You can run for the skyline

[gildedlife]

Who: James, and others
What: Catch-all for December-ish
When: Through the month of December
Where: Milton and Lakeside

Content Warnings: Will be added as needed!

[Plotting post here; feel free to plot something or message me directly if you want a closed prompt!]

Comments

[fidior]

[ Even though he'd opened the lid, Edward finds himself hesitating, nervous and horrified by the thought of revealing more to the other man. A shudder ripples down his spine — though it has nothing to do with the frigid cold around them. It's so dark out, yet he feels that pressing need to hide, keeps his eyes downcast, as though trying to conceal them from the other's gaze. ]

.....Some time ago... before your arrival to this place, people in the town became.... influenced, by something dark. [ He doesn't know how much Fitzjames might know about the Darkwalker, and in truth still understands so little about it himself; now isn't the time to dive so deeply into exploring that monstrous thing, but rather... what happened as a result of it. ]

It led some to... become aggressive. Hostile. To lash out. [ Edward stares at the snowy ground, eyes hazy as he reflects on it. ] ....Several people were killed during the incident.

[ In his mind, he still sees Kate Marsh on her back and struggling, the larger body pushing her down, Mikel's hands wrapped around her slender throat. ]

One of those victims attacked Miss Marsh. He— I believe he would have killed her. So I— [ And here he looks back up to James, miserable and ashamed, still horrified by the incident. He'd never killed anyone before. ] —I killed him. I shot him, Sir. And he— died, very quickly—

[ Such a close range hit from a shotgun.. it wasn't a clean thing. But fortunately, it was quick. He didn't suffer. ]

But I didn't.... I should have tried something else, I could have struck him, or— or talked him down. I should have done something more.

[gildedlife]

[Ah. This. He'd had a suspicion this particular incident--which James had been told about in his very first conversation with Kate, and which he'd meant to find a way to discuss with Edward ever since--might be the issue, or at least one of them. It's the simplest one, too, at least as far as James is concerned, and so it comes with some relief both that it's the one brought up and that he finally has a good opportunity to attempt addressing it.

So he's quiet while Edward explains, giving him time for any pauses he needs to work through his thoughts and put things into words, careful to keep both his posture and expression as even and calm as possible so Edward hopefully won't sense any tension and take it as judgement.

The explanation has more detail than James had gotten before--or he thinks it does, anyway; he remembers the conversation mostly well enough, but the vast majority of that first day is very hazy to him--and, most importantly, it's from Edward and with his own experience of the events. His own interpretation, and guilt, and reflection on what could have been done instead.

Looking back and learning from one's mistakes is a good thing. It's a vital thing, if one cares to improve in any aspect, from their job to who they are as a person. But it's also a dangerous one, if the tendency to see what could have been becomes overwhelming. If the guilt hangs too heavy.

James knows that feeling well enough. All of them do, and they likely always will, for however long they remain here in whatever this situation they find themselves in really is. But the last thing any of them need to be carrying anything more, especially when it's so unnecessary.]

Perhaps, ideally, you could have.

[The cold and the darkness make their surroundings feel so still that his voice sounds strange to him, as though it's too loud, even though it isn't.]

But you know well that we're rarely so fortunate as to be presented with ideal options.

[He reaches out again, this time to place a hand on Edward's shoulder, meeting Edward's gaze when given the opportunity and trying to impart upon him the certainty that he feels about what he's saying when he continues.]

That you chose to shoot, and that you wish you could have done otherwise, leaves me no doubt that you did only what was necessary to protect Miss Marsh. Because of your actions, she is still here, and you cannot say that would have been the outcome had you made a different choice.

[fidior]

[ Each person whom he holds dear in his heart is an unbearable ache, each pair of eyes gazing back at him as he voices what he'd done. He hasn't told many, but each one has been a particular horror.

This man is another. This man, someone Little does respect as a superior officer but also as a mark of greatness, of what it is to be a good man. He'll never forget the way Fitzjames remained such a good man, even to the end. Never unkind, never turning his back on the others, thinking of his men (and those who became his men, those from Terror, all of the ones who remained fusing into a singular entity instead of two separate ones. They had two captains, everything was strange and broken but for a time... for a brief time, the remaining men were unified under them both.)

Perhaps there's some part of him that almost feels childlike, and perhaps it is shameful, but he fears seeing disappointment or judgment in the other man's eyes, even while knowing he fully deserves to.

So when he looks up and doesn't see those things — and hears the words that he does — Little's met with a kneejerk sweep of surprised relief, and then shame for feeling such relief when he knows he deserves otherwise. His eyes swell, and the chill makes everything worse, stinging at the corners like tiny needles against his skin. He blinks rapidly, swallows hard. Suddenly— ]

I didn't, before. Once. I didn't— shoot someone. [ He knows that Fitzjames has no way of understanding what he means with such vague words, but how does he explain that encounter with Sergeant Tozer? The weight of what came after, the knowledge that if he had acted then, if he had chosen to shoot... what might have been prevented, after? How many lives might have been spared? Perhaps the mutiny itself might even have been avoided. How does he explain that both sides of this — the decision not to act, the decision to act — that both of them feel so unbearably wrong? That he feels at fault, that he can't escape feeling guilty? That no matter what choice he makes, he is to blame for the suffering of others? The men at the mutineers' hands, the young boy named Mikel bleeding out in the snow, Goodsir and Jopson— ]

If I had done it then, I might have saved— others. So many others. [ His voice is barely a whisper now. What he confesses next is one of his deepest, darkest shames. ] I might have prevented the mutiny itself, sir.

...But I couldn't. I couldn't, then. And— I thought of him when Miss Marsh was being attacked. I thought of the man I wasn't able to shoot. This time, I was. And yet— I cannot accept that what was done was right. I have known both sides, I have been both men — the one who is capable of doing what is necessary and the one who isn't, and I— I loathe them both.

[ He loathes himself. It isn't fair, or polite, or proper to flood someone with such emotions, such thoughts, and later he'll feel shame for that, too. But in the moment, Edward's heart does the speaking for him, bleeding itself to someone he needs to understand. Fitzjames deserves to see him for what he is. He cancels himself out. He's nothing. ]

[gildedlife]

[At first, James is indeed confused by this new admission, but he understands immediately that the details aren't truly what's important. What's important is the clear emotion in Edward's voice and on his face, that he's speaking of something he's been holding onto for some time, that this horrible guilt has been weighing on him. That he'd made one choice and found himself wishing he'd made the other, and when he'd been faced with a new situation in which he could learn from the past and choose differently, it had still somehow felt wrong.

James realizes, suddenly, that this isn't simply a matter of guilt or regret for the choices themselves; that may be a part of it, but it isn't the true core of it. The core of it is something far deeper, something that can't be soothed with the reassurances about the actions, because it isn't about making mistakes in specific situations and moments, but about feeling incapable of making any correct choice at all. That everything has gone so wrong, so deeply and so many times, that the only explanation is that there's something inherently flawed in Edward himself.

It's rare that James can't find words, but he doesn't have the slightest idea of what to say to fix this. He doesn't think there is anything he can say to fix this, to mend something so deeply broken in how Edward views himself.

But he can understand it. He can respond to Edward's confession with understanding, with a lack of judgement, with a memory of how it feels to put shame and self-hatred into words and have it be met with compassion. He can at least do that much.

James steps forward again, closing the short distance still between them, and with his hand already on Edward's shoulder it's easy enough to simply pull the other man into a hug. It may not be proper, but propriety be damned; what rules even hold for two dead men who have been through such horrors together?

He speaks softly, proximity allowing the gentle tone, just as certain as it had been previously.]

Even if you cannot find it in yourself to trust your character, your nature, I do.

[James can't imagine that saying that Edward shouldn't feel the way he does would help; it'll likely feel like platitudes at best, dismissive and condescending at worst. But he can at least make sure he knows that view of himself--that self-loathing--is his alone. That James trusts in what kind of man Edward is without any doubt or hesitation.]

[fidior]

[ Facing it like this is strange. The awareness of just how far he's fallen — when once, Edward knew exactly who he was. He was once a confident man, once someone very different. He knew what was expected of him, knew what it took to do good, what it was to be a good man.

Now... Now, he can barely remember that person. There are glimpses of him, sometimes. But he never stays for long. He's faded away; Edward thinks he lost him back when they left behind the sick and dying, when they did the thing that his captain once forbade him to do. Or maybe he was already losing him before then, maybe he was fading away, piece by piece.

He tried. Tried to do what was right, tried to make the right decisions, tried, but it wasn't enough. Does any of it matter if it wasn't enough? If he continues to try and continues, again and again, to make decisions that don't feel right?

He doesn't know how the other man might react to all of this, and feels a surge of shame for burdening Fitzjames with such a flood of emotions and confessions now. He's revealed about his beastly form, and now all of this... (And still, most shamefully of all, is the fact that he dreads looking up and seeing disappointment in the other's face.)

What comes instead is... something very different. Before he realises what's happening, Fitzjames is stepping to close that small distance, pulling him inwards towards his body, into an embrace. Edward blinks widely, surprised, but there's nothing in him that's averse to the gesture. No, it feels... welcoming. It's something his body almost subconsciously wants to sink into, to feel closeness, safety, warmth — he remembers when Crozier had embraced him, how easy it was to close his eyes and let himself be held by his former captain.

Before he knows it, his eyes are fluttering closed now, mouth giving a shuddery exhale of pent-up tension. One hand lifts to find purchase against the other man's coat; he holds to him like that, head tipped slightly forwards.

'Even if you cannot find it in yourself to trust your character, your nature, I do.'

Something cracks open, from a space that's already raw within him. His eyes are hot and heavy, his throat is tight, lifting and falling with movement. He can't verbally respond, not just yet, but he nods, fingers tightening against the other's coat. Trust. Fitzjames trusts him even now — it's not forgiveness, not absolution of anything; those things are irrelevant to him now, Edward knows that. But it's— something else, something deeply important and precious, and he can only stand there like that for a long while.

Eventually he's giving a quiet, wet sound, and he pulls back again enough that he isn't clinging onto Fitzjames, that he can lift his head slightly and nod once more, trying to gather himself. There's wet upon his cheeks, but he can't feel too embarrassed by the vulnerability. They've transcended from some things. He's seen this man die, mourned him. He doesn't want to keep him at any distance. ]

Thank you, sir. I am deeply grateful, for you. For your wisdom, and...— and to have you here with me.

[gildedlife]

[Although James had been relatively certain Edward would be alright with the contact, he'd expected him to perhaps not know how to react, or to be somewhat frozen with indecision. That he isn't, that he reacts by leaning in, holding on James' coat, is a welcome surprise.

He feels the nod, the pressure of Edward gripping his coat more tightly, and James is content to give him as much time as he needs. If nothing else, at least he can do this much.

When Edward finally does pull away it's impossible to miss the tears on his face, but James doesn't make any comment on them. It's a sign of trust that Edward isn't hiding his emotions, and James is not about to make him regret extending it; instead, he manages a small but genuine smile at Edward's words, and gives his shoulder a firm pat.]

I will continue to be, if there is ever anything you need.

[They're in this together, just as they had been before.]