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

(( got other ideas? lmk! ))

Comments

[goodweather]

"It's an excerpt from a letter that an artist from my world wrote to his brother." His voice rumbles in his chest against Cassandra. "Vincent van Gogh, if you ever see the name. The way it's usually quoted in my language is a little inaccurate and more artistically made up, but the spirit's the same. If I am worth anything later, I am worth something now. For wheat is wheat, even if people think it is a grass in the beginning."

[not_the_last]

I am worth something now. She recognizes the feeling in that, the saying of what one needs to believe to be true.

(And what is she worth, if she couldn't save him from this suffering? Maybe something later; and if later, says the artist, then also now.)

(and if not tomorrow, perhaps --)

"It's very beautiful," she mumbles against his chest.

[goodweather]

"Yes," he hums. And like the falling of snow begets the melt, or the moon begets the tide: "Most things are."

[not_the_last]

Of all things, it's those simple words that make her start leaking tears.

She has to detach one arm from the hug to wipe her eyes, and then it feels a little more natural to try to draw him with her to sit down again while she digs out a clean handkerchief.

[goodweather]

He follows, of course. Sits patiently while Cassandra sees to her tears.

"Are you alright?"

[not_the_last]

"I don't know."

She looks up at him. "Are you?"

[goodweather]

A huff of a half-laugh; a half-smile, almost a smirk, mostly just a grimacing show of teeth.

"Something'd be very wrong with me if I was, and at this rate I think I'd prefer it that way."

[not_the_last]

She gives a tiny huff of breath, about as much laugh as his, and her mouth trembles for a moment before she pulls it level again.

"I know I can't make everything all right again, but ... is there anything I could do to help?"

[goodweather]

Phil is quiet for a moment.

“I don’t know. Depressing answer, I know, but I really don’t.” He shrugs, kind of. “I’m open to ideas?”

[not_the_last]

"If I have any," she sighs, "you'll be the first to know."

A long beat.

"May I ask you ... well, a terrible question honestly?"

[goodweather]

“Yeah, of course. Shoot.”

[not_the_last]

"Do you ..." She takes an awkward, difficult breath. "Do you still feel that you deserved -- any, any of what they told you? That it was your fault?"

[goodweather]

A small laugh falls out of him as he spares a glance to the floor. He pauses for too long.

“I don’t think I deserved all of that. But…” His throat bobs. Phil’s voice gets softer as he speaks. “It was my fault. They didn’t need to tell me that. I already knew it. I broke into the Dome and took Darcy with me, so when they caught us, what they did to me and what they did to him, that was—that was my fault.”

[not_the_last]

Cassandra swallows hard when he starts speaking, and has to struggle to stay silent until he finishes.

"It was not," she says -- flat, direct, brooking no denial. "You are not to blame for what they did to you, either of you."

[goodweather]

Something in his stomach twinges. “Easy to say when you didn’t make the call.”

He can’t seem to meet her eyes. “You don’t… I.”

He can’t tell her.

“Peter warned me, and I still… it was irresponsible of me. I should’ve known better. A boat can fall into a storm by chance, but it’s the captain’s fault if he makes the wrong calls and sinks it. Darcy didn’t do anything but follow me, because he trusts me and I’m supposed to know better, but they—took him away and…”

And in some ways, didn’t he do exactly what he was told to do as some hypnotized moron? Get them into a spot where they could try and break Darcy? And didn’t they try?

Maybe he didn’t deserve all of what happened, but he did deserve some. He did. Does. (It’s easier that way, to swallow pain when it’s fair.)

[not_the_last]

He isn't meeting her eyes. And that could be only the pain and shame of what he's telling her, gods know, but -- there's something. Something. You don't ...

"He warned all of us. There were risks we had to take if we were to have any hope of finding him, of getting ourselves out -- " Her voice isn't anything like as even as she would like. "I made a wrong call myself, to get into the hospital and talk to 2, and I still don't know why he didn't k-keep me there --"

[goodweather]

His gaze snaps up. “Cassandra,” he says distantly, too horrified to remember the title, “no, you didn’t… you said you snuck.”

[not_the_last]

She swallows.

"I had to sneak back in," she says, "after he sent me out. I was ... trying to convince him that I would collaborate willingly. He wasn't fooled. Either he saw through my plan, or someone told him."

[goodweather]

“… Someone told. Had, had to’ve been that, it was one of our jobs, reporting unm—rebellion to him.”

Trying to play a double double agent. He can grasp that. She’s building towards something, though, and he’s not sure he likes what he sees.

[not_the_last]

She nods, without looking up.

"Of course it was. He would need that, to keep control of the place. That -- that's what I was offering him. And I thought -- I was so sure he would believe me. It was exactly the kind of thing he wanted. Especially if. If he knew."

Her hands are trembling.

"That I'd done it before."

[goodweather]

His eyes dart about.

...

"The Briarwoods," he murmurs, when the pieces have been put together.

[not_the_last]

An unsteady nod.

"I told you," she says, "I think I told you, that I was their prisoner for some years before Percy came back. And I said I would tell you the rest later."

She looks up into his face, her own pale and set.

[goodweather]

His jaw sets. He looks more sad and tense than anything.

"Yeah. Yeah, you did."

His voice is soft and unsteady, but not accusatory. Not rising. His wings shuffle in place, tightening against his back.

[not_the_last]

"For two years I was with the resistance, in the city. Father Reynal, and Chancellor Archibald, they were running it. Building up a fighting force. I knew an underground way into the castle, and we went to use it, and -- Sylas had a band waiting. They killed everyone but me."

The words come out flat, cold, toneless, like pebbles dropped onto the ground.

"And they kept me. For three years. They took their time, bringing me around. They used magic, but not so much of it. Reward and punishment did most of the work."

She doesn't let herself look away. She wants so badly to look away.

"And when the resistance scraped itself back together and got word to me, they wanted me to be their eyes on the inside. Which I was permitted to do, under supervision."

[goodweather]

"I see."

Little Cassandra. He does the math in his head. Nine years when he met her. Three years on, twelve. Two years, fourteen. Fourteen.

Smoke hangs in the air that only they can smell.