noise dept.
Keni
JBB: An Artblog!
Mike Driver
Xuebing Du
hello vonnie
blake kathryn
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Cosmic Funnies
cherry valley forever
Origami Around
Product Placement
Cosimo Galluzzi
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Andulka
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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Today's Document
trying on a metaphor
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@chrysanthemumcanary
Autumn || They/He || Non-binary || Morty || 17
I produce vocaloid music sometimes. Living with @impending-dawn. Feel free to dm me or shoot me an ask! I don't bite! Unless it's justified, and then here's your warning.
Rick and Morty RP blog
Admin is @foolsrose
Tag Directory
Hey, it's Autumn! Mortimer's 20th is June 6th! I'm trying to coordinate a few of his friends. Let me know any date around then you'd be able to hang out for a bit. (preferably a few but ik you're busy so I'll settle for what you've got)
Also if you've got any questions, feel free to ask me about any details you need. Hope you're doing well!
Unfortunately, I have quite a bit to be doing at this current moment in time. I am afraid for the time being, I would be unable to attend or find a date that works for me. I have quite a few projects that need attending to, and that takes up my time quite more than silly gatherings. The sentiment is appreciated, but unnecessary.
Oh yeah, I totally get that loud parties aren't really your thing. Since they aren't Mortimer's either, it would just be you, Dawn, and Mortimer making watches or something. (Killian, Bo, Chauncey and I would do a separate thing with Mortimer. I want him to have fun with making things, not worry about people who are going to end up hurting themselves lol).
You can bring part of one of your projects instead of making a watch, if that helps the time issue. I mean, if you're able to ask Dawn and Mortimer for input, it might even be beneficial!
How far out are you booked? We could probably push into July or August if you don't have three hours to spare in all of June.
✱˚｡⋆ ↪ 𝐀 𝐘𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄 . ( a collection of mixed action prompts. adjust phrasing as desired. potentially mature content within. )
[ 1. ] sender steps between receiver and an aggressive stranger, voice low and steady: "walk. away."
[ 2. ] sender teaches receiver self-defense, hands firm on their hips as they adjust their stance.
[ 3. ] sender presses their forehead to receiver's, voice breaking as they murmur, "i don't know how to fix this, but i'm not leaving."
[ 4. ] sender shoves receiver out of the way of a projectile.
[ 5. ] sender combs their fingers through receiver's hair in the aftermath of a traumatic event, whispering words of comfort.
[ 6. ] sender whispers, “i’ve thought about this all day,” before pinning receiver against a wall for a searing kiss.
[ 7. ] sender wipes away the receiver’s falling tears with their thumb and whispers, “i’m here."
[ 8. ] sender patches up receiver's wounds, hands trembling as they whisper, "you can't keep doing this to me."
[ 9. ] sender shoves receiver into a hiding spot, hissing, "stay here or i’ll kill you myself."
[ 10. ] sender finds receiver drunk at a party, sighing. "let’s get you home."
[ 11. ] sender is discovered sleepwalking by receiver.
[ 12. ] sender steals receiver’s weapon and presses it to their own chest, daring: “go ahead. prove me right.”
[ 13. ] sender ‘accidentally’ flashes receiver while changing, purring, "see something you like?"
[ 14. ] sender whispers, "you’ll ruin me," before biting receiver’s lip hard enough to draw blood.
[ 15. ] sender takes over while receiver is giving themselves stitches, promising to handle it.
[ 16. ] sender frantically grips receiver by the shoulders, "don't you dare close your eyes."
[ 17. ] sender fixes receiver’s crooked [ tie / jewelry ], teasing, "nervous?"
[ 18. ] sender shakes receiver out of a nightmare, comforting them in the aftermath. "same nightmare again?"
[ 19. ] sender brings hot tea and medication to a [ hungover / ill ] receiver.
[ 20. ] sender invites receiver to dance with them, insisting, "what? this song's perfect."
[ 21. ] sender leaves a single rose on receiver’s windshield with a note: "you’re being followed. smile."
[ 22. ] sender pins receiver’s wrists during a sparring match, grinning, "yield."
[ 23. ] sender playfully steals something from receiver, initiating a chase. "come and get it, then."
[ 24. ] sender drapes a blanket over receiver, accidentally waking them. "sorry, go back to sleep."
[ 25. ] receiver returns home only to find sender already there. "finally."
[ 26. ] after a pleasant night out together, sender asks: "can i kiss you goodnight?"
[ 27. ] sender wipes the blood from receiver's face, murmuring, "let's get you cleaned up."
[ 28. ] sender shoves receiver against a vending machine to dodge security, breathless. "act natural."
[ 29. ] sender wakes receiver in the throes of a nightmare, reassuring them, "it's okay, it's not real."
[ 30. ] sender purposefully antagonizes receiver, hurling insults; "what are you gonna do about it?"
Nonverbal rp starters!
I am basing it off of a meme that was already created! I just don't like the sexual part. Its inspired off of this meme!
My muse: person who receiving ask (say "Swap" to swap roles!)
Normal
☝️ tap my muse on the shoulder
👉 Point something out to my muse
🤙 bump into my muse
📓 pass a object to my muse [specify]
🥖 offer food for my muse
🚪 knock on my muse door
🔫 splash water on my muse
🐶 nuzzle my muse [specify where!]
✂️ cut my muse hair
🐈 lean on my muse
🫂 hug my muse
👔 fix/straighten my muses clothes
🌡 give my sick muse soup!
🌲 get lost in the woods with my muse
Angry
🐺 growl at my muse
😬 snarl/show teeth at my muse
🎯 headbutt my muse
👊 punch my muse
🗣 agressively yell at my muse [can specify what is said]
🗯 threaten my muse [can specify what is said]
🫸 push my muse
🔪 point a weapon at muse [can specify]
😡 death glare / glare at my muse
👿 slam my muse on the ground / wall
🐻 claw / bite my muse full force
Angst
👩⚕️ try to treat my muses wounds
😨 try to calm my muse during an overwhelming moment
⛓️ try to physically refrain my muse from doing something dumb / they might regret
😺 hold my muse after they woke up from a nightmare
😭 hold my muse while they are crying
😣 find my my muse that been missing a few days
☠️ find my muse near a dead body
⏰️ wake my muse up from a nightmare
😴 find my muse passed out
Silly
😁 bite my muse
👏 tickle my muse
😱 scare my muse
🤣 prank my muse [specify!]
👅 show my muse a silly face
🥸 wear my muses clothes
🌼 put a flower in my muses hair
🃏 play a game with my muse [specify!]
👃boop my muse nose
🤝 scoop my muse up
🫳 tug my muses clothes / hair
👻 hide from my muse
🥁 playfully pat my muse head like a drum
Has anyone seen Mortimer? He's normally up by now...-Autumn
why'd I read your name as autism...? 😭
That's not the first time that's happened. (And it's not exactly wrong either)- Autumn
(@msc137)
Skittle stepped through the portal into the base, bag in hand. She glanced around the living room, smiling gently at how Dawn, Autimn, and Mortimer had turned such a cold and unfeeling alien base into a warm home.
"I'm here," she said softly, treating the space with the respect it deserved.
"Hey." Mortimer said, from behind him. He wore a blue shirt and the same stained lab coat as always. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
He glanced around the room and saw comfy chairs good for relaxing in, but no good workspace. "Shit, do I need to pull out better chairs for this? What do I need? I... don't remember much from the last time we did this."
Skittle startled at the unexpected voice from behind, but quickly reestablished her smile and whirled around. "Hey! It's no problem at all, Mortimer. I wasn't really doing anything."
She followed his gaze. "Yeah, the living room was just a meeting spot. I was thinking maybe the kitchen would be a good place to work? I've got everything we'll need in my bag."
"Oh, uh, yeah." Mortimer said. "I didn't really... clean it out or anything, and it's my turn so. um. tread with caution. There's not like broken glass or anything. But I left my shit on the counters, you can ignore that."
He turned and walked to the kitchen, expecting Skittle to follow him. The kitchen was messy, as described. There was an empty chip bag and a couple of containers of alcohol sitting on the counter. Nothing was open or at risk of spilling, but there were plates and forks in the sink and the counters. The table was mostly clear except for a few crumbs, which Mortimer brushed off with his hand.
The kitchen may have been a bit cluttered, but she had seen much worse. Skittle set the bag on the table and began to pull things out. A plastic grocery bag with clay inside it, an alien-looking pottery wheel with a pedal attached by a cord, a jar of various wooden and wire tools, a container holding a tan liquid, and lots and lots of newspaper.
By all means, there was no way all of it should have fit in the tote bag, but it did.
"Can you get a couple cups of water, please?" she asked, begining to set out a few layers of the newspaper over the table.
Mortimer nodded. He'd used similar tech to the tote bag many times. "Plastic or glass?" he asked, reaching for the plastic ones, but feeling unsure which would suit the occasion better.
He didn't want to let on how much this meant to him. He didn't want to make it weird. He knew Skittle had messaged Chauncey online at least once to coordinate Dawn's escape, but she didn't really know him. It wouldn't be fair of him to expect her to help him through his grief, even though he knew she'd try if she could see it.
"Plastic, probably? In case it gets knocked over, don't want to risk getting glass shards everywhere, y'know?" She replied without looking up. After everything was set up, she tugged the chair next to her out and beckoned for Mortimer to sit down.
"So. You mentioned that you were doing this, to remember someone, right? Did you want to tell me about them at all?"
Then again, Skittle could guess. Likely the very same person that slept in a cot in her bedroom. The one that hadn't even really died at all.
Mortimer finished getting the cups and set them down. "He was a good kid. Scared, but good." He pulled the chair out and sat down. "You... I know you've talked to him online before. Chauncey, Sevens, soldier two eight seven seven. I—I've talked about him a lot, before. I'm not sure if you want to hear it all."
He sighed and rolled up his sleeves. "Alright. What do I need to do?" His expression was noticably darkened after talking about Chauncey, even if he'd tried to hide it.
Her stomach churned. "I, yeah. I'm- I was friends with him. We talked a few times. If you wanna talk about him, you can, okay?" She tried her best to keep her expression open, sympathetic. There would be time for guilt later.
She pulled the clay out of the bag and tugged off a decent sized chunk. "So, I brought the wheel, but I wasn't sure if you wanted to make the bowl on the wheel or manually. The wheel will be, well, a bit harder, but it could end up looking more symmetrical if you get the hang of it."
"I think we did the wheel last time," Mortimer said.
His hand twitched towards his flask, but no. He wouldn't drink around Skittle. He knew she was trying to be sober, and he wouldn't tempt her by drinking. "Thank you." Hopefully she hadn't noticed. "I put too much pressure on the poor kid, poured all my grief about losing his friendship into raw anger."
He stared at the clay for a moment, not saying anything. Then he spoke, clearly more to himself than Skittle. "Can't believe those were the last words I ever said to him."
She looked away for a moment, eyes landing on the counters, and then turned her gaze back down to the table. Words weren't coming. Skittle knew the whole story, she'd heard it from both of them. Chauncey's betrayal of Dawn, Autumn, and Mortimer. Mortimer's promise to end Chauncey's life. And, when Dawn escaped, the faking of Chauncey's death so that he wouldn't have to live in fear of Mortimer hunting him down.
And now, my secret, she thought. Chauncey living in her home, right under her grieving friend's nose.
"The, um, the wheel. You use the pedal to, control how fast it spins," she managed to say. Then a gesture towards the plastic container, which she had pulled the lid off of. "This is slip, it's basically watered down clay with a little bit of vinegar. While you're, spinning the wheel, you take a handful of slip and spread it over the clay to make it more malleable."
She took a deep breath. Clay was something she could control. Creating, spinning something up out of nothing, forming a shape she could recognize out of a lump of nothing. For all she liked to think she was good with people, she was still better with clay than she was with them.
Mortimer used the pedal to spin the wheel. The clay, the wheel, the pedal. It all reminded him too much of the last time they did this. When Chauncey laughed.
Pottery had been the first time Mortimer had seen the stress melt away from him. The little guy had been perpetually nervous or serious. The first time Mortimer had seen him truly smile was when he laughed at their messed up first attempts at bowls. Mortimer smiled distantly at the memory, his eyes never wavering from the clay. Mortimer's face hardened into a firm line. He had to do this. He needed something. How could he not find a way to fire and keep those bowls? How could he lose them just like he lost Chauncey? How could he? How could he call himself Chauncey's friend after vowing to end his life? How could he be mad when he always knew? How could he let Chauncey's last memories of him be so... so...
He wasn't focused on the clay, or the wheel. He let himself spin it faster and faster as his mind drifted away. The clay was coming dangerously close to flying off the wheel.
Skittle had been staring idly down at the newspaper, but she glanced over for a moment and her eyes widened. "Careful!"
She placed a hand on the leg Mortimer was using to work the pedal. "You gotta slow down! Look, see how it's getting unstable? You're gonna lose it."
Mortimer's mind had been so clearly a million miles away. And she knew why. "Sorry. I, I should have been paying more attention." She bit her lip. Everything felt so precarious, all hanging on her.
He laughed. He couldn't help himself. It was a strange, echoy, hollow sort of laugh. A bitter, strained thing that contained no joy. He could just hear Autumn telling Dawn "See how it's getting unstable?" about his own mental state. About him.
Autumn chiding him about his obsession "You're gonna lose it." But it was already gone. There was nothing to lose. Everything was gone.
He stopped moving his foot, and looked at Skittle's concerned face. "I shouldn't have asked you here." He said, at last. He... trusted Skittle, as strange as it was to say. He let his voice waver in a rare moment of demonstrating his uncertainty. "I—I can't do this."
Her hands were shaking. The grief in Mortimer's eyes, mourning someone that wasn't truly gone. The memory of Chauncey's same grief, mourning a friendship he had lost.
Skittle stood up, suddenly, the chair scraping across the floor. "It's fine. It's okay."
She turned away and leaned against the countertop, elbow gently bumping into one of the bottles that had been left out.
"I'm so, so sorry, Mortimer. I can't even imagine what you must be feeling right now." Her own voice was wavering as well. "It's- it's never easy losing someone."
But he wasn't lost. He was in her home. And he was trusting her to keep up the front that he was gone as Mortimer sat just a few feet away from her.
Mortimer blew out a sharp breath. "Hell, I hardly know what I'm feeling. There's no way I could expect you to." He shut his eyes tightly. "I just—to know what he saw the last time he ever looked at me. He was scared. Not of the Citadel, not of a Rick, of my face." He opened his eyes and traced his fingers along the wood of the table next to the wheel. "Of me," he said quietly. "And he was right." Mortimer's voice was barely a whisper now.
He looked to the side, at the floor. He spoke a little more clearer. "It just hurts to know that's something I broke that I can never fix. That'll always be the last memory we have of each other."
"I'm sorry," she said again. But this apology wasn't just sympathy. It was an apology for the choice she was making. That she wasn't telling him the truth. An apology because he was right, as long as Chauncey wanted to stay in hiding, he would never get to make amends.
If she told Mortimer the truth, what then? Would things work out, would the two finally be able to rekindle their friendship and forgive each other? Or would things go wrong, would Mortimer feel obligated still to keep his promise? Would he be furious at her for keeping it hidden for so long? Would he hate her? And Chauncey, wouldn't he feel betrayed? Her breaking his trust?
"Can I- can I have some of this?" she asked, eyes trained on the bottle.
Mortimer didn't look up or check what she was asking about. "Go ahead." They didn't have anything that they were saving for a specific occasion, so he couldn't think of anything she couldn't have. Besides, he couldn't focus on anything except his grief. His eyes stayed fixed on the wood grain of the table.
"I should've warned you this might happen," he said softly. "I guess I've just been trying not to focus on how much I still miss him." He wanted to apologize for dragging Skittle out here without cause, for not being able to actually go through with it. He took a shaky breath. He could at least try to start again.
The cabinet was still open a crack. She reached inside, pulled out another plastic cup, and set it on the counter. As she unscrewed the lid of the bottle, the familiar stench of alcohol entered her lungs, and she breathed it in gratefully. "Thank you," she muttered, as she began to pour some out into the opaque cup.
She slid back into the chair, taking a big drink. It was strong, burning her tongue and throat as she swallowed it down.
"It's okay. It's, it's really okay. I understand." Heat began to creep into her head as she took another drink. Already, a thin haze was settling over her mind, dulling the stress just a little. "You weren't, ruined in his mind. When I was talking to him, he was scared of you, like you said, but he also had good memories of you. He missed you, too."
"... I bet he blamed himself." Mortimer said quietly. "Like all my vitrol was justified. You were right, earlier. When you said I should blame the Citadel and not him? I just... it's so easy to put a face to it all. Like he wasn't who I thought he was. I don't think it was all a lie the way I wanted to believe it was at first."
Mortimer looked at the wheel and the clay with trepidation. "Should I try again?" His brain flooded with the idea that there was no way to try again with his relationship with Chauncey or his reaction to the arrest.
He hated how sober he was for all of this. He hadn't even recognized the scent of alcohol as Skittle had opened the bottle or gotten the cup. He was still trying not to drink in front of her for her own sake.
Yet another drink. She was careful to keep it angled out of Mortimer's immediate sight. She didn't want him to see what she was drinking.
"You- yeah. If, if you want. It's worth it, to try again. It's worth it." Skittle was taking sips from the cup in between every couple sentences now. More than anything, she just wanted to fix it. All of it. She couldn't betray a friend, but with every moment that passed she was betraying Mortimer by allowing his grief to continue.
"Try to, go a little slower this time. Use a little more slip. See the bowl in your head as you work."
Mortimer smiled. "It's so interesting. I think it's harder for me to see what I want because I'm just remembering the failed attempts before." His smiled faded. "I—don't really want a bowl. So it's... hard to picture one without picturing... everything else. Everything I can't start over."
He took a breath and put some slip on the clay. He pumped the pedal slowly, trying to focus on the wet lump in front of him over anything else, but not being able to fully stop his mind from wandering.
That clay, it held infinite possibilities. She could see all the potential, all so clearly. The bowl that could be, past mistakes smoothed over. New patterns carved into it, intricate and meaningful.
Mortimer had asked her to help him, not to sit there and watch.
Her head spun. Her throat burned. The smell of clay and alcohol blended together.
"Y-You can start over."
Mortimer took his foot off the pedal. He looked up at her, meeting her eyes. His were filled with grief and rage. His eyebrow was creased. His voice was calm but firm as he spoke. "No. You don't need to lie to me. You don't need to tell me it's okay when it isn't. This isn't something you can fix."
"I-I can fix it. 'M not lying. It'll, I can make everything right again."
She set the cup down as gently as she could, but it ended up making a bit of a thump sound despite her care. She reached over to the clay, gesturing. "You just gotta, work the hole into it first, then you shape the sides outwards."
Her hands fell into her lap. "And, when it's done, we can take it to my kiln, and you can talk to him while I fire it." Her voice was slurring just a bit as she spoke.
Mortimer stood up suddenly, putting his hands firmly on the table and sliding his chair back. He couldn't help but tower over her, looking straight down at her with a stern expresson. "What are you—what are you even saying? Get ahold of yourself. God, you're almost more of a mess than—" his eyes darted to the cup, then to the bottle on the counter. "Jesus Christ, Effie's going to actually kill me. No wonder you're not making sense."
He pinched the bridge of his nose with his hand. "Fucking hell, I just fuck everything up, don't I?" He whispered to himself, just barely audibly. "Hold on, I'll get you some drinking water. Let's not do this right now."
"No, it's okay, I'm okay!" She managed, and stood up, her legs wobbling. "Chauncey, he's at my house! You can talk to him! A-and then everything will be okay and you won't have to grieve anymore and he won't have to hide anymore and everything can be okay again."
She grabbed the cup and took another swig. "And you guys can make bowls together and you won't lose them this time because I'll fire them for you."
A part of her knew that she was making a mistake, but through the haze she could hardly hear it. All the pain that both her friends had felt, and now she could finally make it better. She could make them both happy again. That was what she was there for.
"You're not making sense." Mortimer said. "Chauncey is dead. He's gone." He was tempted to grab the cup from her, but was determined to fulfill his role of being someone she could drink safely around without being afraid of being judged. "Not everything can be okay. I'm—I'm fine. I'm finally starting to move on."
The deep, desperate part of Mortimer so clearly wanted to believe Skittle. Wanted to believe that Chauncey was alive. That everything could be okay. He knew it wasn't true. That nothing could go right for him.
Fuck it. Skittle was already drinking. What was the harm if he did too? Mortimer grabbed his flask from his coat pocket and in a practiced motion flicked off the cap and took a long drink.
"Just... stop," he pleaded. "Don't give me hope. I can't lose it again."
Skittle knew she should just shut up. Mortimer was handing her an out on a silver platter. And what would Chauncey say if she broke his trust like that?
But fuck, she was so tired of seeing that distant, hurting look on Mortimer's face, and she was so tired of seeing the pain on Chauncey every time he saw her messaging one of his old friends. There didn't need to be any more secrets.
And as Mortimer drank from his flask, his silhouette just like Rick's, her words spilled out too fast to control.
"He, no, he's not dead! He's been living with me ever since Dawn escaped! He faked his death 'cuz he was scared of you but now that you don't wanna kill him anymore you guys can finally make up!"
She reached out for Mortimer's arm. "He, he feels so bad for betraying you. And for hurting you so much. Just like you feel bad. But you both can be friends again!"
Mortimer looked at her carefully. He put his flask back in his pocket with the arm she wasn't holding. He started to sincerely doubt that she could be lying, in her state, but he had to know.
He bent his knees, trying to get down on her level. "Skittle," he said gently. "Are you lying to me right now?" He hated accusing her of it when she was so desperate to be believed, but he just had to hear her say the words that no, she wasn't lying, that this wasn't a dream. That he'd been making a fool out of himself the whole time.
Without looking, she set her cup back on the table. She took a deep breath, met his eyes, and put her words together as well as she could. "No. I'm not lying. I promise, he's alive."
Then, a nervous giggle. "Fuck. H-he's gonna hate me. I-I told him I'd keep his secret as long as he needed me to. And I just fucking, fuck." She now used both hands to cling to his arms. "You hate me too now, don't you? Because I didn't tell you sooner?"
"I don't hate you," Mortimer promised. "Can I see him?" A pause, and then, "who else knew?"
His expression was distant and hard to read. The gentleness in his voice contrasted with the harsh lines of his face. Mortimer claimed not to hate Skittle, and yet, something in his eyes still seemed to burn.
"I-I, um." She was shaking. "I-I'd, have to ask him first."
It was remarkable, just how similar Mortimer's expressions could be to Rick's. "D-Dawn knew. And, Effie, and my family, including Rick. And, um, I think Chaunce might have talked to one or two other people, but I'm not sure. I- can't fully remember."
Part of her wanted to back away from Mortimer, and part of her wanted to wrap her arms around him. "I'm sorry."
Mortimer hugged her. He didn't like physical contact much, but he thought she'd appreciate it. Plus, it would hide his face. He didn't know if he could stop himself from crying, and she didn't need to see that.
Of course Dawn had to know. But the fact that she knew and hid it so well was unnerving to Mortimer. She'd been there for his most bitter moments and never let a single tell slip. They'd grieved together. Hell, behind closed doors, Dawn had been torn up about it. If all of that was just performance, Mortimer wasn't sure what to make of her. Maybe the arrest had changed her more than he had realized.
He pulled back from the hug and put her hands on her shoulders. "No, don't be sorry." He smiled, a trace of light hitting his eyes. "Thank you."
There was no better feeling than a hug. Being held, safe and warm, even for a moment, calmed her nerves a little. And his faint smile afterwards made her feel a bit less worried. "I, I still messed up, though. I just, I couldn't, I couldn't stand how you were hurting so much."
She sighed and took a step back. "Um, did, you still wanna work on that bowl?"
He shook his head. "I want to make another one with him someday. When he's ready. I-I think I'd like to wait for him to come here. It's just... so nice to know he's okay." He paused for a moment. "You're a really good kid."
Even though Skittle was only three years younger than him, he still felt like he needed to be a guidance figure. More than he realistically could be. He was grateful that Skittle had stuck with him through everything, even if he didn't deserve it.
"You better not tell him how sappy I'm getting," Mortimer joked.
Her eyes watered as she chuckled. "Don't worry. You'll be able to tell him yourself, eventually."
She wiped at her face. Her cheeks were flushed, both from the alcohol and from the recent rush of emotions. The table still held all the pottery supplies.
"I, um. Think I wanna go home, then. No offense to you, though! Thanks, for, uh. I don't even know. Thanks."
Skittle started to clean up the supplies, struggling to keep her hands steady. She didn't have as high of a tolerance for substances as she once did.
"Right, yeah. Do you want help cleaning up, or?" Mortimer said. He felt... he didn't know how he felt, but he was struggling not to be relieved that Skittle wanted to leave so he could just drink without feeling too bad about it.
"Sorry that this was, uh, thank you." Mortimer also stumbled over his words.
"If, if you don't mind, and it's not too much trouble, I would definitely love some help."
She was smiling for her friend's sake, but inside, she was fighting back guilt. Not just for breaking Chauncey's trust, but for drinking again, and disappointing her loved ones.
"And, it's okay. Don't worry."
Mortimer helped her put her things away. His movements were quick, almost robotic, and his expression was like that of a stone statue. What else was there to say? They both likely needed time to process this night.
(@msc137)
Skittle stepped through the portal into the base, bag in hand. She glanced around the living room, smiling gently at how Dawn, Autimn, and Mortimer had turned such a cold and unfeeling alien base into a warm home.
"I'm here," she said softly, treating the space with the respect it deserved.
"Hey." Mortimer said, from behind him. He wore a blue shirt and the same stained lab coat as always. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
He glanced around the room and saw comfy chairs good for relaxing in, but no good workspace. "Shit, do I need to pull out better chairs for this? What do I need? I... don't remember much from the last time we did this."
Skittle startled at the unexpected voice from behind, but quickly reestablished her smile and whirled around. "Hey! It's no problem at all, Mortimer. I wasn't really doing anything."
She followed his gaze. "Yeah, the living room was just a meeting spot. I was thinking maybe the kitchen would be a good place to work? I've got everything we'll need in my bag."
"Oh, uh, yeah." Mortimer said. "I didn't really... clean it out or anything, and it's my turn so. um. tread with caution. There's not like broken glass or anything. But I left my shit on the counters, you can ignore that."
He turned and walked to the kitchen, expecting Skittle to follow him. The kitchen was messy, as described. There was an empty chip bag and a couple of containers of alcohol sitting on the counter. Nothing was open or at risk of spilling, but there were plates and forks in the sink and the counters. The table was mostly clear except for a few crumbs, which Mortimer brushed off with his hand.
The kitchen may have been a bit cluttered, but she had seen much worse. Skittle set the bag on the table and began to pull things out. A plastic grocery bag with clay inside it, an alien-looking pottery wheel with a pedal attached by a cord, a jar of various wooden and wire tools, a container holding a tan liquid, and lots and lots of newspaper.
By all means, there was no way all of it should have fit in the tote bag, but it did.
"Can you get a couple cups of water, please?" she asked, begining to set out a few layers of the newspaper over the table.
Mortimer nodded. He'd used similar tech to the tote bag many times. "Plastic or glass?" he asked, reaching for the plastic ones, but feeling unsure which would suit the occasion better.
He didn't want to let on how much this meant to him. He didn't want to make it weird. He knew Skittle had messaged Chauncey online at least once to coordinate Dawn's escape, but she didn't really know him. It wouldn't be fair of him to expect her to help him through his grief, even though he knew she'd try if she could see it.
"Plastic, probably? In case it gets knocked over, don't want to risk getting glass shards everywhere, y'know?" She replied without looking up. After everything was set up, she tugged the chair next to her out and beckoned for Mortimer to sit down.
"So. You mentioned that you were doing this, to remember someone, right? Did you want to tell me about them at all?"
Then again, Skittle could guess. Likely the very same person that slept in a cot in her bedroom. The one that hadn't even really died at all.
Mortimer finished getting the cups and set them down. "He was a good kid. Scared, but good." He pulled the chair out and sat down. "You... I know you've talked to him online before. Chauncey, Sevens, soldier two eight seven seven. I—I've talked about him a lot, before. I'm not sure if you want to hear it all."
He sighed and rolled up his sleeves. "Alright. What do I need to do?" His expression was noticably darkened after talking about Chauncey, even if he'd tried to hide it.
Her stomach churned. "I, yeah. I'm- I was friends with him. We talked a few times. If you wanna talk about him, you can, okay?" She tried her best to keep her expression open, sympathetic. There would be time for guilt later.
She pulled the clay out of the bag and tugged off a decent sized chunk. "So, I brought the wheel, but I wasn't sure if you wanted to make the bowl on the wheel or manually. The wheel will be, well, a bit harder, but it could end up looking more symmetrical if you get the hang of it."
"I think we did the wheel last time," Mortimer said.
His hand twitched towards his flask, but no. He wouldn't drink around Skittle. He knew she was trying to be sober, and he wouldn't tempt her by drinking. "Thank you." Hopefully she hadn't noticed. "I put too much pressure on the poor kid, poured all my grief about losing his friendship into raw anger."
He stared at the clay for a moment, not saying anything. Then he spoke, clearly more to himself than Skittle. "Can't believe those were the last words I ever said to him."
She looked away for a moment, eyes landing on the counters, and then turned her gaze back down to the table. Words weren't coming. Skittle knew the whole story, she'd heard it from both of them. Chauncey's betrayal of Dawn, Autumn, and Mortimer. Mortimer's promise to end Chauncey's life. And, when Dawn escaped, the faking of Chauncey's death so that he wouldn't have to live in fear of Mortimer hunting him down.
And now, my secret, she thought. Chauncey living in her home, right under her grieving friend's nose.
"The, um, the wheel. You use the pedal to, control how fast it spins," she managed to say. Then a gesture towards the plastic container, which she had pulled the lid off of. "This is slip, it's basically watered down clay with a little bit of vinegar. While you're, spinning the wheel, you take a handful of slip and spread it over the clay to make it more malleable."
She took a deep breath. Clay was something she could control. Creating, spinning something up out of nothing, forming a shape she could recognize out of a lump of nothing. For all she liked to think she was good with people, she was still better with clay than she was with them.
Mortimer used the pedal to spin the wheel. The clay, the wheel, the pedal. It all reminded him too much of the last time they did this. When Chauncey laughed.
Pottery had been the first time Mortimer had seen the stress melt away from him. The little guy had been perpetually nervous or serious. The first time Mortimer had seen him truly smile was when he laughed at their messed up first attempts at bowls. Mortimer smiled distantly at the memory, his eyes never wavering from the clay. Mortimer's face hardened into a firm line. He had to do this. He needed something. How could he not find a way to fire and keep those bowls? How could he lose them just like he lost Chauncey? How could he? How could he call himself Chauncey's friend after vowing to end his life? How could he be mad when he always knew? How could he let Chauncey's last memories of him be so... so...
He wasn't focused on the clay, or the wheel. He let himself spin it faster and faster as his mind drifted away. The clay was coming dangerously close to flying off the wheel.
Skittle had been staring idly down at the newspaper, but she glanced over for a moment and her eyes widened. "Careful!"
She placed a hand on the leg Mortimer was using to work the pedal. "You gotta slow down! Look, see how it's getting unstable? You're gonna lose it."
Mortimer's mind had been so clearly a million miles away. And she knew why. "Sorry. I, I should have been paying more attention." She bit her lip. Everything felt so precarious, all hanging on her.
He laughed. He couldn't help himself. It was a strange, echoy, hollow sort of laugh. A bitter, strained thing that contained no joy. He could just hear Autumn telling Dawn "See how it's getting unstable?" about his own mental state. About him.
Autumn chiding him about his obsession "You're gonna lose it." But it was already gone. There was nothing to lose. Everything was gone.
He stopped moving his foot, and looked at Skittle's concerned face. "I shouldn't have asked you here." He said, at last. He... trusted Skittle, as strange as it was to say. He let his voice waver in a rare moment of demonstrating his uncertainty. "I—I can't do this."
Her hands were shaking. The grief in Mortimer's eyes, mourning someone that wasn't truly gone. The memory of Chauncey's same grief, mourning a friendship he had lost.
Skittle stood up, suddenly, the chair scraping across the floor. "It's fine. It's okay."
She turned away and leaned against the countertop, elbow gently bumping into one of the bottles that had been left out.
"I'm so, so sorry, Mortimer. I can't even imagine what you must be feeling right now." Her own voice was wavering as well. "It's- it's never easy losing someone."
But he wasn't lost. He was in her home. And he was trusting her to keep up the front that he was gone as Mortimer sat just a few feet away from her.
Mortimer blew out a sharp breath. "Hell, I hardly know what I'm feeling. There's no way I could expect you to." He shut his eyes tightly. "I just—to know what he saw the last time he ever looked at me. He was scared. Not of the Citadel, not of a Rick, of my face." He opened his eyes and traced his fingers along the wood of the table next to the wheel. "Of me," he said quietly. "And he was right." Mortimer's voice was barely a whisper now.
He looked to the side, at the floor. He spoke a little more clearer. "It just hurts to know that's something I broke that I can never fix. That'll always be the last memory we have of each other."
"I'm sorry," she said again. But this apology wasn't just sympathy. It was an apology for the choice she was making. That she wasn't telling him the truth. An apology because he was right, as long as Chauncey wanted to stay in hiding, he would never get to make amends.
If she told Mortimer the truth, what then? Would things work out, would the two finally be able to rekindle their friendship and forgive each other? Or would things go wrong, would Mortimer feel obligated still to keep his promise? Would he be furious at her for keeping it hidden for so long? Would he hate her? And Chauncey, wouldn't he feel betrayed? Her breaking his trust?
"Can I- can I have some of this?" she asked, eyes trained on the bottle.
Mortimer didn't look up or check what she was asking about. "Go ahead." They didn't have anything that they were saving for a specific occasion, so he couldn't think of anything she couldn't have. Besides, he couldn't focus on anything except his grief. His eyes stayed fixed on the wood grain of the table.
"I should've warned you this might happen," he said softly. "I guess I've just been trying not to focus on how much I still miss him." He wanted to apologize for dragging Skittle out here without cause, for not being able to actually go through with it. He took a shaky breath. He could at least try to start again.
The cabinet was still open a crack. She reached inside, pulled out another plastic cup, and set it on the counter. As she unscrewed the lid of the bottle, the familiar stench of alcohol entered her lungs, and she breathed it in gratefully. "Thank you," she muttered, as she began to pour some out into the opaque cup.
She slid back into the chair, taking a big drink. It was strong, burning her tongue and throat as she swallowed it down.
"It's okay. It's, it's really okay. I understand." Heat began to creep into her head as she took another drink. Already, a thin haze was settling over her mind, dulling the stress just a little. "You weren't, ruined in his mind. When I was talking to him, he was scared of you, like you said, but he also had good memories of you. He missed you, too."
"... I bet he blamed himself." Mortimer said quietly. "Like all my vitrol was justified. You were right, earlier. When you said I should blame the Citadel and not him? I just... it's so easy to put a face to it all. Like he wasn't who I thought he was. I don't think it was all a lie the way I wanted to believe it was at first."
Mortimer looked at the wheel and the clay with trepidation. "Should I try again?" His brain flooded with the idea that there was no way to try again with his relationship with Chauncey or his reaction to the arrest.
He hated how sober he was for all of this. He hadn't even recognized the scent of alcohol as Skittle had opened the bottle or gotten the cup. He was still trying not to drink in front of her for her own sake.
Yet another drink. She was careful to keep it angled out of Mortimer's immediate sight. She didn't want him to see what she was drinking.
"You- yeah. If, if you want. It's worth it, to try again. It's worth it." Skittle was taking sips from the cup in between every couple sentences now. More than anything, she just wanted to fix it. All of it. She couldn't betray a friend, but with every moment that passed she was betraying Mortimer by allowing his grief to continue.
"Try to, go a little slower this time. Use a little more slip. See the bowl in your head as you work."
Mortimer smiled. "It's so interesting. I think it's harder for me to see what I want because I'm just remembering the failed attempts before." His smiled faded. "I—don't really want a bowl. So it's... hard to picture one without picturing... everything else. Everything I can't start over."
He took a breath and put some slip on the clay. He pumped the pedal slowly, trying to focus on the wet lump in front of him over anything else, but not being able to fully stop his mind from wandering.
That clay, it held infinite possibilities. She could see all the potential, all so clearly. The bowl that could be, past mistakes smoothed over. New patterns carved into it, intricate and meaningful.
Mortimer had asked her to help him, not to sit there and watch.
Her head spun. Her throat burned. The smell of clay and alcohol blended together.
"Y-You can start over."
Mortimer took his foot off the pedal. He looked up at her, meeting her eyes. His were filled with grief and rage. His eyebrow was creased. His voice was calm but firm as he spoke. "No. You don't need to lie to me. You don't need to tell me it's okay when it isn't. This isn't something you can fix."
"I-I can fix it. 'M not lying. It'll, I can make everything right again."
She set the cup down as gently as she could, but it ended up making a bit of a thump sound despite her care. She reached over to the clay, gesturing. "You just gotta, work the hole into it first, then you shape the sides outwards."
Her hands fell into her lap. "And, when it's done, we can take it to my kiln, and you can talk to him while I fire it." Her voice was slurring just a bit as she spoke.
Mortimer stood up suddenly, putting his hands firmly on the table and sliding his chair back. He couldn't help but tower over her, looking straight down at her with a stern expresson. "What are you—what are you even saying? Get ahold of yourself. God, you're almost more of a mess than—" his eyes darted to the cup, then to the bottle on the counter. "Jesus Christ, Effie's going to actually kill me. No wonder you're not making sense."
He pinched the bridge of his nose with his hand. "Fucking hell, I just fuck everything up, don't I?" He whispered to himself, just barely audibly. "Hold on, I'll get you some drinking water. Let's not do this right now."
"No, it's okay, I'm okay!" She managed, and stood up, her legs wobbling. "Chauncey, he's at my house! You can talk to him! A-and then everything will be okay and you won't have to grieve anymore and he won't have to hide anymore and everything can be okay again."
She grabbed the cup and took another swig. "And you guys can make bowls together and you won't lose them this time because I'll fire them for you."
A part of her knew that she was making a mistake, but through the haze she could hardly hear it. All the pain that both her friends had felt, and now she could finally make it better. She could make them both happy again. That was what she was there for.
"You're not making sense." Mortimer said. "Chauncey is dead. He's gone." He was tempted to grab the cup from her, but was determined to fulfill his role of being someone she could drink safely around without being afraid of being judged. "Not everything can be okay. I'm—I'm fine. I'm finally starting to move on."
The deep, desperate part of Mortimer so clearly wanted to believe Skittle. Wanted to believe that Chauncey was alive. That everything could be okay. He knew it wasn't true. That nothing could go right for him.
Fuck it. Skittle was already drinking. What was the harm if he did too? Mortimer grabbed his flask from his coat pocket and in a practiced motion flicked off the cap and took a long drink.
"Just... stop," he pleaded. "Don't give me hope. I can't lose it again."
Skittle knew she should just shut up. Mortimer was handing her an out on a silver platter. And what would Chauncey say if she broke his trust like that?
But fuck, she was so tired of seeing that distant, hurting look on Mortimer's face, and she was so tired of seeing the pain on Chauncey every time he saw her messaging one of his old friends. There didn't need to be any more secrets.
And as Mortimer drank from his flask, his silhouette just like Rick's, her words spilled out too fast to control.
"He, no, he's not dead! He's been living with me ever since Dawn escaped! He faked his death 'cuz he was scared of you but now that you don't wanna kill him anymore you guys can finally make up!"
She reached out for Mortimer's arm. "He, he feels so bad for betraying you. And for hurting you so much. Just like you feel bad. But you both can be friends again!"
Mortimer looked at her carefully. He put his flask back in his pocket with the arm she wasn't holding. He started to sincerely doubt that she could be lying, in her state, but he had to know.
He bent his knees, trying to get down on her level. "Skittle," he said gently. "Are you lying to me right now?" He hated accusing her of it when she was so desperate to be believed, but he just had to hear her say the words that no, she wasn't lying, that this wasn't a dream. That he'd been making a fool out of himself the whole time.
Without looking, she set her cup back on the table. She took a deep breath, met his eyes, and put her words together as well as she could. "No. I'm not lying. I promise, he's alive."
Then, a nervous giggle. "Fuck. H-he's gonna hate me. I-I told him I'd keep his secret as long as he needed me to. And I just fucking, fuck." She now used both hands to cling to his arms. "You hate me too now, don't you? Because I didn't tell you sooner?"
"I don't hate you," Mortimer promised. "Can I see him?" A pause, and then, "who else knew?"
His expression was distant and hard to read. The gentleness in his voice contrasted with the harsh lines of his face. Mortimer claimed not to hate Skittle, and yet, something in his eyes still seemed to burn.
"I-I, um." She was shaking. "I-I'd, have to ask him first."
It was remarkable, just how similar Mortimer's expressions could be to Rick's. "D-Dawn knew. And, Effie, and my family, including Rick. And, um, I think Chaunce might have talked to one or two other people, but I'm not sure. I- can't fully remember."
Part of her wanted to back away from Mortimer, and part of her wanted to wrap her arms around him. "I'm sorry."
Mortimer hugged her. He didn't like physical contact much, but he thought she'd appreciate it. Plus, it would hide his face. He didn't know if he could stop himself from crying, and she didn't need to see that.
Of course Dawn had to know. But the fact that she knew and hid it so well was unnerving to Mortimer. She'd been there for his most bitter moments and never let a single tell slip. They'd grieved together. Hell, behind closed doors, Dawn had been torn up about it. If all of that was just performance, Mortimer wasn't sure what to make of her. Maybe the arrest had changed her more than he had realized.
He pulled back from the hug and put her hands on her shoulders. "No, don't be sorry." He smiled, a trace of light hitting his eyes. "Thank you."
There was no better feeling than a hug. Being held, safe and warm, even for a moment, calmed her nerves a little. And his faint smile afterwards made her feel a bit less worried. "I, I still messed up, though. I just, I couldn't, I couldn't stand how you were hurting so much."
She sighed and took a step back. "Um, did, you still wanna work on that bowl?"
He shook his head. "I want to make another one with him someday. When he's ready. I-I think I'd like to wait for him to come here. It's just... so nice to know he's okay." He paused for a moment. "You're a really good kid."
Even though Skittle was only three years younger than him, he still felt like he needed to be a guidance figure. More than he realistically could be. He was grateful that Skittle had stuck with him through everything, even if he didn't deserve it.
"You better not tell him how sappy I'm getting," Mortimer joked.
Her eyes watered as she chuckled. "Don't worry. You'll be able to tell him yourself, eventually."
She wiped at her face. Her cheeks were flushed, both from the alcohol and from the recent rush of emotions. The table still held all the pottery supplies.
"I, um. Think I wanna go home, then. No offense to you, though! Thanks, for, uh. I don't even know. Thanks."
Skittle started to clean up the supplies, struggling to keep her hands steady. She didn't have as high of a tolerance for substances as she once did.
"Right, yeah. Do you want help cleaning up, or?" Mortimer said. He felt... he didn't know how he felt, but he was struggling not to be relieved that Skittle wanted to leave so he could just drink without feeling too bad about it.
"Sorry that this was, uh, thank you." Mortimer also stumbled over his words.
(@msc137)
Skittle stepped through the portal into the base, bag in hand. She glanced around the living room, smiling gently at how Dawn, Autimn, and Mortimer had turned such a cold and unfeeling alien base into a warm home.
"I'm here," she said softly, treating the space with the respect it deserved.
"Hey." Mortimer said, from behind him. He wore a blue shirt and the same stained lab coat as always. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
He glanced around the room and saw comfy chairs good for relaxing in, but no good workspace. "Shit, do I need to pull out better chairs for this? What do I need? I... don't remember much from the last time we did this."
Skittle startled at the unexpected voice from behind, but quickly reestablished her smile and whirled around. "Hey! It's no problem at all, Mortimer. I wasn't really doing anything."
She followed his gaze. "Yeah, the living room was just a meeting spot. I was thinking maybe the kitchen would be a good place to work? I've got everything we'll need in my bag."
"Oh, uh, yeah." Mortimer said. "I didn't really... clean it out or anything, and it's my turn so. um. tread with caution. There's not like broken glass or anything. But I left my shit on the counters, you can ignore that."
He turned and walked to the kitchen, expecting Skittle to follow him. The kitchen was messy, as described. There was an empty chip bag and a couple of containers of alcohol sitting on the counter. Nothing was open or at risk of spilling, but there were plates and forks in the sink and the counters. The table was mostly clear except for a few crumbs, which Mortimer brushed off with his hand.
The kitchen may have been a bit cluttered, but she had seen much worse. Skittle set the bag on the table and began to pull things out. A plastic grocery bag with clay inside it, an alien-looking pottery wheel with a pedal attached by a cord, a jar of various wooden and wire tools, a container holding a tan liquid, and lots and lots of newspaper.
By all means, there was no way all of it should have fit in the tote bag, but it did.
"Can you get a couple cups of water, please?" she asked, begining to set out a few layers of the newspaper over the table.
Mortimer nodded. He'd used similar tech to the tote bag many times. "Plastic or glass?" he asked, reaching for the plastic ones, but feeling unsure which would suit the occasion better.
He didn't want to let on how much this meant to him. He didn't want to make it weird. He knew Skittle had messaged Chauncey online at least once to coordinate Dawn's escape, but she didn't really know him. It wouldn't be fair of him to expect her to help him through his grief, even though he knew she'd try if she could see it.
"Plastic, probably? In case it gets knocked over, don't want to risk getting glass shards everywhere, y'know?" She replied without looking up. After everything was set up, she tugged the chair next to her out and beckoned for Mortimer to sit down.
"So. You mentioned that you were doing this, to remember someone, right? Did you want to tell me about them at all?"
Then again, Skittle could guess. Likely the very same person that slept in a cot in her bedroom. The one that hadn't even really died at all.
Mortimer finished getting the cups and set them down. "He was a good kid. Scared, but good." He pulled the chair out and sat down. "You... I know you've talked to him online before. Chauncey, Sevens, soldier two eight seven seven. I—I've talked about him a lot, before. I'm not sure if you want to hear it all."
He sighed and rolled up his sleeves. "Alright. What do I need to do?" His expression was noticably darkened after talking about Chauncey, even if he'd tried to hide it.
Her stomach churned. "I, yeah. I'm- I was friends with him. We talked a few times. If you wanna talk about him, you can, okay?" She tried her best to keep her expression open, sympathetic. There would be time for guilt later.
She pulled the clay out of the bag and tugged off a decent sized chunk. "So, I brought the wheel, but I wasn't sure if you wanted to make the bowl on the wheel or manually. The wheel will be, well, a bit harder, but it could end up looking more symmetrical if you get the hang of it."
"I think we did the wheel last time," Mortimer said.
His hand twitched towards his flask, but no. He wouldn't drink around Skittle. He knew she was trying to be sober, and he wouldn't tempt her by drinking. "Thank you." Hopefully she hadn't noticed. "I put too much pressure on the poor kid, poured all my grief about losing his friendship into raw anger."
He stared at the clay for a moment, not saying anything. Then he spoke, clearly more to himself than Skittle. "Can't believe those were the last words I ever said to him."
She looked away for a moment, eyes landing on the counters, and then turned her gaze back down to the table. Words weren't coming. Skittle knew the whole story, she'd heard it from both of them. Chauncey's betrayal of Dawn, Autumn, and Mortimer. Mortimer's promise to end Chauncey's life. And, when Dawn escaped, the faking of Chauncey's death so that he wouldn't have to live in fear of Mortimer hunting him down.
And now, my secret, she thought. Chauncey living in her home, right under her grieving friend's nose.
"The, um, the wheel. You use the pedal to, control how fast it spins," she managed to say. Then a gesture towards the plastic container, which she had pulled the lid off of. "This is slip, it's basically watered down clay with a little bit of vinegar. While you're, spinning the wheel, you take a handful of slip and spread it over the clay to make it more malleable."
She took a deep breath. Clay was something she could control. Creating, spinning something up out of nothing, forming a shape she could recognize out of a lump of nothing. For all she liked to think she was good with people, she was still better with clay than she was with them.
Mortimer used the pedal to spin the wheel. The clay, the wheel, the pedal. It all reminded him too much of the last time they did this. When Chauncey laughed.
Pottery had been the first time Mortimer had seen the stress melt away from him. The little guy had been perpetually nervous or serious. The first time Mortimer had seen him truly smile was when he laughed at their messed up first attempts at bowls. Mortimer smiled distantly at the memory, his eyes never wavering from the clay. Mortimer's face hardened into a firm line. He had to do this. He needed something. How could he not find a way to fire and keep those bowls? How could he lose them just like he lost Chauncey? How could he? How could he call himself Chauncey's friend after vowing to end his life? How could he be mad when he always knew? How could he let Chauncey's last memories of him be so... so...
He wasn't focused on the clay, or the wheel. He let himself spin it faster and faster as his mind drifted away. The clay was coming dangerously close to flying off the wheel.
Skittle had been staring idly down at the newspaper, but she glanced over for a moment and her eyes widened. "Careful!"
She placed a hand on the leg Mortimer was using to work the pedal. "You gotta slow down! Look, see how it's getting unstable? You're gonna lose it."
Mortimer's mind had been so clearly a million miles away. And she knew why. "Sorry. I, I should have been paying more attention." She bit her lip. Everything felt so precarious, all hanging on her.
He laughed. He couldn't help himself. It was a strange, echoy, hollow sort of laugh. A bitter, strained thing that contained no joy. He could just hear Autumn telling Dawn "See how it's getting unstable?" about his own mental state. About him.
Autumn chiding him about his obsession "You're gonna lose it." But it was already gone. There was nothing to lose. Everything was gone.
He stopped moving his foot, and looked at Skittle's concerned face. "I shouldn't have asked you here." He said, at last. He... trusted Skittle, as strange as it was to say. He let his voice waver in a rare moment of demonstrating his uncertainty. "I—I can't do this."
Her hands were shaking. The grief in Mortimer's eyes, mourning someone that wasn't truly gone. The memory of Chauncey's same grief, mourning a friendship he had lost.
Skittle stood up, suddenly, the chair scraping across the floor. "It's fine. It's okay."
She turned away and leaned against the countertop, elbow gently bumping into one of the bottles that had been left out.
"I'm so, so sorry, Mortimer. I can't even imagine what you must be feeling right now." Her own voice was wavering as well. "It's- it's never easy losing someone."
But he wasn't lost. He was in her home. And he was trusting her to keep up the front that he was gone as Mortimer sat just a few feet away from her.
Mortimer blew out a sharp breath. "Hell, I hardly know what I'm feeling. There's no way I could expect you to." He shut his eyes tightly. "I just—to know what he saw the last time he ever looked at me. He was scared. Not of the Citadel, not of a Rick, of my face." He opened his eyes and traced his fingers along the wood of the table next to the wheel. "Of me," he said quietly. "And he was right." Mortimer's voice was barely a whisper now.
He looked to the side, at the floor. He spoke a little more clearer. "It just hurts to know that's something I broke that I can never fix. That'll always be the last memory we have of each other."
"I'm sorry," she said again. But this apology wasn't just sympathy. It was an apology for the choice she was making. That she wasn't telling him the truth. An apology because he was right, as long as Chauncey wanted to stay in hiding, he would never get to make amends.
If she told Mortimer the truth, what then? Would things work out, would the two finally be able to rekindle their friendship and forgive each other? Or would things go wrong, would Mortimer feel obligated still to keep his promise? Would he be furious at her for keeping it hidden for so long? Would he hate her? And Chauncey, wouldn't he feel betrayed? Her breaking his trust?
"Can I- can I have some of this?" she asked, eyes trained on the bottle.
Mortimer didn't look up or check what she was asking about. "Go ahead." They didn't have anything that they were saving for a specific occasion, so he couldn't think of anything she couldn't have. Besides, he couldn't focus on anything except his grief. His eyes stayed fixed on the wood grain of the table.
"I should've warned you this might happen," he said softly. "I guess I've just been trying not to focus on how much I still miss him." He wanted to apologize for dragging Skittle out here without cause, for not being able to actually go through with it. He took a shaky breath. He could at least try to start again.
The cabinet was still open a crack. She reached inside, pulled out another plastic cup, and set it on the counter. As she unscrewed the lid of the bottle, the familiar stench of alcohol entered her lungs, and she breathed it in gratefully. "Thank you," she muttered, as she began to pour some out into the opaque cup.
She slid back into the chair, taking a big drink. It was strong, burning her tongue and throat as she swallowed it down.
"It's okay. It's, it's really okay. I understand." Heat began to creep into her head as she took another drink. Already, a thin haze was settling over her mind, dulling the stress just a little. "You weren't, ruined in his mind. When I was talking to him, he was scared of you, like you said, but he also had good memories of you. He missed you, too."
"... I bet he blamed himself." Mortimer said quietly. "Like all my vitrol was justified. You were right, earlier. When you said I should blame the Citadel and not him? I just... it's so easy to put a face to it all. Like he wasn't who I thought he was. I don't think it was all a lie the way I wanted to believe it was at first."
Mortimer looked at the wheel and the clay with trepidation. "Should I try again?" His brain flooded with the idea that there was no way to try again with his relationship with Chauncey or his reaction to the arrest.
He hated how sober he was for all of this. He hadn't even recognized the scent of alcohol as Skittle had opened the bottle or gotten the cup. He was still trying not to drink in front of her for her own sake.
Yet another drink. She was careful to keep it angled out of Mortimer's immediate sight. She didn't want him to see what she was drinking.
"You- yeah. If, if you want. It's worth it, to try again. It's worth it." Skittle was taking sips from the cup in between every couple sentences now. More than anything, she just wanted to fix it. All of it. She couldn't betray a friend, but with every moment that passed she was betraying Mortimer by allowing his grief to continue.
"Try to, go a little slower this time. Use a little more slip. See the bowl in your head as you work."
Mortimer smiled. "It's so interesting. I think it's harder for me to see what I want because I'm just remembering the failed attempts before." His smiled faded. "I—don't really want a bowl. So it's... hard to picture one without picturing... everything else. Everything I can't start over."
He took a breath and put some slip on the clay. He pumped the pedal slowly, trying to focus on the wet lump in front of him over anything else, but not being able to fully stop his mind from wandering.
That clay, it held infinite possibilities. She could see all the potential, all so clearly. The bowl that could be, past mistakes smoothed over. New patterns carved into it, intricate and meaningful.
Mortimer had asked her to help him, not to sit there and watch.
Her head spun. Her throat burned. The smell of clay and alcohol blended together.
"Y-You can start over."
Mortimer took his foot off the pedal. He looked up at her, meeting her eyes. His were filled with grief and rage. His eyebrow was creased. His voice was calm but firm as he spoke. "No. You don't need to lie to me. You don't need to tell me it's okay when it isn't. This isn't something you can fix."
"I-I can fix it. 'M not lying. It'll, I can make everything right again."
She set the cup down as gently as she could, but it ended up making a bit of a thump sound despite her care. She reached over to the clay, gesturing. "You just gotta, work the hole into it first, then you shape the sides outwards."
Her hands fell into her lap. "And, when it's done, we can take it to my kiln, and you can talk to him while I fire it." Her voice was slurring just a bit as she spoke.
Mortimer stood up suddenly, putting his hands firmly on the table and sliding his chair back. He couldn't help but tower over her, looking straight down at her with a stern expresson. "What are you—what are you even saying? Get ahold of yourself. God, you're almost more of a mess than—" his eyes darted to the cup, then to the bottle on the counter. "Jesus Christ, Effie's going to actually kill me. No wonder you're not making sense."
He pinched the bridge of his nose with his hand. "Fucking hell, I just fuck everything up, don't I?" He whispered to himself, just barely audibly. "Hold on, I'll get you some drinking water. Let's not do this right now."
"No, it's okay, I'm okay!" She managed, and stood up, her legs wobbling. "Chauncey, he's at my house! You can talk to him! A-and then everything will be okay and you won't have to grieve anymore and he won't have to hide anymore and everything can be okay again."
She grabbed the cup and took another swig. "And you guys can make bowls together and you won't lose them this time because I'll fire them for you."
A part of her knew that she was making a mistake, but through the haze she could hardly hear it. All the pain that both her friends had felt, and now she could finally make it better. She could make them both happy again. That was what she was there for.
"You're not making sense." Mortimer said. "Chauncey is dead. He's gone." He was tempted to grab the cup from her, but was determined to fulfill his role of being someone she could drink safely around without being afraid of being judged. "Not everything can be okay. I'm—I'm fine. I'm finally starting to move on."
The deep, desperate part of Mortimer so clearly wanted to believe Skittle. Wanted to believe that Chauncey was alive. That everything could be okay. He knew it wasn't true. That nothing could go right for him.
Fuck it. Skittle was already drinking. What was the harm if he did too? Mortimer grabbed his flask from his coat pocket and in a practiced motion flicked off the cap and took a long drink.
"Just... stop," he pleaded. "Don't give me hope. I can't lose it again."
Skittle knew she should just shut up. Mortimer was handing her an out on a silver platter. And what would Chauncey say if she broke his trust like that?
But fuck, she was so tired of seeing that distant, hurting look on Mortimer's face, and she was so tired of seeing the pain on Chauncey every time he saw her messaging one of his old friends. There didn't need to be any more secrets.
And as Mortimer drank from his flask, his silhouette just like Rick's, her words spilled out too fast to control.
"He, no, he's not dead! He's been living with me ever since Dawn escaped! He faked his death 'cuz he was scared of you but now that you don't wanna kill him anymore you guys can finally make up!"
She reached out for Mortimer's arm. "He, he feels so bad for betraying you. And for hurting you so much. Just like you feel bad. But you both can be friends again!"
Mortimer looked at her carefully. He put his flask back in his pocket with the arm she wasn't holding. He started to sincerely doubt that she could be lying, in her state, but he had to know.
He bent his knees, trying to get down on her level. "Skittle," he said gently. "Are you lying to me right now?" He hated accusing her of it when she was so desperate to be believed, but he just had to hear her say the words that no, she wasn't lying, that this wasn't a dream. That he'd been making a fool out of himself the whole time.
Without looking, she set her cup back on the table. She took a deep breath, met his eyes, and put her words together as well as she could. "No. I'm not lying. I promise, he's alive."
Then, a nervous giggle. "Fuck. H-he's gonna hate me. I-I told him I'd keep his secret as long as he needed me to. And I just fucking, fuck." She now used both hands to cling to his arms. "You hate me too now, don't you? Because I didn't tell you sooner?"
"I don't hate you," Mortimer promised. "Can I see him?" A pause, and then, "who else knew?"
His expression was distant and hard to read. The gentleness in his voice contrasted with the harsh lines of his face. Mortimer claimed not to hate Skittle, and yet, something in his eyes still seemed to burn.
"I-I, um." She was shaking. "I-I'd, have to ask him first."
It was remarkable, just how similar Mortimer's expressions could be to Rick's. "D-Dawn knew. And, Effie, and my family, including Rick. And, um, I think Chaunce might have talked to one or two other people, but I'm not sure. I- can't fully remember."
Part of her wanted to back away from Mortimer, and part of her wanted to wrap her arms around him. "I'm sorry."
Mortimer hugged her. He didn't like physical contact much, but he thought she'd appreciate it. Plus, it would hide his face. He didn't know if he could stop himself from crying, and she didn't need to see that.
Of course Dawn had to know. But the fact that she knew and hid it so well was unnerving to Mortimer. She'd been there for his most bitter moments and never let a single tell slip. They'd grieved together. Hell, behind closed doors, Dawn had been torn up about it. If all of that was just performance, Mortimer wasn't sure what to make of her. Maybe the arrest had changed her more than he had realized.
He pulled back from the hug and put her hands on her shoulders. "No, don't be sorry." He smiled, a trace of light hitting his eyes. "Thank you."
There was no better feeling than a hug. Being held, safe and warm, even for a moment, calmed her nerves a little. And his faint smile afterwards made her feel a bit less worried. "I, I still messed up, though. I just, I couldn't, I couldn't stand how you were hurting so much."
She sighed and took a step back. "Um, did, you still wanna work on that bowl?"
He shook his head. "I want to make another one with him someday. When he's ready. I-I think I'd like to wait for him to come here. It's just... so nice to know he's okay." He paused for a moment. "You're a really good kid."
Even though Skittle was only three years younger than him, he still felt like he needed to be a guidance figure. More than he realistically could be. He was grateful that Skittle had stuck with him through everything, even if he didn't deserve it.
"You better not tell him how sappy I'm getting," Mortimer joked.
(@msc137)
Skittle stepped through the portal into the base, bag in hand. She glanced around the living room, smiling gently at how Dawn, Autimn, and Mortimer had turned such a cold and unfeeling alien base into a warm home.
"I'm here," she said softly, treating the space with the respect it deserved.
"Hey." Mortimer said, from behind him. He wore a blue shirt and the same stained lab coat as always. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
He glanced around the room and saw comfy chairs good for relaxing in, but no good workspace. "Shit, do I need to pull out better chairs for this? What do I need? I... don't remember much from the last time we did this."
Skittle startled at the unexpected voice from behind, but quickly reestablished her smile and whirled around. "Hey! It's no problem at all, Mortimer. I wasn't really doing anything."
She followed his gaze. "Yeah, the living room was just a meeting spot. I was thinking maybe the kitchen would be a good place to work? I've got everything we'll need in my bag."
"Oh, uh, yeah." Mortimer said. "I didn't really... clean it out or anything, and it's my turn so. um. tread with caution. There's not like broken glass or anything. But I left my shit on the counters, you can ignore that."
He turned and walked to the kitchen, expecting Skittle to follow him. The kitchen was messy, as described. There was an empty chip bag and a couple of containers of alcohol sitting on the counter. Nothing was open or at risk of spilling, but there were plates and forks in the sink and the counters. The table was mostly clear except for a few crumbs, which Mortimer brushed off with his hand.
The kitchen may have been a bit cluttered, but she had seen much worse. Skittle set the bag on the table and began to pull things out. A plastic grocery bag with clay inside it, an alien-looking pottery wheel with a pedal attached by a cord, a jar of various wooden and wire tools, a container holding a tan liquid, and lots and lots of newspaper.
By all means, there was no way all of it should have fit in the tote bag, but it did.
"Can you get a couple cups of water, please?" she asked, begining to set out a few layers of the newspaper over the table.
Mortimer nodded. He'd used similar tech to the tote bag many times. "Plastic or glass?" he asked, reaching for the plastic ones, but feeling unsure which would suit the occasion better.
He didn't want to let on how much this meant to him. He didn't want to make it weird. He knew Skittle had messaged Chauncey online at least once to coordinate Dawn's escape, but she didn't really know him. It wouldn't be fair of him to expect her to help him through his grief, even though he knew she'd try if she could see it.
"Plastic, probably? In case it gets knocked over, don't want to risk getting glass shards everywhere, y'know?" She replied without looking up. After everything was set up, she tugged the chair next to her out and beckoned for Mortimer to sit down.
"So. You mentioned that you were doing this, to remember someone, right? Did you want to tell me about them at all?"
Then again, Skittle could guess. Likely the very same person that slept in a cot in her bedroom. The one that hadn't even really died at all.
Mortimer finished getting the cups and set them down. "He was a good kid. Scared, but good." He pulled the chair out and sat down. "You... I know you've talked to him online before. Chauncey, Sevens, soldier two eight seven seven. I—I've talked about him a lot, before. I'm not sure if you want to hear it all."
He sighed and rolled up his sleeves. "Alright. What do I need to do?" His expression was noticably darkened after talking about Chauncey, even if he'd tried to hide it.
Her stomach churned. "I, yeah. I'm- I was friends with him. We talked a few times. If you wanna talk about him, you can, okay?" She tried her best to keep her expression open, sympathetic. There would be time for guilt later.
She pulled the clay out of the bag and tugged off a decent sized chunk. "So, I brought the wheel, but I wasn't sure if you wanted to make the bowl on the wheel or manually. The wheel will be, well, a bit harder, but it could end up looking more symmetrical if you get the hang of it."
"I think we did the wheel last time," Mortimer said.
His hand twitched towards his flask, but no. He wouldn't drink around Skittle. He knew she was trying to be sober, and he wouldn't tempt her by drinking. "Thank you." Hopefully she hadn't noticed. "I put too much pressure on the poor kid, poured all my grief about losing his friendship into raw anger."
He stared at the clay for a moment, not saying anything. Then he spoke, clearly more to himself than Skittle. "Can't believe those were the last words I ever said to him."
She looked away for a moment, eyes landing on the counters, and then turned her gaze back down to the table. Words weren't coming. Skittle knew the whole story, she'd heard it from both of them. Chauncey's betrayal of Dawn, Autumn, and Mortimer. Mortimer's promise to end Chauncey's life. And, when Dawn escaped, the faking of Chauncey's death so that he wouldn't have to live in fear of Mortimer hunting him down.
And now, my secret, she thought. Chauncey living in her home, right under her grieving friend's nose.
"The, um, the wheel. You use the pedal to, control how fast it spins," she managed to say. Then a gesture towards the plastic container, which she had pulled the lid off of. "This is slip, it's basically watered down clay with a little bit of vinegar. While you're, spinning the wheel, you take a handful of slip and spread it over the clay to make it more malleable."
She took a deep breath. Clay was something she could control. Creating, spinning something up out of nothing, forming a shape she could recognize out of a lump of nothing. For all she liked to think she was good with people, she was still better with clay than she was with them.
Mortimer used the pedal to spin the wheel. The clay, the wheel, the pedal. It all reminded him too much of the last time they did this. When Chauncey laughed.
Pottery had been the first time Mortimer had seen the stress melt away from him. The little guy had been perpetually nervous or serious. The first time Mortimer had seen him truly smile was when he laughed at their messed up first attempts at bowls. Mortimer smiled distantly at the memory, his eyes never wavering from the clay. Mortimer's face hardened into a firm line. He had to do this. He needed something. How could he not find a way to fire and keep those bowls? How could he lose them just like he lost Chauncey? How could he? How could he call himself Chauncey's friend after vowing to end his life? How could he be mad when he always knew? How could he let Chauncey's last memories of him be so... so...
He wasn't focused on the clay, or the wheel. He let himself spin it faster and faster as his mind drifted away. The clay was coming dangerously close to flying off the wheel.
Skittle had been staring idly down at the newspaper, but she glanced over for a moment and her eyes widened. "Careful!"
She placed a hand on the leg Mortimer was using to work the pedal. "You gotta slow down! Look, see how it's getting unstable? You're gonna lose it."
Mortimer's mind had been so clearly a million miles away. And she knew why. "Sorry. I, I should have been paying more attention." She bit her lip. Everything felt so precarious, all hanging on her.
He laughed. He couldn't help himself. It was a strange, echoy, hollow sort of laugh. A bitter, strained thing that contained no joy. He could just hear Autumn telling Dawn "See how it's getting unstable?" about his own mental state. About him.
Autumn chiding him about his obsession "You're gonna lose it." But it was already gone. There was nothing to lose. Everything was gone.
He stopped moving his foot, and looked at Skittle's concerned face. "I shouldn't have asked you here." He said, at last. He... trusted Skittle, as strange as it was to say. He let his voice waver in a rare moment of demonstrating his uncertainty. "I—I can't do this."
Her hands were shaking. The grief in Mortimer's eyes, mourning someone that wasn't truly gone. The memory of Chauncey's same grief, mourning a friendship he had lost.
Skittle stood up, suddenly, the chair scraping across the floor. "It's fine. It's okay."
She turned away and leaned against the countertop, elbow gently bumping into one of the bottles that had been left out.
"I'm so, so sorry, Mortimer. I can't even imagine what you must be feeling right now." Her own voice was wavering as well. "It's- it's never easy losing someone."
But he wasn't lost. He was in her home. And he was trusting her to keep up the front that he was gone as Mortimer sat just a few feet away from her.
Mortimer blew out a sharp breath. "Hell, I hardly know what I'm feeling. There's no way I could expect you to." He shut his eyes tightly. "I just—to know what he saw the last time he ever looked at me. He was scared. Not of the Citadel, not of a Rick, of my face." He opened his eyes and traced his fingers along the wood of the table next to the wheel. "Of me," he said quietly. "And he was right." Mortimer's voice was barely a whisper now.
He looked to the side, at the floor. He spoke a little more clearer. "It just hurts to know that's something I broke that I can never fix. That'll always be the last memory we have of each other."
"I'm sorry," she said again. But this apology wasn't just sympathy. It was an apology for the choice she was making. That she wasn't telling him the truth. An apology because he was right, as long as Chauncey wanted to stay in hiding, he would never get to make amends.
If she told Mortimer the truth, what then? Would things work out, would the two finally be able to rekindle their friendship and forgive each other? Or would things go wrong, would Mortimer feel obligated still to keep his promise? Would he be furious at her for keeping it hidden for so long? Would he hate her? And Chauncey, wouldn't he feel betrayed? Her breaking his trust?
"Can I- can I have some of this?" she asked, eyes trained on the bottle.
Mortimer didn't look up or check what she was asking about. "Go ahead." They didn't have anything that they were saving for a specific occasion, so he couldn't think of anything she couldn't have. Besides, he couldn't focus on anything except his grief. His eyes stayed fixed on the wood grain of the table.
"I should've warned you this might happen," he said softly. "I guess I've just been trying not to focus on how much I still miss him." He wanted to apologize for dragging Skittle out here without cause, for not being able to actually go through with it. He took a shaky breath. He could at least try to start again.
The cabinet was still open a crack. She reached inside, pulled out another plastic cup, and set it on the counter. As she unscrewed the lid of the bottle, the familiar stench of alcohol entered her lungs, and she breathed it in gratefully. "Thank you," she muttered, as she began to pour some out into the opaque cup.
She slid back into the chair, taking a big drink. It was strong, burning her tongue and throat as she swallowed it down.
"It's okay. It's, it's really okay. I understand." Heat began to creep into her head as she took another drink. Already, a thin haze was settling over her mind, dulling the stress just a little. "You weren't, ruined in his mind. When I was talking to him, he was scared of you, like you said, but he also had good memories of you. He missed you, too."
"... I bet he blamed himself." Mortimer said quietly. "Like all my vitrol was justified. You were right, earlier. When you said I should blame the Citadel and not him? I just... it's so easy to put a face to it all. Like he wasn't who I thought he was. I don't think it was all a lie the way I wanted to believe it was at first."
Mortimer looked at the wheel and the clay with trepidation. "Should I try again?" His brain flooded with the idea that there was no way to try again with his relationship with Chauncey or his reaction to the arrest.
He hated how sober he was for all of this. He hadn't even recognized the scent of alcohol as Skittle had opened the bottle or gotten the cup. He was still trying not to drink in front of her for her own sake.
Yet another drink. She was careful to keep it angled out of Mortimer's immediate sight. She didn't want him to see what she was drinking.
"You- yeah. If, if you want. It's worth it, to try again. It's worth it." Skittle was taking sips from the cup in between every couple sentences now. More than anything, she just wanted to fix it. All of it. She couldn't betray a friend, but with every moment that passed she was betraying Mortimer by allowing his grief to continue.
"Try to, go a little slower this time. Use a little more slip. See the bowl in your head as you work."
Mortimer smiled. "It's so interesting. I think it's harder for me to see what I want because I'm just remembering the failed attempts before." His smiled faded. "I—don't really want a bowl. So it's... hard to picture one without picturing... everything else. Everything I can't start over."
He took a breath and put some slip on the clay. He pumped the pedal slowly, trying to focus on the wet lump in front of him over anything else, but not being able to fully stop his mind from wandering.
That clay, it held infinite possibilities. She could see all the potential, all so clearly. The bowl that could be, past mistakes smoothed over. New patterns carved into it, intricate and meaningful.
Mortimer had asked her to help him, not to sit there and watch.
Her head spun. Her throat burned. The smell of clay and alcohol blended together.
"Y-You can start over."
Mortimer took his foot off the pedal. He looked up at her, meeting her eyes. His were filled with grief and rage. His eyebrow was creased. His voice was calm but firm as he spoke. "No. You don't need to lie to me. You don't need to tell me it's okay when it isn't. This isn't something you can fix."
"I-I can fix it. 'M not lying. It'll, I can make everything right again."
She set the cup down as gently as she could, but it ended up making a bit of a thump sound despite her care. She reached over to the clay, gesturing. "You just gotta, work the hole into it first, then you shape the sides outwards."
Her hands fell into her lap. "And, when it's done, we can take it to my kiln, and you can talk to him while I fire it." Her voice was slurring just a bit as she spoke.
Mortimer stood up suddenly, putting his hands firmly on the table and sliding his chair back. He couldn't help but tower over her, looking straight down at her with a stern expresson. "What are you—what are you even saying? Get ahold of yourself. God, you're almost more of a mess than—" his eyes darted to the cup, then to the bottle on the counter. "Jesus Christ, Effie's going to actually kill me. No wonder you're not making sense."
He pinched the bridge of his nose with his hand. "Fucking hell, I just fuck everything up, don't I?" He whispered to himself, just barely audibly. "Hold on, I'll get you some drinking water. Let's not do this right now."
"No, it's okay, I'm okay!" She managed, and stood up, her legs wobbling. "Chauncey, he's at my house! You can talk to him! A-and then everything will be okay and you won't have to grieve anymore and he won't have to hide anymore and everything can be okay again."
She grabbed the cup and took another swig. "And you guys can make bowls together and you won't lose them this time because I'll fire them for you."
A part of her knew that she was making a mistake, but through the haze she could hardly hear it. All the pain that both her friends had felt, and now she could finally make it better. She could make them both happy again. That was what she was there for.
"You're not making sense." Mortimer said. "Chauncey is dead. He's gone." He was tempted to grab the cup from her, but was determined to fulfill his role of being someone she could drink safely around without being afraid of being judged. "Not everything can be okay. I'm—I'm fine. I'm finally starting to move on."
The deep, desperate part of Mortimer so clearly wanted to believe Skittle. Wanted to believe that Chauncey was alive. That everything could be okay. He knew it wasn't true. That nothing could go right for him.
Fuck it. Skittle was already drinking. What was the harm if he did too? Mortimer grabbed his flask from his coat pocket and in a practiced motion flicked off the cap and took a long drink.
"Just... stop," he pleaded. "Don't give me hope. I can't lose it again."
Skittle knew she should just shut up. Mortimer was handing her an out on a silver platter. And what would Chauncey say if she broke his trust like that?
But fuck, she was so tired of seeing that distant, hurting look on Mortimer's face, and she was so tired of seeing the pain on Chauncey every time he saw her messaging one of his old friends. There didn't need to be any more secrets.
And as Mortimer drank from his flask, his silhouette just like Rick's, her words spilled out too fast to control.
"He, no, he's not dead! He's been living with me ever since Dawn escaped! He faked his death 'cuz he was scared of you but now that you don't wanna kill him anymore you guys can finally make up!"
She reached out for Mortimer's arm. "He, he feels so bad for betraying you. And for hurting you so much. Just like you feel bad. But you both can be friends again!"
Mortimer looked at her carefully. He put his flask back in his pocket with the arm she wasn't holding. He started to sincerely doubt that she could be lying, in her state, but he had to know.
He bent his knees, trying to get down on her level. "Skittle," he said gently. "Are you lying to me right now?" He hated accusing her of it when she was so desperate to be believed, but he just had to hear her say the words that no, she wasn't lying, that this wasn't a dream. That he'd been making a fool out of himself the whole time.
Without looking, she set her cup back on the table. She took a deep breath, met his eyes, and put her words together as well as she could. "No. I'm not lying. I promise, he's alive."
Then, a nervous giggle. "Fuck. H-he's gonna hate me. I-I told him I'd keep his secret as long as he needed me to. And I just fucking, fuck." She now used both hands to cling to his arms. "You hate me too now, don't you? Because I didn't tell you sooner?"
"I don't hate you," Mortimer promised. "Can I see him?" A pause, and then, "who else knew?"
His expression was distant and hard to read. The gentleness in his voice contrasted with the harsh lines of his face. Mortimer claimed not to hate Skittle, and yet, something in his eyes still seemed to burn.
"I-I, um." She was shaking. "I-I'd, have to ask him first."
It was remarkable, just how similar Mortimer's expressions could be to Rick's. "D-Dawn knew. And, Effie, and my family, including Rick. And, um, I think Chaunce might have talked to one or two other people, but I'm not sure. I- can't fully remember."
Part of her wanted to back away from Mortimer, and part of her wanted to wrap her arms around him. "I'm sorry."
Mortimer hugged her. He didn't like physical contact much, but he thought she'd appreciate it. Plus, it would hide his face. He didn't know if he could stop himself from crying, and she didn't need to see that.
Of course Dawn had to know. But the fact that she knew and hid it so well was unnerving to Mortimer. She'd been there for his most bitter moments and never let a single tell slip. They'd grieved together. Hell, behind closed doors, Dawn had been torn up about it. If all of that was just performance, Mortimer wasn't sure what to make of her. Maybe the arrest had changed her more than he had realized.
He pulled back from the hug and put her hands on her shoulders. "No, don't be sorry." He smiled, a trace of light hitting his eyes. "Thank you."
(@msc137)
Skittle stepped through the portal into the base, bag in hand. She glanced around the living room, smiling gently at how Dawn, Autimn, and Mortimer had turned such a cold and unfeeling alien base into a warm home.
"I'm here," she said softly, treating the space with the respect it deserved.
"Hey." Mortimer said, from behind him. He wore a blue shirt and the same stained lab coat as always. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
He glanced around the room and saw comfy chairs good for relaxing in, but no good workspace. "Shit, do I need to pull out better chairs for this? What do I need? I... don't remember much from the last time we did this."
Skittle startled at the unexpected voice from behind, but quickly reestablished her smile and whirled around. "Hey! It's no problem at all, Mortimer. I wasn't really doing anything."
She followed his gaze. "Yeah, the living room was just a meeting spot. I was thinking maybe the kitchen would be a good place to work? I've got everything we'll need in my bag."
"Oh, uh, yeah." Mortimer said. "I didn't really... clean it out or anything, and it's my turn so. um. tread with caution. There's not like broken glass or anything. But I left my shit on the counters, you can ignore that."
He turned and walked to the kitchen, expecting Skittle to follow him. The kitchen was messy, as described. There was an empty chip bag and a couple of containers of alcohol sitting on the counter. Nothing was open or at risk of spilling, but there were plates and forks in the sink and the counters. The table was mostly clear except for a few crumbs, which Mortimer brushed off with his hand.
The kitchen may have been a bit cluttered, but she had seen much worse. Skittle set the bag on the table and began to pull things out. A plastic grocery bag with clay inside it, an alien-looking pottery wheel with a pedal attached by a cord, a jar of various wooden and wire tools, a container holding a tan liquid, and lots and lots of newspaper.
By all means, there was no way all of it should have fit in the tote bag, but it did.
"Can you get a couple cups of water, please?" she asked, begining to set out a few layers of the newspaper over the table.
Mortimer nodded. He'd used similar tech to the tote bag many times. "Plastic or glass?" he asked, reaching for the plastic ones, but feeling unsure which would suit the occasion better.
He didn't want to let on how much this meant to him. He didn't want to make it weird. He knew Skittle had messaged Chauncey online at least once to coordinate Dawn's escape, but she didn't really know him. It wouldn't be fair of him to expect her to help him through his grief, even though he knew she'd try if she could see it.
"Plastic, probably? In case it gets knocked over, don't want to risk getting glass shards everywhere, y'know?" She replied without looking up. After everything was set up, she tugged the chair next to her out and beckoned for Mortimer to sit down.
"So. You mentioned that you were doing this, to remember someone, right? Did you want to tell me about them at all?"
Then again, Skittle could guess. Likely the very same person that slept in a cot in her bedroom. The one that hadn't even really died at all.
Mortimer finished getting the cups and set them down. "He was a good kid. Scared, but good." He pulled the chair out and sat down. "You... I know you've talked to him online before. Chauncey, Sevens, soldier two eight seven seven. I—I've talked about him a lot, before. I'm not sure if you want to hear it all."
He sighed and rolled up his sleeves. "Alright. What do I need to do?" His expression was noticably darkened after talking about Chauncey, even if he'd tried to hide it.
Her stomach churned. "I, yeah. I'm- I was friends with him. We talked a few times. If you wanna talk about him, you can, okay?" She tried her best to keep her expression open, sympathetic. There would be time for guilt later.
She pulled the clay out of the bag and tugged off a decent sized chunk. "So, I brought the wheel, but I wasn't sure if you wanted to make the bowl on the wheel or manually. The wheel will be, well, a bit harder, but it could end up looking more symmetrical if you get the hang of it."
"I think we did the wheel last time," Mortimer said.
His hand twitched towards his flask, but no. He wouldn't drink around Skittle. He knew she was trying to be sober, and he wouldn't tempt her by drinking. "Thank you." Hopefully she hadn't noticed. "I put too much pressure on the poor kid, poured all my grief about losing his friendship into raw anger."
He stared at the clay for a moment, not saying anything. Then he spoke, clearly more to himself than Skittle. "Can't believe those were the last words I ever said to him."
She looked away for a moment, eyes landing on the counters, and then turned her gaze back down to the table. Words weren't coming. Skittle knew the whole story, she'd heard it from both of them. Chauncey's betrayal of Dawn, Autumn, and Mortimer. Mortimer's promise to end Chauncey's life. And, when Dawn escaped, the faking of Chauncey's death so that he wouldn't have to live in fear of Mortimer hunting him down.
And now, my secret, she thought. Chauncey living in her home, right under her grieving friend's nose.
"The, um, the wheel. You use the pedal to, control how fast it spins," she managed to say. Then a gesture towards the plastic container, which she had pulled the lid off of. "This is slip, it's basically watered down clay with a little bit of vinegar. While you're, spinning the wheel, you take a handful of slip and spread it over the clay to make it more malleable."
She took a deep breath. Clay was something she could control. Creating, spinning something up out of nothing, forming a shape she could recognize out of a lump of nothing. For all she liked to think she was good with people, she was still better with clay than she was with them.
Mortimer used the pedal to spin the wheel. The clay, the wheel, the pedal. It all reminded him too much of the last time they did this. When Chauncey laughed.
Pottery had been the first time Mortimer had seen the stress melt away from him. The little guy had been perpetually nervous or serious. The first time Mortimer had seen him truly smile was when he laughed at their messed up first attempts at bowls. Mortimer smiled distantly at the memory, his eyes never wavering from the clay. Mortimer's face hardened into a firm line. He had to do this. He needed something. How could he not find a way to fire and keep those bowls? How could he lose them just like he lost Chauncey? How could he? How could he call himself Chauncey's friend after vowing to end his life? How could he be mad when he always knew? How could he let Chauncey's last memories of him be so... so...
He wasn't focused on the clay, or the wheel. He let himself spin it faster and faster as his mind drifted away. The clay was coming dangerously close to flying off the wheel.
Skittle had been staring idly down at the newspaper, but she glanced over for a moment and her eyes widened. "Careful!"
She placed a hand on the leg Mortimer was using to work the pedal. "You gotta slow down! Look, see how it's getting unstable? You're gonna lose it."
Mortimer's mind had been so clearly a million miles away. And she knew why. "Sorry. I, I should have been paying more attention." She bit her lip. Everything felt so precarious, all hanging on her.
He laughed. He couldn't help himself. It was a strange, echoy, hollow sort of laugh. A bitter, strained thing that contained no joy. He could just hear Autumn telling Dawn "See how it's getting unstable?" about his own mental state. About him.
Autumn chiding him about his obsession "You're gonna lose it." But it was already gone. There was nothing to lose. Everything was gone.
He stopped moving his foot, and looked at Skittle's concerned face. "I shouldn't have asked you here." He said, at last. He... trusted Skittle, as strange as it was to say. He let his voice waver in a rare moment of demonstrating his uncertainty. "I—I can't do this."
Her hands were shaking. The grief in Mortimer's eyes, mourning someone that wasn't truly gone. The memory of Chauncey's same grief, mourning a friendship he had lost.
Skittle stood up, suddenly, the chair scraping across the floor. "It's fine. It's okay."
She turned away and leaned against the countertop, elbow gently bumping into one of the bottles that had been left out.
"I'm so, so sorry, Mortimer. I can't even imagine what you must be feeling right now." Her own voice was wavering as well. "It's- it's never easy losing someone."
But he wasn't lost. He was in her home. And he was trusting her to keep up the front that he was gone as Mortimer sat just a few feet away from her.
Mortimer blew out a sharp breath. "Hell, I hardly know what I'm feeling. There's no way I could expect you to." He shut his eyes tightly. "I just—to know what he saw the last time he ever looked at me. He was scared. Not of the Citadel, not of a Rick, of my face." He opened his eyes and traced his fingers along the wood of the table next to the wheel. "Of me," he said quietly. "And he was right." Mortimer's voice was barely a whisper now.
He looked to the side, at the floor. He spoke a little more clearer. "It just hurts to know that's something I broke that I can never fix. That'll always be the last memory we have of each other."
"I'm sorry," she said again. But this apology wasn't just sympathy. It was an apology for the choice she was making. That she wasn't telling him the truth. An apology because he was right, as long as Chauncey wanted to stay in hiding, he would never get to make amends.
If she told Mortimer the truth, what then? Would things work out, would the two finally be able to rekindle their friendship and forgive each other? Or would things go wrong, would Mortimer feel obligated still to keep his promise? Would he be furious at her for keeping it hidden for so long? Would he hate her? And Chauncey, wouldn't he feel betrayed? Her breaking his trust?
"Can I- can I have some of this?" she asked, eyes trained on the bottle.
Mortimer didn't look up or check what she was asking about. "Go ahead." They didn't have anything that they were saving for a specific occasion, so he couldn't think of anything she couldn't have. Besides, he couldn't focus on anything except his grief. His eyes stayed fixed on the wood grain of the table.
"I should've warned you this might happen," he said softly. "I guess I've just been trying not to focus on how much I still miss him." He wanted to apologize for dragging Skittle out here without cause, for not being able to actually go through with it. He took a shaky breath. He could at least try to start again.
The cabinet was still open a crack. She reached inside, pulled out another plastic cup, and set it on the counter. As she unscrewed the lid of the bottle, the familiar stench of alcohol entered her lungs, and she breathed it in gratefully. "Thank you," she muttered, as she began to pour some out into the opaque cup.
She slid back into the chair, taking a big drink. It was strong, burning her tongue and throat as she swallowed it down.
"It's okay. It's, it's really okay. I understand." Heat began to creep into her head as she took another drink. Already, a thin haze was settling over her mind, dulling the stress just a little. "You weren't, ruined in his mind. When I was talking to him, he was scared of you, like you said, but he also had good memories of you. He missed you, too."
"... I bet he blamed himself." Mortimer said quietly. "Like all my vitrol was justified. You were right, earlier. When you said I should blame the Citadel and not him? I just... it's so easy to put a face to it all. Like he wasn't who I thought he was. I don't think it was all a lie the way I wanted to believe it was at first."
Mortimer looked at the wheel and the clay with trepidation. "Should I try again?" His brain flooded with the idea that there was no way to try again with his relationship with Chauncey or his reaction to the arrest.
He hated how sober he was for all of this. He hadn't even recognized the scent of alcohol as Skittle had opened the bottle or gotten the cup. He was still trying not to drink in front of her for her own sake.
Yet another drink. She was careful to keep it angled out of Mortimer's immediate sight. She didn't want him to see what she was drinking.
"You- yeah. If, if you want. It's worth it, to try again. It's worth it." Skittle was taking sips from the cup in between every couple sentences now. More than anything, she just wanted to fix it. All of it. She couldn't betray a friend, but with every moment that passed she was betraying Mortimer by allowing his grief to continue.
"Try to, go a little slower this time. Use a little more slip. See the bowl in your head as you work."
Mortimer smiled. "It's so interesting. I think it's harder for me to see what I want because I'm just remembering the failed attempts before." His smiled faded. "I—don't really want a bowl. So it's... hard to picture one without picturing... everything else. Everything I can't start over."
He took a breath and put some slip on the clay. He pumped the pedal slowly, trying to focus on the wet lump in front of him over anything else, but not being able to fully stop his mind from wandering.
That clay, it held infinite possibilities. She could see all the potential, all so clearly. The bowl that could be, past mistakes smoothed over. New patterns carved into it, intricate and meaningful.
Mortimer had asked her to help him, not to sit there and watch.
Her head spun. Her throat burned. The smell of clay and alcohol blended together.
"Y-You can start over."
Mortimer took his foot off the pedal. He looked up at her, meeting her eyes. His were filled with grief and rage. His eyebrow was creased. His voice was calm but firm as he spoke. "No. You don't need to lie to me. You don't need to tell me it's okay when it isn't. This isn't something you can fix."
"I-I can fix it. 'M not lying. It'll, I can make everything right again."
She set the cup down as gently as she could, but it ended up making a bit of a thump sound despite her care. She reached over to the clay, gesturing. "You just gotta, work the hole into it first, then you shape the sides outwards."
Her hands fell into her lap. "And, when it's done, we can take it to my kiln, and you can talk to him while I fire it." Her voice was slurring just a bit as she spoke.
Mortimer stood up suddenly, putting his hands firmly on the table and sliding his chair back. He couldn't help but tower over her, looking straight down at her with a stern expresson. "What are you—what are you even saying? Get ahold of yourself. God, you're almost more of a mess than—" his eyes darted to the cup, then to the bottle on the counter. "Jesus Christ, Effie's going to actually kill me. No wonder you're not making sense."
He pinched the bridge of his nose with his hand. "Fucking hell, I just fuck everything up, don't I?" He whispered to himself, just barely audibly. "Hold on, I'll get you some drinking water. Let's not do this right now."
"No, it's okay, I'm okay!" She managed, and stood up, her legs wobbling. "Chauncey, he's at my house! You can talk to him! A-and then everything will be okay and you won't have to grieve anymore and he won't have to hide anymore and everything can be okay again."
She grabbed the cup and took another swig. "And you guys can make bowls together and you won't lose them this time because I'll fire them for you."
A part of her knew that she was making a mistake, but through the haze she could hardly hear it. All the pain that both her friends had felt, and now she could finally make it better. She could make them both happy again. That was what she was there for.
"You're not making sense." Mortimer said. "Chauncey is dead. He's gone." He was tempted to grab the cup from her, but was determined to fulfill his role of being someone she could drink safely around without being afraid of being judged. "Not everything can be okay. I'm—I'm fine. I'm finally starting to move on."
The deep, desperate part of Mortimer so clearly wanted to believe Skittle. Wanted to believe that Chauncey was alive. That everything could be okay. He knew it wasn't true. That nothing could go right for him.
Fuck it. Skittle was already drinking. What was the harm if he did too? Mortimer grabbed his flask from his coat pocket and in a practiced motion flicked off the cap and took a long drink.
"Just... stop," he pleaded. "Don't give me hope. I can't lose it again."
Skittle knew she should just shut up. Mortimer was handing her an out on a silver platter. And what would Chauncey say if she broke his trust like that?
But fuck, she was so tired of seeing that distant, hurting look on Mortimer's face, and she was so tired of seeing the pain on Chauncey every time he saw her messaging one of his old friends. There didn't need to be any more secrets.
And as Mortimer drank from his flask, his silhouette just like Rick's, her words spilled out too fast to control.
"He, no, he's not dead! He's been living with me ever since Dawn escaped! He faked his death 'cuz he was scared of you but now that you don't wanna kill him anymore you guys can finally make up!"
She reached out for Mortimer's arm. "He, he feels so bad for betraying you. And for hurting you so much. Just like you feel bad. But you both can be friends again!"
Mortimer looked at her carefully. He put his flask back in his pocket with the arm she wasn't holding. He started to sincerely doubt that she could be lying, in her state, but he had to know.
He bent his knees, trying to get down on her level. "Skittle," he said gently. "Are you lying to me right now?" He hated accusing her of it when she was so desperate to be believed, but he just had to hear her say the words that no, she wasn't lying, that this wasn't a dream. That he'd been making a fool out of himself the whole time.
Without looking, she set her cup back on the table. She took a deep breath, met his eyes, and put her words together as well as she could. "No. I'm not lying. I promise, he's alive."
Then, a nervous giggle. "Fuck. H-he's gonna hate me. I-I told him I'd keep his secret as long as he needed me to. And I just fucking, fuck." She now used both hands to cling to his arms. "You hate me too now, don't you? Because I didn't tell you sooner?"
"I don't hate you," Mortimer promised. "Can I see him?" A pause, and then, "who else knew?"
His expression was distant and hard to read. The gentleness in his voice contrasted with the harsh lines of his face. Mortimer claimed not to hate Skittle, and yet, something in his eyes still seemed to burn.
(@msc137)
Skittle stepped through the portal into the base, bag in hand. She glanced around the living room, smiling gently at how Dawn, Autimn, and Mortimer had turned such a cold and unfeeling alien base into a warm home.
"I'm here," she said softly, treating the space with the respect it deserved.
"Hey." Mortimer said, from behind him. He wore a blue shirt and the same stained lab coat as always. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
He glanced around the room and saw comfy chairs good for relaxing in, but no good workspace. "Shit, do I need to pull out better chairs for this? What do I need? I... don't remember much from the last time we did this."
Skittle startled at the unexpected voice from behind, but quickly reestablished her smile and whirled around. "Hey! It's no problem at all, Mortimer. I wasn't really doing anything."
She followed his gaze. "Yeah, the living room was just a meeting spot. I was thinking maybe the kitchen would be a good place to work? I've got everything we'll need in my bag."
"Oh, uh, yeah." Mortimer said. "I didn't really... clean it out or anything, and it's my turn so. um. tread with caution. There's not like broken glass or anything. But I left my shit on the counters, you can ignore that."
He turned and walked to the kitchen, expecting Skittle to follow him. The kitchen was messy, as described. There was an empty chip bag and a couple of containers of alcohol sitting on the counter. Nothing was open or at risk of spilling, but there were plates and forks in the sink and the counters. The table was mostly clear except for a few crumbs, which Mortimer brushed off with his hand.
The kitchen may have been a bit cluttered, but she had seen much worse. Skittle set the bag on the table and began to pull things out. A plastic grocery bag with clay inside it, an alien-looking pottery wheel with a pedal attached by a cord, a jar of various wooden and wire tools, a container holding a tan liquid, and lots and lots of newspaper.
By all means, there was no way all of it should have fit in the tote bag, but it did.
"Can you get a couple cups of water, please?" she asked, begining to set out a few layers of the newspaper over the table.
Mortimer nodded. He'd used similar tech to the tote bag many times. "Plastic or glass?" he asked, reaching for the plastic ones, but feeling unsure which would suit the occasion better.
He didn't want to let on how much this meant to him. He didn't want to make it weird. He knew Skittle had messaged Chauncey online at least once to coordinate Dawn's escape, but she didn't really know him. It wouldn't be fair of him to expect her to help him through his grief, even though he knew she'd try if she could see it.
"Plastic, probably? In case it gets knocked over, don't want to risk getting glass shards everywhere, y'know?" She replied without looking up. After everything was set up, she tugged the chair next to her out and beckoned for Mortimer to sit down.
"So. You mentioned that you were doing this, to remember someone, right? Did you want to tell me about them at all?"
Then again, Skittle could guess. Likely the very same person that slept in a cot in her bedroom. The one that hadn't even really died at all.
Mortimer finished getting the cups and set them down. "He was a good kid. Scared, but good." He pulled the chair out and sat down. "You... I know you've talked to him online before. Chauncey, Sevens, soldier two eight seven seven. I—I've talked about him a lot, before. I'm not sure if you want to hear it all."
He sighed and rolled up his sleeves. "Alright. What do I need to do?" His expression was noticably darkened after talking about Chauncey, even if he'd tried to hide it.
Her stomach churned. "I, yeah. I'm- I was friends with him. We talked a few times. If you wanna talk about him, you can, okay?" She tried her best to keep her expression open, sympathetic. There would be time for guilt later.
She pulled the clay out of the bag and tugged off a decent sized chunk. "So, I brought the wheel, but I wasn't sure if you wanted to make the bowl on the wheel or manually. The wheel will be, well, a bit harder, but it could end up looking more symmetrical if you get the hang of it."
"I think we did the wheel last time," Mortimer said.
His hand twitched towards his flask, but no. He wouldn't drink around Skittle. He knew she was trying to be sober, and he wouldn't tempt her by drinking. "Thank you." Hopefully she hadn't noticed. "I put too much pressure on the poor kid, poured all my grief about losing his friendship into raw anger."
He stared at the clay for a moment, not saying anything. Then he spoke, clearly more to himself than Skittle. "Can't believe those were the last words I ever said to him."
She looked away for a moment, eyes landing on the counters, and then turned her gaze back down to the table. Words weren't coming. Skittle knew the whole story, she'd heard it from both of them. Chauncey's betrayal of Dawn, Autumn, and Mortimer. Mortimer's promise to end Chauncey's life. And, when Dawn escaped, the faking of Chauncey's death so that he wouldn't have to live in fear of Mortimer hunting him down.
And now, my secret, she thought. Chauncey living in her home, right under her grieving friend's nose.
"The, um, the wheel. You use the pedal to, control how fast it spins," she managed to say. Then a gesture towards the plastic container, which she had pulled the lid off of. "This is slip, it's basically watered down clay with a little bit of vinegar. While you're, spinning the wheel, you take a handful of slip and spread it over the clay to make it more malleable."
She took a deep breath. Clay was something she could control. Creating, spinning something up out of nothing, forming a shape she could recognize out of a lump of nothing. For all she liked to think she was good with people, she was still better with clay than she was with them.
Mortimer used the pedal to spin the wheel. The clay, the wheel, the pedal. It all reminded him too much of the last time they did this. When Chauncey laughed.
Pottery had been the first time Mortimer had seen the stress melt away from him. The little guy had been perpetually nervous or serious. The first time Mortimer had seen him truly smile was when he laughed at their messed up first attempts at bowls. Mortimer smiled distantly at the memory, his eyes never wavering from the clay. Mortimer's face hardened into a firm line. He had to do this. He needed something. How could he not find a way to fire and keep those bowls? How could he lose them just like he lost Chauncey? How could he? How could he call himself Chauncey's friend after vowing to end his life? How could he be mad when he always knew? How could he let Chauncey's last memories of him be so... so...
He wasn't focused on the clay, or the wheel. He let himself spin it faster and faster as his mind drifted away. The clay was coming dangerously close to flying off the wheel.
Skittle had been staring idly down at the newspaper, but she glanced over for a moment and her eyes widened. "Careful!"
She placed a hand on the leg Mortimer was using to work the pedal. "You gotta slow down! Look, see how it's getting unstable? You're gonna lose it."
Mortimer's mind had been so clearly a million miles away. And she knew why. "Sorry. I, I should have been paying more attention." She bit her lip. Everything felt so precarious, all hanging on her.
He laughed. He couldn't help himself. It was a strange, echoy, hollow sort of laugh. A bitter, strained thing that contained no joy. He could just hear Autumn telling Dawn "See how it's getting unstable?" about his own mental state. About him.
Autumn chiding him about his obsession "You're gonna lose it." But it was already gone. There was nothing to lose. Everything was gone.
He stopped moving his foot, and looked at Skittle's concerned face. "I shouldn't have asked you here." He said, at last. He... trusted Skittle, as strange as it was to say. He let his voice waver in a rare moment of demonstrating his uncertainty. "I—I can't do this."
Her hands were shaking. The grief in Mortimer's eyes, mourning someone that wasn't truly gone. The memory of Chauncey's same grief, mourning a friendship he had lost.
Skittle stood up, suddenly, the chair scraping across the floor. "It's fine. It's okay."
She turned away and leaned against the countertop, elbow gently bumping into one of the bottles that had been left out.
"I'm so, so sorry, Mortimer. I can't even imagine what you must be feeling right now." Her own voice was wavering as well. "It's- it's never easy losing someone."
But he wasn't lost. He was in her home. And he was trusting her to keep up the front that he was gone as Mortimer sat just a few feet away from her.
Mortimer blew out a sharp breath. "Hell, I hardly know what I'm feeling. There's no way I could expect you to." He shut his eyes tightly. "I just—to know what he saw the last time he ever looked at me. He was scared. Not of the Citadel, not of a Rick, of my face." He opened his eyes and traced his fingers along the wood of the table next to the wheel. "Of me," he said quietly. "And he was right." Mortimer's voice was barely a whisper now.
He looked to the side, at the floor. He spoke a little more clearer. "It just hurts to know that's something I broke that I can never fix. That'll always be the last memory we have of each other."
"I'm sorry," she said again. But this apology wasn't just sympathy. It was an apology for the choice she was making. That she wasn't telling him the truth. An apology because he was right, as long as Chauncey wanted to stay in hiding, he would never get to make amends.
If she told Mortimer the truth, what then? Would things work out, would the two finally be able to rekindle their friendship and forgive each other? Or would things go wrong, would Mortimer feel obligated still to keep his promise? Would he be furious at her for keeping it hidden for so long? Would he hate her? And Chauncey, wouldn't he feel betrayed? Her breaking his trust?
"Can I- can I have some of this?" she asked, eyes trained on the bottle.
Mortimer didn't look up or check what she was asking about. "Go ahead." They didn't have anything that they were saving for a specific occasion, so he couldn't think of anything she couldn't have. Besides, he couldn't focus on anything except his grief. His eyes stayed fixed on the wood grain of the table.
"I should've warned you this might happen," he said softly. "I guess I've just been trying not to focus on how much I still miss him." He wanted to apologize for dragging Skittle out here without cause, for not being able to actually go through with it. He took a shaky breath. He could at least try to start again.
The cabinet was still open a crack. She reached inside, pulled out another plastic cup, and set it on the counter. As she unscrewed the lid of the bottle, the familiar stench of alcohol entered her lungs, and she breathed it in gratefully. "Thank you," she muttered, as she began to pour some out into the opaque cup.
She slid back into the chair, taking a big drink. It was strong, burning her tongue and throat as she swallowed it down.
"It's okay. It's, it's really okay. I understand." Heat began to creep into her head as she took another drink. Already, a thin haze was settling over her mind, dulling the stress just a little. "You weren't, ruined in his mind. When I was talking to him, he was scared of you, like you said, but he also had good memories of you. He missed you, too."
"... I bet he blamed himself." Mortimer said quietly. "Like all my vitrol was justified. You were right, earlier. When you said I should blame the Citadel and not him? I just... it's so easy to put a face to it all. Like he wasn't who I thought he was. I don't think it was all a lie the way I wanted to believe it was at first."
Mortimer looked at the wheel and the clay with trepidation. "Should I try again?" His brain flooded with the idea that there was no way to try again with his relationship with Chauncey or his reaction to the arrest.
He hated how sober he was for all of this. He hadn't even recognized the scent of alcohol as Skittle had opened the bottle or gotten the cup. He was still trying not to drink in front of her for her own sake.
Yet another drink. She was careful to keep it angled out of Mortimer's immediate sight. She didn't want him to see what she was drinking.
"You- yeah. If, if you want. It's worth it, to try again. It's worth it." Skittle was taking sips from the cup in between every couple sentences now. More than anything, she just wanted to fix it. All of it. She couldn't betray a friend, but with every moment that passed she was betraying Mortimer by allowing his grief to continue.
"Try to, go a little slower this time. Use a little more slip. See the bowl in your head as you work."
Mortimer smiled. "It's so interesting. I think it's harder for me to see what I want because I'm just remembering the failed attempts before." His smiled faded. "I—don't really want a bowl. So it's... hard to picture one without picturing... everything else. Everything I can't start over."
He took a breath and put some slip on the clay. He pumped the pedal slowly, trying to focus on the wet lump in front of him over anything else, but not being able to fully stop his mind from wandering.
That clay, it held infinite possibilities. She could see all the potential, all so clearly. The bowl that could be, past mistakes smoothed over. New patterns carved into it, intricate and meaningful.
Mortimer had asked her to help him, not to sit there and watch.
Her head spun. Her throat burned. The smell of clay and alcohol blended together.
"Y-You can start over."
Mortimer took his foot off the pedal. He looked up at her, meeting her eyes. His were filled with grief and rage. His eyebrow was creased. His voice was calm but firm as he spoke. "No. You don't need to lie to me. You don't need to tell me it's okay when it isn't. This isn't something you can fix."
"I-I can fix it. 'M not lying. It'll, I can make everything right again."
She set the cup down as gently as she could, but it ended up making a bit of a thump sound despite her care. She reached over to the clay, gesturing. "You just gotta, work the hole into it first, then you shape the sides outwards."
Her hands fell into her lap. "And, when it's done, we can take it to my kiln, and you can talk to him while I fire it." Her voice was slurring just a bit as she spoke.
Mortimer stood up suddenly, putting his hands firmly on the table and sliding his chair back. He couldn't help but tower over her, looking straight down at her with a stern expresson. "What are you—what are you even saying? Get ahold of yourself. God, you're almost more of a mess than—" his eyes darted to the cup, then to the bottle on the counter. "Jesus Christ, Effie's going to actually kill me. No wonder you're not making sense."
He pinched the bridge of his nose with his hand. "Fucking hell, I just fuck everything up, don't I?" He whispered to himself, just barely audibly. "Hold on, I'll get you some drinking water. Let's not do this right now."
"No, it's okay, I'm okay!" She managed, and stood up, her legs wobbling. "Chauncey, he's at my house! You can talk to him! A-and then everything will be okay and you won't have to grieve anymore and he won't have to hide anymore and everything can be okay again."
She grabbed the cup and took another swig. "And you guys can make bowls together and you won't lose them this time because I'll fire them for you."
A part of her knew that she was making a mistake, but through the haze she could hardly hear it. All the pain that both her friends had felt, and now she could finally make it better. She could make them both happy again. That was what she was there for.
"You're not making sense." Mortimer said. "Chauncey is dead. He's gone." He was tempted to grab the cup from her, but was determined to fulfill his role of being someone she could drink safely around without being afraid of being judged. "Not everything can be okay. I'm—I'm fine. I'm finally starting to move on."
The deep, desperate part of Mortimer so clearly wanted to believe Skittle. Wanted to believe that Chauncey was alive. That everything could be okay. He knew it wasn't true. That nothing could go right for him.
Fuck it. Skittle was already drinking. What was the harm if he did too? Mortimer grabbed his flask from his coat pocket and in a practiced motion flicked off the cap and took a long drink.
"Just... stop," he pleaded. "Don't give me hope. I can't lose it again."
Skittle knew she should just shut up. Mortimer was handing her an out on a silver platter. And what would Chauncey say if she broke his trust like that?
But fuck, she was so tired of seeing that distant, hurting look on Mortimer's face, and she was so tired of seeing the pain on Chauncey every time he saw her messaging one of his old friends. There didn't need to be any more secrets.
And as Mortimer drank from his flask, his silhouette just like Rick's, her words spilled out too fast to control.
"He, no, he's not dead! He's been living with me ever since Dawn escaped! He faked his death 'cuz he was scared of you but now that you don't wanna kill him anymore you guys can finally make up!"
She reached out for Mortimer's arm. "He, he feels so bad for betraying you. And for hurting you so much. Just like you feel bad. But you both can be friends again!"
Mortimer looked at her carefully. He put his flask back in his pocket with the arm she wasn't holding. He started to sincerely doubt that she could be lying, in her state, but he had to know.
He bent his knees, trying to get down on her level. "Skittle," he said gently. "Are you lying to me right now?" He hated accusing her of it when she was so desperate to be believed, but he just had to hear her say the words that no, she wasn't lying, that this wasn't a dream. That he'd been making a fool out of himself the whole time.
(@msc137)
Skittle stepped through the portal into the base, bag in hand. She glanced around the living room, smiling gently at how Dawn, Autimn, and Mortimer had turned such a cold and unfeeling alien base into a warm home.
"I'm here," she said softly, treating the space with the respect it deserved.
"Hey." Mortimer said, from behind him. He wore a blue shirt and the same stained lab coat as always. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
He glanced around the room and saw comfy chairs good for relaxing in, but no good workspace. "Shit, do I need to pull out better chairs for this? What do I need? I... don't remember much from the last time we did this."
Skittle startled at the unexpected voice from behind, but quickly reestablished her smile and whirled around. "Hey! It's no problem at all, Mortimer. I wasn't really doing anything."
She followed his gaze. "Yeah, the living room was just a meeting spot. I was thinking maybe the kitchen would be a good place to work? I've got everything we'll need in my bag."
"Oh, uh, yeah." Mortimer said. "I didn't really... clean it out or anything, and it's my turn so. um. tread with caution. There's not like broken glass or anything. But I left my shit on the counters, you can ignore that."
He turned and walked to the kitchen, expecting Skittle to follow him. The kitchen was messy, as described. There was an empty chip bag and a couple of containers of alcohol sitting on the counter. Nothing was open or at risk of spilling, but there were plates and forks in the sink and the counters. The table was mostly clear except for a few crumbs, which Mortimer brushed off with his hand.
The kitchen may have been a bit cluttered, but she had seen much worse. Skittle set the bag on the table and began to pull things out. A plastic grocery bag with clay inside it, an alien-looking pottery wheel with a pedal attached by a cord, a jar of various wooden and wire tools, a container holding a tan liquid, and lots and lots of newspaper.
By all means, there was no way all of it should have fit in the tote bag, but it did.
"Can you get a couple cups of water, please?" she asked, begining to set out a few layers of the newspaper over the table.
Mortimer nodded. He'd used similar tech to the tote bag many times. "Plastic or glass?" he asked, reaching for the plastic ones, but feeling unsure which would suit the occasion better.
He didn't want to let on how much this meant to him. He didn't want to make it weird. He knew Skittle had messaged Chauncey online at least once to coordinate Dawn's escape, but she didn't really know him. It wouldn't be fair of him to expect her to help him through his grief, even though he knew she'd try if she could see it.
"Plastic, probably? In case it gets knocked over, don't want to risk getting glass shards everywhere, y'know?" She replied without looking up. After everything was set up, she tugged the chair next to her out and beckoned for Mortimer to sit down.
"So. You mentioned that you were doing this, to remember someone, right? Did you want to tell me about them at all?"
Then again, Skittle could guess. Likely the very same person that slept in a cot in her bedroom. The one that hadn't even really died at all.
Mortimer finished getting the cups and set them down. "He was a good kid. Scared, but good." He pulled the chair out and sat down. "You... I know you've talked to him online before. Chauncey, Sevens, soldier two eight seven seven. I—I've talked about him a lot, before. I'm not sure if you want to hear it all."
He sighed and rolled up his sleeves. "Alright. What do I need to do?" His expression was noticably darkened after talking about Chauncey, even if he'd tried to hide it.
Her stomach churned. "I, yeah. I'm- I was friends with him. We talked a few times. If you wanna talk about him, you can, okay?" She tried her best to keep her expression open, sympathetic. There would be time for guilt later.
She pulled the clay out of the bag and tugged off a decent sized chunk. "So, I brought the wheel, but I wasn't sure if you wanted to make the bowl on the wheel or manually. The wheel will be, well, a bit harder, but it could end up looking more symmetrical if you get the hang of it."
"I think we did the wheel last time," Mortimer said.
His hand twitched towards his flask, but no. He wouldn't drink around Skittle. He knew she was trying to be sober, and he wouldn't tempt her by drinking. "Thank you." Hopefully she hadn't noticed. "I put too much pressure on the poor kid, poured all my grief about losing his friendship into raw anger."
He stared at the clay for a moment, not saying anything. Then he spoke, clearly more to himself than Skittle. "Can't believe those were the last words I ever said to him."
She looked away for a moment, eyes landing on the counters, and then turned her gaze back down to the table. Words weren't coming. Skittle knew the whole story, she'd heard it from both of them. Chauncey's betrayal of Dawn, Autumn, and Mortimer. Mortimer's promise to end Chauncey's life. And, when Dawn escaped, the faking of Chauncey's death so that he wouldn't have to live in fear of Mortimer hunting him down.
And now, my secret, she thought. Chauncey living in her home, right under her grieving friend's nose.
"The, um, the wheel. You use the pedal to, control how fast it spins," she managed to say. Then a gesture towards the plastic container, which she had pulled the lid off of. "This is slip, it's basically watered down clay with a little bit of vinegar. While you're, spinning the wheel, you take a handful of slip and spread it over the clay to make it more malleable."
She took a deep breath. Clay was something she could control. Creating, spinning something up out of nothing, forming a shape she could recognize out of a lump of nothing. For all she liked to think she was good with people, she was still better with clay than she was with them.
Mortimer used the pedal to spin the wheel. The clay, the wheel, the pedal. It all reminded him too much of the last time they did this. When Chauncey laughed.
Pottery had been the first time Mortimer had seen the stress melt away from him. The little guy had been perpetually nervous or serious. The first time Mortimer had seen him truly smile was when he laughed at their messed up first attempts at bowls. Mortimer smiled distantly at the memory, his eyes never wavering from the clay. Mortimer's face hardened into a firm line. He had to do this. He needed something. How could he not find a way to fire and keep those bowls? How could he lose them just like he lost Chauncey? How could he? How could he call himself Chauncey's friend after vowing to end his life? How could he be mad when he always knew? How could he let Chauncey's last memories of him be so... so...
He wasn't focused on the clay, or the wheel. He let himself spin it faster and faster as his mind drifted away. The clay was coming dangerously close to flying off the wheel.
Skittle had been staring idly down at the newspaper, but she glanced over for a moment and her eyes widened. "Careful!"
She placed a hand on the leg Mortimer was using to work the pedal. "You gotta slow down! Look, see how it's getting unstable? You're gonna lose it."
Mortimer's mind had been so clearly a million miles away. And she knew why. "Sorry. I, I should have been paying more attention." She bit her lip. Everything felt so precarious, all hanging on her.
He laughed. He couldn't help himself. It was a strange, echoy, hollow sort of laugh. A bitter, strained thing that contained no joy. He could just hear Autumn telling Dawn "See how it's getting unstable?" about his own mental state. About him.
Autumn chiding him about his obsession "You're gonna lose it." But it was already gone. There was nothing to lose. Everything was gone.
He stopped moving his foot, and looked at Skittle's concerned face. "I shouldn't have asked you here." He said, at last. He... trusted Skittle, as strange as it was to say. He let his voice waver in a rare moment of demonstrating his uncertainty. "I—I can't do this."
Her hands were shaking. The grief in Mortimer's eyes, mourning someone that wasn't truly gone. The memory of Chauncey's same grief, mourning a friendship he had lost.
Skittle stood up, suddenly, the chair scraping across the floor. "It's fine. It's okay."
She turned away and leaned against the countertop, elbow gently bumping into one of the bottles that had been left out.
"I'm so, so sorry, Mortimer. I can't even imagine what you must be feeling right now." Her own voice was wavering as well. "It's- it's never easy losing someone."
But he wasn't lost. He was in her home. And he was trusting her to keep up the front that he was gone as Mortimer sat just a few feet away from her.
Mortimer blew out a sharp breath. "Hell, I hardly know what I'm feeling. There's no way I could expect you to." He shut his eyes tightly. "I just—to know what he saw the last time he ever looked at me. He was scared. Not of the Citadel, not of a Rick, of my face." He opened his eyes and traced his fingers along the wood of the table next to the wheel. "Of me," he said quietly. "And he was right." Mortimer's voice was barely a whisper now.
He looked to the side, at the floor. He spoke a little more clearer. "It just hurts to know that's something I broke that I can never fix. That'll always be the last memory we have of each other."
"I'm sorry," she said again. But this apology wasn't just sympathy. It was an apology for the choice she was making. That she wasn't telling him the truth. An apology because he was right, as long as Chauncey wanted to stay in hiding, he would never get to make amends.
If she told Mortimer the truth, what then? Would things work out, would the two finally be able to rekindle their friendship and forgive each other? Or would things go wrong, would Mortimer feel obligated still to keep his promise? Would he be furious at her for keeping it hidden for so long? Would he hate her? And Chauncey, wouldn't he feel betrayed? Her breaking his trust?
"Can I- can I have some of this?" she asked, eyes trained on the bottle.
Mortimer didn't look up or check what she was asking about. "Go ahead." They didn't have anything that they were saving for a specific occasion, so he couldn't think of anything she couldn't have. Besides, he couldn't focus on anything except his grief. His eyes stayed fixed on the wood grain of the table.
"I should've warned you this might happen," he said softly. "I guess I've just been trying not to focus on how much I still miss him." He wanted to apologize for dragging Skittle out here without cause, for not being able to actually go through with it. He took a shaky breath. He could at least try to start again.
The cabinet was still open a crack. She reached inside, pulled out another plastic cup, and set it on the counter. As she unscrewed the lid of the bottle, the familiar stench of alcohol entered her lungs, and she breathed it in gratefully. "Thank you," she muttered, as she began to pour some out into the opaque cup.
She slid back into the chair, taking a big drink. It was strong, burning her tongue and throat as she swallowed it down.
"It's okay. It's, it's really okay. I understand." Heat began to creep into her head as she took another drink. Already, a thin haze was settling over her mind, dulling the stress just a little. "You weren't, ruined in his mind. When I was talking to him, he was scared of you, like you said, but he also had good memories of you. He missed you, too."
"... I bet he blamed himself." Mortimer said quietly. "Like all my vitrol was justified. You were right, earlier. When you said I should blame the Citadel and not him? I just... it's so easy to put a face to it all. Like he wasn't who I thought he was. I don't think it was all a lie the way I wanted to believe it was at first."
Mortimer looked at the wheel and the clay with trepidation. "Should I try again?" His brain flooded with the idea that there was no way to try again with his relationship with Chauncey or his reaction to the arrest.
He hated how sober he was for all of this. He hadn't even recognized the scent of alcohol as Skittle had opened the bottle or gotten the cup. He was still trying not to drink in front of her for her own sake.
Yet another drink. She was careful to keep it angled out of Mortimer's immediate sight. She didn't want him to see what she was drinking.
"You- yeah. If, if you want. It's worth it, to try again. It's worth it." Skittle was taking sips from the cup in between every couple sentences now. More than anything, she just wanted to fix it. All of it. She couldn't betray a friend, but with every moment that passed she was betraying Mortimer by allowing his grief to continue.
"Try to, go a little slower this time. Use a little more slip. See the bowl in your head as you work."
Mortimer smiled. "It's so interesting. I think it's harder for me to see what I want because I'm just remembering the failed attempts before." His smiled faded. "I—don't really want a bowl. So it's... hard to picture one without picturing... everything else. Everything I can't start over."
He took a breath and put some slip on the clay. He pumped the pedal slowly, trying to focus on the wet lump in front of him over anything else, but not being able to fully stop his mind from wandering.
That clay, it held infinite possibilities. She could see all the potential, all so clearly. The bowl that could be, past mistakes smoothed over. New patterns carved into it, intricate and meaningful.
Mortimer had asked her to help him, not to sit there and watch.
Her head spun. Her throat burned. The smell of clay and alcohol blended together.
"Y-You can start over."
Mortimer took his foot off the pedal. He looked up at her, meeting her eyes. His were filled with grief and rage. His eyebrow was creased. His voice was calm but firm as he spoke. "No. You don't need to lie to me. You don't need to tell me it's okay when it isn't. This isn't something you can fix."
"I-I can fix it. 'M not lying. It'll, I can make everything right again."
She set the cup down as gently as she could, but it ended up making a bit of a thump sound despite her care. She reached over to the clay, gesturing. "You just gotta, work the hole into it first, then you shape the sides outwards."
Her hands fell into her lap. "And, when it's done, we can take it to my kiln, and you can talk to him while I fire it." Her voice was slurring just a bit as she spoke.
Mortimer stood up suddenly, putting his hands firmly on the table and sliding his chair back. He couldn't help but tower over her, looking straight down at her with a stern expresson. "What are you—what are you even saying? Get ahold of yourself. God, you're almost more of a mess than—" his eyes darted to the cup, then to the bottle on the counter. "Jesus Christ, Effie's going to actually kill me. No wonder you're not making sense."
He pinched the bridge of his nose with his hand. "Fucking hell, I just fuck everything up, don't I?" He whispered to himself, just barely audibly. "Hold on, I'll get you some drinking water. Let's not do this right now."
"No, it's okay, I'm okay!" She managed, and stood up, her legs wobbling. "Chauncey, he's at my house! You can talk to him! A-and then everything will be okay and you won't have to grieve anymore and he won't have to hide anymore and everything can be okay again."
She grabbed the cup and took another swig. "And you guys can make bowls together and you won't lose them this time because I'll fire them for you."
A part of her knew that she was making a mistake, but through the haze she could hardly hear it. All the pain that both her friends had felt, and now she could finally make it better. She could make them both happy again. That was what she was there for.
"You're not making sense." Mortimer said. "Chauncey is dead. He's gone." He was tempted to grab the cup from her, but was determined to fulfill his role of being someone she could drink safely around without being afraid of being judged. "Not everything can be okay. I'm—I'm fine. I'm finally starting to move on."
The deep, desperate part of Mortimer so clearly wanted to believe Skittle. Wanted to believe that Chauncey was alive. That everything could be okay. He knew it wasn't true. That nothing could go right for him.
Fuck it. Skittle was already drinking. What was the harm if he did too? Mortimer grabbed his flask from his coat pocket and in a practiced motion flicked off the cap and took a long drink.
"Just... stop," he pleaded. "Don't give me hope. I can't lose it again."
(@msc137)
Skittle stepped through the portal into the base, bag in hand. She glanced around the living room, smiling gently at how Dawn, Autimn, and Mortimer had turned such a cold and unfeeling alien base into a warm home.
"I'm here," she said softly, treating the space with the respect it deserved.
"Hey." Mortimer said, from behind him. He wore a blue shirt and the same stained lab coat as always. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
He glanced around the room and saw comfy chairs good for relaxing in, but no good workspace. "Shit, do I need to pull out better chairs for this? What do I need? I... don't remember much from the last time we did this."
Skittle startled at the unexpected voice from behind, but quickly reestablished her smile and whirled around. "Hey! It's no problem at all, Mortimer. I wasn't really doing anything."
She followed his gaze. "Yeah, the living room was just a meeting spot. I was thinking maybe the kitchen would be a good place to work? I've got everything we'll need in my bag."
"Oh, uh, yeah." Mortimer said. "I didn't really... clean it out or anything, and it's my turn so. um. tread with caution. There's not like broken glass or anything. But I left my shit on the counters, you can ignore that."
He turned and walked to the kitchen, expecting Skittle to follow him. The kitchen was messy, as described. There was an empty chip bag and a couple of containers of alcohol sitting on the counter. Nothing was open or at risk of spilling, but there were plates and forks in the sink and the counters. The table was mostly clear except for a few crumbs, which Mortimer brushed off with his hand.
The kitchen may have been a bit cluttered, but she had seen much worse. Skittle set the bag on the table and began to pull things out. A plastic grocery bag with clay inside it, an alien-looking pottery wheel with a pedal attached by a cord, a jar of various wooden and wire tools, a container holding a tan liquid, and lots and lots of newspaper.
By all means, there was no way all of it should have fit in the tote bag, but it did.
"Can you get a couple cups of water, please?" she asked, begining to set out a few layers of the newspaper over the table.
Mortimer nodded. He'd used similar tech to the tote bag many times. "Plastic or glass?" he asked, reaching for the plastic ones, but feeling unsure which would suit the occasion better.
He didn't want to let on how much this meant to him. He didn't want to make it weird. He knew Skittle had messaged Chauncey online at least once to coordinate Dawn's escape, but she didn't really know him. It wouldn't be fair of him to expect her to help him through his grief, even though he knew she'd try if she could see it.
"Plastic, probably? In case it gets knocked over, don't want to risk getting glass shards everywhere, y'know?" She replied without looking up. After everything was set up, she tugged the chair next to her out and beckoned for Mortimer to sit down.
"So. You mentioned that you were doing this, to remember someone, right? Did you want to tell me about them at all?"
Then again, Skittle could guess. Likely the very same person that slept in a cot in her bedroom. The one that hadn't even really died at all.
Mortimer finished getting the cups and set them down. "He was a good kid. Scared, but good." He pulled the chair out and sat down. "You... I know you've talked to him online before. Chauncey, Sevens, soldier two eight seven seven. I—I've talked about him a lot, before. I'm not sure if you want to hear it all."
He sighed and rolled up his sleeves. "Alright. What do I need to do?" His expression was noticably darkened after talking about Chauncey, even if he'd tried to hide it.
Her stomach churned. "I, yeah. I'm- I was friends with him. We talked a few times. If you wanna talk about him, you can, okay?" She tried her best to keep her expression open, sympathetic. There would be time for guilt later.
She pulled the clay out of the bag and tugged off a decent sized chunk. "So, I brought the wheel, but I wasn't sure if you wanted to make the bowl on the wheel or manually. The wheel will be, well, a bit harder, but it could end up looking more symmetrical if you get the hang of it."
"I think we did the wheel last time," Mortimer said.
His hand twitched towards his flask, but no. He wouldn't drink around Skittle. He knew she was trying to be sober, and he wouldn't tempt her by drinking. "Thank you." Hopefully she hadn't noticed. "I put too much pressure on the poor kid, poured all my grief about losing his friendship into raw anger."
He stared at the clay for a moment, not saying anything. Then he spoke, clearly more to himself than Skittle. "Can't believe those were the last words I ever said to him."
She looked away for a moment, eyes landing on the counters, and then turned her gaze back down to the table. Words weren't coming. Skittle knew the whole story, she'd heard it from both of them. Chauncey's betrayal of Dawn, Autumn, and Mortimer. Mortimer's promise to end Chauncey's life. And, when Dawn escaped, the faking of Chauncey's death so that he wouldn't have to live in fear of Mortimer hunting him down.
And now, my secret, she thought. Chauncey living in her home, right under her grieving friend's nose.
"The, um, the wheel. You use the pedal to, control how fast it spins," she managed to say. Then a gesture towards the plastic container, which she had pulled the lid off of. "This is slip, it's basically watered down clay with a little bit of vinegar. While you're, spinning the wheel, you take a handful of slip and spread it over the clay to make it more malleable."
She took a deep breath. Clay was something she could control. Creating, spinning something up out of nothing, forming a shape she could recognize out of a lump of nothing. For all she liked to think she was good with people, she was still better with clay than she was with them.
Mortimer used the pedal to spin the wheel. The clay, the wheel, the pedal. It all reminded him too much of the last time they did this. When Chauncey laughed.
Pottery had been the first time Mortimer had seen the stress melt away from him. The little guy had been perpetually nervous or serious. The first time Mortimer had seen him truly smile was when he laughed at their messed up first attempts at bowls. Mortimer smiled distantly at the memory, his eyes never wavering from the clay. Mortimer's face hardened into a firm line. He had to do this. He needed something. How could he not find a way to fire and keep those bowls? How could he lose them just like he lost Chauncey? How could he? How could he call himself Chauncey's friend after vowing to end his life? How could he be mad when he always knew? How could he let Chauncey's last memories of him be so... so...
He wasn't focused on the clay, or the wheel. He let himself spin it faster and faster as his mind drifted away. The clay was coming dangerously close to flying off the wheel.
Skittle had been staring idly down at the newspaper, but she glanced over for a moment and her eyes widened. "Careful!"
She placed a hand on the leg Mortimer was using to work the pedal. "You gotta slow down! Look, see how it's getting unstable? You're gonna lose it."
Mortimer's mind had been so clearly a million miles away. And she knew why. "Sorry. I, I should have been paying more attention." She bit her lip. Everything felt so precarious, all hanging on her.
He laughed. He couldn't help himself. It was a strange, echoy, hollow sort of laugh. A bitter, strained thing that contained no joy. He could just hear Autumn telling Dawn "See how it's getting unstable?" about his own mental state. About him.
Autumn chiding him about his obsession "You're gonna lose it." But it was already gone. There was nothing to lose. Everything was gone.
He stopped moving his foot, and looked at Skittle's concerned face. "I shouldn't have asked you here." He said, at last. He... trusted Skittle, as strange as it was to say. He let his voice waver in a rare moment of demonstrating his uncertainty. "I—I can't do this."
Her hands were shaking. The grief in Mortimer's eyes, mourning someone that wasn't truly gone. The memory of Chauncey's same grief, mourning a friendship he had lost.
Skittle stood up, suddenly, the chair scraping across the floor. "It's fine. It's okay."
She turned away and leaned against the countertop, elbow gently bumping into one of the bottles that had been left out.
"I'm so, so sorry, Mortimer. I can't even imagine what you must be feeling right now." Her own voice was wavering as well. "It's- it's never easy losing someone."
But he wasn't lost. He was in her home. And he was trusting her to keep up the front that he was gone as Mortimer sat just a few feet away from her.
Mortimer blew out a sharp breath. "Hell, I hardly know what I'm feeling. There's no way I could expect you to." He shut his eyes tightly. "I just—to know what he saw the last time he ever looked at me. He was scared. Not of the Citadel, not of a Rick, of my face." He opened his eyes and traced his fingers along the wood of the table next to the wheel. "Of me," he said quietly. "And he was right." Mortimer's voice was barely a whisper now.
He looked to the side, at the floor. He spoke a little more clearer. "It just hurts to know that's something I broke that I can never fix. That'll always be the last memory we have of each other."
"I'm sorry," she said again. But this apology wasn't just sympathy. It was an apology for the choice she was making. That she wasn't telling him the truth. An apology because he was right, as long as Chauncey wanted to stay in hiding, he would never get to make amends.
If she told Mortimer the truth, what then? Would things work out, would the two finally be able to rekindle their friendship and forgive each other? Or would things go wrong, would Mortimer feel obligated still to keep his promise? Would he be furious at her for keeping it hidden for so long? Would he hate her? And Chauncey, wouldn't he feel betrayed? Her breaking his trust?
"Can I- can I have some of this?" she asked, eyes trained on the bottle.
Mortimer didn't look up or check what she was asking about. "Go ahead." They didn't have anything that they were saving for a specific occasion, so he couldn't think of anything she couldn't have. Besides, he couldn't focus on anything except his grief. His eyes stayed fixed on the wood grain of the table.
"I should've warned you this might happen," he said softly. "I guess I've just been trying not to focus on how much I still miss him." He wanted to apologize for dragging Skittle out here without cause, for not being able to actually go through with it. He took a shaky breath. He could at least try to start again.
The cabinet was still open a crack. She reached inside, pulled out another plastic cup, and set it on the counter. As she unscrewed the lid of the bottle, the familiar stench of alcohol entered her lungs, and she breathed it in gratefully. "Thank you," she muttered, as she began to pour some out into the opaque cup.
She slid back into the chair, taking a big drink. It was strong, burning her tongue and throat as she swallowed it down.
"It's okay. It's, it's really okay. I understand." Heat began to creep into her head as she took another drink. Already, a thin haze was settling over her mind, dulling the stress just a little. "You weren't, ruined in his mind. When I was talking to him, he was scared of you, like you said, but he also had good memories of you. He missed you, too."
"... I bet he blamed himself." Mortimer said quietly. "Like all my vitrol was justified. You were right, earlier. When you said I should blame the Citadel and not him? I just... it's so easy to put a face to it all. Like he wasn't who I thought he was. I don't think it was all a lie the way I wanted to believe it was at first."
Mortimer looked at the wheel and the clay with trepidation. "Should I try again?" His brain flooded with the idea that there was no way to try again with his relationship with Chauncey or his reaction to the arrest.
He hated how sober he was for all of this. He hadn't even recognized the scent of alcohol as Skittle had opened the bottle or gotten the cup. He was still trying not to drink in front of her for her own sake.
Yet another drink. She was careful to keep it angled out of Mortimer's immediate sight. She didn't want him to see what she was drinking.
"You- yeah. If, if you want. It's worth it, to try again. It's worth it." Skittle was taking sips from the cup in between every couple sentences now. More than anything, she just wanted to fix it. All of it. She couldn't betray a friend, but with every moment that passed she was betraying Mortimer by allowing his grief to continue.
"Try to, go a little slower this time. Use a little more slip. See the bowl in your head as you work."
Mortimer smiled. "It's so interesting. I think it's harder for me to see what I want because I'm just remembering the failed attempts before." His smiled faded. "I—don't really want a bowl. So it's... hard to picture one without picturing... everything else. Everything I can't start over."
He took a breath and put some slip on the clay. He pumped the pedal slowly, trying to focus on the wet lump in front of him over anything else, but not being able to fully stop his mind from wandering.
That clay, it held infinite possibilities. She could see all the potential, all so clearly. The bowl that could be, past mistakes smoothed over. New patterns carved into it, intricate and meaningful.
Mortimer had asked her to help him, not to sit there and watch.
Her head spun. Her throat burned. The smell of clay and alcohol blended together.
"Y-You can start over."
Mortimer took his foot off the pedal. He looked up at her, meeting her eyes. His were filled with grief and rage. His eyebrow was creased. His voice was calm but firm as he spoke. "No. You don't need to lie to me. You don't need to tell me it's okay when it isn't. This isn't something you can fix."
"I-I can fix it. 'M not lying. It'll, I can make everything right again."
She set the cup down as gently as she could, but it ended up making a bit of a thump sound despite her care. She reached over to the clay, gesturing. "You just gotta, work the hole into it first, then you shape the sides outwards."
Her hands fell into her lap. "And, when it's done, we can take it to my kiln, and you can talk to him while I fire it." Her voice was slurring just a bit as she spoke.
Mortimer stood up suddenly, putting his hands firmly on the table and sliding his chair back. He couldn't help but tower over her, looking straight down at her with a stern expresson. "What are you—what are you even saying? Get ahold of yourself. God, you're almost more of a mess than—" his eyes darted to the cup, then to the bottle on the counter. "Jesus Christ, Effie's going to actually kill me. No wonder you're not making sense."
He pinched the bridge of his nose with his hand. "Fucking hell, I just fuck everything up, don't I?" He whispered to himself, just barely audibly. "Hold on, I'll get you some drinking water. Let's not do this right now."
(@msc137)
Skittle stepped through the portal into the base, bag in hand. She glanced around the living room, smiling gently at how Dawn, Autimn, and Mortimer had turned such a cold and unfeeling alien base into a warm home.
"I'm here," she said softly, treating the space with the respect it deserved.
"Hey." Mortimer said, from behind him. He wore a blue shirt and the same stained lab coat as always. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
He glanced around the room and saw comfy chairs good for relaxing in, but no good workspace. "Shit, do I need to pull out better chairs for this? What do I need? I... don't remember much from the last time we did this."
Skittle startled at the unexpected voice from behind, but quickly reestablished her smile and whirled around. "Hey! It's no problem at all, Mortimer. I wasn't really doing anything."
She followed his gaze. "Yeah, the living room was just a meeting spot. I was thinking maybe the kitchen would be a good place to work? I've got everything we'll need in my bag."
"Oh, uh, yeah." Mortimer said. "I didn't really... clean it out or anything, and it's my turn so. um. tread with caution. There's not like broken glass or anything. But I left my shit on the counters, you can ignore that."
He turned and walked to the kitchen, expecting Skittle to follow him. The kitchen was messy, as described. There was an empty chip bag and a couple of containers of alcohol sitting on the counter. Nothing was open or at risk of spilling, but there were plates and forks in the sink and the counters. The table was mostly clear except for a few crumbs, which Mortimer brushed off with his hand.
The kitchen may have been a bit cluttered, but she had seen much worse. Skittle set the bag on the table and began to pull things out. A plastic grocery bag with clay inside it, an alien-looking pottery wheel with a pedal attached by a cord, a jar of various wooden and wire tools, a container holding a tan liquid, and lots and lots of newspaper.
By all means, there was no way all of it should have fit in the tote bag, but it did.
"Can you get a couple cups of water, please?" she asked, begining to set out a few layers of the newspaper over the table.
Mortimer nodded. He'd used similar tech to the tote bag many times. "Plastic or glass?" he asked, reaching for the plastic ones, but feeling unsure which would suit the occasion better.
He didn't want to let on how much this meant to him. He didn't want to make it weird. He knew Skittle had messaged Chauncey online at least once to coordinate Dawn's escape, but she didn't really know him. It wouldn't be fair of him to expect her to help him through his grief, even though he knew she'd try if she could see it.
"Plastic, probably? In case it gets knocked over, don't want to risk getting glass shards everywhere, y'know?" She replied without looking up. After everything was set up, she tugged the chair next to her out and beckoned for Mortimer to sit down.
"So. You mentioned that you were doing this, to remember someone, right? Did you want to tell me about them at all?"
Then again, Skittle could guess. Likely the very same person that slept in a cot in her bedroom. The one that hadn't even really died at all.
Mortimer finished getting the cups and set them down. "He was a good kid. Scared, but good." He pulled the chair out and sat down. "You... I know you've talked to him online before. Chauncey, Sevens, soldier two eight seven seven. I—I've talked about him a lot, before. I'm not sure if you want to hear it all."
He sighed and rolled up his sleeves. "Alright. What do I need to do?" His expression was noticably darkened after talking about Chauncey, even if he'd tried to hide it.
Her stomach churned. "I, yeah. I'm- I was friends with him. We talked a few times. If you wanna talk about him, you can, okay?" She tried her best to keep her expression open, sympathetic. There would be time for guilt later.
She pulled the clay out of the bag and tugged off a decent sized chunk. "So, I brought the wheel, but I wasn't sure if you wanted to make the bowl on the wheel or manually. The wheel will be, well, a bit harder, but it could end up looking more symmetrical if you get the hang of it."
"I think we did the wheel last time," Mortimer said.
His hand twitched towards his flask, but no. He wouldn't drink around Skittle. He knew she was trying to be sober, and he wouldn't tempt her by drinking. "Thank you." Hopefully she hadn't noticed. "I put too much pressure on the poor kid, poured all my grief about losing his friendship into raw anger."
He stared at the clay for a moment, not saying anything. Then he spoke, clearly more to himself than Skittle. "Can't believe those were the last words I ever said to him."
She looked away for a moment, eyes landing on the counters, and then turned her gaze back down to the table. Words weren't coming. Skittle knew the whole story, she'd heard it from both of them. Chauncey's betrayal of Dawn, Autumn, and Mortimer. Mortimer's promise to end Chauncey's life. And, when Dawn escaped, the faking of Chauncey's death so that he wouldn't have to live in fear of Mortimer hunting him down.
And now, my secret, she thought. Chauncey living in her home, right under her grieving friend's nose.
"The, um, the wheel. You use the pedal to, control how fast it spins," she managed to say. Then a gesture towards the plastic container, which she had pulled the lid off of. "This is slip, it's basically watered down clay with a little bit of vinegar. While you're, spinning the wheel, you take a handful of slip and spread it over the clay to make it more malleable."
She took a deep breath. Clay was something she could control. Creating, spinning something up out of nothing, forming a shape she could recognize out of a lump of nothing. For all she liked to think she was good with people, she was still better with clay than she was with them.
Mortimer used the pedal to spin the wheel. The clay, the wheel, the pedal. It all reminded him too much of the last time they did this. When Chauncey laughed.
Pottery had been the first time Mortimer had seen the stress melt away from him. The little guy had been perpetually nervous or serious. The first time Mortimer had seen him truly smile was when he laughed at their messed up first attempts at bowls. Mortimer smiled distantly at the memory, his eyes never wavering from the clay. Mortimer's face hardened into a firm line. He had to do this. He needed something. How could he not find a way to fire and keep those bowls? How could he lose them just like he lost Chauncey? How could he? How could he call himself Chauncey's friend after vowing to end his life? How could he be mad when he always knew? How could he let Chauncey's last memories of him be so... so...
He wasn't focused on the clay, or the wheel. He let himself spin it faster and faster as his mind drifted away. The clay was coming dangerously close to flying off the wheel.
Skittle had been staring idly down at the newspaper, but she glanced over for a moment and her eyes widened. "Careful!"
She placed a hand on the leg Mortimer was using to work the pedal. "You gotta slow down! Look, see how it's getting unstable? You're gonna lose it."
Mortimer's mind had been so clearly a million miles away. And she knew why. "Sorry. I, I should have been paying more attention." She bit her lip. Everything felt so precarious, all hanging on her.
He laughed. He couldn't help himself. It was a strange, echoy, hollow sort of laugh. A bitter, strained thing that contained no joy. He could just hear Autumn telling Dawn "See how it's getting unstable?" about his own mental state. About him.
Autumn chiding him about his obsession "You're gonna lose it." But it was already gone. There was nothing to lose. Everything was gone.
He stopped moving his foot, and looked at Skittle's concerned face. "I shouldn't have asked you here." He said, at last. He... trusted Skittle, as strange as it was to say. He let his voice waver in a rare moment of demonstrating his uncertainty. "I—I can't do this."
Her hands were shaking. The grief in Mortimer's eyes, mourning someone that wasn't truly gone. The memory of Chauncey's same grief, mourning a friendship he had lost.
Skittle stood up, suddenly, the chair scraping across the floor. "It's fine. It's okay."
She turned away and leaned against the countertop, elbow gently bumping into one of the bottles that had been left out.
"I'm so, so sorry, Mortimer. I can't even imagine what you must be feeling right now." Her own voice was wavering as well. "It's- it's never easy losing someone."
But he wasn't lost. He was in her home. And he was trusting her to keep up the front that he was gone as Mortimer sat just a few feet away from her.
Mortimer blew out a sharp breath. "Hell, I hardly know what I'm feeling. There's no way I could expect you to." He shut his eyes tightly. "I just—to know what he saw the last time he ever looked at me. He was scared. Not of the Citadel, not of a Rick, of my face." He opened his eyes and traced his fingers along the wood of the table next to the wheel. "Of me," he said quietly. "And he was right." Mortimer's voice was barely a whisper now.
He looked to the side, at the floor. He spoke a little more clearer. "It just hurts to know that's something I broke that I can never fix. That'll always be the last memory we have of each other."
"I'm sorry," she said again. But this apology wasn't just sympathy. It was an apology for the choice she was making. That she wasn't telling him the truth. An apology because he was right, as long as Chauncey wanted to stay in hiding, he would never get to make amends.
If she told Mortimer the truth, what then? Would things work out, would the two finally be able to rekindle their friendship and forgive each other? Or would things go wrong, would Mortimer feel obligated still to keep his promise? Would he be furious at her for keeping it hidden for so long? Would he hate her? And Chauncey, wouldn't he feel betrayed? Her breaking his trust?
"Can I- can I have some of this?" she asked, eyes trained on the bottle.
Mortimer didn't look up or check what she was asking about. "Go ahead." They didn't have anything that they were saving for a specific occasion, so he couldn't think of anything she couldn't have. Besides, he couldn't focus on anything except his grief. His eyes stayed fixed on the wood grain of the table.
"I should've warned you this might happen," he said softly. "I guess I've just been trying not to focus on how much I still miss him." He wanted to apologize for dragging Skittle out here without cause, for not being able to actually go through with it. He took a shaky breath. He could at least try to start again.
The cabinet was still open a crack. She reached inside, pulled out another plastic cup, and set it on the counter. As she unscrewed the lid of the bottle, the familiar stench of alcohol entered her lungs, and she breathed it in gratefully. "Thank you," she muttered, as she began to pour some out into the opaque cup.
She slid back into the chair, taking a big drink. It was strong, burning her tongue and throat as she swallowed it down.
"It's okay. It's, it's really okay. I understand." Heat began to creep into her head as she took another drink. Already, a thin haze was settling over her mind, dulling the stress just a little. "You weren't, ruined in his mind. When I was talking to him, he was scared of you, like you said, but he also had good memories of you. He missed you, too."
"... I bet he blamed himself." Mortimer said quietly. "Like all my vitrol was justified. You were right, earlier. When you said I should blame the Citadel and not him? I just... it's so easy to put a face to it all. Like he wasn't who I thought he was. I don't think it was all a lie the way I wanted to believe it was at first."
Mortimer looked at the wheel and the clay with trepidation. "Should I try again?" His brain flooded with the idea that there was no way to try again with his relationship with Chauncey or his reaction to the arrest.
He hated how sober he was for all of this. He hadn't even recognized the scent of alcohol as Skittle had opened the bottle or gotten the cup. He was still trying not to drink in front of her for her own sake.
Yet another drink. She was careful to keep it angled out of Mortimer's immediate sight. She didn't want him to see what she was drinking.
"You- yeah. If, if you want. It's worth it, to try again. It's worth it." Skittle was taking sips from the cup in between every couple sentences now. More than anything, she just wanted to fix it. All of it. She couldn't betray a friend, but with every moment that passed she was betraying Mortimer by allowing his grief to continue.
"Try to, go a little slower this time. Use a little more slip. See the bowl in your head as you work."
Mortimer smiled. "It's so interesting. I think it's harder for me to see what I want because I'm just remembering the failed attempts before." His smiled faded. "I—don't really want a bowl. So it's... hard to picture one without picturing... everything else. Everything I can't start over."
He took a breath and put some slip on the clay. He pumped the pedal slowly, trying to focus on the wet lump in front of him over anything else, but not being able to fully stop his mind from wandering.
That clay, it held infinite possibilities. She could see all the potential, all so clearly. The bowl that could be, past mistakes smoothed over. New patterns carved into it, intricate and meaningful.
Mortimer had asked her to help him, not to sit there and watch.
Her head spun. Her throat burned. The smell of clay and alcohol blended together.
"Y-You can start over."
Mortimer took his foot off the pedal. He looked up at her, meeting her eyes. His were filled with grief and rage. His eyebrow was creased. His voice was calm but firm as he spoke. "No. You don't need to lie to me. You don't need to tell me it's okay when it isn't. This isn't something you can fix."
(@msc137)
Skittle stepped through the portal into the base, bag in hand. She glanced around the living room, smiling gently at how Dawn, Autimn, and Mortimer had turned such a cold and unfeeling alien base into a warm home.
"I'm here," she said softly, treating the space with the respect it deserved.
"Hey." Mortimer said, from behind him. He wore a blue shirt and the same stained lab coat as always. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
He glanced around the room and saw comfy chairs good for relaxing in, but no good workspace. "Shit, do I need to pull out better chairs for this? What do I need? I... don't remember much from the last time we did this."
Skittle startled at the unexpected voice from behind, but quickly reestablished her smile and whirled around. "Hey! It's no problem at all, Mortimer. I wasn't really doing anything."
She followed his gaze. "Yeah, the living room was just a meeting spot. I was thinking maybe the kitchen would be a good place to work? I've got everything we'll need in my bag."
"Oh, uh, yeah." Mortimer said. "I didn't really... clean it out or anything, and it's my turn so. um. tread with caution. There's not like broken glass or anything. But I left my shit on the counters, you can ignore that."
He turned and walked to the kitchen, expecting Skittle to follow him. The kitchen was messy, as described. There was an empty chip bag and a couple of containers of alcohol sitting on the counter. Nothing was open or at risk of spilling, but there were plates and forks in the sink and the counters. The table was mostly clear except for a few crumbs, which Mortimer brushed off with his hand.
The kitchen may have been a bit cluttered, but she had seen much worse. Skittle set the bag on the table and began to pull things out. A plastic grocery bag with clay inside it, an alien-looking pottery wheel with a pedal attached by a cord, a jar of various wooden and wire tools, a container holding a tan liquid, and lots and lots of newspaper.
By all means, there was no way all of it should have fit in the tote bag, but it did.
"Can you get a couple cups of water, please?" she asked, begining to set out a few layers of the newspaper over the table.
Mortimer nodded. He'd used similar tech to the tote bag many times. "Plastic or glass?" he asked, reaching for the plastic ones, but feeling unsure which would suit the occasion better.
He didn't want to let on how much this meant to him. He didn't want to make it weird. He knew Skittle had messaged Chauncey online at least once to coordinate Dawn's escape, but she didn't really know him. It wouldn't be fair of him to expect her to help him through his grief, even though he knew she'd try if she could see it.
"Plastic, probably? In case it gets knocked over, don't want to risk getting glass shards everywhere, y'know?" She replied without looking up. After everything was set up, she tugged the chair next to her out and beckoned for Mortimer to sit down.
"So. You mentioned that you were doing this, to remember someone, right? Did you want to tell me about them at all?"
Then again, Skittle could guess. Likely the very same person that slept in a cot in her bedroom. The one that hadn't even really died at all.
Mortimer finished getting the cups and set them down. "He was a good kid. Scared, but good." He pulled the chair out and sat down. "You... I know you've talked to him online before. Chauncey, Sevens, soldier two eight seven seven. I—I've talked about him a lot, before. I'm not sure if you want to hear it all."
He sighed and rolled up his sleeves. "Alright. What do I need to do?" His expression was noticably darkened after talking about Chauncey, even if he'd tried to hide it.
Her stomach churned. "I, yeah. I'm- I was friends with him. We talked a few times. If you wanna talk about him, you can, okay?" She tried her best to keep her expression open, sympathetic. There would be time for guilt later.
She pulled the clay out of the bag and tugged off a decent sized chunk. "So, I brought the wheel, but I wasn't sure if you wanted to make the bowl on the wheel or manually. The wheel will be, well, a bit harder, but it could end up looking more symmetrical if you get the hang of it."
"I think we did the wheel last time," Mortimer said.
His hand twitched towards his flask, but no. He wouldn't drink around Skittle. He knew she was trying to be sober, and he wouldn't tempt her by drinking. "Thank you." Hopefully she hadn't noticed. "I put too much pressure on the poor kid, poured all my grief about losing his friendship into raw anger."
He stared at the clay for a moment, not saying anything. Then he spoke, clearly more to himself than Skittle. "Can't believe those were the last words I ever said to him."
She looked away for a moment, eyes landing on the counters, and then turned her gaze back down to the table. Words weren't coming. Skittle knew the whole story, she'd heard it from both of them. Chauncey's betrayal of Dawn, Autumn, and Mortimer. Mortimer's promise to end Chauncey's life. And, when Dawn escaped, the faking of Chauncey's death so that he wouldn't have to live in fear of Mortimer hunting him down.
And now, my secret, she thought. Chauncey living in her home, right under her grieving friend's nose.
"The, um, the wheel. You use the pedal to, control how fast it spins," she managed to say. Then a gesture towards the plastic container, which she had pulled the lid off of. "This is slip, it's basically watered down clay with a little bit of vinegar. While you're, spinning the wheel, you take a handful of slip and spread it over the clay to make it more malleable."
She took a deep breath. Clay was something she could control. Creating, spinning something up out of nothing, forming a shape she could recognize out of a lump of nothing. For all she liked to think she was good with people, she was still better with clay than she was with them.
Mortimer used the pedal to spin the wheel. The clay, the wheel, the pedal. It all reminded him too much of the last time they did this. When Chauncey laughed.
Pottery had been the first time Mortimer had seen the stress melt away from him. The little guy had been perpetually nervous or serious. The first time Mortimer had seen him truly smile was when he laughed at their messed up first attempts at bowls. Mortimer smiled distantly at the memory, his eyes never wavering from the clay. Mortimer's face hardened into a firm line. He had to do this. He needed something. How could he not find a way to fire and keep those bowls? How could he lose them just like he lost Chauncey? How could he? How could he call himself Chauncey's friend after vowing to end his life? How could he be mad when he always knew? How could he let Chauncey's last memories of him be so... so...
He wasn't focused on the clay, or the wheel. He let himself spin it faster and faster as his mind drifted away. The clay was coming dangerously close to flying off the wheel.
Skittle had been staring idly down at the newspaper, but she glanced over for a moment and her eyes widened. "Careful!"
She placed a hand on the leg Mortimer was using to work the pedal. "You gotta slow down! Look, see how it's getting unstable? You're gonna lose it."
Mortimer's mind had been so clearly a million miles away. And she knew why. "Sorry. I, I should have been paying more attention." She bit her lip. Everything felt so precarious, all hanging on her.
He laughed. He couldn't help himself. It was a strange, echoy, hollow sort of laugh. A bitter, strained thing that contained no joy. He could just hear Autumn telling Dawn "See how it's getting unstable?" about his own mental state. About him.
Autumn chiding him about his obsession "You're gonna lose it." But it was already gone. There was nothing to lose. Everything was gone.
He stopped moving his foot, and looked at Skittle's concerned face. "I shouldn't have asked you here." He said, at last. He... trusted Skittle, as strange as it was to say. He let his voice waver in a rare moment of demonstrating his uncertainty. "I—I can't do this."
Her hands were shaking. The grief in Mortimer's eyes, mourning someone that wasn't truly gone. The memory of Chauncey's same grief, mourning a friendship he had lost.
Skittle stood up, suddenly, the chair scraping across the floor. "It's fine. It's okay."
She turned away and leaned against the countertop, elbow gently bumping into one of the bottles that had been left out.
"I'm so, so sorry, Mortimer. I can't even imagine what you must be feeling right now." Her own voice was wavering as well. "It's- it's never easy losing someone."
But he wasn't lost. He was in her home. And he was trusting her to keep up the front that he was gone as Mortimer sat just a few feet away from her.
Mortimer blew out a sharp breath. "Hell, I hardly know what I'm feeling. There's no way I could expect you to." He shut his eyes tightly. "I just—to know what he saw the last time he ever looked at me. He was scared. Not of the Citadel, not of a Rick, of my face." He opened his eyes and traced his fingers along the wood of the table next to the wheel. "Of me," he said quietly. "And he was right." Mortimer's voice was barely a whisper now.
He looked to the side, at the floor. He spoke a little more clearer. "It just hurts to know that's something I broke that I can never fix. That'll always be the last memory we have of each other."
"I'm sorry," she said again. But this apology wasn't just sympathy. It was an apology for the choice she was making. That she wasn't telling him the truth. An apology because he was right, as long as Chauncey wanted to stay in hiding, he would never get to make amends.
If she told Mortimer the truth, what then? Would things work out, would the two finally be able to rekindle their friendship and forgive each other? Or would things go wrong, would Mortimer feel obligated still to keep his promise? Would he be furious at her for keeping it hidden for so long? Would he hate her? And Chauncey, wouldn't he feel betrayed? Her breaking his trust?
"Can I- can I have some of this?" she asked, eyes trained on the bottle.
Mortimer didn't look up or check what she was asking about. "Go ahead." They didn't have anything that they were saving for a specific occasion, so he couldn't think of anything she couldn't have. Besides, he couldn't focus on anything except his grief. His eyes stayed fixed on the wood grain of the table.
"I should've warned you this might happen," he said softly. "I guess I've just been trying not to focus on how much I still miss him." He wanted to apologize for dragging Skittle out here without cause, for not being able to actually go through with it. He took a shaky breath. He could at least try to start again.
The cabinet was still open a crack. She reached inside, pulled out another plastic cup, and set it on the counter. As she unscrewed the lid of the bottle, the familiar stench of alcohol entered her lungs, and she breathed it in gratefully. "Thank you," she muttered, as she began to pour some out into the opaque cup.
She slid back into the chair, taking a big drink. It was strong, burning her tongue and throat as she swallowed it down.
"It's okay. It's, it's really okay. I understand." Heat began to creep into her head as she took another drink. Already, a thin haze was settling over her mind, dulling the stress just a little. "You weren't, ruined in his mind. When I was talking to him, he was scared of you, like you said, but he also had good memories of you. He missed you, too."
"... I bet he blamed himself." Mortimer said quietly. "Like all my vitrol was justified. You were right, earlier. When you said I should blame the Citadel and not him? I just... it's so easy to put a face to it all. Like he wasn't who I thought he was. I don't think it was all a lie the way I wanted to believe it was at first."
Mortimer looked at the wheel and the clay with trepidation. "Should I try again?" His brain flooded with the idea that there was no way to try again with his relationship with Chauncey or his reaction to the arrest.
He hated how sober he was for all of this. He hadn't even recognized the scent of alcohol as Skittle had opened the bottle or gotten the cup. He was still trying not to drink in front of her for her own sake.
Yet another drink. She was careful to keep it angled out of Mortimer's immediate sight. She didn't want him to see what she was drinking.
"You- yeah. If, if you want. It's worth it, to try again. It's worth it." Skittle was taking sips from the cup in between every couple sentences now. More than anything, she just wanted to fix it. All of it. She couldn't betray a friend, but with every moment that passed she was betraying Mortimer by allowing his grief to continue.
"Try to, go a little slower this time. Use a little more slip. See the bowl in your head as you work."
Mortimer smiled. "It's so interesting. I think it's harder for me to see what I want because I'm just remembering the failed attempts before." His smiled faded. "I—don't really want a bowl. So it's... hard to picture one without picturing... everything else. Everything I can't start over."
He took a breath and put some slip on the clay. He pumped the pedal slowly, trying to focus on the wet lump in front of him over anything else, but not being able to fully stop his mind from wandering.
(@msc137)
Skittle stepped through the portal into the base, bag in hand. She glanced around the living room, smiling gently at how Dawn, Autimn, and Mortimer had turned such a cold and unfeeling alien base into a warm home.
"I'm here," she said softly, treating the space with the respect it deserved.
"Hey." Mortimer said, from behind him. He wore a blue shirt and the same stained lab coat as always. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
He glanced around the room and saw comfy chairs good for relaxing in, but no good workspace. "Shit, do I need to pull out better chairs for this? What do I need? I... don't remember much from the last time we did this."
Skittle startled at the unexpected voice from behind, but quickly reestablished her smile and whirled around. "Hey! It's no problem at all, Mortimer. I wasn't really doing anything."
She followed his gaze. "Yeah, the living room was just a meeting spot. I was thinking maybe the kitchen would be a good place to work? I've got everything we'll need in my bag."
"Oh, uh, yeah." Mortimer said. "I didn't really... clean it out or anything, and it's my turn so. um. tread with caution. There's not like broken glass or anything. But I left my shit on the counters, you can ignore that."
He turned and walked to the kitchen, expecting Skittle to follow him. The kitchen was messy, as described. There was an empty chip bag and a couple of containers of alcohol sitting on the counter. Nothing was open or at risk of spilling, but there were plates and forks in the sink and the counters. The table was mostly clear except for a few crumbs, which Mortimer brushed off with his hand.
The kitchen may have been a bit cluttered, but she had seen much worse. Skittle set the bag on the table and began to pull things out. A plastic grocery bag with clay inside it, an alien-looking pottery wheel with a pedal attached by a cord, a jar of various wooden and wire tools, a container holding a tan liquid, and lots and lots of newspaper.
By all means, there was no way all of it should have fit in the tote bag, but it did.
"Can you get a couple cups of water, please?" she asked, begining to set out a few layers of the newspaper over the table.
Mortimer nodded. He'd used similar tech to the tote bag many times. "Plastic or glass?" he asked, reaching for the plastic ones, but feeling unsure which would suit the occasion better.
He didn't want to let on how much this meant to him. He didn't want to make it weird. He knew Skittle had messaged Chauncey online at least once to coordinate Dawn's escape, but she didn't really know him. It wouldn't be fair of him to expect her to help him through his grief, even though he knew she'd try if she could see it.
"Plastic, probably? In case it gets knocked over, don't want to risk getting glass shards everywhere, y'know?" She replied without looking up. After everything was set up, she tugged the chair next to her out and beckoned for Mortimer to sit down.
"So. You mentioned that you were doing this, to remember someone, right? Did you want to tell me about them at all?"
Then again, Skittle could guess. Likely the very same person that slept in a cot in her bedroom. The one that hadn't even really died at all.
Mortimer finished getting the cups and set them down. "He was a good kid. Scared, but good." He pulled the chair out and sat down. "You... I know you've talked to him online before. Chauncey, Sevens, soldier two eight seven seven. I—I've talked about him a lot, before. I'm not sure if you want to hear it all."
He sighed and rolled up his sleeves. "Alright. What do I need to do?" His expression was noticably darkened after talking about Chauncey, even if he'd tried to hide it.
Her stomach churned. "I, yeah. I'm- I was friends with him. We talked a few times. If you wanna talk about him, you can, okay?" She tried her best to keep her expression open, sympathetic. There would be time for guilt later.
She pulled the clay out of the bag and tugged off a decent sized chunk. "So, I brought the wheel, but I wasn't sure if you wanted to make the bowl on the wheel or manually. The wheel will be, well, a bit harder, but it could end up looking more symmetrical if you get the hang of it."
"I think we did the wheel last time," Mortimer said.
His hand twitched towards his flask, but no. He wouldn't drink around Skittle. He knew she was trying to be sober, and he wouldn't tempt her by drinking. "Thank you." Hopefully she hadn't noticed. "I put too much pressure on the poor kid, poured all my grief about losing his friendship into raw anger."
He stared at the clay for a moment, not saying anything. Then he spoke, clearly more to himself than Skittle. "Can't believe those were the last words I ever said to him."
She looked away for a moment, eyes landing on the counters, and then turned her gaze back down to the table. Words weren't coming. Skittle knew the whole story, she'd heard it from both of them. Chauncey's betrayal of Dawn, Autumn, and Mortimer. Mortimer's promise to end Chauncey's life. And, when Dawn escaped, the faking of Chauncey's death so that he wouldn't have to live in fear of Mortimer hunting him down.
And now, my secret, she thought. Chauncey living in her home, right under her grieving friend's nose.
"The, um, the wheel. You use the pedal to, control how fast it spins," she managed to say. Then a gesture towards the plastic container, which she had pulled the lid off of. "This is slip, it's basically watered down clay with a little bit of vinegar. While you're, spinning the wheel, you take a handful of slip and spread it over the clay to make it more malleable."
She took a deep breath. Clay was something she could control. Creating, spinning something up out of nothing, forming a shape she could recognize out of a lump of nothing. For all she liked to think she was good with people, she was still better with clay than she was with them.
Mortimer used the pedal to spin the wheel. The clay, the wheel, the pedal. It all reminded him too much of the last time they did this. When Chauncey laughed.
Pottery had been the first time Mortimer had seen the stress melt away from him. The little guy had been perpetually nervous or serious. The first time Mortimer had seen him truly smile was when he laughed at their messed up first attempts at bowls. Mortimer smiled distantly at the memory, his eyes never wavering from the clay. Mortimer's face hardened into a firm line. He had to do this. He needed something. How could he not find a way to fire and keep those bowls? How could he lose them just like he lost Chauncey? How could he? How could he call himself Chauncey's friend after vowing to end his life? How could he be mad when he always knew? How could he let Chauncey's last memories of him be so... so...
He wasn't focused on the clay, or the wheel. He let himself spin it faster and faster as his mind drifted away. The clay was coming dangerously close to flying off the wheel.
Skittle had been staring idly down at the newspaper, but she glanced over for a moment and her eyes widened. "Careful!"
She placed a hand on the leg Mortimer was using to work the pedal. "You gotta slow down! Look, see how it's getting unstable? You're gonna lose it."
Mortimer's mind had been so clearly a million miles away. And she knew why. "Sorry. I, I should have been paying more attention." She bit her lip. Everything felt so precarious, all hanging on her.
He laughed. He couldn't help himself. It was a strange, echoy, hollow sort of laugh. A bitter, strained thing that contained no joy. He could just hear Autumn telling Dawn "See how it's getting unstable?" about his own mental state. About him.
Autumn chiding him about his obsession "You're gonna lose it." But it was already gone. There was nothing to lose. Everything was gone.
He stopped moving his foot, and looked at Skittle's concerned face. "I shouldn't have asked you here." He said, at last. He... trusted Skittle, as strange as it was to say. He let his voice waver in a rare moment of demonstrating his uncertainty. "I—I can't do this."
Her hands were shaking. The grief in Mortimer's eyes, mourning someone that wasn't truly gone. The memory of Chauncey's same grief, mourning a friendship he had lost.
Skittle stood up, suddenly, the chair scraping across the floor. "It's fine. It's okay."
She turned away and leaned against the countertop, elbow gently bumping into one of the bottles that had been left out.
"I'm so, so sorry, Mortimer. I can't even imagine what you must be feeling right now." Her own voice was wavering as well. "It's- it's never easy losing someone."
But he wasn't lost. He was in her home. And he was trusting her to keep up the front that he was gone as Mortimer sat just a few feet away from her.
Mortimer blew out a sharp breath. "Hell, I hardly know what I'm feeling. There's no way I could expect you to." He shut his eyes tightly. "I just—to know what he saw the last time he ever looked at me. He was scared. Not of the Citadel, not of a Rick, of my face." He opened his eyes and traced his fingers along the wood of the table next to the wheel. "Of me," he said quietly. "And he was right." Mortimer's voice was barely a whisper now.
He looked to the side, at the floor. He spoke a little more clearer. "It just hurts to know that's something I broke that I can never fix. That'll always be the last memory we have of each other."
"I'm sorry," she said again. But this apology wasn't just sympathy. It was an apology for the choice she was making. That she wasn't telling him the truth. An apology because he was right, as long as Chauncey wanted to stay in hiding, he would never get to make amends.
If she told Mortimer the truth, what then? Would things work out, would the two finally be able to rekindle their friendship and forgive each other? Or would things go wrong, would Mortimer feel obligated still to keep his promise? Would he be furious at her for keeping it hidden for so long? Would he hate her? And Chauncey, wouldn't he feel betrayed? Her breaking his trust?
"Can I- can I have some of this?" she asked, eyes trained on the bottle.
Mortimer didn't look up or check what she was asking about. "Go ahead." They didn't have anything that they were saving for a specific occasion, so he couldn't think of anything she couldn't have. Besides, he couldn't focus on anything except his grief. His eyes stayed fixed on the wood grain of the table.
"I should've warned you this might happen," he said softly. "I guess I've just been trying not to focus on how much I still miss him." He wanted to apologize for dragging Skittle out here without cause, for not being able to actually go through with it. He took a shaky breath. He could at least try to start again.
The cabinet was still open a crack. She reached inside, pulled out another plastic cup, and set it on the counter. As she unscrewed the lid of the bottle, the familiar stench of alcohol entered her lungs, and she breathed it in gratefully. "Thank you," she muttered, as she began to pour some out into the opaque cup.
She slid back into the chair, taking a big drink. It was strong, burning her tongue and throat as she swallowed it down.
"It's okay. It's, it's really okay. I understand." Heat began to creep into her head as she took another drink. Already, a thin haze was settling over her mind, dulling the stress just a little. "You weren't, ruined in his mind. When I was talking to him, he was scared of you, like you said, but he also had good memories of you. He missed you, too."
"... I bet he blamed himself." Mortimer said quietly. "Like all my vitrol was justified. You were right, earlier. When you said I should blame the Citadel and not him? I just... it's so easy to put a face to it all. Like he wasn't who I thought he was. I don't think it was all a lie the way I wanted to believe it was at first."
Mortimer looked at the wheel and the clay with trepidation. "Should I try again?" His brain flooded with the idea that there was no way to try again with his relationship with Chauncey or his reaction to the arrest.
He hated how sober he was for all of this. He hadn't even recognized the scent of alcohol as Skittle had opened the bottle or gotten the cup. He was still trying not to drink in front of her for her own sake.
