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

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

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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"Right, right." He clears his throat. "Right."

He whisks the blanket off and stands up. No pain, God, he missed that. He makes it about halfway to the door before his memory catches up with the rest of his head about how he died and what resurrection is like on the ship. "Oh. Hold, uh, hold on."

The funny thing is is that he doesn't feel anything about dying or being murdered by Darcy, only sorry that they were the one to do it. Okay. This'll be quick and then they can bolt out of here. He doesn't want anyone seeing him like this who doesn't have to. Phil bows over a nearby sink and starts scrubbing at the blood all over his neck, and the back of his head and shoulders.

There's a deep pressure that constricts when Darcy sees him cleaning blood that they caused. Who would have thought the old man would have so much in him. They want to excuse theirself, to run out ahead so they can mull in private if they're going to find him between their teeth when they floss tonight. But this is the price, right? He's whole and back again, and Darcy wants to puke.

"I'm sorry," they repeat, just so he hears it this time.

"Don't be. I don't feel anything about it, seriously. I'm just--sorry you were the one to do it. I'm out of there, I have all my limbs back. It's fine."

He dries off the last of what he can reach and chucks the paper towel into the wastebin. Stands up straight again. Fuck, he's exhausted.

"Speaking of. Let's get out of here."

"I mean, can we a little talk about the fact that I killed you?" they ask, flat and sounding just as exhausted.

"I'd like to be a bit fucking sorry about ripping your throat out."

"... Yeah. Right."

He doesn't know what to say. He isn't hurt by it at all, and he knows something is definitely wrong with him and maybe it'll just hit him later, but right now he doesn't know how to address this heavy thing when for him there's just... mostly nothing. Honestly right now he just really wants to get out of this room. He mostly banished it in the sink, but he's still mentally beating off the fragility of tears with a stick.

"It... it hurt like hell, yeah. But it's... the whole dying thing, it doesn't really hit me that much." The action itself nothing dissimilar to what he's done to himself, except. "But you were..." inhales, "yeah, it was. A lot. You looking at me like that. Knowing what you were gonna do." Letting them. "I'm really sorry I put you in that position."

Edited 2023-12-24 06:40 (UTC)

...

"Could you try being a little mad at me about it?"

This is the one bad part about Phil, he's just... calm and accepting in a way that kind of isn't working for them right now.

...

Man.

"If someone hadn't killed me to make sure I got my limbs back I don't know what I'd be right now. Worse, definitely." Mmm.

"But I wish it wasn't you. It didn't have to be you. I wish you hadn't been the one to put your hands and your teeth on me, and that you didn't have to see my body and know that it was you, but--I know you would have hated it being someone else. I wish you wouldn't."

"If it wasn't me, it wouldn't have been anyone else."

Nobody else knows how important it is for Phil not to lose even more of himself. Nobody else dwells in his blind spot to be the eye he's lost.

Point is, this also isn't the catharsis they were looking for. If anything, it feels worse.

"I would've used a knife if I'd had one."

“I know.”

Maybe this is it: it’s hard to be mad at them when it was all his fault in the first place. What happened, he did it to both of them.

“Darts, I don’t know what you’re looking for. Can we at least get out of this room?”

"Right- yeah, sorry," Darcy ducks their head a little and leads the way out. Not like they know, either. Absolution, maybe. Catharsis after a week of hell. Some definite thing to be uncomplicatedly sorry for.

"I should, ehn, maybe check on Dimitri before breakfast. If you want- yeah."

He breathes out as he trods after them. It’s easier to see now that they aren’t in the middle of a bloodbath or the bright sterile lights of the infirmary: the Mantle that dogs his footsteps has resolved from orange to a thin greenish-white.

“Right. There’s probably a lot of people who’re worried about us.” Not like they up and vanished or anything. Ha ha. Fuck, he hates himself so much that he almost starts crying again. Peter told him to be careful.

“But… I mean, I haven’t seen you in ages, can I just… give you a hug?”

Before he's even finished saying the word Darcy is already squishing him in a hug. With no bruises left from the excursion, they can smush their head into his collarbone, trying to listen for the sound of his breathing.

Darcy and Phil fold into each other like it’s the most natural thing in the world, two as one, Darcy-and-Phil; his arms wrap around them and so do his wings, snug and tight and inseparable.

His heart pounds live and steady. His breathing slows. Darcy has none to speak of, but he gets to hold them, do more than just remember the shape of them against his.

“I missed you so much,” he mutters into their hair.

He's warm and alive again, as he should be. Whole again. Safe, for now. Darcy did that. Ensuring that he wouldn't have to suffer without his wings or sovereignty of his mind.

The complicated tangle of feelings loosens into relief. This is how it used to feel, when a dead body meant safety for another day, blood the price paid for it, a straightforward transaction. If Darcy's broken from the experience, they've broken into the shape of something sharp again. No more fear. No tears. If one of them has to be vicious to keep them safe, then it will be Darcy.

"Never again," they answer back. A hand goes to Phil's and moves it to rest atop their head.

"Never again." His hand settles upon their head, and there he places a kiss.

Phil adjusts his hold, but otherwise doesn't move. Let them stay. Let them hoard each other's time and presence like this. They've already gone to hell, so if they didn't deserve it, let them pay the selfish sin now so that they might.

It doesn't feel the same here. Like they can't quite settle into it, can't bear to shut out the rest of the world when they can hear footsteps above them. Maybe their mistake was ever feeling safe, even with him or Skully.

Still nice, though. Even if the contact makes them itchy. Nervous. Too much being held down over the last... week?

"I should go check in on Dimitri," they say. Not to separate right now, but just keeping track of where else they're needed.

Phil has had enough being wrestled off of a cot and held down onto an operating table to last a lifetime, but all the same, he's eager to replace the echo with something better.

"We both have a lot of people to check on." His hold loosens. "... What day is it?"

All that looping in windowless rooms, he'd completely lost track. As far as he's concerned they could be well into June.

"Whoever's stayed behind would probably have kept count. Maybe Max?"

Probably Max. He's sensible.

"Don't let me keep you," once again the reminder that Darcy isn't the only priority in his life.

Huffs.

Phil folds away from them with a pat on the shoulder, sated for the moment. The moment he finds out it's almost Christmas it's over though.

"I'll start sending out texts." A pause. "... Catch you later?"

"Yeah. Of course. Not like I'll be anywhere else."

There's a limit of places they can physically be on the ship, after all. Not like the Village, where they could be secreted away.

"Okay."

He's gotta find someplace to make texts and meet people when they inevitably ask to see him. Phil turns and heads down the hall for the atrium. To his credit, he only looks backwards once.

And his wings flap half-unfolded when he climbs the stairs.

And that one backwards glance meets Darcy's gaze. They look... sad, and a hand loosely holds the arm that was injured in the melee. They need a minute, that's all, then they'll both start acting more like themselves and everything will settle back into place.

Much later in the day, Phil gets a text.

hey
ive set up in the kitchen
dont think i can do doors right now
come by if you want

I’ll come.

And he does. Steps into the kitchen freshly showered and changed out of those awful fucking Village clothes; he’d wear Whitestone things if he could stand to wear anything less comfortable than his usual button down and pants. His sword clinks on the side of his belt and the antimagic ring sits on his hand. His earbuds are around his neck, but he’s not wearing them at the moment. Doesn’t dare reducing his awareness.

He’s also holding a book, and a rubber duck with a flower pot on its head.

Wherever and however Darcy is set up, he puts the duck down (it squeaks) and then settles in alongside.

Edited 2023-12-26 05:53 (UTC)

It's literally just a corner of the kitchen that Darcy's claimed. No great effort has been taken to make it comfortable, there's just a blanket and a handful of Darcy's things. Some swords, a few books. The Haunting of Hill House has a bookmark moved back near the start.

"Hey," they greet him, and then search for a few moments for something to say. Come up blank.

"Hi."

(Oooh, that's a good read. It's nice to see Darcy engaging in stuff like that.)

Well. Phil has something to say. He hasn't stopped turning it over in his head.

"I'm sorry. About--about the Dome."

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