william "billy" gibson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
notarat) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
singillatim2024-07-03 06:51 pm
notarat) wrote in singillatim2024-07-03 06:51 pm
(semi-)closed;
Who: Billy and others.
What:
When: At various points after the town meeting.
Where: Around Milton.
Content Warnings: Mentions of homophobia, murder, identity theft and cannibalism.
( various starters for post-town meeting talks in the comments! i'm totally open to threading out stuff with more people, just hit me up through a pm to this journal or hit me up on plurk at ![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
queeningsquare!)
What:
When: At various points after the town meeting.
Where: Around Milton.
Content Warnings: Mentions of homophobia, murder, identity theft and cannibalism.
no subject
This is how Little fills it in, apparently. Billy doesn't really mind, as odd as it is to hear that word coming out of this man's mouth, of all people. It is still the truth, and it only makes it easier in the sense that Billy does not have to repeat it himself, yet it's still out there now.
Though, the question itself...
...
He's quiet for a slight moment, thinking of how to answer that one, but then he slowly speaks.
"Do you know why Cornelius carries that grudge against Mr. Irving in particular?" Judging by the way Little speaks of it, Billy thinks the other doesn't. He thinks no one does. After all, he carried out his entire plan exactly to ensure that Irving wouldn't speak of what he had seen to anyone else.
But if the truth is out there now anyway, then it matters very little anymore. There is no need to keep it quiet.
"Mr. Irving caught us. Back on the ship, soon after it got stuck in the ice." There's your indication of how long it has been, Little.. A long, long time. That was years upon years ago at this point, after all. "He lectured Cornelius about it. Told him to satisfy his urges in different ways."
Billy is smart enough to not shittalk Irving in front of Little, given the bond between the lieutenants. There is so much he could say here that he is making very, very sure to keep to himself, only sticking to the facts of the matter. He's pretty sure Little can imagine the sort of lecture that Irving must have given Hickey anyway, given how well he knows Irving.
no subject
Little listens, as more of this picture is made whole. It's not as though men experiencing... sensations for one another is something necessarily unimaginable; even in their time, there is... awareness of such things happening (although never spoken about aloud, never directly addressed.) On the loneliness of ships, especially, a man might find.... relief in another's company, another's touch. But if that were simply the case, if it was only ever carnal, they would not be married now, would they? They must be... something more than that. At least, by Little's thinking.
Ah, but John.... He stares as he listens, and begins to understand. A grudge. He can well-imagine the sort of lecture the third lieutenant might've given about such a matter, yes. Of them, Irving could be the most... intimidating with his reprimand, perhaps even what could be considered scathing at times — and given his immense devotion to faith, it isn't difficult to see how that might have gone.
But to kill him for it... The sentiment lingers in him with a knit of brows and a deep, wounded frown, though Little doesn't voice it. His horror of Hickey's actions has not lessened, even if his perception of the man has changed in discomforting ways over time. But he would be a hypocrite indeed to harp on that act right now to Gibson when not long ago, Little stood before the town admitting to killing a man, himself.
He's quiet for a long time, processing, eyes wide as his gaze stays to the floor. Finally, he speaks.
"For a very long time, I have thought that men are of... two types. That they are decent, or indecent — good men, or bad ones. I thought that if I held onto that concept.... if I didn't let it go, that no matter what, I...I could keep moving forwards, as a good man. Keep doing what I was meant to do. Help whom I was meant to help."
It sounds childish even to his own ears as he says it now. Like a boy unaware of the true horrors of the world, playing pretend. Little shakes his head, soft and sad.
"I am in no position to enforce judgment, or scorn, upon any man here. No longer. I have done the worst things, myself." Not only here, but.. before. He thinks of Gibson, used as food, and closes his eyes tightly; it aches. Goodsir. Were there others, after? What might have been prevented if he had.. done more? Acted quicker? Been strong enough to pull the men to his side and rush to save the rest? It's a confession to William, specifically, that spills out of him miserably now, voice tight, thick.
"....Perhaps even Mr. Hickey is not to be blamed for what was done to you. Perhaps even I had part in it."
no subject
But he doesn't want to get into that right now. Not when Little continues, and when he addresses something else entirely. Something a little more surprising. Maybe not as surprising when it's coming from Little compared to most other officers, given that he is definitely more likely to carry these thoughts within him, but it's still rare for any officer at all to state this in front of someone who is - technically - subservient. Even now, long after those roles have fallen away.
Considering how many months it has been in this place, Billy doesn't feel the anger anymore that he once did. It means that it doesn't sound like any intense attack when he speaks up. It may be blunt, yes, but it's also a simple statement of fact.
"All of you always got the better food," he says.
He doesn't shy away. Billy is looking directly at the other man as he says it. His expression is relatively calm and neutral, sure, but just not looking away by itself is bolder than he usually is.
"I served it to you every single day, even while I was actively dying on a diet of tins with lead. A fact you knew about, but hid from us."
no subject
Now more of it comes, bubbling up. It isn't the food that Edward was thinking about to begin with — no, there are so many other things he feels responsible for, regarding this man, and all the men.
But when Gibson brings it up, it's not even surprising. Edward feels a jab through the center of his chest, but it's not a shocking one. Of course he knows exactly what his former steward is speaking of. He's thought of it so many times before.
"Yes." He says, so softly it's almost a whisper. There's no excuse, no "but". Yes, at the time, it was his order; to reveal that truth to the men would have been a disobedience. Yes, at the time, there was still.... hope, that they would be able to find rescue. That this cold, white place would not be their tomb.
It doesn't matter now. Now, all Edward can see is the fact that the men suffered. That some of them suffered more, and longer, than others.
"It took some time for John and I to learn of the lead." Hodgson had been informed after. "But even from the beginning, we had access to better food. Fresher meat." It's the hierarchy of things — how it works; the officers eat better. You don't question it, you do your job, you trust the system. Now, after he has starved, and seen all of his men starve, now that all of them are dead, all he can think is... how horrific it is that any man should be served better food than another, all because of his rank. It's a strange awareness. It's... shot everything he's put his trust in.
How can he have pride in any of it, ever again? These days, he holds onto his lieutenant role like a protective blanket, but in concept only. Every single fibre of his being is filled with shame.
"And then when we learned of it...." His eyes sweep downwards as his head droops, shame and misery a literal weight as the words die off. He doesn't need to state the obvious; Gibson just said it himself. They'd said nothing to the men. Somehow, it seems Hickey found out about the lead. But the officers said nothing.
"....I thought there was still hope. That we all might still find rescue. That we might... live, all of us. I never wanted you to suffer. I never— ever wanted that."
And yet, in the end... how many suffered, because of him? Hope did absolutely nothing.
"...I can.... understand, now, why the men would join in his mutiny." Hickey's. "Even Lieutenant Hodgson..." It was originally a horrible blow, to see George standing on that mound, to know that he had abandoned his first, and his captain. But now... yes, looking back, he can understand it. It's a strange, disorienting awareness.
no subject
It's strange. He's had this sort of conversation in his head before - never daring to call out the lieutenants, never being in the position for it, but imagining it plenty of times just to get through the day.
And yet Billy isn't sure how to feel now he's truly experiencing it. Now he's sitting here, having this conversation. Now Edward Little actually looks guilty to hear about it, not bothering to really excuse himself in any way. He thought he'd feel more triumphant than this. He thought he'd feel something.
Instead it just feels kind of empty. Maybe it's too long ago. Maybe it doesn't really matter anymore, especially when it's not like Billy is still dead.
But at least Edward seems to understand the blood is on his hands to some extent.
"Cornelius did not start the mutiny." It's the fact he kept to himself until now. He did tell Edward right when they first met here that Billy hadn't been a victim of the mutiny like the other had assumed, but there was more to that. There has always been more.
He doesn't sound ashamed of what he's saying here either, managing to stay upright. Proud. It wasn't a bad decision, even if it still lead to his death.
"I brought up the idea first. He is merely the one who ran with it." And run with it, he sure did.. Look, the weirder details of the mutiny are definitely on Hickey, okay, Billy isn't going to claim any part that has to do with that dumb bear monster. "I knew there was no hope. Most of us knew, I imagine. The only reason you were allowed to believe that there was still hope was because of the privilege afforded by your position. We all only did what we could to take care of ourselves, because no one else would have."
Maybe it's a harsh sentiment. But Billy fiercely believes in it. It's how the world has always felt to him - that there's never anyone to rely on, so you have to take care of yourself instead. Why else would he have suggested they should make their own go at it?
He didn't trust anyone else - anyone actually in power - to do a better job.
no subject
Hickey didn't start the mutiny.... It was Gibson?
It's such a shock that the other man just stares at him for a few long, silent moments as he listens. Even now, there are so many pieces of the nightmare left to unravel, truths to learn.
Why? lingers on his lips, but he doesn't have to voice it. Gibson does first.
'I knew there was no hope.'
And somehow, it's this, this, that wounds Little more than anything. It feels as though something sleek and sharp has been jabbed through the centre of him, piercing organs, and his spirit underneath that.
Some awful, gutting part of him knew this truth, although for Little, perhaps not until the very end of it all. That hope was always futile, but he hadn't expected— to hear this. That Gibson and the others knew it was futile, knew they couldn't rely on the officers. He just sits there, staring, eyes locked on, wide and soft and wet.
He wasn't planning on.... revealing this. Not just yet. Not now. But it bubbles up then, his own truths, those dark, awful things that never stop haunting him. And— of all the people who deserve to hear the truth of him, maybe Gibson is among the most.
(The truth Gibson already knew. The truth that the officers... that Little, was never capable of saving them.) Slowly, quietly, Little begins speaking again.
"....After your death...." Because he's pieced together the timeline of it, of the mutineers, of Goodsir being taken, of Crozier being taken. "....Hickey came for Captain Crozier, to take him back to his camp. I suppose you might already know about that from him, but...." But there's parts of it that he's certain Gibson can't know yet.
"I was meant to come rescue him, and the other men held captive there. There were several of us left. Several men.... and Lieutenant Le Vesconte, and myself. Amongst the weak, the dying, there were several of us left who were able to move. Who may have been able to fight."
He hasn't said Le Vesconte's name aloud in... months. Something strange and tight hardens in his throat. Hurt, yes, but also... anger. Or something that feels like it. And yet, Little lets none of this out, not even now. He can't allow himself to place blame on Le Vesconte, or the men who voted while he slept. No, this responsibility, this guilt, is on his own shoulders. (He'll keep it on his own shoulders. Perhaps that... is the very last way that Edward Little can try to take responsibility for his men. To be who he once was, before he lost every part of himself.) When he speaks, it's not to justify any of it, eyes suddenly very wet, voice hoarse.
"Circumstances changed. It was not my will, I would not— I wanted it to be different, Captain Crozier would never have allowed this, he forbade it—" He does want to make that part clear, not that it matters in the end. "—......but we left them. I left them, William."
It's rare that his voice actually splits and breaks, but it does now. It hurts; he tips forwards, head lowered, eyes swimming. The words are a soft whine, strained and wet through his tight, tight, throat.
"We abandoned them. Jopson—" He blinks, open and wide, like a confused child. Tears are welling, but he makes no movement to stave them off. He doesn't feel human anymore. What is he? How could he have done this? He was supposed to protect them, but as Gibson says.... that was never going to happen, was it? It was all meaningless. Everything he held onto was meaningless. And they suffered for it, these men.
"We left Jopson."
no subject
What a way to die, he thinks. It's not like his own death was all that pleasant, and the slow deterioration up to it was perhaps even worse. But even though he was stabbed by his lover, Billy does believe that in the strange, strange mix that is Hickey's motivations at any given moment, there was some care in it. A whole lot of practicality, and likely a small part of Hickey that genuinely did not want to see Billy suffer - whether for Billy's sake, or just for Hickey's own.
Being left behind is worse. It had to be. Billy can only imagine what it would have been like, if he had gotten more sick and they just would have left him, rather than putting him out of his misery. Imagining a slow death like that is terrible. Imagining watching everyone leave without you very much the same. And Billy knows Jopson must have been incredibly sick and weak, because there's no way that man would otherwise ever allow himself to be left behind. He knows there's something strong in Jopson, and yet.. everything ended for him like that.
Abandoned by the other men. By two lieutenants. And he wasn't even the only one. How many more men died there, left behind? Billy certainly doesn't like most of the mutineers, but it's this story that makes him realize that the main group really was not all that better.
He's silent, taking that fact in. Processing the facts, lining up his thoughts. He sips his tea a little as he thinks - also about how much sense it makes, of course even a single other lieutenant would be able to overrule Edward Little - and then putting down his cup again.
"So in the end, you also chose yourself."
Maybe some people would call it an unkind reading of the situation. It's not like Edward thought up the plan, after all. And Billy is also sure he probably protested it, if not somewhat, but--
In the end he gave in.
In the end, Edward Little is just the same as all of them. And Billy wants him to know that, even though it seems like he does know it already.
no subject
He didn't say any of this with the intent to be given forgiveness. In fact, he doesn't want it. He never wants it.
And so, strange and warped as it may be, some part of him fears that Gibson will offer it to him in some shape or form. Even if it's just to tell him that it wasn't ultimately his fault, remind him that all of this was doomed, that there was never any chance at all.
What comes, instead, is... completely unexpected. It's not forgiveness, or accusation, it's just... a fact.
It steals his breath for a long moment, those strained sounds stricken silent as he stays leaned forward, everything aching. It's almost unbearable, this ache; it feels as though it will split wide from inside his chest, like a wound wrenched open.
But even then, he realises with a fresh, stabbing pain, that he's even weaker than those words. He didn't even have the strength for it. It wasn't choosing himself, necessarily. At least, it wasn't choosing his own life, or survival. He didn't follow those men for that reason.
He just gave up fighting. Finally, finally, he realised that it meant nothing. His position, his responsibility, trying to be a "decent man"....
He can't even claim that he would do what it takes to survive, the way Gibson had with sparking a mutiny, and then partaking in it. He wasn't even strong enough for that. Gibson sees him, and he's right. He's right, and he has more strength and clarity than any of the officers had. Edward nods miserably, and then carries it further.
"Yes. In the end... I gave myself up."
It comes with a trembling whisper as wet clouds his vision. He lost himself, gave himself up, and in turn gave up those sick men. Gave up his captain, gave up the captives at the mutineers' camp. There's some part of him aware that by going with the last of the able-bodied men, he could try to help them, try to save someone who might possibly be able to be saved, but... abandoning the sick was the true mark of his failure. It was not what a good, decent man would have done and he knows his soul is tainted by it, forever now.
"....There was a moment when I could have stopped the mutiny." He didn't know a mutiny was brewing at the time, but that fact doesn't matter now. He knew that something was happening, something wrong. Something that needed to be stopped.
"It would have meant killing Sergeant Tozer. But I didn't. I—I couldn't." If he had... if he'd been able to stop one of Hickey's strongest supporters, and the supply of those weapons, what might have happened? Who else might have been saved?
"And now, I am here in this place, standing on trial for the murder of a man whose life I took to spare another."
He lowers his head again, staring at the floor. He didn't plan on telling Gibson all of this, but now he wants him to know. To see all of it.
"Death would be too easy a punishment for me. I accept that I will remain trapped in this place for the rest of my days, that this is what I deserve for what I've allowed to happen, but.... the rest of you do not. I would give anything to spare you all."
no subject
.. he supposes it doesn't matter. After all, it didn't change anything. Tozer was lucky to have run into Edward Little of all men, someone without the spine to pull the trigger. It's less surprising - or rather, less new - than the news about him abandoning the sick.
Billy glances over at the other, and in a way it's very reminiscent of what they went through back home. Their circumstances meant that you were often watching people unravel in front of your eyes - the same way Hickey and the other mutineers must have done with him as he grew weaker and weaker, surely - and that's exactly what it feels like he's doing right now. It's like Edward Little is crumbling with every single word he speaks, like he's trying to sink through the floor. Some of this even feels like confession. Like Billy is more than just a former steward.
It leaves a moment of silence between the two - Edward likely still thinking about what he just said, and Billy's mind now on the same words - until he speaks up again.
".. you see being here as being trapped. As a punishment," he states, echoing the other's words.
It's not like he can't see where it's coming from. This place is still cold and miserable. There's still food shortages sometimes, not to mention the ever-looming threat of the Darkwalker. It's no promised Sandwich Islands, that's for sure. It's not even London.
But--
"What do you imagine the alternative is, Mr. Little? If it was not for this place, I would not be alive. I would not be able to live my life the way I would wish to." Being open about his relationship, for one. Or not constantly having to serve others for a living. This place, for all the ways in which it sucks, is also-- "For some of us, this place is giving us autonomy in ways England never would have."
cw: suicidal ideation / not-quite-attempt / depression... #JustNedThings
His existence in this place itself is damnation, a fate that, to him, seems worse than death. And he feels that way about the others from their Expedition, those men who suffered and continue to suffer here, not allowed rest but to keep... going. Keep "living", if, in fact any of them are truly alive at all. It's a strange awareness to have for the man who once clung so fiercely onto the concept — to keep going, keep trying, never give up hope.
Now... he wishes there could be rest. He wishes he could stop. Could close his eyes, could be freed of the pain, the memories, the failures and blood on his hands, the torment of knowledge — the men he was responsible for suffered because of him, and his heart can never, ever be freed of that stain, that wound. He deserves this. If he's trapped here forever, yearning for rest.... it's what he deserves.
(Almost a year ago now, on a quiet day, he'd sat on the edge of a bed with his shotgun in arm's reach. But even then, he hadn't grasped it. Even then, he couldn't let himself be freed of this; he let Kieren Walker talk him down from a ledge he never even stepped too far out onto. Little won't fight to protect his life, but he won't allow himself the liberation of taking it at his own hand, either.)
....But some of the others don't see it as damnation. As he listens to Gibson speak, Little thinks to Hickey most of all. Perhaps only now he realises that the two of them really must be compatible here, given they both have this sort of mindset. Speaking of... not just existing, but thriving, a little more than they had ever been able to before here. Because that's what it is, isn't it? Not just existing as some phantom, but truly living?
'We will live.'
He could do that now, too. He could live, not just gasping by his last breaths, marching onwards by sheer force and will, refusing to stop until he literally can't go on anymore and hating himself every step of the way. He could... live.
(He can't.)
"I understand," he says, soft and hoarse, still staring miserably down at the floor, head bowed low. For all that he sees their being trapped here as a terrible fate... some of these men do not. It isn't his responsibility to save them from this, and he should let that go, he should let it go, but— he can't. He can't.
"This place is... a second chance for you, and the other men. You should continue taking it. Building a life for yourself here. I hope—" and he lifts his head again to look up into his former steward's eyes, his own pair wet, lashes sticking unpleasantly to themselves. He has no right sitting beside this man anymore, but while he's still allowed to do so... he has to tell him. "—I hope that you find happiness, William. Not simply survival, but happiness, and purpose."
'What do you imagine the alternative is, Mr. Little?' He hasn't forgotten that question, circles back around to it quietly, gloved hands holding onto themselves.
"...If I might burden you with one more thing, one more troublesome thought, it is that... I do not wish to live. I wish for that alternative." He feels numb as he says it, admits it, and tilts his head up a little to look to a window, to a glint of sunlight filtering in. But this place is cold.
"I have no memory of dying, before here. I was still.... alive. Still breathing, and I— I am deeply afraid that I always will be. Isn't it such weakness? Don't you loathe me for such thoughts?" He manages a soft, humourless sound, hollow.
no subject
Sure, it's not like he hasn't seen Little look depressed as hell before. Pretty often, actually. But despite that, Billy never had thought something like this behind it - especially when his own desire is to live. It makes it difficult to assume that someone else might want a different fate. At least the entire deal with Morfin had been a little bit more understandable, given their circumstances and the pain the man had been dealing with.
But what about Little right now? This place is not ideal, but they can live. Hopefully they even can find a way to take away the dangers here. And - as far as Billy knows - he isn't in pain either. No different from the rest of them, anyway.
And yet he's just.. saying that.
His mouth opens, and he's almost questioning the other as to why he's even telling him that in the first place-- but then he rethinks that one, closing his mouth again before making a new attempt.
"Why do you not wish to live?"
That question feels more important right now. Especially when the answers to Little's other questions depend heavily on the answer to this one.
"What reason could you possibly have to not want to live?"
no subject
Back when he'd sat on the edge of that bed all those months ago, knowing he no longer wished to draw breath, he'd known why. He's known why for a very long time. Because he doesn't deserve to live. But... there's something even beneath that, isn't there?
It must seem so strange to anyone else. After all, it goes against human nature of survival. And he, of all people, had thought of survival for so long. Perhaps even longer than most of the men, clinging onto that ridiculous concept of hope, fighting for it, fighting to live—
"Because.... I don't know who I am anymore, William." Again, the words are practically a whisper, a faint thing. The ghosts of all of his men reach their hands up from the depths of him, scratching their nails against the back of his throat, keeping his voice quiet.
"This... dream, this nightmare... whatever it truly may be — it is a chance to become another man. To live as I like, I understand that concept. I understand that others may reach so willingly for it. But... how could I, when every day I must look into the eyes of the men whose suffering lives within me? When my own heart has been ruined, twisted black? I failed at my task, my role. I don't recognise myself. I— have no purpose, no meaning."
His eyes slowly lift to his former steward's, searching, confused, lost. How is Gibson so unlike himself, with all of this? How does he think the way that he does?
"...Have you found one? A new... purpose, a meaning?" Or... is it enough for him to simply be alive? Little can't quite be that way; he needs a purpose, needs something to be. And he failed at it. How can he ever thrive again?
no subject
But to act like this about it now-- That's baffling. Acting like it destroys your identity, like you don't know what to do anymore. Billy isn't even sure if he ought to just be baffled at it or find it kind of pathetic, actually.
"Did you imagine that was all there ever was going to be to life? Only the expedition?" Because it's what it sounds like. Like Edward Little doesn't know who he is when he isn't being a lieutenant. "Do you imagine we all feel that way? In that case it may surprise you, but it was not exactly my life long dream to be your steward. To wash your clothes and serve you food."
Sure, he has seen it kind of work out that way before. It's not like he hasn't seen Jopson's devotion to their captain - but Billy found that just as baffling, especially when Jopson was practically just serving a bitter old man. It never made sense to him.
"It was only something I did to earn a living." Maybe he's being way more candid than the usual now, but the more he looks at Edward, the more he feels like that's what the other needs. If no one beats him over the head with this, he's never going to understand. "This place is the most free I have ever felt, not owing anything to anyone. I imagined that was something anyone would feel upon finding themselves here."
no subject
To think that they thrived at the expense of this man is— a horror. It was never meant, of course (but does that matter, now?)
....Here, too, is another difference. 'It was only something I did to earn a living.'
He isn't like that. It's— his role was everything. Little never really sought glory or status the way some others might. He never even particularly had a thirst for adventure and expedition. He followed his father and brothers into service; he rose in rank, steadily, higher and higher until reaching the position of first, but it wasn't to pursue anything except advancement itself. He was good at his job, so he would keep doing what it took. He knew what was required of him, the rules and structure. He knew who he was. Was it his "dream"...? No, he can't say that it was, but that's because he never really had a dream.
But he did have a purpose.
"I suppose I have always thrived best when I owe something to someone," he finally responds, quiet and thoughtful and aching still. "When I have— a task to fulfill. Someone to report back to." He's been so lost in this place without those things.
"....Freedom was never something I particularly... sought," he realises, looking back up at the other man with knit brows, giving a full-bodied sigh. It must sound so strange. It's strange for him, too. It's the most honest he's been about those feelings to anyone. "But I suppose I was... content." Not happy, but he didn't need to be. Content was enough.
"Rather than feel relieved of my burdens in this place, I feel... reminded of all that I have failed. Lost." He nods softly.
no subject
He doesn't remark on it. These things are Little's own problem. Unpacking any of that feels far too strange of a task for him, of all people.
But the last part? Well, the idea for that feels so apparent that he can't help but speak of it.
"And will dying help them? Will wallowing do it?"
Because that's what it feels like what the other is doing. Just being a sad sack about it. True, it's better than not feeling guilty at all - the sort of thing Billy would condemn the most, if not out of a personal grudge - but it's not exactly helping anyone either, is it?
"If you feel that, then do something with that feeling. There are people you have failed here, aren't there? Make it up to them, if you must." Of course Billy himself is technically on that list of people. He has told the other as much. But there's a reason why he's speaking of it so distantly now, like it's about someone else. It's because the reason of Little making something up to him is so awkward that he'd rather avoid it.
It's just very frank advice, rather than any request, and Billy's facial expression seems to indicate as much as he speaks. It's very neutral. Business-like, almost.
"The only person you help by wasting away is you, by absolving yourself through inaction."
no subject
Edward stares at him, surprised.
The truth is that he's understood what Gibson says. Maybe even before this place — because that was what drove him, back when things were crumbling, harder and harder. Despite the heaviness weighing on him for so long, wallowing would do nothing; Little functioned for the sake of the others. He pushed forward, unable to for his own sake but rather for them. Even if ultimately it did nothing, saved no one.
And here... It's been the only thing that has kept him going, if he were to be very honest. He's come close to giving in, more than once, but always he kept going. Trying to help the people here in the ways that he can, trying to do better this time, trying to keep living. It's just... it's not enough. Is it? Now a young man is dead because of him, and who has he really saved? Who has he really helped?
(There are people, his mind whispers, reminds him, echoing against Gibson's words. Kate Marsh, standing on the edge overlooking the Basin. Wynonna Earp, running into a blinding blizzard on her own. There are people here who rely on him. Even Gibson — Little has to look out for him, doesn't he? He has to try to keep him safe, like the rest. That is his purpose now. Perhaps he's known that for a long time, but perhaps... he needed to be reminded by someone like this man sitting beside him.)
"....You are right, William." He finally says quietly, voice soft but heavy with sincerity. "Perhaps it is too easy for me to... forget, sometimes, that I am still needed here." It does sound pathetic even to his own ears, but he does truly feel that way. Especially now, with someone's blood on his hands — he hates himself. All he can see is his own weakness, his own failures, the people he's hurt.
But that doesn't take away the fact that other people need his help, too. He's still realising how the world doesn't function in black and white — good and bad, decent and indecent. There are grey areas; a man like Cornelius Hickey was someone he once called a monster, and yet Little has seen here that he isn't only that. A man like himself can try to do good and in that process, end up hurting people deeply.
"But I assure you, I won't give up. I can't." Despite everything he's said about wanting to... there is a deeply strong resolve capable of thriving inside of Edward Little. Maybe he's faltered from it, worn down again over time here, but maybe now... he's seeing it again; maybe he's needed a sort of fire lit beneath him, someone's unapologetic, blunt words to help him see clearly again. Gibson's exactly right; he can't absolve himself through inaction. He has to keep... going. Even if he loathes himself, he has to keep going.
Edward sighs deep and shaky, eyes still a little glossy with emotion, and nods at him. "I... I am deeply grateful for your ear, and your words. I wish that I might have come to you for wisdom in the past. You have much of it to offer." A different sort of perspective, grounded in... something else. Something Little still might struggle to see sometimes.
"There are many things I wish I had done differently. But.... I vow to you that I'll continue to do them here. To try my best, for them." He swallows. "For you, as well." (Sorry Billy... But he is going to be invested in trying to do better by you too, and keeping you safe...)
cw: (brief) mention of lynching in narration
But it coming with.. the rest of it.. That's the curling part, alright. It feels kind of awkward to have involuntarily coached hid former superior through what some might see as a very wet-eyed therapy session. And it feels even more awkward to have the other say that he'll do his best.. for him...
He never asked to be involved in this, help..
But considering what he has accomplished right now, Billy will just take it. He'll take what he made the other see, and then hope Little might just forget his resolve when it comes to him in particular in time. So there's just a bit of an awkward nod..
And then, added: "You shouldn't linger here for too long."
Billy doesn't fully want to make this seem like he's kicking the other out, even though that's technically exactly what's happening. He can't endure much more awkward talk like this. Billy is at his limit for the day.
But he wouldn't be himself if he couldn't come up with a convenient excuse to add to it. "People might talk after the town meeting."
Yeah, Edward, you don't want to have been seen by people staying this long in the house of a person some townsfolk were more than happy to practically lynch...