Geoffrey had been hiding. Naturally a private man and not particularly close to any of the other crew members, it was more than instinctual to pull away, retreat into his mourning. He'd spent days avoiding people, hiding away in the depths of the lockers as he came to terms with his situation.

His wife was dead.

His son was dead.

His other child would never be born.

Perhaps his friends and his prince, perhaps even Sir Adhemar, were locked away in the pods, but Chaucer held no illusions about his actual family. The writer could barely comprehend why he was here; they would be nothing more than chattel in Stacy's eyes.

He spent a day on weeping, allowing his grief to flow through and away from him on his tears, and then another on writing. The words did not come easily this time, they weren't a constant river pulling him along, but they were there. They helped him heal.

A person, especially Geoff, can only spend so long away from other people, however, and after a time he found himself scrounging around, first finding a new, black cloth for his kilt, a sign of mourning that he made sure was quite firmly fastened this time, and then leaving the lockers to search elsewhere in the ship until he found what he wanted.

Then, gun firmly in hand, he went searching for the Chief. There would be time for prayer later, if God did still listen.

In the fashion that only a speedster is capable of, the Flash is late to the party. Extremely late for someone who can cross the whole ship in less than a second.

Where he's been during the podpop and the crew social is best left unasked. Oh, he'd been in the caverns before the new arrivals had their gooey awakening, but he'd had an agenda. Had it been minutes, hours or days spent searching for Linda amongst the seemingly infinite mass of pods? He could never be entirely sure when he was back on Earth, but the ship's timelessness made it that much easier to lose yourself in.

The rest of the time spent absent? Well, he never did find her...

But here he is regardless, late rather than never, a crimson streak hurtling onto the observation deck.

"Hellooooooooooo...? Don't tell me I missed the show?" he looks around for a familiar face, while absently muttering, "Bet the buffet's already been rustled too..."