MINGLE - Post-Op(era) Recovery

[pumpkinhollow]

On this night we drink to the death of Sorrow.

After the Fall of Efrain With the Prince of Sorrow's Song dead and gone, the opera dissipates, spitting its victims out on the summit of Crane's Ridge where the Dance of Celestine was held some months before. It's getting late, and there is no one yet in town to run the train. Some will brave the trip home simply for the sake of collapsing into their own beds and achieving some sense of normalcy. Others will do so with the hope of returning with help. But many others will simply say "fuck it" and camp out on the mountain, still fitted with extra firewood from the festival and the means to build temporary structures in nearby storage sheds. The journey down will be safer in the morning, and there's solidarity to be had in a cool spring night spent under the stars.

Oh, look, there's even some non-perishable food and wine from the Dance. Combined with what can be hunted or foraged, as well as snacks and drinks stolen from the concession stand, there's plenty to go around. This might even be a little bit fun! Anyone up for another game of Never Have I Ever? Maybe a little Truth or Dare? Or perhaps you just want to chat and unwind with your friends. Whatever the case may be, have fun. This is your time. After darkness, there is a dawn. At the death of Sorrow, there is joy.

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[cyansoldier]

Carolina watches him for some time.

She watches him rip wood panels from their screws with a strength most soldiers dream of. She watches him fashion pain and anger into something productive. Not productive by her own standards— throwing punches until her fists bleed, running laps until her shins splint, festering silently while tasks are completed with an almost frantic quickness— but practical. He gives supplies to those who need it; logs to make fires, blankets to spread out on the cold grass, food and water. Then he gets to building.

She watches him make the shed anew.

It's impressive, really. What he manages to do with so little supplies. Such thin bandwidth. He's in pain, she can see it even from a distance. Her hiding place between trees, arms crossed, back pressed to bark, so very far away.

She watches him sit. Warm his hands by the fire.

And she feels so, so tired.

Rare are those moments she allows herself a true break. Always things to do. Muscles to warm. She could walk home. It wouldn't be hard, even in the dark. She could be back in bed before morning, sprawled out on the ground with her blanket and pillow— more solid than her mattress, and so more ideal for sleeping. Not that she could sleep, even if she wanted to.

Agent Texas. Agent York. They gnaw jagged little edges into her brain; wounds made fresh again from her performances.

She can't sleep. Can't bring herself to walk home, either.

Thinking little of it at first, Carolina peels herself away from between old trees to approach his stupid little hut. She regrets every step. Turn around. Step. Go home. Step. He's got his own problems. Step. He doesn't need yours.

And before she knows it, she's at the foot of his makeshift patio, light and shadow dancing across her face where the fire paints her to its liking. She sits down beside him, drawing her knees to her chest and saying nothing. The fire is nice, at least.

[ihatebabies]

Caboose is aware of her. She's Agent Carolina, she's from home, she's familiar. She's Reds and Blues and Bases and Freelancers and Military. She's Known, she's Safe. She's his friend, she's Important.

So he can notice her and not have to do anything and nobody will yell at him. Even soldiers can trust their team mates. They're your friends.

She comes to the fire, and he notices her but he's also glad. He worried he wouldn't see her, that she might hurt too much.

(He knows she got on the big stage. He knows everyone who did got hurt. He is ready for her to pretend to be mean because it hurts so bad--Church did that. He did that a lot of times. He misses Church.)

He misses Church so much.

She sits next to him, and she curls up into a little ball, and even though he's still sad, still hurts, still misses Church so much, Caboose feels like he can breathe.

She gets all of five seconds before Caboose turns towards her--and just wraps his arms around her, face mashed to her shoulder, squeezing tight but not to hurt.

Squeezing to hold the broken pieces together. Squeezing to get the rest of the hurt out. Squeezing to keep the warmth and the quiet and the home in so there won't be so many bad dreams later.

Squeezing because...

"...bloop, squish--sound 'ffects."

[cyansoldier]

Among the things she should do, telling Caboose to back off is one of them. She isn't a thing to be hugged. She detests touch. She isn't his friend or his teammate. She doesn't trust him and he shouldn't— by any means— trust her. If Caboose is too stupid to put distance between himself and her— to do the right thing and avoid her entirely— then she'll do the deed for him. Leave. This was a mistake. You can't trust him.

She knows these things aren't true. Caboose is the closest thing to home she has here.

Not that she'd ever admit it out loud. If she speaks it, it becomes real. And if it's real, it can be taken.

And she's too tired to pretend she hates him.

Caboose's arms are like a bear's limbs. He draws himself into her shoulder, nose and cheeks squishing, curly hair like a pelt in her face, and for a moment— a stupid thought whose origin she has no idea— she wonders if its ever been properly brushed.

He holds her broken pieces together until she's able to breathe. It would be cruel of her not to return the favor. So she does. Arm around shoulder, hand landing at the top of his head and burrowing in his scalp. Just for a second, she tells herself, guarded. Scratches little patterns with her nails. Just for a second.

Carolina can't bring herself to say anything. She hopes that's okay.

[ihatebabies]

Agent Carolina says lots. She just doesn't use her voice.

She hugs back. She does nice things with her hand in his hair, and he sighs--it feels nice, but mostly that nice feeling makes him take a deep breath because he feels like the air is cleaner when he breathes it in, just outside and clothes and that vaguely girl smell. Nicer soap and nicer skin and even sweaty they don't smell as bad as guys do.

(The stage had lots of lights. Enough to make anyone sweaty.)

Point is, her nice smell and her hand in his hair and her hug say many things. Lots of things. When she talks without her voice, she's very loud.

She says she is sad. She says she's his teammate. She says she is glad he hugged her, because she needs to be hugged a lot...maybe not all at once, though.

She says she is very tired, and she does not feel safe.

...okay, she doesn't say that last part. Caboose just doesn't feel safe, either. That's why he's camping with such aggressive comfort.

Lifting his head, he shifts so he's holding on to her still, but resting his head on her shoulder instead so he can look at the fire.

"You can rest. If bad people come, I will think about..."

He knows what things can make him angry and mean. O'Malley things. Kittens covered in spikes--except now he has something else. Things he doesn't want to remember or think about, like the Halloween costumes on the stage that look like armor, and Carolina being sad while she was there, wearing those Halloween costumes and...

"...I will think about the music." he promises softly, relaxing against her a little bit more. "It will help me."

Nothing could make him angrier right now than the music. All that sad music and Carolina being right there with all that sad, sad music...that will make him angry.

[cyansoldier]

She's never given Caboose the credit he deserves. She's yelled at him, disregarded him, thought of him as a liability during her hound's chase to find the Director. He was a means to an end. They all were— every stupid Red and worthless Blue that'd somehow come under Agent Washington's leadership.

They disliked her, but they followed along. Climbed into Pelicans and onto bikes in her quest for revenge. They put up with her secrecy, her paranoia, her acerbity and for no other reason than by Washington's request.

And she trampled all over him. All of them. Caboose might not remember it but she does. And here he is, comforting her again.

She doesn't deserve him as a friend.

And as if to exemplify this, Carolina has to bite back the urge to chide him for his continued mourning— you can't be sad forever, you have to move on, this isn't healthy, isn't productive, Church is gone— knowing damn well she's projecting. Words she'd like to say to herself but can't stomach doing so. You should be ashamed of yourself.

The fire crackles, pops. Carolina stretches a hand toward it. Laughs inwardly at the idea of rest. She hasn't rested a day in her life. Not during childhood dance recitals, not during school, not on the battle field and not for a second during Project Freelancer. Rest turns ambition into liquid. Rest dulls the senses and makes skill go curdled and sour. A day spent resting is a part of herself lost to the void.

Maybe she could try resting. Turn her brain off, just this once.

Carolina wants him to feel safe, too. Protected where they sit in their ramshackle comfort, knowing that if any danger should suddenly spring out from between the trees, she'll destroy it utterly.

She lets her eyes close. Her breathing steadies. Fingers loose in his hair. "You should rest too. You need it." Like how all people need it. All, it seems, except for herself. She's trying, this time. "If bad people come, we'll take care of it together."

[ihatebabies]

Caboose nods against her, relieved she isn't going to fight. She's very tough, and very strong, and, he has decided, very scary. Not like Tex, who is scary with her fists. Carolina is scary with herself, so nice and so strong she'll let bad things happen to herself before other people and not care. He's seen Church and Tucker get mad like that sometimes when Caboose did something that got him hurt in a scary way.

Both of them still get very angry talking about his pinky toe. And he doesn't even miss it that much!

(Church did get very angry. He misses Church.)

"We'll take care of it together." he echoes, lifting his head--slowly, carefully, because he likes how she's petting his hair and head, and doesn't want it to stop. "Good. You're smart. Like Delta...yeaaaah, he said 'memory is the key' once, and I'm pretty sure he was talking about something else? But it's still real smart. Remembering's important. I should know. I'm not very good at it."

He reaches up, and with the gentlest of touches, taps the middle of her forehead.

"So have some memory. It's the key. If bad people come, we'll take care of it together. To-ge-ther."