villagelogs | 021-023 » the ghosts of fallen leaves

021-023 » the ghosts of fallen leaves

WHO: Everyone.
WHERE: Eastern/Central/Western Mathias.
WHEN: Days 021-023
WHAT: A cold storm approaches.
WARNINGS: Will update as necessary. PM this account to have a warning added!
NOTES: Plotting post over here!

RECOMMENDED ♫ Emily Kinney & Lauren Cohan "The Parting Glass"

DAYS 021-023
THE WORLD TURNS WHITE
“Are ye the ghosts of fallen leaves, O flakes of snow,
For which, through naked trees, the winds A-mourning go?”
— John Banister Tabb
The howling wind is what wakes the residents of Mathias each day now as the world turns slowly into a bleak stretch of white. Snow continues to fall in thick curtains of flakes that accumulate on trees and rooftops, swirling sideways in the gusts of wind that bow trees and whistle through any crack they can find. The drifts of snow grow taller against the buildings and the wind makes the already freezing temperatures feel bitterly cold.

By day 022, the far ends of streets begin to resemble the hazardous fog with how little becomes visible as the winds pick up. Buildings can still be discerned as dark shapes but the weather's warning becomes clear — a storm is coming. And by day 023, the storm arrives properly, the wind still screaming through the streets like a winter banshee announcing so many deaths to come. These conditions are far from hospitable and only the truly mad would be foolish enough to venture outside in weather such as this.

THE NEWLY ARRIVED
With an embrace of wintery white, Mathias offers a chilly welcome to its newest residents. They awake along the southern treeline bordering Mathias, near the small makeshift cemetery containing a handful of wooden markers erected without names or signifiers of those buried within. And not far from them is the schoolhouse, where in a snowdrift they will the frozen corpse of a young woman named Rey.

LIGHTS IN THE DARKNESS
“A lantern can give you light only when you light it”
— Munia Khan
When residents wake on the morning of day 021, they will find outside in the snow the abandoned lanterns of those shadowy spectres who have moved so silently through Mathias. Each nestled in a patch of frozen white outside their door, the lanterns are now cold to the touch, the half-burned candle within each one seeming to have been lit so very long ago. Inside the glass encasement is a small rolled piece of paper, upon which is written:

keep it lit
There is nothing more, and the prior owners of these lanterns will not return within these days.

There is one lantern waiting outside the building for each resident wherever they are sleeping — the exception for this is those who may have already claimed a lantern as their own. Removing a lantern from its resting place results in no apparent reaction, nor does lighting or not lighting it. However, whatever residents ultimately choose to do with these lanterns should be reported.

CONDITIONS UPDATE

— SNOW continues to fall, resulting over the three days in upwards of a foot of accumulation. The winds blow in gusts over 35 mph.

— VOICES are not openly haunting our residents, though they may still be occasionally encountered in the more heavily decayed buildings where some rooms seem to almost swallow whatever light tries to enter them.

— THE FOG has still receded from the town proper and much of the eastern and northern beach, with the path through the northern forest to the lighthouse still clear on day 021. On day 022, however, as the storm worsens, the fog returns to the paths in the forest, urging residents to stay huddled within the town proper or else.

— DISAPPEARANCES continue to plague the town. While Zed Martin has returned, Rey's corpse will be found in a snowdrift near the Schoolhouse; she disappeared on day 018.

— THE STRANGER is gone.

— THE SPECTRES are gone.

OOC UPDATES

— DISCOVERIES have been collected and collated for your review. Please note that this is OOC information only, put together for the purpose of helping you as players see connections and possibilities for CR and your own character's potential avenues of exploration and investigation. (If we are missing something, please report it so we can add it to the list.)

— AP REWARDS have a new option now — Ideas may be requested if you find yourself stuck. You may now claim up to 2 rewards per log: (1) idea and (1) other reward.

— SANITY may be regained in two ways: self-medication and treatment. In Mathias, this means such coping mechanisms as drinking or drugging oneself into a stupor that allows them to face their fears and issues, or talking to someone about those fears and issues. Since both of these will take some time, best get started. (A form will be added to the Sanity page.)

— REMINDERS — Don't forget about the bulletin board. Please continue reporting your updates to locations, plots, and discoveries. The map of Mathias has been added to the locations page for ease of reference. Make sure your character's sanity level is kept updated. Prospective players are still joining the TDM, so it's recommended to track new top-levels so you don't miss them.

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Doc was happy to hold onto Malcolm a little while longer, to keep telling him it's okay, everyone's fine, to rub his back and rock him gently until he'd calmed down enough to compose himself. Doc doesn't need these consecutive nights of broken sleep but sometimes he thinks he's telling himself these nonsensical things too, that he needs those meaningless reassurances for himself even though he's starting to doubt that everything will remain fine for long.

Compared to Malcolm's, his voice is a lower rumble against the door, muted and slightly less audible with his drawl.

"Don't be sorry. I'm fine," he says softly, shifting so that he can sit next to Malcolm on the bed and stretch his legs out over the top of the blanket instead of talking over his shoulder.

"I would bring you proof that Raylan's fine, but he was sleeping and I didn't wanna wake him, so you'll have to take my word for it." Doc heaves a sigh and runs a hand through his hair somewhat tiredly.

"'specially seeing as you haven't put your word in. You haven't told him yet, have you?" This talk should distract Malcolm from his bad dream.

Malcolm waved the notion of worry off. "My dreams aren't psychic, I..." Then his brain caught up with the rest of what Doc said and he stilled and did not look at him, focused on fidgeting at a thread on the blanket instead. "Told him what?"

"Son, let me tell you sommin'. I ran a bordello, back in the day. I played poker for a living. All I see is looks, tells, lies, truths. If Wynonna Earp looked at me the way you look at Raylan, I'd-" He laughs then, closes his eyes and breathes out a sigh. It is weak to be confessing, perhaps. But right now is a moment of weakness, of vulnerability. They can share this moment between them. "I'd die a happy man."

Doc tilts his head and turns his hand up even though Malcolm can't see his gestures in the dark.

"You're only gon' be here for a moment, and then that moment's gone. I know that. Everyone I've known and loved is gone, just about. If we found a way out tomorrow, and we'd bid each other our fare thee wells and be on our merry way, would you regret not telling him? Only you know the answer to that. And if your answer is yes, then you need to tell him."

"Oh my god," Malcolm said in mortification, falling forwards to bury his face in his hands before Doc even finished, staying that way to hear out the rest.

His next reply was muffled by his hands.

"I can't tell him; I can never, ever tell him, are you crazy?"

He scrubbed his hands over his face and then ran one through his hair as he sat up and gave Doc a pained look. "He doesn't look at me like that. We're not some kind of starcrossed lovers. He's way, way out of my league and we live together and if he knows, it's only going to make everything awkward and difficult. Tell me you're not going to tell him. Please. I look ridiculous enough on a regular basis without him.... knowing." He went back to looking at his hands fidgeting at the blanket. "He's just going to think it's a stupid teenage crush because he helped me in the lighthouse and... like, every day since. And maybe it even is, I don't know," he lamented with a note of despair. He pointed towards the wall, vaguely in the direction of Raylan's room. "I do know that men like that do not get into relationships with... messes like me," he concluded, sighing heavily.

In the hall, Raylan also went through a 'Tell me what' thought process, taking a gentle soundless lean against the outer door frame as he ear hustled. He should probably feel badly about doing so, but he didn't. He was caught up in the conversation now.

Shit, Raylan thought as Malcolm came around to the point, and he pinched and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. It meant what Raylan had assumed at the gap was not only just wrong, but wildly off mark. He'd seen the looks, the way Malcolm was always turning his eyes back to Raylan to check but he had foolishly, intentionally pushed his brain towards thinking it was nothing more than an authority check. Now he was going to have to figure out how to tell them both that he wasn't gay and hopefully not break Malcolm in the process somehow.

It wasn't that he couldn't love another man, that wasn't the issue. It was the fact that he never had in such a way and didn't have the first idea of how he was even supposed to go about it. Hell, he didn't have the first idea of how he was supposed to go about loving a woman properly, since apparently, he didn't know how to do that right either. Two different kind of failures, but it was the same coin.

But he listened on, curious as to what soothing encouragement Doc would provide. He and his co-hat, even if Doc had lost his, were also going to have to have a talk. Somehow.

Oh, he understands the pains of looking at someone like that, and knowing they'll never look at you the same way. He understands too the pain of being looked at that way, and the look being gone some years later. When the- when the novelty's worn off. When the resentment has built up and the person you love sees you for all the flaws you've been trying to hide for all your life. When they stop saying 'it's okay' when you apologise for your chronic illness being a burden, when they've had enough of being your daytime lover and nighttime caretaker.

They say you won't remember what someone else said, only how those words made you feel. Doc, unfortunately, remembers both. So while he can't control what Raylan does, he himself will never stop telling Malcolm to not apologise. He will never stop telling Malcolm that it's okay, that some condition that has plagued him for more than half his life is not his fault. Because it isn't. Sometimes when everything gets lost to the shuffle, sometimes you get a couple of Aces. Sometimes you don't.

"I won't tell him," Doc reassures Malcolm. "I haven't told him, and I won't. If you wanna tell him, it'll be on your terms, and you won't do it because you're afraid. You'll do it because you want to." Of this, Doc sounds very certain. He is confident in his ability of navigating these sorts of minefields gently and carefully, and he's not much of a rambler when he's drunk. He can't attest to how delicate Raylan will be, how he will handle it, but he can't imagine Raylan would belittle Malcolm. He's been a Southern gentleman so far, but not that kind of Southern gentleman who would think less of Malcolm for loving him.

"We've all got elephants in the room, Malcolm. We're all messes. Have you witnessed how much we drink? We just-" Doc takes in a sharp breath and sighs. "We know, we learned when we were three feet tall that if we break, we get broken more. So we don't break. We get tough. Tougher than any asshole who dares to try. And we just pretend we've got our shit together, so we can be there for people who aren't pretending. You aren't any less than who we are, just because you can't pretend the way we can."

Malcolm had noticed the level of alcohol consumption, yes. He’d noticed it early, but any ground there was shaky as he succumbed to the lack of his own medication quickly. He’d noticed it in his mother, too, but that was another place where he’d felt he had no ground to stand on.

“He’s not interested in me like that, Doc,” he said softly. “I read faces, too. There’s nothing to gain by telling him, but it’ll make everything weird and he won’t want to hang out with me anymore. Me living here will be awkward. I don’t.... People think, sometimes, that they can deal with...” he gestured around. “All this. And then they wake up one day and realize that it’s never going to not be like this and then they leave. You saw Dean look at me at the clinic. That’s how people look at me. If I get greedy, I’ll lose what I have and all that’ll be left is...” He waved his hand vaguely towards town. “That. More of that.”

"Malcolm." Doc turns to face him, touches his shoulders and tries to get Malcolm to turn to face him too.

"Look at me Malcolm." It's dark but they've been sitting here a while. They can make the shape of each other out. They can see, even if they can't see so closely. Maybe that is for the better, in any case.

"It's not greedy to want to be loved in return. You are worthy. And I will tell you as many times as you need to hear it. Living with pain and struggles for years, you have good days and you have bad days. You are worthy. You are deserving. Even on the bad days. Now you may not hear what you want to hear from Raylan, it won't play out like a movie. You won't get better here if we can't find what you need. People are always going to look at you like a leper. But you deserve every moment of happiness you can get, and so much more. And I cannot speak for the Marshal, but as long as I'm here, I'm not leaving you to have just 'more of that'. You understand?"

No one's going through long term anything on their own, left to fend for themselves. Not on his watch.

Malcolm’s hand still shook as he brought it to his face a moment. It rarely failed to shake since his meds wore off, but - as always - times of high stress or high emotion were worse.

He took a shaky breath and it was still shaky as he released it, letting his hand drop back into the blankets between them.

“Thank you,” he managed, if barely above a whisper.

"Okay." He gives Malcolm a firm squeeze on the shoulder and slowly lets his hands slide away.

"Do you want to lie down? Get some more sleep? It's still early... I think. I can sit with you, if you think it'll help." He has a feeling he's overstayed his welcome, but he's never sure with Malcolm whether he wants the company or whether he would prefer to be left alone.

In many ways, Malcolm always wanted company. He didn’t have many friends before the world found out his father was a prolific serial killer and it was only worse after. ‘Profound trust issues’ was his therapist’s diagnosis. Being around Doc and Raylan... even just the knowledge that they were there somewhere was enormously comforting, even if the anxious fury of his mind was sure they’d leave in time.

Doc’s assurances took a weight off of him that bowed his shoulders, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep again. Reluctantly, he shook his head. “It would help,” he admitted, “but I won’t go back to sleep.”

He started unhooking himself from his bungee restraints.

“You can get some sleep, at least,” he pointed out with a wavering attempt at a smile.

He would say that he can't sleep in the dark, but. He's not like Malcolm. He wouldn't readily admit to that. It wouldn't make him feel better or worse if he talked about his own struggles - that's why he hits the bottle. His encounter at the museum which he still refuses to talk about at great length isn't helping things, either.

So he just shakes his head, half-lidded eyes falling closed again. He can talk at great lengths about other people and their problems. Say all the right things. He believes - he hopes he just did. Still he will not talk about his own.

"I will, back in my room. I do not wish you crowd you in here, like this. Take up your space." Even if he is of very slender stature.

Feeling that the conversation was over, Raylan shifted off the door frame and padded silently back towards his room to quietly shut his door, hoping that none of the sounds that came from it carried into Malcolm's room. Once he had the door firmly shut behind it, he could lean against it for a minute, eyes closed, as he reevaluated his situation.

"Shit," was the only thing he said, heavy and quiet before walking over and dropping himself back onto the bed. The only good thing about being up this early was that sometimes you could lay back down and reset the morning. And that's what Raylan was going to do.

“You’re never... intruding on my space,” Malcolm told him. “I’m going to go downstairs and make some coffee and do some yoga. If you’re not going to bed, you’re welcome to grab a cup of coffee and either try or make fun of yoga,” he joked weakly, but an attempt to lighten the mood was made.

For pyjamas, he’d scavenged track pants that were too long, the unsnapped lower legs flapping around his feet when he walked, and a t-shirt he designated for sleeping. It was a little loose fitting and also too long, the sleeves falling almost to his elbows and the hem just past the widest part of his hips. Clearly all the men of his build in town had been taller than five foot seven. The expensive bespoke suit he arrived in hung in his closet, cleaned the best he could by handwashing and air drying, as the only items of clothing that truly fit him so far.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and pushed to his feet. He’d found a french press in the cupboards and that was how he made coffee in the mornings. It felt a tiny, tiny bit like home.

“I’ll get two cups down,” he said, glancing over.

"I'm- not doing yoga." No guarantees he will stay awake even with the coffee though. "But I will join you downstairs. Hope you won't mind if I end up getting some shut-eye on the couch though." He won't intend to but once he sits down or lies down he'll likely drop off. There'll be more light downstairs. It'll be warmer. He can hear Malcolm moving around. He'd prefer it.

"I will join you in a minute," he promises before Malcolm leaves the room. First Doc takes the slightest of detours to the master bedroom door. He grips the doorknob firmly and twists, other hand flat against the door's surface. He pushes it open, just slightly ajar, exactly the way it was before he closed it.

There. Raylan won't notice a thing.

Doc moves stealthily towards the stairs, then he makes his way down slowly and quietly, rubbing his face and taking a few seconds to put his poker face back on before greeting Malcolm with a small smile.

"We'll need to be a little quiet," he whispers. "I'll get the fire going."

The reopening of his door had Raylan turning on the bed to look that way and after a long second, he got back up and closed the door again, being as silent as he could to not draw any attention to it. It was thoughtful for Doc to try and reset everything, but Raylan was awake now and that required more walls then when he slept.

He wasn't ready to school himself down into his usual casual affability just yet.

Malcolm poured hot water into the press while Doc got the fire going, looking over at him as he replaced the kettle on the stove.

“You know, I thought you and Raylan were.... together. You seem really comfortable with each other in a fundamental way and sometimes I hear you leaving his room at, like, two in the morning,” he observed conversationally. “Plus you make a lot of innuendoes about it and he doesn’t react to them.”

"You what now?" Doc asks, head snapping back over his shoulder. It's impossible not to laugh about it, and he bites down on his bottom lip so that he's not loud enough to wake Raylan. Was it that thing he said, about not kissing and telling? He turns back to focus on his handiwork, moving the logs into a cone-like stack over the fire. Once he's confident the fire's going to keep on burning, he returns to Malcolm's side by the kitchen.

"We share a sense of humour." Actually they share a lot of things. He's found a kindred spirit in Raylan Givens and while Doc would never say that Raylan was anything other than a drinking buddy who offered him shelter from the cold one night and just let Doc overstay his welcome - aside from the other shit he says in his casual teasing and harmless flirting - Raylan is more than that. Wynonna's always trying to get Doc to talk. Sometimes Malcolm does that, too. But Raylan - he doesn't have to. He never has to.

"I hereby swear to you, Malcolm Bright, that I have never touched your man in any way you're thinking of." If anything, Doc's gotten much more handsy with Malcolm. "We're just drinking."

Malcolm huffed a laugh. “He’s hardly mine,” he pointed out. He was never going to be Malcolm’s either; he understood how reality worked. “Why did you walk all the way over to his bed before you came down? Just checking on him?”

Well. That doesn't stop Doc from thinking that way. Malcolm might not have made his intentions known, but now it's out in the open between the two of them. He's respected that since before he even pointed out that he was aware; Malcolm didn't need to keep it a secret. Not from Doc, anyway.

"You were calling out his name in your sleep. I took a quick peek to see he was still sleeping there and closed his door, in case he panicked and leapt out of bed. Just went and put it back open again, right where it was." He couldn't know for sure if something had genuinely happened to Raylan.

"No, but I heard..." He'd started to push the plunger down on the press but as his voice trailed off, he stilled, and the colour all but drained from his face. He looked up at the ceiling. "Oh my god, Raylan was up. He wasn't up that whole time, right? He just... heard you open the door or..." He looked at Doc. "He didn't hear us talking, right?" he implored, practically begging Doc to confirm it couldn't be true.

Edited 2020-12-22 09:32 (UTC)

"You heard... the door open?" Doc tries to fill in the blank. He's pretty sure it wasn't. He closed it and he had to reopen it himself. But he's not going to make Malcolm doubt his own senses, even if Raylan has told him that Malcolm's been seeing and hearing things more often these days.

"If he was up, why would he be sneaking around? We're all up. We weren't shouting anything from the rooftops. He's not the eavesdropping type and it's ass o'clock in the morning." Doc folds his arms and sighs, resting his weight back against the backrest of his barstool, rubbing half his face tiredly before managing a small, reassuring smile.

"Do not fret, Malcolm. If he heard anything you'll know it."

Oh, he would fret.

"I didn't hear the door, I heard footsteps in his room. I thought it was you, but if you didn't walk all the way over to the bed, then it was him... was he asleep when you peeked in? Do you think he was asleep?"

"Malcolm. You need to breathe." Especially if he's going to be fretting around a hot glass container of coffee.

"If he was in his room, he didn't hear you or me talking." Doc is maybe not understanding how confessing your thoughts to the person you happen to think a lot about is as big of a deal as Malcolm is making it. Especially given how much Malcolm likes to talk about all manner of things.

"Now you know how terribly useless he is at these things. You'll notice when he comes downstairs later if he's acting strange."

Malcolm nodded, considering that. "Okay. But. That's what I don't want, is the weirdness. The weirdness is the first step to it being easier to not talk to me ever anymore," Malcolm pointed out, gesturing for emphasis. "And then what?"

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