ᴋᴀᴛᴇ ᴍᴀʀsʜ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
castitas) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
singillatim2025-02-16 08:57 pm
castitas) wrote in singillatim2025-02-16 08:57 pm
closed | you're a lost soul
Who: Kate Marsh + You!
What: February catch-all for Kate: Goodsir's disappearance, Kate running off in search of him and that going so well + her getting sick / Frozen Hearts prompt.
When: The month of February.
Where: Various, Milton area.
Content Warnings: likely to come up in threads are discussions of suicide, discussions of cannibalism; discussions of character death; instances of hypothermia; supernatural afflictions and body horror. More TBA.
closed starters | please contact![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
heolstor / _heolstor on discord for plotting
What: February catch-all for Kate: Goodsir's disappearance, Kate running off in search of him and that going so well + her getting sick / Frozen Hearts prompt.
When: The month of February.
Where: Various, Milton area.
Content Warnings: likely to come up in threads are discussions of suicide, discussions of cannibalism; discussions of character death; instances of hypothermia; supernatural afflictions and body horror. More TBA.
closed starters | please contact
— how cold the wind can blow / benton fraser
When she calls out, the silence is deafening. And the searches return empty handed each time.
But the string is still there, and maybe she's not thinking clearly enough because if he's gone then maybe that means he's back there, out on the ice and shale. It means that Harry Goodsir is gone. Someone so kind and curious and good is gone. And he can't be.
She heads out. She has to find out for herself. She grabs what she needs and wraps up warm and she goes off into the wilds of Milton. The snow is thick and hushed and the wind is bitter but she pushes herself on — flare gun at her hip and Merry at her side. He can't be gone, he just can't. So she follows the string through the woods, hiking for hours through the wilderness — north towards the mines and then moves north east.
By the time Kate reaches the sheer stone that encircles the northern edge, the skies are pale with light and she's exhausted and her skin burns with the cold. Merry whimpers beside her as she scans the rock — looking for a way to climb. The string leads through the stone, if he's through that way, then—
but it's getting dark and she's cold.
She shelters beneath an overhang of the stone with a paltry fire for company to chase off the cold. Merry still whimpers beside her, occasionally trying to tug at her coat sleeve. Her teeth chatters, but she has to keep trying. She has to get past the rock somehow and find out where the string leads.
It has to go somewhere, and that somewhere is Harry. It has to. ]
no subject
With Diefenbaker pulling and the biggest and strongest of the puppies — Mackenzie, Fraser's thinking of naming him — running cheerfully alongside, Ben himself takes up the rear, running behind the sled so as to keep Dief from having to pull his weight for more than a few yards at a time. It requires a great deal of focus to keep from slipping on the icy snow and to direct both Dief and Mac at the same time; focus which keeps him, thankfully, from dwelling too much on the cluster of mostly faded strings which unspool from his fingertips.
One of them is more faded now than before: the clean, sterile scent that clung to the back of his throat when he focused on it isn't so clear, and he no longer feels Harry Goodsir's emotions fluttering along the line, like vibrations from a moth's wing.
It's when he stops to give the dogs a rest that he notices another string is now traveling alongside that faded gold one: this one is brighter gold, warm with the scent of vanilla and a quiet feeling he associates with being out under the trees and sky but which he thinks is most often found by others in quiet contemplation or worship. His brows draw together: it's deep into the long winter night, and if Kate's out here on her own — and she must be, because the threads he has to Edward Little and a few of the others he knows look after her all point back toward Milton — then she's in terrible danger.
Quickly, he swings Dief back into the traces, Mackenzie running happily along beside him, and points them both and the sled's nose along the line the string takes from his hands. With a sharp order, the wolf and his son spring forward, Fraser running after, keeping the sled light on the top of the snow.
Her tracks, once he gets close enough, are easy for his sharp eyes and Diefenbaker's sharper nose to find, but the sky is lightening and she'll have been out here for hours. ]
Kate!
[ He tries to keep the swell of fear tamped down as he calls out, but it's there, coiling around his insides, whispering in his ear. If he finds her but it's too late... ]
Kate! Can you hear me?
no subject
She just wants to sleep, just for a little while. And even doing that right here sounds about good right now. She keeps herself curled up as she sits, knees pulled close to her chest — arms wrapped tightly around them.
Merry, on the other hand, is far more alert and fretful. He keeps at her, pressing his muzzle in her face, trying to offer gentle licks here and there — nipping at her arm, trying to encourage to her stay awake, to coax her into moving.
But there's something going on out there.
Merry's ears twitch at the sound. He stops tugging at her coat sleeve for a moment, listening and waiting before whining urgently in recognition. He doesn't move from Kate, but he starts howling and barking. ]
— with fools gold I try to hide my tongue / tim drake
[ A few days in bed and plied with enough hot tea and cocoa to sink a ship manages to ease the worst of the cold in her bones, but she doesn't feel much better. She can't seem to shake the cold off for good. She's out of the woods and but still amongst the trees; her cheeks and nose red and sore and burning — the skin starting to peel a little in places as it heals.
(Does it feel like burning when the sharpness hits his skin? Or does it feel like relief? Does blood burn cold skin, like it's reminding the nerve endings that it's something living now dying? Or is it something more peaceful?)
She hopes it's peaceful. She always thinks it might be more peaceful. A sleep never to wake up from. Something deep and dark and endless. The big nothing. You don't have to wake up to a nightmare. Don't have to be in a nightmare. Why does living always feel so painful?
It's not fair she has to live with the knowledge. It's not fair that he has to go back to—
It takes a good few rocks at her window before she can pull herself out of bed to get to the window. She exhales, carefully opening it at the sight in the snow below. Okay, fine.
It's not the same dog, and Kate's watching for a long moment as another huge bundle of fur bundles into her bedroom. Merry comes with wagging tail and soft ears at the sight of another littermate, dipping into a low stretch.
Kate blinks, turning back to her bed and climbing back on it — she curls up, makes herself small. Maybe if she's small enough, she'll disappear. ]
Close the window again. It's cold.
no subject
It's been too long.
But Kate was here.
And Tim is here too, now. His shoulders hurt from the climb and from the wolfdog clawing at him as she pours into the foreign space, and his hands shake when he readily obeys, closing the window. The wolfdog, one of the smaller of the litter, is a piebald: dirty white with a smudge of gray at her back and hind legs. Wild like her-- her person, the girl dog flattens her ears at Merry's approach.
The tail doesn't tuck, and brown-gold eyes narrow in suspicion at her brother, but the girl opts for diplomacy. She prowls to a corner, by Kate's bed, until she undoubtedly recognizes that this must be Kate's territory and Girl presses herself against the wall. She wants to leave. She doesn't trust this. She doesn't want this.
It's uncomfortable. He turns fever-slow eyes to Kate.
His heart's hammering in his chest, and Tim parts his lips to wet them. Why isn't she puffing up to shoo him away.] Sorry.
[He's not sure what he's sorry about. But he's not sure Kate wants him here.
He doesn't have the... string, anymore. The threads. But he doesn't think Kate wants... to be here... either. She's in her blankets, she barely moves. Tim looks to Girl. Girl barely moves.
It's a mess. And he begins to explain.] I had... to go to Lakeside. I got sick. I should've told you that I was going, but then when I came back...
[Kate was missing-
But she's here now.
Tim steps closer, lets her know] A lot of people were worried about you, Kate.
no subject
Kate's cheeks burn red and blistering and sore. Indifference doesn't come naturally to her, and in her silence she's screaming on the inside. A lot of people were worried about you, Kate. She knows, of course she knows. Even now, with the strings faded into nothing, she knows. Edward Little about to come apart at the seams, or John Irving quietly frustrated and hovering. Even Wynonna's— well, she's Wynonna. But even Kate knows she's probably freaked her out with this, too.
She knows, and she hates it. Hates herself for it, for making such a stupid decision when all she wanted to do was to find him.
And it's not fair and she wants to scream and cry but she just... doesn't have the strength for it. So she squashes it down, eyes fluttering as she swallows dryly. ]
Mr Goodsir disappeared. [ He might not know, she realises. If he just got back, then maybe Tim won't know he's gone. ]
Everyone kept going out looking. But they'd come back he wasn't with them. I had to try myself.
[ Followed her fragile, faded string out into the wilds. And now that's disappeared too, and she's robbed of the last thing she had of him. ]
He's gone. [ Where do they go? The ones who disappear? No one says that part out loud. ] Probably back home. He's dead.
no subject
Girls are just like that sometimes, Tim figures, because he watches the two scenes play out concurrently from where he's standing. He peels his gloves off and sheds his big jacket; Kate is silent for a while but she isn't quiet. Not to someone who is looking for the signs of-- and there it is, that wretched thing.
Heartbreak. Grief.
Tim finds his mouth go dry, even when he has his mouth shape the name: Goodsir...?
No-- but yes, actually, and more likely than Tim would want to think. He had vomited when he had (not) found Damian. And now, Tim feels his legs grow weak again. There's no tremor to his hands that isn't there because of the cold but Tim feels wrong for knowing it exists anyway. And then, very predictably, he feels wrong for feeling wrong because of it. Like something broken, he now thinks there should be a level of stoicism when facing the inevitable of--]
Kate, I'm going to sit next to you.
[He doesn't know if it is or isn't okay, to take space up on her bed. He remembers that one time-- she had a nosebleed-- the cot at the Community Center. How scared she had been, believing he hadn't seen. But it's not a thing that Tim can control, not within her. Not now.
He moves light despite the heaviness- he's not supposed to exist in this room and especially not in this proximity. Then he sits- to Kate's left, elbows on his knees, and he looks to the Dog.
Dog, who lost her person and who doesn't know how not to be a wild wolf. She turns her head and looks up. Past Tim. Toward Kate.
She knows loss, too.
He doesn't point out that, well, yes. The Victorians are all probably dead.
Stunned at losing a friend, he opens and closes his right hand.] He set my arm when it was broken. We spoke a few times. In the church. [Like it helps him make his case that-] I'm sorry.
cw: cannibalism reference
There's a tight, wet swallow and her eyes flutter as she nods. Understanding, acknowledgement. But she doesn't really care all that much. It's fine, whatever. He can sit next to her if he wants.
She flits between something hollow, scraped raw and a overwhelming swell — like a levy about to break but never quite managing. Both feel numbing and she's so tired with it all. She's so tired of living in nightmares.
Tired of living with horror—
Harry Goodsir is a good man. Was a good man. Did they even have the decency to bury him once they were done picking him clean?
Kate listens, still quiet. She stays quiet for a long time after Tim's finished speaking. ]
... I used to think this place was Hell. And it made sense, considering. For him to be here, for me to be here. [ Sometimes she wonders if she already did it and she doesn't remember it. Like she blocked it out somehow. She's already dead, by her own choice. And where else would she go?
But sometimes she doesn't really know for sure. ]
I was wrong. It's not Hell. I don't know what this place is. Sometimes it feels like it's worse than that.
cw: religion bashing
Goodsir is a good man. [Almost comical to be saying so through the low hiss of grit teeth- a challenge that will go unheard by the One that Tim dares defy-- Kate knows why she said what she did, but Tim is coming up empty.
It's bad enough to need to mourn- grief steals from the physical body in ways only some children might not know. But Tim had thought he'd be a steadfast presence. Something (someone) that he wasnt ever given when the hurt was fresh and the wound was raw- still bleeding. Tim, fearing a misunderstanding, which has got to be a first for him, unfurls his fists.]
We wouldn't know half of what we do about how this world works without his help. The first thing he did was ask for help in setting up his clinic. For everyone. Not just for the people he was friends with.
[Which more than what Tim can say for this man who Kate woke everyone up on Christmas Day singing praises for. But this isn't Kate's fault- it's a faulty, ancient, human thing. To want punishment, penitence.
Tim's seen the same in B--
he turns to her.
Gives her aching body a small shake, hand on her shoulder. She's not allowed to tune him out, the way he had tuned out Dick's voicemails. She gets a real person by her side. Flawed as he may be.
There's panic in his voice- Tim is a computer of sorts- even without meaning to, the questions in his mind turn and churn and his purpose is to find answers. And he thinks-- maybe he's found one.
For the sake of annoying her, he shifts around until one leg is crossed under him on the bed. He paws at her shoulder again. Voice sour, whispered.]
You've done everything you can to bring him back safe. You're always helping others. It's a part of you now. You're a part of so many people here.
Nobody knows what this place is. [It's Canada.] But it would be so much worse without you.
It's not Hell. Neither of you are going to Hell.
cw: suicide ideation; outright suicidal intent
[ He was dying. That's what he'd told her. Even amongst the sorrow and the guilt for having her find out (he'd never meant for her to), he'd given his reasons. I had ... I had very few choices. As good as none. And he'd believed she had more choices than him.
It was before she had that binder turn up. It was before Harry Goodsir had disappeared into nothing, and all the searching in the world couldn't find him. The words were easier, back then. More easy to believe. Hopeful. Harry didn't know the full story. She never got to tell him, couldn't bring herself to. And now he's gone, and he's dead — nothing more than bones on the shale. He was worth so much more than that.
Even the dead don't know peace, not with those choices. And yet sometimes it feels like a risk she's willing to take. What's Hell when you already live it?
Tim's shaking her shoulder and she doesn't react. And he's telling her things, things she's heard before. Lieutenant Little told her about how much worse she has, how much joy and warmth she brings. How the mornings, still in the Community Hall, when she'd play her violin were the best moments of his day.
All of that, and for what? Harry Goodsir did so much good and he still went back and now he's dead. All of the good she does, and—
Tim shakes her again, insistent. Kate's eyes close. ]
What's it matter? I'm still going to kill myself when I get home.
[ Just a few more minutes and then it'd be over. ]
cw suicide, depression, parenting the parents, general grief
Scared because his dad was dead and he had heard him die and had seen him dead and he hadn't known what to do- Dana had been crying, so Tim tells himself this isn't the same. Kate is talking. She's aware of what she's saying and not doing. Tim tells himself this isn't the same.
He's already seen people die and he's already seen dead people- in greater numbers than he would have imagined. He's sat next to a man who was going to jump. And even back then, Tim had known- he can't stop-
he can't stop-
his breath catches in his chest and it's a testament to the self-sabotage called self-control that he swallows down the fear instead of crying out because of it. It's black and it crawls out of everyone he's loved and everyone he hasn't, and there's no stopping it.
His fingers had found her hair,
brushed away a stray blonde few from her face. That was before Tim had remembered being all alone, before he had fallen into the nothingness that feels like the promise that he can never save the people who matter to him the most.
Please-- but Tim can't hear himself. He thinks this is a panic attack because he can't feel anything but the way his heart skips, and it's an uncomfortable and unwelcome reminder that he's alive.
She's closed her eyes.
The pretty girl he kissed not too long ago.
Sometimes, when people die, they look--]
Please don't.
[In some forms of Christianity, suicide is--
Tim can't do anything but be afraid. As afraid as someone who has never seen this before, who has never been able to comprehend this before, who has never been so alone through this before.
He remembers Steph, the girl he loves, and how she had-
and Tim, like a kid who's never had to be alone, throws himself at her.
She's there, still. Her soul. And her body is-- cool, not as warm as it ought to be under so many blankets--
he's scared that--
he holds on because if he isn't grasping at her body, at her back and shoulders and neck, she's never going to be warm again. (His face is an ashen red, not from agitation for his neediness and selfishness but because if he cries out he's going to shout because of the hurt, the pain that is so new despite him knowing it so well, and Kate's never wanted him to-- be loud and--)]
Please.
[Against her blankets, Tim can remember- the training, the logic, how he shouldn't be adding pressure... and he shudders, because it's what his mind latched on to and because he can't do anything else but beg in callused desperation,] I lost my little brother, and my d- and Bruce is gone now too, and I... Kate. [This is everything he's not supposed to do.
So Tim lifts his head and a hand and he braces for a kick or maybe even a shooting, if one of the men wander in and find him all but smothering her with this ill attention; he finds her hair. Cards his fingers through it.
Like that'll help.] Kate.
[His voice is too small, Tim thinks. Not his own.] Kate, no one's going to hurt you again. [In his fear, a stupid thing to promise.
Tim remembers the promise he got, and how it only ever stayed said.
He won't only say the words. He'll keep the promise. He'll...] I promise. I mean it. I promise.
cw: continued discussion of suicide; being roofied; kate's dark room experience; bullying
She wasn't supposed to find out how Harry Goodsir died. She keeps the word he said close to her heart, too: mamianaq. It's such a heavy word, even if she doesn't understand the language — she feels the word. Harry Goodsir did so much good in this place, but now he's gone. Now he's gone, and—
Tim's throwing himself at her and she visibly jumps, body tense and stiff. Her face scrunches up, eyes squeezing tight enough she can see speckles of stars in the blackness she creates. She hates it. She hates how it causes so much pain, because she can never keep it to herself. It always hurts everyone else around her.
She hurt her family, her dad—
please, Tim begs.
mamianaq, Kate thinks.
She doesn't kick him. She's a tight ball of nerves and sorrow. She doesn't kick him, doesn't shove him away or yell at him to get off of her. He's reaching for her, his fingers through her hair. She's sorry. She's tired, and she's sorry. ]
What if it's too late? What if it doesn't matter? They already hurt me.
[ Hurt enough, hurt too much. Promises of never being hurt again don't matter when someone's been hurt too much. But he's still promising, he means it. And it's— it's so sweet it makes her heart swell. But even Kate knows it's a promise that can't be kept. ]
I tried— I tried to ask. [ For help. For someone to believe her. No one believed her. They only saw what they saw and they laughed. Like she wasn't even a person to them. ] My teacher called me brittle, he said to 'stop with the martyr crap'.
[ It's the last thing she's ever going to remember, she realises. If she leaves this place and goes home. If she goes home, she won't remember Tim's promise that no one'll ever hurt her again. It'll be accused of brittleness and martyrdom. ]
I just wanted to make friends. I went to that stupid party because I thought it's a new school and maybe I could make some friends. [ She didn't want to tell him. She didn't want Tim to know because she doesn't want to know how he's going to look at her afterwards. But her mouth keeps moving and the words keep pouring out. ]
And they put something in my drink and filmed what I did and put it online.
[ If she doesn't open her eyes, she doesn't have to see him. ]
And when I got sick and dizzy, Nathan said he'd take me to the hospital but he didn't. He hurt me and now there's photos of me— they tied me up and did what they wanted and they took photos.
[ Somehow he knows, somehow he knows what's hidden under her bed and she doesn't know how. Part of her's scared he's looked at them. But if she keeps her eyes closed because that way she doesn't have to see how Tim's face looks. ]
I woke up outside my dorm room and I felt so gross, and no one believes me and they just keep hurting me and I don't know why— [ She bites down, grits her teeth. Tries to hold back the tears and the sob that bubbles up from her chest. She shakes, fights it back. Rage and sorrow with nowhere to go. She just wants to sleep forever. ] I was about to do it, before I got here. I was going to the roof.
If Harry went back, he still dies. If I go back I still die, too.
no subject
Was the school a lottery?
Tim brushes aside the white-hot rage like he does the fact that he's made her uncomfortable with touch. She's moving. And talking. And Tim is as well. Talking in low murmurs, at an even pitch and pace. Just to fill in silence.
Silence is nothing, and Nothing is the enemy. Nothing and darkness are things that breed with time. Tim swallows thick, and doesn't stall the touch.] Everything is competitive. And... you were new. You must have worked so hard for the chance to even be there and you wanted to make new friends. There's nothing wrong with that. You didn't do anything wrong. [He would have done the same, he wants to say. Had done. Several times over, never staying in one campus for longer than a single semester.
It can all backfire so easily when someone interjects an I when all you feel like doing is never waking up.
His heart breaks, and so Tim knows he has one still. He never thought he'd be robbed of the words I've got you. But that's just another thing of many that Batman won't let him do now. Tim feels distinctly here and not; he combs her hair back again, and this time he makes himself sit. Now he's close to her but not on her, and Tim doesn't let his hands rest.
He can do a 3-strand braid.
With a section of her hair, he begins.
It's about division. Dividing segments of hair, coaxing strands out from under her weight. Dividing the hate of them all, of all the people he knows and wants dead and the ones he doesn't. Dividing victories in small, minuscule things- Kate is alive, not dead. Fact. She's not dead.
Yet.
This can't be happening.]
You never did anything wrong, Kate. And evil people still hurt you. You can cry. It's okay to cry.
[It's not the thing he means to say but apart from wanting to sink into the pillowtop of the bedding, like he had so many years ago with no one's arms around him, it's the only thing that springs to mind. Not the words, but (again) the need to speak. Speaking feels like tasting broken glass, and like hot smoke choking him when he tasted fire, and was alone. No. That's his thought: No... it is happening.] I hate them, Kate. I hate all of them.
They hurt people just because they can. They drugged and used you. They're bastards. They're cowards.
[ I'll kill them.]
But you... look at you. Look at everything that you've done. So many people whose lives you've been a part of. Who you've helped survive despite everything.
[The cold.
The dark.
The evil.
Tim wets his lips. He can't breathe. But he goes on. Thinks he has...
a terrible idea of how to braid hair, actually...]
There's people who believe you. Who hate what happened... and what happens to good people.
We can find them.
[There's... good people. And there's a roaring, desolate rage against injustice. And... and another dip of her bed that she's bound to feel, eyes screwed shut or otherwise. Damian's wolfdog, the girl dog, leaping on with a grace that's nearly inconceivable with her size, the size of the paws she arranges under herself to keep from stepping on anyone else.
To Tim, a sign to stop his playing with Kate's hair. To Tim, a reminder that-- if Damian's not dead yet he will be soon- their job is to die so others can live- ] You know I [--god damn it, dog-] Dog- Dog, get down-- [but despite his fingers on her scruff, the pup lowers her head and curls herself into a ball somewhere around Kate's midsection.
Tim breathes out- hot and short and only once.
Another failure come to gloat.]
no subject
[ She thought a lot of things. She'd been so excited to be accepted, so excited to do something new. Make friends, learn at such a prestigious place like Blackwell. Kate exhales sharply, shaking her head into the pillow. It's stupid, it feels so stupid. She was so stupid.
She was lonely. And it only made her feel more alone, wondering what she'd done wrong to deserve it.
Tim says she didn't do anything wrong. She really wants to believe it, and sometimes she does. But sometimes she can't help but wonder what she did. He never asks more than one can bear. But why does this always feel like it's too much to bear?
But Tim's shifting around her, moving off of her. His fingers are still in her hair. She doesn't remember the last time someone played with her. Or she can't think of who it was. Was it her mother? Her sisters? That would be so long ago now. Maybe Wynonna? Threading her fingers through her hair, scrunching her nose up and pressing a kiss to her head. She isn't sure, like she can't pull up the memory of it.
It gives her shivers, those weird little tingles that aren't totally unpleasant. It makes her face scrunch up less, her breaths shaky as she's trying to work out what he's doing.
He's— braiding. Her hair. ]
They're not worth the hate. [ Her words are soft. ] It just makes you tired. I want Nathan punished for what he did, but I'm just— I'm so tired of it. I'm so tired of crying. Of... everything.
[ It feels like such a strange thing. He says he hates them, and she knows he means it. And meanwhile he's coaxing her hair back, pulling and turning it one way then another as he weaves the braid. It's not fair— ]
I wish people back home could believe me. It's like in this place, it's everything I wished I could have had back home. [ It's not fair. She has friends. People who treat her kindly, gently. ] I told Lieutenant Little when he stopped me jumping from the Basin. I told Wynonna when we ended up in like... I don't know. A memory of the party. They believed me, without question.
[ Tim believes her, too. Tim's not even an adult, either. Tim's her own age. He believes her. Tim treats her gently. He's braiding her hair and his kisses are patient and gentle—
It's not Merry that jumps on the bed and curls up beside her, but the other dog she doesn't know. A second wolf-pup that Tim's ended up in her room with. She's soft and warm against her, but Kate still feels cold. She's too scared to open her eyes. ]
I'm sorry. I didn't want you to know. [ Her inhale catches with a sob. She can't take it back now. ] I didn't wanna burden you with it, or— I didn't want anything to be different if you knew.
I'm sorry.
no subject
he'll fix it.
Your parents must have been so proud of you- but he doesn't know. In his mind, initiative and the maturity to juggle school and her other commitments would make them proud. But he doesn't know.
Hatred, he knows. Anger and how to angle it and spear it right through the guts of waking nightmares.
(If he can keep her talking then she can't die. Because she's talking. Conversing. Horrible logic but logic all the same. And hate, and talking about hate, make her tired.)]
Kate... if Nathan and the people who follow him aren't worth the hate... their actions are. They're not going to stop at you.
[What a terrible thing to say.
Tim, again, only despises men and the thought of them.
Little- and how he had stopped her from ju--
jumping--
Tim hadn't known she had wanted--
the man is spared the loathing. If only because Tim wouldn't know what to do with so much incompetence nagging his every thought all at once and so all of a sudden. So many people who have failed this girl, and one hell of a Savior. It's just not fair.
It's his voice and not; it's low and stern and even a touch gravelly. There's hate in it. A tempered, protective sort.
The girl he loves is crying and has every right to be so brokenhearted.]
We're going to find people... that will help you. That will believe you. [Her folder-
the pictures-
the process.]
You already... [He's no good at this, Tim figures. Her 3-strand braid now has 5 strands woven together. A goddamn mess. He's...] Kate, don't you see? You're not alone. Not here. Not back home. [...trying.] It's not about your word versus the word of that scum. You have proof. Of a crime. Against you. You're tired. You've been through so much. And none of it is your fault. There are people who won't stand for it. So you can rest. So you can heal. So they won't hurt women like this again.
no subject
Her father— she has the postcard here. It's in a desk drawer: Katie, you'll always be my brightest light against the dark. Hugs n' love, Pop. She hurt him so much it makes her want to scream. ]
You don't know Nathan. [ And she's so weary with it, even as the disgust curls bitterly around in her stomach. ] His family practically owns the town. Owns the school. People like Nathan Prescott get away with anything.
[ To Nathan's family, Kate is a problem. An inconvenience. Something to be made to go away. Nathan isn't shy about voicing how his dad owns Arcadia Bay, and how that makes him untouchable. She'd gone to the police, like Max had agreed with her — and even if she'd felt better saying something... she knows fine well it's going to be nothing in the face of it all.
She wants to believe it, she really does. But it all feels so hopeless. It won't even matter. What if she doesn't remember? What if she ends up back home and she doesn't remember any of this? Or she goes home and she doesn't take it with her? Harry left everything behind, his home and clinic left untouched.
But Tim's trying. He really is. Like he knows what he's talking about, has to confidence to say it, the way to explain it in a way she couldn't. Like he's fighting for her, trying to. It makes her heart ache in an odd way, and she inhales shakily.
This place has people who would fight for her. She can't say the same for back home, no matter what Tim says. It's not fair. ]
I wish... if I went home— you could come with me.
no subject
[And he'll laugh that airy, fleeting high society laugh at someone who brags that their family owns one school. One town, off in some hidden and small West Coast corner of their country. He'll laugh at how pathetic it is.
And that night he'll break every one of Nathan Prescott's teeth, and it'll be unfortunate that no one will ever know how it happened. But knowing it sounds strange and faraway and knowing he can ask Booster Gold- Zatanna- Flash-- one of those fucking Time Lords a favor- Tim sighs out a shaky breath.] You might have to wait for me. But I'll go.
[Who can say what happens after the Aurora eats them, only that their bodies aren't left behind like when the Darkwalker does the same.
Tim abandons his work of her hair.
He doesn't know what to do.
He's fallen with every intention to hit cold solid ground, too.]
I want you to know it's okay to be tired. To have other people fight against what's wrong. I'll do it. But I know there's others who will do the same. You're worth fighting for, Kate. [The back of his hand brushes against her cheek and she's still cold and he still hasn't seen her eyes.
Irrational, Tim wonders if she's already gone.
Then--] You've fought for others.
[And,] I'll be here. Girl- the dog... Kate, do you want me to find you another blanket? The dog's not moving. She won't hurt you but she doesn't like me. I don't want to move her again. [--] I'll be here, though. It's- it's not bad. To learn about the people you love.
no subject
[ It's bittersweet. He'll come with her, but she'll have to wait. She doesn't know if she has enough time. But that part goes unsaid.
It's okay to be tired, to let others fight for her. It's a strange feeling, knowing he and others would fight for her when no one would fight for her back home. She never wanted any of this, though. The fact that people have to fight for her.
Tim's hand is warm against her cheek.
Her hand shifts, and she reaches until her fingers find fur — the strange mix of soft and coarse that's just like Merry's. Pale like Merry, too. But with smudges of grey, compared to her brother's soft biscuit colouring that covers most of his coat. She's careful with her touch, doesn't push too far — the gentlest of acknowledgements. ]
She's a good girl.
[ She doesn't know where she's come from, or how Tim ends up with random wolf-pups from Diefenbaker and Scout's litter. At this point, she doesn't know if she wants to ask but just... well, it just is what it is. She's okay with the dog not moving. Merry's close by. He doesn't jump on the bed, but he wanders over and lifts his head to rest it upon the mattress — staring carefully at Kate with big eyes.
It's- it's not bad. To learn about the people you love.
Her eyes open, but for a long moment she doesn't breathe. She's frozen for a long moment, just staring off into space with parted lips as if she's trying to work out what he's said. How to— process. She inhales, exhales. Staggered, unsteady. Her expression working through it. Did he just— ]
Tim— [ She turns her head a fraction, not to look at him directly — it'll give them both away if she looks at him. Did he just admit he—
She doesn't know what her heart or her mind's doing right now. There's a long silence, like she doesn't want to say something and mess it up. But she's said something and she works her jaw— ]
Can— can you lie with me? I don't want another blanket, I— [ Her chest feels too full, and she's fighting to get words out. ] I just want—
[ You. ]
For a little while.
no subject
his hands aren't wandering.
His heart's in his throat and to lie down makes him want to move away. But Girl Dog's ears are soft, and Tim boops her nose, and Girl doesn't snap at his hand. She's a good dog.]
I'll find you. [The truth, difficult and thorny, in this moment is easy to handle.] I work... with teams of detectives. It's what I do. [--] You know. [A clumsy attempt at levity:] In my free time.
[He'll continue burning that candle at both ends. When had he stopped caring about being reduced to a puddle instead of burning bright? Tim blanks at the answer, so it can't have been important anyway.
He lays his head on one arm, bent up over one pillow. The hand that had been fluttering across Girl (and poking at Merry too) retreats. Tim finds a soft grip on the comforter and pulls it a little higher over Kate. She's so cold.
He needs to get someone, he realizes. He should have listened and left- and fetched Wynonna from somewhere in this cabin or even one of the men- (no).
Girl Dog buries her nose in the crook of Kate's elbow, apparently feeling a little cold too. Tim, miserable and idiotic, points out bluntly,] I don't know her name. I called her Dog. But then I learned she was a girl.
So I've been calling her Girl Dog.
no subject
You're so— [ She isn't sure what word to use. For a long time there's silence, and she's frowning as she stares off for a long moment. ] I don't know. ... Different. Like your life's a whole bunch of different pieces of a patchwork quilt.
[ Arranged in a pattern that doesn't make sense to her. The things she's learned about him, all the different pieces. But maybe that's on her. They might make sense to him, they just don't always make sense to her. Evil men in another country. Teams of detectives. The Neon Knights. Being brave enough to go running into burning houses where the flames are just an illusion.
It's no wonder she always had such a hard time trying to understand him. But that's just— Tim. That's who he is. And she's probably a patchwork quilt of her own, just as difficult for him to piece together and make sense of. It's not a bad thing.
She's cold, but Tim's warm. The blanket and the wolf-dog curled in beside her are both warm. She reaches for the dog again, her fingers gently brushing against her muzzle (Merry huffs a little, his tail wagging at Tim's fussing). ]
You can't just... call her 'Girl Dog', she needs a real name.
[ Sure, she's one of Merry's littermates, but she isn't sure just who she belongs to. Like when Tim brought another one of the wolf-dogs to her room, the night they— ]
Who's dog is she?
no subject
Chaotic, broken lives.
Yeah, Tim means to convey with the matching silence. It drives him crazy too. Life and how hectic it is and how many people are in it, and how he's past the point of being a boy- past having the ability to ask for another road to take.
Girl Dog lifts her head. In Tim's uneducated opinion, she's more wolf than dog in a way that defies the pedigree percentages. No doubt that's why the Prince chose her, picked her out of the litter.] Huh?
[Tim had thought he'd told her.
But thinking back, his- everything had been sloppy, hurried and incomplete. With the mortification of damning the family he loves (and hates), Tim makes the choice to keep Kate-- here. Here, where her body now is next to his. Connected, kind of. Not away.]
My little brother's.
[The words are rough. Not because of sentiment. Because of disuse. They're foreign.
Yeah, Tim hates how complicated everything had to become too.
If he were whole... he would have loved a brother, of course. An imp of a little brother. Tim swallows, and explains the wolf on her bed.]
He probably had a... an important name for her. Something pretty. I don't know.
[Something Arabic, maybe. Elegant but strong.
Tim defends himself by mumbling,]
Siblings, huh. Always picking up after'm.
no subject
He'd said it, she didn't register it, in amongst all the mess of everything else: Tim's babbling, her sorrow and just wanting to disappear. As much as she wants to disappear, she still cares. Maybe just not so much about herself.
That's her all over, isn't it? Feeling and unfeeling. Sick and tired of everything, and yet she still cares about others.
Tim lost a brother. Kate did too.
It's hard to define what Harry Goodsir was to her, but brother might have been close to it. She never had a brother before. ]
You... you didn't say you had a brother here.
[ Never told her. There was one here. Specifically. She peers at him over her shoulder, back twisting towards him to look at him as much as she can without disturbing the wolf-dog.
Her face is red and tear-stained. She looks tired. She is tired.
She doesn't know what to say. Except— ]
I'm sorry.
— he has thrown down the cavalry / john irving
[ Kate knows she was stupid to go off into the woods by herself. She knows it was reckless and dangerous and desperate. But she was desperate. Days of fruitless searching, no sign of Harry Goodsir and an endless silence whenever she tries to call out to him — a very particular kind of horror she can't seem to put words to.
She takes any scolding and chastisement, mild as it often is with the Lieutenants. Swallows it with slow nods and half-murmured apologies, unable to look anyone in the eye. When she's well enough to get out of bed, the sombreness hangs off her like an old friend.
Days are spent bundled beneath blankets and wrapped in layers, trying to fight off a kind of cold that won't seem to melt from her bones. Not even Merry's warm fur can help fight the ice. Her limbs feel stiff and heavy— the joints filled with frozen glass. She doesn't complain, she doesn't say much.
The fire is low for the night, but it's still burning. The cabin is still, and the threads at her fingers are beginning to wane. Grief is a suffocating thing, and a painful reminder of the price of surviving. She can still smell medicinal herbs when she concentrates on it hard enough.
She didn't get to say goodbye.
(Did he write a note? Who would have been there to read it? Anyone that cared? God forbid Mr Hickey would get his hands on such a thing.)
Kate didn't write a note either. No one will get to say goodbye to her, either.
There's movement, but she doesn't turn around. She's used to the sounds of the two Lieutenants by now, all those nights Tim would sneak in her room and she'd wait and listen for their noises. Lieutenant Little's footfalls are heavier, a little slower. She realises with a slow inhale: Lieutenant Irving. ]
I just wanted to stay by the fire a little longer.
no subject
Not that it's even all that terribly late yet, but seeing Kate out of bed at all is surprising, never mind the time. A good thing, Irving thinks; perhaps even a sign that she's making progress.
Irving and Kate simply aren't nearly as close as she is with either Little or Wynonna, so he's mostly been trying to give her plenty of space and privacy to convalesce in while assuming the other two have already been dutifully attending to whatever emotional support she needs. After all, what else can he even do for her at this time, except make sure that she has plenty of warm blankets and hot tea, hot meals, and even hot water should she fancy soaking in a steaming tub for an hour or so?
Well, and spare her the various safety lectures about running off alone into the woods during wintertime in the Arctic. Frustrating as it is that this happened at all, Kate's a smart enough girl; he can envision her simply nodding numbly and shutting down any further efforts at making conversation with her wall of silence if he so much as made the most gentle of attempts at scolding her for putting herself at risk in such a foolhardy manner, so he hasn't bothered trying. ]
Perfectly understandable, of course, [ he says, looking over at her in acknowledgement. ] You need not explain yourself.
no subject
It's like none of them can sleep in this place. Even when Tim Drake comes sneaking in through her bedroom window and silently throws himself into Merry's bed on the floor, she'll listen to him gently snore into the night for a while until she finally finds sleep herself. It'd be funny, if it weren't so awful.
Small talk feels like such... bullshit. But the silence is much worse. ]
... I get it now. [ It's so quiet. She knew it in the first place, but she just didn't want to believe it. She knows what it means. And she knows, she realises, of all people, John Irving might know it too. ] He's gone.
I can't hear him anymore, and he can't hear me either. There's just... nothing.
[ Not the thread between them. In whatever connection they shared through their powers to speak to one another in their minds — there's only empty, endless silence. ]
no subject
He slowly lets out a breath, at a loss of what to do or what to say now. Although he hadn't known Goodsir all that well, the absence hits hard, even for him. Knowing what a genuinely good, kind man Goodsir is, and had been, and then the blood-chilling terror of the wretched unknown, the not knowing what's to become of him or his soul now.
Perhaps God forgave him after all, he thinks. And he's begun his ascent upward towards Paradise Eternal. ]
I... wasn't aware that the two of you had been quite so closely acquainted, [ he says finally, softly. ] My condolences, Miss Marsh.
no subject
He felt like family. We arrived in this place the same day.
[ The second thing he says makes her pause again, and she sits with it, mulling it over. She wrings her hands. They feel cold, not even helped by blankets or the fire. ]
... Condolences are for the dead. [ Her voice is quiet as she says it. ] You know what happens to him, right?
no subject
The loss is devastating beyond words, almost beyond comprehension, a tragedy compounded by the pure wrongness of Irving having apparently somehow... survived the other man now, something that is not only deeply, profoundly wrong, but also impossible in nearly every sense of the word. Life keeps happening out of order in this place, like a train moving in all directions without any regard to either tracks nor schedule.
He hesitates, but then solemnly bows his head in a nod. ]
I was there when he confessed it.
[ At the meeting Crozier had organized, that is. Irving breathes out slowly, a pounding ache beginning to build and throb at his temples. More quietly, he adds: ]
Not one of us survived what happened in the end, Miss Marsh.
no subject
... I found out by accident. He didn't mean for me to find out. [ Both of them had gotten the same power. The one where they can speak their thoughts without speaking. It was so new to them both, neither of them had meant for them to reveal their horrible ends to one another. ] He was so sorry. Mamianaq.
[ She doesn't realise she's crying, tears pooling at her eyes and making tracks down her cheeks — soft glints in the low fire light. Not one of us survived what happened in the end. Maybe some part of her's always known, as much as she didn't want to believe it. That's the reality of it. Starving men, poisoned and sick and marching through a part of the world without mercy. She still... held out on hope that maybe there was a way, maybe some of them would make it home again. That even though the situation was so dire, maybe by some miracle some of them would survive it. ]
Not even Lieutenant Little?
[ It's hushed and she inhales through her nose — sniffling a little. She nods, the pain of it makes her sick. She wants to scream, but she doesn't think any sound would come out even if she did.
Her head shifts, and she looks up to him. Not, not even Edward Little. Not John Irving, either. ]
Those marks. The ones I couldn't fix, last year. That's what happened to you. That's how you died.
no subject
Or even to just merely think them makes it suddenly all too overwhelmingly, apocalyptically real, as if by ever allowing himself to at last truly accept what happened to him will be what finally seals his fate with a permanent finality.
Avoidance, yes, if not quite denial, exactly... but the fact is, certain truths can simply be ruinous beyond all belief to finally consider confronting for good. ]
I... can't rightfully say what became of Lieutenant Little.
[ Other than the obvious, that is, which is that he ended up dead like all the rest of them. Irving hadn't been there, obviously he couldn't have been there, although in this case he nonetheless still feels like he should have been; simply knowing the outcome is different from having actually lived it, but without living it, any attempts to process either the information or the emotional turbulence that goes hand-in-hand with it ring hollow, like a sour piano note.
He falls quiet again, then reluctantly he nods. ]
They've all gone now, though, if it's of any consolation— the, er... t-the markings.
no subject
But they still happened. Someone did that to you. [ And she knows what that means. Those kinds of injuries aren't the kind you recover from. Not in his time, not in his circumstances. Maybe not even in her time either. ]
People didn't just die of Lead Poisoning or Scurvy or starvation. They didn't just die because of the fire. [ Hickey had told her about that one, back at the party they had for the last sunset of the year. He told her there's been a fire. People die in fires, she's not so naïve enough to think otherwise. ]
Someone did that to you on purpose.
no subject
So strange to actually hear someone put it to him so plainly at last, when the majority of Irving's cohort seems to have intuited for themselves his desperate avoidance of the subject— and in doing so, also become complicit in his silent refusal to truly accept all that's happened in order to stop it from feeling any more real.
But it is real, and perhaps now it's high-time for him to finally stop putting off having to face it. Hearing Kate list out the more common causes of expedition deaths and then finish with, 'Someone did that to you on purpose' make him realize that, yes, his death was different from most of the rest; unique, opportunistic, and personal. Before now he'd never really thought about it in those terms, exactly, even when he couldn't avoid thinking about it at all. ]
Yes, [ he acknowledges finally, speaking softly and slowly. ] Desperation is yet another killer of men just as much as disease can be.
[ Although he doesn't really believe that's completely true of Hickey... that it would require desperation to make him kill, that is. However, Kate is probably better off being spared the details; if he named Hickey as his killer, God only knows what she might want to do with that information— and, in turn, what Hickey might then want to do to either of them. ]
Though disease is a much slower and more painful way to end.
— don't let this darkness fool you / edward little
[ Sombreness lingers throughout the month of February. Even with the threads at their fingers slowly beginning to fade as the months goes on, there's a quiet kind of sadness that radiates from her. It came from desperation, at first. Disbelief and hopefulness that Harry Goodsir would be found. As the days pass, it melts into grief and horror and knowing.
But it's so quiet, even distant, ever since she ran off into the woods to find him herself and came back with Constable Fraser, half-frozen and unable to look anyone in the eye. A few days in bed and plenty of hot tea and cocoa get her over the worse of the hypothermia, but that quietness remains. It's been a while since this kind of sadness has hung over her.
The cold has lingered, though. She doesn't complain, but it's there in her face, in her body. The way she hunches, how she walks a little stiffly around the house. How she keeps close to the fire, bundles up in layers of clothing and keeps Merry close to her at all times. Not a shivering kind of cold, but a bitter kind of heaviness in her limbs, like it's exhausting trying to stay upright.
(She insists she's fine, just tired. Just recovering from the cold.)
When she first notices the frosted blue to her skin, she doesn't cry out, doesn't panic, doesn't... say anything. Kate keeps her skin covered, tries to keep herself warm — gloves on her hands at all times. It's been slowly creeping up her fingers, into her palms, wrists and then arms. The same with her toes, shifting upwards — reaching towards her middle. Her movements become more rigid, like she's holding her muscles too tightly.
Clumsiness comes soon afterwards. The smaller things get more difficult. Holding things, curling her hands into fists. She isn't the most animated of people, by any means, but even for Kate — things seem to slow, become small.
(She doesn't say anything.)
She's making herself tea one pale afternoon. More light in the sky means more sun to warm the frozen earth. She doesn't feel any warmer. When she reaches for a mug, her fingers struggle to grasp it properly and it slips from the cupboard onto the countertop below — shattering and spilling broken china across the surface and onto the floor. ]
... I got it.
[ Even through the thin wool of her gloves, it catches her. She reaches for a shard in attempt to clean up and feels a sting through the fabric. Kate exhales sharply, eyelids fluttering as if in a dream — she can't snatch her hand away quick enough on the reflex, strange tense fingers with blood slowly soaking through the pad of her palm near her forefinger.
The tell-tale of ice-blue skin peeks out from the wool. Kate stares. Even the pain feels oddly distant. ]
no subject
First it's an absence, a disappearance — and such a thing happens here, people suddenly vanish, but it's the first time it's happened to one of the men from the Expedition. Still, it's something that can possibly be resolved, remedied, at least to Little's heart. It's an absence, a disappearance, which means there's a chance Goodsir could be found.
Edward spares no second in searching. He roams the town, asks anyone he can about the last time they'd spoken to Goodsir, and then heads out further. He searches the woods, the outskirts, and then beyond. Threats of the phantom beast keep him unshakably nervous and wary, but he travels in wolf form for most of it, and for a longer stint out to Lakeside, with Wynonna.
They don't find him. No one does, even though many try, and the words absence and disappearance begin to shift to another, one that's more final, more permanent. Gone. He's gone.
It guts him, reaches its hands into him and scoops everything out, leaving Edward hollowed-out except for the harrowed pounding of his heart, as though it's the only organ he has left, and it feels everything too much, too raw. It hurts, but even now, some part of him still struggles against accepting the fact to be true. Accepting 'gone'. (He'd failed him once before, and that man had suffered in unspeakable ways, and he can't fail him again, he has to save him, he has to—)
Edward still looks for him, even after most everyone else stops. It becomes foolish, he knows, but he continues to check cellars and sheds and the Basin and anywhere at all, during any opportunity he has.
And he wonders, constantly, whether Goodsir has returned to that moment in time from which he came — the moment of his death. Or whether he's been damned to another point in it, or to somewhere else entirely. The not-knowing is unbearable.
The effect it has on Kate is another horror. After she returns from the woods — in such a severe state that Edward almost comes undone, swept in a flurry of alarm and distress, and having spent the past days hovering worriedly around to help John with her recovery — she continues to be... unwell. She moves through the house like a ghost, so quiet and withdrawn into herself, and Edward doesn't know how to help her, though he doesn't push either, thinks it's a deep, deep melancholy the poor girl has fallen into after Goodsir's disappearance. Flickers of emotion continue to bubble through the gold thread connecting him to her, even though it's fading now, as though the strings, too, will vanish soon.
Something shatters one day, and Edward comes rushing in from the next room, already ready for the worst, the way he's constantly been these days — his eyes flit to the broken pieces strewn across the floor and then immediately to Kate, who's standing there and staring down at her palm. ]
Are you injured—?
[ He breathes more than asks, some quick, almost violent exhale that seems to take all the life out of his lungs. Edward moves quickly to her, hands lifting but not making contact just yet, only hovering over hers like that for a moment as he stares down. There's blood, not gushing, pooling, but it still sends a sharp hitch through his chest, and Edward's grabbing for a nearby hand towel while one hand moves to her shoulder, gently coaxing her to move forwards with him, towards the sink. His words are polite as ever, but there's no mistaking a certain desperation to them. His heart is pounding. Perhaps it's an extreme reaction, but— she's been so listless and strange these past days, and he's never forgotten other times Kate Marsh has been such things, or the events surrounding those times.
And Harry's gone, Edward couldn't save him this time either, and what if he can't save anyone here, what if they're all doomed to be gone like that, what if she— ]
Here, let me— Please remove your gloves and I'll help you.