23. the creatures in tide pools

[orderfromchaos]

[Open spam in the chapel, since the kid flood, whenever.]

[When he isn't on shift at the infirmary, or trailing after Abigail like a concerned ginger puppy, Dillon is spending a lot of time in the chapel. Just - sitting, in the very front pew or the very back, wishing for saints and stained glass and stone, for something gaudy and familiar, the smell of sand and wood polish. But the chapel resists his homesickness, neat white plaster, well kept, effusively inoffensive. He tries kneeling, a couple times. But it doesn't feel right, and neither does prayer. So he sits, quiet, eyes forward on the Unitarian nondenominational emptiness, for an hour or two, watches the shadows from the little candles, tries to think about his mistakes, about his options, about nothing at all.]


[Private to Arthas]

I want to see you. Anywhere you'd rather meet?


[Spam for Jerry, backdated to after Allison's post, early the next morning on the tenth.]

[He's just sitting in the hallway, across from Jerry's door. He's not impatient. He's not even angry, really, just calm and steady. He was sloppy, he was absorbed with his own messes. But he made a promise. Allison's rambling plea for understanding as revenge didn't change that. Jerry made his choice, and now he has to face the consequences.]


[Private to Arkin, backdated to after the above]

I've turned Jerry human. I promised him he would, if he hurt anyone else outside self-defense, before you were assigned to him.


[Filtered to Abigail, Scott, Chris, Bucky, Gene, Helena, and Iris, backdated to after the above]

I turned Jerry human, and now he's threatening to leave my friends' corpses at my door like the worst cat in the world.

[He doesn't sound scared. He doesn't even sound mad. He is irritated, and a little disgusted. It was one thing with Okoya and Carter - there were actual stakes there. This is just Jerry being petulant.]

All of you could probably take him in a fair fight, but he's sneaky and mean, so keep an eye out, and kick him in the balls for me if he tries anything.


[Gift List]

Abigail - a print of Starry Night. Some clever board games - like, the kind that are actually interesting and thoughtful? Wise and Otherwise, Ticket to Ride, things like that. I don't think she got to play much as a kid. And some kind of meditative geometry game she could use for like - calm without emptiness, when she needs that. And some pretty dresses.

Bucky - a pineapple upside-down cake, and like, kevlar insert panels that work with the jacket he already has.

Bush - another pineapple upside-down cake, and good boots. Better boots? Like, comfy and insulating, modern REI science stuff, but looking period on the outside. And with the one weighted to make balancing on the fake leg easier.

Cambridge - the collected poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins.

Chris - ridiculous Motherfucker merch. Like, a bobblehead. And T-shirts with golden-age style onomatopoeia impact balloons. A pez dispenser!

Gene - a St. George Medallion. Silver, and a strong chain.

Helena - one of those little personal fold-out cabinet altars, with an old style painting of a bible story she always liked in the panels.

Iris - a tinsel crown, the Al Green christmas album, and tickets to all past and future black-and-white Harry Hunsacker plays.

Scott - The True Story of the Three Little Pigs

Simon - myrrh incense

Snafu - altoids, warm socks with good wicking layers or whatever, and a couple collections of Far Side comics.

Steve - some really good lamps? With flexible necks so he can position lighting how he wants for drawing. Bright and not too harsh, full sun spectrum.

And give all the forties guys a bunch of girl scout cookies.

Comments

spam

[withtheoldbreed]

[It's undeniably strange, to hear a version of your own voice sound about as brittle and miserable as you feel. Gene hesitates a moment longer, still unsure, but eventually he does come over to sit down next to Dillon, not crowding, but close enough for conversation.]

You alright? [He's almost not sure why he asks. First of all, the answer's obvious, and second, he's not sure he'd be able to answer a question like that if someone asked him. But, well. He asked.]

[orderfromchaos]

I got tortured for a couple weeks. Two months ago.

[His voice is very far away. It's like he's talking about someone else, like there's glass between him and the memory, clear and silent and cold. Like the blankness inside the chapel doesn't count, or like Gene doesn't count as telling someone else, with the face that looks just like his.

But of course Gene is not him; Gene is human and hurt and far from home. Dillon looks away.]

I've been through worse. It'll be okay.

[withtheoldbreed]

[There's a long moment of silence, because Gene isn't sure what to say to that. What can you say to that? Especially coming from that familiar-but-not face and voice.]

I'm sorry. [It's not worth much. He knows how useless it is to say something like that.] I can leave.

[If it would help. He'll stay if that would help, and there isn't much of a preference, there. Honestly, Gene's uncomfortable, but he's so used to being uncomfortable that it barely registers with him. This is just how things are.]

[orderfromchaos]

No. You should stay.

Might not find what you're looking for, but sometimes the looking is what gets you by.

[withtheoldbreed]

[He doesn't say it - doesn't even really consider vocalizing it - but he's not sure what he's looking for in the first place. So that's fine.

Gene slips his hand into his breast pocket and pulls out his battered Bible, just holding it in his hands like he expects it to help him figure it out, either with the words printed in there or the ones scribbled into the margins.]

That what you're doing in here?

[orderfromchaos]

I guess so.

It seems like a good enough place to feel lost in.

[withtheoldbreed]

[Gene nods, accepting the answer if not doing too much with it. He doesn't know if he's coming here to get lost or find something, and he doesn't know what else to say to this younger, scarred, badly hurt mirror image of himself. He doesn't know what to tell himself, either, or Snaf or Jimmy or anyone.

So he just sits, cradling the shabby looking book in his hands, and tries to tune out the low level hum of anxiety or tension that's been his constant companion for weeks. It doesn't make him feel any less tired.]

[orderfromchaos]

[After a lull -]

Do you care if the book looks old?

[This may seem like a weird question.]

[withtheoldbreed]

[It would be, but even though Dillon hasn't exactly explained what he can do, Gene knows.]

No. [It's a reminder, and a more permanent one than the blisters and sores on his feet, now almost fully healed. So he doesn't mind, really, even if he wishes fixing himself would be as simple as fixing the book.

Anyway.]

Snaf said you fixed him up when he got here. [He glances over at Dillon, and his expression's still a little somber, but he's grateful, too.] Thanks.

[orderfromchaos]

It's my job now, I guess. It's - nice. To do something good with it.

[It's a little harder to be targeted with his power, always harder to hold back when it's already welling up beyond him, too vast for his skin, his soft human borders, literally porous. It's always been penned in more effectively by the admiral than he's ever managed, and when he chooses to push bast the leash that keeps it in, he has to focus very carefully to shield anything. He manages it, though, piecemeal, pushing renewal off him him warm, shallow waves, teeth gritted as he wills it to sluice around the weight of the paper, spilling and seeping into everything else. The pews' scuff marks neaten themselves, the dust motes floating in the air drift into neat three-dimensional grids, and even though nothing of significance changes, the knots in Gene feel a little looser, the exhaustion presses a little less heavily.]

Okay?

[Dillon sounds uncertain, in spite of the previous thanks; young and nervous.]

[withtheoldbreed]

[Honestly, the exhaustion and tension weighs on him so heavily on most days - even here, even though he's not being shot at or threatened - that even the slightest difference is huge. Sledge lets out a breath he almost hadn't realized he was holding and just... relaxes, slumping back a little onto the pew.]

I didn't mention it because I was fishin' for anything, [He says with an easy, maybe even slightly playful smile, because that's true. He was just honestly grateful someone had helped his friend, because God knows Snaf had needed serious medical attention the same way he had back when he'd first gotten here.

But it's nice too, to feel lighter and more awake.]

Thanks.

[orderfromchaos]

I know.

You had tired shoulders, though.

[A similar ease; there's a lightness that comes from helping people, from doing something small and worthwhile. He feels warmer for it, less alien.]

[withtheoldbreed]

Guess I did.

[He hesitates a little before asking his next question, not sure if this is rude or treading on dangerous territory or what.]

You always been able to do stuff like this? [The kid during the flood hadn't seemed like he'd been capable of it, but what the hell does Sledge know about this kind of thing? People with magic don't exist where he's from.]

[orderfromchaos]

Nah. Started a few years ago. It's changed a lot, too.

[He doesn't mind saying; but there's so much to explain, and it's so weird.]