Author's Note: bah. This took longer than I wanted it to. It's harder than I want it to be to balance plot and progress. This chapter I decided on progress, so there's a lot of Mort. Be ready for the next chapter though – I plan to return to plotting, and I adore plotting. So read, enjoy, and remember than author's thanks are at the end.
The day was bright, sunny, and beautifully scented by growing things. The display was almost obscene when one stopped to consider that a funeral was taking place. Consequently, the result of such pleasant weather was that Carly found her mind wandering from the minister's words of the "dearly departed." As long as her mind was wandering, she tried to keep it on matters of importance – like setting up a consistent dialogue with Rainey, or how to avoid talking to her mother until she was off the warpath, or when it was time to get Bast's rabies shot renewed – and off things of no importance. Like how to avoid Lawley the next time he came calling, and that he would was a given. She wasn't going to be rid of the man until Rainey's case was settled.
The problem was, he was starting to grow on her – just a little – and she didn't know what to think about that. She'd been so young when she'd fallen in love with her ex. Just a junior in high school. They'd gotten married four years later, and then she'd decided to go to graduate school…and life threw one too many fastballs at them. A drawn-out and nasty divorce had turned her off from the whole dating scene for years, and it wasn't until a few years ago that she'd even started to see men as anything less a species she was force to share the planet with so she might as well make the best of it. She was no longer a young girl to give over her heart at the drop of a hat or a dimpled smile, and she wasn't the drunk who was bitter about her divorce, and she wasn't the single-minded young career woman. No, now she was older, wiser, and severely out of practice when it came to the single's scene.
Carly jolted when Leo elbowed her for absently nodding when the minister asked if there was anyone who wanted to say a few words about the deceased.
"Well, don't be shy," the minister gently prodded. "Come on up."
Nearly panic-stricken, Carly looked to her friend for a way out, and Leo just shook her head. So far, no one had volunteered to say anything about Steve, even after several prompts for someone to do so. If Carly was so out of it as to volunteer without knowing, then that was her problem, and she'd best think of something to say fast.
Hiding the glare she wanted to send Leo's way, Carly calmly stood and walked around the closed coffin to stand next to the minister. Looking around at her colleagues – all of whom knew how she and Steve had gotten along, and half of whom were hiding smiles – and shook her head. If she were anything less than honest, she'd never live it down.
"I think most of you know," she started, "that there was no love lost between Dr. Wright and I. We never got along or agreed on anything, and would contradict each other out of sheer perversity at times. I didn't agree with his methods, and he took exception to my personality. More than one of you had the dubious pleasure of witnessing one of our disagreements, and more than half of you probably heard stories of one. But despite our . . . numerous differences," Carly hesitated, kicking herself for what she was about to say, because even though it was truly the way she felt, no one would ever let her forget it. "Despite all that, he didn't deserve to be . . . killed . . . the way he was. So perhaps he and I agree on something after all." Once more nodding her head, Carly scurried back to her seat with all the dignity she could muster, and vowed to pay more attention to the rest of the service.
That resolve lasted her about ten minutes, and then her mind was wandering to the problem of how to set up a dialogue with Rainey. Hand-flaps, head-tilts, and the occasional written word were all well and good, but it wasn't enough. His avoidance of regular communication was the major stumbling block in front of all his other problems. If she couldn't get him to talk – or write – with her for a good ten minutes a day, then he was never going to be comfortable with other people, with going outside, or even with letting down his own blinds. She knew the chain of reasoning: if I don't talk, then no one knows I'm here, and if no one knows I'm here, then I'm not, and I don't have to deal with anything. But everything she'd tried up until now had done nothing to break that chain. The reasoning was faulty, but no less real for that.
"You're not paying attention."
Carly fought the urge to roll her eyes. "Thank you, Leo," she murmured. "I have other things to be doing and worrying about. I don't mean to sound callus, but let the dead bury the dead." From the row of seats kitty-corner from the two women, Drs. Holshack and Marchman were giving them censuring looks. They obediently fell silent and Carly tried to resume her train of thought.
Nothing I've done so far has baited him out. The most reaction I've ever seen from him happened twice under stressful circumstances – which would be Mrs. Rainey's visit, and those detectives – and once in reaction to something he read. She gathered some insights from that, but the last thing she wanted to do was place Rainey in yet another situation that he'd find so stressful that he might relapse. Until now, her best bet for luring him out of his protective shell of silence was the big move, but that had been . . . spectacularly ineffectual. He was showing more physical activity, true, and he didn't spend hours staring at a blank wall anymore, but he wasn't speaking in more than one or two word sentences, and that only occasionally.
So what can I try next? Negative attention would be a bad idea, so setting up a system of penalties each time he failed to "use his words" was out of the question, not to mention that she'd always resisted doing such things in any case but to stop bad behavior, and Rainey wasn't behaving badly. He was behaving too well in her opinion. And since he'd never really clued her in to what his opinion was, hers was the only one that mattered at the moment.
If I can't use negatives to train him into a pattern of communication, then logical choice would be to use positive attention. But what kind of positive attention could she use that wouldn't make him more uncomfortable? Normally she'd use a trip through the gardens or to a special destination as a bribe, but that wouldn't work in this case. Trips outside his room were still out of the question because . . .
Should they be out of the question? Rainey's shown that the only way he'll adapt to the environment around him is for the environment to force itself on him. There's a limit to what he can stand, of course, but if I started a routine of daily walks through the ward, or even a half an hour of time spent in the common room with some of the lower level functioning patients . . . The idea had potential. As a matter of course and Toby's training, she ought to discuss the idea with him first, especially since it'd be his job to accompany Rainey on these outings most of the time. That and the younger man seemed to have set up his own relationship with Rainey, something she'd watched develop and been encouraged by. It was proof that her patient was still capable of forming connections with people. Besides, her relationship with Rainey was that of doctor and patient, a position she liked to keep with those under her care. Toby was probably the closest thing Rainey had to a friend at Briar Ridge.
Alright, then that's what I'll consider doing next. Having a plan to follow comforted Carly immensely. Not only did it give her a goal to shoot for in her effort to help her patient, but it gave her something to report to Mrs. Rainey, who was taking her position as Mort's legal guardian ever so much more seriously since that incident with the police.
The moment the mourners – or more specifically, the former co-workers – were excused, Carly was off and heading towards her car. Toby was at the institute with Mort since he'd barely even known Steve, and she wanted to talk this idea of hers over with someone as soon as possible so her optimism wasn't burned off by practicality.
"Hey Doc, I thought you weren't coming."
Carly shook her head. "Toby, which of us is the heavy around here? If push comes to shove, who is he more likely to listen to in the event that he doesn't want go? What he doesn't want to hear from you, he has to hear from me."
Toby thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "Point to you."
"You youngsters think you know everything," Carly teased as they walked down several identical corridors to get to Rainey's room.
"Oh, that's me. Young, foolish, and ignorant."
"If you know that, you learned more than I did in school."
"What are you talking about? I learned that from my mom, bless her cotton-pickin' heart."
That's something I could have said, Carly thought, pausing outside of Rainey's room to look over her clipboard. Even here on the second floor, routine was everything. It drove some of the higher-functioning patients nuts (no pun intended), and the ones that had checked themselves in tried to understand, but it was a godsend for people like Rainey. There were several adults living here – either autistic, or suffering extreme dementia as a result of advanced Alzheimer's, or severe mental retardation – that would fall into hysterics if they so much as saw a nurse out of place without fair warning. Now Carly checked to make sure that the proper warnings had been made for the past week. They had been.
"Let me break the news," she murmured as she set her hand on the doorknob.
"You could have broken it earlier in the week."
The softly spoken comment was one she'd heard from him often enough over the past few days. She'd overruled on the simply hypothesis that the more time Rainey had to prepare himself, the better he'd be able to wall himself off from the real world when the time came to go exploring. And that, ladies and gentlemen, would defeat the entire purpose of the exercise. In a fair imitation of Rainey himself, Carly flapped a hand at Toby, telling him to let it drop. As she'd reminded him earlier, she was the doctor. If he ever decided to make a career change, then he could do as he wished.
Stepping into Rainey's room, Carly gave her customary greeting as she looked around. It was hard to be sure, but it looked as if he might have lowered his shades. If he had, it'd been no more than an inch, and if he hadn't, then she was seeing what she wished to see, because Toby knew better than to interfere without her order.
"Mort?" Greetings aside, Rainey was nowhere to be seen. Since the room was kept under constant observation, and it was plain to see that he wasn't underneath his bed, that left the bathroom as the only other place for him to be hidden away. She looked to Toby, who nodded and headed towards the bathroom. It wasn't uncommon for people as badly traumatized as Rainey to forget some of the common niceties . . . like closing the bathroom door if it was in use.
"Ambitious project, my friend." Toby's good-natured drawl was audible even where Carly still stood by the door. Trusting that she wasn't interrupting any acts of biology best kept private, the doctor headed to the bathroom as Toby continued, "However, I think a screwdriver would get the job done quite a bit –"
CRASH!
Carly ran the last few steps to the bathroom and peered inside to find Toby crouched over Rainey, who was sprawled on the floor. "What happened?" she asked, setting side her clipboard. The room was too small for her to push her way to Rainey's side, and since she didn't see any blood, she was disinclined to panic.
"I don't know," Toby said, confusion plain in his voice as he helped Mort to his feet. "One moment our man Mort is perched on the washstand, going at the screws that hold up the mirror with a bit of plastic, and the next he jumps like a scalded cat."
There was more to it than that; anyone would be able to see that bit of truth. Rainey was pale and trembling, more than willing to let Toby seat him on the closed toilet. Something the man had said, had obviously upset the writer.
Once Mort was safely seated, Toby exchanged places with Carly, letting her go to Mort's side. "Anything hurt?" she asked softly, chafing wrists, elbows, knees, and ankles. Mort brushed her aside. "I'll take that as a no then. Care to tell me why you were trying to take down your mirror? It'll be hard to shave without it." Not that it was much of a trial to shave with an electric razor. Any other kind was banned.
Mort briefly looked away from her to glare at the piece of mirrored glass, then he looked down at his hands. He didn't have the bit of plastic anymore; his eyes moved to the floor, obviously searching for the dropped tool.
"I want you to keep the mirror, Mort." Carly said this firmly. "I want it to stay on the wall." Who knew what he could do with a piece of broken glass. At best, he'd be put under watch. At worst, he'd be sent back to the third floor under accusations of obtaining a weapon for uses that were unknown but obviously no good. "Do you understand?"
The answer she got from him, while undeniably proof that he did understand, was not the kind of reaction she wanted: he pushed her away with enough strength to actually make her need to catch herself before she bruised her rear.
Oh no you don't. His irritation, or anger, or antagonism, was something she'd been waiting for for some time. It showed he was getting frustrated with his own slow progress. However, there were healthy and non-healthy ways to express that anger. The one he'd just chosen was an example of unacceptable behavior.
Carly grabbed his hands, forcing his attention back to her. "Mort . . . I asked you a question. Did you –" He pulled his hands free and shoved at her again. "No!" she snapped, once again taking control of his hands. "That is not an answer. That is a display of temper, Mort. I understand how easily it is for someone in your position to get mad, what with people yammering at you all day long, but this doesn't help." All through her little speech, Rainey tried to free himself, but Carly hung on tight. "If you want me to stop, you need to use your words. You need to talk to me. Or make some sort of non-violent signal that you want me to stop."
Rainey didn't stop his struggles, but Carly felt it was more important that he look at her, so she released one hand and tugged on his chin. Reluctantly, he met her eyes. "I know what you're trying to do," she informed him with a smile that was partially grim, partially wry. "Ignoring me isn't going to make me disappear. I'm going to let you go, but I want you to remember that from now on, there will be no such displays of temper. If you want to make a complaint, write it out. Or even better, tell me."
From the way his eyes slid away from hers, she knew she'd asked too much, but then she'd known that as the words had left her mouth. "Fine. We'll strive for short messages then. I'll get you a notepad that you can carry around." His surprise was apparently stronger than his need to sulk, because he looked at her again. "Don't give me that look," she said. "I'm the person trying to get you to talk again, remember? Of course I'm going to do anything I can to further that goal." This time when he looked away, he was blushing.
"Don't give me that," Carly teased, getting back to her feet. "Don't tell me that after all this time we've spent butting heads, that you're getting shy now." Although if he was, then it wouldn't be so bad an idea to take a few minutes to allow him to regain his mental footing. After that earlier display, she wanted him calm before she forced him to do something he was going to be uncomfortable with. Alright then, she told herself as she walked to the door. Decision made.
Leaving Mort in the peace of his refuge for at least the time being, Carly drug Toby into the living area. "We're going to follow the routine for a bit," she told him quietly. "I'd prefer to avoid any more outbursts."
"Especially since we're going to do something that you don't think he's going to like?"
Carly nodded. "Especially." The table next to them caught her eye. It was awfully bare. "I'll be right back," she said, suddenly inspired. "I'm going to confiscate a chess board or something. I want to see how his focus is coming along."
I suppose everyone has to have a weakness or two, Carly comforted herself an hour later. The chess board – along with a set of checkers, and cribbage set – had been easily found and relocated. And Rainey had even been persuaded into playing. That wasn't the weakness she was talking about. That weakness was her own, and the fact that she hadn't lasted more than a quarter of an hour against her mute patient. She'd never been any good at chess, and this was just further proof of it . . . After all, Rainey and Toby have been playing for at least twice that amount of time, if not more. No, Rainey was no chess prodigy, unless Toby was as well, and that was just plain unlikely.
She tried not to let her inglorious defeat bother her as she sat in a chair across the room and took notes. The fact that Rainey could be bribed – Ahem. Interested. – with games was something of a breakthrough, and she was ashamed that she hadn't thought of it earlier. Perhaps if he'd ever shown a greater interest in what was going on around him, she would have, but he'd seemed so unaffected by everything. Part of her had been sure that the moment he saw the games, Rainey would sit and try to figure out what purpose they served.
What a mistake, Carly thought, shaking her head. If she had really thought about it, she might have seen that a lack of focus on Rainey's part wasn't the problem. He wasn't trying to ignore everything; he was trying to focus on single splinters of what had been his life. There was a difference. The former implied that he was too damaged to handle the world around him. The latter implied that his mind was sharper than she'd thought, and that he keeping his mind focused on a single goal. A goal unknown to her, but a goal nonetheless. This business of finding and making tools, and now with the game, that implies that Rainey is aware of his surroundings. More than aware, in fact. He's able to assess a situation, and then come up with plausible solutions using the items at hand.
By reevaluating Rainey's possible mental state, Carly changed the rules of the game on herself. It was like setting up a good game plan for football, and then finding out that the locals had meant soccer. Most of her plans, theories, and possible treatments were now obsolete. She needed time to review and regroup. Everything. Or almost everything. Their little field trip was still on, whether Rainey liked it or not.
"You know . . ." This sally from Toby interrupted Carly's wandering thoughts. "I think we've played to a draw." Both men studied the playing field with such intensity that she had to hold back a laugh. "Good game though. I haven't played in years." With a sigh, Toby knocked over his king and leaned back in his chair. "The next time we reach a draw, it'll be your turn to surrender. I'm not going to do it every time."
Mort looked at his companion reproachfully – whether it was because of the sudden end to the game or because of the knowledge that the next time he'd be expected to give in, Carly couldn't say – and got up from the table. He wandered about restlessly, ignoring everyone and wringing his hands.
It'll be good for him to get out in more ways that one, Carly realized. He'd cooped himself up in this room, but that didn't mean that he wasn't feeling a bit claustrophobic by now. Even if he decides he hates wandering about, getting out of this room for awhile will do him good. And if it stirs and interest in the outside world, that'll be more than any of us have managed yet. Absently Carly wondered if she should start picking him up a newspaper every once in awhile, but she squashed the notion. With the way he responded to outsiders and the threat of any sort of mental dilemmas, he'd either ignore it or be thrown into a state of intrusion or hyperarousal. Maybe in a few weeks, she amended, setting aside her notes.
"Okay, Mort," she said softly. "I have one more surprise today, and then I'll leave you be." Carly would have thought that her promising beginning had gone unheard if it hadn't been for the way that Rainey's shoulders minutely hunched. "I'm well aware that you don't like surprises," she told him, "but this one isn't so bad. It'll help with your restlessness at least." As if denying her words, Rainey's hands went straight into his pockets. "Very good, but you're still pacing. You're always pacing. This room gets small, doesn't it?" This time he glanced at her over his shoulder. "You're lucky you're not claustrophobic, otherwise this room might get a bit small, but not being claustrophobic isn't helping you either. You're pacing like a caged tiger. It's not good for you. It's not good for you to keep yourself closed up in here." Rainey glanced at the blinds that he either had or hadn't lowered, then turned his back on her again.
"I'm not going to force you to go outside," she assured him. "We'll do that when you're ready for it, and no matter how pushy I might seem at times, I know you're nowhere near ready for that. But," she warned as his shoulders started to relax, "I am going to start . . . suggesting . . . that you take a short walk around the ward at least three times a week. And you can go more often than that if you want. . . ." In his dismay, Rainey twirled around and looked at her, mild shock on his face. "You can't hide here forever, and Toby and I will come with you." His eyes looked at the door like a condemned man would look at a guillotine. "A short walk," she clarified. "Ten or fifteen minutes. But if you can tell me why you don't want to go, or write down why, then I'll postpone this until I've had time to think it over." He glanced over at the table and its supply of writing materials. "Can you do that for me, Mort?"
The long, silent minutes that followed were obviously full of indecision for the writer. Carly and Toby waited patiently on Carly's belief that if Mort really had any kind of real fear over their outing, he'd do what he could to avoid it. Rainey however stood rooted to the floor, his rock still form making no indication that he'd made any sort of decision.
"This is up to you, Mort," Carly murmured. "I think you know as well as I that you can't hide here forever. Your own spirit won't allow you to."
Something she'd said must have sunk in, because Mort's shoulders slumped, and he shuffled towards the door.
Carly hid the smile of triumph that his actions produced. "You'll want slippers," she said in that same soft voice as she reached for the doorknob. "The floor tiles in the hallway are probably a little chilly."
With both his caregivers at his side, Mort reluctantly faced the open door. They both stepped through the threshold, then turned to look at him. There was to be no force involved in getting him out of his refuge. Persuasion and outright coercion were one thing; Carly drew the line at physical intimidation and threats.
"Just a short walk," she murmured in her most calming voice. "The moment you want to turn back, you can. This is your choice. It won't happen unless you take the first step." Whether he'd realized it or not, she'd just drawn another line in the sand; his recovery was in his hands. Unless he made an effort, unless he wanted it, unless he accepted it, nothing she could do or say would be of any use. Mort was the only one who could free himself of the lonely room, physically and mentally.
The effort it took to place a single foot outside his sanctuary was visible on his face. The force of will it took to take the second step looked as if it pained him. His third step brought him within reach of the two people waiting for him. Step four was taken in synchronization by all of them.
Safe in his room and alone once more, Mort sat on the bed, legs curled under him. To the casual observer, he was staring blankly at the wall, but there was more going on under his blank gaze than one might guess. More was going on than he could guess.
He didn't want responsibility. He didn't want to have to make his own choices, decisions, or opinions. He didn't want to know what was happening around him. He didn't want to feel., or think, or remember.
Especially not remember. If he let himself, he'd be able to remember the terror in Amy's eyes as he'd stood over her, realizing that he'd just been shot; how he'd found Ted and Greg. People said – he had managed to pick up on that much – that he was responsible for them, but that he couldn't remember. Other grisly images had to trouble forcing themselves on his mind's eye if he let down his guard, but he didn't' remember actually hurting anyone.
The woman-who-wasn't –
She's a doctor.
– the doctor . . . she was tricky. Somehow she managed to know exactly what he was doing and thinking. And she didn't let him do it. He didn't think he liked her, but that was an opinion he really didn't want to form. What if something happened because he made that kind of rash decision? He didn't think he was capable of hurting someone, but from the things that everyone else said . . .
Mort clutched his head, spearing his fingers through his hair. No . . . He had to stop thinking like this. Had to stop thinking altogether. But the images of what he'd done – the mirror, the fall, striking out at another, game pieces on a board, bland halls stretching for what seemed like miles, blank-faced people led around by men and women in white or pastels . . .
Go away. I don't want you. The images didn't follow his order. They kept parading through his mind without order or care, tempting him to wonder, to string together stories for them, to make them a cohesive whole. But danger lied in that. He didn't exactly remember why it was dangerous, but it was. But . . . they . . . won't . . . stop . . .
He knew what they wanted, and while it scared him, he'd do anything to stop seeing the pale and nightmarish reflection of his own face. Of the blank faces of those unknown people, the ones that were what he was trying to be. Of her words. She was wrong. He could stay here, and everyone would be safer for it. If he was dangerous. He didn't know, but he'd find out before he'd risk leaving. In the meantime however, the images had to go.
On legs that quivered from the unaccustomed exercise he'd gotten, Mort walked over to the small table in his room and picked up a pencil. His handwriting wasn't what it'd used to be, but it was enough for his needs.
Carefully, painstakingly, he started to write down what he'd seen in stark detail. This method of excising his demons was familiar, and he'd do anything for a night of honest sleep. Sleep without dreams or recriminations. He wasn't sure he'd ever sleep that well again, not without a clear conscience.
Was it me? Had it ever been him? Perhaps sleep wasn't the answer then, because in sleep he couldn't be sure of what he did. But he was so tired. Tired of all of this. If he could just get all of this out, then he'd be safe to sleep. Yes, it'd be safe.
Sleep . . .
Author's Thanks: I thank everyone for their patience in waiting for this chapter. Other thanks go out to Dawnie-7 (Well, I don't really plan to get all that deep into anything that could be considered item-dom. This isn't a romance, so romance will always take a back seat to everything else. And you've seen the type of 'romance' I tend to write, so I don't think you need to get scared.); Stahlfan125 (I try to update in something like a timely manner, but sometimes I succeed better than I do at other times. rolls eyes I hope you enjoy this chapter as you did the last.); CaptainJackSparrowsGirl (I hate reading things on the fly, but I agree that at times it is necessary. I'm not sure From Hell ever made me cry, but I loved it all the same. Of course, I also thought that Abberline was being a bit paranoid, but go figure.); pandagal (lol. You're reminding me of Miss Congeniality. Good movie that. Mort will eventually come around – I think – but he'll fight it tooth and nail.); Blue Autumn Sky (Mort needs lots and lots of pity. nods Especially since I'm starting to get evil ideas. I know that this probably isn't considered "soon" but it's the best I had.); Lynx (I'm glad you like Carly. I've tried to make her separate from everyone else, but it's hard at times, or at least I feel like it is. I have no intention of hurting Carly again, or at least not in ways that I've already caused her to be hurt. I try not to be repetitive. I can't remember whose personality I based Toby on, but he seems familiar to me as I write him. I'll have to think about that.); Gaze (Don't worry about Carly . . . she won't always be the hardheaded 'ice queen' I started her as. With Mort, nothing is easy, so you're right about him and the window. I hope you find some of the authors I recommended as good as I do, and I totally agree that there can never be enough strong women in literature, although I think I might make an argument for the types of strength I'd like to see.); HumiliatedGrape (Don't worry about reviewing every chapter. I understand how that can go. My police detectives weren't thinking – I based them on the bad sides of the officers from Law and Order. They can get that way sometimes, and they sometimes get called on it.); Nithke (Don't worry about the window connection. I'm working off a line from the novella, not anything from the movie. I'm glad you're managing to keep up the fowl allusions, but I think I'm out for the moment. Perhaps I've been too…cooped up. ); butterflywings32 (lol! Thanks for stopping the psycho talk. I was beginning to wonder there for a minute. I'm just very glad that you like my writing that much. : P The name slippages were do to another story I was writing at the same time and have since finished. Tess was my heroine in my OUATIM fics. After a year of writing her, it was more natural to write 'Tess' at times than it was to write 'Carly'. Hopefully I have that under control now.); SS (I'm very glad that the last chapter was that absorbing. I worry about myself sometimes, but that's probably only because I see my writing scene by scene at times, and not as a whole. I hope this chapter is just as good.)