DSU Stella Gibson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ex_assertiveness90) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2018-03-18 05:24 pm
ex_assertiveness90) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2018-03-18 05:24 pm
let the only sound be the overflow
WHO: Stella Gibson
WHERE: The fountain/Peggy and Stella's house/the woods
WHEN: 13th-14th March; Stella disappeared from the village on the 10th and returned on the 13th.
OPEN TO: Two locked sections and one open section, all labeled below
WARNINGS: Spoilers for series 3 of The Fall. Mentions of male-on-female violence, suicide, possibly more — will update as needed.
WHERE: The fountain/Peggy and Stella's house/the woods
WHEN: 13th-14th March; Stella disappeared from the village on the 10th and returned on the 13th.
OPEN TO: Two locked sections and one open section, all labeled below
WARNINGS: Spoilers for series 3 of The Fall. Mentions of male-on-female violence, suicide, possibly more — will update as needed.
take what the water gave me
13th march ; the fountain ; locked to Kate Kelly
On one early morning, Stella Gibson vanishes. At first, it might be simple enough to excuse as a jaunt into the woods or over to the other village, which she's done before; but as several days go by, it becomes clearer something else is going on. Those who are close to her, or who at least know her routines, come to realize she's actually, truly gone.
On the fourth day, however, there's movement in the fountain, a stirring in the water and the splash of someone surfacing from the depths. For a long, breathless moment, Stella is totally, completely disoriented. Five minutes ago, she was cleaning out her office at the Down Serious Crime Suite after the total collapse of her investigation, and the leap of logic required to take her from there to a fountain in the middle of nowhere in that space of time is nothing less than impossible. There's a second of genuine panic as she doesn't recognize her surroundings or the circumstances that brought her here or any of it— and then it comes back to her all at once, the reorientation of a person waking up in an unfamiliar place suddenly remembering where she is and what brought her here, and oh, fuck.
Stella swims over to the side of the fountain and just... stops, lays her arm on the broad stone rim and puts her head down on it. That brief moment of panic had been the first thing she'd really felt in days — although has it really been that long? It seems like she hasn't seen the village for weeks, but for all she knows it's been no time at all here. It's too much for her to try to sort through right now. Somewhere underneath the numb haze she's been in since Paul Spector committed suicide is a roiling torrent of emotion — fury, grief, exhaustion — that she knows she has to let herself feel sooner or later, but right now she can't deal with any of it.
She hasn't got out of the fountain yet, partly because the water at least is something reassuring, familiar, and partly because she's working up the energy to haul herself out when her left side is a mess of half-healed bruises and even swimming up to the surface had pulled at sore muscles. She knows her face is not any better, and she's probably going to get concerned questions, but there's not a lot that can be done about that. Nothing except time will heal the marks of one of the last things Spector did before he killed himself, his one and only attempt at revenge taken out on the woman who forced him to show his true colors beyond a shadow of a doubt.
There's the sound of footsteps nearby, and Stella finally picks her head up from where she'd been resting it on her arm. "I'm fine," she manages, before she even sees who it is. The words ring hollow, of course. She's not fine, and she knows it's obvious that she's not, but the reflexive attempt to brush off any impending offers of help had come out anyway.
pockets full of stones
13th march ; house 13 ; locked to Peggy Carter
Eventually, later in the day, she goes back home. Home is somewhat of a misnomer, because home is London, and fuck she just wants to be back in her own flat in Crouch End so badly she can taste it — but she's not been allowed that luxury. Instead she's been yanked back here, where the observers can continue whatever ridiculous fucking game they've been playing with her and the other people trapped in this place. It's just adding insult to injury, and yet she doesn't even have the wherewithal to be angry about it right now.
But the house she shares with Peggy is the closest thing she's got to a home here, and at the moment she needs even this small familiarity. She comes through the front door and just stops for several moments in the front hall, looking around her. Everything is more or less in the same place it was when she'd left. She goes into the living room, and only then calls out for her housemate.
"Peggy?" She's not ready for this. She isn't. Unlike Kate, who isn't quite there yet, Peggy is a friend, and Stella's sole reliable source of mental and emotional support in the village more or less since she first arrived. She's going to have been worried that Stella was gone for good, and Stella truly doesn't know if she can cope.
She's going to try, she has to, but she can already feel something awful and vulnerable bubbling up to the surface, pushing through the cracks already forming in the superficial emotionless facade she's been living in since the Spector investigation fell to pieces. Years of practice at keeping herself together when everyone else around her is falling apart are the only thing allowing her to keep her tenuous grip on self-control; how long that will last is another question entirely.
and the ships are left to rust
14th march ; the woods ; open
There comes a point where Stella can't stay cooped up indoors any longer. Since the previous afternoon she's spent most of her time in bed, eating only when she has to, and more or less keeping to herself — but it's not good for her, she knows it's not. The fresh air will help, as will some semblance of her old routine. Do normal things when you've had a bad shock; that's what a therapist told her once, when she was young and green and new to CID, after she'd coped badly with her first time seeing an ugly murder scene. Do normal things and eventually some sense of normalcy will reassert itself.
She does. She takes the basket she's been using to collect edible plants from the woods, herbs and mushrooms and berries, and spends a good hour or so doing just that. For a woman who had absolutely zero wilderness survival skills when she'd first got here, Stella has got fairly good at marking out which ones can be eaten and which she should avoid; another skill to add to her list. Eventually she has a whole basket full, but instead of going right back to the house, she decides just to sit for a few moments, propped against a sturdy tree tall and stout enough to be decades old. The weather is pleasant after the bitter chill of winter, and it's quiet here save for the wind in the trees and the sounds of little forest animals going about their business, and she doesn't really have to think about anything.
Stella hears the rustle of footsteps and looks over. Her brows arch a little, but she can't quite manage a smile, even a small one. "There's a whole thicket of blackberries just over there," she suggests, turning her head a bit in the direction she means, "if you're looking for something." It's spring, or it must be, more or less. Things are growing again. She ought to take comfort in that.
no subject
Kate's right, of course. It's a goddamn fucking lie and fine is absolutely the last thing Stella is right now. She has bruises on her face from Paul Spector's fist and more bruises down her side from his foot driving into her ribs, but the physical injury isn't even the worst thing about this whole situation.
She stares at Kate for a moment, wet hair dripping into her eyes. Then she looks away, and tries to pull herself a little more out of the fountain. Tries being the operative word; the bruises along her ribcage are still somewhat fresh and very deep, and she pulls just the wrong way and has to stop, only just holding back a pained noise. Given a little more time, she could probably do this by herself, with a bit more effort and a lot of pain — but Kate is there, and Stella is beginning to feel slightly ridiculous sitting there in the fountain.
"I could use a little help," she admits, in the quiet tone of a woman who doesn't like that admission. She's normally in good physical condition; something like this should be effortless for her. Really, she just needs more leverage, to take the strain off her bad side.
no subject
Then Miss Stella looks away, and fails to get out of the fountain.
It's an admission, that request for help. And Kate stares at her. This is another moment, and she feels odd. Distant. She can feel herself frowning.
She'd rather let a copper die than help them. She'd rather let her brothers die than help, and she had. In many ways, she had. She'd stood there, and oh she'd set up a banshee wail of horror when the hotel went up in flames with Dan in it, but she'd refused to help anyone but the priest.
But this woman had believed her. Had believed her about the police who touched her when they shouldn't have.
So Kate nods and moves forward.
"All right, Miss Gibson," she says. "Y'can't be much heavier than a bunch of wet sheets, which side is hurtin' more?" She follows Miss Gibson's lead as to which side to stand at, where to grab to help haul her out. For a slender woman, Kate's strength is wiry and steel-tough, and it's only the angle which is awkward for helping the older woman out.
no subject
She does not really have much energy for anything, focusing all of what she has on getting herself out of the fountain, bracing herself with her one hand on Kate's shoulder and using the other to push herself up. Between the two of them she's out of the fountain and on her feet soon enough, but the effort has winded her a little. It shouldn't; Stella used to swim on a daily basis before this place, and she's still in fairly decent condition for a woman who doesn't manage that sort of daily exercise anymore, but the pain of her bruises has sapped a bit of her strength.
Stella manages to wring most of the water out of her hair, considers sneaking back to her house for a fresh change of clothing, although a towel and a little time in front of the fire in the inn will probably dry her out just as well. It helps her, to think about these normal things.
"How long was I gone?" She knows exactly how long she was back in Belfast — a little more than a fortnight — but she can't assume the same length of time has passed in the village.
no subject
"I'm guessin' Miss Carter is a better woman to ask, but... a couple days, maybe several. Not as long as week."
She regards the older woman thoughtfully, with actual, genuine concern. "Do y'wanna go to your house, or to the Inn?"
She isn't going to insist either way. She knows pride, even and particularly the pride of the battered. "And what in the name of God has happened to you? Where did you go?"
no subject
Kate's doesn't quite have the same effect — though Stella notes that she actually seems worried, and that's more than what she's ever seen from her before. She and Kate haven't always got on well, largely because she hasn't been able to overcome Kate's distrust of police officers. On the other hand, Kate's told her some things, things that Stella thinks maybe she hasn't spoken of very much if at all, and they may be beginning to build a flimsy sort of bridge between them now, after all this time.
It would make her feel better, but right now she doesn't feel much of anything except a sort of numb exhaustion. "The inn might be best," she says. She can dry herself out just as well in front of the fire, and avoid having to face Peggy for a little while.
The second question — Jesus, it's such a long story. She's not even sure she's up to telling it. But maybe she owes Kate this much, now. And maybe it will help for Kate to hear exactly the sort of thing she fights for, the reason she became a police officer, even if just at this moment she feels like a failure.
"I went back home. In a sense." Where she went is an easier question to immediately answer than what happened. "Could we go sit down, and I'll tell you the rest?"