It had to happen eventually, so why not now?

[cauchemal]

Who: Mal Cobb, Billy Costigan
What: It's not like Mal can avoid Cobb's clone forever.
Where: Somewhere in the Barge.
When: Early in Day 2 of the outage.
Warnings: Unlikely

Comments

[lost_undercover]

Costigan was returning from the dining hall. The severe rations had him worried and he had opted to only take half of what was offered in order to save some food for longer. This whole place was getting to him and the withdrawals from his medications only made it worse. Since he had been trying to limit their consumption, he hadn't been carrying more than one pill around with him at a time. When the contents of everyone's rooms disappeared, so did his pills. Sometimes he wasn't certain if he was hallucinating or if his severe fears and paranoia were rational

[cauchemal]

Mal let out small, frightened gasp, instinctively backing up against the nearest wall. The glimpse of the face in the flicker of light was brief, but it was just enough for her to recognise-

"Dom?" Her heart was in her throat. As soon as she said it, she realised it was much more likely that it was that other man, Costigan, but she couldn't stop herself from hoping.

[lost_undercover]

Costigan let out a small sigh when he realized who it was, the question familiar to him from their last conversation. His hand fell away from his weapon, running through his hair instead. His normal accent, when not actively angry, was that of north Boston -- subtle and nearly indistinguishable; when he was angry, his tone took on that of South Boston, the traditional accent associated with the area. Despite not being angry right now, the inmate pushed a little more of Southie into his accent to help her distinguish him from his twin. He could only imagine what it was like.

"It's Bill. Again." He was almost apologetic for that fact. The woman clearly loved her husband, in a way he had probably never really experienced. "Mal, right?"

[cauchemal]

Her shoulders slumped a little. Of course, of course ... but knowing what the likeliest outcome would be didn't take away much from the sting of disappointment.

"Mal, yes. I'm sorry, I don't mean-" To keep mistaking you for my husband? Feeling foolish, she trailed off. Then cleared her throat, and with some attempt at friendly conversation: "Is everything-are you all right?"