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Despite General Mercymourn Cordelia White's best efforts at getting to her office at her usual time of 6 AM sharp, it was presently 10:30 and she had barely managed to get a single sock on, much less leave her bed. Her head swam with every movement, the effort almost too much to bear.
She should have known she'd only had a matter of days after her trusted assistant Cimorene had come down with the current base-wide epidemic. Still, she'd been hubristic enough to believe that her resperator (custom fit for her half torn-away mouth), intense cleaning protocols, vaccination, and air filter would spare her the indignities of being sick. Clearly, she was wrong.
"If I find that goddamn private who skipped planet-exit quarantine, I will kill them where they stand," Mercy hissed, her half-face twisted in a scowl. It would have been more intimidating had she been able to lift her head off the pillow for more than a few seconds before breaking into a coughing fit.
The one other figure in her plain grey quarters sighed, brows pulled together into a worried look. Doctor Lorenzo sat in the single armchair in her quarters, his floppy hound ears pulled back in a surgical cap and his typical beard shaved away so he could wear a mask more snugly against his face. On the nightstand beside him was a small collection of medicines, all of which he'd helped Mercy choke down just a few minutes before.
"I really don't think that's necessary," Doc said mildly, his arms crossed against his body. "I think being ill with the Warren Flu and being responsible for an epidemic is punishment enough."
"Yeah, well—" she broke into another coughing fit "—I still want their ass kicked for undermining our first major victory like this."
As Mercy had rapidly discovered, wanting to kill King Cole and overthrow the galaxy-wide government was significantly easier said than done. Most of the first five years had been spent on logistics: where to get money, who could they steal from, learning the best place to strike for maximum effect instead of committing random acts of violence, and all manner of other related things. Why, it was only last year they managed to get off Winthrop to another planet in the Periphery system!
The year since then had been surprisingly busy, however; the White Insurgency had apparently gained enough noteriety that the striking workers of Hamelin had reached out to her and her blossoming army for help. Opportunity was seized and nearly a year later the planet was firmly in Mercy's control. Apparently, even Rose Reds couldn't help the exhausted local Crown forces; the long decades of strikes had worn them down.
Doc made a sympathetic noise at Mercy's frustration. "I know, I know. Gods know this isn't how I wanted to spend my time celebrating either. But think of it this way: if we can survive this, we'll be stronger than ever."
"Or we'll lose half our soldiers without even going into combat, to say nothing of all who support from the bases," she grumbled. It was her job to look at worst case scenarios and prepare, after all. "I need you to help me up, Doc. I have to go into the office."
Doc crossed his arms; even without being able to see the tight frown on his face it was obvious he was not mad at her for pushing herself, just disappointed.
"Are you sure about this, Mercy?" he asked, his tone half concern and half challenge.
Mercy glared at him with her single ice blue eye as she slowly reached for the second black sock beside her. From her current laying position, the distance may have well been a gulf for all the energy she had.
"I have to look over the supply lines," she wheezed through labored breaths. Her words slurred more than usual; the ventriloquy tactics that kept her speaking with a half-mouth were a struggle when her tongue was so thick. "Make sure we have a shot at Ariel."
Though her eye was on the sock, Mercy could very clearly hear him let out a long, exasperated breath. "Mercy, please think for a moment. You won't be able to make clear plans if your body and brain aren't working. What if you make a fatal error and unecessary lives are lost?"
Well, that would be almost worse than this godawful epideminc. Oh, why oh why did Doc have to make a lick of sense? She scowled at him as best she could before breaking out into another coughing fit. Her arm flopped uselessly to the bed. Waste of energy, really. Who needs socks? Terrible, itchy things that bunched up around her ankles. If only she didn't like boots so much…
"I hate you," she wheezed, like a liar. "What the hell else am I supposed to do with my time? We just had a major victory, they need me!"
"Right now, you're just one of many with Warren Flu." His voice softened even further, though he could not disguise the note of tension. "I believe you can recover swiftly and be back to work in a matter of weeks, a month at most. You just need to listen to me and do what I say."
"Weeks? A month?"
How the hell could she be out of commission that long? After she more-or-less recovered from all the shit wrecked on her body thanks to Cole and the damn wedding, she hadn't taken more than a day or two off when a migraine kicked in. Even then, she'd still done what she could before crashing out in her quarters.
"You can't—" Frustration and overwhelm threatened to shut down her flu-exhausted brain. "You can't do this to me."
At her obvious distress, Doc finally approached her bedside. One hand rested on her shoulder; the bare minimum of touch. "I'm sorry, Mercy, I really am. But you and I both know that your immune system isn't how it once was. You need proper rest and care before you can get back to work, especially with Cimorene out of commission."
Goddammit. Even with her youthful immune system, Cimorene would still need time to recover too. How was Mercy supposed to function without her assistant?
"…okay."
Doc's kind smile was radiant. Mercy covered her eye with a pillow so it didn't blind her.
"Good," he said simply. "Glad you agree. Before you get too comfortable however, there's one more thing…"
"What."
"With the current epidemic, I've decided I'm going to take you to the farmhouse. It's just as secure, you made sure of that, and no one else will be infected so you'll have maximum chances at recovery without reinfection. I've already sent vaccines over to the Wilcoxes so they and your daughters have the best chance at avoiding catching the flu."
Doc was… moving her. Moving her back to the safehouse on that farm they crashlanded on five years ago. The safehouse where her vulnerable twin four-year-olds lived. Right. Of course.
Fwomp! A pillow hit Doc's chest as despairingly as Mercy buried her face under the blankets and tried to hide from the real world for just a bit longer.
Usually when Mercy stumbles into her room in the farmhouse, it is exactly as it was however many weeks or months ago she left it. There might be evidence of cleaning or a (clearly communicated) infrastructure upgrade. Last time, the butch of the house Sam had repaired a shoddy wiring job but otherwise left Mercy's limited personal affects alone.
Something was different today. Something… colorful. Large. Spread across her bed. In her delirious state, Mercy couldn't quite comprehend what it was until Doc was tucking it around her (curses to him for being so kind to her, especially during that shitty, multiple hours drive through February snow).
Someone had made Mercy a quilt.
Not just bought, no. Handmade. She's spent long enough becoming unduly paranoid about goods being tampered with that she can recognize the difference between mass manufacturing and honest to gods artistry. See, here's a hem that's perfectly straight that someone must have spent hours laboring over. And here, see, the materials were thick and well chosen, not thin and cheaply made. The quilting itself was an elaborate swirl pattern that no factory worker on a time limit would ever want to consider.
It was hardly perfect, of course. The color palette was… unorthodox, to say the least. Vibrant oranges in one corner clashed against duller greens in another and in the middle was a massive splash of pink and purple blocks, a decidedly different tone from the rest. Whoever put the blocks together had no idea how colors actually worked; the whole thing was only saved by careful white outlining that gave the eye a break.
Despite this, however, Mercy found herself pulling it closer around herself while Doc prepared an ungodly cocktail of medications. The thick flannel backing was exceptionally soft and didn't catch on her massive web of burn scars like coarser fabrics often did. In fact, in her haze she found herself stroking it with the tips of her fingers. Something about the repetative motion was soothing, especially as she gagged down her second course of meds for the day.
"I know you're going to try to work, but you really need to rest," Doc admonished as he wiped the spittle off her face. "If you die this way—"
"—it will be utterly humiliating to be defeated by a mere shape." Mercy scowled at him between chest-breaking coughs and pulled the quilt closer to her. "A virus isn't even goddamn alive! I refuse to let it beat me!"
Doc sighed, but smiled behind his respirator. "It won't, so long as you rest."
"Good!"
As she settled back in, Doc pulled the curtains over her bulletproof window to dim the midday light and straightened out her things. He'd be leaving soon to go check on the rest of the household: Mercy's own four year old daughters, Minerva and Cordelia Jr., and their adoptive grandparents/her landlords Sam and Hen Wilcox. One could never be too careful when a disease from another planet started to try and spread.
Knock knock!
Speak of the devil, Sam knocked a hearty knock against the door frame and stuck her grey-haired head into the room. Much like Doc, she'd donned her own set of PPE (respirator, gloves, etc) in order to help protect against the unfortunate Warren Flu. Smart move.
"Hey you two," she said, her smile wrinkling her face. Eugh. Affection. Just because Mercy had entrusted her and her wife to care for the twins didn't mean she had the right to pretend like she cared about Mercy the same damn way. "Figured I'd give you both an update on the state of things before we leave Cordelia to rest."
God. Had her landlords not gotten the message she'd changed her name on Hamelin? Mercy wrinkled her nose and twisted to meet the older butch's gaze.
"It's Mercymourn Cordelia now," she barely managed to snap. "Mercy if you insist on being familiar. The name was bestowed on me by Perraultan nobility and —" goddamn cough. Not now…
To her credit, Sam took the correcion with grace (though she had the audacity to wince with sympathy at Mercy's plight). "Right, sorry, of course Mercy. Congrats on Hamelin, by the way. Anyways, do you want updates?"
Thankfully, it was Doc who stepped in while Mercy recovered from her godawful coughing fit. His hand on her shoulder was comforting, as always. "Yes, of course. It'll give us both peace of mind, especially where the twins are involved."
Sam nodded and stepped inside, leaning her lanky against the frame. Her chicken feathered tail rustled against the wall in a way that had Mercy not been half deaf probably would have pissed her off even more than it currently was.
"Right, so I've got the air filters installed through the house," Sam began, appropriately crowing her own handiness, "especially in the twins' room. They want to see you real bad, but Hen and I told 'em to keep away from you two for the next couple of weeks. Figure it's best for all of us that way."
Mercy nodded from her laying down position. "Good, good. Where are they now?"
"Playing with the dogs in the fields. Hen bundled 'em up and is keeping an eye on 'em. We uh, wanted to give you space to crash without being bothered by two squirrelly little kids, heh." Sam's words oozed with fondness.
Good, good. The guard dogs of the farm, Snowball and Icicle, were massive, fluffy beasts; gentle with kids and sheep but vicious in their protection. Mercy had given them both ranks and duties, which they'd accepted with grace and dignity. Animals were so much more trustworthy than humans…
"And what about you and Hen?" Doc prompted gently. "I know you might have to step in to help sometimes."
Sam shrugged. "We're vaccinated, we've got PPE and a hell of a lot of bleach, I think we'll be good."
Okay. That'll work. It'll have to. Mercy exhaled and gave same a nod of appreciation before pulling the mystery quilt over her head. As she did, she could hear Doc starting to converse in low tones with Sam about something or other. Whatever. She could ask later.
Right now, she just wanted to go to sleep—
Wait.
Shit.
No, no, no, no, no.
Sam, come back! Where the hell did this quilt come from?
Ah, forget it. The flu meds were kicking in and Mercy was fast losing the battle with conciousness. Maybe she'll ask next time…
The next few days were full of restless, achy sleep, horrid dreams more vivid than the usual nightmares, and a cough that threatened to invert her lungs. This flu? Absolute bullshit. What do you mean Mercy could handle battlefield injuries and come back to the war room the next day, but tiny organisms knock her out flat? If there was any sort of creator, they were a cruel, cruel beast.
Despite Doc's best efforts, however, there would be nothing to stop her from trying to be marginally productive. Oh, sure, he might try and convince her to eat a simple breakfast of toast and scrambled eggs (which she did, reluctantly) and maybe take a nap, but there was no way in hell she was going to sit here and do absolutely nothing while her soldiers struggled to keep Hamelin under their control.
This was where her books and study came in. Yes, at this moment everyone liked to sing her praises. Yet still, Mercy was aware enough of her own limitations to understand that she was still incredibly new to the whole warefare scene. This was in especially true compared to the decades long careers of top Crown generals like Malus and Ironsides, the latter of whom was very close to retirement.
Most of her collection was scattered on the bed beside her, everything from cheap Crown works that only had a little going for them to nigh impossible to find works that had been censored to hell and back. Theft, barter, bribery, and good-old-fashioned black market purchasing had brought them into her personal collection. Who else but General White would have the first edition, uncensored copy of Lily Blanc's Dark Existence: War Against The Crown? She led the last nearly successful rebellion against Cole after all!
As one might imagine, Mercy would rather have ripped the head of a Rose Red than be interrupted this deep in her study. Sure, she might have had to reread a sentence three or five times to get the meaning, and she didn't have her usual study partners in Generals Tuco and Dunwich, but that wasn't going to stop her. Not now or ever.
A knock sounded at the door; not the short four-beat knock that was typical of Doc nor the rhythmic tap-tap-tapping of her well-missed assistant but a firm rap that certainly got the half-deaf Mercy's attention. Goddammit. Not now. Was there a fire? An attack? She tensed, reaching for the nightstand drawer that held her pistol.
"Who is it? What's wrong?" she barked through brain fog and congestion.
The solid door opened a crack, through which Mercy caught a glimpse of grey hair and red ear feathers. Ah. That would be her other landlord: Henrietta Wilcox. What the hell was she doing interrupting Mercy's study time?
"It's just me, Mercy, and nothing's wrong. Doc just asked me to bring you lunch today."
How had she gotten to lunctime without noticing? Besides, food was almost as evil a concept as King Cole himself. Goddamn having to fuel her physical form with food. If only she could subsist on sunlight instead… she'd waste so much less time worrying about poisons and whatnot.
More importantly, however, why the hell was it Hen? Why not Doc? He's been here for all her meals, morning, noon, and night. Wouldn't he want to check in on her?
"Why?" Mercy asked, her voice soft and slightly slurred. It was impossible to remove the note of suspicion in her tone, but Hen didn't seem terribly phased.
"He wanted to check over the girls to make sure they weren't catching it," was the calm, reasonable response. "And he trusted me to not poison your chicken soup, the one you really like?"
Oh, that soup. There were times back when Mercy was recovering from the horrors surrounding the wedding, the Anderson, and the birth of her twins where that soup was the only thing she she ate for weeks on end. That would be an acceptable meal. Still, the fact that it was her Hen bringing it and not Doc worried her.
"Fine. Come in."
The door shut soundly behind Hen as she pushed a little trolley into the room. Wafting from the tray was the wondrous, savory scent of farm-fresh chicken soup. Mercy had probably met the bird that died to make her meal last time she was here. Good. The better the animal was treated, the tastier it was.
Adjusting her body to be able to injest was a pain and a half. Mercy couldn't quite decide if she wanted to spare herself the shame of being watched eating by kicking Hen out, but the allure of soup managed to quell that for the moment. Even if, y'know, she had to hold herself at an ungodly awkward angle to make the least amount of mess possible. Goddamn the burned away half of her mouth. Why did things have to fall out of it?
In a fit of unaskedfor kindness, Hen tried to pull back her hair but Mercy shrugged the touch off. No one except Doc ought to be touching her right now, not even with latex gloves. The less physical contact, the better.
At least the soup was just like it ought. Everything from the broth temperature to the soft vegetables and the delicious chicken was exactly as it ought. If Mercy were capable of tolerating eating, she might have devoured it. As it were, it went down fast enough.
"How are the girls, anyways?" she asked the moment her spoon clattered into the empty china bowl. "Is there a reason Doc wanted to check them over beyond his own caution?"
From the plush armchair she'd taken up residence in, Hen frowned and furrowed her brow. Her hands were folded nicely in her lap, right where Mercy could see them. "They're fine; it really is an abundance of caution. I don't fault him, of course…"
"Of course not. Even my strongest soldiers have fallen to it. I'd shudder to think —" here, she was interrupted by a fit of coughing that threatened to turn her inside out "— what it would do to their immune systems, considering it's an off-world disease."
Hen winced at Mercy's cough and adjusted her (very reasonable) respirator. From a pocket somewhere, she produced a package of intensive cleaning wipes and began scrubbing at the table beside her.
"Terrible things, I think. You can imagine why he's worried."
Ha! Imagine? Please, Mercy shared the same damn worries. This was just another way for her to visualize all her loved ones dying around her again. Maybe she'd be stronger this time… nope. Not a time to worry about that. Instead, she shifted her books around to improve Hen's flow clearing away those dishes.
Of course, as just had to happen, the moment Mercy was done eating and free of her dishes she was hit with the overwhelming sensation of sleepiness. Goddamn that. She has work to do, not sleep to have! Still, sick as she is she might as well slumber. Doc would be on her ass if she didn't.
For now, she just pulled the mysterious color block quilt closer around her and kept a cautious eye on Hen. You had to admire the farmer's dedication to cleanliness inside the house. Every swipe was meticulous as hell. Even the janitors back at base weren't that good.
Hen caught Mercy pulling the quilt around her and lit up like a hearth. "You like the quilt?"
Did she? Mercy blinked and shrugged, running her curled fingers along the hem. "It is very well made, yes. Do you know where it came from?"
"I made it! Well, me and the girls." An extra twinkle entered Hen's eye and her chicken-feathered ears and tail audibly fluffed up. "It was their idea; I'm not sure if it was CJ or Minnie's, they asked me to help them with the project together. Apparently, they've been going over the concept of birthdays in preschool and wanted to do something for yours. So, I helped sew it together while they designed it. "
Mercy nodded along: CJ and Minnie acting like kids, wanting to do something nice, wait— Something twisted deep in her gut and it wasn't her lunch. "My… birthday. Do you even know when that is?"
No one knew Mercy's birthday except Doc (and Cimorene by observation). Even the other Anderson survivors had managed to forget it by now, thank the stars. Sure, there were trillions of people in the galaxy. Trillions had the same galactic birthday. But even the smallest identifying information could create a breach.
Besides, even if it weren't for the security risks there was no point to celebrating without… without Her. The ghost haunting the galaxy, the faint whisp of roses on the wind, the thorns around Mercy's cold dead heart; there was no birthdays without Rose. Nothing save the one glass of whiskey Mercy allowed herself (Dead Horse, Rose's favorite) to dull the pain and, as of last year, the red velvet cupcake Cimorene had badgered her into with breakfast.
"I had to ask Lorenzo, but it's next week, right? February 21st galactic time?" The older woman's enthusiasm tried to be infectious, but Mercy's dark and brooding anti-viral was far too strong. "I asked him months ago so there was plenty of time. It turned out fantastic, didn't it?"
It did turn out well; Hen was obviously an expert quilter, even if the colors picked by four year olds were a bit… eclectic. The texture was very smooth and didn't irritate Mercy's skin in the slightest, unlike some godawful scratchy fabrics. If it had been a Solstice gift, she would have been nothing but grateful (and had something fancy from Hamelin to give back).
But Doc betrayed her trust and told Hen the day of Snow Grimm's goddamn birth, a day Mercy would have rather torn out the rest of her hair than claim as her own. What the hell could have posessed him to do such a thing? What else had he let slip? How screwed was she?
"You weren't supposed to know that day," Mercy says darkly, shakily. "No one is. I lied on hospital forms all those years ago for a reason. Why did he tell you?"
Suddenly, all of the light in the room became sharp, pointed. Hen's face turned aghast and her hands shook as she shoved everything on her , trying to hold back her fury. "I just thought— it's for your children, Cordelia! I know you're trying to be General White, killer of the unkillable or such nonsense, but can't you spare an ounce of space in your cold, dead heart for them?"
"My name isn't Cordelia anymore, Henrietta." Mercy's tone raised to match Hen's and she puffed herself up as best she could with a tray of soup on her lap. "And of course I can! Gods, I'm fighting so they can live in a safer galaxy, aren't I? So why am I not allowed to have my peace? They can have their birthday, you know I always have something for them then, why must they have mine? Why can't it stay gone? Why did Doc —"
Mercy choked on her rage like it was a chicken bone. The words became impossible to form. How could words express the pain, the grief, the fear, the- the everything tied up with that godawful day?
Something twisted in Hen's face too. Her fists clenched and she had to force herself to take long, deep slow breaths. "I'm sorry your daughters wanted to do something nice for you for once."
The door slammed behind her, leaving Mercy with an empty room, a shattered sense of safety, and a collection of ancient books.
What the fuck, Doc? No, seriously, what the fuck? Mercy had no choice but to put an obscene and inadvisable trust in him and he took the tiniest thing she'd asked him to stay buried and unearthed it to someone without her say-so? The next time she saw him, she was going to have words.
Just Mercy's luck, her particular cocktail of Warren Flu symptoms included a gastrointestinal componant. Namely, in an attempt to deal with the invading virus her body had elected to stop processing solid foods and instead spew them back up in a godawful fountain of puke.
Even better, the moment she discovered this was a few minutes after she'd finished her meal and was left alone once more. Although there was a trash can in her room, it was on the opposite side of the bed from where she was laying. This meant that despite her attempt at haste, the soup she'd managed to consume was now sprayed across the quilt that sent her emotions into turmoil.
Acid coated her tongue and the roof of her mouth. Her poor empty gut churned with displeasure, threatening to send more acid spilling out if she didn't act fast. Some of the mess was in what was left ofher hair, in her tapestry of burn scars, down her front…
In the five years since she'd endured almost dying not once, not twice, but three times before getting anything close to a headway on starting a war against King Cole, Mercy had built up a dam in the edges of her soul. Everything had to calcify, become made of stone and steel, become unbreakable.
And yet somehow, more than even losing her beloved twin, her trusted partner, the son she left behind, the power she once wielded, and even half her goddamn face, this simple betrayal of her flesh was the thing that broke her. For the first time ever since she'd emerged from the ashes of Snow Grimm, Mercy threw back her head and bawled like a baby.
Heavy footsteps sounded outside, one, two, three pairs, and another two lighter ones. Was that everyone in the house? Mercy cringed into herself, the unscarred half of her face beeet red. Goddammit. Dealing with her typical body horrors was awful enough. Being sick and having everyone including her landlords and her daughters bear witness? Absolutely not.
And yet here they were: one, two, three, four, five sets of eyes come to witness her at her lowest. She ducked her head, unable to hide the shame and misery.
"Mama's sick?" came the tiny voice of CJ, Mercy's little dark-haired teddy-eared mini-me. A tiny round face peeked out from behind Sam's legs, then another as her red-headed cow-eared sister Minerva joined her. Both stared with wide, luminous eyes at their mother at one of her lowest moments.
More shame flushed across Mercy's face, unable to stop her wailing. Her littlest charges saw her now not as the pillar of strength she had fashioned herself into but human, weak, vulnerable. Mercy screwed up her eye and folded her one black bear ear down as if that could hide her shame.
Faintly, she heard a grunt as Hen lifted the kids up into her arms and the sound of her voice saying, "That's right, munchkins, your Mama is very sick right now. Why don't you come with me and we can find something to help her feel better?"
Thank the gods. She wasn't going to have to face the pained disappointment in the older woman's face while in a brand new low. Mercy's shoulders slumped ever so slightly as one pair of footsteps took three pair of eyes away from her misery. That left Sam and gods, Doc, who both sprung into action.
"I'll take care of Mercy, can you handle the laundry?" Doc asked, somehow already by Mercy's side. His gentle, caring, familiar hand rested on her shoulder and somehow only sent her crying even more than she was before. Something in her flinched away, whispered he couldn't be trusted. What choice did she have right now?
"Of course," Sam said, already on the move. To Mercy she added, "You're all right, hun. Gods only know I've had to clean up worse."
"Don't—" Mercy managed with a sharp hiss. Don't what? Call her 'hun?' Try and downplay this- this failure of her flesh? How could anything possibly be worse than this? At least Sam didn't try to respond to that, merely started gathering all the vomit-ruined fabrics to give them a proper rinse.
Had she not had other, more pressing concerns, Mercy would have liked to watch as the quilt was washed. It was a present from her daughters, after all. Even if she wanted to lock it away forever so she didn't have to think about the betrayal it represented, she wanted to ensure it was treated well. The girls were innocent in all this, unlike the adults who had a hand in its creation.
Speaking of, Doc was attempting to help her even when she shied away from his touch. Goddamn this situation. If only she could get herself to the shower on her own, clean herself up… but no. She had to rely on him.
"Do you want to give Sam your shirt to wash now or after I take you into the shower?" he asked, giving her a blessedly simple choice. Goddamn brain fog. Goddamn vomit.
In response, Mercy willed herself to shrug off the now puke covered shirt, though she kept an arm across her heart. So long as she had some protection, it'd be harder to kill her while she stumbled into her bathroom. The logical part of her brain informed her that neither Doc nor Sam wanted her dead. The rest of her shouted it down; if Doc could release her birthday into the wild then what the hell else could he do to her? He knew too much.
Thankfully, Mercy's room had a private attatched bathroom. It was modified to be more accessible by her generous landlords back in the early days of her recovery: shower chair, detatchable shower head, a door in the tub and even a bar on the side to grab on to. Typically, she could bathe on her own no problem. Right now, all she could do once her clothes were all the way off her body was flop pathetically on the floor of the shower/tub combo as Doc turned the water on.
First cold water thundered down beside her; she growled softly as chilly droplets touched the faintest hint of her skin. No. Terrible. Did he want her to suffer
Every one of Doc's motions was careful, deliberate. He prepped the soaps, tested the water temperature, kept her bad side blessedly against the wall so she could see and hear everything he was doing, and even avoided trying and failing to comfort her with words. None of them would have worked anyhow.
Finally, the water was warm enough for him to grab the shower head and start rinsing her down. The awful waste swirled down the drain, away from her precious, fragile skin and the last vestiges of her hair. Gods. What an embarassment. Mercy screwed up her half-face and rested her burn-scarred skin against the cool shower wall.
"You're all right, Mercy," Doc said softly, taking his precious time with cleaning her off. "This is normal. It happens all the time to everyday people just like you."
"Nobody is like me," Mercy snapped, baring her fangs at him. How could he still possibly be so goddamn gentle? "I'm the only General Goddamn White in the galaxy. I don't— I can't—!"
"And yet here you are, vomiting like the rest of humanity." There was something odd in Doc's voice, something almost hard, yet still his hands were gentle as he lathered up soap and began running his fingers through her hair. "I really don't know what to tell you. This is normal and fine and—"
"Then be quiet. I'm not Cordelia Junior. You don't have to fucking reassure me." Especially after what he did by revealing her birthday to Hen.
It'll be fine. It'll be fine! Once she's through this terrible patch, she'll be back in action preparing for the next phase of the war and hopefully investigating whatever the hell was going through Doc's head.
"…yes, Mercy."
Doc's hands stayed gentle, somehow, even with the hurt in his voice. Most people wouldn't. They wouldn't have the patience to clean the tangle of burn scars that went down her right half. They woudn't run their fingers through the half-head of hair that was left, soothing every tangle, rejuvinating every strand. Mercy certainly wouldn't let them at the hollow that was her empty eye socket and her missing ear, nor her precious black ursine tail (even if she growled at him more than usual).
And yet here he was, somehow patiently putting up with her growls and snaps and tired rage at the whole shitty circumstance. There was work to be done. Hamelin had to be maintained, plans for further war to be drawn up… Mercy couldn't waste her time here any longer than she had to.
Finally, the shower turned off. Doc helped her onto the closed lid of the toilet and wrapped a thick, fluffy towel around her. She clutched it tight, not looking at his face. She could hear it now, muttered beneath his breath: 'Why does she have to be such an asshole?' Not that he said it to her face, of course, Doc could never, but he was certainly thinking it.
A better person would have thanked him for all the care and attention he had given her. A better person would have reassured him he was cared for and valued.
Mercy was not a better person. Hadn't been for five years. Those she loved rarely got apologies unless somehow she managed to truly fuck up. There was never enough time to repair damage when there was always something else to do, another threat to deal with.
Besides, even this bath where nothing went wrong was not enough to make up for the tiny betrayal breaking her heart. How could he have — her birthday — what else could he have — no. No, no, no. Don't think about it. Just clutch the towel tighter and glare at Doc while he made his way back to the bedroom proper to get some clothes.
Doc turned back, presumably to ask her what she wanted to wear, but met the full force of her frozen glare. Wisely, he shut his mouth and tucked his tail between his legs.
Mercy was left blessedly alone to her misery once more.
Just as Mercy was starting to think she might be on the mend, things had the audacity to get worse.
It started with a blur in her eye when she tried to turn on the lights and study. There was work to be done while ill, and yet her body was rejecting the very concept. How rude! Even if she couldn't keep up with the current happenings (Doc had expressly locked her secure communicator in his room until she was better), she still ought to be able to make plans!
Then came the throbbing, subtle at first but gradually increasing in agony until the space around her one good eye was nothing but agony. Why couldn't the migraine have chosen to be on her burned side? At least that way all the aches and pain could have stayed corralled! But no. Her remaining eye had to be the victim that couldn't stand light. Bastard.
And of course the noises of the house and farm around her were rapidly becoming unbearable. How dare they torture her so? She's General-motherfucking-White, she cannot possibly be allowed to be treated as such! There's a war to win!
God. At least there's meds in her nightstand. Right now, given a choice between her own shaky hands and Doc's, she'd rather trust hers until she has the chance to dissect his brain. How fucking dare he? How fucking dare he?
Mercy buried her good side in the mattress with a scowl, grateful that it was possible to mute the noise with layers of fabric and foam and whatever the hell else matresses were made of these days. There are advantages to being half-blind and half-deaf on migraine days… perhaps one of the only times she'd consider those aspects of her disabilities an advantage.
Just as she'd started to get marginally comfortable, her temple pressing down on her knuckles as it dulled the pain while she waited for the meds to kick in, a sudden presence made itself known her. Was someone there, at her door? Bastard. She couldn't even reach for the pistol in her drawer like this…
The light in the hallway flicked on and through a squinting eye she made out a shadow. Wait. She knew those boots. Oh gods, not right now. She can't do this right now. Instead of making any attempt at true wakefulness and confrontation, Mercy pulled the quilt she had reluctantly accepted into her life over her head and tried sleep once more.
It didn't quite work; she was still ungodly aware of the squeak of the doorknob as Doc entered the room, the tip-toe of his boots as he carefully tried not to disturb her, and the soft mutterings under his breath as he observed her and the bottle of pills on her nightstand. The lid was off — she hadn't wanted to fight it, shaky as her hands were. She could hear the rattling as Doc screwed it back on. Then the light clunk of a tray being placed down atop the stand. Presimably her breakfast, taken cold. The idea was decidedly unappealing.
More steps, this time across her room. Doc muttered to himself as the sound of the curtain shifting faintly disturbed her. Blessedly, however, the faint morning light she tried and failed to kill earlier dimmed significantly through her almost-closed lid. A bit of tension fell from her shoulders.
And then there he was, standing beside her. If he had been most anyone else, Mercy would have fought through the migraine to subdue him and take his weapons away. Sleep would come more soundly then. But it was Doc…
His broad, calloused fingers traced against the exposed scarflesh that made up half her face, running over bumps and following valleys. Mercy almost flinched. Almost. Touch was an evil, evil thing. This was almost soothing. Almost. Besides, she didn't want him to know she was awake.
"Oh, Mercymorn Cordelia," he said, and the tenderness present in her full first name was almost more painful than the migraine. "Rest well."
Would she? That's a dubious proposition. Resting only half-solved the problem of throbbing pain and too-much noise-light-everything.
With no response from Mercy, he continued on. "I only wish I could ask why you've been so cruel to me this past week. I know you don't tolerate infirmity well, but this… It's worse this time, I think. Did I do something? Is it just the stress?"
He did. Oh gods, he did. He did and didn't even tell her he'd done it. Was it a minor treason? Did she have to come down harsh on him? She'd never had to before… hurting him would almost be worse than every Rose Red wearing her sister's face she'd had to put down. At least she wasn't in combat on her birthday this year, or else… yes. Or else.
"Anyways, I hope your migraine clears. I doubt I'll ever get an explanation; I hardly expect it from you these days. Sleep well, General White." Doc gave her one last pat on the shoulder before turning to leave.
"Wait."
Mercy's voice came out in barely a hoarse whisper. She hadn't realized she was reaching for his wrist until it was tight in her grasp, a manacle grip. Doc turned back to look, dark eyes glittering in the faint light. He didn't say a word, merely quirked his head like a loyal dog confused.
"You…" the words were nigh impossible to craft, slow and painful. "You told Henrietta my birthday."
Even in the dimness, she could sense the color drain from his face. "Oh."
Another time she would have held him there, yelled at him, wept and raged and disciplined. There was no way Mercy was going to do that now. How could she, floppy and useless as she was? Instead, she just let go.
No more words were exchanged. Hastily, Doc helped rearrange her blankets once more before fleeing her room.
Good.
They'd have a talk. Eventually.
Right now, all Mercy could do was try to go back to sleep.
Time and medication did their work; Mercy recovered bit by painful, teeth-pulling bit until she was capable of exerting enough energy to move around the farmhouse. The front room was almost as secure as her bedroom, after all, and she could do with a change in scenery. Besides, it's been long enough that according to all reputable sources she should no longer be contagious and thus won't pass it on to her vulnerable children.
Children who, at that particular moment, had elected to climb up on to the plush old couch beside her and take up valuable real estate that could be used to hold vitally important papers. Oh, who was she kidding, that's what the dinged up coffee table was for. It wasn't often she and her daughters were in the same space due to the nature of her war. She'd take this chance to be with them for a moment, even if their warm, squirrelly little bodies were sometimes a bit much to bear.
Minerva, the red-headed ox-eared twin, stared down at the piece of paper she was scribbling on with a serious look. So far, she seemed to be drawing crude stick figures that might have been people or animals (it was hard to tell) with the same focus that Mercy herself was drawing war maps with. Good, good. She'll make a fine warrior one day.
Meanwhile, CJ was bouncing on Mercy's lap and chattering away on her good side. Her little black bear ears bounced with every giddy word she spoke.
"An' then, at preschool, Miss Alcala helped us decorate cupcakes for Betsy's birthday! I made mine pink and green 'cause that's the color of strawberries and I love strawberries. Doc says he'll make me a strawberry cake for my birthday!"
Mercy tried very hard not to wince. Rose had always loved strawberry cake… they'd fought bitterly as kids about her strawberry and Mercy's own red velvet preference until someone (probably Doc or their old nanny Ms. Poppins) had decided enough was enough and they'd do a half-and-half cake.
CJ completely missed her mother's mild discomfort, still giddy with words. "And, and, and Doc is making a cake today too! He said it's gonna be strawberry and red velvet. I dunno what red velvet is, but I get to eat strawberry cake with you today! It's gonna be so good!"
Ah. Right. That. A blotch of ink spread across the page from where the pen broke in her shaky hand. Mercy swallowed hard, not tearing her one eye from the page. This was Doc's penance: a childhood cake, shared with her children. A small but terribly loud part of her wondered if he was trying to rub her face in it. The sensible but upset other half just raised an eyebrow. He wouldn't betray CJ and Minerva like that. Couldn't. Could he?
She would have stayed frozen in her worry if Minerva hadn't lightly tapped her on the arm, signalling that she needed Mercy to look at her so she could sign a phrase.
"Today's Mama's birthday?" Minerva signed with her tiny little hands. Were she any other child, a quizzical look would have crossed her little face, but she'd always struggled with emoting.
Fine. Mercy nodded once, unable to form words. How could she express how little she wanted this day celebrated to four year olds who wouldn't understand?
Unfortunately for Mercy, CJ bounced even more excitedly, wide smile showing off pointed baby fangs. "Ooooh, so that's why there's gonna be cake! Are you gonna have a party? Miss Alcala can help! She's real good at parties! Maybe when I go to preschool tomorrow she can help me wrap up the quilt Hen helped us make and we can plan you a big, big party!"
"No thank you, CJ. I don't like celebrating my birthday." Head this off before it becomes a problem… damn you, Doc. Oddly, this made Minerva stick her tongue out at her twin before going back to drawing. "And Minerva, that was rude."
She turned her one eye to focus on Minerva, who simply signed, "Told her you wouldn't like it."
"Which is silly!" CJ hopped off her mother's lap (thank god) and struck a pose. "Everyone likes birthdays! Everyone hafta give you presents, sing lotsa songs, come play with you…"
"I don't—" Mercy choked on her words, clenched her hand around her oversized pen, tried to choke down rage and anguish. "I don't like any of those things, CJ. I don't even like people knowing what day it is. It just makes me upset."
Though she couldn't see it, Mercy had the very distinct impression of Minerva performing the child version of flipping off her sister by signing the 'I told you so' gesture. Like a leaky balloon at a birthday party, CJ deflated. It was quite a dramatic deflation, too; she'd flopped to the floor face down and didn't look up towards her family when she muttered something incomprensible into the floorboards.
"I can't hear very well, CJ," Mercy reminded her daughter. "Pick up your head and speak up."
In that recalcetrant way typicalof four year olds, CJ picked up her head just enough that Mercy could strain to hear her. "If we're not celebrating your birthday, we aren't gonna get cake! And you don't get presents! Didn't Hen give you the quilt? She should have! …maybe you hate it? Please tell me you don't hate it, Mama!"
Ah. Hm. Mercy ran her half lip against the edge of her teeth, worrying it in ways she was sure to regret. "I do like the quilt, CJ. It was very kind of you and Minerva to design it for me. I'm just not counting it as a birthday present. And as for cake…"
It was at that moment Doc chose to stick his head out of the kitchen door. "Did someone say cake?"
Mercy fixed him with a very, very hard glare. Not just the glare of a fucked up woman with an awful flu, but the gaze of a pissed off general about to throw you to the Rose Reds if you don't shut the hell your mouth right this instant. To his credit, Doc did not appear fazed in front of the girls. They'd didn't need to know.
"Yes. Doc made us a nice cake for no particular reason." The last sentence came out through painfully gritted teeth. "Isn't that right girls?"
There was no verbal response, but the excited squealing of two very, very excited four-year-olds was more than enough to prove their joy. Even Minerva hopped off the couch and joined her sister in zooming past Doc into the kitchen.
For one quiet, heart-aching moment, the two adults were alone in a room. Neither looked at each other; Mercy didn't even bother tring to haul herself off the couch for a long moment.
"Mercy, about—" Doc began, his hound tail tucked between his legs.
She raised her hand to silence him. "We'll talk tonight. Right now, we have an unbirthday cake to share."
When the sun set and the twins were put to bed, Mercy shut herself in her room and threw herself into her armchair. Her fingers dug into the burn scarred half of her face, pressing just above and beneath the empty socket. Cole's soldiers shot her eye out long before she made herself a threat. Did he know then what she would become? Had she had any tears left to cry, she would have. As it were, her chest tightened as though an elephant had decided to take up residence.
This was the one night she allowed herself a drink. It was an awful experience to do so, worse than others assumed her constant cigar smoking would be. Considering how utterly apocalyptic this night was every year, however, it was only fair to treat it with something just as horrendous.
The girls were not at fault. They were four goddamn years old and knew nothing of the world they were forced into. Her past, her pain, all this remained in the vault of her soul, locked away where no one could reach the whole of it. No one, that is, except for Doctor Lorenzo.
Goddamn him too. Five years she's trusted him with the knowledge that would destroy her and her revolution and now she finds out he let something slip? At least it wasn't truly vital, but even a minor mishap could lead to her destruction.
And goddamn Rose, gone too soon, torn into a thousand pieces Mercy has to kill over and over again. It never got easier. It never would. Mercy's heart was a yawning void where her sister used to be, wrapped in steel and barbed wire. Her children were lucky they haven't be pricked yet.
Okay, Mercy, pull yourself together. You can scream and wail over your glass of whiskey. Just… stand up. Walk over to the cabinet, and—
oh god she forgot to acquire a new bottle of whiskey.
Usually, Mercy would ask Cimorene to track her down a fresh, unopened bottle of Dead Horse Whiskey. A miracle or three later and it would be produced, inspected for tampering, and brought back to the farmhouse. She would have her one drink and then the next day pass it on to someone she knew liked fancy whiskey and needed a bit of buttering up.
Considering this year both of them had been hit with the nasty Warren flu after overseeing an exhausting first major victory, there was no way in hell either of them had spared a single thought to the ritual until right now.
Shit. How was she supposed to survive this night without her whiskey?
Before panic and frustration could set in too hard, however, there was a distinctive knock at her door. Her first instinct was to howl and bite and scream to be left alone with her pit of misery. Who dares intrude on her sanctum of smoke and fury?
The knock sounded again. Doc's knock. Fine. Maybe she could grace him with thirty seconds before she went back to snarling and snapping at the past. Mercy took a deep breath and yanked her door open.
"What?"
Calm as ever, Doc stood there with a tired look in his eyes and… oh shit. That was a bottle of whiskey. Dead Horse whiskey. Why would he—?
"I brought something for you," he said, holding out the still sealed bottle like a somnelier. "And I have cigars if you'll join me on the porch?"
Mercy trembled as she took the bottle in her better, unburned hand. It was the right size bottle, completely sealed, brand new. She studied it for flaws, for tampering, and found none.
Gods.
Doc.
What did she do to deserve him, pissed as she was?
"…okay. Let me just grab a coat and a knife." She exhaled long and slow, an exhausted predator, and shut her door to put herself together.
February nights were cold on the farm, even if this year there was only a light dusting of snow. Her thick coat and the heavy handmade quilt made a perfect shield from the icy chill, allowing her to settle comfortably on the outdoor couch. Doc did not join her on said couch, instead perching on the rocking chair beside it with only an ashtray on a stand between them.
Her one eye kept him in her sights as he cracked open the whiskey bottle and poured them each a shot. Just to make sure… it was Doc, he wouldn't — oh, but he had — oh confound it all! Just take the peace offering!
They clinked shotglasses together with a faintly muttered 'cheers' and downed them as one. Mercy tried very hard not to pull a face; the taste was abysmal as always. How had Rose liked the stuff?
The faint scent of acrid smoke filled the air as Doc next lit a cigar first for her, then him. Once upon a time the stench would have made her tense, panic, flee, but five years of regular smoking down the line and she no longer feared it. General White could handle a bit of cigar smoke.
She accepted the cigar from Doc with shaky hands and took in a long puff that warmed her from the inside out. Smoke curled from the lipless half of her mouth, drifting off into the night sky to become one with the stars. Something of her grief went with it, just a tad, leaving behind steel and fury and pure exhaustion.
No one said a word. How could they? Every time Mercy tried, her throat froze up. Signing went no better, her free hand just twitching and better off beneath the blanket. Doc too seemed unable to break the sheet of ice between them, even with the warmth of the cigars.
So they sat. They sat and grieved and failed to talk for what could've been minutes, hours. The sky danced above them, clouds dipping the stars and spinning them round. Mercy didn't bother to watch; instead, she kept scanning the path to the farmhouse just in case. Just in case. Not even her own people knew she lived here. Cole's most certainly didn't. Yet still…
Something had to break. Eventually something did: Mercy's vocal cords started to work, softened by the fire in her lungs.
"I trusted you." Mercy's voice was brittle, clipped. Pure military, no affection.
Doc looked down from the stars and at her, floppy ears pricked but grey eyes sad. "This is about the birthday thing?"
"Indeed." She swallowed hard, soldiered on. "You know so much about me. I thought I could trust you with my life. When I found out you let my birthday slip to someone I hadn't authorized, even someone like the Wilcoxes, I started to wonder…"
"Ah. I promise I have no intention of betraying you, Mercy. Where would I go?" His lips twisted into something wry. "That was an unfortunate slip-up when I got a bit too comfortable."
Huh. Mercy arched her single eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Indeed. Hen asked while I was in the middle of looking at recent surgery reports and my mouth got away from my brain for a second." His lips thinned around his cigar. "I'd almost forgotten about it, but I've been kicking myself since the moment you reminded me. You know this day is hard for me too."
"Thank the gods it wasn't some inane attempt to make me spend more time with my children," she said wryly, pulling the blanket tight. "Sam and Hen have both been on my case. I don't think they understand —"
No. Mercy cut herself off, shook her head. "Regardless, I am going to have to keep an eye out for a little while just to ensure you don't accidentally reveal any other classified information. We're at a critical time right now and none of us can afford to slip up, not even myself."
"I understand. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry Mercy. I didn't want to make today harder for you in the slightest, not after everything." Doc reached out for her hand; much to her own surprise, she took it. His hand was always so much larger than hers, enveloping it in a particular kind of warmth.
What the fuck was she supposed to say to that? 'It's fine?' It most certainly was not! She stared down at their hands for a long moment, once again unable to form words. Cigar smoke curled around them, caressing them both. Perhaps that would do. He would understand. He'd have to.
They didn't go to bed until well after midnight, just sat in silence and watched the snow begin to fall once more.