Work Text:
November, 1998
I never have liked writing in journals, but what the hell. Kind of like running, I guess: the sport that doesn't need equipment. Well, this is the therapy that doesn't need a counselor. Since we're a little fucking short on those just now -- one of these days, MacLeod, you and I are going to have a very long spar and I'm going to teach you what a gypsy knife fighter can do to a man with a katana. Several times I'm going to teach you that. Sean was a good friend -- I'll just keep writing in this.
Marc and Rich love keeping their journals on computer, but I still prefer to do mine the old fashioned way. Paper, pen, ink, sand. Lets me write this in any language I want, any alphabet, any mix thereof that I can figure out later, and no damn red lines claiming I've misspelled a word the computer's never seen, or green lines claiming I made a grammar mistake that isn't, if you're working in the correct language.
Farrell loves typing his in. Well. Love might be a bit strong. He hates starting the damn thing. Damien or Stormy or I have to forcibly sit him down with laptop, and dictionary, and coffee at hand, and even then we have to come back by half an hour later and growl at him not to work on photos, or emails, or finances, but to open the damn word processor and type, damn it. But once he starts, forget it. He sits and types until he's sorted things out, or until he's too fucking angry to type one more word.
Even then, Farrell saves it, and shuts everything down before he vanishes. We stay out of his way at that point. Safest thing to do, honestly. He wouldn't touch us, much less hurt us, but he doesn't need to need that kind of control at that point, either. He just goes and burns all the rage off into something physical, and mindless, until he's calm again. Painted Stormy's basement once. Restacked the woodpile where Damien'd been meaning to move it. Cleaned out the attic. Weeded half the garden.
And when he's calm again, or when we can't stand watching him wear himself into the ground any longer, he comes in, or one of us goes out, or down, or up. Share something to drink, some kind of snack -- Stormy loves ginger snaps and biscotti, but really loves it when we help eat them all. We let Farrell talk if he needs to, or drag him off to a movie, or a museum, or the beach if the words are still locked behind his eyes. And then the next day he goes back to work on it, 'til that problem's unknotted.
I hate to imagine what's in that journal. The reality's probably as bad as I think.
All the years I've known him, Farrell's been... tight when we first met up with him. Guarded and shuttered up behind his eyes. Funny. Damien and I never doubted there was someone back there completely different than that reserved personality. Farrell just needed some prodding, and a chance to loosen up. And he would, too. The first time Damien and I got into one of our yelling matches in front of him, Farrell just watched us, all tight armor until Damien quit yelling, and we ended up hugging, and mussing hair -- why does my brother have to leave mine a mess after those, anyway? -- and smacking each other on the arm or shoulder.... Farrell watched that, and heard Damien teasing me about buying the drinks since I'd lost the argument, and smiled. First time I'd seen him smile like that.
He's not ordinary when he smiles that way. When he wants to vanish, Farrell looks... hell, he looks like nobody in particular. Brown hair, kept at whatever's a middle of the road length for the time. Not wavy enough to be noticed, not quite straight enough for highlights to show, even under a street light. Brown eyes, not dark like Duncan's but not light enough to go green or gold in sunshine. Fair skin that tans some now and freckled when he was mortal. Tall, yeah, and solid, but solid enough that he feels like part of the landscape when he vanishes that way.
He uses a camera to do it now, but Farrell never needed the prop. If he wants to blend in, he does. As simple as that. I never knew where he learned it, or why. I still don't know where, but I know why, at least. Another thing to mark to Owain's ledger. I hope Robert or Adam or Semnut or whatever the fuck his name is this decade carved a limb off the bastard for that. How in hell did Farrell survive Owain even this well? A hundred years of Owain's shadow over his life. A fucking century -- all his life as an immortal -- knowing that Owain was out there. That he 'owed' Owain something. Merciful gods, Farrell, why didn't you tell us?
Did you really think we'd turn our backs on you? Damien slep loved Jirina. No. I hated her, but he did love her. I'll give her that much, at least. She was a complete fucking bitch, and I thought so at the time, but he loved her. Ten years, eight months, sixteen days between the day they met and the day Damien finally stormed away the last time, because he knew if they raised swords, he'd go for her head and nothing would stop him. Twelve days after Alex and Xan found us, looked Damien over, and Alex lost his temper.
I still hate that when it happens. It's terrifying, to me at least. Alex is one of the bedrock. Solid, and warm, and there. Stable. That's the word. Watching him erupt is like being in the middle of an earthquake, actually. That analogy is uncomfortably accurate. The world shakes, nothing's solid anymore, and you don't know where to brace, or how far away it hit, or how close the next shock will be. And there's the question of where the pieces will land, or who they're going to slide down onto, and who's going to dig the survivors out of the rubble.... I hate earthquakes. Even when it's not at me, I hate watching Alex erupt, too. When it is at me, forget mischief. Forget stirring the pot to see what comes to the top and who's crazy enough to take a bite. I get polite, and careful, and I was like this even before I started subbing to the twins occasionally. Alex actually angry at me is something I don't want to experience again. Ever.
Bast, or Aphrodite, or Whoever's in charge, though, I want to see Farrell smile like that again. At me, preferably, and Damien would have a stroke if he read that. Well. He might laugh, I suppose. Or tell me to go tell Farrell that. I can't, though.
Not that I think Farrell would mind that I'm in love with him. He keeps saying he's not doing men this century, but that's as much to annoy Alex and Xan, who make passes at him every time they're in the same city and have for years now. He wouldn't mind. Whether he could be in love with me or whether he'd rather just stay friends, Farrell wouldn't mind. It's not that. It's just
How in hell do I tell him I'm in love with him when he's still healing? A hundred years now, Farrell's had Owain's obligations hanging over him. Seven months now, he's been free. Only seven months. I've never seen him this relaxed, in all the time I've known him. Three years of studying with Xan and Alex in Athens didn't have him this comfortable in his own skin. The time up in Toronto after the war -- when he dumped me in the golf course lake, and only laughed, later, telling me about the very polite constable who came by and asked that we kindly settle our problems a trifle less publicly next time -- he wasn't this mischievous yet. And that was after he'd spent three years with Kastagir. I wish he'd told me who that was with him in some of those escapades.... Hell. I wish I could have been there to see the two of them bluff an entire mob with mumbo jumbo, maniacal grins, and one sword.
Farrell's been pulling pranks here. Not just pulling them. Instigating them. Setting them up, running with them, looking blank and confused later when accused, and me trying not to laugh and getting blamed, and taking the blame because it's worth it to see him laughing like that when he apologizes to me afterwards. Going drinking with him and hearing some of the stories now, and getting names, and
He's relaxing as much as Marc is. Unwinding from all the tension of surviving Owain's games. Trying to oil the joints and pick the locks on the damn armor he used to hide himself from Owain, and protect all the important details. He had kid sisters. I never knew that. Never heard a word, saw a hint. Stormy laughed and said of course he did, look at the way he handles her when she's mad. How in hell do I tell her that before Owain died in front of him, Farrell might not have teased her and ignored her deliberately and cosseted her like this when she's sick? He had a favorite cousin who may or may not have died from the polio too, and Farrell's never been sure. He hasn't mentioned a name yet on any of them, though; not ready to look for their fates yet, I'd say. Soon though. He's not talking about his parents yet either, but if I ever doubted he came out of a stable, loving family, well, I don't now. Between what he says and the way he's settling into Charleston, no, he grew up with friends, and family.
There still aren't enough words coming out, though. Not as much as we'd like, or as often, and I can't blame him, really. Part of me wants to pick a fight with Farrell, tell him that he can talk to us, but... he was Owain's student. We loathed Owain. Farrell's not blind. He knows this. We know it. When we try to talk, it hovers there in the background of any conversation, in the undercurrents of the words, and in the way we sort of skirt things that really do need to be said....
I think he needs someone more neutral to talk to, but... who? Kastagir's dead. Fitz is dead. McCormick? Maybe. I'll have to think about that. They'd get along superbly, I've been sure of that for ages, but Matthew doesn't know him yet.
Maybe. Maybe Matthew would be the right one for it. Some of the same sense of honor, the same obligation to responsibilities accepted, the same reluctance to give promises unless he knows he can keep them.... No one else sees that. Farrell doesn't make promises he doesn't fulfill. He promised to fight for Owain. That's still weighing on him.
Farrell's still having nightmares. Well. His version of nightmares. The rest of us get screwball collages of reality and dream and things that might or might not make sense in the morning. I only get one or two nightmares a year, which is plenty. Sleeping again after mine isn't an option. Farrell gets old memories, only he's running them through some demented strategy session, his mind changing one factor, going so far, restarting it, and changing another, and always making things worse. He's only discussed one or two, but dear gods, they gave me the shakes and they weren't my dreams. Dreaming of Owain standing over his grave, and deciding not to dig him up? Feeling an immortal there, and not knowing what it was, and not able to get out, and not able to breathe, and reviving every time to that same buzz of an immortal near?
We both spent the day at the beach after that, and the night, too. Stayed out, got drunk, and talked, and sang... I think I taught Farrell a score of Rihana's most obscene songs before he calmed down enough to sleep on me at last. Not the ones she wrote about me, but if he'd stayed awake much longer, I would have, and put up with him laughing at me, if only to hear him laugh.
He's got to talk. He's got to have time, and space, to get that armor off, and see who's still under there. Still too much pressure under that control, too many deeds regretted, too many shards of that broken promise eating at him, and all of his images of Connor only have one hand. His real teacher's best friend, and to only see Connor as Owain and the rest left him... it's eating at Farrell. He's going to the Christmas party this year if I have to drag him, bodily. Connor's hand has regrown. He's got full use back, Alex promised me, even if the strength and endurance aren't really there yet. Farrell's damn well going to go see him, and we're going to give him new memories to dream at night.
But I know Farrell's still expanding back out of that shell he locked himself into. He had to do it. And he's got to let himself out, too. I hate having to be patient. It's not exactly my strong point, which is the understatement of the year. But... Owain. Obligations. Three-fourths of Farrell's life wary and braced against some expectation from someone else....
After that, how can I tell him I'm in love with him? When he's just gotten free of a century- long debt that weighted him down like stocks? He's even standing straighter now.
It would be one thing if Farrell was looking at me, but right now, he's not. Hell, right now he's not looking at anyone, really. Not Noelle in Lausanne, not Sue, or Mags, or Della, or any of the others here that he's dated once or twice and just not called again. I suppose that's not something he wants right now, or maybe they're just not who he needs, or what he wants. Maybe he's just trying to stay free of relationships while he sorts out what he wants. Except he's not staying away from friends, or family. Damien, and Stormy, and me. He's getting along well with Var and Disa, too, when they're in town. He's helping us polish Rich's education, and playing mediator when all three tempers erupt. Kit at the gym.
Fuck. I don't know. And I don't know how to help. I see something that I could do that I think would harm him, though. So... I don't do that. I hate negative elenchus. But I love Farrell, locked in himself, or unwinding, or... well, pretty much any way and every way. I suppose I love him too much to try and influence who he is when he gets out of the armor, too, or who he takes up with. Not as long as they make him happy, and I know what that looks like on him, too. I'm not making the same mistake I made with Damien again. If I think Farrell's completely screwed up, I'll tell him. But if he's not looking at me yet, then... that's his business. His choice.
I do men occasionally. He knows that. He doesn't yet. I know that. Further than that, I can't push yet. Not without pushing him and that's not fair to him. He needs this time to heal too desperately.
I wonder, though. If I ever tell Farrell, if he asks how long... what do I tell him? I'm not sure when I fell. Sometimes, I think it was after that first quarrel with Damien. Sometimes, I think it was watching him on the porch in Savannah, drinking coffee and waiting for the sunrise so it would set and we could finally kill that assassination team. Does Farrell consider that his first real night of freedom from Owain? Or the first night in New Mexico? Hell, does he think he's free yet?
I am besotted. Somehow, I'm not sure this is what Edana meant about love, and in love, and friends making the best lovers, or maybe it was. I wish this was something I could call her about. Owain's still too close to her, too, though. I could call her, but it would only stir things up and for what? An opinion that can't even come close to being unbiased? No. Let her take care of Marc, and herself, and enjoy freedom from Owain. Farrell is doing steadily better. Eventually, I'll be able to tell him about this. Hopefully
It's making for some lonely nights, though.
I'd better try to go back to bed. Stormy will only fuss in the morning if I don't get some sleep.