"Come in." Her door was, in reality, only closed because she was quietly playing music. She reaches out to tap the rectangle it's coming from as Gela opens the door, and it fades to nothing. There's a flicker of a smile as she sees who it is, though it fades immediately as she registers Gela's demeanor.
Cosima's been in the office long enough that it no longer looks to be in transition, though she keeps the former provosts' files close at hand. While the desk is covered in papers and books, the chairs across from her aren't, and Cosima gestures at one.
"Hey. Take a seat. What can I do for you?" She hopes, briefly, that she can help with whatever it is. She likes Gela, and there's also been a crop of particularly thorny problems recently. A solid win would be nice, if not the most likely thing.
She does not smile back, the biggest indication of her current mood. She's always got along well with Cosima in the past but it's too difficult to reach out for that easy, smiling calm she typically wears, not when she's trying to stick to a script.
Yes, of course she practiced in the mirror before coming here. Did it help? Well—
She sits, and tucks in her skirts for longer than is strictly necessary, avoiding eye contact. Marcus did not instruct her to obtain a certain response from the Provost, only that Gela should make her aware of the circumstances, so it stands to reason that either way she is making good on her word. All she has to do is say it.
"Mister Rowantree asked me to speak with you," she starts, rattling off her words like a child in trouble, "About my personal situation, which I have not been entirely honest about. If I am to remain here."
It's safe to say Cosima hadn't expected this, and her forehead wrinkles in surprised concern. "OK, sure. Do you want me to close the door again, so we can have some privacy?" She's already half getting up to do so. The gravity of situation is perfectly clear, even if she hasn't the least idea what this could be about.
"Yes please," Gela says meekly, and sinks lower into her chair.
She does have to admit that Cosima is less intimidating than Marcus Rowntree on the whole, despite how equally sympathetic they are. She sighs, gustily. She looks very tired, face paler than usual and dark circles more pronounced underneath of her eyes. If this could all be over—if everything could resolve itself, well, she could relax. Until then, it feels impossible.
Cosima shuts the door gently and then returns to her chair. She considers Gela's face with increased attention, as if trying to guess at where this could be going. Perhaps it's her own experience that makes her jump to "serious illness" as a first suspicion, but she can't imagine why Rowntree would have been issuing orders about it.
"OK. Tell me about your situation then," is quietly encouraging.
Gela irons a hand up over her face, pushing on her forehead, fingers inching into her hair. She sighs again and says, "Okay," quietly, as if cajoling herself. One more time then:
"He asked that I tell you I am cursed," sounds very dramatic, but it is the truth. He was precise with his wording. "And that I present danger to other people because of it, so that you can..."
Here, she trails off. Even in the practicing she's never quite decided what she thinks Cosima will want to do with this information. Order her banned? Or locked up?? Perhaps. She adds quietly, "I'm sorry, to come to you so suddenly like this, but the other option was that he report me to the Commander and have me removed, and I—" don't want to go. Despite the curse and all the danger. It is so selfish.
Even without knowing the specifics, she can't help but immediately think of Ruby, all those years ago, convinced of her own monstrous nature. (You must hate me. How much that wasn't true.)
"Hey, hey. It's alright, you don't have to apologize. What kind of curse?" She wants to reach out and catch Gela's hand, but it seems like the contact might be overwhelming, so she holds off for the moment.
She lifts her chin at last, but only so the tears blurring her vision won't actually fall. Sitting there, blinking carefully, her lip curls ruefully; so much crying, even more dishonesty. Gela isn't usually like this.
"I'm a werewolf." At least it comes out much faster than it did with Rowntree, and she doesn't trip over the words. "I have been for a long time, nearly five years. Nobody knows."
Amending almost instantly, "Rowntree knows. So does Dr. Strange."
"Shit. I'm so sorry." She pulls out a handkerchief and offers it to Gela. "God, you must have been so stressed all the time. Is it ... the legends at home tied it to the moon, is it like that here? I'm afraid I'm not familiar in Thedas."
Gela blinks. A big tear falls despite her best efforts, skipping down her cheek.
She takes the handkerchief held out to her automatically, holds it in her lap, not looking at it, her fingers plucking at the edges and idly smoothing, all little comforts.
Waiting for the other shoe to drop she says, "Pardon?"
"Oh, shit, sorry, is it ... maybe it means something different than I'm thinking? But my understanding of the werewolves is that it's a pretty horrific thing that happens to a person, I assume Rowntree sent you here to see if we can do anything to help. We've got legends at home, but I shouldn't have jumped there." She looks lightly wary, in case she has genuinely misstepped somehow, but otherwise still genuine.
"No," she says, still sounding lost, "I—you want to help?"
What? It's clashing so hard against her assumption of how this moment (and each before it) would go that she can't think of anything else to say. Can't bring herself to hope for the best either, even though... it, for some reason, seems like it will be okay.
"Of course I want to help." She aches, a bit, for how clearly this is a surprise. "Look, I can't promise results, with speed or ever. But we've got some really clever people in the department, and you're not even the first person in the organization who's had to deal with involuntary transformations into a dangerous animal. Well. I guess were still technically the Inquisition then, but that's not the point."
She leans forward, her hands on the desk in lieu of reaching too far. "I'm really sorry you've been going through this. We'll work something out. You don't have to hold it all on your own."
It does seem as if Cosima is reaching out to her, which Gela is having difficulty parsing through; she's just told her she is dangerous and Cosima doesn't seem to mind at all. She isn't even asking what happened or what danger she could be in (though she brought up the moon in the exact way that Strange did, so, with the moon still waning now, she must think she is safe?). Gela does not reach back. Ideally, she should be feeling greatly relieved.
"Oh my god, hey." Cosima gets up so she can come crouch in front of Gela's chair. "Hey, it's gonna be OK. We'll figure something out. And in the meantime, we'll figure out how to make sure we're reducing the risk and we'll keep everyone safe. Including you, alright?"
It's embarrassing, but she finds she can't stop even when Cosima comes to her, kneeling to catch a glimpse of her face beneath all her hair. Tears leak out. What Cosima said, about not having to hold it all on her own? She has been, for a long time. The kindness is a shock.
Telling Jude was like this, too.
‘Figuring out how to reduce the risk’ should probably concern her, the wording of it, but Gela finds she can't possibly focus on it now. Using the handkerchief to blot hastily at her eyes she nods, the lump in her throat too big to speak around.
She puts a hand on Gela's knee, lightly, unable to resist offering at least some sort of contact. "Hey. Can I get you a glass of water?" As Gela already has the handkerchief, presumably.
No, it's nice. Thoughtful of her. Gela inhales a quick, short breath and says, "I'm sorry," in a little rush. "I haven't been sleeping well." This will explain the weepy behaviour.
She wipes her eyes thoroughly with the handkerchief.
"You got it." She rises and moves to a side table where she has a pitcher of water, some cups and mugs, and a variety of accessories for tea. The water she pours Gela isn't cold anymore, but the metal pitcher has kept it a little cooler than room temperature.
She comes back and offers the cup to Gela. "There's nothing to be sorry for. It's a lot to deal with."
She nods mournfully, tucking one leg up underneath of herself, becoming small in her chair while she tries to calm down. The cup of water is taken and sipped slowly; it helps. She keeps tight hold of the handkerchief, anticipating a future need for it yet.
Explanation tumbles out of her. "I haven't told anybody about this, for years, and now I've told three people in two weeks."
She leans against the desk, giving Gela some room. "Look, I can imagine why you wouldn't have been eager to volunteer it at first. Who else, besides me and Rowntree?"
"Strange," she supplies. "But he swore doctor-patient confidentiality." The strongest of oaths. "... Jude first," she adds a little softer, setting her cup down onto Cosima's desk, "But he was gone soon after."
And then nobody knew again. It had felt like being given a chance to test it out but Gela had sat on that for months and said nothing more, not until she had to; she failed.
"Does everybody have to know?" Her fingers tap nervously near the cup.
"Not fully my call," she says, quietly honest, as she rubs one arm with the opposite hand. "But I think you can make a stronger case for not the more we know about the risks. I feel like a jerk asking you to press against a bruise, but if you know more about what's triggered changes in the past, what you remember about before and after a change ... the more we know, the more we can calibrate our caution. Riftwatch generally, but in this case, the leadership."
"No, I understand." They need to account for this now that they know it. For some reason, nobody has yet been angry with her for holding this information at bay until now, so of course Gela will cooperate.
She says carefully, "Well, I've only changed once. And it was the spell, that triggered it, so..."
That seems very easy to avoid: simply don't cast any werewolf spells on her. Thank you.
"OK. That's good, then. A ton of things have happened to you between now and then, right, so all of those are things that don't trigger it. And if it's only a magic thing, maybe there's some way to block it. I'm not ... I don't really understand the specifics, but I know Templars can shut down magic, obviously, but I've also read that anti-magic wards are a thing. Maybe there's something to that we can explore on the research side."
She reaches for a notebook so she can jot something down. "I can't promise what the other Div heads will think, for security purposes. But as far as research goes ... I can try to work mainly with Strange, since he already knows. But it might be helpful if we could reach out to a mage who's from here. Maybe Derrica? But if there's anyone you definitely don't want me to involve, that's a line I can stick to as far as it's research-only."
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Cosima's been in the office long enough that it no longer looks to be in transition, though she keeps the former provosts' files close at hand. While the desk is covered in papers and books, the chairs across from her aren't, and Cosima gestures at one.
"Hey. Take a seat. What can I do for you?" She hopes, briefly, that she can help with whatever it is. She likes Gela, and there's also been a crop of particularly thorny problems recently. A solid win would be nice, if not the most likely thing.
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Yes, of course she practiced in the mirror before coming here. Did it help? Well—
She sits, and tucks in her skirts for longer than is strictly necessary, avoiding eye contact. Marcus did not instruct her to obtain a certain response from the Provost, only that Gela should make her aware of the circumstances, so it stands to reason that either way she is making good on her word. All she has to do is say it.
"Mister Rowantree asked me to speak with you," she starts, rattling off her words like a child in trouble, "About my personal situation, which I have not been entirely honest about. If I am to remain here."
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She does have to admit that Cosima is less intimidating than Marcus Rowntree on the whole, despite how equally sympathetic they are. She sighs, gustily. She looks very tired, face paler than usual and dark circles more pronounced underneath of her eyes. If this could all be over—if everything could resolve itself, well, she could relax. Until then, it feels impossible.
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"OK. Tell me about your situation then," is quietly encouraging.
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"He asked that I tell you I am cursed," sounds very dramatic, but it is the truth. He was precise with his wording. "And that I present danger to other people because of it, so that you can..."
Here, she trails off. Even in the practicing she's never quite decided what she thinks Cosima will want to do with this information. Order her banned? Or locked up?? Perhaps. She adds quietly, "I'm sorry, to come to you so suddenly like this, but the other option was that he report me to the Commander and have me removed, and I—" don't want to go. Despite the curse and all the danger. It is so selfish.
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"Hey, hey. It's alright, you don't have to apologize. What kind of curse?" She wants to reach out and catch Gela's hand, but it seems like the contact might be overwhelming, so she holds off for the moment.
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"I'm a werewolf." At least it comes out much faster than it did with Rowntree, and she doesn't trip over the words. "I have been for a long time, nearly five years. Nobody knows."
Amending almost instantly, "Rowntree knows. So does Dr. Strange."
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She takes the handkerchief held out to her automatically, holds it in her lap, not looking at it, her fingers plucking at the edges and idly smoothing, all little comforts.
Waiting for the other shoe to drop she says, "Pardon?"
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What? It's clashing so hard against her assumption of how this moment (and each before it) would go that she can't think of anything else to say. Can't bring herself to hope for the best either, even though... it, for some reason, seems like it will be okay.
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She leans forward, her hands on the desk in lieu of reaching too far. "I'm really sorry you've been going through this. We'll work something out. You don't have to hold it all on your own."
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She doesn't feel much of anything.
Drawing a breath she manages, "That's... good."
And abruptly bursts into tears.
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Telling Jude was like this, too.
‘Figuring out how to reduce the risk’ should probably concern her, the wording of it, but Gela finds she can't possibly focus on it now. Using the handkerchief to blot hastily at her eyes she nods, the lump in her throat too big to speak around.
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She wipes her eyes thoroughly with the handkerchief.
"Yes, please."
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She comes back and offers the cup to Gela. "There's nothing to be sorry for. It's a lot to deal with."
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Explanation tumbles out of her. "I haven't told anybody about this, for years, and now I've told three people in two weeks."
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And then nobody knew again. It had felt like being given a chance to test it out but Gela had sat on that for months and said nothing more, not until she had to; she failed.
"Does everybody have to know?" Her fingers tap nervously near the cup.
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She says carefully, "Well, I've only changed once. And it was the spell, that triggered it, so..."
That seems very easy to avoid: simply don't cast any werewolf spells on her. Thank you.
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She reaches for a notebook so she can jot something down. "I can't promise what the other Div heads will think, for security purposes. But as far as research goes ... I can try to work mainly with Strange, since he already knows. But it might be helpful if we could reach out to a mage who's from here. Maybe Derrica? But if there's anyone you definitely don't want me to involve, that's a line I can stick to as far as it's research-only."
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skids in late
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places bow