singillatim | OPEN | look for the sign of daniel, consider the clues

Entry tags:

OPEN | look for the sign of daniel, consider the clues

Who: John Irving (

extramuralise) + OPEN!
What: Catch-all for August! Various thread/event aftermaths, attempts at usefulness, and perhaps even a bit of Bible study?
When: Throughout August (with perhaps some overflow into September & allowance for older thread continuations)
Where: Milton & surrounding areas.

Content Warnings: Will be added as needed!

( Choose your own adventure! Feel free to PM / plurk me @

reggiemantle for plotting. Happy to also write/respond to personalized starters. )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Irving is, of course, already genetically predisposed to accept most any viable offers of tea that may happen to come his way, and although this old woman is a complete stranger to him, it's especially hard to refuse on a day that's grown so cold and dark this early. Never underestimate the hypnotic lure of a warm fire and a hot drink when you've been tromping through snow after sundown...

✒︎ don't mind being lonely, so spare me the brimstone⨾

🪷 BURDOCK—

[ Irving has never exactly been a dishonest man so much as he is, indeed, a very reserved one; the kind of man who would sooner swallow down his disagreement, criticism and conflict like a bitter pill all in the interest in not rocking boats, never so bold as to directly speak his mind. It isn't only being religious and Victorian, either, but clearly neither fact much helps his case.

The burdock tea is very dangerous for a man like that, although perhaps, much like when he imbibes in drink, some part of him would celebrate the excuse to relax his inhibitions. To let the mask slip, if only slightly... not that he's aware of the effect the tea has had upon him. ]

✑ acting all holy when you know I'm full of holes⨾

🍄 REISHI—

[ Also rather dangerous is the unforeseen effect the reishi tea ends up having on him, as well: his appearance changing just enough to display strange new constellations of scarring. The ragged line across his scalp is by far the most immediately visible of the lot, but there is also a series of smaller scars decorating his abdomen and torso in scattered clusters, as well as a long, tidy autopsy scar that appears just a bit more recently healed than the others.

Any others he may have are unlikely to be seen by anyone else, given their placement, ~~unless...???~~ although likely to be the first of those he'll unfortunately take notice of. ]

(

OOC

Catch him at the church, the community hall, or anywhere else around town... even at home, if they might feasibly stop by! Re: the burdock tea, definitely let me know if there's anything in particular — a memory, an overly blunt or embarrassing confession, secret third other thing??? — you'd like to come out!

)

Edited 2024-08-26 23:53 (UTC)

[ Upon the porch, Kate removes Merry's makeshift lead and reaches for the doorhandle. The sky was heavy with snow clouds when she took Merry out for a walk, but it had held off for the most part. Winter's on the way again, if there even was a summer — and she'd cut the walk a little short when the weather takes a turn for the worst. Too cold, and the snow starts falling from the skies.

It probably doesn't bother Merry much, but Kate doesn't have a fur coat to keep out the flakes and chill. Besides, Merry's still only little. Best just getting back home again, really. ]

Ready—? [ Her voice is a bright sing-song as she opens the door. ] Okay, now g—

[ Merry bolts indoors, but Kate's frozen in the doorway to the cabin. It's not that she doesn't expect anyone to be home — both she and the two Terror lieutenants she shares the home with come and go, they have their own things to do during the day. But she doesn't expect the sight that greets her: a flurry of a man and a mass of— she doesn't know what she's seeing—

A stunned horror creeps up into expression: wounds? Across his stomach? Has someone hurt him? Kate's at a loss for words. She doesn't dare breathe; her gaze shifting upwards to the strange line high across his forehead. ]

[ Everything about the scene Kate's just walked in on is a glaringly uncanny aberration, the details somehow all so strikingly and starkly vivid, while at the same time vaguely dreamlike, as well; almost blurry, as if looking through a smudged lens.

At least, such is certainly the case for John Irving himself, who has not yet quite managed to wrap his mind around what he's currently seeing etched upon his flesh in pale, jagged twists of ruined tissue. For a man so notoriously and nigh-compulsively modest practically to a fault, only something unfathomably shocking could have him surveying the damage where just anyone might walk in on him — where, in the main room, a near-full length mirror and adjacent window offer him a reasonably clear front-and-back view — while he lingers too frozen in time to consider the possibility of interruption.

But then he hears it, if at something of a delay: the door swinging open; a bright, familiar voice; the click of canine nails upon hardwood. Irving whips around in alarm, grabbing his coat and holding it close to cover up his bare chest. ]

Kate—! [ he gasps, pale eyes wide with confusion and panic. ] I-I'm so sorry, th-this isn't— p-please, just give me a moment—

[ It's weird how something can feel so surreal and be so horribly real all at once. Kate's still staring, not really sure where else to look. She shifts her weight a little from foot to foot, not quite sure what to do with herself.

But that stunned horror still creeps up within her, and with it a sense of urgency. She hadn't gotten a real look at him, but there's the pressing idea of injured and she's panicking a little. He's injured but still standing, and she doesn't quite make the connection in her brain: if he's standing he's okay.

And she realises she's been staring for too long and slightly mortified, she averts her gaze. Her voice rising in pitch a little. ]

What happened? How did— [ ... did someone hurt him? She's still hovering at the open door. ] do I need to get Mr Goodsir—?

[ Or Lieutenant Little or— or just someone—?! ]

[ The scene might have almost been comical under different circumstances, Irving scrambling to redress himself with much the same kind of flustered urgency as a young maiden whose just had her privacy screen unceremoniously yanked aside while she's still only halfway through dressing.

Thankfully, he is by no means anywhere close to being outright indecent at present, however far, far too exposed for comfort. The scars themselves might even, in fact, be near to the least of his worries in that particular regard, although neither is Irving remotely keen on having to properly acknowledge them aloud, let alone also be expected to actually discuss them, as well. He can't so much as even account for what exactly must have happened to him afterward to have left behind such violent, elaborately savaged flesh, after all— he only knows that it was Hickey's doing, yet so far beyond anything he could have possibly imagined or understood. ]

N-no, no, that won't be necessary, [ his voice comes in a quick, breathless rush when he speaks. ] Nothing bleeds, nor else does it fester, so you can trust that I'm in every way still... whole, Miss Marsh. O-only—

[ The word just hangs there conspicuously in the empty silence between their breaths as Irving uneasily fusses with the faded undershirt he'd pulled on below his waistcoat in the ungainly haste to cover himself, mistrustful that his fingers would be steady enough to manage buttons.

He shakes his head, letting his breath out slow. ]

I've not been harmed, [ he says finally, as if also to convince himself. The scars really aren't hurting him much, though, although they throb with a dull, bruise-like sting as if still fresh and newly healed. ] though I... I-I apologize for having frightened you.

[ This is... utterly mortifying. Yeah. Totally mortifying. And Kate's looking away, her head shifting to the side to give him the somewhat-privacy to make himself a little more decent. But her brow's furrowed, eyes straining with worry— it looked looks horrifying, violent. And she's left floundering a little, not even sure how she's suppose to broach... any of this.

He hasn't been harmed, and yet— here he is. Something's done that to him. But, then— what? Is it something, like, supernatural, or—? Kate's throat feels oddly tight, and she's shaking her head too. ]

It's okay—! [ Her voice still wobbles a little. It wrenches at her, the worry still etched in her face, even with her head turned. Her hands flex unconsciously, and she feels a pull. A need to do something that isn't just standing there awkwardly. ] I, uh—

[ She remembers a dream. Heartman in her arms, gone— even despite her pleading and shaking to rouse him. And then, Enola— oh. ]

I can help. [ It startles out of her so suddenly that she surprises herself. ] I think. I can—

[ She raises her hands up, palms outward. Cautiously turns her head back to look at him. ]

I think I can help. I know what to do, if— it's that's okay.

[ It does look horrifying and violent, admittedly; Irving couldn't possibly deny that much even if he tried, no matter his (quite sincere) protests of painlessness and an overall lack of harm, because his is very clearly a body that came to harm at some point, even if, to Irving's knowledge, he's never actually had to experience it.

Which in itself is already quite a complicated position to be in; to have the evidence writ so large and brutal right there on his skin, yet to not have felt a thing, nor seen so much as a single drop of blood— to not actually know what happened.

Irving's dread of the unknown facing down against his distaste of pain, injury, and violence directly, a battle with no clear winner on either side.

Sufficiently covered up now for the time being, Irving hurriedly takes the time to do up his waistcoat buttons next, needing something to do with his fidgety hands whilst he speaks, anything to keep from having to focus directly on the subject at hand— namely: his ruined body. ]

Y-you think you can help, with... [ He looks confused and uncomfortable, wishing for a thick sweater or blanket to wrap around himself. ] Help me with what, exactly? I-I... I'm already as good as healed, Miss Marsh. Really. I-it doesn't hurt—

[ Well, it hurts a little. ]

God only wanted me to know how I... [ he adds, more softly. Sighing from more deeply within himself than he's ever had to before. ] How it... happened. That's all.

Yes, and He has shown you. [ God has shown him what's happened to him, but He has brought her here at this moment. He knows of what she can do. If Enola gave her this gift, then surely it must have come from Him? Right? ]

Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due, when it is in your power to act— I can act. I— I can't really explain it, but... I can help this. I— I had a dream last month.

[ Maybe this is what it was all for? Was this what the gift was for? Kate raises her hands, turns her palms towards herself and stares at them for a long moment. Was this what she's supposed to do? ]

I can take it away. You... you don't have to keep the marks forever.

[ Is she... actually freaking out a little? Maybe. But the pull to try to help this is a whole lot stronger. She wants to take the marks away. He doesn't have to suffer wearing them for forever. Surely not. ]

Can I try? ... Please? [ She desperately wants to. ] Maybe... maybe your head, at the very least.

[ God has shown Irving many things by now, but not all of them have been to his greater well-being or benefit— many, in fact, have left Irving wondering why, for what reason, God should want him bearing witness to such devastation, and maybe this, too, is one of such cases.

Simply knowing Hickey killed him should have been enough. Irving's been avoiding the man in Milton as if his life depends on it (because for all he knows, it does) and needs no further warning off, so is it a message, or is it an omen, that he should therefore be forced to bear these scars now?

He looks at Kate with miserable astonishment, having not a clue what exactly she's offering. Some sort of medicinal balm, or... a ritual? ]

You can take it away? How— [ What does that mean? His expression is uncertain, though curious— open, at least, to hearing her out. ] What exactly would be involved in doing so?

[ Irving idly touches the scar ringing his crown when Kate mentions his head, his brows knitting. It's somewhat tempting, admittedly, but he needs more information before he can actually consider agreeing. ]

I-I'm not sure if it's really wise, Miss Marsh. After all, they're doing me no harm.

[ He's asking her what it would involve and... honestly, she doesn't really have an answer for him. She's barely getting her head around it herself. She doesn't really know what else it entails other than a feeling that she can do this. ]

Honestly? I'm... not entirely sure. I've— I've never done this before. [ It's not like the dream really gave her an instruction manual on what to do. ] It's like— moving off a feeling. I think... maybe if I place my hand against the injury then— I don't know.

[ The laying of hands. It... makes sense. And Kate's— horribly awkward about the whole thing because it's so personal. Even just touching his head. It's crossing boundaries of politeness, and she's getting all anxious and shy about it. ]

I'm asking for a lot, I know— but— if you could just... trust me? Just for a minute?

[ Can he do that, just... have faith, and let her try? As much as Irving wishes he could still be the bright-eyed, trusting soul he once was, that man had died from his wounds — had gasped his final, broken breath as he lay bleeding out upon the sun-bleached shale — while a different man now lives on to bear the scars.

These scars, if not normally quite so... literally.

But while Kate may not be Jesus Christ (Lord and Saviour), Irving is hardly prepared to let himself become the kind of person who longer believes in miracles, either— because what kind of life would that be, and what would be the point of continuing to live it? Easier just to say that the man who stopped believing in miracles sometime during that long, cold, terribly desperate third year also died that day on the shale. Let this instead be a clean start, a second chance to atone for all his failures, mistakes, and sinful desires... assuming he isn't already suffering for them in Hell.

(Because Heaven, paradise eternal, could never be this cold. Not after everything else that's happened to him.) ]

I suppose there's really no harm just in trying, [ he says quietly, finally relenting. Hoping that's actually true. ] If it's only for my head.

[ Something in her face softens, a kind of quiet, thankful relief. She knows what she's asking is... a lot. And she knows Lieutenant John Irving is not... the most touchy of people, considering he's... very Victorian. Polite distance is very much what she's come to know him for.

But he's willing to let her try, and that means a lot to her. Kate hovers on the spot for a moment or two, looking about them. ]

Why don't you sit? [ She gestures. A bit sensible, considering. He's much taller than her, after all. Meanwhile, she turns, removing her outer-layers: hanging her coat and scarf before pulling off her gloves. Merry's already settling himself down by the fire now that the commotion's over. ]

Okay, okay, okay— [ She mutters under her breath and she moves over to him, trying to coax some warmth into her hands. She's got this, she's totally got this.

Standing in front of him, she raises her hands and then stops. ]

... I'm sorry if my hands are cold.

[ There's a tiny wince of a smile before she takes a steadying breath. After a few final hesitations of just how to reach for him, she finally settles on placing one hand on his shoulder, her other lightly pressing against his forehead, covering the marred line of flesh. ]

Just— [ She trails off for a few seconds. ] breathe, okay?

It's so hard to see much of anything right now. It feels like the entire town has become nothing but chaos. The darkness makes it hard to see, even when some places are illuminated by the fire that has been set to several homes at this point by the Forest Talkers. There are people everywhere - footsteps, running, screaming, sounds of blades and guns and, perhaps due to how overwhelming of a sensation it all becomes when it blends together, it feels vaguely reminiscent of Carnivale and the way that ended just as disastrously.

Maybe that's why he's feeling so hot. It's like there's something burning inside of him that Billy can't get rid of. It wasn't there initially, but after he tried helping Hickey fend off the Forest Talkers that had their sights set on setting their house on fire, after he set them on fire instead, the heat has been lingering inside of him. It's so strong, like it's forcing its way out, tingling in his fingertips, a burning sensation in the palms of his hands.

It makes it hard to focus on anything else. It would make it hard under normal circumstances, but-- certainly even more so in the middle of all of this.

So Billy doesn't know what he's doing. He's just walking through town, looking for-- for something, for some way to deal with all of this. When he spots someone he doesn't recognize - a Forest Talker, then - raising a knife as if they are about to plunge it into the other figure near them, hidden by the darkness, he can't hold it back anymore.

He instinctively raises his hand in the direction of the man, and the Forest Talker suddenly combusts. There was not even any fire anywhere near him-- it's truly just like the man spontaneously combusted, his knife dropping into the snow before it could be lowered.

It is only then that Billy realizes who the other figure getting attacked was. After all, with his face illuminated by the fire like this-- it is unmistakably John Irving.

The realization surprises Billy so much that he can't even say anything or move. He just stands there, staring at Irving with wide eyes, his hand still extended in the direction of the still-burning man.

To this day, the sight of fire still starkly induces within Irving the fight, flight or freeze reflex before it brings to mind comfort, warmth, or safety, many thanks to Carnivale indeed for having forever imprinted that Hellscape upon his mind.

Not that fire hasn't for always been a wildly calamitous and chaotic thing, or anyway always at least capable of such, but it's easy enough to forget all its terrible potential when you've grown too otherwise used to thinking of it as warmth, light, and life instead.

But not even Carnivale night itself had seen Irving so imperiled as now: fear takes hold and freezes him, splayed on the ground as he is below the moving point of someone's knife. All of it is too, too terribly familiar, yet he can no more bring himself to fight off his assailant now than he could when it was Hickey who had him pinned.

He struggles to breathe, as if a cold hand were pressed firmly to his face to stop him screaming.

Then his vision is filled with flames.

They swallow his attacker perhaps too quickly for the man to even cry out in pain or terror, although Irving might not have heard it regardless, his ears too loudly ringing with a shrill, thunderous silence that seems to fill his entire head. Now he shrieks, wide-eyed and looking around wildly, before sighting Gibson in the flickering pyre's light without understanding why he's there.

"H-help—" he manages, his voice little more than a breathless croak as one arm reaches out like a drowning man grasping for salvation. "Mr. Gibson, i-it's me— it's John Irving, please don't leave me here—"

There's a thought that immediately strikes him.

He could just leave the other like this. It's not like it'd kill him. Or maybe it might, considering that being stuck in a state of frozen panic like that is not exactly the best state to be in while in the middle of an attack like this, but wouldn't that be even more convenient? If the life he's building in this place doesn't have to involve an even faint sideline presence of John Irving?

He thinks about dying in a way that felt so, so, so slow, and how no one at any step of the process stopped him to ask about it or to help until he made bad decisions far enough to end up with a knife in his ribcage. Why should he be the one to help anyone now?

It's why he doesn't act right away. For a moment he just stands there as they're both illuminated by the flames, until the burnt corpse topples over into the snow, the fire starting to fade a little in the face of less fuel.

But then he steps forward. He isn't sure what makes him do it. Maybe it's just the thought that he doesn't want any rumors going around town of him opting to not help someone when it has been proven how this town deals with people it doesn't like for the slightest reason. Whatever the reason-- He steps forward until he can reach back out towards the other man's arm, grabbing a hold of Irving's wrist to pull him away from the Forest Talker's corpse. It's not exactly done in the most gentle of ways, but it isn't exactly like there's a whole lot of strength in his giraffe skeleton arms, so there's not much force to begin with.

(His hand also feels hot. Weirdly hot. Hot enough that Irving should be able to feel it even through his coat. It's not hot enough to be a burning sensation, but it is noticable.)

"Why are you out here?" He hisses, dropping the usual politeness entirely, because-- well, there's no time for it right now. Never mind the fact that it's a hypocritical question, because he is also very much out here as well.

The unforeseen heat is nearly enough to make Irving lose his grip on Gibson's hand as he's pulled roughly to his feet, awkwardly trying to support his own weight just as soon as he's capable without overbalancing back to the ground— because however unsteady he still feels, he's also well aware that Gibson probably lacks the strength necessary to hold him up for very long on his own.

Stumbling in place to regain his balance, Irving gives Gibson a sharp, pointed look that seems to demand the same of him — Why are you out here? — although he stops short of verbalizing it, dusting snow from his coat and, with his foot, uncomfortably piling some over the charred corpse sizzling at their feet.

"I was on my way home from reviewing our inventory records at the Community Hall," he says primly, breathing hard. "I thought it best to ensure that they're as accurate as possible, before— w-well, i-in the event any of our stores are robbed in the commotion."

Knowing what and how much got taken, if it did, might not help much in actually recovering the stolen goods, but it also might, if they know what they're looking for... in any case, Irving thinks it important they can at least tell what they're missing and need to replenish.

He glances down again at the partially snow-buried body, then back up to Gibson with barely disguised alarm.

"Gibson, w-what did you... what did you do to him?"

There's thoughts forming in his head, but before any of them can leave his mouth, the other man already continues.

And that question makes all those thoughts vanish from Billy's head immediately. It demands that much of his attention. Mostly because he's trying to figure out what Irving means by the question - or what he wants to learn. It's not like he doesn't know the straightforward answer to that question, right? They both saw what happened. He killed that man, because that man was trying to kill them. Is it just Irving wanting to moralize him? Right now? In the middle of this?

Or maybe it's just that he doesn't understand how it happened. Irving may have been here for a little while now, but Billy isn't sure how much the other man has learned about the powers present in this place. It may even be difficult, considering that a lot of the others who shared this power with him are no longer present in this town.

Yet it's neither of those assumptions about Irving's question that he provides the answer to. After thinking for a brief second - knowing they don't have much longer than that in the middle of this - he says: "I kept him from killing you."

Also factually true, but likely not the answer Irving was looking for here.

The explanation does precious little to help cut through the frenzy of Irving's panicked, wild-eyed confusion, yet the words themselves seem to hit him with the staggering force of physical blows, like a palm striking hard and fast across the face before then reversing itself into a backhand to get the other side as well, over and over and over until the message finally gets through.

But what is it trying to tell him?

The simple fact is Gibson did save him, just now; Irving may not understand how, or even why, but what he does know is that a few moments ago he'd been lying flat on the ground right there by their feet, completely at the mercy of a man who seemed equally as capable of using his knife to dissect and devour Irving alive slowly as stab him. The thought makes him want to scream and vomit practically simultaneously (not do both simultaneously, but the powerful need for their coexistence nonetheless, so he might purge and purge and just keep purging until he finally became just a simple, empty vessel, newly cleansed and remade pure—)

No, that's completely absurd. Where did that even come from?

Irving gags, spitting out half a mouthful of bloody saliva. There's something here that he's still not seeing, he can tell. Something significant, but that he can't hope to so much as glimpse the shape of unless he looks closer.

Until he looks closer.

I kept him from killing you, Gibson said. And so he had, he did do that, but—

"But why?" he asks hoarsely, his voice feeling as weak as a candle guttering in the wind. "Why even go to the trouble of saving me when you don't..."

His eyes shine in the firelight as he looks at Gibson, this man whom Irving's come to realize he knows almost not at all, and understands even less, but still would have never suspected might hold him in such contempt.

"I-I'm very grateful, of course, but—" He clears his throat to help steady his voice against the smoky air, speaking tentatively. "Please. Help me to understand."

He is fully aware he could make this even more confusing for the other man. It is, in fact, kind of tempting when the alternative is having to answer a question Billy doesn't have much of a real answer for. Sure, the truth is that he didn't know it was Irving until it was already too late to make any other decision, but would he have made a different decision if he had known?

...

He doesn't care to explore that right now. It leaves that option of making this more confusing by admitting to him that this is the second time he has saved him, considering how eager Hickey had been to go out and kill Irving the moment the two of them talked about the man's arrival in this place, and considering he had to be the one to tell Hickey to not do it.

However-- He holds his tongue. The last thing he wants Irving to think is that Billy likes him. The manipulation of Irving back on the ship never had anything to do with the other man, after all. Billy didn't even derive some sort of amusement or pleasure about it, the way Hickey might have. It was purely necessary. He just had to save his own skin, and lying to Irving happened to be the singular method of doing so in Billy's mind.

Maybe it's exactly the lack of several answers within himself here that leaves him to instead turn the question back onto the other. It's easier.

"You assume I would be the type to leave you to die," he says.

Which.. is not exactly a wrong assumption. It's not fully right either, but it's definitely leaving more towards the latter than the former.

Irving's realization of how little he knows about the other man is likely not helped by how no particular emotion crosses Billy's face right now, making it even harder to read what he might be thinking in this moment.

"Is it because you think of me as a sinner?"

Make no mistake: Billy Gibson actually liking him would come as a grander and far more shocking revelation to Irving, who by this point feels quite thoroughly disabused of any illusions he might once have held that his former steward ever felt anything towards him at all beyond pure contempt. Hence the question, and hence his confusion, which only grows further upon seeing Gibson appear confused that Irving should be as well.

Well, appear may be the wrong word for it, as Gibson's face looks about as calculatedly neutral as ever, but his words bare a challenging edge to them that Irving wouldn't have expected.

"I suppose the company you keep might have something to do with it, yes," Irving replies coldly, eyes flashing now like chips of ice. They raise upward to meet Gibson's, holding contact firmly. Surely Gibson can't truly be surprised that Irving should assume as much from the man who claims, even now, to love their murderer — Irving wonders — or is he only challenging Irving to say as much aloud?

"... But no. Not your sins." His eyes hold upon Gibson for another long, unblinking span of moments, before his gaze finally skirts askance. "I'd have hardly made it to lieutenant if I took either fraternization or resentment personally."

And perhaps that's all that needs said, because rather than elaborate any further, Irving turns his shoulders as if to depart.

"Good day to you, Mr. Gibson."

He stays quiet, truly wanting to know what the other will say here. Oh, sure, Billy can imagine many things - but it might indeed be a challenge, like he wants to hear the words out of the other's own mouth. Like he's trying to get him to say it.

.. which doesn't happen. Or rather - not directly. If anything, the disdain seems to be aimed more at Hickey than at him, and even Billy knows that Cornelius Hickey sucks. No one has to tell him of all people that. He knows it better than most.

So rather than that line making Billy seem exasperated, it's actually the other part that makes him faintly roll his eyes, even right in front of Irving, uncaring as to whether the other is still looking at him or not. He doesn't know what exactly it is that makes him keep from spitting out words about everyone knowing that Irving certainly was not on that ship to ever make friends or be remotely friendly to the people around him - maybe it's the situation. It's not worth it in the middle of this chaos, when for all Billy knows a Forest Talker could leap out to ambush them at any moment.

But he's still petty enough that he doesn't want to allow the other man to depart with just those words.

"This is not even the first time I have saved you." Factually true, considering how much Hickey had been chomping at the bit to get rid of Irving the moment the other man arrived in town - even if Billy's intentions in stopping him had nothing to do with any care for Irving in the first place.

He'll let the other walk away if Irving wants to, though regardless of whether the other walks or stays for another moment, Billy adds: "You do not have to care for someone to prevent such things, lieutenant."

Anger swells again within that brief silence, so much that Irving just can't bring himself to simply swallow down a response and keep on walking, thereby ignoring Gibson having had anything more to say at all.

No; these words do need spoken.

"I'm well aware of that," Irving replies coldly, cutting his gaze back briefly. "But perhaps you might like to inform the company you've been keeping."

The idea that Hickey and Gibson might be at odds about something so significant just seems unthinkable to Irving, despite rationally knowing that Hickey thrives by his chaotic impulses, whereas Gibson generally has a more practical head on his shoulders. Chalk it up to yet another reason why the two of them, as a pair, come as such a stark affront to Irving's delicate sensibilities; surely Gibson can't be so foolish as to truly believe Hickey's many deceits and fictions, can he? A man like Hickey just seems far too wicked, far too cunning and too pleasure-driven, to even be capable of such empathy that it takes to... to love, but damn it all if he hasn't got a way about him that can be, regardless, often quite terribly convincing.

That much, Irving can understand. Yet there's still far too much that he doesn't, and likely won't ever.

He should have done more to protect Gibson back then, Irving knows; hindsight is cruel that way. But the question still remains: if Gibson's own lover would much rather see Irving dead, then to what ends should Gibson want him kept alive instead?

(It's not that deep, Irving: Gibson hadn't even known it was you he was saving.)

And what would Hickey think, Irving is almost tempted to ask, if he knew you'd just spared me?

'This is not even the first time I've saved you,' Gibson also said, but this statement is even harder for Irving to decipher, for much the same reasons he's confused that Gibson would save him now.

(Unless the intention has simply been to humiliate him this entire time, in which case, well done.)

"When else, then?" He finally adds after having drawn no definitive conclusions for himself, barking the words out without turning around. Despite himself, he'd feel guilty not to even acknowledge the action, although he can't recall when it might have taken place. "So I might be more properly grateful to you."

"What do you think?"

He speaks, even though the other man isn't looking around to see him after asking that question there. A part of him wishes that he could at least see the other's face while saying this, to see Irving's reaction to these words - mostly because he isn't too sure what exactly it would be, and there's a morbid curiosity within him about it - but this will have to make do.

At the very least he does want to have spoken these words to the other. He wants the thought to live in the other's head, even in the middle of this chaotic night. Maybe especially in the middle of this chaotic night, because who's to say either of them is definitely going to make it out alive through all this?

"He wanted to kill you, of course."

Billy hardly feels like he has to define which he he is talking about. Not when there's only one person who has shown such urges towards the other man in the first place. Not when he is practically the specter hanging between their every conversation now.

(It doesn't really feel like throwing Hickey under the bus to admit this either, since he's pretty sure Irving knows. It's hardly something no one could guess.)

"I convinced him to not do it."

Indeed, the answer — 'he wanted to kill you, of course' — is not especially surprising, but still Irving turns back as if in aid of absorbing it.

By now, having the benefit of further knowledge and context as to what happened after Hickey... did what he did to him, Irving has occasionally (during those rare times when he can even bear thinking of it at all, that is) attempted to make sense of Hickey's motivations in that moment, puzzling over a small handful of profoundly unimaginative theories as to why, exactly, Hickey should have wanted to kill him right then, in that place, in that particular manner.

Because if Hickey had simply wanted Irving dead — out of spite, out of hatred, out of a lust for vengeance born of a misplaced, long-harbored grudge, or even merely out of plain boredom — there would have doubtless been ample opportunities for him to try even before the great exodus of both ships. After all, Irving had taken no great pains to ever seek Hickey out again since the initial confrontation concerning Gibson, so the element of surprise would have easily been Hickey's to claim whenever he'd wanted to; the fact that he hadn't suggests more to Irving that killing Farr and himself had likely been... impulsive, rather than premeditated, but what Gibson's telling him now seems to contradict this possibility.

'I convinced him not to do it.'

And once again, all Irving wants to ask is: But why?

"Was butchering me once not already enough for him?" Irving asks, hands shaking at his sides. His eyes, winter sky pale, are wide and round as marbles; he feels completely at a loss how to comprehend Gibson's motivations, now. "Yet you would choose to spare me— why, then? Why him?"

It's not even a rhetorical question: part of Irving needs to understand this. He doesn't want to, but he needs to, or else he might never be free of it.

He knows the answers to all of Irving's questions, really. He knows why Hickey wanted to kill Irving so badly - or at least, he's pretty sure he does, insofar Hickey's motivations can ever fully be understood - and he also knows why he stopped Hickey. He knows it didn't really have a thing to do with Irving, and instead so much more with not wanting to cause some huge scene for no reason, not wanting this entire town to turn on Hickey even further when all Billy wants to do is live a quiet life now.

Maybe the reason he doesn't answer in an instant is the fact that he isn't sure which parts of that to share with Irving. Maybe it's that there's something kind of nice about leaving the other hanging for a moment. Leaving Irving to feel perhaps a fragment of what he felt when the luitenant discovered him in the middle of things with Hickey below deck. It only feels fair.

Maybe both reasons weigh heavy enough that rather than starting with an answer, there's first another question.

"Why do you want to know?" It isn't said in an antagonizing sort of way - but, really, it might be kind of difficult in this moment to read what William Gibson's intentions are at all with asking that. There's something carefully calm about the way he says it, like he's shoving any hint of why he's returning Irving's question with one of his own all the way down.

"To know is not the word for it," Irving begins slowly, although he thinks that the answer to why he should ever want to must surely be self-evident enough. Nothing can nor will ever be able to absolutely guarantee his (or anyone else's) safety, but understanding the dangers which are there can certainly help to... guard it.

As he continues, his voice grows softer, though ungentle, like a hiss.

"All I want is... simply to understand, that's all... how else am I meant to live with knowing that he's nearly within arms reach of my own doorstep?" It's more information than Irving would have liked to give, but Gibson seems disinclined to believe anything less than Irving laying his vulnerabilities out bare— and perhaps still not even that.

"And exactly what makes you so sure that you'll be any safer, Mr. Gibson? Surely you're not so naive as that."

Something faintly twitches near his lips when he listens to that last part, but there's not too much of a pause or hesitation before he speaks up again.

"We have been sharing a bed for most of a year now." There are many ways he could have worded that. The fact that this one was chosen is no coincidence. It's partially to emphasize his point here - is there any position that would make one more vulnerable, even compared to how close Irving already feels to Hickey in this place - but also just as a slight dig. To rub that fact in, even if he doesn't linger on it. "If he would have wished to harm me, surely he would have done as much by now."

Despite the fact that this obviously isn't the most friendly conversation, he is honest about this one. Perhaps surprisingly honest, considering who he's talking to, considering how much he has held from Irving in the past. The truth is that he's never felt fear for Hickey, not even when he woke up in the snow here with the knowledge that the man had murdered him - but the fact nothing has happened since has only strengthened that feeling.

"He is not that complex. If anything, I would say he is rather easy to read."

Like he's implying Irving could do the same, if he just tried.

It isn't as if Irving didn't already know that the two men would have been sharing a bed all this time, of course, but he still flinches vaguely upon hearing as much finally be spoken aloud, because it forces him to actually imagine it, briefly and indistinctly, alongside any other strained and silent acknowledgement.

If he felt at all willing to lower himself down to Gibson's level of crudity in this moment, Irving might then have been moved to ask the other man how long he and Hickey had previously been — figuratively or literally — 'sharing a bed' before Hickey had still ultimately betrayed him, yet Irving holds his tongue. Not only would it make for a needlessly vulgar and awfully childish retort, but also a far crueler one than Irving feels comfortable allowing himself, even if he does believe that the question stands.

"But can't you see that he's already harmed you?" Irving protests quietly, frustration and pain mingling on his face. "Several times before, you would have had me believe."

A story which Irving now assumes must have been either exaggerated if not outright false, although he can't entirely rule out the possibility that Gibson has been coerced and manipulated by Hickey again (because goodness knows the man is capable of all that and worse).

Yet still Gibson's answer somehow frustrates Irving all the more, because does he truly believe that Irving hasn't tried understanding or empathizing with Hickey before? But some people are simply beyond his help, and even further beyond his comprehension, or at least that has certainly been the sum total of Irving's experiences with the man. Not only that, by now Irving is quite sure he doesn't want to understand Hickey any more deeply; if anything, the notion disturbs and almost frightens him to the point of the near revulsion, although it'd be difficult to put into words exactly why.

Apart from the fact the man is an unrepentant heathen, malcontent, and murderer, that is— perhaps it could, indeed, be as simple as that.

"You give him far more credit than he could ever earn or deserve, Mr. Gibson, least of all from you." He shakes his head. "I'll be keeping you in my prayers."

There is so much he could argue here. In fact, there is a lot here that a part of him is practically chomping at the bit to argue. After all, he doesn't feel like he can just let the notion that he is giving Hickey credit stand. There's something about the very idea of it that feels utterly disagreeable to him in the most fundamental sense. Not to mention that he could tell Irving that of course he lied to him about all the things Hickey did-- but he's sure the other man already understands as much, if not deep down.

But then there's that final line, and that feels even more disagreeable with him. It erases all the thoughts of the other things he wanted to say from his mind, something about the thought of Irving praying for him making his skin crawl.

He has to get away from this man right now. He will take the chaos of the night over this, actually.

Several complicated emotions pass across the man's face before he shakes his head, as if to shake those off.

"If you think I am giving him any credit whatsoever, then you are sorely mistaken." Apparently he did at least want to get in that one, since the thought of anything else makes him feel even worse - but he doesn't say anything else after it. (Granted, those words might not exactly clear anything up for Hickey, since there is no easy logic as to why he would be in a relationship with Hickey and yet still be saying that--)

But apparently he doesn't feel like giving any clarification. He just turns, disappearing into the darkness and the turmoil of this night.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

OPEN | look for the sign of daniel, consider the clues

✞ surely you will be saved one day » ＴＥＡＴＩＭＥ ( open )

acting all holy when you know I'm full of holes;

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

( closed thread - set during the event! )

so sorry for how late this is, life got away from me 😭 feel free to disregard if it's too old!

it's never too old to me!!! 😤

no subject

no subject

cw for uhhhhhh. vagueish allusions to vivisection, cannibalism, emesis... ??

irving is so normal! normal guy, no issues!!

he's SO extremely normal he's literally just some guy ok...!!!! 🥺

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

OPEN | look for the sign of daniel, consider the clues

✞ surely you will be saved one day » ＴＥＡ ＴＩＭＥ ( open )

acting all holy when you know I'm full of holes;

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

( closed thread - set during the event! )

so sorry for how late this is, life got away from me 😭 feel free to disregard if it's too old!

it's never too old to me!!! 😤

no subject

no subject

cw for uhhhhhh. vagueish allusions to vivisection, cannibalism, emesis... ??

irving is so normal! normal guy, no issues!!

he's SO extremely normal he's literally just some guy ok...!!!! 🥺

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

✞ surely you will be saved one day » ＴＥＡＴＩＭＥ ( open )