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

Entry tags:

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

(( got other ideas? lmk! ))

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Number 6 has been lying on his side on the bed listening to the texts ping back and forth. He's turned his own wings back on because no matter how nice it might feel to lay on his back the defiance of having these when The Village tried to take them feels nicer. He needs the defiance more than anything right now.

"He's coming?" He asks Ava once she puts the phone down.

Number 6 is still at war with his own mind about so much. He dreads what Phil may have to say to him after all of this, but he also knows that being alone right now is the last thing he wants for his friend. This was his fault, his world, his responsibility. He doesn't have the right to hide from it.

Even so... he allows himself just enough cowardice to let Ava be the one to get the door. He does at least sit up in bed and swing his legs over the side. Possibly the most shocking thing of all is that he hasn't even bothered to get out of his pajamas. Or comb his hair.

"He is, with tea," Ava confirms, offering her phone over if he wants to check through the conversation to mentally prepare himself. As much as it hurts to see him this way, she wants to give Peter all the time he needs to recover, without having to answer to anyone else for it. Without the expectation of being okay.

She trusts Phil will be able to respect that. When he too clearly needs a safe place to be something other than strong.

She slips out of bed and takes her first shower since their return. Partially because she hasn't had the energy, mostly because her bad moods don't mix well with water. Luckily she makes it through tentacle-free, and changes into something low effort but clean enough. She's toweling her hair when the knock comes, and takes the cue to double check who's out there before unlatching the inside locks to greet Phil.

She does giggle lightly at his drippy wings, offering to take the mugs while inviting him in.

He lets Ava take the mugs, smiling at her laugh as he steps inside. "Hey, you two. Thanks for, for letting me in."

The sight of Peter is surprising compared to his usual put-together demeanor as much as it is utterly unsurprising considering the past (month) (three months) (six months) that they've all been through. If he's barely put together here, then Phil can be too. Cool. He feels so much like he's genuinely rotting from the inside out it's not even funny.

He sets his things down somewhere convenient. "Can I, uh--you sure you don't mind if I use the hair dryer?"

He takes her phone and skims the messages, smiling at the warmth in them. He is not well, but Phil is still himself. The ghost of that smile is still on his Number 6's face when he looks up to greet the man at the door.

"We're glad you came." He's feeling a similar amount of relief seeing Phil with damp wings. None of them is put together so none of them need to be.

"We don't mind. Would you like us to help you with them? We both know how."

"Couldn't turn away somebody that looked out for me," she reminds Phil as she gets things settled on the coffee table. She's kept the room as tidy as possible, giving Peter a break from the one usually doing so. But there is an obvious pile of unwashed clothes shoved off in the corner that she hasn't had the energy to deal with quite yet. She tosses the damp towel to the top of it, hair much shorter and curlier than Phil is probably used to seeing her style it.

Ava nods along to the offer to help groom his feathers, knows how difficult basic acts of self care can be when trying to recover. "Let me go get it," she steps away to retrieve the hair dryer.

The offer to touch his wings comes unexpectedly. He can't help it, the way his eyes snap up to Peter and tired smile falls.

(Hey, Phil. Stop looking at him. Eyes on the night-stand. We're back. These are the last people you should be afraid of, yeah?)

"That, um--" he glances up to wherever Ava went, "--sounds. Sounds good, actually, yeah. Takes a hell of a long time on my own, y'know, I usually wait for it to air-dry and I get to--to look scruffy for a couple of hours. César apparently has a very big shower now, he's offered it to me to use once in a while since he knows it can get cramped in the cabin bathroom, I've, uh, seen his, there's three sinks in there..." maybe if he keeps talking they won't notice how much he's fidgeting.

The moment their eyes meet, Number 6 already realizes the problem. He remembers, even through the insanity of it all that day in the Dome, he remembers that Phil had no wings.

"César offered it to me as well. It is impressively large. I'm sure he would be glad to let you occupy it for as long as you need." If, say, he needs to sit under the water and cry for an hour. The idea has crossed Number 6's mind, admittedly.

Number 6's voice is low and gentle as he comes around to what he really wants to say. "Phil, if you need more time before anyone handles them, we'll understand."

Listening idly to the conversation through the partially closed bathroom door, Ava gathers up a few things. The requested hair dryer, a new towel. Some oil, powder, a razor and a comb... a few hair ties that she slips around her wrist. A small collection of items that she keeps adding to, pulling more out of the cabinets until she realizes she's just frantically searching for anything to make things better because she feels increasingly inadequate to provide the level of comfort she believes either man deserves.

She places her hands flat on the counter for a moment, eyes closed as she breathes in and out as she fights off a wave of crushing guilt. But she scolds herself sharply, in reminder that she spent 3 weeks already feeling sorry for herself while they were undergoing much worse. No time for that now.

She returns quietly, setting things down on the coffee table next to the tea set that Phil brought. "I should fill this up?"

He swivels to Ava. "Oh--um, yes please. That'd be kind of you."

Turning back to Peter, he raises his hands and says, "It's fine, really. I don't..."

Pauses. Looks down, sighing from his nose, then back up as he tries to sort through his thoughts. "I--I just..." breathes in, "maybe, maybe after I dry off. I... I don't... want. To be nervous, with you two. About anything. And I don't. Want them to be the reason why. You just caught me off guard, that's, that's it, just give me a little while."

"Neither of us expects anything of you that you're not ready for," she assures and quietly slips away again to fill the kettle from the sink.

"That's right," Number 6 agrees. "I'm not offended. You don't need to explain yourself to me, Phil. You don't need to do that at all." This is a place free of judgment because they have decreed it so. This is a sanctuary for all within it.

"You are safe to be everything you are, here, Phil. Including scared and lost. You are in good company for that."

"I--I see. That... thank you."

He takes a seat by the table, putting in his earbuds and turning on the hair dryer, the warm air blowing his raised feathers as his free hand cards through them. Safe, Peter'd said. You are safe here.

Phil looks up at where Ava's gone. Then to Peter, then the closed door with a sign that says "do not disturb" on the other side.

He's quiet for a moment. Then, quietly, just over the noise of the hair dryer: "I don't know what I did to deserve this."

Number 6 sits on the edge of his bed, hands gripped together in his lap to keep them from fidgeting.

His answer is just as quiet. "I don't know what they must have said to you to make you believe you don't."

Ava returns once more and sets the full kettle off to the side for when Phil is ready for tea. Clearly he's busy at the moment, and she doesn't feel like moving about too much and getting in the way just for the sake of feeling as if she has to do something. So she instead settles on the floor in front of the bed, by Peter's feet, turning her head just enough to rest her cheek against his leg. Just having contact, confirmation he's there and safe beside her, is enough to calm back down.

"Deserve friends that care about you...? Because you'd do... you have done. The same."

"No, it's not just that." Well kind of that but also more specifically... "I mean you guys. I mean, you have--you have a 'do not disturb' sign on the door. You have other friends that care about you too, I don't... just... I don't know why I get to be here."

Get to be safe here. Get to share their shelter when they have every right to simply bunker down with nobody but each other, after such a torturous length of being apart.

Number 6 rests a hand on her head, gently stroking her hair with his nervous fingers. It's an action so reflexive he barely registers he's doing it--he craves the physical reassurance of her presence just as much as she does his.

"Because the thought of leaving you out in the cold after all the kindness you have shown to me is a concept I cannot stomach. You are not alone, Phil. Everyone needs someone. You have someone, two someones, who will gladly, gladly shelter you."

Her eyes partially shut at the soothing gesture, as she nods along to the shared sentiment.

"I didn't have the energy to turn any single person away, so I had to turn everyone away. It's not... not a burden to have you here. It's the idea of one, after another, people checking in, expressing sympathies, asking what they can do for us... they mean well, but it's overwhelming," she quietly explains the reasoning behind the sign. "I didn't have the capacity to keep explaining that, to word it wrong, hurt the feelings of people who are also emotionally vulnerable right now. It just felt safer to say no and protect the peace. But you're... you're no disruption to that, Phil."

The things they are saying, they are saying to someone who in the better parts of his life, never thought himself as anyone's first priority. Oh, Rita's, sure, maybe his mom, maybe Darcy, but not anyone else. Hardly anyone else. He's the friend who walks on the grass now that he isn't shoving ahead on the sidewalk.

They are saying this to someone who expects to be the one walking on the grass, and who has spent the last month-several-months alone on a hospital bed and who no one found until the Dome (but it wasn't their fault, it wasn't his either)--

"Oh. Th... thank. Thank you."

...

(Look at them. Look how they need each other. How do they let him rest besides that?)

So Phil finds the graciousness to turn away before a his free hand goes to his mouth and he starts crying.

Number 6 gently pats Ava's head to nudge her to sit up. As soon as she does, he steps off the bed and across the room to where Phil sits. He takes a seat beside Phil and gently, tentatively encircles one wing around his back.

He doesn't say a word. Doesn't jump or startle if Phil does. He simply sits, quietly, calmly, with the warmth of his care wrapped around his friend, in a place where judgment no longer exists.

She worries at first, that she said the wrong thing. Or at least failed to say the right one. But no. No, she reminds herself. Sometimes you just need a safe place to finally let it out. This is exactly what they're offering him.

She quietly starts heating up the water, giving the two a moment to work out how much comfort is allowed.

Phil thrashes for a moment when he feels something on his wings stop stop stop touching him--but it's--not, it's not, it's... just Peter. It's just Peter and his wing. Peter doesn't even have a hand on him. No one has a hand on him.

It all comes back up; from the moment he came back he'd been on that knife's edge of breaking down like he almost had when he realized he wasn't back in that hospital, and with Ava and Peter next to him, both of them safe, and trying to make sure he's safe too, he just... folds. He doubles over sobbing, hands over his face, shame in his reaction, in knowing how he got there.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out. "I'm sorry. I wa... I wasn't careful enough. They got me. So early. it was the--the third day. Ava..."

He'd been looking after her until the end of the second week, when he disappeared. That whole time. That whole time he'd been brainwashed.

Number 6 doesn't look directly at Phil, because he can already see the man hiding his face in shame out of his peripheral. This is what The Village does. This is the true horror behind it. Could he have done more to warn them? He should have, somehow. He thought he'd have more time.

"Phil," he says, at length, "I was the first to be captured. How could I possibly stand in judgment against you? I knew what that place was, and I couldn't see it coming. What hope did any of you have?"

She does the mental math and comes to the sinking conclusion. "You... you were. Used. To keep an eye on me, weren't you?" It doesn't sound accusatory at all, just sad.

It's such an awful violation of their friendship. One that of course Number 2 would look to exploit. After she had apologized for accusing him of such. "And... I didn't even notice," she admits guiltily. When he would have turned, he acted no differently than before. There to comfort her, when he was the one that was silently compromised by the enemy.

"I'm... sorry. He forced you into such." But she doesn't hold it against Phil, cannot. Ava brings a mug of tea over, still hot, still brewing, cradling it in her own grasp before Phil is ready to accept it.

Of course 6 didn't have a chance, but that's because 2 wanted him. More than anybody else. How many else made it through with minimal bumps and scrapes? 2 asked him to come and he walked right in. Phil was just--Phil was just a target. Just some, some number on a spreadsheet, someone convenient, and Phil is furious and will never forgive himself for doing the things he was forced to do. Nobody blames him, and it's true, and it's awful, and it hurts.

"I'm sorry," he sobs again, "I'm sorry. I did, I'm so sorry. I broke and I hurt you, I hurt you both, if he hadn't taken me out we might--might not've--m--..."

His breath hitches, and he can't seem to let it go.

Number 6 doesn't hold it against Phil, either. How can he when he'd been used in much the same way? That Ava didn't know or suspect the difference very clearly says to him that Phil was still enough of himself not to hurt her.

"They might have overheard my request to you. It might be my fault they used you that way." His voice sounds like a creaking old tree limb groaning in the wind. "But this does us no good. This is what Number 2 wanted, to divide us and drive us from each other with guilt and fear. I refuse to let that be his legacy."

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

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