golds. Somewhere in the woods, a mockingbird sings. The false stars provide a comforting sight, despite the sad truth of what their presence involves.

Mulcahy’s path leads him astray of anything familiar, and suddenly, he finds himself at a small collection of buildings he’s never seen before. A small sign is just barely readable by the light of the heavens: “Weynon Priory”

The chapel door seems to have been left open…

Earlier in June because I have INCREDIBLE timing

[pineapplesalmon]

[This has been obviously rehearsed and yet it still falls apart.]

Hello, I'm César Salazar. Reverend Degas said you're a Catholic priest. I'm, ah, purposefully lapsed, along with my parents, who are... dead now. They died saving the world. My baby brother wasn't old enough to make the decision along with us.

...

[He stops himself from rambling. And just waits, holding his breath.]

[lovethyneighb_or]

[ ... Oh, dear. Is this some sort of over-the-stone confessional? ]

... Yes, this is Father Mulcahy. I am the local Catholic priest. I'm very sorry to hear about your loss. [ And he is, really. ]

You say you're purposefully lapsed, but it seems you still have need of a priest for something, if you're calling for me like this.

july

[not_a_traitor]

As usual, Gaeta can't sleep for more than a couple hours, so he's out and about in the early morning, hoping to turn the insomnia into a little motivation. The walk will do him some good as he keeps strengthening his bad leg, he figures; he'll find some breakfast, pick up a few groceries, maybe take an extra shift at the library once it's open to make up for all the time he missed in June...

...pass close enough to Father Mulcahy's house to notice -- is that a tent in the backyard?

And is someone inside it?

Puzzled, he slows to a halt, eyeing the setup with a frown.

[lovethyneighb_or]

At this hour, there isn't much movement to see; past four in the morning he's usually become too exhausted for the paranoia and discomfort to win out, and respite will come, if only for a few hours. Poking out from the tent flap is the bottom of some kind of wooden rod. Otherwise, nothing seems amiss.

Late September, prior to the ball

[notinflictthem]

It's been a while. They weathered the Blight together with unerring professionalism, and that was fine. Almost back to life prior to waking up here really, there were plenty of people wherein both Hawk and them were just cogs in one large weapons repair factory. Bodies came in, shrapnel and bodies were wheeled out. An efficient process.

But it's the little things you miss. Like Mulcahy praying during poker, or his inerring positivity during bad meals. If either are even applicable really- most days it feels like he barely knows the guy. Just some... image he had in his head of this sweet wilful priest prior to all of it. At least with his childhood friends he got to see them grow up into the men they became, with Mulcahy it's like this... blank space where someone was meant to put in footage. He may as well be a stranger, for all he's heard about what's meant to go in that space.

Well. If that's the case, then it's time to meet the neighbours. Make him less of a stranger.

Stuck to Mulcahy's apartment door is a note on the usual form that Hawk uses for prescriptions. In the little box, in writing more legible than his doctor scribbles, it says-

We need to have that talk you offered

-Hawk

[lovethyneighb_or]

Oh, good Lord in Heaven.

It was comfortable when he could assume that Hawkeye would simply never speak with him again outside of a professional or convenient capacity. That was a heartbreak he could live with. He has lived with it for five years. This? This sees about an hour of Mulcahy taking the note inside and pacing in his house, frustrating himself, gritting his teeth, bouncing his thoughts out loud against a very patient Peter, lifting a few weights just to get the energy out, and prayers for strength and patience. God give him such incredible patience. Why did Hawkeye have to do this to him?

He hopes distantly that Hawk's only interest is in what other news from home Mulcahy has withheld, and that it has nothing to do with him at all. (Even if it makes him ache in his very soul.)

Only once he has exhausted his options for procrastination does he spend another ten minutes staring at his sending stone. And then he calls.

"... Hello? Hawkeye?"

several days post-gala

[incomingchoppers]

Radar's headache has finally eased up enough that he can think beyond immediate needs like get Leeds Manor tidied up and make sure Dahlia's okay. Still exhausted, but at least able to stay upright without someone gently trying to steer him to bed every few hours, he ventures into Downtown Hollow for a couple errands. Groceries, mostly. Maybe a small treat to cheer Dahlia up if he finds anything nice.

And -- as he realizes, with a guilty start, what he's neglected this whole time he was camped out at the estate -- checking on his friends.

So it's mid-morning when Mulcahy gets a knock on his door, followed by a muffled, "Father? You there? It's Radar."

[lovethyneighb_or]

The house sits still and silent.

Then a voice rises, calling, “Come around, Radar! I’m in the garden!”

He’s been hard at work ever since he got the yard. Even now as fall begins to set in, leafy bushes and flowers bloom from planters and pots, as vibrant as they can be expected to be at this point in the season. Mulcahy is standing, clapping the dirt off of his gloves as Radar comes around. Peter flies over to do a couple laps around his head.

“It’s good to see you, my son. Have you been alright?”

Early December, before Eddie's disappearance

[pineapplesalmon]

[ When César calls Mulcahy up, he's wheezing with laughter still. ]

Father, Rex showed up. He just saw my shrine and asked me if we're Catholic.

[rexthebuilder]

You didn't just—Césarrrrrrrr!

[César erupts into another round of wheezing laughter, and Rex grunts as he half-heartedly shoves César. There's a thump of a body hitting a mattress. César keeps right on laughing]

Dude!

givingstide

[not_a_traitor]

Among Mulcahy's Givingstide gifts is a tidily-wrapped box. Inside: the nicest collection of tea Gaeta could assemble from Blackwood Brews, along with a small teapot and matching cups.

An equally tidy note tucked inside the box reads:

Mulcahy,

This feels entirely too inadequate for what you've given me these past nine months. I've become very used to bearing up alone, or for any extended kindness to be punctuated by loss at best, devastation at worst. That you've kept some of my worst memories and nightmares at bay -- literally and figuratively -- has given me hope that I might do more than just survive, eventually. I haven't had hope like that in a while.

Maybe next year, we'll both be able to drink this in the daylight, and not at three in the morning after our respective rough nights.

Happy Givingstide.

All the best,
Felix Gaeta

[lovethyneighb_or]

A letter arrives at Gaeta's door the next day.

Dear Gaeta,

I've received the gift you so generously gave me. You realize, of course, that I couldn't possibly indulge in this its first time without your company.

Visit again soon.

Mulcahy

The Temple - Mid November

[thethirteenthchild]

For a long time, Dahlia lingers outside the temple.

She's always felt othered by this place. Well, scratch that, not always. When she was a child, she loved it here. The magical, reverent, cozy ambiance, the incredible stories of four beautiful, powerful women, and Reverend Gladwyn's huge, welcoming smile and furry priest robe. But as soon as she found out what she was, met Aster for the first time... Well, one starts to feel a bit unwelcome when they are the antithesis of everything a place like this stands for.

But Dahlia has her reasons for being here. She has questions. And so she convinces herself to go in, catching up for a while with Degas before at last moving on to the multifaith space, opening the door softly.

"Father Mulcahy?"

[lovethyneighb_or]

Mulcahy is sweeping the floor alone. In the Temple’s quiet, the sound of each motion echoes diffusely off the walls. It’s clearly been rough for him (her) since the Gala and only gotten rougher through October; he (she) looks worn, and small.

“Yes?—Oh. Hello.” His tone is warm, if baffled. “Hello, Miss Leeds, welcome in. Is something the matter? I don’t often get to enjoy your presence here.”

Especially here, in the interfaith space. The last time he saw her here was during Midnight Mass on Radar’s behalf. They’re getting close to the season, so maybe it’s about something similar now? Oh, wouldn’t that be sweet.

very shortly after the october event

[not_a_traitor]

The past two weeks have left Pumpkin Hollow beaten down, exhausted, and newly terrified of the island's machinations. How did this happen? Who caused it? Will we ever escape or know peace?

Gaeta's blood sings with it.

He can't quite piece together the last few hours; he feels a little lightheaded, but otherwise... fine, he supposes. And honestly the lightheadedness feels closer to a buzz than anything medical. He walks through the streets, unconsciously drinking in the ambient, lingering fear, and nothing hurts. No fears of his own rise to join it. Gods, when was the last time he wasn't afraid? He can't even remember.

Only once he realizes where he's going does he pause, uncertainty tickling the back of his mind.

Mulcahy's home. If the other scared residents flicker like fireflies, Mulcahy shines like a lighthouse. Gaeta wraps an arm around his middle, cups his elbow as he watches the front door.

And then, instead of using his key to let himself in uninvited, he knocks.

[lovethyneighb_or]

As soon as he knocks, there's a surge in that fear, warm and lovely and full-bodied, like the rising bassline of cellists in an orchestra. It remains as Mulcahy creeps light-footed towards the door; then dies down, just a little, as he opens it to see who it is.

He's covering every inch of skin. Not that it's hard when it's cold outside. But even in his own house he's wearing gloves, and a cloak, and a scarf hides half his face.

Still, Gaeta can tell: Francis is not a ghost anymore. Whatever replaced part of his soul has disappeared and left a hole where it used to be. He looks a little sickly, to be honest.

He notices the freckles immediately. Of course he does. "Oh...? Felix. Hello. Are you... you're, you're still..."

Mid November

[redlightgreenlight]

Dragging herself out of the house for more than just work has become easier since seeing Fever, but even as their discussion had centered on how her loved ones would forgive her, doubt still lingers in her mind. The more questions asked, the more apologies she must utter, the more they all learn about what she is. Her fear that the what would override the who still sits deep in her soul. Yet, she must still check on her friends, they were harmed by the Fears just as much as she was, maybe even more. Of everything they faced, what she fears most is less violent, less bloody, less destructive. She can feel him inside the house, mournful, scared, scarred, and for a moment she wonders if he will even want to see her, if he's ready to face her when he knows she can feel everything he does.

"Mulcahy? May I come in?"

[lovethyneighb_or]

When she knocks, the fear inside the house ratchets up—like a gasp, like he’s bracing for something. After a long pause, the terror abates somewhat.

(These last few weeks with the Lonely freshly ripped out of him have been… rough.)

The door creaks open halfway. (That is much better than barely-open.) He is a shadow, dressed as he is in all-black and covering every bit of skin from the neck down, even with gloves. Somehow he looks even less healthy than he usually does. Mulcahy peers at his friend across the threshold.

“… Hello, Valdis. Ah, um—what matter is it that sees you here…?”

december.

[abhorrently]

Early in the month, Fever looks for him in the graveyard. The colder weather means she has to bundle more - she isn't blessed like he is, and she loses heat - but layers do enough. So it's a friendly shape that makes her way to him, the air growing crisper as winter pulls itself over the island.

"Mulcahy? Is this a decent time?"

Re: december.

[lovethyneighb_or]

Himself, he’s been reading beneath a tree, a stark shape against the light snow. Mulcahy looks up as she approaches and shuts the book as she speaks, standing up.

“Why, yes. I’m rather free at the moment. Is something the matter?”

Mid-December-ish

[deepbluerevue]

[Roughly a few days after their conversation at the Empty Pockets]

A call rings in over sending stone.

“Ahem. Am I, er, reaching Mr. Mulcahy? Hope I’m doing this right… Er, I just had a small question, if I could have a minute of your time. Nothing urgent, if you’re busy.”

[lovethyneighb_or]

"... Yes, hello, this is he. Is that you, Grace? I've got plenty of time right now." Over the stone is the sound of a pen being put down on a desk. "What's on your mind?"

givingstide.

[abhorrently]

Handed to him while the festivities are underway is a package. Slightly heavy, inside are three pillar candles, the golden hue of beeswax. Apart from the light scent of honey which always still clings to the wax, there's the scent of lavender infused into them as well, and highlighted by tiny sprigs of the dried plant tied on.

There's a note inside as well, and when opened, a silver chain falls out, akin to the one that holds Mulcahy's crucifix on. Not a replacement, but a backup. Just in case.

The scent is one to help soothe the mind and ease the spirits. While you can judge the effectiveness for yourself, it should still smell pleasant enough. It's always put me in mind of the kinder days in summer.

-Fever

[lovethyneighb_or]

Oh goodness. He's delighted enough by these candles now, and these will only continue to bring him contentment and peace in the future as they burn. What a rare and special gift, to be able to snatch a few scraps of calm at will.

And the chain. From Fever, of all people. This is getting put somewhere safe.

Fever receives in return a light, long package. Inside is an 18-inch ruler, cork-backed to avoid slipping and flexible steel to remain undamaged against blades.

There's a note attached, which reads:

Dear Fever,

Thank you for all the kindness you've shown me this year. I don't know that I'll ever be able to properly repay you, but here's a first step. I hope this ruler will be of use to you; it's the sort of thing that I find one doesn't always need, but it is always very useful when you do. It'll serve you far better than the small wooden ones you find on any other desk.

With gratitude,
Father Mulcahy.

post-kadath (cw: emeto)

[not_a_traitor]

Gaeta wakes.

It is silent. He can't move. He is adrift in a failing Raptor, surrounded by unpierceable darkness, choking wetly on his own breath. He is dying, he's dead already, he is horribly, inexplicably still alive, and he still can't move. Until he can.

The Web pulses a nauseating red all around him as he bolts to sitting. Gaeta claps both shaking hands over his mouth; that won't be enough, he realizes with an odd clarity, and fumbles to grab his crutches and make for the bathroom. Francis is still asleep. Too disoriented to think straight, all Gaeta tells himself, as if this were a normal nightmare, is I can't wake him up.

He manages to get himself braced on the sink before he vomits up what feels like everything he's eaten in the last three days. Hunches there, gasping. Has just enough presence of mind to turn on the water and rinse everything out before he sinks, slow, agonized, to the bathroom floor.

"Oh gods," he whispers. (Keens.) He can't stop shaking. Gaeta presses his back against the corner so he'll see anyone coming, but he already knows it won't do much good. He never sees anything coming. He wraps one arm around his good knee and the other around his head, listening to the ragged, distant noises of some small animal. (Him.) The tile bleeds its cold into him. The Web glistens like fresh entrails.

Whenever Francis does wake up, that's where he'll find him.

[lovethyneighb_or]

A light sleeper this night and every night before. It isn't long before Francis gets up too, stirred awake by the slight sound of Gaeta stumbling away; it is some small miracle that he isn't up and defensive that instant.

But he lurches into awareness, and after a moment of sitting still to listen, hears only Gaeta in the bathroom. That's my thing, he thinks as he grabs for his glasses and throws aside the blanket. It's never been this bad before, has it? He can't remember. The castle must have done an awful number on Felix. Francis himself still feels the world on a little bit of a tilt, sees murmuring stars ribboning away in the dark, feels the ghost of something wiggling in his throat. Eats anyway.

In the compound he'd bolt upright multiple times a week for choppers, for emergencies, for distressed soldiers in need of an ear, for almost anything. On the ship, to console, to especially console Hawkeye. Rising from death after every bloody game like they were the only real things in the world. This feels familiar.

He slinks down the hall; pauses; walks with heavy, loud steps as he approaches the bathroom door.

He raps on it softly. "Felix?"

early march

[not_a_traitor]

There's a gangly ten-year-old in the backyard.

Felix doesn't remember the bouquet of crocuses that was dropped off on their doorstep an hour ago, but even if he did, there are much more interesting things to focus on right now. Like the flock of birds roosting in that giant birdhouse, who're so tame he can get within arm's length of them and take the most detailed notes he's ever taken about a bird in his life. Or the goat even taller than he is that's in -- symbiosis? Is that the right word? Anyway it's got actual plants growing all over it. He's never seen that before! Did he just discover a whole new species?! Plus there's all the other plants, and the flowers, and the bugs, and --

Yeah, this is the perfect place for a budding biologist to dig around and conduct his Very Serious Research. Never mind that a week ago, Felix was a budding architect, and a week before that a budding photographer. (Next week he'll probably swerve into chemistry.) For now he's going to flop belly-down in the grass and watch an iridescent beetle clamber up the fence, a notebook splayed open next to him so he can write down everything.

[lovethyneighb_or]

On the porch, a little boy, thin as a rail and with glasses perched on his head that is too big for his face, with lenses too thick for his eyes, peeks through the door.

He doesn’t remember how he got into an unfamiliar, empty house. It’s old, too. He hears horses in the distance. He’s somewhere out in the country, but he knows that his parents don’t have money for travel. Why is he here? Where are they? Where are his siblings?

There’s someone else here. He must live here. Oh, he really hopes he doesn’t get frightened by a stranger in his house. But he’s little, so—maybe it’s okay?

The door squeaks open, and the porch floorboards creak as he steps out.

“… Um. Hi,” he calls.