Tim Laughlin (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
holyposition) wrote2024-06-13 06:55 pm
holyposition) wrote2024-06-13 06:55 pm
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WELCOME TO THE SALTBURNT NETWORK
USERNAME:
t.laughlin
text ❖ audio ❖ video
WELCOME TO THE SALTBURNT NETWORK
USERNAME:
t.laughlin
text ❖ audio ❖ video
You're welcome.
Take care of yourself. I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow.
Take care of yourself. I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow.
[Knock knock knock. It's your very own personal surgeon, Tim, all dressed up nice with those stupid muttonchops. He's carrying a tray with teapot, cups, cream and sugar. A few cookies too because what is tea without biscuits?
Don't ask if he's hiding opium in his coat.]
Ah, hello. Are you feeling any less distressed?
[Because he can just drop off the tea and bolt if Tim prefers.]
Don't ask if he's hiding opium in his coat.]
Ah, hello. Are you feeling any less distressed?
[Because he can just drop off the tea and bolt if Tim prefers.]
Ummm.
[ There are times when one must pause, think about whether they're going to give the polite answer or the honest one. But all these secrets are a burden. Tim seeks and offers the truth whenever he can, and Goodsir deserves it, if he's being invited to share, doesn't he? ]
No, but that's okay. You're here to help. Come on in.
[ Tim opens the door, ushering him inside. The room is lived in, but tidy - he and his partner have been here for going on ten months now, although not always together, and not always in this room, the last having ignited somewhat of a passion for fire - the bookshelf pleasantly arranged, the bed made, every knickknack and piece of evidence of a life built here arranged purposefully. It is Tim himself in disarray, his glasses abandoned on the coffee table and his hair mussed from running his own hands through it to soothe himself. ]
I'm a little embarrassed. I caused a scene.
[ There are times when one must pause, think about whether they're going to give the polite answer or the honest one. But all these secrets are a burden. Tim seeks and offers the truth whenever he can, and Goodsir deserves it, if he's being invited to share, doesn't he? ]
No, but that's okay. You're here to help. Come on in.
[ Tim opens the door, ushering him inside. The room is lived in, but tidy - he and his partner have been here for going on ten months now, although not always together, and not always in this room, the last having ignited somewhat of a passion for fire - the bookshelf pleasantly arranged, the bed made, every knickknack and piece of evidence of a life built here arranged purposefully. It is Tim himself in disarray, his glasses abandoned on the coffee table and his hair mussed from running his own hands through it to soothe himself. ]
I'm a little embarrassed. I caused a scene.
[Goodsir looks around curiously - politeness won't allow him to pry, but the fact is that he is a little nosy - and finds a spot to put his tray down on.]
Ah, well! Happens to the best of us.
[Okay, that's not entirely true, but Tim clearly didn't mean any harm.]
For what it's worth, I think you had every right to be upset.
Cream and sugar?
[Tea fixes everything. It's the English way.]
Ah, well! Happens to the best of us.
[Okay, that's not entirely true, but Tim clearly didn't mean any harm.]
For what it's worth, I think you had every right to be upset.
Cream and sugar?
[Tea fixes everything. It's the English way.]
[ Clearly within view and evident without snooping - a small portrait of the Virgin Mary on the wall, an open wardrobe with entirely too much plaid, a small stack of historical books on Tim's nightstand about both their futures (the Vietnam War, queer activism, the best of New Hollywood), a clean ashtray and a photo of Tim with his beau on the other side. It's decorated in warm browns and calming blues in a way that clashes a bit, but it's comfortable. ]
Cream, please.
[ There's a leather armchair a proper distance from the bed where Tim invites him to sit, before perching down on the edge of the mattress himself. ]
...and thank you. I probably should have just kept my mouth shut instead of calling more attention to it. But everything from murder to my intimate life is given the same designation, as gossip. It cheapens all of it. Like nothing matters.
Cream, please.
[ There's a leather armchair a proper distance from the bed where Tim invites him to sit, before perching down on the edge of the mattress himself. ]
...and thank you. I probably should have just kept my mouth shut instead of calling more attention to it. But everything from murder to my intimate life is given the same designation, as gossip. It cheapens all of it. Like nothing matters.
[Goodsir pours out and adds cream, passing Tim the cup and saucer before seeing to his own. He then sits in the armchair, pleased by its warm scent.]
Ah, yes. Personal trials, even if they are objectively pointless in the grand scheme of things, are always important. After all, we are men and not gods. We only understand the present moment, and despite any intentions to the contrary we are feeling creatures. What we experience matters.
[He smiles softly.]
You matter, Tim. It isn't fair that your life be laid bare in such a callous manner, but please don't take that to mean people don't recognise you as a thinking, feeling individual. We do see you. Not as an object of ridicule, but as a man.
Ah, yes. Personal trials, even if they are objectively pointless in the grand scheme of things, are always important. After all, we are men and not gods. We only understand the present moment, and despite any intentions to the contrary we are feeling creatures. What we experience matters.
[He smiles softly.]
You matter, Tim. It isn't fair that your life be laid bare in such a callous manner, but please don't take that to mean people don't recognise you as a thinking, feeling individual. We do see you. Not as an object of ridicule, but as a man.
Sorry it's taken me a moment to check in.
Things been busy, but know you got your hands full, too.
You and yours okay? After last month.
Saw Koby and Hawk around, so figured you had a set of eyes watching your back.
[ he couldn't sense or hear or feeling anything - turned human and made mortally weak after the better part of a century and a half. ]
Things been busy, but know you got your hands full, too.
You and yours okay? After last month.
Saw Koby and Hawk around, so figured you had a set of eyes watching your back.
[ he couldn't sense or hear or feeling anything - turned human and made mortally weak after the better part of a century and a half. ]
Hey, Louis. It's good to hear from you.
Last month was really hard. I buried a friend. And I just lost another, disappeared. I'm glad to see you're still around though.
What about you? It must have been strange being human again.
Last month was really hard. I buried a friend. And I just lost another, disappeared. I'm glad to see you're still around though.
What about you? It must have been strange being human again.
[ He takes the cup with a smile, warming his fingers against the sides. Tea isn't his favorite, if he's honest - it reminds him of October's killing games, of the gallons of tea with honey he must have had to soothe his throat enough to speak after being strangled very nearly to death. But this carries a different scent, and Goodsir's gentle reassurances. They're so earnest, so precisely what he needs to hear, that emotion wells within him once again, not anger or grief, but relief. ]
You're a really sweet person. Thank you. At least someone lets me have a little dignity.
[ Blowing on the surface of the liquid, and venturing a sip. It's not coffee, but it's cozy and pleasant. Calming. ]
What about you, though? Feeling any more settled in?
You're a really sweet person. Thank you. At least someone lets me have a little dignity.
[ Blowing on the surface of the liquid, and venturing a sip. It's not coffee, but it's cozy and pleasant. Calming. ]
What about you, though? Feeling any more settled in?
[Goodsir shrugs and sips his tea. He isn't certain that being sweet is a good thing - on a ship full of adventuring men such a word would have been more of an insult, but Tim clearly means it as a compliment.]
Everyone deserves their dignity.
[He takes another sip before he can give utterance to anything bitter about how, in the end, there may not be any.
Goodsir looks up and smiles.]
Ah. Yes, thank you. I've seen the library and it is most extraordinary. And the grounds are lovely to walk about.
I daresay I am actually beginning to believe this place is real, in spite of its eccentricities.
Everyone deserves their dignity.
[He takes another sip before he can give utterance to anything bitter about how, in the end, there may not be any.
Goodsir looks up and smiles.]
Ah. Yes, thank you. I've seen the library and it is most extraordinary. And the grounds are lovely to walk about.
I daresay I am actually beginning to believe this place is real, in spite of its eccentricities.
I don’t think this place agrees.
[ With more weariness than bitterness. There’s no dignity in making them fight like animals amongst themselves, or in making them rise from the grave with new and unpredictable curses upon them, or tearing their loved ones from them suddenly and without notice. This is not a place for dignity, even if it’s something they deserve. It’s a place to test how they’ll conduct themselves without it, and today, Tim’s failed. ]
It is, isn’t it? I hope you’ll get to see it in fall, when the leaves turn. It’s all very real, as fantastical as it all seems. And the fantastical isn’t all that bad, actually. A lot of people have abilities that they use for good. Empathy, and healing, and protection. It’s not all violence.
[ An offering, gentle, for him to take or leave. In case he’d be more willing to speak on what ails him, without the...specifically Catholic connotations around confession and peace. ]
[ With more weariness than bitterness. There’s no dignity in making them fight like animals amongst themselves, or in making them rise from the grave with new and unpredictable curses upon them, or tearing their loved ones from them suddenly and without notice. This is not a place for dignity, even if it’s something they deserve. It’s a place to test how they’ll conduct themselves without it, and today, Tim’s failed. ]
It is, isn’t it? I hope you’ll get to see it in fall, when the leaves turn. It’s all very real, as fantastical as it all seems. And the fantastical isn’t all that bad, actually. A lot of people have abilities that they use for good. Empathy, and healing, and protection. It’s not all violence.
[ An offering, gentle, for him to take or leave. In case he’d be more willing to speak on what ails him, without the...specifically Catholic connotations around confession and peace. ]
[Goodsir smiles again with a sort of boyish enthusiasm.]
Oh, that would be ever so lovely. I haven't seen an autumn in years.
[Which unfortunately brings him back to what Tim is saying about violence. He sighs softly and looks to meet his gaze.]
We were ice locked in the fall of 1846, and spent two winters aboard the ships. Unfortunately, a portion of our canned provisions were rotten due to improper sealing. Those that were edible, I found later, contained lead.
We abandoned the ships in the spring of 1848. We walked a great distance, and we found no game to speak of.
[Goodsir's voice is soft and calm, but slightly detached - he sounds like he's reading a text aloud.]
We were all of us suffering the effects of starvation, scurvy, and lead poisoning. Things were very dire. There was a mutiny...
[He pauses and sets his cup and saucer aside because his hands have begun to tremble. He leans forward slightly.]
Desperate men consider desperate options. Unspeakable options. Do you understand?
Oh, that would be ever so lovely. I haven't seen an autumn in years.
[Which unfortunately brings him back to what Tim is saying about violence. He sighs softly and looks to meet his gaze.]
We were ice locked in the fall of 1846, and spent two winters aboard the ships. Unfortunately, a portion of our canned provisions were rotten due to improper sealing. Those that were edible, I found later, contained lead.
We abandoned the ships in the spring of 1848. We walked a great distance, and we found no game to speak of.
[Goodsir's voice is soft and calm, but slightly detached - he sounds like he's reading a text aloud.]
We were all of us suffering the effects of starvation, scurvy, and lead poisoning. Things were very dire. There was a mutiny...
[He pauses and sets his cup and saucer aside because his hands have begun to tremble. He leans forward slightly.]
Desperate men consider desperate options. Unspeakable options. Do you understand?
You're nervous about me? Why? I'm not in trouble.
I'm sorry to hear about your friends. This place doesn't let up.
Can I ask their names?
It was strange, being human again. Felt helpless, powerless.
Tried to keep close to Lestat, keep my eye on everyone else when I could.
Think we all lost someone last month.
Can I ask their names?
It was strange, being human again. Felt helpless, powerless.
Tried to keep close to Lestat, keep my eye on everyone else when I could.
Think we all lost someone last month.
Ash was killed, in all that. I had fire powers from the Temp V, I had to melt the frozen ground outside so he could be buried. And fight, a lot. It was tough.
And Harry Dresden is gone. We were really close.
Close to Lestat. That's good. Better than the last one.
No offense.
And Harry Dresden is gone. We were really close.
Close to Lestat. That's good. Better than the last one.
No offense.
[ The broad strokes are already known to Tim, at least those which can be known from books and reports, with no survivors to tell the story. Stuck in the ice, ships abandoned, frightened men trying their hardest to prolong a death march. Search parties leaving years too late, so few bodies recovered. An unthinkable tragedy.
But Goodsir isn’t a figure in a history book. He’s flesh and blood, breath and kindness, here to offer him kindness after knowing him for a week and dealing with so much himself. He tells his story and it’s even worse than he knew. They were starving before they should have been, slowly poisoning themselves for years.
Tim listens attentively, warm brown eyes going glassy with feeling. Despair on a new friend’s behalf, impotent anger that’s over a century too late for the lack of rescue, the lack of...something, whatever could have avoided this. ]
I...
[ Cut marks on the bones. The scandal, the ungodly implications. He’d almost forgotten. Tim takes another sip of his tea, suddenly craving the warmth, and then puts the cup down softly next to the tray. ]
I think so. Does that mean you were...?
[ Eaten? He dare not say it. But Goodsir has such a gentle disposition, it’s hard to see it the other way around. ]
But Goodsir isn’t a figure in a history book. He’s flesh and blood, breath and kindness, here to offer him kindness after knowing him for a week and dealing with so much himself. He tells his story and it’s even worse than he knew. They were starving before they should have been, slowly poisoning themselves for years.
Tim listens attentively, warm brown eyes going glassy with feeling. Despair on a new friend’s behalf, impotent anger that’s over a century too late for the lack of rescue, the lack of...something, whatever could have avoided this. ]
I...
[ Cut marks on the bones. The scandal, the ungodly implications. He’d almost forgotten. Tim takes another sip of his tea, suddenly craving the warmth, and then puts the cup down softly next to the tray. ]
I think so. Does that mean you were...?
[ Eaten? He dare not say it. But Goodsir has such a gentle disposition, it’s hard to see it the other way around. ]
[Goodsir has yet to look at any history books relating to the ill fated Franklin Expedition. He isn't sure that it even existed in this world. But he won't be surprised to discover that so few of them were ever found. Upset, but not surprised.
He studies Tim's face and, seeing no judgement there, he continues.]
You spoke earlier of vampires. Those, sir, are monsters. Monsters cannot help their nature, can they? But men can.
Yes, men can.
[Goodsir sighs and sits back. His voice stays even, but his eyes are haunted.]
I was taken by the mutineers. They wanted a medical man for their sick, and an anatomist for their dead. To spare them, you see, of the reality of what they were going to do.
I saw a man stabbed to death. He died in my arms. Before the day was out I was butchering his body. I was coerced, but that seems a piss poor excuse for slicing a man into steaks.
I did not ever eat anything but what provisions we had in tins. In that sense, at least, I am innocent.
[He smiles sadly at his new friend. He thinks of lying by omission, of simply leaving his story there. It's tempting - he could be an innocent, a heroic man doing his best.]
But you may think me a monster still, Tim. I butchered one man and tried to kill eleven more. Yes, I believe they ate me. I hope they did. I was quite thoroughly poisoned.
He studies Tim's face and, seeing no judgement there, he continues.]
You spoke earlier of vampires. Those, sir, are monsters. Monsters cannot help their nature, can they? But men can.
Yes, men can.
[Goodsir sighs and sits back. His voice stays even, but his eyes are haunted.]
I was taken by the mutineers. They wanted a medical man for their sick, and an anatomist for their dead. To spare them, you see, of the reality of what they were going to do.
I saw a man stabbed to death. He died in my arms. Before the day was out I was butchering his body. I was coerced, but that seems a piss poor excuse for slicing a man into steaks.
I did not ever eat anything but what provisions we had in tins. In that sense, at least, I am innocent.
[He smiles sadly at his new friend. He thinks of lying by omission, of simply leaving his story there. It's tempting - he could be an innocent, a heroic man doing his best.]
But you may think me a monster still, Tim. I butchered one man and tried to kill eleven more. Yes, I believe they ate me. I hope they did. I was quite thoroughly poisoned.
[ He’d struggled so much last month, with the ghouls. It was easy, using his new powers to set them ablaze. Second nature, like he’d been doing it all his life. It was too easy, too quick, to put an end to what was once a whole person, with a family, with a soul. Their burned to ash with a snap of his fingers, no burial, no prayers. The smoke still lingers in his nose, stings his eyes in his dreams.
But that’s nothing compared to this. Betrayal within the crew, from men that he’d known and lived with for years, forced to desecrate one of their own. Feed him to the wolves only to postpone the inevitable. Tim sees fog forming in his vision, and takes his glasses off, setting them aside on Hawk’s pillow. ]
I don’t think you’re a monster.
[ He’s forgiven less desperate men for more heinous deeds. ]
I think... [ Chewing his lip. It sounds absurd, and he would have never believed this if he were there, but the hindsight of history makes it a little easier: ] The rescues wouldn’t have gotten there for years, still. Even if every last one of you had... [ Been eaten by the others, sustaining the strongest as long as possible. Too grisly a thought to speak. ] Maybe, in some terrible way, it was a mercy.
[ Even if the intention was punitive, even if it was an act of defiance. It’s the result that matters. Suffering was cut short. Fewer men were carved like pigs. ]
But that’s nothing compared to this. Betrayal within the crew, from men that he’d known and lived with for years, forced to desecrate one of their own. Feed him to the wolves only to postpone the inevitable. Tim sees fog forming in his vision, and takes his glasses off, setting them aside on Hawk’s pillow. ]
I don’t think you’re a monster.
[ He’s forgiven less desperate men for more heinous deeds. ]
I think... [ Chewing his lip. It sounds absurd, and he would have never believed this if he were there, but the hindsight of history makes it a little easier: ] The rescues wouldn’t have gotten there for years, still. Even if every last one of you had... [ Been eaten by the others, sustaining the strongest as long as possible. Too grisly a thought to speak. ] Maybe, in some terrible way, it was a mercy.
[ Even if the intention was punitive, even if it was an act of defiance. It’s the result that matters. Suffering was cut short. Fewer men were carved like pigs. ]
[Goodsir listens, fully expecting a more judgemental response. When it doesn't come, he's not sure how to react at first. So he just sits there, looking at Tim a while before he sighs and drops his gaze.]
I'm not sure. If what I did worked as intended, it would be a bad way to go.
I slit my wrists, once I was sure that the poison took hold. A final deception. I condemned them to a more painful end.
[Goodsir reaches for his tea and sips it before he dares look at Tim again.]
I believed us to be good men. I was so very wrong.
And even now, I don't regret it. I wish only it hadn't all been so pointless.
I'm not sure. If what I did worked as intended, it would be a bad way to go.
I slit my wrists, once I was sure that the poison took hold. A final deception. I condemned them to a more painful end.
[Goodsir reaches for his tea and sips it before he dares look at Tim again.]
I believed us to be good men. I was so very wrong.
And even now, I don't regret it. I wish only it hadn't all been so pointless.
Dying of scurvy is no way to go, either. And it takes longer.
[ He offers, feeling stupid as soon as he says it. Goodsir was there. He would know a hell of a lot better than Tim would. Still, he feels the need to offer comfort. A good man wouldn’t confess it like a sin, with ghosts behind his eyes, or come to comfort him when his own troubles are so small in comparison. It tugs at his heart, the depth of a pain he can hardly imagine.
Tim’s eyes meet his with softness. Not judgement or fear. Sorrow, maybe. For Goodsir, and all the other men made real with his presence here, the gravity of a doomed expedition so much stronger for it than it had been reading from a book. ]
Maybe you’re not perfectly innocent. [ Who is? Even Tim, who’s tried his best to do good and live justly, has bartered with lives, weighed their worth. There’s blood on his hands, too. Not directly, but how long until this place forces that too? ] But you were put in an impossible situation. With no good choices. Get up.
[ Tim stands, motioning with his hand for Goodsir to do the same. If he does, Tim will pull him closer, strong arms holding him in a tight hug. ]
[ He offers, feeling stupid as soon as he says it. Goodsir was there. He would know a hell of a lot better than Tim would. Still, he feels the need to offer comfort. A good man wouldn’t confess it like a sin, with ghosts behind his eyes, or come to comfort him when his own troubles are so small in comparison. It tugs at his heart, the depth of a pain he can hardly imagine.
Tim’s eyes meet his with softness. Not judgement or fear. Sorrow, maybe. For Goodsir, and all the other men made real with his presence here, the gravity of a doomed expedition so much stronger for it than it had been reading from a book. ]
Maybe you’re not perfectly innocent. [ Who is? Even Tim, who’s tried his best to do good and live justly, has bartered with lives, weighed their worth. There’s blood on his hands, too. Not directly, but how long until this place forces that too? ] But you were put in an impossible situation. With no good choices. Get up.
[ Tim stands, motioning with his hand for Goodsir to do the same. If he does, Tim will pull him closer, strong arms holding him in a tight hug. ]
[Goodsir manages a feeble smile.]
Yes. Quite so. We lost some that way.
[He's surprised by Tim's instruction, but he doesn't consider not obeying. He sets his tea down and stands.
Goodsir has touched many men in the context of medicinal care. He's soothed fevered brows and changed bandages and even examined intimate parts, but to be held in comfort is not something that he's used to. And so he is stiff for a moment, unsure of what to do.
Slowly, he brings his arms up to hug Tim back. The other man is solid and warm (and, he notes with a clinical detachment, in extremely good shape) and it feels good to have someone to lean on. Physically and emotionally.
He speaks into Tim's shoulder, soft as always.]
I am sorry for bringing this all to you. I know it is deeply unpleasant, and I considered not revealing any of it. Ever.
But I do not wish to lie to you, Tim. You've been a tremendous friend even in such a short time.
Yes. Quite so. We lost some that way.
[He's surprised by Tim's instruction, but he doesn't consider not obeying. He sets his tea down and stands.
Goodsir has touched many men in the context of medicinal care. He's soothed fevered brows and changed bandages and even examined intimate parts, but to be held in comfort is not something that he's used to. And so he is stiff for a moment, unsure of what to do.
Slowly, he brings his arms up to hug Tim back. The other man is solid and warm (and, he notes with a clinical detachment, in extremely good shape) and it feels good to have someone to lean on. Physically and emotionally.
He speaks into Tim's shoulder, soft as always.]
I am sorry for bringing this all to you. I know it is deeply unpleasant, and I considered not revealing any of it. Ever.
But I do not wish to lie to you, Tim. You've been a tremendous friend even in such a short time.
[ It's funny how used to it he's become. Embracing other men. Even platonically, it wasn't done back home. What if someone interpreted it as something more? What if someone noticed how comfortable he was, that he might long for a gentle touch instead of a pat on the back, like a woman, like some sort of fairy. This was only for lovers, behind closed doors. And even then, it was a danger. Too much intimacy was a weakness. It softens the mask, encourages cracks.
But it's become so easy here, to share the warmth he's always had, to cry on someone else's behalf. Someone still frail, malnourished, smaller than he'd realized before he'd gotten his arms around him. Tim's tall enough to tuck him into his shoulder, run a hand down the back of his head, calming motions. ]
Thank you for trusting me. It can't be easy. [ Doing it, remembering it, talking about it at all, much less to a man he's known for a week. ] I'm sorry. For everything you went through. You don't deserve that, nobody does.
But it's become so easy here, to share the warmth he's always had, to cry on someone else's behalf. Someone still frail, malnourished, smaller than he'd realized before he'd gotten his arms around him. Tim's tall enough to tuck him into his shoulder, run a hand down the back of his head, calming motions. ]
Thank you for trusting me. It can't be easy. [ Doing it, remembering it, talking about it at all, much less to a man he's known for a week. ] I'm sorry. For everything you went through. You don't deserve that, nobody does.
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