singillatim | Either way, we're not alone

Entry tags:

Either way, we're not alone

Who: James Fitzjames, OTA
What: Exploring, and also finding some friends (early Sept catchall)
When: First few days after arriving
Where: Around Milton!

Content Warnings: The Terror-typical themes of death, illness, and general Bad Times, but anything specific will be added as it comes up!

For the first two days or so, James doesn't really leave the house he's taken up (temporary?) shelter in. Instead, he spends most of the time sleeping, occasionally waking up to make some rosehip tea and wage the mental battle necessary to drink it, then falling back asleep and repeating the cycle.

But although any sort of true recovery will take far longer than a few days, by the third day of being in this new place he feels much better than he had when he'd arrived, and even if that was an incredibly low bar to clear it's still more than enough to be encouraging. This isn't some sort of strange dream or dying hallucination. He's really here, somehow, and--for once in so many months now--he's getting better, not worse.

He might actually live. But this time, unlike his many other close brushes with death, he finds he isn't entirely sure what to do with the knowledge of that possibility.

He also has zero desire to contemplate that fact or any of its implications, but unfortunately, the downside of feeling better is that he's now capable of overthinking things again. And the only way to avoid doing that is through distraction, so it's only reasonable that he decides to go exploring.

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Tom's a lot more observant than people think. It's easy to dismiss him, the twitchiness of it all, the occasional spurts of poetry, the laid-back and somehow still wildly manic energy he gives off all converging into a persona that's generally unreliable at best and untrustworthy at worse. But he's smart, and he knows where to be and what to look for.

It's somewhat early in Fitzjames' recovery. Zane's clocked him going in but not coming out in a while, just by virtue of the fact that he, too, loves to explore and has stumbled upon the other at the appropriate moment. Today Zane has an actual approach for saying hello to his new friend the magnet scientist: the other had been sickly upon arrival, tired and ragged, leaving Tom worried. When he fishes for Alan, Scratch and Darling that morning he makes sure the bounty includes one extra person.

Tom bursts through the other's door at around 9 in the morning with a grin on his face, two fat, freshly caught fish bundled up in his arms.

"I thought you might--" he stops dead in Fitzjames' hallway, eyes wide as he seems to remember something, and proceeds to turn heel and exit immediately, closing the door behind him. A few seconds later, he knocks politely.

...He probably should've locked the door. But, to be fair, he really hadn't thought about it; between living on a ship and then in tents for the last several years, and then being so dazed upon arriving here, it's probably no surprise that it hadn't exactly crossed his mind.

But at least James happens to be awake at the particular moment Zane barges in, working on finely shredding some stuffing from an old pillow in order to use it as kindling, so it's marginally less startling than it would've been if he were sleeping. Marginally. He's on his feet in an instant at the sound of the door, not able to see the hallway from where he is and so unsure of who might be coming in, but he immediately starts toward the door and catches a glimpse of Zane just as he's turning around and leaving.

...What even...

And then he's knocking, and James just... Takes a moment. What is even happening. He appreciates the inherent comedy and theatrics of the entire scene, but also he'd just been thoroughly startled and is not sure how Zane found him, so there's a whole host of warring emotions going on right now.

Still, after a few seconds of knocking he opens the door, and raises his eyebrows at his visitor. Explanation, please.

[ There we go. Zane's tone is soft, alarmingly gentle and quiet. ]

People need to knock. It's been so long that I forgot that people knock.

[ Back on track, he hefts the fish up, back to smiles and manic energy. He's going to just barge right in again if allowed, heading straight for the kitchen. ]

I hope you're hungry. You were in such a state when I saw you, you need to eat! This place'll kill you if you don't.

['Been so long' since what? He's curious and a little confused, but considering his own recent experiences had led him to forget about locking doors, he's willing to accept the excuse. This time.

He does allow Zane to enter, if just because he does want to see why he's here, and is soon rewarded with the explanation as he follows the other man to the kitchen. James has hardly been in here, pretty much everything untouched aside from the pot he'd found for boiling water, and he isn't really paying any of it any more attention right now. His focus is solely on the fish.

He hadn't been hungry--not really, anyway, not enough to outweigh the nausea and dread associated with the idea--when he'd arrived, and hadn't managed to convince himself to eat anything at the feast, but with a little rest that's suddenly changed.]

Do you have a knife?

[Because he doesn't, and he's not sure if there's one in the kitchen, and he has the sudden and intense urge to cut out one of those dead fish eyes and eat it raw.]

Of course! [ Tom's chipper as he sets the fish on the counter without much thought as to the exact location--he barely looks at it--and then proceeds to pull out a fairly decent hunting knife and wave it around a little, close to himself and no where near his new friend. He remembers personal space when it's important, at least. ]

I'm borrowing it from Doctor Darling. He's quite helpful. Always is--always has been--you two should really talk. Get that thirst for information out, spin your scientific curiousities together in a centrifuge and really shake things up.

[ Where's the fish? Where did he put it? He can't just edit reality anymore, he has to look for things now, and--ah, right. There we go. He's glanced back at where he's put it directly behind him, and then points casually at Fitzjames with the knife. ]

After you rest and eat. You have enough energy to make a fire?

[The erratic knife-waving doesn't really bother James much, especially since Zane's keeping it at a reasonable distance, though he does decide to stay out of arm's reach just in case. This has the added benefit of keeping James away from the fish.

...Is Darling actually the doctor's name, or a term of endearment? James feels like either is a possibility, but he notes the name anyway. He's also getting the sense that he's given Zane completely the wrong opinion of his own scientific prowess, but is not about to correct him on it at this point.]

Yes. I'd been about to light one.

[Sort of. Not quite. But close enough, and close enough to imply that startling him could've set the house on fire, something he is absolutely not overly cautious about for various terrible reasons.

But although the implication that he should start the fire was obvious enough, he doesn't move to do so just yet. Instead--]

How did you find me?

[He isn't necessarily upset about it, especially since he'd been brought food, but it is still something he wants to know.]

[ something's settling in Tom, relief evident the moment Fitzjames says yes. His energy is still there, if course, but it's under the surface. He's relatively calm now, smile a little less wide, eyes still bright and observant but not darting about. Fitzjames is better than he thought, and Tom's beginning to settle down as much as someone like Tom can. ]

I saw you on my way to find a place to sleep. I wanted to keep an eye on you. [ a nod. ] You went in here and didn't come out. Either you were here alive, or here dead. I'm glad it's the former -- no one should die alone.

[ his smile softens somewhat. ]

Edited 2024-09-07 13:16 (UTC)

[A whole host of varying emotions rush through him at that answer; vague dismay and embarrassment at having been so obviously unwell as to prompt a stranger to check in on him, an unease he can't place at the reminder of how different the social situation is here compared to what he'd been used to the last few years, a sense of both gratitude and confusion when it comes to this interaction in particular. But those feelings are fluttering, fleeting, compared to those brought up by the last few words.

No one should die alone.

And he hadn't; dying had been a long and slow ordeal, but he'd been fortunate enough not be truly alone for any of it, and on his last day Francis has stayed with him until the very end. He hadn't died alone, and that meant something--means something--even if he can't bring himself to face the enormity of it all just yet.

It's difficult enough to pull himself from the memory, eyes and expression having gone blank for some indeterminate amount of time he hopes was not more than a second or two, and it's then even more difficult to keep the emotion off his face. Fortunately, he'd been given an excellent excuse to turn away and move toward the fireplace, collecting the tinder he'd been working on and hoping it's good enough.

Between the angle and his hair he's able to mostly hide his face without it being too obvious he's doing so, or at least he wants to believe that, and so mostly concentrates on keeping his voice steady as he prepares the fireplace.]

You needn't be concerned. I'm very difficult to kill.

[He's said something along those lines times before, usually in a joking bravado when telling stories of his various previous brushes with death, but it feels utterly hollow now; does this last time, and waking up here instead, only add to the statement, or does it completely undermine it? Either way, he tries for the light tone he would've normally used, but it's a pale attempt and for the best that he can drop it for a more sincere tone as he continues.]

But the kindness is appreciated. As are the fish.

[Because although the clock has rolled back for him, and he's certainly a little better than when he arrived--and is doing his best to come across as much better--he's not at all out of danger just yet. Some proper food will be a great help.]

Mmmm. [ A noncommital but happy hum as he returns to his work. It's been a long while since he's had to do this, but the muscle memory is the same from living in his in his cabin and his youth in Finland. He cuts decisively, taking care to separate the poison parts from the good. Every part has to be saved here, he knows. He'll have to find someone who knows what to do with it all, he thinks. He can only cook it.

He takes his time, letting the other ruminate. There had been a shift. You'd be a fool not to pick up on it, but Tom catches something else in the other's turn to the fire. Here is a man, Tom thinks, wrestling with more than his own demons. Others, perhaps. Nestling into himself before he can cause any more damage, seem any more unsightly.

Well. That won't do. Unslightly parts are the best parts. They're the human parts.

Bones removed, Tom works on the skin. ]

Where did you go? Just then, where did you find yourself? Who did you drift towards? [ His words are casual despite their weight. ]

[Making the fire requires use of both arms, which is unpleasant enough that he needs to concentrate to keep himself from wincing, but between that and making the fire itself, his mind is kept occupied enough that the surge of emotion begins to die down. Or perhaps it's simply that it recedes, ready to return another time.

Once he's satisfied the fire has what it needs, he strikes a match, carefully holding the small flame to the tinder and crumpled newspapers until it catches, the match then tossed in with them. A few small branches and a single piece of firewood--he doesn't have much left and the fire only needs to last long enough for the fish and some more tea--and he's done for now, sitting back to watch the flame a moment. It's then that he hears Zane's questions.

James had asked Mr. Blanky something, once, that perhaps he shouldn't have asked. He'd genuinely wanted the answer and was ready to accept whatever it might be, but he shouldn't have actually asked it, and Blanky had made both that fact and the answer itself clear in the way he'd responded. Eye contact, silence that stretched just long enough to be purposeful, a hint of a patient smile, and a change of topic.

He glances toward Zane, is quiet a moment, and asks--]

Did you catch those yourself?

[The fish. Or did he trade? How does the community here work?]

[ There's a power in that quiet, Zane thinks, a magic to it. Intimate. Personal. Real, and Tom doesn't move from where he is, barely breathes, not wanting to break the spell. It feels like vulnerability to him, even if it isn't--even as the other gently steers the conversation to something more casual.

This is not a man in a film. This is not a man from a book. This is a man woven on a tapestry, with tiny, delicate threads spinning together to form a final, careful picture. Tom knows this now. Tom knows how truly and utterly fascinating this man is.

He shoots the other a playful wink. Message received: lighter things. Easier things.

For now. ]

I did. The people that are dear to me here have never gone so much as camping in their lives! They don't appreciate it, nature, the way it's so simple and so complicated. It's perfect balance.

[ A sigh. He mourns for them, shaking his head in disappointment, starting to cut the fish up into little morsels. It's not like he has ingredients to work with. Best to just fry the whole thing up in bite sized chunks, make it easier on his stomach. ]

They're too caught up in themselves. I'll bring you one every morning on my way to feed them.

[ The way it's phrased is not a question or an ask - it's just a fact. Whether Fitz likes it or not, he's coming around. ]

[It's a relief when Zane goes along with the change in topic, despite clearly recognizing it for what it is, and James appreciates it. This is not something he wants to think about, let alone talk about, any more than absolutely necessary to the people who already know.]

Who are your friends here? You mentioned a doctor?

[He rises carefully to his feet from where he'd been kneeling to make the fire, and moves a little closer to Zane to watch him cut up the fish. The sudden offer--or, rather, the statement--that more will be brought each morning is one that James feels like he should protest, for a whole host of reasons ranging from the unoffered invitation to James' pride to not wanting to take advantage of Zane's help, but any such argument he might've posed never forms. He truly can't afford to do so, not for reasons that are ultimately so trivial, not when he knows exactly what will happen if he can't take advantage of the unexplained improvement in his health.

So instead, gives a single, careful nod.]

Thank you. It will be greatly appreciated.

[And a brief pause, before he adds--]

I have very little I can offer in repayment, but perhaps in the future I may be able to assist you with something.

[Who knows what, as most of James' skills feel somewhat useless here and those that don't happen to rely on his health being far better than it is, but still. Perhaps.]

Repay me with words. Tell me a story.

[ Tom's answer is immediate, shuffling around the kitchen for some sort of pan and pausing only to flash Fitzjames a small, genuine smile. He'll tell Fitzjames all about everyone else--but first, this very small thing. A very important thing. ]

I'd like to hear one very, very much.

Edited 2024-09-12 20:50 (UTC)

[The request is entirely unexpected, if only because it's so familiar. Almost enough so to be suspicious, to make him suddenly wonder if Zane knows this is something James has--had?--a bit of a reputation for, but he realizes immediately that this is ridiculous; not only would that be impossible, but James already knows that Zane is an artist who likes stories. It makes perfect sense that he might ask to hear one, and the idea of being able to offer something so simple in repayment is a welcome one.

But can he find that part of himself again?

Most of the stories he tells have a purpose, not just to entertain, but to paint a picture; he's typically speaking to either his peers or superiors, and so the point is to sound impressive. To tell a tale of heroism or skill--or both--and make it fun to listen to, even if the actually experience may have been far from how he ends up describing it.

But the thought of telling one of those stories, especially the one he defaults to most often, fills him with a sense of dread and anxiety. He realizes however that it's the subject matter of them, and of having to put on the act that goes with them, that are the problem, not the idea of telling a story in general; perhaps something lighter, a memory he can truly enjoy reliving.

There are several things he's done that he absolutely can't turn into stories appropriate to tell in a formal setting, mostly because they involve unprofessional behavior and often a complete disregard for navy regulations and protocol. One of those might just be a perfect choice, especially since he hasn't forgotten that strange reaction Zane had to his mention of the navy before; perhaps hearing something ridiculous will counterbalance whatever had prompted it.

So he takes a careful breath, centers himself a little, and meets Zane's small smile with a similar one of his own.]

Have you heard of the practice of keeping a ship's cat? They are meant to control mouse populations in the hold, as well as provide companionship to the sailors.

[ There's another thread of that tapestry weaving itself into a bigger picture. Tom can see both things at once: there's a man Fitzjames clearly wishes to be, and the man he is now, and there is evidently a stark difference between the two. Pride? Something else? Difficult to say.

The bigger question, Tom wonders, is what will it take for him to reconcile those two parts?

Tom wants to keep pulling. Keep his eye on the broad design and simultaneously leans in to examine every single stitch. It's exhilarating. It's beautiful. Fitzjames is beautiful, and he's only talked to him twice but that slight hesitation is catnip to Tom as he keeps focused on the minor task of finding a pan and bringing it to the fire. Has he stumbled onto something? Struck a nerve not in anger, but bumped gently against a bigger piece of the man before him?

He certainly hopes so. It would be thrilling to be right. ]

I haven't.

[ And as an added bonus, this man has completely given into his request. Tom glances up, gaze soft, smile kind, continuing to act like a fairly normal human being for the time being. ]

[James always thinks he's doing a somewhat better job of keeping up the illusion than he actually is. Mostly, that's because the people he's put the most effort into fooling were never actually trying all that hard to see through him; a few tales of heroics, a dash of flattery, and a witty comment here and there had been enough, especially when bolstered by his looks and natural charm.

But he feels lacking, now, in all respects. He hasn't had the strength, mentally or physically, to be particularly witty or charming lately, and he's all too aware of how much his beauty has faded. Some of it might return when the wounds heal and he regains some weight, but he's quite sure he'll never be what he was, and he's well aware of how pathetic he looks. After all, that's why Zane's here, right? And there had been no shortage of concerned looks and offers of assistance from others he'd met the first day, either.

But although that is not at all how he would choose to appear were it up to him, it's still something he can use. If it's impossible to avoid, then he can simply hide behind it; he's just someone in need of a few good meals and a great deal of rest, nothing more or less. He can allow that to be just as shallow a reading of himself as the carefully crafted, gilded version of himself he'd shown to others had been before.

So he doesn't think for a moment that Zane is seeing through him as he continues the story.]

Well, it's quite common. Typically, the cat is found in a nearby dockyard, or otherwise acquired freely, and becomes a permanent resident of a ship. On the ship I commanded before last, Clio, we had a ship's cat called Gloves. He was named not for his markings, but that he was apparently fond of thievery, with his prize of choice being officers' gloves.

[James hadn't witnessed that himself, as the cat had come with the ship and already been well established at the time, but he has no doubt the stories are true. He's certainly seen stranger.

Gloves, however, is not the point of this story.]

During my time as commander we gained a second ship's cat, and did so through the typical means of simply finding ourselves in possession of one. But she--Bombay--was not an ordinary cat; I never did learn how or why the man who'd given her to us had acquired a cheetah.

[ Tom listens, paying as much outward attention as he can while he gets to work. The sizzling smell of small fish chunks is in the air in a manner of moments, the filmmaker glancing over occasionally from watching them.

He's riveted, despite splitting his attention--and his attention is more and more on the Fitzjames than it is the food by the end of it, blue eyes sharp, keen and observant. Fitzjames tells a good story. Setup not too fast, pertinent without dragging things out, voice hypnotic in pattern, word choice perfect for the build up and ultimate reveal.

Tom laughs, and he's surprised at how genuine it is. ]

You weave stories well! I could have really used you back before all of this.

[ A beat. ]

We'll need that here, too. People like you. Yes--we'll need that a lot, I think.

I'm very glad you're here.

[Talking is serving the dual purpose of distracting James from the fish, which is growing more and more enticing by the moment, but he's well practiced at prioritizing a story over a meal anyway. And as this is only filling time while cooking, then all the better to have something else to focus on.

And there is more to the story--far more, as James can both drag a story out and also genuinely has more ridiculous cheetah-related tales to tell--but he's momentarily drawn from the thought of how to do so by Zane's remarks. It's a little surreal, mostly in an absurd way, because he's no stranger to complimentary responses to his stories but it's been so long that it feels wrong, somehow. But there's also the strangeness in the statements themselves, as they aren't really about the content of the story, but how he's telling it. What value he might bring in possessing a talent for doing so.

It's... Odd. He isn't sure how he feels. The compliments are nice to hear, providing a much-needed boost to his very delicate ego, but at the same time it doesn't feel right. It feels like the sentiment is meant for someone else, someone he barely remembers how to pretend to be, and instead of being evidence of his success with the facade it's an ominous warning bell that it'll soon fall apart.

But he's also aware that reacting like this, with silence and a doubtlessly uncertain air to him, is only going to make that worse. So he gathers himself, forces another small smile--this one much less genuine than the last--to his face, and tries to pretend that his momentary pause was simply due to overthinking the situation they're in. And, to be fair, it is at least partially the truth.]

I am glad to be here.

[Is he? He realizes he isn't even sure if he's lying or not, but ignores that and continues with a remark somewhere between self-deprecating humor and affected false modesty.]

But you may change your opinion yet. I'm told my stories lose their luster after a time.

Edited 2024-09-23 18:49 (UTC)

[ Tom whistles, low and loud, and decides to be a little more direct. Just for now. Just because he's seen the way that smile slides onto the others' face, practiced but not quite reaching his eyes. ]

I've been alone for years. Doesn't matter how many times you tell the same one, I'm gonna love anything that's not my own voice. And who knows? Maybe I'll like them enough to want to collaborate.

Proper credit to you, of course. Naturally. [ Tom's toying with the idea in his head already: Kapteenin Kissa: Gepardin Tarina. Something bright, full of colours. A cheetah, stop motion, trying to find a sense of belonging in a foreign place. Aimed at children at first glance but holding a darker, edgier tint, something lingering on the surface. Dread. He'd play the role of the captain, of course. The cheetah would be Alex Casey. Fitzjames would make a small but meaningful cameo. The smell of cooked fish is flooding his nostrils far too much to hold his focus on the fleeting fancy for too long. ]

Grab a plate, Gepardin, hmmm? The pieces are small enough that it should be ready.

[The idea of one of James' more ridiculous stories ending up some sort of... Whatever type of performance art that Zane makes, is actually a little delightful. He'd be very amused to see that, credit given or not.

He didn't miss the comment Zane made about being alone for years, and James wants to ask, curious about just how literal it is. He also notices the foreign word he doesn't recognize but assumes to be Finnish, and wonders about that as well.

But his attention is also being diverted to the fish, and he realizes belatedly that they do need plates, although James isn't completely sure if there are any--or any silverware--but goes to look anyway. In the cupboard he does find a few plates, and also a towel; that might help with handling the pan, so he brings that as well, and although he doesn't find any forks it hardly matters. Fish is very easy to eat with one's hands.]

Here.

[He balances the plates in his right arm, using his left to hand Zane the towel first, and then pass him a plate with a careful effort not to wince while doing so.

It's only then, while holding his remaining plate and turning his gaze back toward the fish, that he realizes how long it's been since he's eaten. He'd been too sick to do so for a time--days?--before arriving, and the first night in this place hunger had lost out to nausea and exhaustion. He's managed to drink some water and rosehip tea, but it had been both a mental and physical struggle to do so, and he's suddenly somewhat nervous about the prospect of a meal.

But unlike the night before, his hunger is stronger than his nerves, and the only things holding it at bay are waiting for Zane to take his own serving--if he chooses to do so, anyway--and his own sense reminding him that he'll have to be careful; he's heard horror stories about what can happen to people who eat too much or too quickly after they've been starving.]

Thanks! [ Tom takes his portion, small enough James has the lion's share but enough that the other won't feel self conscious about eating the whole thing, blue eyes steady on the other. There's no subtleness to it--concern is clear on his face. It had been the reason he came here, after all. ]

You don't have to worry about manners around me, either. In fact, at some point, I think it would very fun if the two of us really let our hair down. Whole village needs to really let loose--that's what this place needs. Something fun. Before the Dark Walker comes again.

[ He hasn't forgotten their first conversation. The sympathic smile gives way to something else, a half-smirk as he lifts his fingers to grab the fish, completely unbothered by lack of plates. ]

Do you believe in him? The Dark Walker?

[James considers pointing out the fact that they both already have their hair down--the joke is old but it's right there and much easier than any sort of serious response to the idea--but manages to refrain. The Darkwalker is an easier topic anyway, providing a distraction both from Zane's concerned look and the fact that James has use both hands to lift the pan, and sets his plate down to do so before tipping a portion of the remaining fish onto the plate.

Although he picks up the plate again afterward, he doesn't try eating yet.]

It hardly matters what I believe.

[He doesn't say it bitterly, but his tone is slightly resigned. Whether or not he wants to believe in this, or any of the other impossible things he's seen whether before arriving here or since, it doesn't make any difference to the situation.]

But I have no reason to think all who've told me of it are mistaken.

[And one of those people had been Francis, who James trusts completely. ]

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Either way, we're not alone

a housewarming gift;

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