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[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…

[lovethyneighb_or]

How very strange.

He's never seen that name around, not like any Larkin or Leeds or Calloway. Certainly he's not heard of any religious structure other than the Temple, and it hardly seems abandoned. Not for very long, at least.

His flock may be minimal, but when has that stopped him? He still has responsibilities as a religious leader in this town. It's a simple choice, really, to walk up and knock on the door; and provided there is no response, he will ease it open, peering in.

[blindwatchersees]

Opening the door of the very humble-looking chapel leads to an interior that is more akin to a Catholic church. It’s a grand building, though not of the scale of a cathedral. It’s architecture suggests it might be a basilica, but that can be hard to tell.

In any case, it’s bigger on the inside, and the figures depicted in the stained glass are unfamiliar. There seem to be nine figures, four to each side and one at the front, behind the altar. Said center figure seems to be a man with two heads- one that of a man, and the other that of what is most likely a dragon.

Though no one seems to be attending the church, and though it’s the middle of the night (wait, then how was the foliage outside so vibrant?) the room is warmly lit with several burning braziers, and numerous lit candles adorn the altar.

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.

cw: LGBT and Catholicism since César is protective of Magne

[pineapplesalmon]

Ah, thank you.

[He sucks in a breath audibly to indicate he's thinking. Mulcahy's kind voice is a balm on his nerves. When he speaks again, César's voice is gentle throughout, and he's much calmer. He's not looking to come in swinging or start a fight.]

We... didn't lose our faith. Yet it became clear the Vatican was passing judgement on people without the requisite research and reflection to do so, including those like me. My parents decided to leave rather than insist on me being continually hurt.

[Another pause.]

My eventual wedding to Magne can't be Catholic, I know. I love her more than words can express, and I refuse to allow my faith to perpetuate the cruelty the world has shown her. Like my parents protected me. So if you follow the papacy's word to the letter... I'd rather just end the conversation here rather than meet in person to make it easy for the both of us.

[He just loves Magne and doesn't want to hurt her.]

[lovethyneighb_or]

[ Ah. There's a beat of silence on the other end. ]

... Hm. How shall I put this? If the Vatican heard of all the things I've done and the kind of company I keep, I fear I may be excommunicated.

[ A short, light laugh. ]

The Lord is love. He exists in the bread we break together, in the space between us. What is abominable in His eyes is the harm we inflict upon one another. If you and Magne love yourselves; and love one another; and love your fellows, and you look after one another; why, then I have no issue at all.

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.

[not_a_traitor]

Hm.

Someday, Gaeta hopes tiredly, he won't feel like two wild animals have just started a frantic, scrabbling fight in his brain every time there's a slight change in his environment. It's probably nothing; it's not nothing, what if something's wrong? He studies the tent for another minute before, with a sigh, he continues on his walk.

But the fight in his head doesn't get much quieter, even after a couple hours of puttering around town. He takes a detour back to the Oak & Iron for two more cups of coffee, poured into lidded containers for easy transport, plus a small wrapped package holding a few pastries. Then he returns to Mulcahy's house.

If he's still not visible in the backyard, Gaeta will knock on the front door. Maybe it's nothing, but there's no harm in visiting a friend either way.

[lovethyneighb_or]

The rod is gone by the time Gaeta returns; so is whatever figure that was in the tent. A candle is on in the house, and though the curtains are drawn, the crack of light beneath them reveals a shadow moving as he putters around his house.

When he knocks, there’s a long pause. Then the shadow moves to the door, and there’s the sound of the lock turning.

Still in his pajamas, Mulcahy looks haggard in the weak light of early morning and dim candles, pale and wraithlike. His thin hair is a mess, his shoulders and eyes slump like a sun-starved plant left to droop as he grips his staff for balance. He looks miserable in the way that the hideously sleep-deprived do. And yet, seeing Gaeta at the door, he lifts just a little bit.

“Oh,” he creaks softly, voice still rusted with sleep. “Gaeta. Hello, son. Do you need something?”

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?”

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?”

[incomingchoppers]

Boy, his ears must still be in worse shape than he thought, if he couldn't even tell Father Mulcahy was outside. Radar shuffles around back and puts on a wan smile, lifting a hand to say hello.

A few blurry memories from the gala pass by, of towering grasses, a garden exploding to life in the middle of the OR. It kinda helps being around so many plants right now. Like not everything will be terrible, even when it sorta is right now.

"Hey Father. Hey Peter," he adds to the keyring, trying not to let his eyes cross as it zips around him. "Sorry, I don't got anything for you today. Um." He focuses back on Mulcahy. "I'm okay. I mean I'm not, but I am. It's okay. Are you okay? I shoulda come by earlier, everything was just kinda..."

He trails off.

[lovethyneighb_or]

Ah.

“I’m alright,” he says reflexively, like the leg jolts after the hammer strikes it below the knee. He pauses. “… Well, I suppose it depends on what you mean. I’m unharmed. The rest…”

He drifts off. When he tries to reach inwards to ask, how am I doing today? all he really comes away with is probably bad. Which he can only mostly read because he had barely half of his breakfast today. The rest is just static. Which also can't be good.

“Well, probably not."

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!

[lovethyneighb_or]

[ On the other side of the stone is the sound of laughing, and laughing, and he does not stop laughing.

At least it's perfectly well-meaning, delighted laughter, but this is the funniest thing to happen to him in six years. ]

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