Roman

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D
G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D

_{Location: Infirmary Wing - P.R.C.U. Campus}

Take On Me #3.069: It's so hard to be

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_{Interaction(s): N/A}

Gil sat on his dorm-room bed, his ass marveling at the stark differences in mattress comfort, his mind marveling at how keenly aware of those differences he could be after only a few days in the infirmary. He was showered and re-dressed and he felt refreshed for it, like he'd shed the skin of the last few days; he might even consider himself in a good mood, despite the lingering bruises and the booted ankle - but his head was a storm, gloomy and thunderous and looming darkly over him. Even despite the good news in the last few hours, the breaking of calamitous waves against the bough of hope, it felt bittersweet. Buoyant ends to tragedies that never should have occurred in the first place. Gil attempted optimism, tried to be grateful that Haven and Lorcán were recovered, each as unharmed as all concerned probably could have hoped for; but there was an inalienable sense that none of this - nothing at all - should have happened at all.

He stared at his phone; the missed calls from Elenora still haunted his lock screen, but beyond that there were just texts. Texts about Lorcán's declining medical status, texts about the discovery of Haven's kidnapping, texts about the aftermath of the Trials. Gil's mind whirled with the compounded events of only the last fortnight. The first fortnight of the new term! It seemed only yesterday they were catching up on the shores of the island, enjoying the last of their summer freedom before the semester began; yet at the same time, that lingering evening felt nearly half a year behind them.

The foundation intruding on their opening ceremony, and their general foreign presence at the university was an early imbalance; the invalidation of degree accreditation that threw so many futures into question; Rory and Haven's reified romance pushing Mei to flee the campus entirely; the entire sabotage of the Trials, pushing Blackjack to the very limits of both their bodies and their psyches, leaving irreversible damage on both; Hyperion's Children being discovered under the academy's nose, and Blackjack's own Pallyx a mere imposter posing as one of them among their ranks; Tad wounded and hospitalised like so many of them; Haven kidnapped from Rory's dorm, ripped from the supposed safety of a lover's embrace; and Lorcán, mortality terrifyingly clarified in a single stroke from an unknown - unknowable - assailant.

Lorcán. He had recovered, thankfully, through some manner of miracle, though not much was understood - or at least, not much was being said - of what happened to allow such a remarkable pivot. Gil wrestled with conflicted feelings; relief, obviously, and an abating sadness adjacent to grief, the anguish of a friend almost lost. But there was also anger there, seeding viscous roots through otherwise pure emotions. Lorcán had been attacked on the north side of the island, from what little Gil had been given and been able to piece together; it was untamed land, far beyond the bounds of the campus and, for that matter, far beyond Lorcán's usual haunts as well. Why was he there at all? The only three witnesses were all as reticent as each other, something oddly impressive for the Firebird girls who'd only arrived after-the-fact, considering the third was the academy's resident dog. Bafflement gave way to frustration and frustration muddled with relief to alchemise into misplaced fury. What was he doing? Days out from the disaster of the Trials and the damage it had caused, and Lorcán had taken a jaunt to an uncharted area of the island, and had suffered dire consequences for it. With Haven's kidnapping it was clear their enemies still lurked among them; had he not considered that caution may have been prudent? That Blackjack, robbed of Tad, would need a new leader, an anchor to rally around and set against their demons?

But no. Lorcán had, again, lived without consequence, his unburdened attitude lacking the tempers of real-world repercussions, and he had narrowly missed a mortal reminder. He'd forced his family, already far too familiar with death, face to face with the reaper once more; Aurora too had been completely unseated, and Blackjack at large felt the ripples. He'd left the team to scramble after Haven. He'd left Gil to pick up the pieces of himself almost completely alone...

...except he hadn't been alone. Calliope and Harper both had visited him, and while he'd rebuffed their apologies and their sincerity, he couldn't deny that the implication - that they'd thought of him at all, both reeling from their own experiences in the Trials - had touched him deep down. To be cared about was an enervating warmth. Elenora's calls, though difficult to face (and indeed, Gil continued to choose not to face them), sparked further fire within him, evidence of remaining connection he hadn't completely snuffed. And then...and then there was Amma, initially melting out of the dark that she seemed to simultaneously inhabit and embody to soothe him in nightmare hours, offer conversation on things he found himself unable to address elsewhere, and then quietly returning on subsequent nights. No promises, no sentimental words or intimate movements; just an implicit understanding, and the stilling of a disquieted mind.

And what of Haven? Traumatised by her own experiences within the sabotaged Trials, she had sought refuge in her fledgling romance with Rory, but even this was not guaranteed safe harbour. More injury, more torment, more shared woe among the team for another comrade-in-arms set upon by evil they neither understood nor knew how to combat. How would she feel safe now? How would any of them?

Everything was different now. A couple of weeks ago he'd been sat on the beach with his compatriots, discussing with no small amount of levity and hope his return to Hollywood after the year was out, listening to the planned futures of his teammates, his friends (did he dare consider?). Such aspirations now felt dashed thoroughly as driftwood against that very same shore. Hollywood was no place for him now, this post-modern Gil, a self that still asked what the self was, but nonetheless knew what the self was not; it was not Gil Galahad, Actor Resurgent. He was tired. He was so, so tired.

He looked at his phone again, navigating to his contacts, beginning to delete old networks. Three names seemed to burn brighter through the OLED display, and these names are the ones his eyes keep returning to, the ones his fingers keep hovering over.

Harper Baxter.

Amma Cahors.

Elenora Baines.

The sun is almost setting by the time he decides upon a name and holds the phone to his ear, half his body rigid in terror that they may not answer, the other half petrified that they might.

The call was picked up; he was greeted from the other end by a questioning utterance of his name, and he paused a moment too long before answering.

"Hi."

"...I'm sorry."

"I need to see you."

"Tonight."

Roman's Scrapbin

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L

S . T . A . K . E .

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^{"Just when you think the world's getting boring again...something new happens."}

^{_{J A S P E R S I T W E L L ♦ S H I E L D I N T E R R O G A T O R ♦ N E W Y O R K}}

O R I G I N S:

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The Sitwell's have generational history of service in the name of the United States of America; but you won't find them decorated in the annals of history, their names carved into memorial plaques, or even remembered at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. In his day, Jasper's grandfather - Jason Sitwell - was instrumental in the suppression of the mutant pandemic, working under the banner of a clandestine branch of the U.S. Government known as the Supreme Headquarters, International Espionage and Law-Enforcement Division. In Jasper's time, the organization has evolved, and so has its name, the branch referred to now as the Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistics Directorate.

Either way, the Sitwell's have always, and likely will always, work for SHIELD, and their family's legacy is a colorful story of dubious service in the name of the greater good of the nation.

But you'll never hear about that.

Just like you won't hear about what Jasper's going to start working on next.

S A M P L E P O S T:

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"Mornin' Sitwell."

Jasper lifted his sleep-heavy head and turned away from the droning buzz of the coffee machine to look at his colleague. The face was briefly familiar but he couldn't for the life of him place a name. How many people had he seen come through over the years? Between his father's and his own tenure, the numbers must have ranged in the thousands.

"Good morning, agent." He eventually replied, using a professional posture and brusque, authoritative tone to cover the fact that he had no idea who he was talking to. The coffee machine stopped buzzing and Jasper lifted the mug to his lips, taking a deep sniff of the steaming coffee before sipping gingerly. It burnt his tongue, but it tasted good, and held the promise of making him feel a bit more awake by the time he drained the cup.

"Much on your plate today?" The mystery agent asked as Jasper shuffled over and allowed him access to the coffee. Jasper sipped more from his mug, thinking on the stack of manila folders he'd walked away from yesterday, and was imminently about to walk into.

"The usual." He replied, to which the agent gave a solemn nod. ‘Sitwell’ was a familiar name to many in the organisation, and while Jasper’s official role was as one of their leading interrogation agents, in truth he was something of a general dog’s body; he had the breadth of knowledge to assist on nearly any assignment, and the network to navigate himself only to the ones he found interesting.

He’d been navigating himself less and less recently. SHIELD had become, for lack of a better word, boring.

“Well, have a good day.” Jasper said, after a lengthy pause between the two that had long become awkward. He retreated from the canteen back towards his office, wishing the front walls were made of something considerably more opaque than the partially-frosted glass that was currently in place. He’d already finished his coffee by the time he sat down, and wondered how many folders he’d peruse before boredom bid him to fetch a refill.

Not that many, as it would turn out.

P O S T C A T A L O G:

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A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed interactions and stories.

Roman's Scrapbin

kid deadman? he's got a brother (cleveland) and an ex-girlfriend (lorna)

Marvel & DC: Emergence (Canon RP)

No, I wanna see what everyone else wants to play, and then decide if any overlapping sheets offend me enough to contest.

Marvel & DC: Emergence (Canon RP)

@Simple Unicycle Again, I am asking less "Hey, can I smash this square peg into this round hole?" More a "Hey, can I put this rectangular piece that is designed to go in this rectangular hole into this square hole that it actually has been shown to fit into."

Or this

@mattmanganon

The main punchline of that linked short being that the girl is in obvious distress at the repeated misuse of shaped holes relative to the intended destination of the pieces being inserted is clearly lost on you.

Marvel & DC: Emergence (Canon RP)

(2024 edition)

Roman's Scrapbin

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L

F R A N K C A S T L E

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^{"Si vis pacem, para bellum."}

^{_{F R A N C I S D A V I D C A S T L E ♦ M I L I T A R Y V E T E R A N ♦ N E W Y O R K}}

O R I G I N S:

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Frank has been back state-side for a few months from a long career of high-profile military service. He's been having trouble adjusting, and his kids grew up far too quickly while he was in enemy territory, and his wife had gotten used to his absence. What he saw and did has lingered with him, and it taints his interaction with the civilian world. It's hard to reconnect, and he's resistant to therapy, and reticent to his family.

Last week, Frank and his family stumbled across the aftermath of a mob-orchestrated execution.

His wife and kids didn't make it; Frank himself was only barely clinging to life when emergency responders arrived, and sunk into a coma. As the only potential living witness, he's had round-the-clock police detail posted outside his room - bodyguard assignment waiting for Frank to wake up, so he can be taken into protective custody and his testimony used in New York's war against the mob.

Today, Frank woke up.

S A M P L E P O S T:

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Give an example of how you would write your chosen character. Try to focus on simple actions and a sampling of dialogue.

P O S T C A T A L O G:

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A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed interactions and stories.

Marvel & DC: Emergence (Canon RP)

Maybe. With a caveat that it will not be my priority and if I find it impacting PRCU I'll drop pretty fast. Do with that information what you will.

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

G I L G A L A H A D // B A N J O O L Y P H A N T
G I L G A L A H A D // B A N J O O L Y P H A N T

_{Location: Infirmary Wing - P.R.C.U. Campus}

Take On Me #3.059: Sing Sing Tommy Shay, boys

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_{Interaction(s): Banjo // @Hound55}

The final healing session had been…fine. Gil was still uncomfortable with the feeling of bone splinters actively moving and settling beneath his skin, shifting between strings of muscle sinew as they righted themselves. It was refreshing to have the cast off at least, even if it had revealed further ugly, deep-purple stains that served as a reminder to the damage inflicted. Much of the gauze had come off too, though again splotched bruises marred his person all across the body, and likely would for the immediate future. ‘Cosmetic damage’, the ward staff had referred to it as, to which Gil remained steadfastly silent in his response despite a rather strong disagreement boiling within him.

The boot was no more or less uncomfortable than the cast had been; shorter on the leg but heavier, and the padding on the bottom made for an awkward gait. Still, it was different, and that was almost enough. Novelty was hard to come by in a hospital wing. He was escorted via wheelchair to physical therapy, the irony not lost on him but not commented upon, but when he was pushed through the swinging double doors to the small makeshift gymnasium, the sight that greeted him elicited the first audible reaction of the day: a brief, quiet tut of anticipated irritation.

Banjo was here.

The shooting pains in his leg had begun a half an hour ago. He was due another pill but was pushing back on them. After all, it was one of the few things he could control - albeit with discomfort - without risking permanent damage. So he gritted his teeth and pushed through. When it hurt, he pushed through. When it felt numb, he pushed through. And when he could see and sense the fasciculations as his leg seized and twitched against the resistance training, he pushed through.

He still couldn’t walk without the limp. Movement didn’t bother him, it just wouldn’t be smooth motion. The hitch was another thing he couldn’t control and as such another thing that pissed him off. Weakness. And weakness due to his own stupidity, no less.

He welcomed the distraction of the Pommy performer who rolled up in his new fresh wheels, and responded with a sneer for the soapstar that suggested something about the current situation amused him greatly.

The reticent pair worked with their mismatched attendants in a pregnant silence, each limping along on their injuries, learning how to walk again. Neither seemed to fair any better or worse than the other; Gil noticed Banjo’s hitching limp and the furrowed brow that indicated stubbornly-masked pain, and was sure that Banjo, in kind, noticed his shadowed eyes and awkward, boot-hindered gait. It was arduous, and boring, and Gil struggled, through the various tempests whirling around his head, to engage properly, despite the rational mind accepting the necessity of the work. From what he could see, it didn’t seem that Banjo found it any more enjoyable.

There was a buzzing in Gil’s pocket that snapped him out of his tedium-induced haze, and he paused in his exercise to fish his phone from his trousers. His nurse raised an eyebrow at the interruption but said nothing, and Gil paid them no mind regardless - instead, his eyes and attention were fixed on the screen, the bright letters spelling out the name of his most persistent phantom.

Elenora Baines was trying to reach him again; it had been several days, and Gil was yet to return either her calls or a single text. Unconsciously, his mind elsewhere, he shifted his weight, forgetting that his imbalance was due to the boot, and that the boot was supporting a still-healing ankle.

Gil collapsed to the ground, the ankle giving way beneath him as he adjusted his stance in a way he shouldn’t have, and the phone tumbled away from him as his hands shot out to catch his fall. He swore, loudly, and the nurses were quick to attend and help him back to his feet, checking his injury and steadying him again.

Banjo picked it up with a quizzical expression, holding it out for him, and then flipping it back up his wrist as Gil reached out for it.

”Ah ah, hold up now… Elenora? Where’ve I heard that name before…”

”Baines? From that thing you two were in together? A Midsummer Nightmare’s Dead?”

Gil sighed and rubbed his eyes, his ankle aching and his patience thin. He didn’t bother trying to snatch the phone, knew Banjo would be quicker than him; instead, he just held out his hand, waiting for Banjo’s whims to align.
”Romeo and Juliet and Zombies, as if you don’t know that anyway. Yes, that Elenora Baines. We’re still in touch.”

”Maybe I got a lot more than your filmography rattlin’ around upstairs…” He said, tapping his temple before glancing at the screen, as he flipped it back down his wrist and into his palm.

Elenora - 4 Missed Call(s)

We’re still in touch, huh..? He thought. More surface BS. He thought about calling him out on it… for less than two seconds, before immediately deciding to call him out on it.
”You’re screenin’ her calls. Mad ex, or just tryin’ to get away from all the fake-ness..? –ery? Fakery?” He furrowed his brow trying to think of the term. ”Phoniness. Hollywood phoniness. That’s what I was lookin’ for.”

Gil pinched the bridge of his nose, furrowing his brow.
”She’s more damn authentic than you are, Mr. Omni-Anti. I just don’t want to talk to her right now, is that alright with you? Things are difficult and I don’t need the extra headache.” He snapped his fingers and splayed his hand again, demanding without speaking. ”From her or you, if it’s all the same.”

A flash of teeth as the Australian's lip peeled back revealing a wide sneer.
“Authentic AND you don't want a bar of her… no, surely not.” His tone dripping with glib sarcasm. “Story rings true from what I know of ya, so colour me surprised. Ever asked y'self why the first honest thing ya said to me was in a fake simulation where nobody else was around to hear it? I like this new flavour to ya though. Bought y'self a backbone.” He handed over the phone.

Gil flashed hot. ”And what do you know of me, Banjo? You trawled through some tabloids and fan blogs and think you got the whole picture? Yeah, I got a bit tetchy when our lives were at stake, and seeing as neither of us got out unscathed-” he shot back, pointing at Banjo’s own injured leg and subsequent limp- “I can’t say it was entirely unjustified.”

He sighed, his ankle aching and his mind foggy and, honestly, too tired to keep up this kind of animosity. Gil decided to extend an olive branch. He lowered his tone, continuing to talk as he shuffled around at his nurses’ behest, restarting his exercises.
“Let’s just agree that between the two of us, neither’s had an honest word with the other in the year I’ve been here. You wanna start now, I’m game. But that means you gotta come clean with me if I’m gonna come clean with you.”

“I'm plenty honest. Mean as a cut snake, sure. Subtle as a sledgehammer, maybe. But honesty I've got in spades. Don't need tabloids or blogs. You're right there in 4K with Dolby Surround sound, and I'll tell ya the plot’s thin and the characters are wanting. And as for this…”

He slapped at his leg.

“Well, that's life, ain't it? None of us are gettin’ out in one piece. So try and have a laugh on ya way. I'm not the one desperate to hide anything. Least of all me.”

Right. Well, if it was like that, Gil could go on the offensive too.
“Calliope came to see me. If you’ve nothing to hide, why’d she clam up as soon as I asked about you? What’s she got to be cagey about? Trouble in paradise?”

His smile widened as the smirk leaked out once more. He'd struck a nerve. People always go on the attack when he'd hit a raw patch, and it made him more comfortable to deal with them when they did. He knew what he was “looking at”.

“She probably did. You're busted up like a crook dog and she's got a kind soul. But she's probably not itchin’ to talk about me, rather than to me, with someone like y'self. When she's ready to talk to me, she will.”

It scraped against him. Slightly. But he was damned if he was going to show that here.

“Nice of you to ask about me, but. I had no idea you cared… Although I'm not at all s'prised you'd pretend to.”

Gil shook his head. He knew better than most when someone was holding back. Years of practice afforded an amount of recognition. Pointless to chase it - Banjo clearly wasn’t interested, and the longer it went on the less interested Gil became, too.
“You came up in passing, don’t flatter yourself. Still, I’d have sworn Calliope ‘switched on’ the way the temperature dropped when I mentioned you. How long do you think you’ll be playing the clown and laughing off your limp before she’s ‘ready’? Before or after your nurses let you juice again?”

He chuckled. “Steady on, mate. This ain't one of your soap operas. Now am I supposed to gasp and stare off into the distance here..? Tell me if I miss my mark.” He held a hand to his cheek in an overdramatically shocked expression and held a stare into the distance for an uncomfortably long time.

“Is that where the challenge of acting comes in? Trying not to laugh as you deliver the most hokey dialogue imaginable? How'm I doin'? A natural, right?”

“Yeah, you’re the perfect comic relief bit-part. I’ll get my agent to call you next time Crestwood Hollow needs a class clown type for their victim of the week.” Gil said, his voice tired and his expression withering. “Not that I’m speaking to him right now either. I’m over it, I think. Over all the…how did you put it? ‘Hollywood phoniness’? And that includes from me.”

He realised he’d been walking without assistance and was silently grateful for the healers’ work over the last few days. His limping gait matched Banjo’s, but the pair of them were upright, standing under their own power, walking and trading barbs. God, it almost felt normal.
“So call it hypocritical, but I don’t want it from anyone else, either. We could all use a little more…honesty.”

“Well… welcome to the wonderful world of ‘Being a Person’, Gil. We've been waitin’.”

“It’s exhausting. Or you are. Or both!” He said, laughing in coughing, stabbing chortles at his own jibe. He sighed, thinking of the only person it hadn’t been hard to be honest with, reflecting that it hadn’t ever been hard. He felt wistful. That kind of ease-of-being was so rare and comfortable in this new, post-Gil reality. He considered that he should probably try to hold onto it, or at least learn from it. “Have you seen much of the rest of the team since…since we got out?”

“I haven't seen much of anyone. Haven't really wanted to. The leg aside, I've kinda felt I got off light.”

”I thought we might…pull together a bit more, as a team, a group of ‘survivors’. But I think we’re more splintered than ever. Most of us, at least. I’m as guilty of it as anyone. Pulling back from people - doling out spite to the undeserving. And now Lorcán’s halfway in the grave and…I don’t know how much more we can take. I don’t know how the girls do it. They’re so…united.”

“I’ve just figured its people processing what they went through. It’ll just take time. Doesn’t really help that it was Lorcán who’s doing it so rough afterwards though… he was always kind of central between you and Rory. How it looked from the outside lookin’ in, anyway. Everythin’ will work itself out though. Give people time and space, they’re generally pretty resilient.”

He hoped. He didn’t much care for uncomfortable silences and pained looks away either. Time was he’d do or say somethin’ just to get a rise, or rip strips off of Tad. But he couldn’t do either right now, and he suspected even more people than normal would disapprove and view it as ‘too soon’ if he did. As if ‘too soon’ was a thing that really existed.

He could certainly do without Calliope hurting enough to go talkin’ with this– Nah. That had been just to get a rise out of him though. Surely…

She’d talk with him. They were fine. He never made himself unavailable. Shut himself away. He was alway there throwing the odd wisecrack to make her laugh. If she wanted to talk, she’d talk.

Surely.

“Speakin’ of time. How long they gonna shut you in your box up here?” His smile then widening, as he added. ”With ya face lookin’ like a slapped arse?”

Gil’s head snapped to, with a deeply furrowed brow and his mouth opening about to let him have it.

“Eeeeeasy. It’s a slang term.” He rolled his eyes, despite knowing full well it was probably needlessly provocative. Or at least his therapist would probably view it as such. “‘How long are they gonna shut you in here, lookin’ miserable?’ Another words. A few years back, before you got here, I got shut in here too and I know it sucks. Next to no sunlight, unable to really see anyone… they fast track your healing, but its still no picnic.”

”Depending on this session, I’m looking at being discharged tomorrow. I’ve had visitors, but I’ll admit I’ve not been in the best mood to receive them. Amma’s the only one I’ve not given both barrels to…” his eyes went wistful again as he cast his mind to nights shared, bereft of nightmares, merciful rest coming through a warm, inky void of pure unconsciousness. ”I don’t know if ‘back to normal’ is on the cards anymore, though. Feels like everything’s…shifted. Like we’ve all taken two steps to the right, looking at ourselves from a different angle. Everyone’s shaken up.” He paused, wincing, his last few steps slightly too brave and his ankle shooting a single klaxon of ‘don’t try that shit again’ up his leg. ”Apart from you, apparently. How long until you’re cleared for ‘active duty’?”

“How long til I walk like I don’t have one leg twice the length of the other, ya mean? I got told from anywhere up to three months, up to… the rest of my natural life. So yeah. Just sucks cos it was my own stupidity more than anythin’.”

”Mostly doesn’t hurt… Mostly. When I’m well overdue the painkillers, yeah. But I’m tryin’ to wean myself off of ‘em. They go nuts with the dosage up here on the wrong side of the Pacific, apparently, and I don’t want to get myself hooked on anything, not when I can’t flash-fry the imprint off my synapses with the ol’ solar cleanse. So… I ride it out, and then after so many hours, bite through the last few like you just did back there, and stretch ‘em out. They had me on em four-hourly, now I’m down to three or four a day.”

“But that’ll just be time as well. Normal just takes time.”

He wasn’t sure if he was saying it for Gil’s sake or his own, or how much of it was a statement of fact, or a need to be convincing.

Gil didn’t answer - just held out his hand for a shake, a silent offering for armistice, a truce between feuding parties.
”Well - here’s hoping ‘normal’ gets here as fast as it can. For everybody.”

Banjo stared at the hand for a few seconds, as if struggling to recognise the offer in the present situation with the present company, before wiping his hands on the back of his shirt and taking Gil’s in kind.

“Whatever normal may well be.”

They spent the rest of their shared session in silence, a new understanding born between them.

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D
G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D

_{Location: Infirmary Wing - P.R.C.U. Campus}

Take On Me #3.041: Daybreak

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_{Interaction(s): N/A}

Gil’s phone buzzed quietly on the plastic tabletop of his bedside counter, sending small rattles through the arm attached to the frame of the bed and stirring him from sleep. He reached out blindly behind him, gingerly patting around for the offending object, and a series of unwieldy taps on what he assumed to be the screen’s surface soon achieved the desired cessation of interruption.

It was only then, his eyes still defiantly shut against the pressing appointment the alarm was predicated on, that Amma stirred slightly before him, and he remembered - with a far more alerting jolt than the alarm had provided - that she had spent the night. All of a sudden he was enveloped by her presence; the warmth radiating from her curled form beneath the blanket (a merciful separative curtain between them), the scent of her pluming up and around him, the ever-so-slight movements in the bedsheets from her sleeping twitches and cresting breaths.

She stirred, yes - but seemed to remain asleep, and Gil wasn’t sure whether to wake her. The infirmary attendants had been content to let him sleep late these past few days, the rest conducive to recovery; it wasn’t a stretch to think they’d allow the same for Amma, and it would likely only be when the first meal of the day was delivered that they might discover her absence from her assigned bed. Not that he doubted PRCU had ways of monitoring the whereabouts of their patients.

There was the aftermath to address, as well, the implications behind their conversation and the shared slumber, psychically intimate if not physically. Gil hadn’t dreamt, hadn’t returned to the night terrors of wax replicas and consuming faces. It had been a peaceful sleep, an abyssal rest, and the best he’d had since escaping the trial and being interred here on the ward. He suspected the awkwardness might sweep it out from underneath them, whatever it was, anyway - it seemed all connection between them flourished under the cover of dark, and he felt as if the harshness of daylight would blast away the kinship they’d found in the ethereal silver of moonlight. Perhaps he’d simply let her sleep, envious of her slumber, and they could…reconvene? Would she want to? Would he want to?

He looked down at her porcelain profile, gentle in sleep, eyelids fluttering. Yes. Yes he would.

The alarm buzzed again, and this time Gil picked up the phone entirely and switched it off, rather than snoozing as he’d inadvertently done so previously. He spared a second glance at Amma, but she remained unconscious, and at that he resolved not to interfere; if the alarm had failed twice, he wouldn’t presume to adjourn her rest unnecessarily. Instead, he swung carefully out of the bed, grabbing his crutches from where they leaned against the wall, standing with but a few scant moments of awkward balancing, and fishing clothes from the chair in the corner as he hobbled to the bathroom to change and relieve himself. Today he was getting his cast removed, a final session with the resident healers (who had spared as much of themselves for him as they could following the sabotaged trials, and were now encouraging a more natural healing process for the remainder), and a boot fitted to accompany some physical therapy. Ideally, he’d been told, he’d be discharged by the end of the day, provided he proved stable enough under his own power.
Perhaps Amma would need to visit him at his dorm. Perhaps he wouldn’t presume to think Amma desired a repeat. Perhaps he might entertain the reverie, though.

He slunk out of the room deftly and quietly despite the sticks propping him up, leaving Amma a lingering glance, a cooling space on the bed where he’d lain minutes before, and a text from his phone that read as follows:

Gone to physical therapy. No dreams. Drop by again if you want to talk more about mending.

Thank you.