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]

"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.

[saltwaterlungs]

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

[goodweather]

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.

[saltwaterlungs]

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.

[goodweather]

"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."

[saltwaterlungs]

"Was it you in there?" they ask.

"I knew it was you when you were, like, threatening to fuck him up. But... had they already got you?"

[goodweather]

"... Yeah. Actually, they got me early."

Cold and hard as iron, this confession.

"But it's not like I was being possessed. I was still me, just. 'Convinced.' I... I felt--felt like, uh, like 2 wasn't so bad, we just had to convince other people to our side... and I knew nothing I was gonna say was gonna do it, it had to be him. So. 2 told me that he wouldn't do to you what he did to me, and I--I figured I'd bring you to the Dome under the pretense of a break-in to snoop and maybe find something to help Peter. 2 was supposed to find us. Him getting pissed wasn't. I still..."

[saltwaterlungs]

"He was always going to. Get mad, I mean. And try and break me, too."

Darcy huffs quietly. He wasn't himself, regardless of what he says. They have to believe that. Otherwise...

"I'm sorry I didn't notice."

[goodweather]

"We were supposed to hide it. If he found out that other people were, uh, catching on, I... mmmh." He rubs his arm.

"Maybe he was always going to, but I. Shouldn't have just lead you straight into him like that."

However funny 2's hideous bathrobe and glass of milk was, nothing was worth getting them inadvertently hospitalized. Nothing changes the fact that the one leading them there was Phil, with Phil's thought processes and Phil's instincts and Phil's love. He has to live with that forever and remember it every single time he looks at them. (Because--because if he thinks hard enough that he really had more control than he actually did, then maybe something could've been done about it. If he'd just been smarter and less desperate. If he'd taken the time to think straight instead of feeling the dogs nipping at his heels, then even if it still happened maybe they could've gotten off easier. If. If.)

[saltwaterlungs]

"I followed."

It didn't occur to them that Phil would lead them into danger. Maybe it should have, the memory of his description of wings tearing away-

"You know I forgive you, right?"

[goodweather]

"Of course you did. You trust me."

And isn't that the issue.

...

He sighs. Bows his head. "... thank you."

[saltwaterlungs]

"As much as I trust anyone."

It's fair. He's alright with them biting his throat open, they're alright with him leading them into danger. This is how it is, a pattern they're far too comfortable with. It would almost be more strange if he never hurt them.

Darcy rests a hand on the back of his head, exhaling once again. Then they tilt their head to touch their temple to his, eyes gently shut.

[goodweather]

Phil leans into the gesture. It doesn't fix everything, it doesn't completely loosen his vicious self-effacing teeth from himself, but. It helps. That's good enough.

"... Y-y'know. Funny thing is, the bastards couldn't even make it stick. I kept breaking the hypnosis. Made myself a problem."

cw ref to psychiatric institutionalization

[saltwaterlungs]

Darcy doesn't laugh, if only because a display of emotion that strong is just not in their capacity to achieve right now. But it's accompanied by a little nod, as if that just feels right to hear.

"I had to get muzzled. Made it into the hallway once, though. Number 2 stopped trying to come in after the... third? Day? Of me just repeating everything he was saying in an annoying voice. Turns out some of the shit I picked up last time still works. Not all of it, but some of it."

...

"No, wait, I think he gave up when I got close to biting him. Or maybe that guy with the hat. Kind of fuzzy."

[goodweather]

His mouth tugs in… some kind of direction. “Attaboy.”

Sucks in a little breath.

“W-what I mean though, is, um. Well. They caught me early. Day 3, 4? That was the first time they shipped me there. And—uh, the second—I mean I sort of broke it on my own, just kind of… it didn’t stick. So I got sent back again. The next day, that was when I went to go find you and head to the Dome.”

[saltwaterlungs]

Ah. How it feels to be the object of his pride again. A moment of the best they've felt since arriving at the village, quickly crushed to powder under the weight of the reality of what Phil went through.

"Oh," they sound apologetic.

"I'm sorry."

[goodweather]

“It is what it is at this point,” he sighs. “I kept going in and out of the hypnosis the third time. I think it was knowing that they were putting you in danger too, and I couldn’t… stand it.”

Not that it was enough in the end. He probably would have freed himself again eventually the same way, but neither of them had “eventually” to bank on.

Phil fidgets with his talons. Their renewed sharpness might bother him if it wasn’t so nice to feel them fresh and long after the hospital.

[saltwaterlungs]

Darcy removes their hand, and then leans their head against his shoulder, as if trying to coax him into some sort of affection. 'Therapy dog' crosses their mind again, trying to be a comfort through contact.

"You're also just... tough. Or- like, strong I guess I mean."

Darcy might be uneasy with the idea of him being so distressed over them, but it's true. Phil is what Darcy thinks of when it comes to quiet strength, to the spine of iron that Avery mentioned forms when you go through hell.

"I meant it though. Never again. I don't care what I have to do, we're not getting separated again."

[goodweather]

"Good to know we're on the same page."

He had been separated from Darcy before, of course, when he fell into Whitestone. But that was a forlorn pain; the pain of accident and patience. The source was ambivalent, the meanwhile peaceful, their reunion a matter of patience, and Phil was very good at all of those. And Darcy had no need to miss him in return. There was no enemy, and the separation was not colored in force and violence like this was. It's the same difference as if his limbs had been taken by unfortunate infection rather than a knife.

It's the same spirit as this: to live in peace, he has to believe that the loop was not on purpose. Even the ship's games work like a scattershot shotgun.

This new catastrophe that they've weathered, though, was of the exacting intention of a knife on someone kept still. The violence was on purpose, the agony arterial and self-aware. There is a clarity in defining what you will not stand on top of what you will. There can be no peace in this. Never again. No one is getting in between him and his kids again.

Phil wonders briefly what has happened to him, and the answer comes flippantly: well, you got tortured. That's going to knock a few screws loose.

All this as he sits there with Darcy leaning against him, bringing an arm across their shoulders and falling across their chest. Feeling their weight and that they're there at all.

[saltwaterlungs]

Just as Darcy's touch pacified Phil in the dome, the weight of his arm stills them, a steady reminder of his presence. They sigh like a dog settling in, loved and as safe as they can be here.

"If the idea of sleeping wasn't fucking terrifying, I could nap forever."

[goodweather]

“I’ll be here either way. I can keep an eye out. But you might prefer one over the other.” There’s a jolt of his chest that might pass for a laugh. “And my ears, too. I’ll be here.”

…

“Apparently, it’s Christmas Eve.”

He thought it might’ve been May or June.

[saltwaterlungs]

"If I go to sleep and then wake up back there, it won't matter if you're standing watch or not."

The idea of being separated from him again is unbearable. Even if this is just a torturous 60s acid trip, it's better than the reality of being back in that cell.

"... is it?" oh. Already?

"Happy almost-birthday Jesus."

[goodweather]

The wind goes cold. That this might not be real at all is a distinct possibility he hadn’t allowed himself to name. They—they had him jabbed with a cocktail of things, enough to make him so sick he could barely eat, and he knew there were hallucinogens in there but—no. No, he couldn’t. It’d kill him. It can’t be true, or he’ll die.

Phil stares out over the kitchen.

“Yeah.” … “Hey, can I… I mean. Can I stay with you? ‘Till, uh, the end of tomorrow or—or maybe the 26th. It’s just… last year was kind of rough.”

[saltwaterlungs]

...

"You're not sleeping on the kitchen floor with your back," they say as if that wasn't precisely what they were planning to do theirself. They're spry and sprightly okay they don't get aches from sleeping in stupid places yet.

"And I can't... do. Doors right now."

Hours and hours and hours of literally beating their head against it for lack of anything else to do, waiting and waiting for just a moment to try another escape.

"But I mean- I'd feel safer with you, I think. You're smart, we can work something out."

[goodweather]

"We could nest up in the library. Find a corner, um... get some blankets and pillows, pull together some tables and chairs."

He nudges Darcy slightly. "You should do that here too. Tile's not good for your back."