come_sailaway | 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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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.”

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."

“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.

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."

"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.

Edited 2023-12-28 00:30 (UTC)

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."

“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.

"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."

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.”

...

"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."

"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."

"Library is good, I think," if a bit open. Then they snap their fingers, saying-

"Do you think Jinx's nest is still up in the theatre? I helped Max ransack it, but I think the structure is still standing. It'd be out of the way."

They gently nudge his side, "I'll be fine. Worst comes I'll drag a mattress in here."

He huffs softly. "It might be, unless the ghosts have cleaned it up since. If it isn't, we can set up in the wings and close the curtains. There's plenty of room there."

"I'm pretty sure there's a piano there too."

Which is to say, it'd be nice to hear him play again. A month give or take is a long time to go without one of their small creature comforts. Probably for him, too.

"Think Siffleur would help us raid the homewares part of the Tommy Bahama if we asked?"

"Hey, then there's a good opportunity for me to shake off the rust."

It's true; for all the fuss made about the orchestra at breakfast, he certainly hasn't gotten an opportunity to play anything in a month either.

"I've never spoken with him formally, but I'm told he's a real polite guy. I'm sure he'll at least give us a couple of tips."

Darcy decides to leave 'I asked him to hunt me once for practice and fun' for another day, and curls in a little tighter.

"Later, though. Ehn- don't go," not yet, not after so long apart, not after losing him.

"No, no. Of course not." He adjusts his hold, slotting them together more snugly. "I'm not going anywhere."

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

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