patheticvillain | fifty-three ➢ video

[Cassel's in his room, rearranging his drawer of scraps in some order discernible only to him. Ilia is perched on a high shelf, his eyes narrowed and tail twitching, disturbed by the commotion and looking ready to jump down onto Cassel's shoulders at any moment. As he rummages, Cassel addresses the camera; the moment he turns towards it, a bruise slides into view on his left temple, light and mottled black. He seems not to notice it.]

A few things. First of all, if anybody who's not all Admiral-ed up has a problem with the power outages, I think - I think I can make flashlights and lamps that don't need to be powered. [He's speaking specifically to Morgana here, but he doesn't know everybody's hangups, either, so he's leaving it open to the Barge as a whole.]

Second of all, has anybody actually gotten anywhere with the ship? Steering it or anything? Because this seems like it's getting kind of. Critical. [As Dean so astutely pointed out.]

Last thing - I know nobody cares right now, but we still need staff for the gym. At least one more person. If you feel like going slightly less stir-crazy while we're marooned in the middle of nowhere, apply now.

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[Or... maybe not. He'd thought that would do more, somehow. He'd thought Cassel would look happier, not hurt. And for him... it's not terrible or anything, but he's uncomfortably aware of Cassel's warmth and weight pressed into his side, apparently pointlessly. He sighs, mouth twitching in frustration, his other hand rubbing agitatedly over his thigh.]

Yeah. Whatever, man.

[Hasn't he said enough? Exposed enough? What else does Cassel want him to say?]

[His grip on his own wrists loosens, just a little bit, his hands falling away to his sides. After a moment, he nods, not smiling but not frowning anymore, either, some of the tension leaching out of his shoulders. He doesn't know if he feels better, but he doesn't feel worse. He feels . . . able to maintain.]

Sorry I made you worry.

[That much is true. It's better than people not thinking about him at all, but not by much.]

[Now Mickey is wandering back out into unfamiliar territory. If he's not used to worrying about people, and definitely not used to admitting it aloud, he's even less used to the words I'm sorry -- in this context, or really in almost any context. He shrugs stiffly, at a loss.]

We're supposed to be friends, right?

[Another low mumble, hands moving over each other, eyes trying to find something to land on. A moment later, unable to contain the new flood of anxious energy anymore, he nudges Cassel's shoulder again and stands, making like he's looking for something. He grabs an errant towel and scrubs the lingering sweat from his forehead.]

[He can't help it. When Mickey fidgets and moves as though compelled not to stay in the same place, Cassel smiles at him, real and warm and open the way he hardly ever does. His world isn't a perfect place, not by far, but right now it seems exactly like it should. Every kind gesture, every tiny effort, he still drinks them up like a man dying of thirst, and Mickey's just given him enough to stay alive for another few days.]

[He wants to say thank you, but he doesn't. Just beams instead, cocking his head to one side.]

Yeah. You're my friend. That's why I'm sorry.

[He pauses, looking up at Cassel, at the brilliant smile suddenly overtaking his face, and something in his chest unknots a little bit. He's not sure what it was he said now that was any different from what he said before, but he somehow believes that smile in a way he didn't believe Cassel's bullshit smirking from before.

Thank God, he thinks -- at least he's done something right today. He doesn't really smile back the way Cassel does, but there's a flicker of something across his face that echoes the relief in his heart.]

'kay. Well.

[He hovers for a second, wordless, then raises the back of his hand to indicate the freshly-bleeding cuts again.]

I should...

[Cassel's starting to get that Mickey doesn't react the same way he does to things. Not everyone is a mirror of Cassel's heart, and Mickey isn't a replacement for Zane, who understood him effortlessly. This is different. He has to work at this, they both do, to understand each other and to make each other feel safe.]

[But maybe that's better, in a way. Having to work harder, it feels more rewarding in the end when they finally get there.]

[He wants to reach out and brush his fingers against the back of Mickey's hand, I'm here, I'm not going anywhere, but he doesn't - because Mickey wouldn't want it. So he just curls up small and content on the bench, knees tucked up under him.]

Go get cleaned up. I'll see you later.

fifty-three ➢ video

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