IC inbox (pumpkin hollow)

[lovethyneighb_or]

Mulcahy here! Leave a message.

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[not_a_traitor]

He sighs heavily. "It was. I do. As -- frakked up and impossible as it was, it was definitely real."

Gaeta rubs a hand over his face.

"CT and I spent some time digging through the library to see what might turn up. Not much, yet, but we found some unsolved missing persons cases that let us narrow down the date a little. What we saw seems like it really happened."

[lovethyneighb_or]

He slumps over then, slouching the way starved plants do, but this is not despair; a stiffening fear is dissolved from his blood. A hand covers his face. "Thank God," he says. "I was afraid that I was losing my mind, to stress, or, or--or something. "

He takes another second to breathe before he looks up at Gaeta again. "So what we witnessed was something that truly happened in the past. Were our names in there? What else did you find?"

I LOST THE NOTIF

[lovethyneighb_or]

[ A sort of consternation crosse shis expression. It's not an accusatory look. Commiserative, more like. ]

I understand. Come to me whenever you are ready; I will always be here. But remember that the courage often comes with the action, not before; some things you must do afraid.

OH NO IT HAPPENS

[pineapplesalmon]

[That look is noted. Father was behind the scenes like he was. He understands.

A self-deprecating laugh, glancing around at the temple.]

I know; I was terrified the whole time. But it was either that or genocide and the end of the world.

[Whether or not that's hyperbole, the delivery is matter-of-fact casually.]

[not_a_traitor]

Oh, that's a posture he knows too well. The relief of seeing clearly, even if what you saw is something terrible.

"No. Not our names," he says. "It seems like we... I'm not sure of the best way to describe it. Replaced them, but not in a direct one-to-one substitution. We were seeing the past and participating in it at the same time. Still us, but a little bit of them, too. Enough that we couldn't change the events much, and that their names were filed in the missing persons cases instead of ours."

He turns over one hand in a gesture like a shrug.

"The original sacrifices didn't seem to be anyone prominent. Not like some of the members of the cult itself. And..." Gaeta sighs. "As best as we can determine, the sacrifice happened in 16:43 -- so whatever being the 'conduit' meant, Linette Brenning had to endure it for two years before the barrier went up."

[lovethyneighb_or]

He tries not to grind his teeth too hard.

"All the more reason to make sure their plans never bear fruit," he murmurs. "I've got to do some investigating of my own with one of the local occult scholars. To look into what we both saw. Those symbols in the book, and... and I believe Calloway has an artifact that was tampered with by them." He can't remember if he told him this already back then, but better safe than sorry.

He looks down in muted frustration. "Getting schedules lined up is such a challenge, though, it may be some time before I do."

[lovethyneighb_or]

[ His brows raise in a kind of resigned surprise, and he huffs softly. A faint skepticism scratches at the back of his mind, one earned from listening to far too many war reports and upper brass, seeing far too many bodies, but. César does not at all seem like one of them. It's easy to extend good faith. He'll pass no judgement until he actually knows. ]

That's... one heck of a call to make.

[ What else can he say, especially if they're saving this conversation for later? ]

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?"

[notinflictthem]

Hawkeye, once more ignorant of the heartbreak and strife he's subjecting Mulcahy to, looks up from the grocery shopping he's doing to answer the speckled bit of bloodstone he keeps in his vest pocket.

"That's what they call me. How's life, Father?"

[lovethyneighb_or]

“… It’s alright,” he answers hesitantly, noncommittally. “And I hope the same applies for you, at minimum.”

…

“You wanted to speak with me?”

[notinflictthem]

"That is why I left the note," Hawk notes dully, looking into the shine of a red apple. Still can't bring himself to be more than business with Mulcahy, now that the anger has drained from him like a lanced boil.

"You free for me to come over this afternoon? I'll bring cookies. Or something."

[lovethyneighb_or]

Right. Ever the professional, even outside of work, now. He has no personal stake in this outside of information. Get it together, Francis.

“I can make time after 1:30.” Thank God he doesn’t have to take care of anything particularly important after that. “I’ll make tea.”

[notinflictthem]

After 1:30, Hawk shows up.

He's got a box from that bakery that had the grand reopening- little pumpkin biscuits. Autumn's creeping up, he can't help but feel festive. He knocks on the door. The red scarf, offered to Mulcahy once for that brief outing, is looped around his shoulders, the same colour as his vest. When Hawk knocks, it's to the tune of shave and a haircut.

He searches for an appropriate joke, and comes up empty.

[lovethyneighb_or]

Mulcahy looks...

...

Well, he's always been pretty fastidious about being clean and neat, which hasn't changed. But he looks about the same as when Hawkeye last saw him, running themselves ragged. Never stopping even in death.

It's good to see you again comes to his lips. Stops at the thought of Hawk ignoring it.

He smiles though. It's not much, but it's as much as he can muster. “Welcome. Come in, Hawkeye.”

As he waves him inside, Peter looses himself from the door lock, floating up to Hawk to chirp a little greeting, even if it seems mostly perfunctory somehow. The door shuts, and Peter, apparent owner of every key, locks it behind again.

In contrast to the stylistic grandeur of Hawkeye’s apartment, Mulcahy’s house is still mostly bare and undecorated. Everything is neat. There’s an asceticism to it, to be sure, a priest living humbly. But it’s almost as if the house is… just lying there, quiet and still, like if he could see the dust in a sunbeam they would not move.

He brings them to the kitchen, where he heads to the stove to fetch a kettle. "So what in particular did you want to talk about?"

[pineapplesalmon]

[César flickers a smile at Mulcahy's expression.]

I know, it sounds insane. But I've never been one to do things the simple way, even if my needs themselves are. Magne at least finds it endearing.

[He looks down at the rings, passing a pinky through his mother's engagement ring.] ... they would have loved her.

[notinflictthem]

Hawk startles a little at a magic floating set of keys, as anyone sane would do, but this island has got to him such that he doesn't even ask how that works. He sits himself on Mulcahy's couch and briefly wonders how anyone can live in a place so quiet and not have their brains catch fire. His apartment back during his residency doesn't count, he was kept entertained by the rats.

"I already know about the village. Peter told me about it, before he left. I don't know the details, and I don't want to talk about it- he said it was worse than being a POW, and that's all I need to know. So, my question is, who are you?"

[lovethyneighb_or]

Hawkeye says I know about the village, and all the air is sucked from the room.

It’s a good thing his back happens to be turned.

“Hawkeye,” he says very, very carefully, “I would appreciate it if, for this, you were very, very deliberate about what you are saying and what you mean. What is it that you’re asking for? Is it simply my name? Do you suspect I’m—fake, or do you want me to recount everything I’ve seen since I was taken from camp? Since I was born? Am I… am I irreconcilable with who you knew I was seven years ago?”

Because it’s true, who he was is a ghost that forever haunts who he is now, but before he answers a question like this, he needs to know what he’s asking. In exact terms. He has no more patience for malicious misinterpretation.

[notinflictthem]

"And I want people to not keep big important secrets from me, but they tell me you can't always get what you want."

Nearly a good sign that there's some bitterness left in there. If you're angry, you're still in it, if you're not, then that means there's nothing left.

Exhale. He already litigated this with Radar. That the betrayal keeps stinging is down to Hawk's sensitivity more than what was done.

"Sorry. But honestly, Father, you are. I don't know you. I thought I did, you acted like I did, but I don't know how much of the Mulcahy I knew is still even in you. I don't know anything about you. I don't know how much of that is- is deliberate, or what. Do you still want to be my friend?"

[lovethyneighb_or]

He wants to wail, to sob, to throw himself at Hawkeye’s feet, to curse him and beg him to make up his mind and either absolve him or condemn him from his life, but that would ruin the conversation. So.

“Of course I do,” and it’s more plaintive than he meant for it to be, but not nearly as much as he feels. “I can barely think of anything else. But I—I never…”

He grabs the kettle. He searches for the words, for some place to begin, but there is nothing that he can say that doesn’t begin with what happened with the old Hawkeye, so stained with him is Mulcahy’s heart and mind. In the smallest fit of frustration, he strikes open the faucet, water flooding in.

“I didn’t mean to keep anything as a secret as such, but I… Hawkeye, the version of you that was on the ship…”

He looks at the ceiling. “We endured such terrible and bloody, daily horrors. Both of us, together. I am being entirely honest when I say that I believe it was some measure of true Hell. I can remember each and every time you died before my eyes, and every time I was there for you when you came back. I dream of it.

“We were close, closer than we’d ever been during the war, a-and perhaps because of that and the desperation of our circumstances, you… you asked something of me. Something I could never give you. And every day you begged me, and always I withheld, and I watched you wither from the heartbreak of it. You were sick with longing. The death of the body is one thing, but this was eating your soul.”

There’s clearly more that he’s gearing up to say, but he’s paused for long enough for Hawkeye to cut in if he chooses.

[notinflictthem]

Slowly, carefully, cautiously, because if Hawk has misinterpreted this then they'll surely laugh about it at some other point down the track, but if he hasn't-

"Are you saying that I was in love with you?"

[lovethyneighb_or]

It doesn’t matter that it was only a question. Hearing those words in his voice again, something goes furious and rabid in his chest, thrashing against the inside of his ribs. Hawkeye’s blood materializes in the droplets in the sink, and he shuts the water off so it sounds less like a scream.

“Yes.”

It feels like a body blow.

“I—I loved you too, but not in the way you wanted. The way you needed. Selfishly, I could never distance myself, but the proximity was unbearable for you. I would have made both of us miserable if I tried to reject you, but we were already miserable together. You sought me at every turn. Sometimes we would sing at the piano bar together, and you… that was the closest we could ever come to what you wanted.”

They were the sweetest songs he’d ever heard, and he hopes Hawkeye never serenades him again.

His hands grip the edge of the sink, white-knuckled, his pitch climbing slowly higher. “We started to argue. One day, you cursed me for withholding. You said something cruel. I had deserved it, but I walked away from you. I didn’t turn around. After that day, I never saw you again; you’d been swallowed into the engine of the ship to be burned as fuel because you had become less than a shade. You…”

Breathe. Breathe. Please breathe. “You loved me, and I killed you. I killed you with grief. Oh, God, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I killed you, I—I killed you—I killed you—“

(Peter, noticing this, zips into the kitchen with a worried chirp. He jangles insistently and splays himself and his keys across Mulcahy’s neck for something of weight and coldness. It isn’t much to try and ground him, but it is so much better than nothing.)

[notinflictthem]

"Did I have no other opti-" Hawk tries to ask in amidst it, but if Mulcahy even hears him, he doesn't answer. There he goes, down some rabbit hole that Hawk can't possibly hope to follow him down. Listing experiences that didn't happen, feelings that Hawk searches his chest for and just doesn't find. Dying next to him on the lifeboats was awful, seeing Mulcahy's ghost was nearly a relief, but-

He feels something erupt in him, like if this doesn't give he's really going to snap, like the difference between losing a leg or dying to a landmine.

"I'M NOT DEAD."

Hawk feels it burn through him like a shot of adrenaline, desperate to just have it said so he knows he isn't sitting here a ghost on Mulcahy's couch.

"I'M NOT! I'M NOT DEAD- I'M NOT DEAD-" he iterates again, and again, "AND I DON'T- you knew some other guy but I'm not in love with you. Will you - stop saying I'm dead! Stop it!"

cw references to death and organs

[lovethyneighb_or]

Peter lifts away in outrage at Hawkeye, but as soon as he does there's a sharp "Peter!" issuing from Mulcahy's folded form. He stops. Hovers. Begrudgingly, glaring at Hawk the whole time, he returns; the two arms that make up the ring separate briefly to wrap around Mulcahy's neck, and he hangs there as though a necklace.

Mulcahy will thank the Village for only thing, and that is for making him learn how to hide within himself in an instant. That heart has to go. He knows how to kill it, at least for a while. Strangle it good. Bury it deep. Lock it in the cupboard and throw away the key; it will come back, but at least for now, he'll live, and Hawkeye can be allowed to deal with someone marginally less pathetic.

A thorough organ harvest in a real hospital can take surgeons several hours to complete. A M*A*S*H is far more efficient; he has seen them take pieces in under a half hour, sometimes minutes for things like vein grafts. Mulcahy, reaching into his own chest from within, is faster than all of them.

He straightens his back. Folds his hands in front of him. He turns halfway, still unable to look at Hawkeye but leaving his face visible.

"Of course you're not," he says, finally, quietly. His intonation isn't flat, but... "I'm sorry. I know you're not. But this is why I wished never to tell you. It isn't fair to you. It isn't. And--I'm sorry for that shameful display. But there is no way to tell you without entangling you in something that had your face and yet which you never did, and is not your responsibility."

He doesn't love him. Good. If Hawk hates him by the end of this, even better. It will be a long and healthy hate.

"But if you want me to explain everything you didn't see, I can't leave it out, either, for the way it's haunted me."

[notinflictthem]

Of course he feels bad for yelling, but even if he could stomach a biscuit right now all he could taste is corpse smell. The way it got in summer before the morgue trucks came around.

"You keep... dropping things on me like this," Hawk manages to find his tongue at last. Hordes of grade school teachers, lecturers, and fellow surgeons would be amazed he was ever this quiet.

"I didn't..." he just wanted his friend back. Doesn't want Mulcahy cowering, but doesn't want him like this either, this- cold and detached. Was it the war or the ship or the village that made Mulcahy's pilot light sputter out? And that other Hawkeye- it's hard not to feel like he's just keeping some other guy's place in line. Someone, apparently, with all of his flaws, who couldn't stop lusting after a priest for long enough to not have it kill him. He needs a shower. Or to grab the next ferry and make sure they get the right guy next time.

"Why did he-?" was it really Mulcahy and him and nobody else? Not a single other person Hawk could've got attached to? And he never- no, that's insane, he cannot genuinely be wondering why Mulcahy never reciprocated a relationship Hawk doesn't even remember having. Carlye and Tommy and all the other near misses in his life already claw at him.

"I don't want to know this. I don't- why would you do this to me?"