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Who: Hickey & OPEN!
What: cave visits, exploring around town, making some booze!
When: through the month of December
Where: in town, Misty Falls Cave.

Content Warnings: Hickey's god complex, animal death & mutilation, usual warnings for the Terror boys (possible talk of body horror, gore, cannibalism, etc.)

in town
Hickey makes a point to be a good neighbor. Moving something? He'll help! Chopping wood? He can help with that as well. The more useful and helpful he is, the more he ingratiates himself with everybody, the more likely he'll have people on his side whenever one of the rest of the crew of the Terror decides to actually say something about what happened back home.

When he goes out to hunt, occasionally he'll return with a rabbit or a ptarmigan, something he'll happily cook up for whoever wants any. This time is different. He's brought back an animal, a rabbit that looks off, burns on the flesh but nothing more. He makes sure to drop it away from his house (we're not going to contaminate the food) before carefully, in the middle of what passes for his yard, Hickey starts to carefully vivisect the rabbit. It's certainly a sight, and he looks up at whoever might be passing or walking by.

"Have you noticed some odd tracks out there? Out in the woods, just outside of town."

Misty Falls Cave
You're exploring the cave. It's dark, cold, there's a moment where you think you might be the only person in here. It's trapped, kept away, a small, solitary place cut off from the rest of the world—

And then you hear a loud "What the hell?!"

It's Cornelius Hickey, further down one of the paths. And he's just run into a dead end. And is very annoyed about that.

closed prompt for March
There's a loud pounding on March's door, the sort of pounding of someone who obviously doesn't really care about things like 'social conventions' or 'the fact that people might be asleep. Hickey continues knocking, but as he does so, he calls out,

"Oi! This is March's place, yeah? I brought some sugar for the alcohol."

Turns out that horrible trip in that cave had some results!

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"Hey, I like that." March means it, too--'to ourselves' is kind of nice, in a shitty way. It's not like they've got anyone else running around to toast anyway.

It's the widened eyes that causes March to half-clap-half-punch Hickey in the shoulder, downing the rest of his in three gulps.

"Everything's fake now, isn't it great?"

"It's...something."

Hickey has no idea if he likes the taste of Tang or not. Naturally, there's only one thing to do about it: he takes another little sip of the drink.

It's...good? He thinks it's good. It might be good. Time for a larger sip.

"There we go." March grins, giving the other a wink.

"I was beginning to think all of you old boat guys couldn't have fun. I'd offer you a cigarette but I ran out."

"Mate, the rest of our old boat guys are odd," Hickey points out, with a little laugh. Because it's true! They're all fuckin' weirdos!

"Crozier's depressed and living off in the woods by himself, Jopson's devoted to Crozier, Goodsir's idea of fun is dissecting some creature, and Little's too devoted to law and order to actually relax for once." Hickey, on the other hand, is relaxing, lounging slightly as he takes another sip of the Tang and vodka mixture.

"We've got some men who actually know how to have fun. It's just that the gods here have chosen all the odd ones."

This is...weird. This guy knows how to relax. Truly, actually relax. March's grin is small but mighty, and after the briefest of thoughts he's grabbing the botttle and jerking a thumb over to the living room. Cozier. Fire, and whatnot. Or there will be, as March sets the bottle down on a little coffee table and starts to putter.

Best cure for a hangover is to drink more and do nothing, right?

"Goodsir's a nice guy," he offers, "maaaybe needs to get a little loose, you're right. He, uh, told me, about how you're from the future."

"Oh yeah?" Hickey asks, keeping it casual but inwardly debating how much he should very quickly lie.

"What'd he say about me?"

"Told me you knew he kicked the bucket." It was probably the weirdest thing he'd ever heard in his life, but that was then and this is now and he's very aware of the not-so-delightful spectrum of bullshit that is the rest of the populace, courtesy of Bigby wolfing out. Willful denial and ignorance can only get you so far.

Booze, though? That helps. He takes another sip.

"Not much else. I thought prying about that sorta shit wasn't really simpatico with a first conversation. Uh. Sorry you had to see your pal go, though. That's rough."

Oh thank God, that's the only thing Goodsir mentioned.

"I wouldn't call us pals," Hickey says, with a little nod. "Still, I can see it's a bit of a waste. Man like that would have done much more good alive."

Not sitting on a cot with his wrists slit, the coward. If you're going to do it to make a point, make a point like a man.

"It's a good thing you're back, right?" He raises his brows.

"The whole gang's back together." March looks pointedly at Hickey, half-singing the next sentence: "The boys are back in town--you gotta be happy about that."

There's a moment where it is very clear that Hickey is not happy about that.

He keeps it to himself, however, shrugging slightly before plastering that smirk of a smile back on his face.

"It certainly is useful to have a familiar face in this new situation, I can say that much."

He-lo.

Even hungover and on his way to getting drunk again--March's true natural cycle--he catches whatever the hell that was before the guy slots a smile right back on his face, detective instincts never fully going away. Maybe March should do something about it. Ask, like, just to sate his curiousity. He is, at his core, a very nosy person. But this is fun and this place is a shithole and he'd selfishly like someone who doesn't (rightfully) think he's an idiot so it isn't just Wynonna.

"Why's your whole crew here, anyway? That's kind of unfair, don't you think?"

"Considering that there were a hundred and fifty odd men at the start of it, five or so isn't really the whole crew." He's just pointing out those basic maths before taking another drink from the vodka-Tang monstrosity.

"But yeah. It's absolutely unfair. Everybody else gets to arrive here by themselves, no baggage over their heads, ready to stake their claim however they want. Me? I've got four or so other blokes, ready to remind everybody of my flaws!"

March's eyes narrow again. Not out of suspicion, but because he has absolutely no clue how many people belong in boats. How many people were on Gilligan's Island, like, six? That's a good frame of reference, right? Except apparently not.

Whatever.

He keeps staring at Hickey, if only because his mental math takes a while, and by the time he mentions flaws March rolls his eyes.

"Everyone's a critic," he laments. "I dig you, man. Even if I don't have anyone from back home. You know I'm pretty sure everyone here thinks I'm an idiot?"

Something about that statement rubs Hickey the wrong way. It's obvious to him March isn't an idiot. If the others can't see this, it's their fault.

"Bugger anyone who thinks that," he says, without hesitation. There's a moment as Hickey finishes off his vodka and Tang before he continues, his bearing one hundred percent a man about to start a story.

"We had a soiree back home while we were stuck in the ice. A carnivale. Dance, drink, costumes, music, all that and more. It was a night where the goal was to have fun. Ask someone here and they'd probably say that the carnivale was useless, why waste all your drink, why spend time setting up a tent for celebration, when you could be doing something else instead? Well they're wrong. Spend all your time focused on survival, you'll work yourself into an early grave. You've got to have a little bit of fun every now and then, just to make all that work worth it."

Hickey gives March a cavalier little shrug before pointing out, "You know that."

March has already decided Hickey's right with the first sentence, but the story seals it--it feels like proof. Something tangible. An excuse, maybe. To those less jaded, a bit of a revelation.

March goes with revelation. He decides Hickey is more than alright, Hickey is more than just a cool cat. Hickey is correct, and March is placing him firmly in the 'will support' camp. There's not a very high number of people on that list--not because March is exclusive, but because he can't be assed to follow through with much.

"Thank you. It's not my fault literally all of my expertise is completely useless here. I mean, you're a Cock Boy, you get it." Wait. "Caulk boy." It's the same pronunciation: the distinction is for March alone.

"I don't--I don't actually know what that is."

Damn straight Hickey is correct. As far as he's concerned, he's always correct. March's words of thanks get a small little nod and a grin of approval. That reaction makes Hickey decide that March is one of his people. He's keeping this man alive come hell or high water.

That being said...

"What, caulk? You use it to help plug up cracks and holes." Which has just made the sentence ten times worse. "Ship like Terror, it bends and shifts with the sea. You'll need someone to patch up the holes to keep it as water-tight as possible."

This is killing him. This is killing him, Hickey going and saying shit like this. He needs a cigarette. He needs something.

"Has anyone told you you're completely fascinating?" He manages. It's very much a good thing in March's book. Whether or not it's a good thing for anyone else? Not his problem.

"I will take that as a compliment," Hickey preens. Because no, nobody's told him that he's completely fascinating. It's usually a lot more along the lines of 'you little creep' or 'what the hell is your damage' than 'you interest me.'

"I'll keep an eye out for more sugar, by the way. As far as I'm concerned? The more alcohol we can make in this place, the better."

"It is a compliment," March assures. "Before here I just dealt with old people and schmucks. Now I deal with emotionally constipated weirdoes. You?" He points as he talks, index finger pointed right between Hickey's eyes. "Are real."

A small pause.

"Who's idea was it for the soiree you guys through, by the way? Is he here?"

"Bloke named James Fitzjames." And no, March, he doesn't know why all the boat weirdos have names like that.

"He's not here. But hell, throwing a soiree can't be hard. You work on the alcohol, I'll work on the food, we can work together for some decorations. Let everybody have a good time."

And keep them off their asses for a little bit. Hickey can't be that weird. March can't be that much of an idiot. Look at that neat party they threw!

March snaps his fingers and points at Hickey right between the eyes, sitting up almost entirely straight.

"You're a genius. I think you're the smartest person here. That's a great idea." He's genuinely sincere.

"Quick question. How long until someone kicks our asses for wasting supplies and time?"

"Get them drunk enough and they'll forget about kicking our asses," Hickey points out, with a shit-eating grin on his face.

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cw: references to suicide

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