What Would Rhys Cadwallader Do? (cymru) wrote in disorderic, @ 2017-11-15 17:21:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | gawain robards, rhys cadwallader |
WHO: Rhys Cadwallader and Gawain Robards.
WHAT: In which stoic Aurors are stoic (or not).
WHEN: 2016.
WHERE: St. Mungo’s Hospital, Spell Damage ward.
WARNINGS: Gawain has emotions and Michelle is mean to me.
Gawain announced his presence at the private hospital room of Rhys Cadwallader with a firm knock on the door. He wished he’d been able to visit sooner, but in the wake of the duel and attack there was much to be done, and the healers were working on Rhys anyway. Plus, as much as he may have taken on the role of an uncle or something similar to many of the younger Aurors, he wasn’t family. Nora didn’t need him hanging around. “Am I interrupting anything?” Still battered and a bit woozy on the bevy of pain potions that were currently dulling his agony, it took Rhys a moment to realise he hadn't just imagined hearing Gawain's voice. “I'm just training for a triathlon, come in,” Rhys announced, trying to sound casual as he tried—and failed— to sit up in bed. He didn't want Gawain to see him like this. Regardless of his wishes, however, his Auror friend and mentor entered the room to find him barely able to lift his head and whimpering in pain. So much for playing tough. Entering the room, but not before giving a little frown of disapproval at Rhys’ attempt to move, Gawain found a chair near the bedside, pulled it closer, and then sat down. He felt uncomfortable, and even out of place, despite having down this sort of bedside vigil before. Mostly, he felt responsible here in some way as if in all his power as Deputy Head Auror he could have prevented this. Maybe he could have. “I’d rather not have you representing Wales in a triathlon,” Gawain commented. “We have standards.” Even if Gawain had been better at jokes it would have fallen flat, but he figured Rhys may appreciate the humour. He winced. “I’m sorry, my humour isn’t as good as yours.” Rhys tried his best to chuckle at the attempt, even if it made his chest ache. “Please, any jokes are good and welcome. It’s better than people crying on me,” the younger man muttered, managing an eye roll. It was far better to make light of it than to admit the worst and upsetting part of all of this was how guilty he felt for how upset everyone else was about his being at death’s door. “I’ll have the report on your desk by Tuesday,” Rhys deadpanned. He made no indication of whether he was joking or simply loopy on drugs. “Part and parcel, I’m afraid,” Gawain responded honestly if sounding a bit forlorn. He’d dealt with plenty of injuries of his own right and sat in on these types of things more than anyone needed to. Tears were part of it. Rhys, though, was different than the others. The Deputy Head shot his Auror mentee a scathing look, although it softened almost instantly back to a neutral expression. Which was as ‘fond’ as Gawain typically got on a normal day. “You will not. We’ve got your debrief. You need to rest. No matter how much you’d rather not.” And heal, because the reports were not as positive as anyone would have hoped for. “It sounds like I’ll have plenty of time to rest,” Rhys said, sounding more forlorn than he would have liked to. He hadn’t yet gathered up the strength or the will to address the elephant in the room, so he continued to beat around the bush instead. “Don’t let Williamson anywhere near my paperwork. He’ll ruin it.” he joked, though his tone fell flat, and he quickly lapsed into uncomfortable silence instead. He frowned, biting his lip for a moment before adding, more seriously, “I’m sorry for letting you down.” “Rest isn’t a bad thing.” It wasn’t what Rhys wanted to hear, Gawain knew, but there was also no rushing these types of healing processes. If one did that was when injuries reaggravated at the worst time, sidelining wizards even further. “You’ll have plenty of time to get your knitting done?” Another Gawain Robards classic. Gawain clasped his hands together and let them rest in his lap. “I’ll keep Williamson away,” he promised, and then his facial expression flickered. That last comment had stricken him. “Why would you say that? You’ve never let me down, Rhys.” Rhys let out a strained chuckle. He appreciated the effort; it was only fair that he tried to do the same. “I'll knit you a hat,” he promised. “What do you think‐Hufflepuff yellow to bring out your eyes?” He winced at Gawain's response. Never having let him down before just made this even worse. He'd spent the last fourteen years of his life trying to make the older man proud, and it had only taken one duel to toss all of that into the rubbish bin. Rhys shut his eyes and rubbed at his temples. “I should have been better. You taught me to be better than this, and I fucked up.” “You make it sound like I’m suffering from Hepatitis.” Nonetheless, that comment was left hanging flatly as Gawain moved on to the more pressing issue. It was true that Gawain Robards had high expectation for his Aurors, but that was part and parcel for the job. His own mentors had been demanding and ruthless during training just the same and instilled the same feelings Rhys himself held. Maybe it would be easier in times like this if the pressure were less, but he’d soon far too many good people -- highly trained Aurors, all of them -- be reduced to ash and dust, buried six feet below. Or worse. No, it had to be this way. “You didn’t let me down. I taught you, and you excelled. You did your job — you went to fight a dark wizard.” Gawain paused, unsure how precisely to continue this. “If anything, I ought to have done more.” “You couldn't have possibly done more,” Rhys said without hesitation. He could not have asked for a better mentor; his failure was his and his alone. He allowed himself to dwell on the fact that Gawain had thought he'd excelled, however undeserved that compliment was. “My uncles always said you were the best of the best, and you are, so thank you for that.” Rhys said gratefully, managing a small, pained smile. He took a deep breath, then added, “Unfortunately, I am not, I guess. I don't know how much you've heard, or how true it is, but—” He concluded with a shrug made that much more pathetic by the fact his shoulders remained pinned to his hospital pillow. Except no matter Rhys’s earnest words and explanation it didn’t stave off the feelings of guilt wrapping themselves around Gawain’s heart. Although he tried to act the stoic elder Auror these days it didn’t always come to pass, and this was the first time he’d had one of his crop of Aurors be injured so severely. It was different. He shook his head. “No, Rhys. I am sorry. You’re a fine Auror, and I’m more than proud of you for your accomplishments.” His lips drew into a thin line. “I am only sorry that I let you down, somewhere along the line.” It was impossible not to get a bit choked up when Gawain said he was proud of him, but Rhys willed himself not to tear up; he felt self-conscious enough as it was without adding further emotions to the mix. He took a few more deep breaths, trying—and failing—to think stoic Auror thoughts. “You didn’t let me down. It’s not like anyone could predict what kind of fucked up shit these fucks would do, so don’t worry about it. But you know, thank you. That means a lot to me, more than you could know. I’m sorry.” Rhys said, reaching out to pat Gawain’s shoulder in an attempt to reassure him, hating to have caused the older man any upset. Again, he tried to deflect with yet another bad joke, “Do you think the Department has any use for a fine Auror who may or may not be able to walk again? Asking for a friend.” How could anyone see this and not get emotional himself? Gawain looked away, and then ever so casually brought the sleeve of his crimson robes to dab under one eye. “Allergies,” he informed gruffly in an attempt to channel Alastor Moody’s no-nonsense tone. It failed. Maybe Gawain could have predicted it better. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t fought tooth and nail in several engagements decades ago. Hadn’t read the action reports of other Aurors better than he. It should have been him on the front lines, not one of the kids, fully fledged Auror in his own right or not. “They’re rotten to the core. It’s hard to predict the depths they’ll sink to, and for that reason it’s no fault of your own, either.” Feeling flummoxed because this was not something they trained you for as an Auror, Gawain gave Rhys what he hoped was a reassuring smile, and then gave his mentee’s shoulder a squeeze of its own in solemn companionship. “You’re welcome, Rhys. You’re a good Auror, and you too should be proud of your accomplishments. No one can take them away from you — we’ll always have been of the highly organized and diligent.” He forced himself to look at Rhys Cadwallader in his hospital bed and smile thinly. The man deserved far more than that, but it was the one thing he could provide at present. The reassurance that he wasn’t a failure. Rhys tried his best to take those words to heart; Gawain Robards had never really been one to give praise he didn't mean, and Rhys would remember them clearly when he needed to remind himself later that someone he'd looked up to had once believed in him. Perhaps someday, he'd be able to feel some pride in what he had accomplished, or some honour in having given so much of himself in order to do the right thing, but it was not yet that day. “I'll try not to let them have that,” he said, trying not to be too depressing despite the fact that he was thoroughly depressed. He didn't want to give the Death Eater who'd done this the satisfaction of knowing he'd ruined his life, so he resolved to pretend he was able to stubbornly seek out a bright side in all this. “I'll have so much time to organise my notes,” Rhys smiled. “I can alphabetise them several times over.” It was difficult, Gawain would be the first to admit, to hold one’s head high when the sinking feeling of defeat permeated every corner of one’s being. Nonetheless, it was something that many Aurors did every day while working tough cases. “You won’t let them have that. I’m already aware they won’t.” Which was a bit of a lie, but a white one, as far as Gawain Robards was concerned. “If nothing else we’ll have some well organized files when the time comes to prosecute them all. They can’t take that from us either.” |