BDP55
It had been a very long week, one filled with self-recrimination, doubt, second-guessing, what ifs, and guilt. A pall hung over scientist and volunteer alike. No one seemed exempt, even Ellis was showing signs of regret over his part, a first as far as anyone could remember. The spectres of ten women seemed to haunt the halls, although no one had actually died.
Not even the breather granted by Casca's continued stay in the hospital seemed to cheer anyone. Moira's little hint about microcardial angina had fallen on fertile ground. His physician was keeping him until further testing could be completed. There were very few cases of the disease, none of which had been military, and it was very likely that the good doctor was excited over the prospect of being the first physician in his circle to treat one. Blair could dine out on it for weeks.
Moira found the instant karma to be very entertaining, in a black sort of way. Of course, the only humor that seemed appropriate right now was the dark variety. Mirth and merriment were banished, and not just from her work environment.
Ian had seen his brothers' handiwork and it had frightened him badly. He had come to her side almost every night, but they mostly talked. The few times they had tried to make love it started very slow and controlled, with Ian treating her as if she were made of spun glass. As soon as he started losing control he stopped. It was very frustrating for them both, but Ian could not be moved.
Nottingham was afraid he would hurt Moira. She never knew how much he restrained himself, how strong his discipline truly was. Some nights he woke from nightmares that relived his attack on Beck, only when the red mist cleared he was looking at the bloody ruin of Moira's face. What if he turned on her like he had his fellow Dragon? The dream alternated with the river of blood nightmare until Ian had circles as dark as any of his brethren under his eyes.
The news of a chaplain setting up shop seemed to bring some measure of calm to the beginning of the second week. Anyone with the slightest religious bent intended to unburden himself, or herself in Moira's case, in the bosom of the incoming priest. The first available slots were earmarked for the Dragons, but there were at least as many techs and scientists who wanted to be shriven.
It wasn't exactly said, but the feeling was there, that this Father Allen might find his visit to turn into a permanent assignment. He was certainly going to know more about the project than the Brass was going to be happy about, once he was done taking so many confessions. They would hardly want him out running loose while the experiment continued.
Interestingly enough, the first day was exclusively for the Dragons, though several were wavering over whether or not they wanted to talk to an unknown, even if he was a priest. They were not wishful of facing any more condemnation than they were already heaping on themselves. The personality of the padre was going to make a big difference in how much he would actually help, and everyone hoped that he would be understanding and gentle with his judgments.
The relieved faces of the four who had been brave enough to make appointments told those watching that Father Allen was everything they could have hoped for. Breath no one had realized they were holding was released. The atmosphere relaxed a fraction. Those who had been reluctant to sign up for a confessional found their way to the front desk to make requests.
Mobius did not bother. He went straight to the small room allotted to Father Allen. He felt vaguely regretful that he had not signed up to begin with, although he was not a religious man, let alone a Catholic. The idea of confession had always struck him as silly. If the idea of doing something was shameful, you should know better than to do it. If you did it anyway, you should learn from it and move on.
Asking some stranger to intervene between you and the universe for your wrongdoing seemed juvenile. It was tantamount to saying you weren't able to take responsibility for your own actions. Yet, that was exactly the position he found himself in. The thing that took over in the dark hours of the night could not be he, but somehow it was.
The door was open, and the priest was seated inside. He was as heavily muscled as a draft horse, but he cradled the bible in his overlarge hands with the ease of long familiarity. Moby realized he'd been expecting some small bookish fellow, not someone who looked like a Viking berserker. Too many MASH reruns he realized, and managed a small grin for his preconceptions.
Such thoughts did not lighten his mood for long, there were too many depressing things vying for his attention. Mobius closed the door behind him, not wanting everyone to hear what he was going to say. Such things were not for public consumption.
When the door opened two hours later, a much calmer man emerged. Mobius seemed greatly improved for his visit with Father Allen. The anger was gone from his step; the self-loathing had left his eyes. He paused just a few paces from the doorframe, eyes locking with Nottingham's.
Ian had been waiting, but not to talk to the priest. It was Moby's council he sought. His problem was too delicate, and he was too new at sharing his fears and feelings, to speak to a stranger. He had hesitated all week, not wanting to add to his brother's burden. What he saw in Mobius' face gave him hope that there was a solution to be had for his problems as well.
It had been a very long week, one filled with self-recrimination, doubt, second-guessing, what ifs, and guilt. A pall hung over scientist and volunteer alike. No one seemed exempt, even Ellis was showing signs of regret over his part, a first as far as anyone could remember. The spectres of ten women seemed to haunt the halls, although no one had actually died.
Not even the breather granted by Casca's continued stay in the hospital seemed to cheer anyone. Moira's little hint about microcardial angina had fallen on fertile ground. His physician was keeping him until further testing could be completed. There were very few cases of the disease, none of which had been military, and it was very likely that the good doctor was excited over the prospect of being the first physician in his circle to treat one. Blair could dine out on it for weeks.
Moira found the instant karma to be very entertaining, in a black sort of way. Of course, the only humor that seemed appropriate right now was the dark variety. Mirth and merriment were banished, and not just from her work environment.
Ian had seen his brothers' handiwork and it had frightened him badly. He had come to her side almost every night, but they mostly talked. The few times they had tried to make love it started very slow and controlled, with Ian treating her as if she were made of spun glass. As soon as he started losing control he stopped. It was very frustrating for them both, but Ian could not be moved.
Nottingham was afraid he would hurt Moira. She never knew how much he restrained himself, how strong his discipline truly was. Some nights he woke from nightmares that relived his attack on Beck, only when the red mist cleared he was looking at the bloody ruin of Moira's face. What if he turned on her like he had his fellow Dragon? The dream alternated with the river of blood nightmare until Ian had circles as dark as any of his brethren under his eyes.
The news of a chaplain setting up shop seemed to bring some measure of calm to the beginning of the second week. Anyone with the slightest religious bent intended to unburden himself, or herself in Moira's case, in the bosom of the incoming priest. The first available slots were earmarked for the Dragons, but there were at least as many techs and scientists who wanted to be shriven.
It wasn't exactly said, but the feeling was there, that this Father Allen might find his visit to turn into a permanent assignment. He was certainly going to know more about the project than the Brass was going to be happy about, once he was done taking so many confessions. They would hardly want him out running loose while the experiment continued.
Interestingly enough, the first day was exclusively for the Dragons, though several were wavering over whether or not they wanted to talk to an unknown, even if he was a priest. They were not wishful of facing any more condemnation than they were already heaping on themselves. The personality of the padre was going to make a big difference in how much he would actually help, and everyone hoped that he would be understanding and gentle with his judgments.
The relieved faces of the four who had been brave enough to make appointments told those watching that Father Allen was everything they could have hoped for. Breath no one had realized they were holding was released. The atmosphere relaxed a fraction. Those who had been reluctant to sign up for a confessional found their way to the front desk to make requests.
Mobius did not bother. He went straight to the small room allotted to Father Allen. He felt vaguely regretful that he had not signed up to begin with, although he was not a religious man, let alone a Catholic. The idea of confession had always struck him as silly. If the idea of doing something was shameful, you should know better than to do it. If you did it anyway, you should learn from it and move on.
Asking some stranger to intervene between you and the universe for your wrongdoing seemed juvenile. It was tantamount to saying you weren't able to take responsibility for your own actions. Yet, that was exactly the position he found himself in. The thing that took over in the dark hours of the night could not be he, but somehow it was.
The door was open, and the priest was seated inside. He was as heavily muscled as a draft horse, but he cradled the bible in his overlarge hands with the ease of long familiarity. Moby realized he'd been expecting some small bookish fellow, not someone who looked like a Viking berserker. Too many MASH reruns he realized, and managed a small grin for his preconceptions.
Such thoughts did not lighten his mood for long, there were too many depressing things vying for his attention. Mobius closed the door behind him, not wanting everyone to hear what he was going to say. Such things were not for public consumption.
When the door opened two hours later, a much calmer man emerged. Mobius seemed greatly improved for his visit with Father Allen. The anger was gone from his step; the self-loathing had left his eyes. He paused just a few paces from the doorframe, eyes locking with Nottingham's.
Ian had been waiting, but not to talk to the priest. It was Moby's council he sought. His problem was too delicate, and he was too new at sharing his fears and feelings, to speak to a stranger. He had hesitated all week, not wanting to add to his brother's burden. What he saw in Mobius' face gave him hope that there was a solution to be had for his problems as well.