Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Well the v-view certainly leaves s-s-something to be desired,” said Honoria, gazing out the window with her hands on her hips.

The front window opened out onto the rather pitiful looking front yard. Somebody had planted some sort of blossom right in front of the window, presumably for some privacy - but right now the leaves were in the process of withering away and dying, and the whole twisted, gnarled plant filled the window frame like an ugly claw. Beyond that was very little. Cobblestone and red brick, densely packed windows as far as the eye could see.

“Yes, well that wasn’t exactly in my list of top priorities,” sighed Charles from the couch.

He was currently sprawled on his back, one arm flung over his face. They’d spent all day unpacking boxes and moving furniture around, and somehow he was still surrounded by more mess than he could stand to look at for the moment.

“Father has w-w-waterfront p-properties, you know. If they’re t-too far away, you could - you could - y-y-you-”

Charles reached out blindly in her direction, and she took his hand gratefully. Sometimes she tended to get stuck, when she was agitated. He gave her a squeeze, and waited for her to finish.

“You could get a d-driver. I d-don’t understand why you’re s-so insistent on l-living on your own.”

Honoria’s hand felt cool in his, and he pulled her closer, holding her hand to his chest.

Because nobody in the household can look me in the eye anymore. Because our parents are trying to smooth this over by marrying me off. Because this war has made me a stranger in my own home.

“It’s been a difficult readjustment period. I just need a little breathing space.”

“B-but what if it m-makes you worse-”

Honoria’s hand slipped out of his grasp as she put a hand over her mouth, realising that she’d perhaps said more than she meant to. He winced, praying she’d just leave it be.

“I just meant - y-you… you haven’t been yourself-”

“Myself? Myself? Tell me, Honoria, who exactly is that meant to be, since you presume to know so well? Charles Emerson Winchester the Third, yes? That fellow who couldn’t hold his position as Chief of Thoracics? Who couldn’t find a body to settle down with and provide an heir? Who couldn’t sit nicely and watch the symphony for his own welcome home gift?”

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, but he’d been biting back that bitterness for so long now, they would not be held back. He watched Honoria go still, and he covered his face with his hands.

“You must be tired,” he said softly, “thank you for helping me today. I - I shan’t keep you any longer.”

“Charles-” she said, her voice wavering slightly. 

But she trailed off. Their family had always taken the route of silence in the face of any unsightly display of emotion, and it had left them almost entirely without words for times like these. That familiar, terse silence hung between them, and to his dismay it was all too easy to hear the way her breath trembled as she tried to steel herself.

Instead, she leaned forward and kissed his forehead.

“Goodnight, Charles,” she said softly.

He nodded that he’d heard, keeping his hands over his face. He did not remove them until he heard the door click shut behind her.

Chapter Text

Francis felt faintly nauseous as he stepped off the Greyhound. He hadn’t been prone to travel sickness in the past, but it seemed that the blast that had taken his hearing had also scrambled the delicate workings of his inner ear. It was harder to balance now, harder to keep track of where he was stepping.

He carefully eased onto the sidewalk, anchoring one foot before following it with the other, making sure he was standing on both before he let go of the bus door. A deep breath of the chilly air helped him to will the churning in his stomach to settle. 

But then there were hands on him, shoving him out of the way, and he yelped, startled as the bus driver glared at him. The man’s lips moved around a cigarette, impossible to discern, and then he was off, wandering into the depot without another glance.

Francis watched him go, and realised he must have been standing in the way. His eyes rolled heavenwards, though he still found it in himself to muster a tired smile.

I don’t really know how much more humble I can get, Lord. But I trust you’ll show me.

The terminus was near the waterfront, and the wind on his face gave him a little relief. An answer from above, perhaps? Once upon a time, he might have believed it. But for now, God was not present in the breeze.

He pulled out the map he’d been given, and scanned the route that Nicholls had marked out in pencil, squinting through glasses that needed a proper clean. 

Nicholls and the rest of the folks at the School for the Deaf had been kind enough, but their eagerness to be rid of him did not escape his notice. His Bishop had meant well, sending him up to Hartford to volunteer his chaplaincy services there, but it was clear he’d been nothing but a burden to them, no matter how hard he tried to make himself useful.

At least in Korea he’d been able to lend an ear. Hear the troubles of those around him, offer the comfort of his presence, his understanding. In Hartford, he’d had to start again, struggling to lip read, being corrected on his signing by the children he was supposed to be offering care and support to.

He had so little to offer in return. He could only hope that at least here in Boston, the Sisters of St. Joseph might have more use for him.

He realised he’d been staring blankly at the map, his tired mind wandering as he tried to make sense of where he was being sent. The school had been described as “as few miles south of downtown Boston,” but now that he was looking more closely, it was certainly a lot more than a few miles. If he tried to walk it, he’d surely be travelling all through the night, and it was already late in the afternoon. He shivered. The last thing he wanted was to try and navigate an unfamiliar city in the dark.

He dropped his duffel bag for the moment, reaching into his pockets for his notepad and pencil. This was a part he’d grown to hate, the one-way conversation, the awkward glances. The trust-fall into the arms of a stranger.

There was an old woman with a little terrier pup on a leash, sitting on a bench nearby. He hefted his bag onto his shoulder and approached her, holding the notepad in one hand.

“Hello there! I wonder if you might be able to help me navigate my way down to the School for the Deaf? Only - you’ll have to write your answer down on this notepad. I’m deaf myself, you see.”

The woman smiled up at him, and held her hands out for the notepad. Francis realised he’d been holding his breath, and exhaled shakily. His relief at her friendliness must have been obvious, because as she took the notepad, she lay a hand on his wrist, cool fingers briefly squeezing.

She wrote something down, then showed him the paper.

What’s your name? I’m Barbara.

*

By the time he stepped off the second bus, the sky was already graying and on its way to dark. He groped his way to the footpath, realising that he’d compounded his situation now that he was thirsty, hungry, and tired. He blinked into the distance, looking at the long, rectangular brick building just a little ways off the road. The school stood alone on a small hill, surrounded by what seemed like endless green grass in all directions. 

There was something in the sparseness of the landscape and the trees lining the road - barren despite the fact that winter had not quite taken hold yet - that gave the place a strange and haunted look.

Gravel crunched underfoot as Francis made his way up the path. It seemed to stretch endlessly, and as he trudged along he fought between the urge to pause and catch his breath, and the desire for his journey to be over with already. In spite of the night chill, sweat glued his shirt to his back, and the feverish sense of anxiety coming over him made him tug at his shirt collar.

By the time he reached the white double doors at the front of the building, the stars were out. He took one glance skyward, then let his eyes flutter closed, saying a brief prayer for strength. Then, he reached out and knocked.

For a long while, nobody answered. He knocked a second time, and then a third. With a pang of terror, he wondered if everybody had perhaps gone to bed. Would he spend the night here, on the doorstep?

On the fourth knock, a window above him opened.

Francis pulled the hat from his head, squinting up into the darkness. The yellow glow illuminated nothing but the silhouette of a habit. If the Sister was speaking to him, he had no way of telling.

“My name is Francis Mulcahy,” he called, “I - I believe you were expecting me?”

The Sister shook her head in frustration, then slammed the window shut. Francis found himself standing alone once again, until a torch beam caught his attention.

The nun that made her way towards him was someone else - she wore a postulant’s habit, and smiled apologetically at him.

“Hello, Father Mulcahy,” she said, “sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Just Francis is fine,” he replied. He could feel his voice falter slightly as he said it.

Large dark eyes blinked at him in confusion, but the expression was quickly tucked away behind a pleasant smile.

“Of course. I’m… well, I’m still just Riley, for now. But I’m expecting they’ll call me Sister Jude, when the time comes.”

She said something after that, but the light from the torch beam kept moving, so he didn’t quite catch the movement of her lips. But he stepped back to let her open the door, and then the two of them stared at each other in confusion.

“Father?” said Riley, “around the back. I don’t have the key.”

“Oh! Oh I’m sorry, I must have missed-”

He followed her around the back of the building, trailing after her in a manner that made him feel quite a bit like a lost puppy. He didn’t like the feeling of helplessness, and he tried to steel himself as she led him through the back entrance.

“The Reverend Mother will be with you in a moment, we’re just finishing up with supper,” said Riley, ushering him into an office.

She clasped her hands behind her back and looked him up and down. 

“Have you eaten? Forgive me for saying, but you look a little pale.”

Francis shook his head with a chuckle.

“I’m afraid my trip took a little longer than I was expecting, I haven’t had a chance.”

Riley’s eyes widened.

“Oh dear, I’ll have them bring you something!”

Francis nodded, sinking into the wooden chair in front of the desk, and letting his bag fall to the floor. Thank the Lord for small mercies.

He didn’t have to wait long before the Reverend Mother arrived, looking unimpressed.

“We were expecting you several hours ago, Father,” she said. Francis didn’t have to try very hard to imagine the cold tone of her voice. 

“You’re late.”

A list of excuses unrolled itself in his head, but he was too tired. He rose to greet her, wincing as aching limbs protested the movement.

“I’m sorry,” he said instead.

“Well, Father, at least you’ve made it. There are a few things I need to-”

Francis held his hand up to stop her.

“You don’t need to call me Father. I’m not - I’m not currently practicing in that role, so it would be-”

“What do you mean?”

The look of shock on the Reverend Mother’s face made Francis’ heart start to race. He’d explained the situation very clearly to Nicholls over the phone so that it could be relayed.

“Well, since losing my hearing I’ve mostly been focusing on - on re-learning my primary modes of communication, and since there are a number of duties I wouldn’t be able to carry out, my Bishop and I thought it would be best if I didn’t-”

“You’re deaf?”

Francis stared at her, terror seizing his chest. She didn’t know?

“Father - Francis,” said the Reverend Mother, very slowly, “I was told that we were being sent someone to cover the duties of our previous priest.”

He couldn’t respond. His mouth was dry, his heart racing rabbit-fast in his chest as he floundered for an answer, a solution, anything that could turn the situation around. 

The world seemed to shudder around him, and he found himself being helped back to the chair before he realised his legs were shaking under him. The cold palm on his brow was of little enough comfort, but then those wiry fingers were holding his chin, forcing him to look into the Reverend Mother’s face.

“Oh dear,” she murmured, “that’s not good at all. But… the children might benefit from someone who… understands them. And could teach them, as well.”

Close up, the lines in her face were familiar, careworn tracks. There was no pity there, just the resigned knowledge that it would always be like this, a mad scramble to make do.

“I could do that,” said Francis, “I could teach.”

“We’ll still need a priest, though,” said the Reverend Mother, straightening up. 

“You can stay until arrangements can be made for someone to take the position. You haven’t been laicised, have you?”

“N-no!” said Francis, startled, “no, no, on paper I’m still a priest, I just… I don’t really know what that means anymore. For me.”

The Reverend Mother’s mouth twisted into a hard line. Whatever she was going to say next, he was sure it would not be pleasant.

“Do you know anybody in the area?” she said, forcing the words out between gritted teeth like they were as difficult to say as they were to hear. 

“Or perhaps you could contact the Boston Archdiocese and see what can be done for you in terms of accommodation-”

Francis swallowed painfully. The thought had crossed his mind, knowing he’d be in Boston. Technically he had two options up here, and both had been in his prayers since he’d returned. But one of them had a young family, and the other-

Well, it was worth a shot.

“Reverend Mother,” he said softly, “would you mind making a phone call for me?”

Chapter Text

Nights like these were plain torture. It had been months, and Hawkeye’s body still wasn’t used to all this anymore - regular sleep, regular food. Persistent quiet that stretched out long enough to drive him mad with anticipation, for a crisis that would never arrive. He lay in bed, exhausted but itching to move, to find some excuse to leap up into action, but paralysed too by the absence of anything that needed his attention.

He’d wanted this, hadn’t he? He’d been sure that when he came home, he’d sleep for a year.

If only he could sleep.

His dad hadn’t questioned it when he’d moved the phone into his room. Even when most of the calls to the house were still for Pierce the Elder. There was something strangely tentative between them now, not that his dad had been the type to withhold anything from him for the sake of it, the way many parents often do. But there was a hesitance to deny him anything now, a lack of friction in the easy banter between them, like Daniel was afraid that too much pushback might break something in his fragile son.

It annoyed Hawkeye in a way that he couldn’t put into words. But it meant that he remained unchallenged about the phone, which was good, because if was being honest with himself, he needed it there. It barely even rang for him, with the exception of BJ, who called as often as he could, (which was nowhere near as often as Hawkeye would have liked). But there was something about knowing that it was a connection to the outside world, knowing that there was a voice that might live on the other side of the line, if only he were to pick up the receiver - that in itself was enough to keep him from climbing the walls in the silence.

So when the phone rang that night, or that morning, or whatever label you could give to when it was so early it was still dark, the ensuing spike of adrenaline came as excitement, not fear. It was with delight that he rolled over and snatched up the receiver, holding it to his ear.

“Johnson’s twenty four hour dry goods and modern home appliances. Open all day, every night.”

“Hello, Pierce.”

Hawkeye blinked, adjusting the receiver to his ear to make sure he’d heard correctly.

“Charles?”

“How very astute of you. Got it in one.”

He was laying that snooty accent of his on so thick it was almost comical, and Hawkeye grinned into the darkness.

“Say, what kind of a call is this? Kind of an ungentlemanly hour, isn’t it?”

“An ungentlemanly hour for an ungentlemanly man,” countered Charles, “I figured you’d be awake.”

“Couldn’t sleep either, huh?”

A beat of silence. It didn’t matter; Hawkeye understood all the same.

“So what do people talk about at this ungodly hour, anyway?” said Hawkeye, brain working quickly to divert the conversation away from why they weren’t sleeping, “why don’t you tell me what you’re wearing?”

The indignant spluttering on the other end of the line made his heart swell with the comforting familiarity of it.

“Oh come on, Charles. What sort of a sleeper are you when you’re not sharing a tent? I bet you’re a nudie guy so you can feel every thread count of those pure silk sheets.”

“You jest, Pierce, but I’ll have you know that silk has the unique properties of regulating body temperature. Cool in the summer, warm in the winter. A classic choice, for those who can-”

“I notice you’re not telling me anything about the pyjama situation. I was right, wasn’t I? Easy breezy-”

“Actually, I happen to be wearing quite a lovely set of matching cotton-”

“Not silk? I never told you how dashing you looked in that robe-”

“And what’s more, I didn’t call you to talk about my sleepwear choices, so, if you would kindly-”

“Aren’t you gonna ask what I’m wearing first? That’s how this is meant to go, right?"

“Pierce, if you're going to continue to interrupt me, I shall simply call someone else!”

“No!”

Hawkeye spoke louder than he’d been meaning to, and he froze briefly, listening for whether he’d woken his dad. But there was nothing but the overwhelming quiet, and he settled back against his pillow with a tired sigh.

It was too late - he’d shown his hand in the terror that had suddenly gripped him, that Charles would hang up and leave him to the silence. The receiver in his hand was suddenly slippery with sweat.

“I’m still here,” said Charles’ voice. His tone was gentler than Hawkeye had ever heard from him, and it made something in his chest clench.

Hawkeye let out a long breath.

“Alright,” he said, “thanks.”

Hawkeye could hear the rustling of blankets on the other side of the line as Charles moved, presumably adjusting the phone. Of course he had one in his room. Of course he’d called, assuming that Hawkeye did, too. The worst part was, he just happened to be correct.

“I’m sorry,” said Hawkeye, “I… I don’t actually know what to talk about. My brain is mush.”

“Mine too,” said Charles. His voice was already deep, but now it sounded low and gravelly with exhaustion.

“I don’t suppose you want to hear all about the latest from Crabapple Cove?”

A familiar chuckle. Hawkeye could picture the tight-lipped, condescending smile that accompanied it.

“Perhaps another time. I… I’ve just been thinking about you tonight. Not you specifically, mind - don’t flatter yourself. All of you.”

“And you said you weren’t gonna miss us, you sly dog,” replied Hawkeye, not missing a beat.

“Yes, well. You people have had the remarkable effect of being memorable, one way or another. Even more so now that I’ve returned. The people here are…”

He trailed off. Hawkeye opened his mouth to fill in the blanks. Snooty? Stuck up? Even more irritating than you? It took you going to war to figure that out? 

But then he thought the better of it. It felt like Charles was leading up to something, dancing around what he really wanted to say.

Hawkeye wanted to know what.

“The dear Father called me earlier. Well, he-”

Hawkeye waited for the sentence to end, but whatever Charles had been about to say, he no longer seemed willing to share it.

“Mulcahy called you?”

Hawkeye wriggled upright, desperate for more information. He hadn’t heard from the man since they’d parted ways, and often wondered what he was up to. Whether he’d gotten any of his humble wishes upon returning home.

“He did indeed.”

Hawkeye waited, but Charles didn’t volunteer any more information than that.

“Well?” said Hawkeye impatiently, “how is he? What’s he doing?”

“He’s… working at a school for the Deaf.”

“Oh yeah? He said he wanted that. Kind of a surprise turn, although I wonder if maybe he met someone, one of the kids at the orphanage or something gave him the idea. Did he say?”

“He… said very little. But he assured me he’s alright. He's not too far away, actually, so I think I might... visit.”

Charles' voice sounded strange. Stilted. There was something Charles wasn't telling him.

“Charles,” said Hawkeye, “your re-telling isn’t exactly filling me with confidence right now. Is something wrong?”

“No! No, I just - hearing from him made me… think of others, as well. Awoke some memories, perhaps.”

“What, you’re gonna make late night calls to the whole former 4077? Am I the last on your list, is that why you’re only getting to me now?”

“Actually, Pierce, you’re the only one I called.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that.

“Why?” he blurted out.

The response came back as a hoarse whisper.

“I don’t know.”

Hawkeye nodded, even though Charles couldn’t see him. He’d done plenty of things lately without really knowing why. He’d rearranged all the furniture in the living room yesterday. He'd filled the bathtub with cushions and tried to sleep in it. Last week he’d had to frog a couple of rows of a scarf he was working on, and it was only when he was holding the squiggly forest green remnants in his hands that he realised he hadn’t thought to stop.

“He’s alright, though?” he said, for something to say. Speaking was feeling more and more like an effort, like he had to reach somewhere deep inside him and excavate the words by force.

“Yes,” said Charles, “he’s alright."

Perhaps Charles felt the same way.

But then, why call at all?

"And you?" he pressed.

Another low chuckle

"Yes, I'm alright too. Yourself?"

"Fine and dandy. Picture of perfect health, happiness, and wellbeing. They're running a story on me next week, healthiest man in the world. They wanna know how I do it. Well, if they think I'm giving up the secret to this luscious body-"

Hawkeye trailed off.

"You normally would have cut me off by now."

"Yes, well. Forgive me, Pierce, I find I haven't the energy."

"Right."

Hawkeye blew out a long breath, sinking back against his pillow.

“Geez, this call must be costing you a fortune,” Hawkeye said eventually, “and for what?”

He passed a hand over his eyes, feeling a gritty sense of tiredness settling over him.

“A fortune to you, perhaps,” came the amused reply.

Hawkeye snorted.

“You’re saying you’re not counting out the dimes you’ll have to put in the money box when you’re done?”

“A Winchester does not have a need for a money box, thank you very much.”

Both their laughter came in the form of a tired breath, exhaled once. The heaviness pressed in more insistently, and for the first time in many nights, Hawkeye felt the blessed pull of real sleep tugging at him.

“I think I’m checking out on you,” he said.

“Oh.”

The disappointment in that word, no matter how softly spoken, was palpable.

But then Charles cleared his throat.

“I - I mean,” he said quickly, “would you like me to hang up?”

Hawkeye was silent for a few very long moments.

“Would you stay on the line a bit longer? I’ll even mail you the extra fee.”

“Of course I will.” 

Charles’ voice, when he spoke, was barely loud enough to hear.

“Thank you.”

Hawkeye lay his head down on the pillow, the phone receiver resting next to his ear. He could still hear the other side of the line, though it was mostly the sounds of Charles’ room now, the rustling of his bedsheets, the faint sound of his breath.

“If you start snoring, however,” said Charles, keeping his voice low in spite of the incoming joke, “I hope you know I’m going to hang up immediately.”

“I don’t snore,” mumbled Hawkeye.

“I’m getting my tape recorder set up as we speak.”

“Creep.”

The last thing he remembered, as he finally drifted off to sleep, was the sound of Charles’ quiet laughter on the other end of the line.

Chapter Text

Mulcahy was here? Charles’ head was spinning as he made up the spare room - he’d planned on converting it into an office, but thankfully he hadn’t yet made any headway on that thought as yet.

Instead, outside of work, he plunged himself into the task of interior decoration - a task he’d never had to take on himself, since that was one of the features of living in the family mansion that was simply taken care of. He agonised over some rather sweet cushions embroidered with hens, and cornflower blue bedsheets that he was sure reminded him of Mulcahy in some roundabout way, before he realised it would be more prudent to design according to his own tastes. It would be inappropriate for him to let on that the new room had been put together entirely for the good Father’s needs.

But then there was the question of sourcing timeless, classic pieces for the room. He certainly didn’t have the time or inclination to speak to the family’s usual antique dealers, and so he found himself having the kinds of harried phone conversations his mother used to have whenever unexpected company was on the way. 

The room came together rather pitifully - his preferred burgundy for the bedding, with dark stained walnut dressers, and a bedside table that didn’t quite match. The walls were too bare, the rug on the floor was worked in a geometric pattern that felt a little too bold, and he hadn’t thought about the curtains at all until he arrived home the evening before Mulcahy was supposed to arrive.

There was a woman sitting on the front step waiting for him when he got there, the kind of woman who wore trousers to work, still wearing her sunglasses despite the fact that the sun had disappeared over the horizon. Beside her was a large suitcase, and Charles remembered with a sinking feeling that he was supposed to have had the last of the decorating in this afternoon, before he’d been compelled to stay late to take over consultations for a transplant case.

She looked up at him as he approached, the features behind those dark glasses frozen into a carefully neutral expression.

“I thought it might have been a different Charles Winchester on my list,” she said, red-painted lips only barely holding back her scowl, “but I made sure you were last, just in case. Good thing too, it seems.”

“Marissa?” he said softly, “good god - I knew you were in antiques, but I didn’t realise - please accept my profound apologies for being so late-”

He hurried up the steps to unlock the door, then stumbled his way back down again to grab the suitcase for her. She let him, then followed him up into the house.

“Can I get you anything? Tea? Something stronger?”

A sharp laugh from her made him wince.

“Right, so first you can’t get rid of me fast enough and now you want me to stay for a drink?”

Charles stilled, suitcase still in hand.

“If I gave you the impression that you were the issue, I - I apologise again.”

He could feel his face heating up at the attention, and all of a sudden he prayed that she was annoyed enough that she might storm out and leave him be. He could make do without curtains.

For a moment, he wondered if she was going to press the matter. It was a rather pathetic excuse after all - it’s not you, it’s me - but she just sighed.

“Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

The curtains were acceptable, but his Victorian aspirations clashed with what was available on short notice. The two of them stared forlornly at the strip of gaudy wildflowers that had been embroidered into the velvet.

“I should point out that I didn’t choose these,” said Marissa, “I’m just making the delivery.”

“Are you always this honest with your clients, or is it only when you can’t ignore the fact that you’ve brought me the front cover of Mother Goose to cover my windows with?”

She shot him a sidelong glare.

“I think I liked you better while you were apologetic.”

He had no answer for that, so he opted to pack her suitcase back up, double checking the buckles, and then straightening the curtains, which were already hanging just fine.

“For what it’s worth, Marissa - I am sorry. My parents are-”

“-just like mine,” she said, “I know. I don’t like the prospect of marrying as much as you do. I just… haven’t been rejected quite so vehemently before. It would be funny if it wasn’t such a blow to my ego.”

Charles shut his eyes tightly, turning away from her.

“I’m not really in a position to be a good date right now, let alone a husband or a - god forbid, a father. I’m sorry you had to bear the brunt of that rejection, even if it wasn’t directed at you.”

“I figured it was something like that. That’s the only reason I waited around.”

His smile, when it came, was a fragile one.

“I appreciate that,” he said softly, “perhaps I could still interest you in that drink? I have a rather lovely cognac-”

“Give me the bottle to go and I’ll call it even.”

The boldness of the request caught him by surprise, and he laughed.

“You know what? Alright. Here-”

He took the bottle down from the shelf, still mostly full, and held it out to her.

“Wait, really?” she said, taking it and staring at the label in wonder, “from a Winchester?”

“I told you I’ve not really been myself,” said Charles, more seriously than he’d intended.

Her eyes flickered up to meet his, dark brown and full of curiosity.

“I believe you,” she said, “and - I’m sorry too.”

Charles ducked his head in the face of her pity.

“Come on,” he said, “I’ll show you to the door.”

*

He didn’t sleep much that night. Mulcahy would be arriving in the morning, and he found himself plagued by scenario after scenario of how that reunion might take place. 

The two of them had gotten on each other’s nerves more than they’d been friends in Korea. He had a knack for being the one person around who could guarantee to get a rise out of the gentle priest without even really trying. Not that Mulcahy didn’t give as good as he got, either.

But, more than anything, his heart longed for company without the expectations of family or social standing. He wanted to speak to someone he wouldn’t feel the crushing fear or shame around, someone who had seen him caked in filth and sweat and blood, up to his elbows in bed linens or lying in the dirt. The prospect of having a companion in his house for a while was a welcome one, as loathe as he was to admit it.

He didn’t know too much about what Mulcahy had been doing, either. He remembered the Father mentioning wanting to work with the Deaf, but he hadn’t realised the man was deaf himself - that was, until the Mother Superior on the phone had explained the bare bones of the situation to him.

It had been a long while since he’d signed with anyone. Regular trips to Martha’s Vineyard had instilled an interest in both himself and Honoria when they’d been children, and indeed having a silent method of communication between siblings had been a great help growing up - a necessity even, at times. 

He ran through what he could remember, dictating his inner monologue through his hands and found to his delight that muscle memory did live up to its name. As the sun rose, the dawn light filtering through the curtains, Charles found himself hopeful that this arrangement might just be the exact thing he needed to get his life back into recognisable territory.

He enjoyed himself so much, in fact, that it wasn’t until quite late in the morning that he realised something very important: Mulcahy should have arrived hours ago.

Chapter Text

Francis’ first day taking over bible lessons had begun with a heart-pounding silence as he stood up at the front of the classroom, looking out at the faces of dozen-odd girls staring back at him, wondering how on earth he was going to manage.

Similarly to Hartford, the classroom was arranged in a u-shape around the perimeter of the room, so the students could all see the front, but each other as well. It was a helpful adjustment, but it did mean that the shyer students had nowhere to hide. There were a few faces crouched low in their seats, peering at him from behind a stack of books.

“Hello everybody,” he said, folding his hands in front of him like he often did when he was nervous, “My name is Mr Mulcahy.”

“... priest?”

He missed the bulk of what the girl down the front had said. She stared at him through large glasses with thick lenses, waiting expectantly for an answer.

“I - I’m sorry, I’m not the new priest, no.”

The girl looked confused.

“He… I believe he will be here by next week. But I’ll be here too, to take some classes. The Sisters believe it will be good for you all to have a deaf teacher alongside your usual instructors.”

The room broke off into chatter he couldn’t hear, but all of a sudden the eyes were off him and onto each other as they murmured their surprise to each other.

He waved for order.

“I should also say,” he continued, feeling his heart continue to race, “that I - I’ve only very recently become deaf. And the last school I was at prioritised sign over lip reading, so please bear with me while I get used to - to all this.”

To his surprise, the majority of the reactions to this statement were delight. Of course - young people loved to feel that they had expertise of their own, something to offer.

“Since you’re all experts,” he continued, finding himself smiling back at them, “I wonder if we could work together during these lessons? I expect you’ll have as much to teach me as I do yourselves.”

One girl down the back, who was much taller than all the others, waved frantically for the attention of the room. She spoke slowly and clearly, enunciating each word without the awkward condescension that Francis had gotten accustomed to, in situations like these.

“We do heaps of lessons on that. They’re boring, but it does help. First thing Sister Mary Margaret always says is -”

That last phrase was picked up by the rest of the room, though he sensed a thread of resentment in the way it was spoken - not least in the way some of the girls rolled their eyes as they spoke.

“Read the sentence, not the word.”

He nodded, placing his fingertips on his chin and signing thank you, which got him another brief titter of surprise.

“Alright,” he said, “That’s very helpful advice - and thank you for speaking more slowly, I… I appreciate it a lot.” 

The faces in the room had turned curious and expectant, and so he cleared his throat, leafing through the worn old bible he’d brought with him. Its pages were worn and creased from many notes and dog ears, and he ran a fond finger down its side.

“let’s see where you’ve gotten up to so far in your bible studies. I’d hate to rehash something you’ve all already done… although the Lord does give us each a unique perspective on His word.”

The tall girl down the back was waving at him again.

“Yes? Ah - and I’d better get your name, as well-”

She fingerspelled G-R-A-C-E, and then spoke it so dramatically she ended up baring her teeth at him.

“I think you look and sound like a priest.”

That was enough to jumpstart the anxious hammering of his heartbeat. He suddenly felt very exposed, out the front of the classroom.

“Even if you aren't one. Why are you teaching bible lessons if you're not a priest?”

“... married?”

He only caught the tail end of what the girl next to Grace had said, but he had a good enough idea of what she’d asked.

“No, I-”

He couldn’t very well tell Deaf children that his deafness was what had taken his vocation from him. How would that look?

“Tell me,” he said instead, plastering a smile on his face, “what exactly is a priest supposed to look like?”

“You look like you wouldn’t say a curse word,” said Grace, her expression very serious.

“You’re not as scary as a real priest, though,” said her neighbour, “they tell you you’re going to hell and stuff.”

“He wears a cross!”

“Lots of people wear crosses! His hair’s too long to be a priest!”

"I still think he's married. Or maybe he wants to be."

Several more hands raised in quick succession, and Francis began to get the impression that they weren’t going to get through very much bible study today at all.

*

“I trust you’ve been settling in alright, Mr Mulcahy?”

Francis smiled tightly, seated in the Mother Superior’s office, packed bag at his side.

The new priest’s name was Father Bishop, of all things. He was due to arrive over the weekend, and so the little room he’d been staying in for the last few days would need to once again be vacated. He didn’t have all that much to his name in the first place, save his bag and a trunk of belongings that was late in being delivered, that would now have to be forwarded onto the Winchester residence… and then to whatever slightly more permanent place of residence he could manage to find. He tucked that last thought away to worry about later. 

“That’s not exactly the easiest question to answer when you’re about to send me on my way,” he said, trying and failing to keep the terseness out of his voice.

Her eyes narrowed at him.

“The bus only takes fifteen minutes or so, and we all know enough about the Winchesters to know you’ll be living in relative luxury to here,” came the mild, but steely retort.

He bristled at that, but given the precarious nature of his current situation, opted to keep his mouth shut and his teeth clenched.

“Our head office has, however, confirmed that they’re happy for you to stay on here. Have you done much teaching outside of religious instruction?”

Francis shook his head.

“I’m afraid that was something of a specialty.”

“Right. Well, we’ll find you something. It’s not too different from teaching English really, only that you’ll need to expand on your repertoire of books. It seems that they believe having a deaf member of staff might be a step in the right direction. I’ll need a contract from you, if you’re really planning on staying. And I’ll need some identification, for our records.”

She slid a piece of paper towards him, and he skimmed it while he felt around for his wallet. 

He was startled when a slip of paper was waved into his field of vision. On it there were notes regarding the bus route he had to take, and dot point instructions on how to walk to the address Charles had left for him, and a note about a spare key in the meter box, just in case of a work emergency. It seemed that Charles, at least, had slotted perfectly back into civilian life.

“Thank you,” he said, “that’s… very kind of you.”

“Perhaps it’ll help you manage to avoid being late again,” said the Reverend Mother.

His answering smile was more of a grimace.

“I can only pray it will be so,” he replied.

He caught the bus just fine, from the stop just outside the school, and let himself zone out a little as the landscape slid past him. He’d only been there a few days and already fatigue had settled over him like a heavy blanket. Lip reading required a level of constant concentration, the piecing together of mouth shapes and the slotting of possible sounds into plausible contexts, and it left him with a tension headache most evenings when he retired to his room. It seemed to take a toll on the students, as well. He had the boy’s class in the afternoons, and by that time they were a mixture of comatose and climbing the walls, anything to avoid having to follow what must, to them, be a collection of inane ramblings. Something would have to be done about that situation, too.

The worries piled up at the back of his mind, too numerous for him to even think about right now when his main preoccupation was the fact that he was about to take up residence with Charles, for however long his charitable nature held out. Based on historical evidence, Francis assumed that it wouldn’t be long before his luck ran out, and it rankled at him to imagine himself trying to play nice to keep a roof over his head.

He sighed and gazed out the window at the trees flying by. Boston looked different today. It seemed greener. The sky was clear and the sunlight threaded the remaining leaves with gold. Clinging on for dear life, though eventually they too would be blown away by the winter winds.

Still, they were beautiful.

He let himself relax a little as the bus continued on its way, letting the scenery fly by him while he silently prayed for strength. 

It wasn’t until he checked his watch that he realised a lot longer than fifteen minutes had elapsed, and there was still no sign of the city centre where he’d first disembarked. He got up, clinging for dear life to the handholds, working his way up to the front of the bus.

“E-excuse me,” he said to the driver, “is this bus going into Boston?”

The driver didn’t turn to face him, so it was hard to tell exactly what he said. But the incredulous look on his face was enough to confirm his worst fears.

“Oh dear,” he said softly.

He got off at the next town, which was certainly a lot smaller than Boston had been. He was in the middle of a main road, which had a few amenities, and the young man at the post office was able to confirm with him that he had been on the correct bus - it was just that both routes used the same stop. He’d been taking it in the wrong direction.

Outside the post office, Francis rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes. He had another hour or so to kill until the next bus came up in the correct direction. His head was already beginning to hurt, and he didn’t much like the idea of lugging his bag up and down the main street in an attempt at sightseeing, and so he drew his jacket a little more tightly around his shoulders and hunkered down at the bus stop, pulling his bible out of his bag for something to read.

He let it fall open to a random page, as he often had when searching for inspiration for his sermons. Today, it fell open to the book of Judges, partway through the story of Gideon.

The weakest man from the weakest family of the weakest tribe. Are you trying to say something to me, Lord? But even Gideon was given the courtesy of a sign.

Of course, there was no answer. The wind remained chilly, with the promise of winter in the air. People walked past him, paying no mind. An old woman joined him at the bus stop, chattering far too quickly at him for him to keep up - although he got through most of the conversation by smiling and nodding. He stood up so that a couple of mothers and their young toddlers could sit down together. The bus arrived five minutes late, and there was nothing in any of these things that he could imagine might have been a sign that the good Lord wanted anything from him - or if he was even there.

When the bus arrived, he was faced with yet another problem. He felt around in his pockets in the hopes of another coin for the fare, and when that yielded nothing he reached for his wallet - and was promptly rewarded with a flash to that morning, of taking his wallet out, placing it on the table, removing his identification, and… and leaving it there.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said, keeping his voice low “I - I wonder if I could explain my predicament to you.”

The driver’s eyes were an icy gray, and stared impassively at him from under thick, bushy brows.

“I’ve lost my wallet, and-”

The driver shook his head slowly.

“And I paid for the last bus, but it was going the wrong way! And - and - oh-”

A hand tapped him on the arm, and he turned to see one of the mothers he’d stood up for passing a dime under the driver’s window. He didn’t turn in time to see if she’d said anything, but he did turn in time to see a pitying smile that made him want to shrivel up and hide. He hurried down the back of the bus, tucking himself into the back corner.

Stress had worried his temper down to a frayed nub, and his mortification quickly shifted into something more like irritation. He glared out the window as they went, steeling himself for the inevitability of an encounter with Charles Emerson Winchester the Third. He passed the journey by running through scenarios in his mind where Charles unleashed his usual dismissive, uncaring nature. He was certain the man would use the word tardiness somewhere in his tirade, and that his mishap with the bus would be sneered at, or perhaps even laughed at. Maybe the man would make another dig at his Irishness.

When a few droplets of rain began to splatter the window, he looked up at the now-overcast sky and scowled.

Not even those pranksters in the Swamp could have thought up an arrangement quite like this one. You’ve done an exemplary job.

By the time he arrived at the terminus in Boston, Francis’ blood was practically boiling from the heat of the imagined arguments he’d had with Charles, and the sheer unfairness of everything that had happened so far today. He stepped out into the rain defiantly, stomping his way in the direction of Charles’ house. At least his anger was adequate fuel for the journey.

The Reverend Mother’s instructions were thorough. He managed not to get lost, although the walk was long enough that even his anger ran out of steam before he managed to arrive at his destination. 

By the time he dropped his bag on the doorstep, he was back to feeling nothing but cold and tired. He’d smile and play nice with Charles if his house was warm. He rapped on the door hard enough to hurt his knuckles.

The door opened almost immediately - and there was Charles.

The effect their mutual presence seemed to have on each other was immediate. Francis’ shoulders bunched up almost to his ears with tension, and Charles-

Charles barely looked like himself. Francis had seldom seen him look genuinely worried about anything, and the expression sat strange and unfamiliar on his features. His hair was wild about his head like he’d been tugging at it, and he looked Francis up and down.

You okay?

Francis stared at Charles’ hands as they formed the signs. They were clumsy like his own, not quite accustomed to the shapes and movements to be fluent just yet.

He swallowed hard, feeling his eyes prickle with tears as relief flooded him. He hadn’t realised how much he’d been dreading the ordeal of having to lip read after everything else that had happened so far today.

Sorry I’m late, he replied, got lost.

Charles nodded, then they both reached for the bag at the same time. Charles waved him away, picking up his bag and holding the door open for him to enter.

The place was smaller than Francis had expected. With everything Charles had spoken about he’d imagined lavish furnishings, vast hallways and cavernous rooms. The place was by no means small, but it was oddly modest, and haphazardly furnished in a way that seemed… unfinished. They passed the living room and Francis saw that there were a number of boxes in there that had not yet been unpacked.

Perhaps he’d only recently moved in? But that also begged another question - why move out of the famed Winchester family home at all? If Francis had had a family like that, he would have never left.

Charles led him to the guest room, which looked delightfully inviting, if incredibly Charles in its gaudiness. But the bed looked large and comfortable, and the place would be his to inhabit.

Relief made him crumble, yanking the supports out from under him. He was exhausted and cold, and found that he suddenly felt terribly weak.

Charles hovered near him, so he knew it must have shown on his face in some way.

I’m alright, he said, just tired.

He sat down on the bed as if to demonstrate, and Charles took a step back. His expression was odd, his eyes darting around everywhere except directly at Francis.

If you want to rest, go ahead, he said.

There was something deeply unsettling about the whole exchange. Charles seemed to practically thrum with anxiety, and Francis didn’t really know how to deal with that. The only times they’d ever really been alone together had been times where Francis had taken it upon himself to course correct the man’s pompous, selfish attitude.

But then, that had been there. Korea loomed in the back of his mind like a past lifetime, another version of himself that he could no longer be. And among the memories too - Hawkeye. Something about his proximity to the strange and wonderful man had coloured his own behaviour too. It was easier to be brave with a man like Hawkeye by your side. Easier to imagine that things would…

Well, not turn out alright. Not necessarily. But easier to imagine that he would be able to weather the outcome.

Sorry for misplacing my faith, Lord. But of the two of you, Hawkeye’s the one who always appeared when I needed him.

He missed the man so much it ached.

Francis shook his head. His mind was wandering, supplying him with all sorts of blasphemous nonsense. He needed to change out of his damp clothes.

Charles still hovered, and Francis looked up at him nervously.

Need to change wet clothes, he said, but thank you, for everything. I am very grateful.

Charles’ hands fidgeted, like he wanted to say something more to that. Instead, he nodded tersely, a strange jerking motion of his head, and let him be.

Francis found himself wishing he’d tried to press him for more information, or even start an argument. It would have been easier to know how to respond than whatever had just happened there.

But he changed into clean, dry clothes, and the unique comfort of being warm after the rain soothed him.

Sitting back down on the bed was a mistake. It was soft and inviting, and a profound sense of exhaustion settled over him. The ringing in his ears was worse than usual, and the persistent dull pain in the back of his head throbbed, now that he had a moment to devote attention to it.

His stomach growled, but heaviness pulled at his eyelids. One of those options, however, did not involve having to try to talk to Charles again, and so he lay down. Just to rest his eyes, just for a moment.

*

He woke unmoored. He shivered - he’d fallen asleep on top of the covers, and in his sleep curled up against the cold. Charles, it seemed, had left him to his own devices. In Korea he would have considered that a blessing. But here, it was not a happy thought.