you keep asking why your work is not enough [open]

[goodweather]

Who: Phil & friends
What: Village aftermath. Oh Brother
When: dec 24th through the rest
Where: infirmary, john's, bobby b's, others
Warnings: for the first header, village-typical horror; namely forced amputation and medical abuse, drugging, blood, discussion of patricide



i. because it is enough to exist in the world [infirmary, closed to darcy] (cw: blood, probably discussion of patricide, drugging, forced amputation, medical abuses)

Phil heaves awake in a cot in a medical room. The pain is gone; a frantic grabbing reveals that his wings are back, heavy and solid, and he is in a medical room sitting in a cot, and there is still a badge on him, and he is in a medical room sitting in a cot with his wings still intact, and it doesn't matter that blood coats his neck and all the back of his head because all he can think is oh God not again, please not again, not again, not again, not again, not again.

When Darcy finds him, he's staring down at his lap, breath coming deep and fast and about two inches from outright dry heaving, gripping the sheets.

ii. and marvel at it [texts]

Texts go out to those he knows. Ava, Tayrey, Cass, Erin, Dimitri too; anyone close enough to him he can think of, on or off the excursion.

Alright?

iii. you don't need to justify that [atrium] (closed to venom)

He needs to find it. Needs to be with his friend again, needs to feel its comfort and its strength around him again, so bodily and intrinsic as it was, and he needs to feel a comfort deeper than kind words and a firm hug. He needs to know that he's safe. He isn't safe on his own.

As soon as there's time, he rushes into the atrium, the most open crossroads-point on the ship, and tries to listen for it.

iv. or earn it [john's]

For all that talk about the orchestra in the Village, he hasn't actually seen or touched a piano in a month. He's got to be so rusty by now.

He tries to slip back into it, but something in his head is all wrong; the notes are just fine, sure, if a little rough, but the colors, the musicality, it's gone. That's fine, he tells himself. Nothing a bit of practicing and relistening to his betters won't fix. Practice always fixes things. If you work at it long enough, mind the right techniques, it will happen. Has to happen.

He practices. Practices for hours. It's not pretty, but it's work, good work. He missed good work.

v. you are allowed to just live [around] (cw: compulsivity)

Phil and Darcy cannot be found without the other for all of Christmas Eve and into Christmas proper.

After that, though, he wanders, attempts to fall back into his routine. He reads, in the library or in a seat beneath the signposts; takes his coffee from Sand Dollars; eats decent food from the buffet like he hasn't had a full stomach in months; attempts to draw, sometimes. And preens.

... Preens a lot, actually. Too much. It borders on compulsive, how much and how aggressively he goes at it sometimes, leaving his feathers ragged and torn. Complete opposite of what he's supposed to be doing but he can't seem to stop. He can't stop touching his wings, always digging his fingers through the quills, feeling that they're there at all and there's no pain that wasn't his fault. Over and over. Real, there, real. Staying. Every mark he leaves, every barb he breaks, every quill he accidentally pulls out or snaps--his actions have consequences and they stay. Good. Good.

vi. that is all most animals do [bobby b's]

More than once, Phil drags himself into the cigar and whiskey bar. Heaves over to the counter to order a drink, slogs into a chair to cut a cigar, and just.

Sits. Stares at the same spot on the wall for the next hour until he's done.

vii. wildcard

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Comments

I

[saltwaterlungs]

Darcy broke into a dead sprint out of their room just as soon as they woke up again. It's... odd, feeling fine after feeling starved and beaten, but there's no time for it, or saying hi to Gwen, or accepting cookies from Max, or anything else.

Unfortunately they're too late to get there before he wakes up. Hurtling through the door, they all-but tackle him in the cot, a hand carefully going to check his wings.

"I'm sorry-" they creak. From the revival, they haven't even shaved their hair yet, back to being dark and floppy over their eyes. Another reminded that he's not back there.

[goodweather]

Phil cries out in genuine alarm when there's a body impacting his, thrashing for a moment because no no no enough doctors enough surgeons everyone needs to get off of him and leave him the fuck alone but the shape is--different, a different definition, it's cold. Cold.

Darcy. Their hair is long--is he hallucinating? How far has he lost it now?

"Darcy," he hurries breathlessly, "I don't know how you got in here but you need to go, the staff are gonna be here soon. There's nothing you can do. I don't want you to see me like this."

[saltwaterlungs]

The alarm chills them further, down to the marrow, and it doesn't quite vanish when he seems to calm down a little. For good reason- whatever the fuck they did to him...

"Phil," their voice is calm. They have to be the adult here. They unpin his number badge and throw it to the other side of the room.

"The badges don't come back. Check, it's gone. We're not there anymore."

And true enough, '69' isn't pinned to Darcy's shirt either. The one thing they attended to on the way out.

ii

[astrogator]

[There's no immediate response. Eventually:]

Courtesy message, or you want the truth?

[goodweather]

Truth. I'm taking stock of everybody, call it a temperature check. I for one am not doing so hot.

[astrogator]

I'm furious.

It wasn't even real.

They hurt me, Citizen Phil, and then I wake up and there are no damn wounds, not even scars, so I haven't even got any evidence next time someone tries to tell me this is a fucking pleasure cruise and our captor's a real nice guy with love in his heart.

[Phil suffered much more, but Tayrey wasn't in any fit state to notice him, at the end.]

ii.

[decohere]

it's over. i got my husband back. i eliminated the man responsible.

but... not sure. how to really process any of it yet.

you. you've been missing.

[goodweather]

you killed him? Good.

Don’t worry about me right now. You should be focusing on you and your husband Peter. If there’s anything I can do to make your lives easier, I’ll see if I can do it.

[decohere]

at that point there really wasn't anything else to be done.

of course im worried, phil. you, darcy. others went missing. just like peter. and i looked, but i couldnt...

did he hurt you

ii.

[not_the_last]

The return text from Cassandra is near-immediate.

Where are you? I'm coming.

[goodweather]

Sitting on a staircase around the lower atrium at the moment. Not hard to find.

[not_the_last]

It's barely half a minute later when she enters the atrium, slowing from an uncanny speed -- yes, she has the Boots of Haste on.

Her face, before she sees him, is fixed in a determined urgency. When her gaze falls on him, that set expression -- breaks? melts? comes apart? whatever the word is, it leaves behind a wholly unguarded look of anguished relief.

Without a word, she moves toward him.

II

[crushed_pearls]

Fuck it letting head voice dictate the next text.

What follows is a string of extremely inventive profanity and curses from every culture Erin has ever had contact with.

[goodweather]

He skims most of it.

that’s what i figured.

sorry about all that. I hope the preparation helped.

how did it go? I kind of missed everything in the last week.

[crushed_pearls]

The speech to text transcribes what is probably maniacal laughter.

Went like shit Phil. Like fucking shit. Ended up trapped in the hospital. Cass was there. Someone from my old world was there. Trying to.

One minute.

Two.

I told you they never forgot Liz there.

ii

[prince_of_beasts]

What heather.
Whatever happened I am certain you suffered worse.

Texting is.
Difficult.

[goodweather]

Like the whole thing or just me? Because it’s kind of a long story both ways.

vi.

[inhairently]

Steve doesn't know Phil, but he knows of Phil. It's kind of hard to not be at least vaguely aware of pretty much everyone when you're stuck on a cruise with them for an extended period of time. Plus, you know. The wings thing. Kinda hard to miss.

They've never really spoken beyond (presumably) the standard pleasantries, though. Point being that Steve has no idea if Phil is a Cool Adult or not.

As in, you know —

"Hey." He hovers near the bar, shooting Phil a meaningful look. "Can you do me a favor?"

Seems like if the ship deems him old enough to go through the Horrors on a monthly basis he should also be old enough to order his own goddamn drink but apparently not.

[goodweather]

Ah--hairstyle kid, he knows of him. Saw him around, didn't see him for a while, but now he's here. He can't tell if he actually vanished or if it's another miracle case like when he thought Arthur was dead for five months. He doesn't think he'll ask.

Phil's eye flicks up to the racks of liquors and spirits, then back to him. He recognizes him. He was one of... they've got some recent events in common.

"Lemme know what you've got your eye on. You know what you're looking at or do you want some recommendations?" The offer is made lightly, with no judgement. Everyone learns somehow.

V

[maximumcake]

Max approaches Phil in the middle of one of these preening sessions. He's carrying two plates eat with a slice of chocolate cake and a fork.

"Would you like a slice of my birthday cake?"

He isn't ignorant of what's probably going on, and he's not exactly trying to use his birthday to guilt Phil but to distract him maybe or...surprise him into a new train of thought.

"You don't have to eat it now."

[goodweather]

It takes Phil a moment to realize the footsteps are headed his way; he’s in the middle of trying to sweep off the scattering of broken barbs on the deck floor when Max shows up with two cake slices in his hands.

“… Oh! Oh my God, I didn’t even—happy birthday!” Fuck he should probably get him something right? “Did we miss it? I’m so sorry. Yeah, I’ll take some, here.” Phil reaches out for a plate.

iii.

[blacksludgeaffair]

There's a low gurgling sound, crossing the walls of the promenade. A shadow just a little too deep, passing by storefronts, searching, upwards.

The symbiote knows others have returned. Where is Phil?

[goodweather]

There.

Phil launches upwards with a great beating of his wings, skipping all the levels of the atrium and landing to cross the last flight of stairs into the Promenade.

Where—yes, there. His hearing locks onto it almost immediately, and his eye follows. “Symbiote!” he shouts, hurrying forward, an arm outstretched—

—(he won’t allow himself to linger on the last minute stab of fear, of what he’ll do if it’s abandoned him, found someone else, someone better in the time he was gone. He didn’t have a choice. He missed it so much, it’ll understand that, surely)—

iv

[takethatnature]

Oh, good, Phil's back. Wilson can stop packing an extra lunch for the piano when he has stuff to do on the Promenade.

"I think it missed you," he says, from just beyond biting distance, when there's a break in the music.

[goodweather]

Oh, Wilson! Fuck. There's so many people he hasn't seen in ages. He isn't even talking about the fact that they haven't spoken in a while, but just--it's been so long since he's even seen him around.

"I hope she didn't cause too much trouble while I was gone," he says, chuckling lightly. "Dimitri and I have been trying to tame her for a while now."