Can't Save Them All

by OllieFallsOffAHorse

Summary:

Phil attends hybrid auctions to try to save as many kids from the trade as he can. They each have their own trauma to work through. Think found family but instead of fostering, Phil gains them in a sketchy way.

Not really sure where this is going to go but we'll see

4/4 We made it.

While you are reading and notice any inconsistencies in the plot or character description, please point it out! I'm writing this fic over a couple of years and sometimes I forget things that I have previously written.

Ps: This is about the characters, not the real people

Chapter 1: The First Hybrid

Phil adjusts his jacket as he steels his nerves for what was about to happen. This was not the first time he has been to one of these events, but it is his first time at this specific location. It never gets easier. He walks through the shop and tips his green and white bucket hat to the cashier. The man rushes Phil to the back where a fake shelf reveals an elevator. Phil is then left alone as he awaits its arrival. His wings strain under the jacket and he just pulls it tighter. They can’t know that he is also one of them, a hybrid.

The elevator arrives quickly and he slips in, pressing the only other button. He adjusts his face mask carefully in the mirror, a quick glance ensures his contacts are still changing his eye color. His identity had to remain a secret to protect himself. It took a while to worm his way into this event. It’s a very small circle that doesn’t trust many outsiders. Phil has never backed away from a challenge. After months of parties, perfect interactions, and a dash of luck, he was invited to this secret place. All that effort doesn’t make him any less comfortable with the situation.

The elevator doors open and Phil steps into the small hallway. There he produced the invitation and was allowed entry into the main room without hesitation. They all recognize his bucket hat and jacket at this point, he considers it his brand. Well, his brand when sneaking into illegal operations.

And illegal this was. Upon entry, he was handed a booklet of goods and an auction paddle before being left to his own devices. Phil rolls his shoulders before walking around the chairs to the front of the room. Where the “goods” were being held. Cages were lined up, each holding its own figure, chained to the ground. Each holding a different hybrid. Phil quickly schooled his expression into boredom as he looked around, as anger washed over him. He knew what he was walking into, what he had been told over and over again would happen if he was caught. Being here in person though, it… it was horrifying.

Kids and adults alike, in various stages of abuse, surrounded the stage. He begins on the left and works his way around. He knows he can only afford one, so he’ll have to get the one in the worst condition. The one who needed his help the most. There were others in the room who were like him, wanting to rescue these poor hybrids. And there were those who wanted these hybrids for… entertainment purposes. Phil tries not to think on that subject.

“Ah Kisuke, our favorite cosplayer. Welcome! I’m glad you were able to make it to one of our events.”

Phil turned towards the voice, the auction owner. He was dressed in a suit and seemed ready for this auction to end, for him to get a payday. As though these were truly goods on the stage and not people. Phil easily smiled back, slipping into the character he had built for these events.

“Thank you for having me. I have been on the lookout for a hybrid for a while, I hope you have one that will catch my eye.”

“Well, we certainly have a few good looking ones out here. If you don’t find one here, you’ll have to come back next week, we never seem to run out.” And with that he waltzes off to talk to the next customer.

Phil doesn’t watch him go. Instead he turns to the next hybrid in line. An older goat hybrid. His spirit was already broken. He stood there, staring emptily into the space right above Phil’s shoulder. As much as Phil wants to save all of them, he has to pick the worst one. And as much as he hates to see it, this one will be fine. He’s not a rare hybrid and with his spirit broken, he’ll survive.

Phil moves over to the second to last cage. A younger hybrid was forced into a kneeling position, chains holding him in place. He held his head down, brown curls blocking his face. Phil opened his pamphlet and flipped through until he landed on the hybrid’s information page. 15. The kid was only 15. The youngest at this auction. The next piece of information caused Phil to look closer at the boy. Apparently he was a siren, a rare hybrid. Squinting at the boy he could barely see the pale lines of the gills on his neck. His eyes traveled up into the mess of curls to see… a… strap? There was a leather strap above the boy’s ear. Before he could scrutinize the boy further, a figure slid up beside him.

“I had hoped you would have an eye for beauty, Kisuke.” Phil watched as the boy tensed at the words, recognizing the voice of his current master. “He does have a nasty habit of trying to hide his face though. Want me to show you what’s under the curls?”

Phil didn’t really have a choice, so he gestured towards the boy. The auctioneer brought out a key ring and, upon finding the correct one, opened the door leading to the boy. The boy’s breathing picked up as he heard the keys rattling, and Phil started to worry about driving the boy into a panic attack. Before Phil registered what was happening, the boy’s owner sauntered up to him, grabbed a handful of hair and yanked his head up.

The kid was muzzled. Muzzled. That was the first thing Phil noticed. The second was the black eye the boy was sporting. It seemed to be only a day old. The boy glanced up and brown eyes stared back at his fake ones before looking at his feet again. The boy was released and he crumpled down to the ground, before forcing himself into the kneeling position again.

“A true beauty, isn’t he. Too bad we have to keep him muzzled. I would love to hear his voice but you know how sirens can be,” the man dismissed as he returned to the front of the cage, relocking the door. Phil was not paying much attention to the sales pitch, he was now categorizing all the bruises that he failed to notice before. The boy’s breathing was still heightened but there wasn’t much Phil could do to help with it.

“I appreciate you showing me, I do prefer to know what my new pets look like before I bid on them” he forced himself to say. Forced himself to play the part.

“Of course. The bidding will begin soon. I wish you luck Kisuke.” And with that the owner left Phil alone with the boy. Phil forced himself to turn away from the shaking figure to look at the last form. Not finding him in a worse condition, Phil prepares himself for the bidding.

Chapter 2: Wilbur Doesn't Have a Good Time

Notes:

CW: panic attacks and dissociation

Stay save loves <3

In. Out. In. Out. He’s gone. He’s left you alone. You need to breathe. In. Out. Come on, lungs. Work. You will not pass out right now. Breathe.

Wil struggles to return to himself through the panic. While they wouldn’t beat him for passing out here, they would be pissed at him for his failure. For drawing attention. For possibly lowering his sale price. That’s all they cared about. The paycheck.

He tries to remember the man who stood there and asked for his master to manhandle him. The man with the stupid green and white bucket hat, the stupid brown eyes that looked at Wil with pity. Pity. Can you believe it? As though he chose to be locked up and sold. As though he chose to be a hybrid.

The iron digs into his wrists as he kneels on the ground. A length of chain kept his bound wrists tied behind his back and attached to the ground, preventing him from rising. He understands why he needs it, he was very crafty and has already tried to escape the auction house, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys it. He's tired. His muscles are tired. He is also tired of this stupid muzzle. He knows the reputation of a siren has them all scared. Rumor has it one of his kind can sway anyone to do anything with only a few words in a sickly sweet, honeyed tone. If that were true, Wil would certainly not be in his current predicament. He knows that even if the muzzle was not forced on him, he would not make a noise. One of his previous masters has already ensured his silence.

The bang of the gavel brought Wil back to the present, sharp and snapping him out of the panic. It was starting. Just a bit longer and he’ll be done. Hopefully able to stretch a bit, though he knows that decision is not up to him. He takes another deep breath and tries to shove all his anxiety about the future down into a little corner of his mind. He has no control of the situation, he shouldn’t be this worried about it.

Wil tries to pay attention. He truly does. But the stress of the moment and the last few days catches up to him and he… just… leaves. Not physically of course, the chains and locks are doing a good job of holding him. Mentally, he checks out. He knows what’s going on around him, it’s just happening within a cloud. Kinda… fuzzy. Wil just takes a deep breath and lets it happen. Lets himself check out.

This has happened a couple of times before. Times he never really likes to remember, but he’s grateful every time. Times where he can’t handle it and his brain decides he only needs to exist. Nothing more. It’s... peaceful. Quiet. Relaxing.

Too soon Wil’s pulled back by a rattling of keys outside his cell. Quite a bit of time seems to have passed. He quickly double checked his position to ensure everything was correct. He will not give his new master a reason to return him. At least not this early.

Well he could check the position if his legs weren’t asleep. Stupid rules and stupid auction making him stay in one stupid place for way too many stupid hours. This whole process is stupid. The whole institution is stupid. Stupid handlers shoving the stupid muzzle onto his stupid face. Not like he’d let them hear his stupid voice anyway. Being a hybrid is stupid.

He is pulled from that train of thought with the click of a lock. They finally found the correct key. He looked up through his curls to see who ended up with him.

Blonde hair. Brown eyes. That stupid bucket hat. The man who indirectly manhandled him earlier. And called him a pet. Wil is not a pet. He will not do tricks for this man. A few more words were exchanged, papers traded hands and the auction owner moved away to the next hybrid. Hopefully Wil would never have to see that man again.

Keeping his head down, he gets a closer look at his new master. Or tries to. His curls are too long again. With all the dirt and grime in them it makes it hard to look through. Even though he cannot study his master as well as he’d like, Wil does prefer the longer hair. It allows him to make eye contact without the masters realizing. Small victories.

“Alright mate, let’s get ya home.” With that, the man approaches Wil and started undoing the chain holding his hands. He tries not to flinch, he really did. But years of being conditioned to expect pain when a hand comes towards you is hard to break. He closes his eyes and braces for the pain that usually follows his flinch, only to hear a key click in a lock and the length of chain holding him down dropping. He slowly opened his eyes to see his master step back in front of him.

“Alright, up you get.” Wil struggles up, his hands still tied making it difficult. He manages, or tried to manage. As soon as he got his legs under him he stumbles forward towards his master. The man quickly put up his arms and caught him before he fell.

Wil froze. Aw shit, he fucked up. He can’t even stand properly, stupid fish brain. Stupid legs not doing the one thing they were made for. And now he touched his master, his new master, without permission and now he was going to be punished or he was going to get returned and he hadn’t even left the auction house yet and his master will leave him here and he was still touching his new master. Wil scrambles to get his feet under him, taking a step back and bowing his head. He would get on his knees to beg for mercy but that’s what got him in the situation in the first place and why wasn’t his master saying anything and why are there black spots forming OH SHIT breathing that’s something that he’s still supposed to be doing. Wil tries to take a couple of breaths to try to stem the panic before glancing through his bangs at his new master.

The man was watching with his head tilted. He kept his hands by his side this time as he was saying “...easy mate, just breathe, there you go. See, no harm done. Follow my breathing. In, hold, out.” Wil tries to follow, tries to be good, tries to breathe with the man. After a couple of minutes he catches on and catches his breath. The entire time the man just breathes with him, never rushing the process, never complaining about the scene Wil is making.

“Atta boy. Good job. No harm done. Let’s get you home.” Home. What a subjective word. “I do have to keep your hands tied until we get off property. Are you alright to walk?” Wil nods to the man. That was a question. He can answer questions. He can be good.

His master smiles and startes to walk off, glancing behind him to ensure Wil was following. Wil can follow. He can be good. He stays exactly three steps behind, keeping his head down, moving silently, and following his master out to the car. To his new life. To his new … home?

Notes:

I do not enjoy the actual auction part of these stories so I just made him dissociate through it instead :p

Please comment! They fuel me to write more!

Chapter 3: Shackles. Muzzle. Collar.

Phil tried to silently sigh as he sat at yet another red light. It was late, no one was on the road, why do the lights hate him? He glanced in the mirror, eyes scanning over the boy seated in his back seat.

Shackles. Muzzle. Collar. Three things highlighting the kid’s history and current placement in the world. He didn’t know if the boy was asleep in the backseat or not. He hoped so, the kid had at least one panic attack already and those take a lot out of you. Unfortunately, he realizes that the boy was most likely sitting with his eyes closed. He wouldn’t be surprised if the boy was unable to sleep, being in a new place with new rules and new expectations. A new owner. Phil cringed at that word. Owner.

Shackles. Muzzle. Collar. A file folder in the passenger seat. Detailing the boy’s entire life. Everything the kid has been through wrapped up in a little folder. Written up like a report. The folder a stark reminder that he is no better than the ones before, the ones he hates, the ones that purchase these children. This kid. Damn, he needs to find out the kid's name. He cannot keep thinking of him as ‘the kid’.

Shackles. Muzzle. Collar. He finally hit a sequence of green lights as he thought through what was going to happen when he made it home. He has a room set up. A small room, a simple room to not overwhelm him. Phil was lucky to have some friends that rehome hybrids. Friends that will support him. Friends that gave and will give advice as he needs it. It’s different when he’s the one that’s actually doing the rehoming, rather than just helping them out from time to time. It’s harder. It’s more terrifying.

Shackles. Muzzle. Collar. Phil glances in the mirror again as he merges onto the highway. The boy has not moved from his position. His chest is rising and falling so at least he’s alive. Still tense though, seemingly ready to jump up and serve as soon as Phil needs him. It makes Phil sick. Some naive part of him hoped that as the boy was resting, he would look younger. Relax a bit. Just like in those books, the stories that glamorize the trade. Maybe it was the vulnerability of resting, especially with his eyes closed. The boy seems just as tense as he is when he’s awake. No childhood innocence to be seen. Probably long lost.

Shackles. Muzzle. Collar. He’ll have to start with the shackles. That’ll be the easiest to take off. Most slaves don’t wear them in the house so it won’t be too much of a change for the boy. Slave. Phil cringes at the word but that’s what the kid is. And Phil is a Master now. Even if he’s trying to help. He is a Master. That’s a choice that will keep him up at night.

Shackles. Muzzle. Collar. After the shackles will have to come the muzzle. The kid will need to eat. Should he take it off tonight or wait until tomorrow? Tonight. The boy has gone hours without drinking water, he’ll at least need some before bed. It’s necessary, but makes Phil anxious. What if the kid panics? He’s already had one panic attack. What if he has another one and Phil can’t calm him down? What if he uses his siren ability and escapes? Or hurts Phil? Or makes Phil chop his own hand off? He thinks he read a book about that happening, mind control and stuff. Things sirens can do.

Shackles. Muzzle. Collar. Ok, maybe Phil is over reacting. He is just a boy. And if he was going to use his siren ability, if he had the full ability to begin with, the kid would be long gone. Definitely not in the slave trade. And he was trained. Phil noticed how the boy obeyed every command immediately. This one had been enslaved for a while. He’s sure exact details could be found in the folder but it’s long enough for the kid to be well trained. Phil cringed at the line of thinking. The boy was a human, not some animal that needed to be trained a certain way. Hopefully with time he will be able to be a kid again. It’ll take a bit but hopefully.

Shackles. Muzzle. Collar. Phil took the exit as he thought about the last object. The collar. Phil hated it. Hated the constant reminder of what he just did, the constant reminder that he has a slave. Phil knows that no matter his own opinion on the collar, the kid’s comfort was the most important in this situation. He had been warned about taking a collar off too soon, how easily they become panicked. Some thinking they were being abandoned, others thinking it was just a trap to trick them into getting in trouble. They all knew that taking off the collar was a fate worse than death.

Shackles. Muzzle. Collar. He did have a softer, more comfortable collar at home that he will eventually trade out for the boy’s current one, but he was told to wait a bit. Wait for the kid to settle in. New collars can mean many, many different things and until they are used to each other, Phil doesn’t know where the boy’s mind will go. Hopefully, Phil can use it as a reward rather than freak the kid out. Maybe after a bit of time, years down the road, the kid will want the collar off. Phil knows that’s a long shot. He’s heard stories about how some rehabbed hybrids never want to remove their collar and end up replacing it with a choker that they choose themselves. That the weight around their neck has become a comfort. That they still panic if they wake up without it. He hoped that eventually he could get the boy to at least do that, even if he never allowed his neck to become bare.

Shackles. Muzzle. Collar. Phil turns into the driveway and pulls into the garage. He’ll have to take this one step at a time. Try to do this with as few panic attacks as possible. Taking one last look at his new charge, Phil prepares himself for the rest of the night. He takes a deep breath and turns off the car, ready to begin.

Notes:

Here, take some angst :)

I do have half a plan for where this is going so that's a good thing! Now I just need some motivation to write it. Let me know what you think and if you have anything specific you want to see!

Chapter 4: Night One

Notes:

TW's: Expected Abuse? I guess? Lots of preventative work

Getting out of the car was simpler than expected. By the time Phil had opened the door to the backseat, the kid was awake and already unbuckled. Not a word was spoken as they walked towards the door. Phil held the door open for the kid to enter before him. He noted how the boy hesitated before tensely passing him. Immediately he tucked himself against a wall just inside the house. Locking the door and shutting the garage, Phil gestured for the kid to follow him as he made his way to the kitchen. He turned on the light and tossed the folder and keys on the counter before going to take off his coat.

The boy stepped forward, hands out as though he was expected to grab it. “I got it mate, don’t worry,” Phil spoke as he draped the coat over one of the island chairs. He kept an eye on the kid’s face. Confusion lit up in the boy’s eyes but the rest of his face stayed perfectly blank. He stepped back into his corner and lowered his head. Waiting.

Still watching out of the corner of his eyes, Phil shakes out wings. The kid’s eyes go wide before he ducks his head and hides behind the curls. What Phil would do to know what the kid was thinking. His mop of hair seems to be his safety blanket. Phil made a mental note to not mention the length. If it allows him a bit of comfort, so be it. Phil pulls the folder across the counter and flips to the first page. He scans quickly before finding what he’s looking for.

“Come here, Wilbur”. The kid - Wilbur - startles before moving towards him. Slightly shaking. Even though he was slouched and cowering , Phil noticed that Wilbur had some inches on him. He wondered how tall the boy would be if he stood up straight. If he didn’t have years of conditioning telling him that it hurt to be perceived.

“I’m gonna take these off now mate, ok?” Phil gestured to the shackles and waited patiently for a response. It took a couple of seconds before the kid realized the question was not rhetorical and carefully gave a small, single nod. Even though Phil tried to move as slowly and gently as possible, the kid still flinched at the initial contact. Phil shoved the anger that threatened to burst from him down. He did not need to scare the kid, he could be angry later. When he didn’t have a traumatized kid in front of him who looked like he wanted to disappear every time he was noticed.

Soon enough, the shackles laid on the counter next to the open folder. Phil noted that the wrists were rubbed red, but they weren’t raw. The worst was just a bit of bruising. Honestly, Wilbur’s eye looked worse. He wondered if the kid would let him look at it. Probably not tonight, it’ll be too much. Phil took a step back before turning towards the fridge. The idea was to give the boy a moment to collect himself before moving onto the next step. Phil rummaged around for a bit before he pulled a water bottle out of the fridge and turned around to see Wilbur rubbing his wrists. As soon as he turned, the kid clasped his hands in front of him, ceasing all fidgeting and self soothing motions. Perfect form. Well trained. Fuck this system.

Phil set the water bottle on the counter before pulling out another key, bracing himself for the upcoming reaction. “Alright mate. I’d like to take the muzzle off so you can breathe a bit better.” He watched Wilbur’s face carefully. It remained blank. Phil hoped it was a neutral reaction and that the kid was not mentally somewhere else. “Just turn your head to the side for me.” Wilbur obeyed instantly, freezing as Phil’s hands neared his face. Phil pulled off the small padlock as quick as he could before unbuckling the strap and slowly removing it. Wilbur didn’t move a muscle. Phil placed the muzzle on the counter next to the shackles, wishing he could burn them.

He turned to the paperwork again, watching the boy out of the corner of his eye. Giving the kid a moment, he looks to see if there’s any important medical things that he needs to be aware of before they could sleep. Wilbur was taking deep breaths. He decided to let the kid calm down for a minute before moving on. Phil wandered over to the pantry and dug around before grabbing a small package of crackers. He turned back to Wilbur, noting that the kid was breathing at a more natural pace.

“Let me give you a quick tour, then I’ll let you get some sleep. It’s been a long day.” Phil pauses before adding the next bit, knowing it’s an important one “If you have any questions, you may speak and ask them”. He was always told that if you don’t tell the rescues that they can speak, they never will. He grabbed the water bottle off the counter before leading the way through the rest of the house. Throughout the tour, Phil makes sure to give the kid space and to never block the exit. No need to make the boy feel more trapped than he already is.

Phil ends the tour in Wilbur’s new room. He sets the water bottle and crackers on the bedside table before showing him all the clothes he can wear and the soaps he can use. Phil made sure to be direct and specific. No room for misinterpretation. Every time he mentions a basic, common thing, Wilbur’s eyes go slightly wider in shock before morphing into disbelief. This even happened when he told the kid he could use shampoo. Shampoo! The more he speaks with the kid, the more he hates the institution that created this boy in front of him. The one that expects hits for no reason and doesn’t expect to be able to wash the dirt out of his hair.

As with most of the tour, Wilbur’s face stayed carefully blank as Phil finished showing him his room. His eyes were the only reaction, and even then they were hard to see under his mop. He never spoke, only shaking his head when Phil asked if he had any questions. He seemed to be holding his breath for something, waiting for some ball to drop. Phil wished that he could read Wilbur’s mind to know what he was expecting. Phil knew it would keep him up at night, but that was a sacrifice he was willing to make.

“Alright mate, that’s pretty much it. I’m going to leave you now to take a shower and get some sleep. Now this is important,” Phil paused to make sure Wilbur was paying attention. The kid seemed to stop breathing anytime he was directly addressed. “The water bottle and crackers are for you. You can drink out of it. You can eat as many or as few crackers as you want. If you need more, let me know and I will get you another one. You are allowed to use hot water. There is no limit. Use as much as you’d like. You may sleep in the bed. Under the covers. Use as many or as few blankets as you wish. Do you understand?” He watched emotion after emotion flash across the kids face as he talked. He knew a lot of this would come to a surprise for the boy. And he would probably expect these things to be taken away. But Phil was always told it’s important to tell the rescues these things night one, or else they won’t use them. For some reason, it was expected for them to take cold showers, drink out of a faucet, starve even with food in front of them, and sleep on a floor.

Wilbur’s face ended on confusion before he quickly schooled his face into a neutral expression. He nodded once before ducking his head down once more. Those curls do a great job at hiding his face. Phil just gave him a soft smile before bidding him goodnight and closing the door to Wil’s room. He made sure to prevent it from slamming. No need to give a false indication that he was upset or angry. At least upset and angry at the kid. He wandered back to the kitchen before picking up the file and making a cup of tea. He cringed at the thickness of the file. He apparently had a lot to read, a lot of things to think about. This was going to be a long night.

Notes:

Yo. I have returned.
Sorry this took a bit to get out, I did move 900 miles across country and believe it or not, that takes a lot of effort.

Drink water. It's too angsty not to.

Chapter 5: The Silent Siren

Notes:

Please read the triggers and be safe! We only spiral from the angst I put them through, not from a trigger of our own trauma :)

TWs: Overthinking, panics, body checks in a mirror (mostly injuries, some starvation mention), unethical training methods, vomiting briefly mentioned and past child abuse (physical) (but the kid is 15 so hes still a child). Aka ~trauma~

Wil doesn’t move. He tracks his new Master as he walks back down the stairs to the… kitchen? If he remembers the tour correctly. The door wasn’t slammed and his steps are light, so probably not mad. But the door was closed. Wil was granted privacy? On the first night? That never happened. Unless it was to lock Wil in this room. That seemed more likely. Though he didn’t hear a lock. Maybe it’s a test? To see if he’ll test the door? Leave the room? Wil decides he will certainly not be touching that door. He is not testing boundaries tonight.

Wil slowly starts to count to 200 before moving. Gotta count to make sure he is left alone. That his Master isn’t going to return immediately, to dish out any punishments for making a scene at the auction house. As Wil counted he took in his- the room. The cell. A bed, a rug, a side table containing a water bottle and crackers, a dresser with blankets, a closet with clothes, a bathroom attached to the room. This is way too much stuff for a slave like him. He hasn’t done anything to deserve it. Maybe it’s to show him luxury, to show him what he could have if he’s good. Only to have it all stripped from him tomorrow morning. Maybe it’s one of those unattainable goals. Masters like to do that, like to play tricks. Wil’s played the game before. He knew no matter how hard he'd try there was no winning. He would never be back in this room. That’s the way the game is, no winning.

198, 199, 200. No sounds in the house except his too quick breaths and an occasional paper noise from the kitchen. Might as well enjoy the time he has in this particular cell.

The first thing Wil does is test the seal on the water bottle. It’s not broken. He squeezes the bottle to ensure there’s no holes or cracks. He’s been drugged through water before. He’s not taking any chances. Finding that it hasn’t been tampered with he opens it and takes small sips. He hadn’t had water in hours, practically a day. No need to overload his system. He presses on the crackers, ensuring that the air in the package remains constant, before deciding they’re safe to eat. No drugging the first night. Another luxury.

Wil slowly munches through one or two crackers. He shouldn’t eat too much, no more than his system can take. He needs to keep nutrients in his body, no throwing them back up. After that he wanders over to the closet, steps light and mapping out every creak. It’s important to always be quiet, so that his Master forgets that he is in this room and leaves him alone.

Though his new Master is weird. He’s yet to yell or hit Wilbur, even though Wil can think of multiple rules that he’s broken. Maybe he’s one of those masters that saves the punishment so he only needs to do one big one instead of a bunch of small ones. Those are the worst, usually the bigger ones take longer to heal. Unfortunately, there’s only one way to find out. Break a rule and figure out the consequences. Something that always terrifies him. He hates messing up, especially on purpose. But he needs to learn how this house works.

That’s a future Wil problem. Current Wil was told to take a shower before bed so that’s exactly what he’ll be doing. He snagged a change of clothes to sleep in before making his way to the bathroom, skipping over the creak that’s by the foot of his bed.

Wil spent the next bit of time debating the bathroom door. Most masters would want it open. But most masters would not close the door to his cell. Most masters wouldn’t have given him food before bed. Most masters wouldn’t have offered him a warm shower. Most masters would have added to the bruises decorating his body. This new Master is not most masters. Wil inspected the door knob to discover there was a lock. On the inside. Where he could lock it. That just screams danger. Wil is not to deny his Master anything. Especially entry to a room in his own house. The lock will not be touched. But should the door be open or closed? Wil strains his ears to the rest of the house, trying to figure out where his Master is. After a moment he hears a rustle of papers then some clinking of ceramic. Still in the kitchen then.

But what if this Master didn’t care. What if he could close the door? At least this one already gave him an illusion of privacy. Why can’t Wil give himself that too? But what if he pushes the boundary too far. It’s the first night and he is already exhausted. He was promised a nice bed where he could use blankets (blankets!!!) and he did not want that taken away. Wil decided to leave the bathroom door ajar. Still easy access, still allows him a bit of privacy. He hopes that if he’s caught, his Master will see it the same way.

After the great door debate, Wil turns on the shower, exactly as his Master had shown him. He made sure to turn on the hot water as well. He was told he could use it so he was absolutely going to take advantage of it. Stepping out of his clothes, and waiting for the water to heat up, Wil took a look in the mirror. He quickly realized he couldn’t tell dirt from bruises so he went to test the water instead. Mirrors were hard so he only wanted to seriously look once.

The water quickly heated up and Wil stepped into the stream. He closed his eyes as the water beat down on him. All the dirt and grime from the auction house rinsed off of him and he slowly relaxed as the hot water soothed his sore muscles. He rubbed at his neck, making sure it was clean before he breathed with his gills. It took a minute of sputtering before his body remembered how to function properly. He hadn’t had the opportunity to do this for a while. As he used his second method of breathing, he allowed some thoughts to creep up on him.

He had never had a master that was a hybrid before. Most hybrids were other slaves that he lived with. He had heard of free hybrids before but they were super rare. They most certainly did not have enough money to purchase a slave. His Master was hiding his wings at the auction though. Maybe the others don’t know? The auctions are supposed to be anonymous. Because they’re “illegal” and all that. It’s illegal to purchase a hybrid, but completely legal to own one. Laws are stupid. Wil wondered if his Master could use his wings? Some hybrids could use their physical traits, like his gills. Some were just there for decoration, like a pair of horns. Maybe the wings were just decoration. He’ll have to keep an eye out to see.

Wil takes some shampoo and soap and starts to wash up. He was proud he only hesitated a little about the amount he could use. His Master said he could use them, but not how much. It was getting to the point where Wil didn’t care anymore. He’s tired. Overthinking is exhausting. He already had a couple of panic attacks today and just wants to sleep.

While rinsing his hair out, Wil thought about the questions his Master kept asking him. If he didn’t know any better, it seemed as though he expected Wil to speak to him. This was certainly a first. As soon as a master finds out he’s a siren, there’s a muzzle involved. As a kid he hated it but he’s adapted. It keeps him quiet. Keeps him from getting hurt. He used to be an excited kid and could never seem to keep quiet. Always ready to tell another slave about his day or the dust bunny he hung out with while doing chores. The first master who started to fear his ability only punished him when talking out of place in front of him. The next punished him for any word that was spoken in the presence of the master. The following punished him for everything that came out of his mouth, no matter who was around. A lash a word, a slap a sound. The other slaves at that house loved to tattle on him. Sometimes spinning stories so that he would take the brunt of the master’s anger.

By the time the muzzle was introduced, he was very good at moving silently and speaking the absolute minimal amount of words required. The muzzle led to its own issues. The panic attacks he would get after making a sound were harder to stave off as it became harder to breathe. He became reliant on his masters to remember to remove the muzzle to feed him. This meant he couldn’t avoid them as much as he could before. The one who initially muzzle trained him made sure not a single noise was made while wearing it either. Not even a wheezing breath mid attack. Those scars are the most obvious on his back. He was trained to silence and it’s what he’s been for the past three years. Not a single noise. The last couple masters didn’t even need to use a muzzle, he hadn’t worn one for awhile until the auction house. A silent siren. A useless hybrid.

He shuts off the water in anger and wraps himself in the stupidly fluffy towel. It’s not even how his power works. He can’t do anything while talking. It’s only when he’s singing. And usually playing an instrument too. He can’t even control anyone. It’s more… influencing emotions. But no one bothered to ask and no one listened to him when he tried to explain it as a kid. It just ended in more pain. He’s completely useless, sold in an auction instead of the private sales he’s used to being in. Not even his rarity could keep him out of the auction. He’s not as cute as he used to be, and ever since the growth spurt, his previous masters have not been keen on keeping a slave taller than themselves.

After aggressively drying himself but before slipping on the new clothes, he did an injury check. The black eye looked gnarly, but it wasn’t as painful as yesterday. It’s healing. His wrists were raw and starting to darken with new bruises. Various fingerprints scattered his arms from guards gripping him too tight. He leaned in, noting the marks left behind from the too tight muzzle. Those will be nasty tomorrow. Wil leans back, noting that too many ribs are still showing. He poked at a couple, where perfect shoe marks were located. No broken ribs, that’ll make it a bit easier. He doesn’t know what tomorrow will bring and wants to know his limits. He turned around looking over his back. White lines criss crossed across it, past transgressions mapped out. There are only a few current wounds, a going away gift from his previous master. The lashes looked like they were healing without infection. It’s the best outcome he can ask for. He steps back and takes it all in. His weary expression and fearful eyes. None of the childlike innocence he used to see. Scars and bruises decorated his bones that were too noticeable through his skin. He was already tall and lanky, the lack of food was not helping. Not what he thought he’d look like at 15. Wil turns away before his brain goes too far down the “what if” road, what if things were different.

Wil quickly gets dressed before stumbling towards the bed. He forces himself to eat another cracker and sip a bit more water before bed. He maneuvers to the dresser and hides the rest of crackers in one of the blankets. Old habits die hard. Plus he doesn't know if food will be common in this home. He moves back to the bed and climbs in before burrowing under the blankets. His Master said he could, so he will. Use every luxury until you lose it. Wil’s head barely hits the pillow before he passes out. The exhaustion of the night finally catching up to him.

Notes:

When the hyper fixated brain says write, we write.

Thanks for leaving the comments! It pushed my brain to want to write another chapter! I appreciate all of you who read this little fic :)

Also Happy early/belated Birthday to everyone reading! I will probably never post two chapters in a row again haha

Chapter 6: The Morning After

Notes:

Hi! Before we begin, I want to say that I do not know sign language. I did research the couple of signs I will describe in BSL, but I could’ve made a mistake. If they are incorrect or there is a better way to describe them (I'm not looking for perfection, just if I accidentally described another word/ meaning) feel free to let me know! Thanks all! Enjoy the chapter :)

TWs: Lack of eating

Phil sat at the counter in the kitchen sipping on his morning coffee. He was always an early riser, after all, the early bird gets the worm! His laptop sat in front of him, many tabs open as he researched various items found in Wilbur’s file. The kid’s been through a lot.

Phil looked out the window at the bird feeder and watched various crows munch on the seeds. He has to refill it everyday but he doesn’t mind. Just watching the sunlight glint off the feathers every sunrise is worth it. Plus the crows have a habit of bringing him little gifts as thanks.

He knows he’s just stalling for time. Part of Phil wants to wake the kid up so he can get started with his day. The other part of him wants to see what the kid will do. After Wilbur went to bed, Phil realized that he didn’t tell the kid what was expected of him in the morning. So Phil was curious. Will the kid wake up early? If he does, will he leave the room and come downstairs? Will he stay up there? Phil recognizes that the kid needs sleep and none of the outcomes of those questions would bother him. Phil had decided to just wait and see.

The previous night went well. After coming downstairs, Phil had heard the kid take a shower, then just silence. He hoped that meant Wilbur was getting sleep. Especially since he knows the kid had a long and stressful day. He got about half way through the file before turning in for the night. The clinical way the papers spoke about Wilbur’s suffering was near impossible to get through.

Being as rare as the kid was, and barring the place Phil bought the child, he was sold in private sales, from one owner to another. That meant he avoided much of the abuse that hybrids suffered at the auction house. It also meant that not all the information required for a typical auction house sale had to be there. Usually there’s write ups on the training the kid’s been through in your care, as well as a doctor visit to determine health. Since private sales aren't monitored as closely, there are some gaps in his history. These gaps don’t prevent Phil from getting the whole picture though. Passed around like a shiny toy, he’s had to get used to a new way of life every three to six months. New rules, new expectations, a new normal. And Phil was just another name in the file.

Phil had looked through the doctor’s notes from the auction house. The kid was beaten pretty badly before being put up for sale; either from his previous owner or from the auction itself. Bruised ribs, lashes on his back, and a black eye was all that’s listed, but Phil wouldn't be surprised if some of the lesser injuries were left out. Phil would like to take a look at the ones listed to ensure they’re healing properly, maybe see if he had any more bruises that Phil didn’t notice the night before. Hopefully Wilbur will let him. He’s sure the shackles and muzzle left their marks as well, so he may have to get some medication if the kid seems to be in too much pain. It’ll be interesting to see how that goes.

Lost in thought, Phil missed the movement from upstairs. The water running through the pipes alerted him that the other resident was awake. He strains his ears to see if he can tell where the kid goes once he leaves the bathroom, but the house barely creaks. There’s just the sound of the bathroom door moving on its hinges. Without his extra hearing, Phil realizes he probably wouldn’t have even heard that. The kid moves silently.

Phil clicks around on his computer for another fifteen minutes, not really paying attention to what is on the screen. Seeing that Wilbur had yet to make an appearance, and that he wasn’t getting any more information, Phil closes the lid of the laptop and stands up from his chair. He sets some water to boil and begins the ascent to the second floor, listening for any movement from Wilbur’s room.

Not hearing any, Phil makes his way to the door of Wilbur’s room and knocks. He hears a rustle of blankets from behind the door followed by silence.

“Hey Wilbur? Are you awake?” Soft footsteps on carpet came towards Phil before the door opened. Phil quickly glances around the room before looking at the teen in front of him. The bed was perfectly made and the room looked exactly as it had before the kid moved in. Wilbur looked cleaner, but his hair was still tangled and there were bruises along his arms that had appeared from under the dirt.

“Good morning mate. Come down for breakfast whenever you’re ready.” The boy continued to stare at the floor. Phil just turns around and makes his way downstairs, knowing Wilbur would follow him.

Upon arriving at the kitchen, Phil gestures to the chairs at the island and asks Wilbur to take a seat in one of them, specifying he can sit on the chair. He pulls two mugs down and begins to make tea with the boiled water on the other side of the island, keeping the physical barrier of the countertop between them. Phil has the same plan as last night: act busy to take some pressure off of the kid to allow him space to relax a bit.

“Before the crackers, what was the last thing you ate?” Instead of getting a vocal response, Phil looks up in time to catch Wilbur shrugging. Phil studies the teen in front of him for a minute before softly speaking. “Mate, I’m going to need you to answer that question. It’s for your own health.”

Wilbur hesitates before making a motion with his right hand. He put his thumb and first finger together in a circle with his other fingers standing straight. He shakes his right hand before returning it to his lap. Phil recognizes it as sign language, but he doesn’t understand the meaning behind the sign. The file did say that Wilbur was silent, it just didn’t register for Phil that it meant the kid didn’t speak. That also explains why Wilbur didn’t ask any questions on the tour last night. Phil makes a mental note to ask Wilbur if everything made sense after they establish a way for him to answer. In the current moment though, Phil has to be very cautious how he approaches the conversation. It was the first time Wilbur had tried to communicate, and Phil did not want him pulling away.

“I appreciate you communicating with me, it’s alright if you don’t want to speak. Unfortunately, I don’t understand signs, but I’m willing to learn. In the meantime, let’s try to figure out another way to communicate. Can you write?” Wilbur froze. Phil could see the wheels spinning in his head, analyzing all the ways to answer the question, all the ways it could go wrong. Slaves weren’t supposed to know how to write. Wilbur’s hesitation tells Phil all he needs to know. The kid can. It’ll be interesting to see what he decides to tell Phil though. To give him a bit of space, Phil starts to pour the tea, stirring in some sugar.

After a moment, the boy shakes his head no. Phil just cocks his head and makes a split decision. What better time to show Wilbur that his actions won’t be physically punished the way he’s expecting them to? He’ll have to do this carefully and with no sudden moves. Phil sets down the spoons from the tea he was stirring and sets his hands on the counter, keeping them in sight.

“Wilbur,” Phil spoke softly. No need to sound angry. “Please don’t lie to me.”

Wil stopped breathing, eyes wide. The world waited to see what was about to happen. Phil knew he had to handle this situation delicately. The boy was prone to panicking.

“I’m not mad. I’m not gonna punish you. But I’d like you to tell the truth please. Can you write?” Wilbur hesitated before nodding his head once. He immediately lowers it and braces for… something. Phil wished the boy would believe him but he knows the trust isn’t there yet. Rome wasn’t built in a day. And reconditioning years of trauma doesn’t happen overnight.

“Thank you mate. This tea is for you. I’ll be right back” Phil picks up one of the mugs and sets it half way across the counter, allowing Wilbur to reach across and grab the mug. Staying away from the boy, and making sure his movements were broadcasted, Phil leaves the kitchen to go to his office to grab some paper and a pen. He returns, aware that two blue eyes track him the entire time. He noticed that Wilbur had moved the mug to sit in front of him, but wasn’t touching it beyond that.

Phil made his way to his side of the counter, not missing the breath of relief as the counter returned between them. Phil slid the paper and pen towards Wilbur.

“Alright, let’s try this again. What was the last thing you ate?” Wilbur looked at the paper and nibbled on his lip in thought. Phil just picked up his tea and waited. He let whatever war was happening in Wilbur’s head play out. Wilbur finally came to some decision and reached out for the pen. He pulled the paper closer and wrote something on the page before nudging it towards Phil.

The first thing that Phil notices is how neat the writing is. Perfect letters form each word, almost as though the page was printed off of a computer. The font-like handwriting is impressive, however Phil is positive there’s some sort of trauma to cause it. No fifteen year old should write that well. No one in general should have handwriting that consistent.

The brief distraction about the handwriting allowed his brain a bit of time to catch up and process what was written. Wilbur had listed: ‘Package of crackers. Auction: 1 bowl of oatmeal. Last House: bread and rice daily’. Phil read and reread the list. He wasn’t… shocked. A part of him had hoped Wilbur was fed better, but looking at the state of the kid, it made sense. He was still confused though. Wilbur was at the auction house for two days. He specified only one bowl.

“Wilbur, in two days, have you only had a bowl of oatmeal and a package of crackers?” Phil hoped the tone of his voice stayed neutral. He wants the boys to answer honestly and does not want to alert him that Phil is absolutely fuming at the way he’s been treated. He must've done a good job because the boy in front of him just nodded. “Ok, yeah. That’s going to change. I’m going to make us some breakfast. While I’m doing that, why don’t you write down any questions you have, either about the tour last night or in general.” With that, Phil turned away from the boy and began pulling out a skillet. He would make sure the kid never missed a meal again.

Notes:

That took a bit longer than I wanted it to take but here's your chapter! More trauma coming in the next one!!

I have also gained a beta reader who will also be pushing me to write more soooooo hopefully less mistakes and more chapters :)
(I will be going back and editing the previous ones, no new content just some grammar mistakes)

Drink some water and try to get some sleep <3

Chapter 7: Breakfast for Two

Notes:

TWs: Expected abuse, minor panic

This man is confusing. That’s the only thing that Wilbur is confident about since arriving to this new home. He’s yet to yell or hit. Yet to punish. Seems …upset? that Wil hasn’t had a lot of food. Allowed him to sit at the counter. Not even on the floor but in a chair. Never mind all the accommodations he got last night. This place is the opposite of what he has ever experienced with every previous master.

Wil is still waiting for something to happen. He was caught in a lie this morning. That was rule number one, never lie. Besides the chastise, his Master did nothing. The conversation continued, his Master still stayed on the other side of the counter. Usually if Wil lied, he was locked in a closet until his master stopped ignoring his cries and let him out. Yet this one gave him tea? Maybe. That was a bit confusing, his Master just half pushed a mug in Wil's direction and rushed out of the room. Wil was certain that this was the moment the ball would drop and everything would go to hell. His Master was going to get a switch and start beating him. He was going to lose his room cell and the warm blankets and the hot water. He was making sure a closet was cleared out so that Wil couldn’t hurt himself while he spiraled once locked inside of it. Instead, the man returned with paper and a pen. Confusing.

Wil looked into the tea, watching the leaves flow through the water. He hasn’t taken a sip yet. He wasn’t paying attention when his Master made the tea, as he was not expecting to be handed it. Anything could’ve been slipped into it, he still doesn’t trust the man. Wil is going to pointedly ignore the voice in the back of his head that argues that his Master poured both the teas from the same kettle and used the same spoon to stir a bit of sugar in. If he was poisoned, they both would be. That voice has been wrong before and Wil refuses to fall for the comfort it promises. This will all turn bad soon. It always does. Besides, his Master only said it was for him, not that he could drink it. That’s a trap that Wil knows better than to fall for. Take their words literally. It keeps you safe, keeps them from adding new bruises.

Speaking of taking words literally, his Master did give Wil an order to write down any questions he has. Wil has a ton of questions. None of them are appropriate for him to ask his Master. Wil understands that he is on a need to know basis. If his Master needs him to know, he will tell Wil. Even with that knowledge being consistent for every other house he worked in, he was told to write a question. Come on brain, you can do it. Just one question that will not insult your new Master in any way, or make him angry or upset or alert him to any punishments he owes you.

Wil looked up to try to think, and instead got distracted by his Master’s wings. He watched them flutter and move as though each feather acted individually, accenting his Master’s movements rather than inhibiting them. It was mesmerizing to watch, as though the crow was dancing as he flitted around the kitchen, cooking breakfast. Wil was so distracted that he forgot to look through his bangs, he just stared at the sleek black movement in front of him. That is, until his Master looked over his shoulder and caught his eye. Wil quickly lowered his head again, but not before catching a soft smile grow on the man’s face.

Ok, here’s a question: what was that whole bit about food. Masters have kept food from Wilbur for days before. This was not a new punishment. It was a less hands on method of keeping Wilbur and other slaves under control. What was his new Master's issue with it? He doesn’t seem keen on creating physical pain, so Wil was certain that food would be withheld if he messed up. But that man was upset with Wil only getting one meal in two days. They had the muzzle on him the rest of the time and Wil was not about to go near the guards to remind them that he needed it off to eat. His eye still smarted from the first time he did something out of line at the auction house. That was not a fun place. Wil hasn’t been to one before, but he’s heard the horror stories. It sucked to find out that some of those stories were true.

But that's all trauma to unpack another day. Currently he was still stuck on this one stupid question he had to come up with before his Master finished making him food so he could eat. Or something like that, he’s not really sure what will happen if he has no questions. He’s not keen on figuring it out. He’s already failed a bit too much today. And he’s only been up for 20 minutes!

Wil is pulled from his thoughts as he hears the stove switch off. He quickly writes the first question that comes to mind as his Master pulls out plates. ‘What chores would you like me to do daily?’ In perfect handwriting, of course. The deal was he could learn to write, as long as his handwriting remained immaculate. His knuckles were still scarred from the months of a ruler smacking them for a single line out of place. With that master, he was only useful if he could take notes in whatever meetings they went to. Not the worst place he’s been.

Wil looks up through his tangled bangs as his Master makes his way over with two plates. Wil appreciates how he stays on the other side of the counter, giving Wil some space. It lets him lower his guard a bit, knowing he’ll have plenty of warning if a hand was coming his way. Wait, tangled bangs, should he ask for a brush? No he doesn’t deserve it yet. His Master will give him a brush when he’s earned it or when his hair bothers his Master. Not a second sooner.

“Alright mate, here’s some breakfast. Go ahead and eat until you’re full, no more. I don’t want you getting sick. I will feed you again around 1, so don’t worry about your next meal.” Wil looks down at the eggs and slice of toast in front of him. This is a free person meal, not a slave meal. But who is he to deny his master anything? Wil only hesitates a bit about his Master drugging his food. He was told to eat so he doesn’t really have a choice. Whatever will happen will happen. He takes a bite allowing the flavors of actual food erupt in his mouth before his mind catches up with the rest of his Master’s words. Another meal? In a couple of hours? He couldn’t have heard his Master correctly.

Wil ate fairly quickly. Even though his Master gave no indication that his food will be taken, Wil isn’t taking any chances. As he finished his plate, he realized that he was full without the aches of over eating. His Master seemed to know that he would eat everything on the plate and gave him an appropriate amount. Interesting.

“Did you like the tea?” Wil froze. Was he supposed to have tried it? He was just given the mug. Was this a test? Did he already fail? Will he be given that other meal? Should he say yes? But he would be lying again. He was already caught in one lie. But the man seemed to like tea. Was Wil supposed to like it too? Is the man sensitive about his cooking? Because the food was amazing, but he wasn’t supposed to drink the tea? Right?

As though sensing Wil’s distress, his Master quickly backtracked. “It’s ok if you don’t, I should have asked before I gave you some. I can get you something else to drink if you’d like, we have water, milk, I can probably make some lemonade real fast.” His Master's rambling snapped WIl out of his panic. He grabbed some paper and quickly wrote ‘I didn’t know you wanted me to drink it’. He slid the paper towards his Master and waited for his sentence to be given to him.

His Master made a confused noise as he read the note before saying, “I know a lot was going on, but I gave it to you to drink. Would you like me to make you another one or get you something else to drink? You need to get some liquids in you.”

Oh. Wil could not ask his Master to make him something that he had already ruined, so he quickly signed water. Then remembering the man did not know sign, he wrote ‘water, please’ on a piece of paper. Manners, those are important. Especially if he wants to be able to drink today. His Master nodded before standing up and grabbing a new water bottle from the fridge.

He returned and slid the water towards Wil before asking “Can I see your list of questions?” Wil bit his lip as he pushed the piece of paper towards his Master. Hopefully it will be sufficient and he will still get the meal at one that his Master had mentioned. This food was very good. Wil would do almost anything to keep eating like this. Even if it was only once a day. He quickly checked the seal on the bottle under the table, no need to look like he doesn’t trust his Master in front of him. Seeing it was untampered with, he opened it and took a sip.

“Is this your only question?” Wil shrunk in on himself before he realized his Master seemed surprised, not angry. It took Wil a minute longer to realize the question was not rhetorical, and that his Master was expecting an answer. Wil gave a single nod, keeping his head bowed with his eyes on the table, accepting his fate.

“That’s alright. Let’s wait for you to heal a bit before we start on chores and things like that. All I want you to worry about is getting better.” Wil sat there a bit as he processed his Master’s words. He was fine. He was healed. He could work. He could be useful. A useless slave was a bad slave and a bad slave got sold. He wanted to work so he could keep earning the good food and have the warm showers and sleep in the nice bed under the soft blankets. It didn’t matter that his eye still stung and his ribs still ached, he’s worked through worse conditions. He can work through these, honestly his injuries were light compared to normal. He can earn his keep, he knows how to. If he isn’t allowed to do chores, what will he have to trade for these nice things??

Wil reaches for the pen to tell his Master this before realizing that the man was already at the sink washing the dishes from breakfast. Wait. Wil can do that! He can help with the dishes. He stood up and approached his Master with a paper in hand.

“Let me see what you wrote,” his Master requested. Since his hands were in the soapy water, Wil approached him cautiously and held the paper up. Making sure to stay out of striking distance. Just because the man gave you nice food doesn’t mean he’s nice.

“You don’t have to do them all by yourself. Why don’t you dry and I can tell you where they all go? The towels are over there.” Wil nodded and grabbed a towel before carefully drying each dish. He will not drop them. Not make a mistake. Not today.

Notes:

Hi! I'm going to say this and it's going to bite me in the ass but here we go.

I am going to be updating once every week. My goal will be Tuesday nights (I know this is technically a day early but I'll be on a plane tomorrow night so you get a treat). Next week may also be off, as I'm traveling. But by telling you my plan, it'll assist in motivating me to write (trick the ADHD).

I appreciate all the comments and kudos. I love that you all enjoy this angsty fic as much as I enjoy writing it. I promise Wilbur will get the hug that he deserves. Even if you have to wait a couple more chapters :p

Drink some water and take care of yourselves. I'll see you next week <3

Chapter 8: Bonding?

Notes:

TWs: light injury description
Don't take my medical advice, I only spent 30 seconds googling it.

Phil enjoyed the peacefulness of washing the dishes and handing them off to Wilbur. Something about the repetition allows him to relax and think about his next steps. Besides the not drinking tea incident, the morning seemed to be going well. As expected, Wilbur devoured the food on his plate, barely leaving time to breathe. Phil hopes to improve the relationship that Wilbur has with food. Consistent meals should help him understand that food will always be available here. No matter how much Phil will remind him, it’ll be something that Wilbur will figure out with time. Time. This will all take time.

Phil is proud that Wilbur felt comfortable writing answers to his questions. Communication will be important throughout this process, and Phil has been wondering what will be the best way to achieve it. He makes a mental note to start sign language lessons, so that Wilbur won’t have to keep writing his thoughts. It’s not fair to Wilbur to expect him to carry a pen and paper with him everywhere, just so that Phil can understand him.

While the boy's old rules don’t apply here, it’ll be hard to break him out of habits. That’s why Phil was pleasantly surprised that Wilbur ‘spoke out of turn’ by asking to do the dishes. While this was probably driven by guilt, seeing Phil do the work, he was still impressed. Wilbur didn’t seem panicked about it either, meaning he didn’t realize his ‘mistake’. Whether he realizes it or not, it shows that the kid can take initiative and that he is able to make decisions on his own. All good skills that Wilbur will need as he slowly unlearns his training. The kid already has a steady hand and seems extra cautious while putting away the dishes. This is a good sign, the kid cares and wants to try hard. Phil recognizes that this is probably due to fear, but he’ll take what he can get. Phil is an optimist through and through. Even though it’s only day one, he seems to be making some progress.

All things considered, the day is going pretty well. As Phil hands the last plate to Wilbur, he hopes he won’t mess up the fragile relationship they’ve built with his next plan.

After all the cupboards are closed and the water is drained out of the sink, Phil turns towards Wilbur. He ignores the flicker of hurt that he feels as the kid takes a step back to stay an arm’s length away. Abused people will expect abuse. It’s only been 12 hours. He shouldn't be surprised. He'll keep working to gain Wilbur’s trust. No matter how long it will take.

“Thanks for your help, Wilbur. Now, I was hoping I could take a look at your injuries so I can make sure they’re healing properly. Will that be ok?” Keeping his head down, Wilbur gave Phil a small nod. Phil can’t wait for the day that the kid feels comfortable enough to pick his head up. “Alright, let’s go to the living room. Go ahead and sit on the couch and I’ll go grab the first aid kit.”

Phil had thought about it during breakfast and decided that the living room would be the best place for this assessment. The bathroom will be too small, especially with his wings. Plus with one exit, the siren will feel trapped. He hopes it won’t be the case, but the bedroom may have some additional trauma that Phil does not want to bring up the first day. There’s no need to overwhelm the boy with triggers. Phil had decided against the kitchen as well because he wants to try to keep it a safe place, one where good memories can be associated with food. Phil is not sure how Wilbur will react to his wounds being cleaned, so he doesn’t want to risk tarnishing an important location this early on. That leaves the living room. Plenty of space and plenty of escape routes in case it becomes too much for the kid. Phil will have to remember to keep the path to the stairs open. Just in case.

After grabbing the first aid kit from the bathroom, Phil returns to the living room. Wilbur is perched at the very edge of the couch, as though he wasn’t sure if he heard Phil correctly. As though he hadn’t earned the right to sit on the furniture or some shit. Phil squashed every bit of anger down, he was well aware there was an abused and traumatized child on his couch. No need to scare him more. Phil makes his way across the room and sits down next to Wilbur, being sure to keep a cushion between them. He can’t tell if Wilbur appreciates it or not, the boy's body language is so stiff. He places the first aid kit on the coffee table in front of them slowly, making sure all of his moves are broadcasted.

Phil faces Wilbur. The boy is sitting very tensely, with his back straight, staring at the wall across the room. It didn’t fool anyone, Phil could see that Wilbur was watching his every move out of the corner of his eye. He’ll have to take this slowly, the kid looks seconds away from panicking. Something Phil will be trying his hardest to prevent. He just had to navigate the minefield of triggers. Triggers that he doesn’t know. Triggers that can be anything. Sounds easy.

“Ok mate. Let’s start with your wrists so that you can watch everything I’m doing. Why don’t you turn towards me?” Wilbur slowly rotates but remains on the edge of the couch. He lifts his arms and lets them hover in the space between the two of them, holding his breath. Phil slowly reaches out and takes one arm. He made sure his fingers ghost the skin before holding it, but even then, Wilbur flinches at first contact. Phil tries not to think about how this might be the first painless touch the boy has felt in a while. After gently taking the slender wrist, Phil leans closer to try to get a better look at the wound, but Wilbur tenses at the movements. If not for whatever fear kept him seated and still, Phil could tell the kid would be locking himself in his room.

“Sorry kiddo, I just wanted to get a closer look. Can you flip your wrist for me?” Phil kept his hands below Wilbur’s and allowed him to turn his arm. After examining it, Phil moves his hand over to the second wrist. Repeating the action, slowly and carefully. After inspecting them both, Phil leans back and removes his hands, allowing Wilbur to do the same. “Ok, so it looks like those cuffs rubbed your wrists pretty raw. I’m going to pull out the disinfectant so that we can make sure they won’t get infected.” Phil reaches into the kit and grabs some cotton balls and hydrogen peroxide.

“Ok, are you ready?” Phil turns back and catches the tail end of a sentence. Wil had both his hands, fingers open, at chest height in front of him and waved them back and forth before returning them to his lap. Phil returns the supplies to the table. Gently. No banging. “Hang on Wilbur, let me grab a piece of paper from the kitchen.”

Phil keeps his steps light as he makes his way to the kitchen and picks up the pen and left over paper. Before leaving the kitchen, he decides to grab a new water bottle from the fridge. If the injuries are as bad as Wilbur’s file said, the kid will probably want some pain killers.

“Ok, I’m back,” Phil says as he enters the room, placing the water bottle on the table and handing the paper and pen to Wilbur. “Can you write what you were trying to tell me?” Wilbur writes a sentence in that terribly perfect writing and hands it to Phil.

‘Will it hurt?’ Phil gives a soft smile as he answers, “It may sting a bit but it shouldn’t be bad.” Phil pauses as a thought suddenly comes to him. “What if we set up a system for you to tell me when it’s too much? How about you shake your hand like this if it starts to hurt?” Phil demonstrates with his hand as he explains his idea to Wilbur. “A slight rocky motion means it hurts a little. Jazz hands means it hurts a lot. I want you to be honest. You won’t be in trouble, as long as you tell the truth alright?” Phil waits for Wilbur’s nod before turning back to the coffee table.

It seems a little manipulative to use his fear of messing up as leverage to get Wilbur to tell the truth. Phil tries to reason with himself that with how well the kid is at hiding his pain, he’ll need an indicator. It sounds fake even to him. Phil does know that even if the kid barely lifts his hand, he’ll stop and check in. He has a feeling that there's a pain threshold that Wilbur has to pass before he’ll even think about asking for help. He can’t stand the thought of hurting this child in front of him, even if it’s to prevent future infection.

Phil takes a mental deep breath as he reaches towards the cotton balls and applies the peroxide to it. He turns back to the frozen boy and gives a soft smile. “Are you ready?”

Notes:

Honestly, did not expect to get this out. I kept rewriting the back half and decided to split it take another week on it. I hope you enjoyed part one!!

I hope you all have good week! Don't forget to eat!

May the fourth be with you :)

Chapter 9: Bonding!

Notes:

TWs: (Contains Spoilers) minor injury descriptions, past child abuse, anticipated child abuse, drugging without consent mentioned, panic attack

Phil dabs each wrist with the disinfectant , spot by spot, watching Wilbur for any signs of discomfort. Besides the first flinch of Phil touching him, the boy doesn’t move a muscle. They continue on like this for a bit. Phil narrates every move he makes and why. Wilbur cautiously obeys everything that Phil requests. As Phil moves from injury to injury, and takes a closer look at them, he has to work harder and harder to keep his anger away. This was a child. A teenager. He should not have these injuries and shouldn’t be accustomed to the amount of pain they bring. Wilbur’s not even flinching at the cleaning, he’s flinching at initial contact. As though he’s expecting the kindness to turn abusive any second. Phil’s goal is to make it to lunch without any major panicking, from either of them.

From Wilbur’s wrists, Phil moves to his arms. Just a couple of fingerprint bruises from hands gripping his arms too tight. Not much can be done to help them.

From his arms, to his legs. Or at least Phil asked if there were any injuries to them. Wilbur shook his head no and Phil didn’t push it. Bruises can heal and nothing (from a distance) looks swollen. He’ll take the boy’s word for it.

From his legs, to his eye. A black eye. It hasn’t broken the skin open and the boy can still see out of it. Just some ice to speed up the process.

From his eye, to his chin. To look at what the muzzle left behind. Just rugburn style marks. Phil pulls out some aloe lotion, and, after allowing Wilbur to feel some on his hands so that he knows it won’t hurt, applies it to the burns.

From his chin, to his neck. More specifically, to the collar. To make sure it’s not rubbing any spots for the couple of weeks he’ll wear this one. Wilbur sits even more still than he was before as Phil lifts the collar up and checks underneath. No new marks, just some scarring from years of continued use. Phil rubs some lotion on them as well, trying to give Wilbur some comfort.

From his neck, to his chest. When Phil asked him to remove his shirt, Wilbur did it without hesitation. Phil tries to ignore the voice in the back of his mind that laughs at his surprise. The voice that says, ‘Well you own him. He’s not going to deny you anything.’ Wilbur winces slightly, his frozen façade thawing, as he brings his arms over his head. The first time he has shown any pain.

As Phil scans the kid’s chest, he tries to keep breathing. Breath through the anger. It is so much worse than Phil was expecting. There are perfect toe shaped bruises from where Wilbur was kicked with a boot over and over. It’s a wonder the kid can even breathe semi-normally right now. After carefully feeling the bones and asking the kid to take deep breaths, he determined the ribs are just bruised. Some ice should help with comfort, but besides that, it’ll just take time. More time.

From his chest, to his back. Phil knows that having your back to a threat can be nerve racking so he only has Wilbur turn 90 degrees so he’s facing off the couch. So he can watch Phil’s every move. As the kid’s back comes into view, Phil has to muffle a keening noise that threatens to emerge. “Oh, Wilbur. They did a number on you, huh?” Phil whispered as he traced the raised scars. Blinking away from the damage, he grabs some more disinfectant. Only three lashes broke skin, a couple others left bruises. It’s too late for stitches, but they seem to be healing well on their own. Including the newest marks, there are years and years of pain etched on the kid’s back. Abusive, unnecessary pain. No wonder the kid practically jumps at his own shadow.

“Ok, Wilbur. We’re done. You can face me again and put your shirt back on.” As Wilbur complies, Phil turns to the kit and digs around for the pain pills.

“It seems like you’re in a lot of pain so why don’t we give you some medicine to help with it?” As he speaks, Phil finds the bottle and pulls it from the box. “What do you think?” He turns to the child sitting next to him. Blame his current mental state, blame him wanting the process to be over, but he was too slow with picking up on the signals. He turns and locks eyes with a panicking Wilbur. Funny, this is the first time he gets to see the siren’s smoky grey eyes. Wilbur jerkily breaks eye contact and Phil snaps to the present. He slowly places the pills back into the kit and leans back, trying to give the boy more space.

Wilbur stands quickly, his downturned eyes blown wide as he watches Phil’s every move through his curls. He suddenly freezes in place, as though he realized he broke a self-assigned rule. In the moment, whatever fear he has with medication outweighed his fear of denying his owner something. Phil’s suspicions with the kid checking the seals is confirmed: the kid has been drugged without his knowledge. He can stress about that later. Right now, he stays seated and prepares to do some damage control. As Phil opens his mouth to say something, Wilbur starts rapidly signing something. He holds a fist at his chest and rapidly moves it in small circles, over and over. Blinking his confusion away, it takes Phil too long to realize that Wilbur’s breathing has picked up, the same way as the night before. Mission failed, the kid was having a panic attack.

“You’re ok. I’m not mad. You’re not in trouble. Breathe for me, Wilbur. Deep breaths. Follow my breathing.” Phil repeats the mantra trying to cut through the fog of panic. He stays seated keeping his hands in view beside him. All he wants to do is hold the boy to help ground him and convince him he’s safe. Phil’s positive that Wilbur would have the opposite reaction. so he doesn’t move. Just uses his voice to bring the kid back to him.

It takes a bit of time before Wilbur seems coherent enough to listen to the words that Phil is spewing, a bit before he stops his repetitive signing and even longer before his breathing calms down to a semi-normal pace. Phil stays seated the entire time, backing himself into the corner of the couch, and remains out of touching distance.

After a beat, Wilbur signs the phrase he was panic-signing earlier. Phil just slides the paper towards Wilbur. Wilbur’s hands shake as carefully writes and slides the paper back to Phil. The letters, while still better than any Phil has ever seen, have a slight wobble to them. ‘I’m sorry for causing a scene.’ Phil tried his hardest to stifle his croon. Someone had taken a panicking child and instead of helping him though it, has told him that he’s ‘causing a scene’. Probably had beaten the kid for it, based on how carefully Wilbur is watching him and the scars that line the kid’s back. Prime, what is wrong with these people? Who thinks that owning children is ok? Who beats them for making a noise? Oh, what Phil would do if he could get his hands on them.

“Wilbur, I’m not angry at you. You did nothing wrong, and I’m not going to punish you for a panic attack.” Phil could tell the kid did not believe him. “I do have a couple of hard questions I need answered though. There is no wrong answer, I promise. Do you get panic attacks often?” The boy nodded his head. “Ok. If it happens again, I will do the exact same thing. I will not approach you, I will talk you through it, and I will not punish you afterwards.” Phil pauses to gauge the kid’s reaction before continuing. Wilbur remains motionless. “A few more questions. Has someone given you pills without telling you what they did?” A nod. “Did they ever make you sleep?” A nod. “Did they ever make you feel foggy?” A nod. “Did they ever make you lose control of your limbs?” A nod. Phil just breathes. “Ok. I will not be giving you any pills today. I won’t be giving you any without your consent. Ever.” Wilbur stared blankly at the floor. Phil was not going to get through to him today. It’s a new environment and he’s fresh out of panicking. Besides, trusting Phil’s word is something that will take time. Another thing that can’t be solved in the 12 hours he’s had the kid.

“Alright, mate. I know that was a lot, but I promised you some lunch. Why don’t you come to the kitchen so that I can get you some?” Phil almost offered to give him the option to sit in the living room to eat, but a choice would be too much for Wilbur right now. He would exhaust himself even further trying to figure out the trap. Phil stands and leads Wilbur to the kitchen, gesturing to his seat at the island, and quickly whips up a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches. He cuts both into triangles before sliding one towards the kid.

“Eat up, mate.” Due to the tea incident this morning, Phil now understands that Wilbur would not eat unless specifically told to. He’ll work on it. Just not today. The kid looks like he’s going to pass out into his lunch. Panic attacks really take all the energy out of you.

After both of them finish, Phil puts the plates in the sink. Wilbur stands up and slowly makes his way towards the towels. “Don’t worry about it, kiddo. I’ll wash the dishes later. Right now, your only job is to take a nap.” Phil grabs a new water bottle and a couple of ice packs before leading a drowsy Wilbur upstairs. On the way he wraps the ice packs in towels to soften the cold. He stops outside of Wilbur’s room and hands him the three items.

“The big one is for your chest, the small one is for your eye. Go ahead and drink the water whenever. Take a nap on your bed and after you wake up, come and find me. I’ll probably be in the kitchen or the living room.” Wilbur nods at the instructions. “Alright. Nap well.” After the boy enters, Phil carefully closes the door to Wilbur’s room, making sure that he doesn’t slam it. No need to cause any more panic attacks today. And with that, Phil makes his way downstairs to process everything he’s learned and to begin learning sign language.

Notes:

Good news! What follows hurt in the hurt/ comfort tag? Stay tuned next week on ~trauma child~

Thank you darlings for the comments, and please drink some water for me :)

(My beta just called me out for not drinking any today- don't be me)

Chapter 10: Penguins and Polar Bears

Notes:

Tws: Overthinking and repeated words/phrases

Wil was on edge. There wasn’t a particular reason for it. Things seemed to be going… well? His bruises have healed without any new ones to replace them. He has yet to lose any of his hot water or bed or privacy privileges. Some paper and pens have appeared in every room, materials he’s encouraged to use on a daily basis. Wil gets three meals a day no matter what he does. It’s not even like he has to be super quiet. Afterall, his Master never said anything about the shampoo bottle he dropped in the shower the other day. Even without his Master’s better than average hearing, he would’ve heard it. Ok, well, he’s not positive about the hearing, but the only other winged hybrid he met had good hearing, so better safe than sorry. But his Master still never mentions any of the sounds he makes.

Instead, his Master is having Wil experience new things. He’s putting together puzzles and watching animal documentaries and sitting on furniture. He was taught how to play solitaire for when his Master has his phone calls. So that he doesn’t get “bored”. He’s never had anyone care about his boredom before. His Master will bring him water and cook and do the dishes and clean. Every time Wil tries to help, he’s told that he doesn’t have to. That he’s still healing. That it’s ok to rest for a bit longer.

As for resting, Wil has been really tired lately. It’s not like he’s doing anything. He’s had days where he worked so hard he practically passed out before he hit his sleeping mat. He’s had days where he was so exhausted he was scared he was going to drop a tray or a bottle and be the next ‘demonstration’. He’s had days where he’s had to run on an hour of sleep, cleaning through his blurry vision and numb fingers. Yet, here he is, not allowed to do anything useful and his body has the guts to be tired. The worst part is, his Master doesn’t mind. He lets Wil return to his cell every afternoon to nap. To nap. Like a bloody house cat.

Wil really has nothing to worry about. His master never yells, never hits, and never has Wil do anything he doesn’t want to. Maybe that’s why he’s on edge. It’s the exact opposite of every other master he’s had. Part of him wants to know when the niceties will end. Part of him wants the man to just turn around and smack him. And the teeninst tiniest part of him wants the kindness to continue forever.

It’s been nearly two weeks since Wil was purchased by his new Master. This house is different than any of the houses before. It’s as though his Master is treating him as a house guest and not his slave. This experience has Wil doing weird things. Wil keeps breathing every time his Master enters the room and his heart keeps beating every time he makes a noise. Wil has also noticed that he stopped tensing around his Master and that he didn’t mind spending time with him. As long as there’s plenty of space between them. Wil has never had to ask for that though, his master always allows an obstacle between them. And an open path to the stairs. Not that Wil would ever run or deny his Master anything. But it’s a nice gesture.

His Master has been learning sign language. Or attempting to. He’s started talking and signing at the same time. The man’s not bad! But he’s not good either. Wil’s not sure if the man wants him to correct his mistakes or teach him new words or just sit there and do nothing. He’s decided to default to nothing until told differently. His master is much better at reading signs than signing them. Wil is only able to communicate in very basic sentences to him, but it’s better than having to write everything down. It’s a lot faster.

After Wil’s afternoon nap and once his Master finishes his work each day, they’ve created a habit of making dinner and watching a film or two before bed. Sometimes they attempt a puzzle during it. Wil always works hard on the puzzle, not sure if his Master wanted them to finish it by the end of the night or not. At least, he did until a couple of nights ago. The documentary they picked out was on anteaters, the most despicable creature to roam this planet. Wil was so distracted that he forgot about the puzzle until the credits started rolling. He tried to keep down the panic, the fears that the kindness was about to end. He sat very still and kept his head down, but kept an eye out for that hand that was sure to come his way. His Master just looked at the puzzle and said that they can just leave it out and finish it tomorrow, that the puzzles don’t have to be finished in one night. That was a relief, the puzzles were getting harder and harder, with more and more pieces. Wil could take at least a second night before he was expected to finish them.

Wil blinks out of his thoughts as the popping in the kitchen begins. Popcorn. Something that his Master insists they eat during the films, something Wil has taken a liking to. He’s been told out of the kitchen every time he tries to help with the popcorn so he’s attempting the puzzle as he awaits the treat. The popping in the kitchen, the pieces fitting together, the evening glow lighting up the room, Wil would almost describe it as peaceful. Instead of expecting his Master to walk into the room and start yelling, he’s expecting his Master to walk in and hand him a bowl. That he can eat out of. He really is turning into a house cat.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, his Master walks in, two bowls in his hands, wings flowing behind him. It was mesmerizing to watch. Each feather seems to act independently and do whatever it pleases. The wings are a great mood indicator for his Master as well. Wil doesn’t have to spend his time guessing on what the hybrid is feeling, the wings will always tell him. His Master seems proud of his hybrid traits, something Wil was never allowed to have. Is never allowed to have. His voice is not his own, his Master owns it and can force Wil to do whatever he pleases. It’s just another thing that Wil has no control over in his life.

Wil gets handed a bowl, breaking him from his thoughts. A bowl that contains the same amount of popcorn as the other. Just like every day before. His Master plops himself down on the other end of the couch and picks up the remote. After a fast discussion of penguins or polar bears, of which Wil has heard of neither, his Master starts the penguin episode.

It could’ve been the popcorn. It could’ve been the light slowly fading from the room. It could’ve been the soft smooth voice of the narrator. It could’ve been the new sense of peace that Wil discovered. Whatever it was, he was finding it harder and harder to keep his eyes open. He kept munching on the popcorn, kept learning about the penguins, kept putting the puzzle together piece, by piece, by piece.

Wil slowly opens his eyes to a darkened room. It’s still night out, so he can go back to sleep. He doesn’t need to start working until the sun rises. The TV creates a soft glow in the room, the bed comfortable beneath him. Wait. There’s no TV in his cell. Wil bolts up, his sleepy brain wide awake as he tries to figure out how bad he’s fucked up. He starts to panic when he realizes he’s on his Masters couch and scans the room quickly to see if he’s been caught. His eyes land on his Master sitting on the same couch, an arms length away, not far enough and and and… he can still breathe. His Master is engrossed in the show and doesn’t seem to be paying Wil any mind. This is a new house. He’s allowed on the couch with his Master. He’s allowed to watch TV with his Master. He’s allowed to relax next to his Master. Wil leans back into the couch to watch the polar bears that his Master must’ve put on while he slept.

Wait. No. Wrong. He can’t relax. He can never relax. He’s been here for two weeks and he already fell asleep in the same room as his Master. He’s slipping. He’s getting too comfortable. He can’t get too comfortable. He’s not allowed to get too comfortable. Because it’ll hurt more. It’ll hurt when his Master turns on him. It’ll hurt when he gets kicked out. It’ll hurt when he gets sold. It’ll hurt as he has to relearn all his lessons that he should be remembering and he should not be ignoring just because one man was nice to him.

But Wil’s tired. He doesn’t want to work every day until he passes out. He doesn’t want to have to worry about making noises or the next time he eats or if the bruises will heal in time for his master’s friends to visit so they don’t think that Wil’s a bad slave. He doesn’t want to be sold again. He'll miss the animals. He'll miss the puzzles. He'll miss the solitaire. He'll miss the bed. He'll miss the food. He'll miss the kindness.

As the polar bears wander through the snow, Wil decides that he’s going to try to enjoy it while he can. There’s no way this peacefulness is going to last much longer.

Notes:

You know once you get out of a situation where you’re fighting for your life every day and you just sleep for months? Ya that’s what Wil’s body is doing. It’s like ‘yo you're safe, I don't have to be in fight or flight I can rest.’ Just waiting for his anxious mind to get the memo.

Thank you all for reading!
Hydrate or die-straight :P

Chapter 11: Omelets and Fluff

Notes:

TWs: minor panic (as usual)

Things are going really well. Yes, Wilbur still has panic attacks, but they're happening a few times a week instead of multiple times a day. The kid has yet to ask for anything or speak ‘out of line’, but he’s begun to lower his guard around Phil. Things as small as Wilbur not flinching when handed an item has Phil celebrating. Phil has been searching for any piece of personality he can find in the siren. Wilbur is very skilled at keeping every emotion, every opinion, behind thick walls. The only thing he has gathered is that the kid likes learning about animals and doing puzzles. Phil noticed there are days where he would only work on the puzzles, but when Wilbur does pay attention to the shows, Phil loves watching the kid’s face light up every time the baby animals come on screen. Speaking of his face, Phil is getting to see more and more of it. Instead of keeping his head bowed and his features hidden, Wilbur has been actively watching. Sometimes the kid just stares at Phil before he catches himself and bows his head once again, still following whatever rules have been forced on him. Phil cherishes those moments when WiIbur’s ‘training’ has been momentarily forgotten. He’s slowly figuring out that he’s safe.

Phil has started placing a cup of tea next to Wilbur’s closed water bottle for breakfast. Just as an option. Even though the kid is alright with any food handed to him, he has yet to take an open drink. And that’s ok. But the option is there.

Giving Wilbur an open cup was Sam’s idea. He has been a lifesaver throughout this process by mentoring Phil. Sam has rehabilitated multiple hybrids and was the one who convinced Phil to do it as well. Anytime Phil has a question, he calls Sam. From Wilbur’s sleeping (Sam says it’s because his body feels safe and it’s catching up on all the sleep it’s missed), to concerns about Wilbur’s voice (he’ll talk when he’s ready. And if he chooses to never speak again, that’s his choice. Just keep working on sign language so that he has a consistent way to communicate), to getting Wilbur to trust Phil (it takes time. Just keep showing him kindness and he’ll catch on).

Sam had also recommended creating little goals to achieve each week. Last week was to have Wilbur make a choice. In order to not overwhelm the kid, Phil gave him one choice a day, every day. Of the two options, which animal do you want to learn about first? He made sure to take the pressure off by watching both shows. To show the kid that there were no real stakes. After six days of asking, Wilbur finally made a choice and chose penguins. Phil had never been so proud. Then the kid fell asleep next to him!!!!! Phil had made sure to sit very still during the nap, even though his wings wanted to fluff up in excitement. Wilbur only took a 15 minute nap, but it showed an immense amount of trust. Especially since he didn’t show signs of major panic upon waking. Wilbur bolted up, but quickly became aware of his surroundings and settled back down to keep watching. He seemed comfortable enough on the couch to remain there. Phil went to bed celebrating that night.

This week, the goal was to make Wilbur laugh. Technically that was the stretch goal; the realistic one was to make him smile. To show him that it’s ok to be happy. That nothing will come from expressing yourself. Believe him, Phil has tried everything. From cracking jokes, to putting on comedy animal documentaries, to making pancakes with a smiley face out of fruit. He even told some dad jokes! Nothing but silence from the boy.

It was Thursday morning, so Phil has nearly three full days left. The morning starts out smoothly as he makes two cups of tea, grabs a new water bottle, and whips up a breakfast of omelets. Everything was set up to be a simple, easy morning.

Phil just made one mistake.

He opened the window to get some fresh air. Well, that wasn’t the mistake. He might've, kind of, forgotten to refill the bird feeder.

Phil has a decently sized murder of crows that chill outside the house. He feeds them and they return with gifts. Sometimes they even go flying together. It’s a good relationship.

The thing about crows is that they’re smart. Like, really smart. Like, can figure out how to pry open the cracked window to fly in and annoy the man who usually feeds them smart. One minute, Phil is plating omelets; the next, he has four crows pulling at his feathers trying to get his attention; three trying to get the omelets; and two more just squawking at him from the windowsill. The calm morning erupts into chaos. Phil tries to maintain control of the situation as it completely spirals out of control. He bickers with the crows, feathers going everywhere. Somehow he manages to cover the omelets as he begins to free his wings from the attack, shooing the birds towards the window, insisting he’ll grab them food as long as they get out of his house.

Almost buried in the noise, across the island, Phil hears a chuckle. If his ears weren't straining to hear it all week, he would’ve missed it. He pauses his shooing and spins toward Wilbur, a smile on his face, only to have it waver as he catches sight of the siren. The kid was on his feet, backing up and rapidly signing something. Phil has been working hard to learn sign language, but at the speed Wilbur was going, he only recognized the “I’m sorry”s.

The crows, sensing a change in atmosphere, book it out of the window, leaving Phil to fix whatever he stumbled onto.

Phil backs up until his wings press against the counter and holds his hands up so Wilbur could see them. “Wilbur, I'm not mad. Can you slow down or write down what you’re saying so I can understand? I want to know why you’re panicking. I’ll stay over here so you can access the paper, I promise I’m not mad. I’m just not sure what happened.” Wilbur’s breathing has picked up, but was not quite at attack level. In the past month, Wilbur has improved immensely and it shows by the kid responding to Phil’s words. He hadn’t sunk too far into the fog.

Wilbur signs “I’m sorry” one more time before cautiously walking up to the island and pulling a piece of paper towards him. He keeps one eye on Phil and writes something before sliding the paper across the counter and retreating a couple of steps. Another improvement: he is comfortable enough to retreat. To give himself the space he needs.

“Ok, mate. I’m going to go grab the paper,” Phil narrates as he approaches the island. Taking extra concern to move slowly, to move clearly, he looks over the paper. A sentence written in that perfect writing stares up at him. ‘I’m sorry for laughing. I wasn’t laughing at you. I’m not making fun of you. I’m sorry.’ Prime, give him strength. No wonder the kid never laughs. Phil has stumbled across a bit of trauma that he never even considered. Once again, he has to remind himself that murder is illegal and Wilbur is depending on him to not get arrested for killing the kid’s old ‘masters’.

“I know you weren't making fun of me. You were just expressing yourself because something funny happened. You are allowed to express yourself. You can smile, laugh and make noise anytime you want, I will not punish you for it. Even if it’s at me. I won’t ever get upset. Sometimes I do some really funny things.” Phil speaks softly, pleading with the boy. He just wants the kid to feel comfortable.

Wilbur scans Phil’s face looking for something. Apparently whatever he saw he was satisfied with, as he hesitantly raises his hands and signs “Sometimes.” Phil chuckles and replies “Yes only sometimes”. Turning back to grab the omelets, Phil silently celebrates the first joke that Wilbur made. A sliver of personality has appeared, and Phil can’t wait to see more.

Notes:

Ok, mini rant time.

I had a therapy appointment today with a new therapist. This lady was batshit crazy. First thing she said to me was "You seem happy go lucky, why did you even come in today?" I have a good fucking mask Susan. Don't fall for that shit. It's literally your job to not fall for that shit. As we're discussing my life she - out of nowhere - asks if I have had COVID and if I experienced any of my mental health symptoms before that event. No Susan, the depersonalization is due to the fucking trauma, not COVID. Get with it. Pay attention to what I'm telling you.
Anyway I'm currently looking for a new therapist so that'll be fun.

Stay safe loves! And if you have an appointment with a crazy person, don't be afraid to never go back <3

Chapter 12: A Lil Salty

Notes:

TWs: panic attacks, dissociation

“Ok mate, you ready?” Wil had just put the last lunch dish away. He isn’t really. He is not excited for what the avian had planned. But he isn’t going to say no to his Master. Wil nods as he hangs up the towel. His Master grins and grabs his keys, clearly excited about where they were headed. Here goes nothing.

It is the first time since being purchased that Wil is leaving the house. Apparently he’s been deemed ‘settled’ enough to interact with other people. Or so he’s been told. His master is taking Wil to his friends' houses. One of the hybrids there is aquatic as well, so they have a large salt water pool. His Master thought it'd be a good idea for Wil to go swimming. To ‘lean into those instincts’.

Wil is terrified. He had no idea how to act around free people. Well, he did a month ago. But that was before. Before his whole life was turned upside down. Before he began to ignore parts of his training. Before his Master started treating him like a free person. What were the correct actions? Does anything he’s been told about visiting other houses apply? Should he revert back to his training? His Master is pretty forgiving about Wil’s mistakes around the house. Will that change in the new location?

The other subject that had Wil anxious was if the man had other slaves. Was Wil allowed to interact with them? Some masters would prefer Wil to ignore the other slaves, some wanted him to get some information out of them. Would he be left alone with them? Will they be hostile? Or friendly? Will they take it upon themselves to threaten him? He’s had his fair share of politics in the slave quarters. No one briefed him on how he should act. He’s going into this situation completely blind.

Wil continued to worry as the scenery flew by. Before he knew it, his Master was turning into a long driveway, winding into a forest. A good place to hide illegal things. The further from the neighbors, the less likely the screams were noticed. Wil knew from experience.

“Alright, mate. We’re here. It should only be Sam and Niki today. Niki is the mermaid and is a rescue hybrid. We’ll probably let you swim first, then have dinner. We should be home before nightfall. They’re both good people, but if anything is too much, come and let me know, ok?”

Wil nods and stares at his hands. Not a lot of his words registered, but none of them seemed like commands Wil had to follow. He won’t mess this up for his Master. He looks highly upon Mr. Sam and Wil will show that his Master is capable of training him. Just like the good slave he is.

They exit the car and make their way to the door. Wil is sure to stay three steps behind. Keeping his breathing even. Keeping his eyes down. Keeping the panic away. He can do this.

The door swings open to Mr. Sam in the doorway. Words are exchanged. Words that Wil does not need to hear. They step into the house. Wil follows exactly as he was taught. Eyes down. Silent. Invisible. Listening only for his name. The trained slave. The model slave. The perfect slave.

“Wilbur? This is Niki. Niki, meet Wilbur.” Wil kept his eyes lowered, bringing up his hands to sign a quick “It’s nice to meet you” before returning them to position. Head down. Back straight. Legs shoulder length apart. Hands behind back. Relaxed. Ready to serve. Perfect.

Wil blinks and all of a sudden his Master is handing him a bathing suit and ushering him into a bathroom. When did he get here? It doesn’t matter. His Master doesn’t seem mad so he must not have missed an order. The door closes behind him and he quickly changes. No need to keep them waiting.

He must’ve taken longer than he thought because when he opens the door, his Master is not in the hallway. Instead Niki stands there, waiting for him. He freezes as she perks up. They were bound to be left alone at some point.

“Hi! Phil asked if I could show you outside. He had a question he wanted to ask Sam while you got ready. He’ll meet us by the pool.” Wil nods as he remains in the doorway. Best to stay out of arm's reach until he knows her motives.

His eyes scan over her appearance, taking it all in. The pink hair, the collarless neck, the scars, but the lack of recent bruises, recent injuries. Wait. His eyes snap back to Niki’s neck. Instead of a collar, a silver scar circles her neck. A scar that Wil knew matched his. He absentmindedly reached up to touch his collar, to assure himself that it was still there. His collar was a comfort, a constant in his ever changing world. A reminder that he is wanted. That he is still useful.

Niki gestures for them to start walking so he falls into step next to her. Niki gives him a quick house tour as they head for the backyard. Her soft spoken voice put him at ease. First impressions have him believing that everything about her is genuine. He usually doesn’t trust first impressions, but she isn't giving him a reason to mistrust her. Maybe it was his time with his Master. Maybe he’s forgotten to be on guard. Either way, maybe today won’t be as bad as he thought it was going to be.

“I know Phil introduced you as ‘Wilbur’ but is there another name you prefer?” Wil nods, slightly surprised she even asked, and signs three quick letters. Niki grins.

“It’s nice to officially meet you, Wil.” He smiles back at her. A real smile, not the diplomaic ones he usulaly gives other slaves. Wait, was Niki a slave? Ex-slave? As Wil began to build the confidence to ask, they step through a sliding glass door and his eyes lock on the pool. It was massive. Deep enough to be submerged in. He’s so mesmerized by it that he doesn’t notice the other’s approaching and jumps when Mr Sam speaks.

“Whenever you guys are ready, go ahead and climb in. Phil and I will come by in a couple of hours to get you for dinner.” Niki skips off to the pool and dives right in. Wil glances to his Master, double checking that he was allowed to. That he could listen to Mr. Sam as well. Phil gives a soft smile and a nod.

“Have fun, mate.”

Wil excitedly walks to the edge of the water, just in time for Niki to surface, her tail flowing under her. So she was a mermaid. Niki signs a quick “Catch me if you can,” before taking off to the other side of the pool. Wil, buzzing with anticipation, jumps in and takes off after her.

It was exactly how he remembered. The liquid flowing past him, encouraging him to move with it. The water passing through his gills, real water, not the chemicals that the house water has. He hasn’t been able to stretch his limbs and swim around in a long time. His limbs have grown, allowing him to move faster, smoother than he ever has. He’s never felt so free.

Wil manages to catch Niki by cutting her off on the turn she grins and gestures for him to follow her deeper. He does, until the water above blurs any conversion they’re about to have. Alone again. Though he’s not as fearful as before. Seeing how Niki’s acted around him so far, he expects a welfare check. Something the nicer slaves would do, the ones with some sway in their masters opinion.

As expected, when she turns around, the first thing she signs is, “Has he hurt you at all?”

Wil answers, concern clouding his face, “No? Not yet. Will he? Should I expect it?”

“No Wil, he won’t. He comes over often, he’s good friends with Sam. He’s kind and always wants to help in any way he can. But you never know what happens behind closed doors, so I wanted to be sure before I encourage you to give him a chance. Like a true chance.”

“What do you mean?”

“Open up to him, he does care. He wants you to feel comfortable in your house. Comfortable to come to him with any issue you have.”

“But he’s already done so much. I have a bed. And hot water. And food.”

“As you should. I’m surprised he hasn't spoiled you completely. If he could, Phil would try to give you the moon.” That didn’t make any sense. Why would his Master care so much? Wil’s replaceable. That’s why he must be perfect, to keep everything he’s been given.

“I’m just his slave.”

“Not to him you’re not. Knowing him, he probably sees you as his son. He just wants you to feel safe.” Wil’s face hardens at that comment.

“How do you know this? You said you’ve only met him a few times.” Wil maneuvers backwards in the water. Creating space. Space is safe. “Actually, why should I trust you? I just met you.” He watches as Niki’s face softens, looks at him with a bit of… pity. Wil hates pity.

“Because Sam’s the same way. Because Sam is mentoring Phil. Because there are no new scars to replace your old ones. Because your body felt safe enough to fall asleep next to him.”

Wil snarls as his hands sign, “How the hell do you know about that?”

“Phil had called, concerned that you weren't feeling well. He cares about you Wil, I promise.” Wil, finished with the conversation, turns in the water, ignoring whatever else Niki has to say. He swims off to the other side of the pool. As much as Wil hated how that conversation turned out, it is nice to finally swim again. He hasn’t gotten the chance to since he was a child. Before they started to care about his voice.

He swims laps and ruminates for a couple of hours, avoiding Niki. She respected that and didn’t try to start any other conversations. As he swam his laps, he let himself create a fantasy so he wouldn’t get bored. It’s the same one he coped with as a kid, the one where he was king of the ocean, luring the ships with his voice. Maybe in another life he could’ve had that. At least in this one he gets a place to swim.

Too soon, the pool lights flash. Watching Niki swim to the surface, he realizes that’s the signal to get out. To go back to whatever his life has become. To return to reality. He emerges from the pool and is immediately handed a towel from his Master. Not some scrappy towel, a nice fluffy one that was so large it could wrap his body twice over. Maybe Niki is right, his Master does care about him. Or maybe his Master is trying to put on a show for his mentor. Wil purposely ignores the voice that mentions that the exact same towels are in the bathroom at his Master’s house. For when he gets out of the shower. He tries to hold it together, too much is happening at once.

Falling into step behind his Master - he must be perfect - the group of four make their way inside. Wil is escorted to the spare bathroom to shower, where Mr. Sam gives him the same speech his Master gave the first night: hot water, soap, shampoo, fluffy towels, clean clothes, take your time. As Mr. Sam leaves, Wil turns towards the shower and suddenly just wants to scream. He can’t do this anymore. This day dreaming, this trusting thing. Everyone is so fucking nice. All the time. He doesn’t deserve this, he doesn't get this. Slaves like him dont get this. They get beat, they get cold water splashed over them for baths, they get locked in closets. They don’t get towels and beds and the chance to swim.

Wil sinks to the ground and covers his mouth with the towels. Covers the sobs that are escaping. Silent, quiet, invisible. A good siren. A trained siren. Not whatever he’s becoming.

Wil sits curled on the floor for a good twenty minutes before pulling himself up to begin his shower. He feels only slightly better after his breakdown. More in control. The problem is he just doesn’t know how to act around kindness. And that stresses him out. Funny, the thought of finally being safe is the thing that causes him to finally break down. Something he has been dreaming of for years. And he can’t accept it without freaking out. Pathetic.

Feeling fresher after his shower, Wil makes himself presentable and heads downstairs to find his Master. Following the voices, he makes his way across the house to the kitchen. The table is already set and Phil and Niki were bringing the food over to it. Phil looks up as Wil enters the room.

“Hi mate! We‘re almost finished getting the food out, why don’t you take a seat while we grab the last dish.” He gestures towards a seat. The seat Wil’s supposed to sit at. The seat that has a closed water bottle next to the glass. Wil is ready to break down again. Why is this man so nice?

He sits down in time for Phil to return to the room with another dish. Wil glances towards the kitchen and, seeing no one else entering the room, signs to Phil, “I’m sorry I took so long in the shower and didn’t help.”

Phil just waves him off as he sits across from the siren. “Don’t worry about it mate, Sam did all the cooking and there were only a few things to bring in anyway.” Mr. Sam cooked? Another master who did the slave’s jobs. What a strange world Wil has found himself in.

The meal was fairly uneventful and soon enough his Master was giving his goodbyes. Wil just gives a small wave. As they make their way out of Mr. Sam’s driveway, Phil turns, gives a smile, and praises Wil. “You did really well today. I know there were a lot of new things we did, but I’m impressed with how you handled them. Let’s get home and break into this cookie tin Niki baked for us.”

Wil did well? Wil did nothing. He swam and took a shower and ate food and that got him cookies? It’s been a month and the kindness has yet to break. If his Master was trying to trick him, he is very dedicated. And very good at lying. Wil just watches the world fly by as he ignores the part of him that wants to argue that his Master is not lying. That is his reality now. The reality that only existed in his dreams.

Later that evening, as he sits on his corner of the couch, Wil makes a choice. Maybe it was this trust thing Niki talked about. Maybe it was her speech about giving Phil a chance. Maybe it was because he was finally ready to break his last rule. His Master’s final chance to beat him. To turn into the cruel man that has to be hidden beneath his kindness.

As his Master enters the room and begins to hand him a plate with cookies, Wil looks up. Watches his Master’s expression. Opens his mouth. And for the first time without being commanded to in years, speaks.

“Thank you for today, Master.”

Wil watches as his Master tenses and his wings bristle.

Wilbur spirals.

Notes:

I'm so sorry

---

(For those curious and following my therapist hunt, I left a voicemail canceling my next appointment, my reason was that the therapist was "fucking crazy". One of the managers called to get my view on what happened and is now working with me to get another one. Hopefully the last one will get some sense talked into her. I've been assured that there will be two "good ones" who are going to contact me so I can pick one and go from there. we're thriving haha)

Chapter 13: To Speak is To Panic

Notes:

TWs: Panic Attacks

I know Wil spoke out loud, but assume he is always signing unless otherwise specified :)

Now Phil’s done it.

He just wasn’t expecting it. He wasn’t prepared for the kid to talk. It wasn’t even the voice that set him off. He loves that Wil decided to speak. It was that word, ‘master’. Has the kid been referring to Phil like that the entire time in his head? Phil doesn’t see himself as Wilbur’s master, but he guesses it would make sense in the kid’s brain, seeing as Phil literally purchased the siren at an auction. A slave auction. He should’ve brought it up before, should've encouraged another way for Wilbur to refer to him. But he didn’t know. His guard was down and a reaction got through.

Wilbur was unresponsive. Spiraling deep into whatever trauma is associated with his voice. The one topic that Phil worked hard at navigating to prevent this exact situation. And he fucked up big time.

He was trying everything, everything that worked previously. Talking at a steady tempo, giving reassurances, exaggerating his breathing, staying back, not approaching, not increasing the spiral. Wilbur’s glassy eyes continue to stare through Phil, knees curled to his chest, breathing far too short, far too fast. Almost hyperventilating. Phil wants to pull the kid out of whatever situation he’s reliving but doesn’t know how.

At this rate Wilbur’s going to pass out. He needs to act. This isn’t working. So he moves. Not towards the boy. If he’s standing in as the bad guy in Wilbur’s mind, he doesn’t want to approach. To have the kid’s demon approach. Wilbur’s unresponsive gaze remained fixed on the spot where Phil was previously. Ok. Phil could work with that.

He left the room. Practically running to the fridge. To the freezer. When researching panic attacks a month ago he remembers something about shocking the system. Anything out of place in the flashback. Anything that the mind can fix on to pull itself out. Phil hopes it’ll work. It has to work. He doesn’t know what else to do.

He reenters the living room and makes his way to the couch. Wilbur is still conscious. Still panicking. Phil takes the bag of frozen vegetables and places it on top of the siren’s knees. He was supposed to hand it to the kid, but Wilbur’s hands are too busy holding himself in a ball. Phil retreats and watches. He can’t do much else. He wants to do more. Why can’t he do more?

Wilbur's eyes snap to the veggies. He releases his grip so he can grab the package. His eyes dart around the room. Seeing eyes. Clear eyes. Phil just gives a soft smile and continues his mantra. The one he uses every time. The one about how Wilbur’s not in trouble and Phil’s not going to move from his spot and that everything is ok and whatever other soothing words can pour out of his mouth. Convincing words. Pleading words. Pleading for Wilbur to understand that nothing will harm him. Ever. Not here.

After a few minutes, Wilbur is not at risk of passing out anymore. He’s still tense, still clutching the vegetables, still expecting something from Phil. Something that Phil would never do. So he placatingly holds his hands up and takes another step back.

“I’m sorry. I was not expecting you to speak and it surprised me. I shouldn't have reacted the way I did.” Phil pauses, watching the siren’s expression. The absence of emotion he found hurt more than knowing he just caused the worst panic attack Wilbur has had since arriving. The kid’s walls were back up, doubled in thickness.

“I didn’t tense because you spoke,” he continued. “I really don’t mind if you speak and I’m glad you felt comfortable enough around me to do so. Your voice is your own and I will never hurt you for using it. Or for not using it. The choice is yours.” Wilbur’s eyes show disbelief. Honestly, if in that position, Phil wouldn’t have believed himself.

He has to keep trying though. He can’t fuck this moment up. So he reiterates, “I’m not upset you spoke. I tensed because you called me Master.” That caught Wilbur off guard. His mask fell as confusion flashed across his face.

He hesitantly raises his hands and signs, “But you are my Master.”

Phil’s eyes widen as he finally understands what that sign means. The sign that was placed after every sentence. Berating himself for not realizing sooner. “I thought you’ve been saying ‘sir’ the whole time.”

“But that’s rude. You’re my Master. I must refer to you as such.”

“Says who?” Phil asks. Wilbur raises his hands to reply before freezing. His eyes widen as he realizes he stumbled into a trap. A trap Phil should’ve never set. Prime, Phil needs to watch his tone, watch what he says. He’s rehabilitating the hybrid, not arguing with a kid. He can’t change everything at once. He needs to be more patient.

He opens his mouth to speak but Wilbur beats him to it, signing “I’m sorry, Master.” The kid flinches before signing a quick “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.”

“No mate, I’m sorry. I’m not frustrated with you, just with the way your previous masters taught you. I would like to just be called Phil.” Wilbur’s wide eyes and increased breathing immediately has Phil backtracking. Wilbur wasn’t ready for that request. Time for more damage control. “That may be too much right now, huh? How about you just call me sir?” Phil pauses before adding, "I don’t think it’s rude.”

Wilbur pauses before slowly signing “Sir?”

“That’ll do, mate. Let’s stick with that for a bit, ok? I really am sorry for scaring you.” Phil waits for a nod from the kid before slowly picking up the discarded cookie plate. Making sure to broadcast his actions, he passes it to the kid. He tries to ignore the look of surprise Wilbur sends him. As though he would restrict the treat because of the events that just conspired. He reminds himself that it takes time. This will all take time.

He sits on his corner of the couch and boots up the documentary list. As the screen loads he turns to make one final point. “I really don’t mind whether you choose to speak or not. Your voice is yours. I do not own it.” He silently adds, nor do I own you. That would be too much for today.

One day… one day Wilbur will understand what is happening. That he is his own master. That he is free.

Notes:

Happy Pride Month <3

I didn't want make you all wait until Tuesday. Drink some water for me!

---

SO fun thing I learned while researching this section, referring to people as ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’ is phrasing that is only ‘fit for the Hearing world, not the Deaf’. There is really no translation for ‘sir’ in sign language, however, Wil would be accustomed to the phrasing as he used it when he was younger. The ‘sir’ translation I’m imagining is a variation of “man” where a closed fist bumps into the chin twice. If you’re curious, here’s a link to the website I get most of my descriptions from: https://www.signbsl.com/sign/man . The ‘man’ I’m using is the first video of the person in the steel blue / grey button up. (Honestly, the videos shuffle every time I open the link, so if the first one they do doesn’t line up with my description, keep looking. It’s in there) The ‘master’ phrasing is pulled from ‘headmaster’ cause ya know, most people don’t use that word in everyday life. In case you want to visualize the signing :)

Chapter 14: Anger

Notes:

Tws: None (Lmk if I missed one)

Wil wakes up to birds singing and sunlight streaming through the blinds. Just like every other morning.

He rolls out of bed to throw on clothes that his Master has bought him. Just like every other morning.

He makes the bed, folding and tucking it to perfection. Just like every other morning.

He quietly makes his way to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth. Just like every other morning.

He then opens his door and creeps downstairs to the kitchen. Just like every other morning.

His Master is already there, with a cup of coffee and breakfast half cooked. Just like every other morning.

He sits down in his seat where a water bottle and cup of tea await him. Just like every other morning.

He watches the crows until his Master serves him breakfast.

Just like every other bloody morning.

And it’s fine, it’s great! He doesn’t have to worry about being beat or locked up or anything. Hell, besides the first week and his fresh injuries, his Master hasn’t even touched him. It’s paradise. Everything is perfect. So why is he so angry?

His Master still tip-toes around him. Cautious. Careful. Wil is not fragile. His Master can make noises while he’s in the room. Sure, Wil might jump or flinch, but he’s not really scared. It's just been conditioned into him. He just wishes that his Master would stop treating him like he was made of glass. Like he’s a trauma victim or some shit.

He was even on a new record of panic attacks. He hasn’t had one in five days. Five. The last small one was when the doorbell rang and Wil was in the living room and his Master was in his office and he was afraid that someone was here to take him away from his Master. Turns out, it was just the pizza man bringing them dinner. The last major one was a couple of weeks ago, and that was the one about “master” and “sir” and using his first name. Which Wil would never do. Nope, not even thinking about it. He does not deserve to use his Master’s real name. He’s a slave, he’s not free. He can’t do that.

His Master places the food in front of him and, after a quick signed “thank you, sir”, Wil digs in. Because he’s allowed to. Because he can eat any food in front of him. Because it’s not a test. It's never a test.

Maybe he’s bored. He’s only allowed to clean when his Master is too. He’s been introduced to video games and has free reign of the living room while his Master works in the morning and afternoon. But he’s not supposed to do anything helpful, he’s supposed to be “relaxing” and “enjoying himself”. How the hell does he do that? No one’s ever taught him.

Maybe he needs to get out again. He hasn’t gotten brave enough to go to the backyard on his own yet; he’s too afraid that his Master will think he’s trying to run. Wil is not a flight risk and will not be treated as such. They do sometimes sit outside to eat dinner, but it’s not enough.

They’ve also been going over to Mr. Sam’s and Niki’s at least once a week. Niki is working on teaching Wil the “proper” way to bake, but he can only bake so many cookies before he’s looking for something to do again.

It’s not like they never change their routine. Just last week Wil had the courage to ask about watching something other than animal documentaries at night. His Master recommended history and pulled up Hamilton. Much to his surprise, it was a musical. They've been exploring the world of musicals every night since then. Even though his Master hints at wanting to watch something else, he asks Wil’s opinion and Wil wants to watch musicals. He doesn’t have to cater to his Master’s wishes anymore. He won’t get hurt for disappointing him. Besides, it’s fun to mess with the winged man. Now that he can trust him a little.

His Master breaks the silence they had been eating in. “I got something for you while I was out yesterday.”

Wil looks up at that. A present? Suspicious. The only reason masters would get him something is if they needed something in return. Or if they wanted a way to control him. Wait for him to get attached, then threaten to take it away. Slaves don’t get items. Nothing truly belongs to them. Wil’s had that knowledge beaten into him too many times.

As though reading his mind, his Master is quick to soothe, “This will truly be yours. I will never take it away or threaten to take it away. You can keep it in your room and hide it, lock it up, whatever you want. Even if you never use it you can keep it. I promise.” Heh. As though promising would make any difference when the master dictates the slave's life.

Though, has his Master given him any reason to not believe him? He still gets fed three meals a day. He still has a bed. He still has hot water. Nothing that has been given to him, items or privileges, have been taken away. No matter how much he bothers his Master with his panicking. Maybe he can trust his Master. Just this once. And if the promise is broken, Wil knows to never trust anyone again. Simple.

Wil signs a quick “ok” before taking his plate to the sink to begin the dishes. He can avoid conversations if his hands are working.

His Master soon joins him with a towel, drying and putting them all away. No matter how strange it was the first couple of months, Wil was getting used to his help. That doesn’t mean he’s comfortable, oh no. It’s just that he’s… settling. Settling better than any house before.

Wil was half way through the dishes when he realized he was relaxed. He wasn’t panicking. His Master is giving him a surprise and he’s not worried about it. Not worried about how bad it’s going to hurt. What a concept… maybe he is getting too settled.

Wil takes that towel that’s handed to him and hangs it up after drying his hands. Present time. Surprise time. Everything's fine. His Master sends Wil into the living room so he can grab the gift from his office. Wil carefully sits in his spot on the couch. Hoping that everything will be alright.

His Master appears in the doorway, using his body and wings to shield whatever is behind his back. Wil tries to pay attention to what his Master is saying, but sometimes the man rambles and tries to soothe but it only makes Wil more anxious and what could it possibly be and why is his Master just standing there and talking and what is behind his back and…

Oh…

Oh hell no.

Wil sits there in shock as his Master pulls a guitar case from behind his back. He is not about to become this man’s little performer, little puppet to be shown off. Absolutely not. He knew that there was a reason behind the niceties. There always is a motive. You can’t trust anyone in this world, and Wil is well versed in that. He should’ve known better. He knows better. He was expecting the betrayal. So why does it hurt?

The stupid bird looks so hopeful that Wil would like the guitar too, so innocent to the turmoil Wil is feeling. To the walls Wil is building back up. He tunes back in to the rambles just in time to hear a hopeful “So, what do you think?”

Wil looks at the man. Looks at the case. Decides if the man wants to hear his voice so badly, he can hear it one more time. Before Wil shuts up for good.

He stands up. Looks the man dead in his eyes. Opens his mouth. And says:

“Fuck you.”

Wil immediately turns to go up the stairs to his room. Ignoring the tears that fall from his face. Ignoring his body shaking from the fear of repercussions. Ignoring the disappointment in himself for his reaction. Squashing the twinge of hopefulness that only wants to hold a guitar again.

Notes:

May I present: angsty angry Wilbur. He was bound to snap at some point.

Try to drink more water than coffee this week! (Yes this is a self call out)

Chapter 15: Soup and Solutions

Notes:

TWs: Past forced actions mentioned

Phil blinks at the spot where Wibur just disappeared from. He isn’t feeling mad, just confused. He’s not sure what brought that response on, but at least the kid’s comfortable enough to yell at him?

Phil was so sure he did something right. Wilbur has been engrossed in the musicals, it almost made Phil not hate them. The puzzles have been abandoned for days now and Wilbur is definitely humming the show tunes when he thinks Phil is out of ear shot (thanks bird hearing). Hell, the kid perks up even more when a guitar is broken out. Wilbur’s eyes sparkle with both awe and hope. At least that’s the picture that Phil paints in his head. Apparently reality had a bit more trauma involved than expected.

Phil whips out his phone and sends a quick message to Sam. Half asking for advice, half celebrating Wilbur’s first curse word. It’s an exciting moment. He then grabs the guitar and makes his way upstairs. He told the boy he would never take it from him, and that includes right now. He’s not going to punish the kid for expressing himself.

He makes his way to Wilbur’s closed door and pauses to listen. There’s increased breathing coming from inside the room, but it’s not at panic attack level. Phil places the guitar down outside the door and leaves. The kid clearly wants space, so Phil will give it to him. He’s going to respect the barrier that WIlbur has placed between them.

A couple of hours pass with no sign of Wilbur. Phil calls Sam while he makes lunch to get another opinion on the matter. Sam was not pleased that Phil just left the kid in the room without trying to dispel any confusion. Phil promises that next time he will confirm to Wilbur that he’s not upset before allowing the kid his space. Thank Prime for Sam. Phil would be struggling without someone to talk to about this situation, or any of the situations he's gotten himself into. He only wants what's best for Wilbur. It’s also useful to have someone give advice when they aren't running on adrenaline and emotions from the situation. He thanks Sam as he grabs one of the plates of food and climbs the stairs. Time to put Sam’s advice to use.

Phil approaches the door, noting that the guitar is still where he left it. He raises his hand to knock, hears a gasp then silence. Phil gives it a couple of seconds before speaking. “Hey Wilbur. I brought you some lunch. I’ll just leave it outside the door for you to grab. I also left the guitar out here. I told you I would never take it from you and that includes right now. It was a present and I never take presents. I’m not mad about what happened. I’m going to be downstairs all day if you need me. You can leave your room anytime you want.”

Phil is quiet for a moment. The room is also quiet. About what he expected. He bends down to place the food on the ground. “I’m going to leave this plate right here and head downstairs now. Try to eat something.” With that Phil turns towards the stairs and makes his way to the kitchen, where his food is cooling. He strains his ears in hopes of hearing some sign of life upstairs. After about ten minutes, he hears a door open, some shuffling, then it closes. Hopefully the kid grabbed his lunch.

The afternoon was fairly uneventful. That doesn’t mean Phil wasn’t straining his ears, listening for any sign that Wilbur was still alive, possibly braving the stairs. He tries to keep busy with his work, but his mind keeps drifting to the terrified siren. Usually if there's a situation, he can talk it over and work through it right away. He’s never physically left before. While Phil’s proud Wilbur feels comfortable enough to leave when it becomes too much, he wishes he could’ve gotten some clarification on what Wilbur was thinking.

He keeps Sam updated all throughout the afternoon and into the evening. As Phil cooks dinner, they decide that inviting Wilbur down to talk and eat will be the best bet. The kitchen is a neutral place, a safe place where food is given. Hopefully Wilbur will choose to come down because he wants to, not because it’s what he thinks Phil is expecting him to. That’s the hope.

Phil turns off the stove and puts the bowls with soup on the table. Something easy on the stomach, in case Wilbur’s anxiety has left him with little appetite. Phil makes his way back to Wilbur’s door, working through what he is going to say. He didn’t want to be demanding or forceful. Just a simple invitation.

A few soft knocks alert the kid to Phil’s presence. “Hey Wilbur, I won’t be mad if not, but would you be willing to come downstairs for dinner?” Some shuffling noises come from the room as Phil holds his breath. The door opens to reveal the siren, his head down, eyes staring at the ground, lunch plate in hand.

“Come on kiddo, the food's hot.” Phil turns from the door and makes his way down the hall. It wasn’t until he was walking away that he realized that the guitar was missing.

Wilbur follows him downstairs and, after placing his plate in the sink, reluctantly sits at the table. He picks up the spoon and pushes the food around the bowl. Wilbur is tense, bracing for an outburst or scolding from Phil. He guesses that’s what happens when he leaves a traumatized child alone with his thoughts for hours. Time to repair this relationship.

“Hi, mate. You’re not in trouble. In fact, I'm proud of you for expressing your emotions rather than bottling them up. But I would like to know what caused that response, so we can avoid this situation in the future.”

“Guitar” the siren signs. Come on Wilbur, throw him a bone. He could’ve figured that out on his own. He did figure that on his own.

“What about the guitar, mate?” Phil watches as the siren weighs his options. He sits silently waiting for Wilbur to respond. No need to rush a conclusion.

“I had a guitar before. They taught me to sing and play. To use my voice to sway crowds and manipulate votes. Sometimes just to show me off. Sometimes for…” Wilbur’s hands pause before continuing, ”hurting others. I had no control over what I was saying or telling people to do or,” Wil breaks off as tears start to fall into his soup. Phil just waits and watches. After collecting himself, a bit too quickly for Phil’s liking, Wilbur signs one more sentence, “Is that what you want me to do?”

Phil croons at the baby, his fledgling. Is that what Wilbur is afraid of? That Phil will use his voice against his will? His heart aches and he once again wishes murder was legal.

“Oh, Wilbur. I promise you I will never force you to use your voice. I know it may be hard to believe, but trust me. I will never force you to perform or manipulate anyone. Ever. Hell, you don’t ever have to play the guitar when I’m here if you don’t want to.”

Phil suddenly has an idea. He could leave Wilbur alone in the house so he can play by himself. That way he’s not worried about Phil hearing him and changing his mind. Similarly, Phil won’t be worried about being accidentally manipulated by the siren’s voice. Not that that is a valid concern, it’s just a fairytale fear. One he’s gained from reading too many myths and bad articles on sirens. One he should absolutely not have.

“How about this? I’ll leave the house a bit more so you can play it without me home. I’ll let you know what time I’m going to be back, so you won’t be surprised. Will that work?”

Wilbur ponders the questions as he munches through a couple more bites before raising his hands and responding. “Yeah. Will we still be able to go to Niki’s every week?”

“Of course, mate. This is in addition to swimming, not instead.” Phil should not be surprised that the boy thought that, yet it still shocked him. Wilbur was worried about losing one privilege to gain another. The kid looked so heartbroken at the question too! Phil just wants to gather Wilbur in his arms, wrap his wings around him, protect him from the world and never let go. However, they stumbled onto one mine already today, no need to test any more unexplored areas.

“Thank you,” Wilbur signs before an idea flashes through his eyes and a tiny grin appears on his face. “Can you leave now?”

Phil chuckles at the question. “Not tonight mate, we have a musical to watch. But I’ll go grocery shopping tomorrow afternoon instead. Does that work?” Wilbur nods and returns to his meal. A warmth spreads through Phil’s chest as he notices this is the first time the kid bossed him around. Wilbur didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he’s not panicking about it. Baby steps.

Notes:

Yo yo yooooooooo

I don't actually know what to write here this week, but I hope you enjoyed the chapter

It's Pride this weekend!!! Which means next weeks chapter may be late :) plz don't hate me

Happy pride lovelies!

Chapter 16: Staring Contest

Notes:

TWs: Past child abuse

Wil sits cross legged on the bed. His bed. Or so he’s been told. Elbows on knees, chin on hands. He is staring down the case across the room. The one that hasn’t moved since he brought it in a few weeks ago. The case that haunts his dreams.

His master has been leaving him home by himself at least twice a week. Always telling Wil he can go wherever he wants in the house and eat anything in the kitchen. The first time Wil stayed in his room, fearful that it was a trap. But his Master arrived home exactly when he said he would. He still let Wil come down for dinner, even though he had free range of the kitchen all day. A concept that was completely foreign until Wil was transferred here.

After that experience, Wil has slowly been testing the boundaries of where he could go and how much he could take since then. One time it was just to the kitchen for a water bottle. Nothing from his Master. Next he grabbed a whole cracker roll. He was too anxious to eat it so he hid it in his room. When his Master returned, nothing. Another time, he sat on the couch the whole time, too fearful to pay attention to whatever channel was on. No reaction. Phil never said anything. And he always came home at the time he said he would. Sometimes he was late, but he was never early.

Slowly, Wil stopped worrying about it. He wanders the house without the anxiety of being caught. He munches on food when he gets hungry, watches whatever he wants on the television. There is one thing he hasn’t taken advantage of yet. The thing that his Master is probably expecting him to be doing since the first week.

And that thing is staring back at him.

He glances over to the clock on his dresser. His dresser. 3:30. Two hours until his Master said he’d be home. Will still had plenty of time. So why wasn’t he moving?

Wil knows the answer. The thing he once loved to do turned into yet another way they could control him. He was conditioned to hate the stupid case in front of him. He was forced to manipulate too many people, forced to use his skill and his voice. There are days where he still feels the phantom lashes of his disobedience, of his rebellion. How short lived it was. A kid can only take so much before breaking. Before becoming a shell.

3:45. Nobody has moved. Not Wil, not the case. Maybe this could be different. He wasn’t being forced to play. Maybe this could be like before. Before he was taken.

Nope. Not thinking about that.

Maybe this could be like before they found out. When he was strumming in the slave quarters. Humming old lullabies. Playing while the other slaves dances and relaxed. When the master wasn’t home. Kind've like right now.

4:00. Fuck it. Wil slides off and picks up the case. He whips around and slams it on his bed. And… stares at it. Can he really disobey his master? He’s not to touch the guitar without permission. Or his master will get mad. And more scars will get added to Wil’s back. Are his previous ones healed? Can he take another beating? Will the gratification of feeling the strings under his finger again outweigh the consequences? It’s been worth it before. And it hasn’t been before. What about this time?

Wait.

That’s not right. His Master would not do that. Wil doesn’t belong to the person with that rule. His current Master said Wil could. Wil could play. That the guitar was Wil’s. That it was a present. That he would never take presents from Wil. His current Master leaves the house so that Wil can play in peace. Without the fear of his Master changing his mind. Of showing him off. He’s allowed to do this.

4:15. ‘Ok. Breathe, Wil’, he tells himself. ‘Do that stupid counting thing that your Master has you do that always works. Breathe.’ Wil takes a deep breath, reaches a hand out and pulls on the zipper. Before he over thinks it even more, he flips the lid over.

The guitar is beautiful. Way prettier than the beat up old pieces of shit he had to play before. Starstruck, Wil reaches out a hand and runs his fingers along the wood. He curls them around the neck and takes the guitar out of the case. He brings it up to his chest and strums each string.

Prime, this instrument is out of tune.

The notes break Wil out of his trance. He freezes. Then shrugs. He already touched the instrument, picked it up, and made noise. He might as well keep going. Setting the guitar down next to the case, Wil explores it further. In the front, he finds additional strings, a tuner, and a container of picks. His Master thought of everything. It’s so hard to hate the man that owns him with how kind he’s being treated.

Wil allows muscle memory to take over. Just holding the instrument again would've been enough but he gets to play it too. And he gets to play what he wants. After a quick tune, he just begins strumming. It’s so much easier to play without his shackles on. His wrists are lighter and he could switch between chords faster than ever before. He can play like he used to. So he does. He plays the songs that he loved. Plays the happy ones. Plays the ones that his mother used to.

Wil returns to the present with something dripping on his hands. It takes him too long to realize that they are his tears. That his face is wet from silent crying. Wil mourns as he plays. He mourns a life he never had. He mourns a mother that never watched him grow up. He mourns until he can’t handle the emotions anymore.

5:07. Wil puts the guitar away and hides the case under his bed. So that he can't see it. He quickly wraps himself up in blankets and lays down. Against all effort, tears continue to spill at the emotions and memories that playing had brought up. He pulls the blankets tighter and closes his eyes. He tries to trick his brain into believing that he is being given a hug, just like his mother would after she came home from work. Before. Wil hasn’t thought of before in years. He hadn’t thought of it in years. A hug.

He didn’t realize how much he missed them.

Notes:

Man I leave for a week and all hell breaks loose

Happy Juneteenth!

Happy Summerween!

Fuck the Supreme Court!

See ya'll next week, stay safe loves. Don't stop fighting <3

Chapter 17: Guitar

Notes:

Tws: Panic

Phil is parked down the street. He still had 15 mins before he told Wilbur he would be home. Whenever he’s early, Phil just sits in his car and waits. He doesn't want to catch the kid off guard and regress any progress made. Besides, he promised the kid time to play his guitar without Phil being home. He’s not going to arrive early and cause Wilbur to worry about being walked in on. Ever since they started this a month ago, Phil has made sure to keep that constant.

While Wilbur seemed stressed the first couple of times he was left alone, he quickly relaxed. Phil just focused on keeping the routine and letting the kid figure it out. To understand that the rules haven’t changed and he can do the same things that he usually can when Phil’s home. Wilbur seemed to be drastically improving ever since they started this. He isn't on edge anymore and has even begun to throw quips and jokes at Phil, something that Phil never thought was a possibility when he first took in the siren. The terrified siren that jumped at his own shadow. It’s amazing how far they've come.

It’s certainly not without a bad day. A week or so ago, Phil came home to Wilbur cocooned in his bed, refusing to move. Dinner was ignored. It took everything in Phil to let the kid have his space, to ignore his own instincts craving to comfort the boy. The next day, Wilbur pretended that nothing happened, so Phil didn’t mention it. Everyone has their bad days.

5:30. Phil starts his car and drives it down the block to his house. He had decided to swing by the fish market for the first time since adding Wilbur to the home and picked up some fresh fish. He hopes that Wilbur will like fish and won’t get offended the same way that Phil gets offended when people put a bowl of seeds out for him. Just because he has wings doesn’t mean he eats birdseed.

Phil opens the door to the house and is met with the most beautiful music he’s ever heard. The notes float through the air and wash over him as the melody beckons him closer. He barely has enough control to put the fish in the fridge before being drawn to the source.

Phil finds Wilbur in the living room and barely has the ability to pause in the doorway. The music is mesmerizing. It is the most beautiful playing he’s ever heard. This kid is impressive. The melodies wash over him, begging him to come closer. He fights the draw, and chooses to remain in the doorway. Knowing that if he did come closer, he would scare off Wilbur. And the music would stop playing. He closes his eyes and sways slightly to the rhythm, praying that nothing will stop the sounds entering his ears.

Before he knows it, the melody does stop. Phil blinks a couple of times, trying to clear the light fog that has settled on his brain. Tries to regain control of his limbs. He opens his eyes to see a wide eyed Wilbur staring back at him. His fingers in a white knuckled grip on the guitar. Fear painting his features. The boy’s eyes flick to the clock on the wall, then flick back to Phil, impossibly wider, breathing starting to increase.

So this is what the kid was afraid of, the reason why Phil left the house twice a week. Afraid of Phil finding out how beautiful his music is. Afraid that he will manipulate Phil. Phil takes a step back. He does what he always does when he is scaring the kid, he tries to fix it.

The boy is not actively having a panic attack. Phil can handle this, he’s handled it before. Don’t make a big deal out of it. Don’t send the kid spiraling.

“Sounds good, mate. I’m gonna start on some dinner,” Phil says as he smiles and turns back to the kitchen. He strains his ears for any sign that he made the situation worse, and begins the motions of cooking. As Phil digs out some pots and pans, he hears Wilbur scurry upstairs. His advanced hearing picks up a door closing, a sliding noise, a long zipper, another slide, then nothing. Silence from Wilbur’s room.

It isn't until he calls out for dinner that Wilbur comes down. He gives a smile when Wilbur sits down at the table with only a slight hesitation. It shows how much the kid trusts Phil to be in his presence after a rough situation.

Dinner is, overall, a quiet event. Phil has to give explicit permission before Wilbur will touch the food, but that regression was expected. They haven’t talked through the situation and no matter how many times Phil will tell the boy that food will never be kept from him, old habits die hard. Besides that, the only sound that broke the silence was the clinking of silverware and the crunching of bread. The kid was cautious in every move, he was tiptoeing around Phil again.

Phil knows why, he understands that Wilbur does not want to be an object again. A tool to benefit his so-called master. Phil understands that he holds all the power, as much as he hates to think it. And he understands that Wilbur fears that power, that he still fears the day when kindness will turn evil and all the comfort he has will be ripped from him. No matter how many times Phil tells him that he’s safe, Wilbur is still convinced that there is a limit to the love he receives. It’s a blanket that protects the boy, protects him from heartbreak. For all Wilbur knows, he may have reached the limit today. After all, Phil hasn’t approached the subject yet. He tried to give himself time to figure out how to approach the situation while he was cooking, but it wasn’t enough. Phil still needs to reassure Wilbur that nothing in their arrangement will change. He just can’t figure out the right words to say. And now, he has to wait until dinner is over. The kitchen needs to remain a safe place, a positive place.

After finishing up their meal, Wilbur takes over the dishes, making them even more spotless than usual. Phil recognizes the action. Wilbur is falling back into whatever old pattern he had, the one where he believes a punishment is coming, so he tries to do everything leading up to it perfectly, as to not gain any additional wrath. Phil makes a point to compliment how well they’re washed before inviting the terrified boy into the living room.

Phil sits on his corner of the couch and gestures for Wilbur to sit in the chair across from him. This way there’s a physical barrier between them, the coffee table. Hopefully it’ll make the kid more comfortable. The boy carefully lowers himself onto the chair, eyes trained on the floor. Wilbur is stiff, sitting on the edge of his seat, clearly ready to bolt. Phil looks at Wilbur and gives him what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

“Listen kiddo, you did nothing wrong. You’re not in trouble. I know I walked in while you were still playing today, but our deal will remain. I am not going to take the guitar. Not now, not ever. It is a present and presents will never be taken away. I am still going to leave the house so you can have some alone time. I am never going to ask or force you to play- not for me, not for a guest, not for anyone. I promise.” Phil watches the boy the entire time. Wilbur doesn’t relax, not fully, but he seems to breathe easier as Phil talks. As he explains.

As Phil finishes reassuring the boy, he watches as Wilbur’s shoulders start to shake. His instincts beg him to grab the boy and comfort him, but Phil resists. He will not force Wilbur into anything, no matter what his bird brain says he should do. Words. He has words. Phil should use them.

“Are you ok?”

Wilbur shakes his head no.

“Anything I can do to help?”

Wilbur sniffles. Untangles his arms. Stands up from the chair. Ducks his head lower and signs a quick, “a hug please, sir.”

Phil immediately stands and opens his arms, meeting the boy halfway. Wilbur collapses into Phil’s waiting arms. Phil sinks to the floor as the boy’s legs give out. Wilbur clutches Phil’s shirt as Phil wraps both his arms and wings around the shaking figure. He mumbles reassurances, repeating over and over again that the boy is safe and that nothing will hurt him here. Ever.

The clock continues to act as a metronome as Phil sits on the ground holding Wilbur tightly, swearing he’d never let him go again. The shaking and tears have ended a while ago and Wilbur’s breathing has evened out, but still Phil held on. The kid wants comfort, so comfort is what Phil will give, no matter how bad his limbs ache. The body he held was finally relaxed, trusting that no harm would come to it here, in this house. Phil hopes that he can keep that trust forever, and help Wilbur finally be a kid. To gain the childhood he deserved. The one that was torn from him at too young of an age.

Phil isn’t sure how much time has passed. His legs have long fallen asleep and the light coming through the window is beginning to dim. He remains still, finally holding his fledgling in his arms. The thing his instincts have been begging him to do since day one. As picturesque as this moment is, reality always catches up and responsibilities must be taken care of. The sharp bells of his phone ringing reminds Phil of this fact. Wilbur jumps and tenses out of his sleep, allowing Phil to reach for his phone. There is only one number attached to that ringtone and Phil knows better than to not answer. He makes sure to keep holding onto the boy. Until Wilbur pulls away, Phil will give him the comfort he seeks.

“Hello?”

“Phil. We need you to go to this auction tonight. I’m sending you the address.”

“Mate, I can’t I already have my hands full-”

“Do you have a bedroom available?”

“Well yes but-”

“Then you’re going. Phil, you are the last person I can call. I understand that you and your current rescue might not be ready but this is an emergency case. I’ll send the details over. The bidding starts at midnight. Good luck.” With that, the person on the other line hung up, leaving Phil with an increasingly anxious charge in his arms and another that will be arriving at his house in a couple of hours.

“Sir?” Wilbur signs, blinking sleep from his eyes as confusion clouds his face. He probably heard the conversation, the man on the phone was not very quiet.

“Hey, kiddo.” Phil mentally sighs. He had hoped that he would have more time. The siren was just beginning to trust him, actually trust him. How is he going to explain the new situation? They do say honesty's the best policy. “I have to go to an auction tonight. I’ll be bringing home another hybrid, one that’s like you. I don’t know what condition they’re in, but since it’s an emergency, it could be worse than how you came in. I’m sorry there isn’t any more notice.”

Wilbur pulls away as Phil speaks. He lets the kid go. There is a lot of change and information thrown his way, information that Phil had hoped to slowly introduce to him, but the universe had different plans.

“Are you replacing me?” Phil barely kept the horror off his face. Of course that’s the first thing this kid thought of. Wilbur has been passed around his entire life, no matter what Phil would say, that fear, that trauma would remain.

“Of course not, mate. We’re just adding another person to the family. It may take a bit to get used to them, but they need our help right now. I have a couple of extra bedrooms set up for this exact reason. You’ll still get to keep yours and everything in it. I won’t expect you to share your space if you don’t want to.”

“Will I be able to interact with them?” Prime, Phil can’t take another heartbreak. What has happened in this child’s life to make him even think that? Oh yes, slavery. Child Abuse.

“Absolutely. I would never prevent you from talking to anyone. Ever. I promise.” Phil pauses to get a good look at Wilbur’s face. Relief floods it. Good. He believes Phil. No more distrust.

“Do you have any other questions right now?” Wilbur shakes his head and signes a quick “no sir.”

“Ok, I’m going to get ready. I have to leave pretty soon. If you have any questions, just come and knock on my door, ok?” Wilbur nods as they both stand, Phil cringing as his knees creak. The boy has a look on his face. A look that Phil recognizes. The same one Wilbur wore a couple of hours ago. The one that Phil swears he’ll never deny.

“Do you want another hug, mate?” Wilbur responds with a quick nod and opens his arms. Phil was quick to cocoon the kid with his wings, holding tight to him. “If you ever want a hug, just ask. I won’t deny you comfort, ok?” Phil feels a nod against his chest.

He gives one last squeeze before detangling himself. “I’ll be back soon. I have to get ready.” With that, Phil makes his way to his room. To grab his costume. To look at the information that was sent over. To go get another kid.

Notes:

Hello my darlings, how are we doing? I've missed you all!

If you need to scream into the void, the comment section is open. Don't forget to have some water and try to take care of yourself.

I'll see you next week <3

Chapter 18: The Second Hybrid

Notes:

Tws: non-consensual physical touch

Here we go again. That’s the only thought Phil has as he steps in the shop. The same shop he was in only two months ago. Tipping his bucket hat to the same cashier as before, he is led to the same back room. Entering the same elevator, he double checks his disguise in the same mirror. Same mask, same clothes, same contacts. Same as the last time he had purchased a kid in this place. Time to get another.

Phil shifts a briefcase in his hands as the elevator descends. In the information that was sent to him, the Organization recommended that he brings one. They were also funding this rescue, as it was going to be more expensive than usual. Something about a private showing, as vague as that sounds.

The elevator doors open to the same hallway. Phil hands a different invitation to the same guard and is let into the same room. He picks up a different booklet and the same paddle and wanders towards the same cages that once held Wilbur. He is not mentally prepared for the events that are about to conspire. He understands why he has to be here, but it didn’t make it any easier or less traumatic.

Taking a breath, he slips into his confident slave owner image. It is important to present a certain way if he is to succeed in rescuing the new hybrid. The same way he succeeded in rescuing Wilbur. He wanders up to the far left cage, looking into the empty cage, trying to prevent the image of his Wilbur tied down and muzzled from returning to his brain. Glancing to his right, he realizes all the cages are empty. All but one.

Phil watches the chaos occurring on the other side of the room. The only hybrid is screaming and cursing everyone out. Strange that the auction owner didn’t muzzle that one, but Phil knows better than to try to predict what will happen in this hellhole.

“Ah, Kisuke, welcome back. Already looking for another hybrid? I could’ve sworn you were here only a bit ago. Bored already?” Speak of the devil and he shall appear. What a sleazy motherfucker. As though the man did not invite Phil here to see the show for himself. After all, only those who had purchased a slave from this specific auction could come tonight. One of the reasons the Organization insisted on Phil.

It’s been a couple of months since Phil’s stepped foot in here. Since Phil’s life has been forever changed. He would do it over and over again to save the silent siren. Even if it’s too soon to be back in this basement for Phil’s liking, that’s why he’s returned. To save another child.

“Yes, you know how it is. The novelty wears off fast with the ones that are already well trained.” Phil barely recognizes his own voice as it speaks those horrid words. Oh Wilbur, please forgive him for what he’s about to say. Phil needs to secure his next quarry, even if it means insulting his fledgling. “Especially when they don’t talk back. Takes most of the fun out of it.” Phil casually shrugged, even as his stomach churns at the words.

The auction owner chuckles. “Well I’m sure you can hear the commotion over there. We keep him unmuzzled so that you can hear the mouth the kid has on him. He’s creative with his insults, it's almost endearing. It’s quite different from the siren you already have.”

Phil nods, encouraging the man to continue. “What kind of hybrid is he?”

“A selkie. Picked him up about a week ago, he hid his coat before going to town. It wasn’t hard to grab it to control him. He’s a young one too, prepped to be molded into whatever his master will want for him. Completely untrained. I wish I had the time to break him, but I’m sure someone will get a kick out of it.”

Phil couldn’t keep the surprise off his face. “Did you say you just picked him up?”

“Oh yes. Sometimes hybrids can evade capture for years before we get our hands on them. I don’t mind, their feral nature usually brings in a larger bid.”

Phil just hums something that could be taken for agreement. “I can’t wait to take a look at him. Thank you.”

“Of course, Kisuke. If you have any more questions, don’t be afraid to find me.” With that, the auction owner slips away to speak with another buyer. Fuck. They just kidnaped this child. He’s probably terrified out of his mind. No wonder he’s cursing the world out right now. Phil would be no different.

He steps away from the first cage that he had that conversation in front of. He is here on a mission. Money from the Organization burns a hole in his pocket. He was sent to get the kid, no matter the cost. Opening the booklet to its single page, Phil looks at the information on the cursing child. There it is. The two digits staring back at him. Ten. Squinting, Phil made sure his old eyes weren't playing any tricks on him. Nope. The kid was only ten.

Fuck this system.

Phil slowly wanders towards the middle cage. The one that all the shouting is coming from. He slips into the crowd and stares at the horror show in front of him. The selkie’s coat is on display next to the cage that holds the selkie himself. Various buyers stand around it, petting the coat and laughing as the boy squirms and hollers. Phil’s blood boils at the idea of such a precious object being used to torture it’s owner.

The kid's face is dirty, clothes ragged and torn. His hair was brown, Phil couldn’t tell if that was the color or just the amount of dirt on it. He is wearing a similar collar to Wilbur’s. The kid’s visibly suppressing shivers as a buyer traces various shapes into his coat. In response to the abuse, he is spewing very creative insults about the person’s mother.

Phil’s instincts instantly want to protect him from this entire event. He has to be patient though. He can’t kidnap the child if he wants to be able to come back for another. Phil has to do this the proper way. He can take the child home soon.

As the last few buyers join the crowd, the owner steps up to the cage. There were about ten in total, including the two surrounding the coat. They quickly step back, joining the group. Phil is more interested in the kid’s reaction. The second the auction owner is in view, the boy slams his mouth shut and presses himself against the back bars, as far away from the man as he could get. He’s trying to put on a brave face, but the trembling in his hands give him away. Phil tries his hardest to not murder the man where he stands.

“Magnificent, isn't it? '' The owner dances on the stage, as though he’s putting on the show of his lifetime. “It crawled out of the ocean a bit ago and we were able to nab it. Completely untrained, it’ll be fun for someone to break in. As always, we don’t sell them without something to control them.” The man gestures to the selkie’s coat that hangs next to the cage. Phil feels sick.

“The magic behind selkies is that the very essence of their life is attached to their coat. Notice how quiet it’s been since I started. Only took a couple of hours before the thing already learned not to interrupt me. Watch how simple it is. Everything you do to the coat, it’ll feel it.” The man runs a hand along the coat and Phil watches as the boy shivers from the phantom touch. “Discipline is super easy, just lock it up and do what you want to the coat. The coat can’t bite back.” The crowd chuckles at the statement, while the owner's hand continues to stroke the fur. “With such a rare specimen, we only invited our favorite members to check it out. I’ll leave the coat up here, so you can get a feel for your purchase during the bidding. Remember, no permanent marks.”

Phil watches as the man turns towards the cage and says something to the hybrid. Whatever threat he uses works and the kid remains silent as he steps away. The owner approaches the podium off to the side as the crowd replaces the man on stage. There is no need for a fast talking auctioneer, with only one sale, the bidding can take the entire two hours.

Phil remains in the back of the crowd and prepares for the bidding war that’s about to come. He will get the boy out of here, away from those touches. No matter how long it takes, no matter the final cost.

Notes:

Andddddd the second child has entered the fic.

Thank you for all the comments and support that this fic has gotten! I appreciate all the new readers and the ones that keep returning week after week!

Take care of yourself this week, I'll see you next week <3

Chapter 19: Baby's First Auction

Notes:

Tws: Unwanted Physical Touch (not as bad as last chapter)

Tommy puts all of his hatred and frustration in his glare. He wishes he could shoot lightning or something out of his eyes to burn the Man on the spot. That fucker stole his coat, captured him, and locked him in a dark, cold, moist room for a week. And then he put Tommy in this cage and put his coat, his precious coat, on display. The Man lets Eyes stare at Tommy, and the Hands pet him like he is some, some dog! A great way to spend his first week on land.

It’s not like Tommy can do anything about it. Yes, he’s a big man, but he’s not very strong and no one seems to care about how many names he calls them. He should’ve paid more attention to the older pups to learn how to properly insult a human. Here he is hiding in a cage with Hands touching his coat, and all he can do is cower and glare.

Oh, believe him, if he could he would continue hollering at these humans until they finally left him alone. But the Man was on his platform. Before Tommy was put in this cage, the Man visited his dark room and told him exactly what would happen if he wasn’t quiet during this part. The Man detailed every cut he would make and the price he would get off of each of Tommy’s body parts and how long they would take before they grow back so he can cut them off again. Whether or not any of it was true is a risk the ten year old isn’t willing to take. Being the first time that Tommy was confronted with his own morality, he’d prefer to not die before being in the water again. He’s a big man and big men don’t die.

Uggghhh these humans talk foreverrrrrr. There’s two that keep throwing numbers back and forth. Increasing numbers. One human is in a weird black and white outfit. It kinda reminds him of the penguins he’d swim with when his colony was in the cold waters. At the other side of the ocean. Where there’s no humans on the land. This human is wearing a collar too, his is hidden in his shirt and has a black bow. Tommy’s is metal and annoying and rubs.

The other human is wearing a stupid bucket hat. Tommy doesn’t need to say anything else. Anyone with that fashion is a wrong'un. That hat would immediately float off whenever you try to swim deeper. Maybe that human has never been in the water. Tommy pities anyone who hasn’t been in the water.

The longer this goes on, the more restless Tommy gets. This is the worst entertainment that he has ever had. Why do they keep naming higher and higher numbers? Is it a game of who can count the highest? Because if Tommy could talk, he would absolutely win. He’s the biggest, smartest man.

Besides, the Man clearly isn’t good at playing. The numbers he was naming yesterday were way smaller than the ones these two were naming. He should take some notes.

Finally, finally the Eyes were all leaving him. Even though it wasn’t the same as the Hands touching his coat, the Eyes still raked over his body. He feels like a lost pup who swam too deep and the predators are hoping he’ll swim a little closer. Instead of him being able to swim away from the Eyes, they all turn towards the door and walk out of the room. Maybe Tommy’s glare is more powerful than he thought!

It isn’t long before only two humans remain. The Man and Bucket Hat. They seem deep in their conversation, papers are being passed around and Tommy is so bored. His human legs hurt too. He was not used to using them yet. Sure he’s had to use them for a week but it’s hard! Plus he’s had to stand on them in this cage for hours. Hours! This is practically child abuse. He should speak up. He’s gonna speak up.

“Oi, dickheads. You’re not very good at that number game, I can think of many numbers way higher. But that’s because I’m a bigger man than you.” Tommy immediately regretted saying anything as the Man whips around and stalks towards Tommy’s coat. He presses himself back into the bars, even though Tommy knows the Man won’t lay a hand on his body. It’ll hurt all the same.

All of a sudden, Bucket Hat speaks up, “Don’t you dare lay a hand on that coat.”

The Man whips around and crosses his arms at Bucket Hat. “Oh, possessive are we, Kisuke?”

“You have no idea. Hands. Off.” Bucket Hat stares down the Man until he backs up. That’s a first, Tommy has never seen the Man back off. Maybe it’s a good thing that Bucket Hat is here.

Tommy quickly changes his mind as Bucket Hat walks up to his coat and places his briefcase next to it, popping it open. Oh hell no, Bucket Hat was gonna take his coat! And Tommy can’t say anything because he doesn’t know if he can talk and he doesn’t know the rules and and THERE ARE HANDS ON HIS SHOULDERS.

Tommy freezes as he watches Bucket Hat carefully lift the coat up and place it into the briefcase. Tommy refuses to appreciate that Bucket Hats hands never strayed or squeezed too tightly. He still touched Tommy’s coat. It’s very rude. Before he knows it, the briefcase is latched and back in Bucket Hat’s hand.

With that, they had no way to control Tommy anymore, so he starts throwing everything he can at them.

“You ugly ass bitches, I bet your mothers never loved you. You get no women. I’m a bigger man than you’ll ever be.” He continues to yell at the two stone faced humans. No matter what he says, they ignore him.

It isn’t until he starts to tire and takes a second to catch his breath that the Bucket Hat approaches with soft eyes and speaks to him. “Hi mate. I’m going to take you home. Your old owner is going to open the cage and then we’re going to head to my car.”

“I’m going to drag that child out too,” the Man mutters under his breath as he heads towards the lock. Tommy presses back until he can feel the bars bruising his skin and watches as Bucket Hat’s eyes turn from something that could be friendly to piercing anger. He needs to take notes.

“If you leave any marks, I will be charging you for damages,” Bucket Hat snarls. Tommy holds still, wide eyed and frozen. His eyes dart between the two men, not sure who’s safer or who he’s supposed to listen to. Bucket Hat said The Man was his “old” owner? Tommy is not owned by anyone. He’s too big a man for that to happen. And Bucket Hat's the one with his coat. Tommy should probably listen to him. He can do the most damage.

Ignorant to Tommy’s inner battle, the Man unlocks the door and steps back, leaving the path to the exit open. Bucket Hat gestures towards Tommy and says, “Alright kiddo, follow me,” before turning and heading towards the exit.

Tommy scampers after him, staying at least an arm's length away from all the humans. The selkie is not going anywhere near the Man and doesn’t completely trust Bucket Hat, but anything is better than the Man that has kept him in his basement for days.

At least they didn’t put Tommy in any shackles this time! Or at least physical ones. The emotional one is still there, Tommy has no choice than to follow Bucket Hat. Especially if he wants to see his coat ever again.

Notes:

Hi babes!!!

Sooooo my life just took a left turn on crazy and I'm going to be there for a bit. I got a call on Thursday and I got an adult job which is amazing and I'm actually excited about what I'm doing! However, it's about 3000 miles from where I am currently living, and I start in three weeks. That's a week to pack, a week to move, and a week to find an apartment. I honestly wasn't sure I would be able to get this chapter out this week, but I did! Unfortunately, for a bit, it's going to be too much to write and move so I'm going to take a break. I may be able to write one during my 40 hour (yes you read that number correctly) road trip but no promises! (or I may post a short story in my series, I have a couple in the works) Weekly chapters will begin again August 22 and I apologies in advance if they're a bit later than you're used to (like three hours later).

Take care of yourselves, buy that cookie you've been thinking about, drink some water, and I better see you all back here in a month.

I'll miss you <3

~o

Chapter 20: Home?

Notes:

*SPOILERS*
TW: 'parent' withholding valuables

Phil is ready to leave that place as fast as he can. Something about the dusty, fear filled air causes him to feel trapped. Hopeless. As though there's no escape. Even when he arrives outside and breathes in the night, the stale air coats his lungs. He was only there for a couple of hours, there’s no telling how the kid behind him is feeling.

Phil makes his way over to the car, the boy following along behind. At least the kid is free to move his limbs. Phil’s son Wilbur wasn’t given that luxury. Nether, the kid isn’t even muzzled. Wilbur was muzzled and he wouldn’t even talk! Unnecessary. He hates to be comparing the kid to Wilbur, but it's so hard when that’s the only experience Phil has for these situations.

Phil approaches the car and, after opening the door to the back seat, gestures for the kid to climb in. Eyes wide with wonder, the selkie slips into the car.

“Alright mate, you gotta buckle up,” Phil says, standing next to the open door.

“What’s that?” The kid blinks up at Phil, eyes full of curiosity. Phil takes a second to process the question before explaining how the mechanisms work. He’s never been in a car before. This kid is new new to land. And he just had the bad luck to stumble upon some kidnappers his first day.

Phil returns to the present and carefully closes the door. He makes sure to not slam it, just in case loud noises are a trigger. He quickly sits behind the wheel and drives off, heading home.

They were on the road for a while before Phil decided to break the silence. He had been keeping an eye on the kid in the rearview mirror throughout the drive. Every time Phil checked, the selkie was looking out the window with eyes full of wonder. The excitement Phil could feel rolling off the kid was enough for him to keep quiet and let the boy have his moment. It’s been a stressful couple of days for him, and Phil hopes he's not too traumatized from it all.

Phil reaches over to turn down the radio before beginning a conversation, “We have about half an hour before we get home. I figure we should try to get to know each other. My name is Phil.”

There's a pause before a quiet voice says, “Tommy.”

“Nice to meet you, Tommy. When we get back to the house, I’ll show you where you’ll be staying for a bit. There’s another person in the house, his name is Wilbur. He doesn’t talk very often and prefers to use sign language. If you’re interested, I can help translate until you’re comfortable learning.”

“I know how to sign.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know mate.”

“How else would we communicate underwater?” Phil pauses at that question. He never really thought it through. It explains how Niki and Sam always were able to communicate with Wilbur from day one. Niki being a mermaid and Sam learning from her.

“I never thought about it that way.” Phil lets the conversation die after that. He is exhausted from the emotional day of grocery shopping, walking in on Wilbur, giving Wilbur his first hug in possibly years, then getting a call to rescue Tommy. Phil is drained. He can’t possibly imagine how Tommy’s fairing, being torn from his family, hurt by the auction owner, and then sold to the highest bidder with no knowledge of his future. It’s about time for this long day to end and for everyone to sleep.

They arrive home soon enough. After a quick lesson on how to unbuckle the seatbelt and open the car door, Phil finds himself leading the boy into the kitchen. He makes his way to the corner of the room and sets the briefcase on the counter. Phil then stands in front of it and casually leans back. By tucking himself in the corner, he’s hoping to prevent the boy from feeling trapped, giving him free range of the space. However, by covering the case, he’s hoping his body language display’s he’s not giving it up. That is non negotiable for tonight. A subject that Tommy is not afraid to discuss.

“I want my coat.” The kid had put the island between the two of them. A safe choice. Hopefully he won’t throw himself across it when Phil breaks the news.

“I’m sorry mate, I can’t give it to you tonight. We can talk about it in the morning.” Phil keeps a close eye on the boy for his reaction.

“I want it now. I’m going to take it from you!” Phil would’ve believed him if he didn’t notice the shaking hands and the half step backwards. As though he’s expecting a reaction from Phil and is ready to bolt the minute he needs to.

“What’s your plan?” Phil hopes to confuse the kid enough to snap out of his flight response and to think through the situation. Given how Tommy freezes, he’s accomplished it.

“What?”

“What’s your plan? I give you the coat, then what?”

“I leave. I go back to the water.”

“Do you know the way?”

“... no.”

“Do you know how to not get caught?”

“I’m a big man! Big men don’t get caught! That was my friend's fault I got caught earlier!”

“Your friend?”

“Yeah! Big men can have friends!”

“I never said they couldn’t. Did your friend get captured too?”

“Nope. They stayed in the water. I was the only one brave enough to leave it.”

Phil doesn’t know what to say, but luckily Tommy is ready to return to the coat conversation. The kid turns to intimidation and takes a couple of steps forward. He holds his hand out before demanding, “Coat.”

Phil just shakes his head, “Not tonight. After we get some sleep we can talk about it in the morning. I’m afraid you’re going to run if I give it to you, and once you leave the house, I can’t protect you.”

“I don’t need protection.”

“Maybe not, but the bird inside of me wants to.”

“Stupid inner bird,” the selkie muttered under his breath. Phil purposely acted as though he didn't hear him. Before he could think of something to say, Tommy powered onto the next subject.

“Can I take this off? It makes the air harder to breathe.” The selkie's hands hovered near the collar. Clearly he’s been told to never touch it, but Phil has no rules like that here.

“Of course, mate. You don’t have to wear anything you don’t want to.”

“I want to wear my coat.” The glare was enough to smite Phil where he stood. He tried to hide his shame as he sighed and responded.

“I know. I’m sorry, mate. We’ll talk about it in the morning, after we get some sleep.”

Tommy holds his stare for a bit before relenting and muttering “fine”. He unbuckles the collar and tosses it on the island. Phil takes it as a cue that the conversation is over. He picks up the case again and begins the tour. He informs Tommy that any food or drink is allowed at any time. He grabbed the same crackers and sealed water bottle as before. (This time he gave the kid a quick lesson on how the cap works). He shows the kid to his room and explains how everything in the bathroom works. He makes sure to emphasize the use of the hot water and blankets. As the tour comes to a close, Phil bids his youngest goodnight.

He makes sure to take the briefcase with him as he goes to check on his other kid.

Notes:

Hi loves!

I did it. I got an adult job that I love. I have an apartment. I am 3000 miles away from my homophobic family. I actually have the chance to breathe. I did it. Fucking hell, I’ve been in disbelief all week.

It’s possible. You will get out. You will get the life you dream of. It may take years. But keep believing. You will get there. Keep your head down, keep working at it, and one day you’ll be able to look up and be happy in the life you’ve built. Trust me. The feeling is worth it.

Thank you all for waiting for me. If you have time, check out another short story (I'm going to be posting it later this week- I sent it off to my wonderful beta but they’re traveling so I’m just vibing) that I wrote over the month called Scales. It’s full of angst :P
Take a deep breath for me, I’ll see you next week.

<3

Chapter 21: Fuzzy and Weighted Blankets

Notes:

TWs: Panic attack, implied child abuse

Wil hears the garage door open and scurries upstairs to his room. He was anxious and wanted to be awake for his Master when he gets home. He just isn’t sure if he’s allowed to be. Ok, normally he’s allowed out of his room. And he’s allowed in the kitchen at night. His Master had reassured him of this many times. However, the dynamic always changes with new people, and Wil prefers to be safe rather than sorry.

He carefully closes his door and maneuvers over to his bed, making sure to jump over the creak in the floor. No noises. Must be silent. It’ll hurt less if he’s silent.

No, no that’s not right. That's the other place. The other houses. This house is ok. Wil has a bed in this house. A bed that he’s sitting in. With blankets. Blankets he can use. Blankets he should get under. He should get under the blankets. Why can’t he get under the blankets?

Panic. He’s panicking. That’s ok, he’s been working on it. What did Phi- his Master tell him? Breathe in. What if his Master likes the new slave better? What if Wil has to give up his room and lose the other privileges? What if Wil can’t eat the good food anymore? What if he has to sleep in a closet that’s small, and dark, and locked, and-

No. Wrong place. There are no closets here. None that Wil’s been locked in. His Master doesn’t get mad here. He’s never hurt Wil. He won’t hurt Wil. Breathe out. You’ll be ok.

Wil keeps trying to talk himself out of a panic. Breathing in and breathing out. It’s worked before and it’ll work again. He drags the weighted blanket over his shoulders and tries to relax. He’s almost back to the present, shapes are becoming sharper, reality is becoming more permanent.

That is until a young voice starts yelling. All Wil could think about is the ways the new kid will get punished and broken and molded into the perfect slave and he shuts down.

Frozen.

Silent.

Peaceful.

Wil’s not sure how much time passed, but the next thing he registers is a soft knock at the door. He immediately thinks it’s another flashback creeping into his blank mind, until a second knock sounds. Reality quickly snaps back into focus and he tries to get his bearings. His room. His bed. His blankets. He’s safe. That must be Phil outside the door. He’s the only master that knocks before entering. Yes, that makes sense. The master matches the room. Wil’s returned to the present.

He reaches over to his bedside table and knocks twice. Early on, his Master came up with a system so Wil could give permission for him to enter. Closing the door himself was enough of a foreign concept for Wil. Adding the fact that his Master respects the closed door makes him feel like a fish out of water. Wil has never had this much privacy in his life.

His Master had insisted on coming up with a way for Wil to invite him inside, in case he didn’t want to get up and open the door each time. One knock is no. Two, yes. The bedside lamp has the same code. Flipping it off and making the room dark means no. Flickering the lamp means yes. It’s a really smart system, if Wil would ever say no. He’s been conditioned to never deny his master anything. No matter how safe he feels here, that training would be too hard to break.

His Master cracks open the door and asks permission to enter. It’s always like this. Even with the door open the man feels the need to ask. Wil doesn’t think he’ll ever understand it. Either way, he knows what’s expected. Wil nods and gestures towards the desk chair. His Master doesn’t like it when Wil rises when he enters, and Wil doesn’t like to be sitting while his Master stands. It’s a happy middle ground.

Phil turns the chair around before sitting on it. He places the briefcase next to him before leaning forward and resting his arms on the back of the chair. After settling, he asks the dreaded question. “How’re you holding up? Be honest with me, mate.”

Wil would never lie. Well, he’d tell white lies to make his Master more comfortable, but with the extra request, he has to answer truthfully. So he does.

Wil signs a quick “not well”.

“Which part?”

“Yelling. New person.”

“That’s fair. I’m sorry we were being loud. The kid- his name is Tommy. He isn’t settling in well. It’s not his fault, he’s been through a traumatic situation and I’m definitely not making it any easier right now.”

“Ok.” Wilbur tries to shut down the conversation, as he is still anxious about the whole situation. Of course, his Master knows immediately.

“What is it about the yelling that’s triggering you?”

“He’s really loud, sir.”

“Yes, he is.” His Master just sits there. He’s waiting to see if Wil will elaborate. This happens too often. Sometimes, Wil appreciates the time to gather his thoughts. Other times, like right now, Wil doesn’t want the attention, the pressure on him. Wil decides to tell his reasons to end this conversation sooner.

“You… won’t punish him too harshly for it?”

“Wilbur, I don’t care if he’s loud, I don’t care if he curses at me. It’s how he chooses to express himself and his emotions. He’s going through a lot and I am holding a part of him captive right now. Hopefully everything will be calmer in the morning after we all get some sleep.”

“Captive?!” Wil looks up alarmed at that. His mind fills with chains and ropes and closets before he shoves them to the side. His Master wouldn’t do that… right?

Before he can worry much more, the man just sighs. “Yeah. The kid’s a selkie. I have his coat. I’m afraid that if I give it to him tonight, he’d run. He doesn’t understand yet, but this house is safer than the outside. Hopefully after we chat in the morning, I’ll feel comfortable enough to return it to him.” His Master pauses and watches Wil carefully before continuing, “He’s in his room, the one we set up earlier. The one with the same furniture as yours. He’s safe.”

Wil let out a breath of relief at that. His Master’s kindness seems to extend to everyone. That’s fine with Wil, less drama between the slaves that way.

“Wilbur, I want you to try to remember this. I will repeat it as many times as you need. Any promises I’ve made will be kept. You will not be punished. You will not have anything taken away. You can go anywhere in the house. The rules about entering bedrooms and knocking still apply. You can make noise. You don’t have to share your guitar if you don’t want to. You can communicate however you choose. Just because Tommy is here doesn’t mean that any of those things will change. It’ll be the same as before, just with a new person. Do you understand?”

“Yes Master.” Wil cringes as he quickly corrects himself. “Sir.”

Phil looks confused for half a second before forcing a neutral face. Wil knows he hasn’t slipped up on that in a while. Hopefully he won’t get hurt for the mistake- no. No. His Master doesn’t hurt for that. He’ll understand. If he doesn’t, he’ll ask about it. Wil is safe here.

“Don’t stress about it, mate. You’ll get the hang of it. Is there anything else triggering you?”

This conversation. The whole situation. But Wil can’t say that, can he? So he settles for a simple head shake. By the looks of it, his Master doesn’t believe him. Luckily, he doesn’t require Wil to continue talking about his fear and anxieties.

“Ok, mate. Let’s all try to get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.” He picks up the briefcase and returns the chair to the desk before heading to the door. As he’s about to leave, he turns to face Wil. “Goodnight, mate. My room is open if you need anything.”
Wil acknowledges with a quick “goodnight’. His master leaves the room and closes the door behind him.

Wil turns the bedside table lamp off and bundles under his blankets. His mind tries to wander but he clamps down on it. No need to keep revisiting the past. The fuzzy blankets and the warmth they bring is enough to ground him as he drifts off into a much needed sleep.

Notes:

Hello, yes hi, hello

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE 10K hits!! I read every one of your comments and I appreciate all of you (especially the ones who's commented since the beginning, you know who you are :p) I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, I hope you all enjoyed Scales, and I hope you all have a wonderful week. I'll see you soon <3

Chapter 22: Breakfast for Three

Notes:

Tws: Implied and mentioned child abuse: food withheld

Phil sits at the counter in the kitchen sipping on his morning coffee. He has a strange sense of deja vu as he flips through his various tabs on selkies. Tommy’s file is very thin. Which is to be expected, as the boy was discovered less than a week ago. Instead of looking into past owners, Phil has been spending his time looking into selkies. Unsurprisingly, the internet lacks concrete information. There’s only stories from various folklore and mythologies. It makes sense, as most colonies live in the ocean and stay away from populated areas. His laptop has been running for a few hours as he tries to gain as much knowledge as he can before the boys wake up.

Boys. Plural. He is responsible for two traumatized children now. Definitely not a direction he expected his life to go, but he doesn’t regret it. Hopefully he can give these kids a better childhood than he had.

What the hell is he supposed to feed this kid anyways? Does he only eat fish? How long can Tommy survive without shifting? Has it already been too long? Does he need to put in a pool for the boys? Can he afford a pool that size? Can he even keep Tommy? Should he keep Tommy? Is his family looking for him? Are they risking their lives trying to find him?

The heavy footfalls of legs not used to walking on land alerts Phil to Tommy’s arrival and breaks the chain of questions flashing through his mind. Phil smiles at the kid’s boldness, noting that he still has the naivety that Wilbur lost long ago. He closes his laptop and rises to start getting ready to make breakfast. He has his back to Tommy when he hears the steps enter the room then pause. Phil turns towards the kid and offers a, “Good morning, mate.”

Tommy is frozen in the doorway. He’s staring at Phil like he’s never seen him before. Phil decides to give him a smile and turn towards the fridge to start to pull out ingredients. He keeps an eye on the selkie, but gives him time to process.

As Phil expects, it doesn’t take long. “What the fuck is on your back.” Phil cringes at the choice of words, someone that young shouldn’t know they exist. He turns towards Tommy and closes the fridge to give him his full attention.

“These? They’re wings.”

“Why do you have wings?”

“I was born with them?”

“How were you born with them?” Phil blinks. He’s glad the kid’s curious, it shows that he isn’t traumatized to silence. But how is Phil supposed to answer that question?

“Uh, how were you born with a coat?”

“I just was.”

“And I was just born with wings.”

“Cool,” Tommy says, nodding like he’s agreeing to something. That went smoother than Phil expected. The kid seems satisfied with his interrogation and moves into the kitchen closer to Phil. The crow just gestures towards the island chairs and Tommy plops himself down on one.

“Do you want anything specific for breakfast?”

Tommy sits up straight before replying, “No, sir.” Manners when it comes to food, Phil notes. Food insecurity. He’ll have to see how bad it is.

“There’s no need to call me 'sir'. Just use my name. Phil is fine.”

“Yes, Philza.” Phil squints thinking that maybe the boy heard him wrong.

“It’s just Phil.”

“Yes, Philza.” Phil just turns back to getting out ingredients. Maybe it’s a selkie thing? To add -za to the end of his name? Either way he’s not going to argue.

“Can I have my coat?” Phil just softly sighs. He had hoped to get a longer break before that topic was brought up, but at least the kid is predictable.

“I had a couple of things I wanted to talk to you about before that happens. Why don’t we have some breakfast first and then we can chat.”

“You promise?” Phil turns to look Tommy in the eyes before he answers him.

“Yes, I promise after breakfast and after our discussion, you can see your coat.”

“Ok! What’s for breakfast?” The kid believes him so easily. Good thing Phil was sent to pull him out. Most people would take advantage of this kid. Luckily, Phil isn't like most people.

“I’m not sure yet, what have you eaten recently?”

“Some shitty brown mush that tasted bland at the other place. I forget what they called it.”

Phil blinks at the kid. “Oatmeal?”

“Yeah! That’s it! Disgusting.” Phil chuckles at the boy’s hatred. He seems offended that food can taste that bad. Luckily, there’s no oatmeal in this house.

“Ok, I won’t ever make oatmeal. How many times did you eat it?”

“Like two or three times a day? I wasn’t able to see the sky, so I'm not sure. I was less hungry than usual though!” That comment took Phil by surprise. The kid seemed to be getting solid meals at the auction house, as solid as it can get eating mush three times a day. Yet, it was still more than Tommy’s normal. Phil was under the assumption that Tommy lived with his family in the ocean. Maybe there’s more to his story than he thought. Phil quickly decides he’s not going to push it yet.

“Anything you can’t have?”

“Rocks. And sand. I was told they’re bad for me.”

“And that person was correct. No eating rocks. How do pancakes sound?”

“What’s a pancake?” Phil expected that one, he’d be surprised if they had griddles underwater.

“It’s round and fluffy and delicious. You’ll see.”

“Ok!”

Phil turns his back to the selkie and starts to cook breakfast. He keeps sneaking looks at Tommy, but the boy seems content to sit in silence and watch, so Phil lets him. He’s sure the lines of questions will start up later.

Phil’s plating the first batch when Wilbur comes downstairs. The siren assesses the room before silently moving to sit at the island. Phil offers the boy a smile, but he doesn’t think Wilbur notices, as his eyes are trained on the floor. Phil notes the shaking hands and opens his mouth to offer comfort, but Tommy beats him to it.

“Who are you?”

Wilbur freezes half way across the kitchen. Phil waits a second to see how it’ll play out, before he realizes that the siren isn’t going to answer.

“Tommy, this is Wilbur. Wilbur, this is Tommy. Everything is ok, remember what we talked about last night?” Wilbur nods. “Ok, come take a seat on a stool at the island. Breakfast is ready.” Phil hasn’t had to specify that Wilbur is allowed to use furniture and join him for a while now, but with Wilbur calling him ‘master’ last night, he’s expecting some regression. Better to be careful. Wilbur moves to the place Phil indicated and picks the stool furthest from Tommy. His eggshell walking siren has returned.

Phil places the first batch on the counter and smiles encouragingly as Wilbur reaches out and grabs some pancakes off the serving plate. At least the kid remembers that he can have any food he desires. Luckly, he hasn’t regressed as far as Phil feared.

Phil shuts off the stove and adds the second batch of pancakes to the table before he reaches to fill his own plate. As he brings the fork to his mouth to take his first bite, he looks towards Tommy’s plate to see it still empty. The kid is just sitting in the chair, looking at his hands in his lap. Mentally kicking himself for not even checking, Phil places down his fork and brings attention to it.

“Tommy.” The boy flinches. “Go ahead and grab some food to eat.” Tommy looks up at Phil, confusion written across his face that he doesn’t make an effort to hide. Phil silently celebrates that the kid’s not traumatized to the point of feeling the need to hide his emotions.

“But you haven’t finished eating.” Now Phil is confused. What the hell does that mean? Wilbur had just expected to not get fed. That’s what Phil was expecting. But with Tommy, he thinks he only gets what remains?

“Why would you wait until I’ve finished eating?”

“Because," Tommy signs a word Phil doesn't recognize, "eat last." Phil replays the sign in his head. He’s never come across that one before. And Phil thought he was getting pretty good at the language!

“What was that one word?”

“This one?” Tommy signs it again. “I’ve never heard it spoken out loud so I’m not sure.”

Phil turns to the siren and asks, “Wilbur, do you think you can translate that word for me?”

Wilbur's hands hover and he squints before reaching for the pad of paper on the island. Phil slides it over and watches as perfect letters form across the paper. He wonders how Tommy’s handwriting is, if he even knows how to write. Phil’s not sure how schooling works underwater.

Wilbur slides the pad back to him and returns to his breakfast. Phil looks down to read ‘It's a really bad insult. It means: Unwanted, Abandoned, Orphaned, Stray. Lowest of Low.’

Lowest of low. Bottom of the food chain. Along with stray and orphaned, Phil isn’t even sure now if the kid has a family. Maybe the colony he stayed with just let him hang around. Not quite taken care of, but not quite abused.

“Who called you this?”

“Everyone in the colony.” Phil just hums in acknowledgment.

“Well, we won’t be calling you that here. Go ahead and grab some food. You can eat with us anytime. No need to wait until we've finished.” Tommy doesn't need any more encouragement as he jumps into action and grabs food to put on his plate. He takes a cautious bite before grinning and digging in.

Phil smiles and starts eating too, but he’s growing more and more concerned about the boy’s home life. If Tommy admits it’s as bad as Phil fears, will he stay with Phil? Or will Phil have to force him to stay and become as bad as the other ‘owners’? Wilbur is a rehabilitation case, he’s not ready to experience life as a free person. If he was, Phil would let him go wherever he wanted. Within reason of course. He’s still the kid’s guardian, still responsible for him.

On the other hand, Tommy was already free. And he doesn’t understand the institution he’s been subjected to, if arguing about who can count higher is anything to go by. If Phil’s concerns are true, will Tommy understand that he was abused with his colony? Will he be able to accept that Phil is his new guardian?

Either way, Phil is going to have to take these issues one at a time. Right now, breakfast. Just let everyone eat breakfast. He can worry about the difference between owning a child and being their guardian later.

Notes:

Bigggggg shout out to my beta reader for putting up with me writing this like ten hours ago. Thanks for editing it on short notice :)

Chapter 23: Bois on Their Own

Notes:

TWs: Panic attacks, the usual

Wil keeps one ear on the conversation and one eye on the child. That’s what the new kid is, a child. He is young, not as young as Wil was when he was swept into this life, but still young. The child talks, asks questions without a care in the world, without fear of repercussions. Someone should train him properly.

Wait, no. Wil berates himself as he acknowledges that he doesn’t have to think that way anymore. He doesn’t have to create walls between himself and the others to protect them. To protect others from his own mistakes. The lessons stick when someone you care about gets punished instead of you. No attachments. It’s a lesson Wil learned at a young age. Anything you care about can be used against you.

His new Master has yet to use anything against Wil. In the months he’s been in this house, in his room, nothing has been taken away. Nothing used to manipulate him. Maybe Wil can protect this child. Actually take care of him. Not that he needs protecting from their Master, he’ll never lay a hand on either of them.

Possibly. Wil assumes that the kindness will apply to the child as well, but maybe not. Maybe Wil will need to protect the child from his Master. Better to form the alliance sooner rather than later. Especially if the child is a flight risk, it hurts more when you get dragged back. Better teach him how to survive, how to stay unhurt.

Wil scans the child as breakfast is wrapping up. He’s thin, but aren’t all slaves? Apparently he lived with his “family”, this colony, before showing up at the auction. Maybe he was their slave, or maybe he was just thrown into this situation. Either way, his curiosity, his lack of fear, makes Wil unsure how to feel. Part of him is concerned for the child’s safety. Part of him is jealous that the child feels comfortable enough to act that way already. And a small, teensy tiny part of him mourns his own childhood and what he could’ve had.

His Master’s ringtone cuts through the comfortable silence. He looks at it and grimaces. Wil recognizes it as a work ringtone, rather than the ringtone that brought home Tommy. Wil thought that Phil would’ve taken a week or so off, like he did when Wil arrived, but maybe because it’s such short notice, he’s unable to. That just means that the responsibility of setting Tommy in now rests on Wil’s shoulders. Wil’s done it before, but with this new house and new rules, he’s not sure what the new protocol is.

His Master rises from the table with an apologetic smile. “I need to take this, but I’ll be right back. Can the two of you take care of the dishes? I should only be ten minutes.” After a nod from Wil, he leaves the room, leaving Wil and the new kid alone.

Wil stares at Tommy. Tommy stares at Wil. He waits for the kid to break the silence, to start talking about something, but the child seems to be waiting for the same reason. It’ll be a stand off until someone breaks it.

Wil glances down at his plate and almost misses the flurry of motion as Tommy signs, “Hi! I’m Tommy.”

Wil pauses before deciding to sign back. “I’m Wil.” Strange the kid decided to sign at him, he could’ve just spoken.

“Wil? But Phil calls you Wilbur?”

“Yeah, he’s never asked what I would prefer to be called.” Call it spite, call it fear, Wil has never corrected his Master and never will. “Wait, why do you call him by his name?”

“You don’t? What do you call him?”

“Master. Sir. It’s proper to.”

“That’s stupid. You’re not a slave. You’re his kid. I thought it was going to be dad or something.” Wil just blinks at the child. But we’re both his slaves? What is happening? His kid? Before Wil can break out of his shock to question the boy, Tommy forges ahead with the next topic. “Is he nice, will he give me my coat back? Wait. Do you know where it is? Can you get it for me?”

“... Uh no. I don’t know where your coat is. He’s usually nice. I don't know if he’ll give it back though. We should probably work on the dishes, because he said to.”

“Ok!” Tommy jumps up and follows Wil’s lead as he places the plates in the sink and begins to fill it with water. He smiles as Tommy’s eyes grow large as more and more bubbles are created. It makes sense, suds are hard to make under the sea.

“You can dry and put away, I’ll wash. Just hold stuff up and I’ll point at where they go.” Wil dips his hands in as Tommy grabs the closest towel. This shouldn’t take too long.

They were about halfway through the dishes before Wil hands Tommy the first plate. He had been voicing story after story about all of his fish friends and the adventures they went on. He is half way through a story about Tom Jr. and Nuu when he puts the plate he was drying down to grab the next one from Wil.

If Tommy was in the water, the placement would’ve been fine. The plate would’ve slowly floated to the bottom and sat there peacefully. Unfortunately, they are not in the water. All Wil can do is brace for the crash as the plate plummets towards Earth.

It shatters, shards of ceramic shooting off in every direction. Wil just puts the plate he was holding back into the water. He has to dry his hands off and get a broom to sweep it up and then finish the dishes. Super quick and easy, no stress. That is until he turns to look at Tommy.

The kid stands frozen, face white as a sheet. His eyes slowly turn from the floor to Wil, wider than when he saw the suds.

“It’s ok, it’s easy to pick up,” Wil signs quickly. “And Sir won’t get mad at you, he’s very understanding.” Tommy’s breathing starts to pick up at the mention of their Master. He scrambles back to the corner and curls up on the ground, ignoring the ceramic as it cuts his skin. Wil just stares, frozen, as Tommy sits, knees to chest, one hand over his head to protect himself. His other hand signing “I’m sorry” over and over again. Wil has seen this position before, though usually he’s the one cowering. It’s a position that expects pain, one that Wil’s learned is unnecessary here. He tries to explain to Tommy but there's only so much he can get out before realizing the boy has covered his eyes.

Wil starts to panic as well. He doesn’t know what to do. How does his Master always break him out of these panic attacks? He needs help. He can’t do this on his own. But he can’t leave Tommy either. Phil would know what to do. But Phil is on a phone call. But Tommy isn’t calming down, he’s not even looking at what Wil is trying to sign. This isn’t good, he needs help. They both need help.

In a split second decision, Wil takes a deep breath and shouts “PHIL”.

Notes:

*Presses post and runs away to hide, hoping that no one notices that it’s a day late*

S/O to kittyface0 who predicted something like this would happen last time in Chapter 7. I’ve had it in the outline for months :P

Chapter 24: Phil's First Taste of Chaos

Notes:

Spoilers
Tws: Panic, injuries from life (cuts) - not graphic

Phil wraps up the conversation about confirming his couple of weeks off and starts down the stairs. This is when he hears Wilbur shout. Not master, not sir, but his name. Phil has never felt fear course through him this fast. Phil sprints down the rest of the stairs as scenario after scenario of dying children runs through his head and he bursts into the kitchen. Sharp shards cover the floor and both of his children are panicking, but no one is dying. It’s fine he can handle it, just another day of rehabilitating traumatized children.

He goes to the freezer and grabs two bags of peas. Phil knows he’s only able to concentrate on one kid and needs something to pull the other out. After scanning the boys, he recognizes that Wilbur is still semi aware of his surroundings. That’s good. Only one full attack.

“Hold this for me Wilbur,” Phil says as he hands one of the bags over. Wilbur grabs it and holds it to his chest, eyes wide and breathing a bit fast. Hopefully the cold will help ground the kid since he’ll need to concentrate on Tommy. “I want you to take deep breaths with me. Stand over here so I can keep an eye on you,” Phil gestures to his right, against the cabinets. Wilbur quickly moves to the indicated spot. Luckily there were no pieces of ceramic in the path. “I’m going to talk Tommy through his panic. Listen in, ok?” At Wilbur’s nod, Phil turns to evaluate the cowering child in front of him.

Phil’s glad he wears slippers in the morning. They keep his feet from getting cut by the ceramic. Tommy seems to already be injured from it, if the sluggishly bleeding cuts on his palms and feet are an indication. That’ll have to be step two; first Phil has to make sure the kid’s not going to pass out.

He recognized the stream of “I’m sorry” coming from the balled up child, the rapid hand motions remind him of Wilbur’s panic attacks earlier into his stay. As though he’s going to be hurt for a simple plate. It’s eerie how similar the boys are. Both have had completely different upbringings, different experiences, different childhoods. Yet, here they are. Both panicking in the same kitchen with only Phil to calm them down. What a life he’s gotten himself into.

Phil tries everything. Every trick he’s learned with Wilbur, everything the internet told him to try. While Phil could tell they were working on the siren, the selkie was too far gone. Too deep in whatever headspace the panic put him in. Knowing that the lack of oxygen will catch up to the boy, Phil resorts to shocking the system. The ‘ole bag of peas trick. Phil sets the second bag on Tommy’s knees and leans back. The flinch Tommy gave upon Phil’s approach did not go unnoticed. Phil hopes this’ll work. He doesn’t really have any other ideas that won’t traumatize the child further.

Tommy brings the peas into his ball, pressing them against his chest. He carefully peaks his head out and locks eyes with Phil. Before the kid could spiral again, Phil is quick to reassure him. “You’re not in trouble, no one's in trouble. Just follow my breathing.” Phil continues to exaggerate his breathing, noting that both boys sync their breathing with his. “Good job, you’re doing great. Just keep breathing with me.”

Phil continues to compliment the boys for a few minutes, until he’s confident that Tommy has returned to the present. “Alright, I’m going to grab a couple of shoes so that you aren’t stepping on the shards. We’ll take a look at your injuries, then we’ll work on the plate. Does that sound ok?” Phil gets a nod from Wilbur and a “yes sir” from Tommy before leaving the boys alone. The manners are back. They’re drastically different from his normal behavior, so much so that Phil wonders if they were beaten into him. Given the flinch from earlier, probably.

Phil rushes upstairs to grab Wilbur’s pool shoes and a spare pair of flip flops, before returning to the kitchen. Whatever conversation that was happening in sign language abruptly ends as he enters the room. Phil doesn’t mind. The boys can speak to each other all they'd like, he’d prefer if they bonded. It’ll make the transition easier for everyone. Phil hands the shoes out and leads the way to the bathroom. He glances behind him to ensure that Tommy can make the trip on his own. He’s walking tenderly, but he’s managing. Hopefully nothing is too deep.

Phil has Tommy sit on the toilet lid with Wilbur standing in the doorway. He grabs the first aid kit from under the sink before kneeling down to be below Tommy. Hopefully it’ll help him relax a bit.

Phil dictates every step he takes to the shaking boy, hoping to assure him that, besides the sting of the peroxide, no harm will come to him. Tommy is silent the entire time, but very jumpy. At one point, Phil knocked into the bottle and threw out his other hand to help catch it. The selkie cowered and pulled back so quickly, Phil thought he accidentally bumped the child. It took a couple of minutes before he uncurled and they could continue the patching process. Not many of Tommy’s cuts need this level of care, but Phil wants to reinforce the idea that he’ll be taken care of here, no matter how small his problems may be.

It takes about twenty minutes before Phil places the final plaster. A quiet “Thank you, sir” cuts through the silence as he leans back against the wall, allowing the blood to recirculate to his legs. Both boys are watching him through their bangs, he has their full attention. Phil knows he’s going to have to handle this situation very delicately. He adjusts himself, to make sure he’s not blocking Tommy’s path to the door before beginning the conversation.

“Alright. I’m not mad. No one is in trouble. No one will be in trouble. No one is going to be punished. Do we understand?” A nod and a quiet ‘yes, sir’ answered his question. “Perfect. I do want to know, what happened?” Tommy turns his head to look at Wilbur, the older doing the same and locking eyes with him. Phil keeps watching the youngest and barely notices the “please” hand motion. So the selkie caused part of it.

Phil’s attention is pulled over to Wilbur as he starts signing. “It was my fault. The plate slipped from my hands and fell on the floor. Tommy got startled and panicked so I called you. I’m sorry for dropping the plate and for pulling you from your call.” Phil slides his eyes over to Tommy before responding. The boy looked relieved at what was signed. So it was a lie. Tommy probably dropped the plate and panicked because of past trauma with messing up. Wilbur probably panicked because everything fell apart in a couple of seconds and he wasn’t sure how to fix it. Now Phil just needs to not fuck up this next part and everyone should be ok again.

“I’m glad you’re both alright. I don’t care that the plate broke. We have plenty more. I know it was an accident, so there's no harm done. Thank you for alerting me, Wilbur. I don’t care if I'm on the phone or in my office, if something like this happens again, come get me. Your safety and comfort is more important than whatever I’m working on at the moment,” Phil explains. Both boys look suspiciously at him, so he tries to rephrase that last point. “I will never be mad if you interrupt me. Whether for an emergency like this one, or because you can’t find something, or because you need a hug, or for anything else. I will not be mad.”

Phil could tell that they were hesitant to believe him. But the fear is now replaced with disbelief so he’ll consider that a partial win. Possibly a B for effort. Maybe. For now, he’ll have to keep proving that he’ll never hurt the boys. One day at a time. And maybe he’ll have to speak to Wilbur about lying again. Without Tommy in the room so he can save face.

Phil leads the boys downstairs and helps them clean up the ceramic plate. He works on putting away the ingredients from their breakfast as the boys finish up the dishes. Everything is calm. No one’s panicking. Just chill domestic bliss. Phil can almost pretend they’re a normal family. He’s not upset about it though, he doesn’t mind the chaos.

Notes:

As requested, there's no cliff hanger.

Don't expect me to be so forgiving next time 😈

 

The last chapter has been updated with edits from my amazing beta reader. There's just spelling and grammar fixes (cause I cant English to save my life), no new content.

Chapter 25: My Coat Please

Notes:

Tws: Referenced past child abuse

Tommy is panicking. He forces his breathing to be even and metered as he carefully dries the plates. Sure, Phil didn’t smack him, and sure, Wil took the blame, but this peace can’t last forever. Maybe Phil’s just waiting for another plate to fall so he knows for certain who dropped it. Maybe Phil’s waiting for Wil to leave the room to properly punish Tommy. Maybe Phil doesn’t want to scare Wilbur with his methods. Maybe he's one of the adults who prefers to wait to beat the kid, to let them stew a bit in their guilt. Maybe Phil just wants the dishes done before he hurts Tommy.

Either way, Phil seems reluctant to do anything in front of his kid. Wilbur is his security blanket and Tommy needs to make sure that he’s not alone in the room with Phil. Big men like him aren't scared! Tommy just wants to figure out how this place works.

Manners. Phil seemed to respond well to manners. He at least gave Tommy breakfast today when he used them. Real breakfast, not the leftover scraps he’s usually allotted. Tommy has to be on his best behavior today. Especially if he wants his coat. He’s already fucked up once. He can’t do that again. Big men don’t fuck up twice.

As he puts the last plate down, on the counter this time, Tommy resolves himself to a plan. Keep Wil in the room. Use manners. Be good. Three rules that will (hopefully) keep him safe.

Tommy’s snapped out of his thoughts as Phil breaks the silence, “Tommy, I wanted to have a chat with you about your living situation. Are you alright to have it now or would you like to rest a bit?” Tommy figures it’s better to know his fate rather than delay it.

“Now is fine, sir.”

“Really mate, you don’t have to call me sir. Phil is just fine. Let’s meet in the living room. I just need to grab something from upstairs first.” Phil turns to leave and Tommy is quick to stop him.

“Sir?”

Phil pauses before turning around to address Tommy, “Yes?”

“Can Wil join us?”

Phil smiles as he answers, “Of course. Why don’t the both of you wait for me in the living room?” With that, Phil heads towards the stairs. The second the man disappears upstairs, Wilbur is quick to strike up a conversation.

“You don’t need me as protection,” he signs as the two boys make their way to the couch. Of course Wilbur saw right through Tommy. Who does he think he is, pretending to be smarter than Tommy? Tommy is the biggest, smartest man alive! He gets all the women. Wilbur probably gets no women being annoying like that.

“But Phil likes you. And he hasn’t hurt me when you’re around.” Tommy responds, signing as they sit next to each other.

“He won’t hurt you even if I’m not here. He’s never hurt me.”

“But you’re perfect in his eyes. I’m new, a nuisance.” Tommy rolls his eyes. “Most people find me annoying.”

“I’ve made mistakes too, Tommy. No matter what I do, he is always patient,” Wil signs calmly.

Tommy huffs as he retorts, “How far have you pushed him? Have you found his breaking point?”

Wil hesitates at the question before responding, “Not really.”

“See, that’s what scares me. Adults get tired of me pretty quickly.”

“He’s different Tommy,” Wil tries to insist, but Tommy isn’t buying it.

“Maybe for you, but every adult treats me the same. I have no reason to believe that Phil is different.” Tommy fixes Wilbur with a glare before schooling his face and sitting on his hands as Phil enters the room. He’s trying to be on his best behavior, and excessive words can get annoying quickly. Annoying like Wilbur.

Phil sits across from the boys and sets the briefcase on the coffee table. Tommy is immediately drawn to the contents, a piece of him hidden away. His skin itches to be in contact with his coat again, to feel protected and safe once more. Somehow, he has to convince its captor to return it. To lose all the power he has over Tommy. Time to make a deal with the devil.

Before Tommy can open his mouth, Phil lays his offer on the table, “Alright Tommy. Do you want to go back to your colony? I can drive you to the ocean and we can reunite you with them tonight if so.”

What? No way it’s that easy. All Tommy has to do is say the word and he can go back to…

He can go back to fighting for scraps. Back to carrying way more than he is able to as his colony moves. Back to sleeping outside the caves, trying to hide from the predators at night. Back to pain and bruises.

Sure, Wilbur could be lying to him, but so far Tommy’s been fed and given a room. He hasn’t been hit. Of the two places he’s been kept on land, this one was way better. Sure he’s only been here for like 12 hours, but honestly? It’s been a pretty good 12 hours. Maybe the best 12 hours of his life.

This is just another adventure! One that doesn’t involve scary sharks or sunken ships threatening to collapse around him. One that he’s chosen for himself. One that the other pups didn’t force him to have. This could turn out alright! If not, Tommy’s a slippery little seal. He’ll find a way out.

“No matter what you choose, I’m going to give you your coat today. I was afraid if I gave it to you last night you would’ve run.” Phil continued, seemingly aware that Tommy was having the biggest debate of his life going on in his head.

Tommy gets his coat. That was his goal. All he has to do is be on his best behavior to keep it and he’s good! He gets a bed and food and his coat. Literally everything he’s ever asked for. Besides, if he has his coat, it'll make running easier. For when the shoe finally drops.

“I’ll stay for a bit, big man. Only if I get my coat.”

“Of course Tommy, here you go.” With that, Phil pops open the briefcase. Tommy braces for the phantom hands to grab him, only for the crow to slide the case towards the boys.

Tommy doesn’t trust that. At all. He eyes Phil before asking, “I won’t owe you anything?”

“Nope. The coat is yours. I have no right to keep it.”

“Most humans don’t care about my rights," Tommy responds warily, testing the waters.

“Nor mine, mate. Hybrids have to look out for each other. Go ahead and take it. No strings attached.” Interesting response.

Tommy’s hands hover over the case, and, when no one makes a move to stop him, he reaches in and pulls out the coat, draping it over his shoulders. The constant energy buzzing under his skin fades as he is complete once again.

Tommy still doesn’t trust the man. Hell, he doesn’t even trust Wilbur. He doesn’t trust the land he’s on. But this metaphorical olive branch is enough to allow the boy to breathe, for the first time since setting foot on the sand a week ago.

Notes:

Hi! I decided to leave the last chapters alone, I may change them in the future but for now nothings changed.

Do ya'll know the Black Widow move? Where Black Widow flips upside down to throw the person she's fighting to the ground? Anyway my cousin and I were attempting it, with her doing the stunting and me flipping to the ground. (We were on the beach so we had a soft landing in the sand, don't stress). We honestly got pretty good at it, but we were both high level athletes who were accidently conditioned to ignore body warning signs that we were getting tired. Anyway, she took off from my side, doing the move we've done a hundred times already, and accidently kicked my leg. I didn't think much of it because I only felt a scratch from her toe nails. Two days and a er trip later we discovered she broke two toes.

Moral of the story, only do stupid stuff for an hour. Then stop before your exhausted body breaks. And listen to your body, usually it knows what's up. (She's fine and recovering, not much you can do for a broken toe.)

Stay save and drink some water! I'll see you all next week.

Chapter 26: A Chat

Notes:

Tw: Panic, Dissociation

Wil will never admit it to anyone, but he also prefers if Tommy is in the room. He’s new and masters usually don’t strike in front of the new ones for a bit. Tommy is his safety blanket, his only guarantee.

Wil understands that his reasoning is old. It’s not necessary anymore. Necessary for survival. Phil would never hurt him, hasn’t ever hurt him. But Tommy was also right. Wil is always on his best behavior, never breaking rules. He’s just tired. Tired of fighting. He doesn’t get hurt this way. It’s what works for him. Again, old reasoning.

Wil barely pays attention to his Master’s and Tommy’s conversation. Besides the selkie receiving his coat, nothing surprised him. Not the soft spoken, relaxed position of his Master. Not the anxious foot tapping of the kid sitting on the couch. Not the fuzzy cloud drifting around his head.

No. He blinks, trying to clear it. Trying to clear the dissociation that threatens his presence. He wants to be present. For the first time, he doesn’t accept the cloud with open arms.

It takes a lot of energy to fight it. And all his attention. Wil doesn’t know what's happening in the conversation, but he’s not losing time. That’s enough of an improvement for him. He can work on it. Just like how he and his Master work on his panic attacks. It’ll just take time.

Wil fully tunes in as Tommy wraps his coat around his shoulders. He’s not sure what he was expecting a selkie coat to be, but a jacket shaped object wasn’t it. Funny how much he doesn’t know about a fellow aquatic hybrid. They were a secretive group for a reason, adults and kids alike end up like Tommy, but most aren't lucky enough to get a master like Phil. A kind one.

By the end of the reassurances, Tommy is yawning. The kid’s had a lot of emotions today, it's no wonder he’s tired. Especially with the panic attack. Wil has been there. Many times. As expected, his Master gently suggests that Tommy rest for a bit.

Wil stands to leave with Tommy but is stopped by a soft, “Hang on, Wilbur.” Wil gives Tommy a small, reassuring smile as the boy leaves and heads for the stairs. There’s no reason to be nervous, but he still feels the familiar spike in his chest. Phil gestures for Wil to sit back down on the couch. Taking a deep breath to calm his beating heart, Wil complies.

“Hey, mate. I just wanted to let you know that you’re doing really well. I’m proud of you.”

Wil’s heart stops. He’s never been told that before. No one’s been proud of him. Ever. He was always the problem, the mistake, the error. Too loud, too much energy. Never something worth complimenting. Never something worth being proud of.

His Master continues, not realizing that he just shook the teen to the core, “You’ve been really improving since you’ve arrived here a couple of months ago.” At the pause, Wil signs the expected, “Thank you,” Even though he’s still reeling. Still wondering why his Master would say something like that.

“Wilbur, I’m not replacing you. I wanted to emphasize that. Nothing will change except another person in the house, ok? I promise,” his Master said, emphasizing the point. Wil signed an “ok” in return. This is not a conversation that he’s ever had before. His presence was always temporary; he was often replaced for the younger, more interesting slave. He has no idea what to do.

“That being said, I don’t want you to be afraid that by keeping Tommy safe you are compromising anything. You are not. Allow Tommy to trust you, but allow him to learn that he can make mistakes. He’s a bit more chaotic than you are and that’s ok. Trust that I won’t harm him, just as I won’t harm you. You are both safe.” The man pauses, eyes scanning for a reaction.

Wil wants to believe him. He really does. And a small part of him is begging his mind to just trust. Just believe his Master.

Wil’s too traumatized. So much has changed in the past 24 hours that he can’t keep up. He’s reverted to what keeps him safe, what protects him, what has kept him alive all these years. The walls stay up and he signs an agreeing, “Yes sir.” No emotion. Don’t give them a reason to hurt you, don’t give them any information.

“Wilbur?” Phil asks. “Wilbur, mate. Where are you right now?”

“My Master’s living room” Wil signs as an answer, running on autopilot. He doesn’t notice the slight frown on his Master’s face.

“Wilbur. Name five things you can see.” The siren complies immediately, eyes dancing around the room, hands quickly following. A strange question but he can reply. He can be good.

“Good job. Name four things you can touch.” Wil responds before his brain processes the words spoken. Good job? Only one person tells him he’s doing a good job.

“You’re doing amazing. Name three things you can hear.” Wil responds and begins to focus on the situation. Phil sits in front of him, a patient look on his face. Wil’s hands pause after naming two noises, the crows and his breathing, before furrowing his brow. What happened?

“Are we back?” Phil asks, a soft smile on his face. Wil nods, ducking his head, embarrassed that he didn’t realize he was still dissociated. “It’s ok, mate. I should’ve noticed you were in another place. How’re you feeling?”

“Anxious.” Wil knew that one. He’s always anxious.

“Any reason why?”

“This conversation.” Phil chuckled at that.

“That’s fair. Let’s keep going so it’ll end sooner. You’re not in trouble.” Wil lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Some tension releases as he relaxes into the couch. Who knew four words would cause such a reaction.

“At no point in the conversation will you be in trouble. I just want to talk about a couple of things. Try to be honest.” Wil nods in acknowledgment before Phil continues, “How do you refer to me in your head?”

Oh this one is easy. “Master,” Wil signs. Phil’s face stays the same, controlled. Wil gets nervous.

“You know I’m not your master, Wilbur. And you’re not my slave.” Wil stares at Phil for a bit. That's… very incorrect.

He quickly announces his confusion, to correct the man.“But I am. You bought me. You own me. You can do anything to me.”

Phil nods before answering, “That’s fair. I can see how you think that. But I didn’t buy you to make you my slave.” It’s official, his Master has gone crazy. “My goal is to rehabilitate slaves. To help them through traumas and help them gain confidence. Kinda like how Sam rehabilitated Niki.”

Wil knew Niki used to be a slave and wasn’t now, but didn’t know how that happened. Apparently it was the same process that he is in now? Program? Wil’s not sure what to think. Surprising to himself, he’s not panicking. In a strange way it makes sense. Why his Mas- Phil is different than any owner he’s had previously. Why he has things that only free people have. Why Phil never treated him like a slave.

“It’ll all take time. I don’t expect you to get used to it all immediately. How are you feeling?”

“If not my master, then who are you?” Wil signs, ignoring the question.

“Think of me as a guardian. Someone to protect and help you until you’re older.” Wil gives a small nod as Phil continues “Are you doing ok? Any feelings of panic?”

Wil shakes his head, “Surprisingly, no. I’m just numb? In shock?”

“That’s fair, I’ll give you time to process soon. But for now I’d like to give you something. You’ve had that collar on for a while. With me being your guardian and not your master, I was thinking we could switch it out. In a way, reminding you that I will never treat you the way those before me did.” Wil… doesn’t hate that idea.

“You have an option, we can keep it on, we can remove it completely like Tommy chose, or we can put this one on instead.” Phil pulls out a gorgeous collar. It was blue and looked so soft and comfortable. Not itchy, not like it’d rub sores on his neck. Unlike the one he was wearing, there was no ring on the front. No ring for grabbing, no ring for tying. Just a simple collar, more for fashion than use. Wil has never wanted anything more in his life.

Trying not to show his excitement (things get taken if he likes them too much), Wil signs his decision. “Blue collar, please.”

Phil smiles, “Alright mate, let’s switch them out.” They both rise and meet each other in the middle of the room. Wil immediately bares his neck, allowing Phil access to the old collar. Hands reach towards him, but for the first time, Wil doesn’t seem to care. He’s getting this collar off. He never realized how much he hated it until this moment.

The hands hesitate and Wil holds his breath, thinking it was a trap. One he fell for so quickly. Instead, Phil requests that Wil holds the blue one while he takes the old one off. Wil complies immediately, anything to get it off. His desperation would concern him, but it’s Phil. Phil won’t take advantage of it.

A couple of precious seconds later and the leather is pulled from his neck. Phil takes a step back as Wil’s fingers replace it. He traces along the skin, the scar. It feels weird, weird that the constant weight is gone.

It’s gone. Wil hears fast paced breathing.

No matter how much part of him wanted it gone, the trained part revolted. Wil’s brain starts to scream at him. The fog lowers as thoughts of “Wrong” and “Bad Slave” take over. He tightens his hands around his neck until he feels the familiar weight. It calms him.

Something is in the way though, a bump that prevents his hands from giving an even pressure. ‘The blue collar,’ his brain supplies. Without thought, Wil fumbles with the leather and wraps it around his neck, clasping it closed. As he pushes the extra leather through, he feels as though he can breathe again. He looks up to see Phil miming deep breaths. He tunes back in to listen to the bird’s calming voice. His muscles automatically relax as he continues to follow the example infront of him.

“You back with me?” Phil asks and Wil nods. “That blue collar is yours. You can take it off and put it on whenever you’d like.”

“Mine?”

“Yup! You put it on yourself, I have no control over it.” Wil narrows his eyes as he thinks through the last few moments. It’s true, in his panic he did put the collar on. And his master took his other one off. The one that’s in his hand.

Should he feel tricked? Is this a trap? But Phil isn’t like that. He’s never tried to trick Wil, or trap him in an impossible scenario. Why would he start now?

Wil decides to just sign a simple “thank you” and leave it at that. That’s a lot to overthink.

“Ok, one more thing before I have to go take care of the crows.” Wil nods, not sure how much more conversing he can take right now.

“Tommy broke the plate, right?” The siren turns white. Being caught in a lie is never a good thing. Especially if it was a lie caused from protecting someone. That can be used against both of you.

Phil just nods. “I thought so. I think I understand why you covered for him, but everything would’ve gone exactly the same if you hadn't. Just as I mentioned earlier, I will never harm either of you.” Wil nods. Maybe one day the words will be able to slip past his wall.

He gets a couple more words of reassurance and encouragement from Phil before the man excused himself to feed the crows. Wil waits until Phil leaves the house before he makes his way to his room and closes the door. The one he’s allowed to close. Deciding that's not enough space, he makes his way over to his bathroom and closes that door as well. He quietly clicks the lock for the first time and pauses to listen to the house. No one comes running to yell at him.

He turns to look at the mirror. It’s the first time he’s actually looked at himself since that first night. He looks… alive. Healthy. It’s a look he doesn’t recognize, but he doesn’t mind it either. His eyes drift to the collar. The one he put on himself. Thinking back to the conversation he just had with Phil, he wonders how much that man planned. To allow WIl to regain ownership of himself. It’s something that no one dared to attempt before.

A weird feeling creeps over him. It’s a strange, unaccustomed feeling and it takes him a long time to recognize it, because he hasn’t felt it in a very long time.

As he leans against the locked door, staring into the mirror, he realizes that for the first time in forever, he feels safe.

Notes:

Hi!!
Someone on the train 100% was reading over my shoulder as I was writing this chapter. I hope they were very confused. As for those of you cool enough to make it this far, drink an extra energy drink, or soda, or coffee that you're not supposed to! No water this week!!

(pls do drink some so you don't die before the next chapter is out)

I am planning on posting a one shot this Friday! Defiantly on the shorter side, but protective brother Techno is there. You'll be able to find it in my "Written by Ollie" series! If you can't wait til then, take a peek at scales, a short story about a little dragon Tommy. Lots of angst, little comfort. Just how we all like it 😈

Stay safe!
~O

Chapter 27: The Plan

Overall, Tommy is settling in quite nicely. He was on his best behavior for a couple of days, but that got boring fast. Phil promised that he was not going to take Tommy’s coat back, so the selkie slowly began to test the man. Small things, like leaving his bed unmade, blankets on the couch, pillows on the living room floor, lots of loud noises brought no chastise. The only punishment was hugs. Hugs! Big men don’t need hugs. Instead of accepting the comfort, Tommy decides that he only has to get more chaotic. Every day a new mess or self imposed rule was broken and every day, there was no comment, a soft reminder, or a request to help clean up. It was infuriating.

The hardest part isn’t even Tommy’s anxiety. The fear of the unknown, the fear of what a punishment would bring. No, the hardest part is convincing Wil to not clean up after him. He’s trying to annoy Phil, not cause more work for the siren. But the fish brain is trying too hard to keep the peace and to keep Phil happy.

There’s only one way to prevent the siren from being perfect. Make Wil an accomplice.

Today Phil went back to work. Sure he is just sitting in his office, but Tommy has more freedom than he usually does. Only one person is keeping an eye on him. The other is behind a closed door. And is used to his loud voice. So nothing should tip him off. Tommy has a great idea on how to spend his time, he just has to get his babysitter on board.

Wilbur hates the plan.

They bicker over the logistics for ten minutes before Tommy turns around and calls over his shoulder, “I’m doing it anyway. You can’t stop me”. It’s a little rude to ignore Wil’s response, but he’s annoying anyways. Tommy stomps off to the kitchen. He’s going to make a cake with or without Wil’s help.

It only took Tommy dragging a chair across the floor and climbing on top of the stove before Wil appears and wrestles the boy back to the floor. After scolding Tommy for climbing onto something that could’ve burned him, Wil begins to preheat the oven. While the siren’s back is turned, Tommy begins to climb on the counters to get the ingredients. Despite never cooking in his life, Tommy’s been watching baking shows every night for a week. He’s practically a master.

Wil pulls Tommy off the counters, causing Tommy to give a very manly squeak. Spinning around to yell at the siren, Tommy is cut of by Wil signing “I literally just told you not to climb on the surfaces, you’re from the ocean, you don’t know what could hurt you.”

“Well it’s not my fault that you can’t swim through the air. How else was I supposed to get the sugar?” Tommy snaps in return.

“By asking me I can get it for you.”

“I’m very capable of getting it on my own.”

“No, you’re too short to reach that.”

“You lanky bitch! Why do you think I was climbing on the counters? But nooooo lanky bitch Wilbur can’t let big man Tommy get the sugar to bake his cake.” Tommy makes sure to accompany his argument with a middle finger. Wilbur just stares at the selkie.

Always uncomfortable with silence, it doesn’t take long before Tommy breaks it. “Fine. I guess you’re going to be my assistant. Get me the sugar.” He turns away from Wilbur and breaks into the fridge to get the milk and eggs. As long as he gets to run the mixer, he doesn’t care what Wil does.

Since Tommy is an amazing baker, he begins to dump the ingredients into the bowl. He doesn’t have to measure! He’s too good at this. Wil just stands there and watches him.

“Do you ever correct Phil on his signing?” Tommy asks, reaching precariously for the flour.

“No? It’s not really my place.”

Tommy pauses pouring the flour and just stares at the siren. “You’re literally the fluent one? Who always signs?”

“But, he owns me. He can do anything if I step out of place.” Wil fiddles with the blue choker after saying that.

“Why do you keep saying that? You can’t own a person,” Tommy scoffs, returning to his flour pour. He forgot how much he originally added so he decided to start his count over. It should be fine if there's a bit extra. “Besides, I’ve been purposely interrupting him for days, he’s not going to care if you correct his signing.”

“I knew you were doing it on purpose, you gremlin,” Wilbur retorts. “Why are you so insistent on bothering him?”

“So I know the limit and how bad it’ll hurt. Duh.” Wilbur didn’t respond. Tommy picks up the sugar. “Besides I think you should tell him that he keeps asking if we want an alcoholic beverage.” Wil giggles at that.

“But it’s kinda funny. He’s so clueless.”

Tommy grins. He agrees, but he’d never tell Wil that. After making sure to add the baking powder, Tommy turns the mixer on high. The faster it goes, the sooner he can have cake!

Tommy is shocked as a flour cloud billows out of the mixer, covering the boys and the room in a fine layer of powder. That has never happened on any of his baking shows. He turns to Wilbur, the look of surprise, shock and fear on the older boy’s face is so funny that Tommy instantly bursts out laughing. Wilbur joins in a second later.

By the time they are able to catch their breaths, the cake batter is finished mixing. “How are you so stupid?” Wil signs.

“I’m not stupid! I just… found a cool way to flour the cake pans!”

“And the entire kitchen.” Tommy sticks his tongue out at Wil before requesting his help in filling the cake pans and putting them into the oven. It took a bit of convincing from Tommy, but they decide to clean themselves off before getting to the kitchen. After all, the goal was for Phil to catch them making a giant mess.

Tommy took longer than he thought cleaning himself up. Who knew it was so hard to get flour out of his hair? The selkie is proud of himself, though. Not only will he have a delicious cake to eat, but he outdid himself with the mess. Now all he has to do is get Phil to see it before the siren cleans it up and vola! Punishment!

He ignores the ball of fear curling in his stomach. Big men don’t get scared.

Luckly, or unlucky, he doesn’t have to figure out a way to bring Phil from his office. The timer that summons Tommy downstairs, summons everyone in the house. He arrives in the kitchen just in time to watch Phil pull the cakes from the oven.

“Hi Phil!” Nope Tommy is not anxious. Not at all.

“Hiya Mate! Looks like you were having fun this morning. What did you make?”

“A cake! I’m going to be on one of those baking shows!” Tommy reaches over towards the pans to poke his creation. Phil gently prevents his hand from touching the pan.

“Careful, Tommy. It’s still hot.” The selkie makes a face. He stands on his toes to get a close look at his cake. It looks… different from the ones on tv. Phil must be thinking the same thing because he asks, “What recipe did you use? Was it one Niki gave us?”

“The one in my brain.” Tommy retorts. Phil just nods thoughtfully. He grabs the mixing bowl and holds it out to Tommy.

“Would you like to taste some?” Tommy doesn’t hesitate as he dips his finger in the bowl to take a bite. He pauses to let Phil try some first, just in case. The crow tries to keep a straight face after tasting it. “It’s a bit… salty?”

Offended, Tommy tries some batter to discover that… it's the worst cake he’s ever had. And Tommy has only had two other cakes. How dare he, Big Man Tommy Innit, fail at such a simple task! Tommy turns away, tears burning in his eyes. Which only makes him more upset. Of course he can’t make a cake. He can’t do anything right. He’s never been able to do anything right. Such as keeping his emotions under control. He always cries at the worst time.

Phil sets the bowl down and coos at the selkie, “Aww Tommy, come here. It's ok.”

“No. I’m not a baby. I don’t need a hug.” Tommy crosses his arms, making sure his back is to Phil. So that he can't see the tears.

“Tommy, I never said you were a baby-”

“But you were thinking it!”

“No I wasn’t. I was thinking about how smart and capable you were to try to bake your own cake. You just didn’t know the right amounts. That’s ok. And everyone deserved hugs. Of all ages. No matter what you’ve been told before.” At those words, Tommy turns around and allows himself to be enveloped in Phil’s arms.

They stand in the middle of the kitchen for a bit, Tommy accepting a bit of touch. Good touch. Touch that won’t leave marks. It isn’t until an additional set of footsteps enter the kitchen and head to the sink that Tommy pulls away and Phil breaks the silence. “Alright mate, why don’t the three of us clean up the kitchen first, then I’ll find a recipe and you can try to bake a cake again.”

“Really?” Tommy looked up, giving Phil his best seal pup eyes. Any emotions previously felt were forgotten at the promise of dessert.

“Of course mate! I’m sure your second cake will be editable.”

Tommy glares at Phil before a mischievous idea comes to him. “Dibs on the top cabinets,” he shouts, scrambling onto the counters.

“Nope, nope!” Phil calls after him, as Tommy tries to dodge Wilbur and climb back up. Much to his disappointment, Wilbur manages to grab Tommy and wrestle him back to the ground. Phil intercepts the selkie before he gets too angry and leads him over to the other side of the kitchen. The side without the hot oven. The crow gestures for Tommy to climb and the selkie pup quickly scrambles up to the counter. Tommy celebrates his victory as he, finally, gets to be the tallest in the room, the biggest man. Eat that Wilbur.

Notes:

Hi! This isn't betaed because it took me longer to write because apparentlyyyy I have baking trauma. Who knew? My amazing beta reader is planning on getting to it tomorrow, so there may be some changes.

 

Wanna hear a crazy story? It's a wild time.

So I have adult money now. And as an adult it's important to have two sets of sheets because I get bored with one set and need change. So I go on Amazon and find the perfect set of sheets. Skateboarding Dinosaurs. Very excited, I order them and with the good ole prime it's supposed to arrive in two days. The days pass slowly until I receive the package. I tear it open to reveal... Geometric Unicorns. Now in a previous life, I was a horse gurl, but in this one, I was offended by these sheets. They were not the skateboarding dinosaurs that my little adult heart wanted. So I returned them. And requested another set.

I patiently wait for the return to go through for Amazon to finally send me my skateboarding dinosaurs. The package arrives. I rip open the plastic to reveal...Geometric Unicorns. That's right, they sent me the wrong set twice. Twice! So I do what any adult does, I called my mother to complain. Now, I'm not on the best terms with my mother, but this phone call counted as my monthly call ANDDDD she likes to buy my love so I was hoping that I could order the sheets to her house (different distribution center, maybe they labeled them correctly). I waited patiently for the text message to find that she had received... Geometric Unicorns.

I have given up on my quest for skateboarding dinosaurs and had to settle for star wars characters wearing santa hats instead. It wasn't a complete bust, but damn those sheets would've been iconic.

Oh PS? This is the last fluff chapter for a while. Enjoy it while you can.

Chapter 28: It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Autumn

Notes:

Tws: Injuries, panic

Who knew that bringing a second child into the mix would cause Wilbur to improve so much? It was definitely not something Phil predicted. Even though this kid is still cautious around the crow, his laugh has become a common sound in the house. He’s more open to sharing his opinion and has begun to request hugs and reassurances multiple times a day. Things that Phil is quick to give the siren. Sure there are bad days, days where the boy retreats into his head, but those are happening less and less as the good days take over.

As for Tommy, Phil can tell that he’s being tested, but all he can do is encourage the chaos and add rules for safety. Every time he reacts in a positive manner, he can see the wheels turning in the selkie’s mind. Slowly rewriting his opinion on adults. The boy would never admit it, but he had more bad days than good. Some days he’s super clingy and doesn’t want to be alone. Other days, he flinches back if anyone comes within ten feet of him. On those days, the testing is dampened. Phil is often confronted with a thin sheet of bravery, as though a single wrong move would pierce it and the seal pup will crumble. He’s extra careful when this happens. It’s these days that Wilbur takes over, encouraging the chaos and keeping the mood up. Phil will forever be grateful for his oldest.

It became apparent from the month of having Tommy that the boy desires to be taller than everyone. From perching on the back of the couch, to climbing on counters, Phil is constantly reminding him to be safe and to not fall. He considered it a blessing that the boy just discovered two days ago that the tree outside is climbable. He had to take a red scarf and fly into the canopy to test the branches, tying the fabric on the trunk to indicate danger. He emphasized that this was one of the rules that he would not budge on. No climbing higher than the red scarf. It was a matter of safety, the branches were too thin to hold anything up.

It’s a chillier Saturday than usual, the cold weather is beginning to set in. Phil is in the garden, digging up the last of his carrots and potatoes. This is his best yield yet, he will readily admit that it’s because of the boys. There’s always something to do in a garden and as overprotective as he is, Phil likes to keep an eye on them when they’re outside. It’s incredibly unrealistic for someone to come into the fenced yard and take the boys, but his instincts never settle unless he’s able to keep an eye on them.

Even with the leaves changing, the boys like to spend as much time out of the house as they can. Tommy chooses to chase the crows, kick the football around or, more recently, climb the tree. Wilbur chooses to sit under said tree and play his guitar. Slowly the boy has realized that he’s allowed, even encouraged to play as much or as little as he likes. Phil has learned to speak to the siren and get a reply before approaching to avoid flashbacks, but he doesn’t mind the extra steps. It just makes him happy that Wilbur can reclaim something that the trauma threatened to take forever.

Plus Phil gets to hear the music. Before, it was only played while he was working in his office. He only got snippets of songs that wove their way through the closed door. Wilbur never liked, still doesn’t like, to play for an audience. But if everyone else is busy, he’ll play in the background. And if it’s an exceptionally good day, he’ll hum softly to himself. Quietly enough to avoid anyone from hearing, but Phil can’t help his incredibly good ears. Today seems to be a good day, the melodic noise drifting through the air, perfectly intertwining with the guitar.

He looks up from his garden and tries to find his youngest. The leaves are thinning so it’s not hard to find the boy in the white fluffy jacket climbing through the branches. It also isn’t hard to see the red scarf that he’s rapidly approaching. Phil just shakes his head affectionately and returns to the potatoes. He has his back to the boys to give them the illusion of privacy. He’s not trying to police their every move. Tommy was good at scaling the branches and Phil trusts him to not go beyond the limit he’s placed.

Later, he’ll blame himself for the lack of foreshadowing from the other rules that Tommy pushed. He’ll blame himself for having his back turned instead of facing them. He’ll blame the lack of leaves making it difficult to tell if the branch is dead or alive. He’ll blame the universe for taking a happy day away from the broken family. At the moment, all he hears is a snap.

Standing up and spinning faster than he should be able to for his age, Phil unfurls his wings to dart over to the tree. He hears crashing as Tommy’s body hits every branch on the way down, none slowing his fall. He watches as the boy tumbles through the air and lands right in front of him, just out of reach.

A crack cuts across the backyard as Tommy hits the ground.

Time slows. Phil can not get there fast enough. The selkie is only three steps away, one wing flap away but it takes forever to accomplish that. The crumpled body of the boy lies there, completely still. As though he is sleeping. Behind him, Wilbur stares at his brother, guitar forgotten and abandoned in his lap. His horrified face will forever be imprinted on Phil’s brain.

Phil falls to his knees next to the selkie, fingers finding a place on the boy’s neck. There’s still a pulse. Able to breathe again, Phil quickly begins to scan the body for injuries. The sound that Tommy made when hitting the ground was a very distinct noise, one he is quite familiar with. The sound of breaking bones.

Rapid breathing pulls him away from his scan prematurely. He looks up to see Wilbur close to a full panic attack. Shit, he has to distract him too. Breathe Phil, give him structure. Give him something to fall back on.

“Wilbur.” The siren’s eyes snapped to Phil’s chest. No eye contact. His eldest is forgetting where he is. “Grab me the first aid kit. And a towel from under the sink.” The siren scampers off to grab the items. Phil returns to scanning Tommy as the boy starts to blink awake.

“Easy mate. Stay on the ground.” Tommy whimpers as he tries to shift his body. “Just stay still if you can, there you go. What hurts?”

“Everything,” the boy whispers.

“Ok. What’s the worst?”

“My arm.” Phil begins to reach to check them out before pausing above the coat. He knows that Tommy’s sensitive about it and he doesn't know the state of mind the boy is in right now. Hopefully Phil isn’t about to make it worse.

“Ok mate, I need to look at it. Can I remove the coat?” Instead of answering, Tommy closes his eyes. Phil begins to half panic that he’s passed out again before the white jacket shimmers and turns into a blanket. He… did not know that was possible.

“Go ahead,” the injured boy whispers. Phil carefully pulls the edge of the blanket aside and reveals the boy’s left arm. Definitely broken. Something that cannot be fixed at home. Something that has complicated the day immensely. He reaches for his phone to call back up before remembering he left it charging in the house.

Wilbur bursts from the house, running across the yard to the tree. Taking the first aid kit and the towel, Phil quickly sends the panicked siren on another mission.

“Thank you Wilbur. Will you grab my phone? It’s in the kitchen.”

Phil just sets the kit to the side, not much he can do with a broken arm. The rest of the boy seems pretty unscathed, just small cuts. Good thing it is colder today so the boy was wearing layers. Protection. He props the towel under the Tommy’s head and covers the arm back up with the blanket. He’ll have to call an ambulance but hospitals get weird with the trade. Something about slaves not deserving healthcare or some bull shit. He’ll have to jump through a bunch of hoops. Tommy whimpers in pain as he begins to think through the process. He mutters apologies and runs his fingers through the boy’s hair trying to comfort him.

Wilbur runs up again, Phil’s phone in hand. The teen still breathing heavily, from the panic or the fetching, Phil isn’t sure. He knows he’s going to at least need Tommy’s paperwork if they’re going to the hospital. He should probably bring Wilbur’s too, just in case.

“Thanks mate, I need you to grab another thing for me. In my office, go to the desk. The second drawer down on the left, there are two folders, one yellow, one red. I want you to grab them for me. Make sure not to drop any papers out of them.” As Wilbur darts off to grab their paperwork, Phil looks at his phone, one hand still working the tangles out of Tommy’s hair. He clicks on a contact and listens to the ringtone as he waits for the other to pick up. He doesn't have to wait long.

“Hi, Sam? I need your help”

Notes:

Oooooooo cliff hanger. 😈 Whatever will you do?

Feel free to yell at me in the comments <3.

PS unfortunately, I have given up on the skateboarding dino sheets. Mr Bezos just isn't playing nice.
PPS This one isn't betaed either, s/o to my beta reader for putting up with me sending them the chapter after I post it. My b 😅

Chapter 29: Classic Misunderstanding

Notes:

Hi! Quick note, I changed the previous chapter to say red and yellow folders not just a single blue folder. I'm sure you all can figure out who's papers are in what folder <3

Tws: Minor Panic

Wil digs in the cabinet for another cloth. The one he has he used for the windows, he needs a new one for the dusting. It probably would be easier to see if he turned the lights on, but he can survive without them. He has to survive without them. He doesn’t want to risk waking the others up.

Sam and Niki came over pretty quickly after Tommy fell out of the tree. Normally, Wil enjoys their presence. They did help for a bit. Niki took Wil inside to try to distract him while Sam and Phil discussed what to do. Wil trusts them. They’ll be able to help Tommy.

That was until Phil handed Sam a folder. The yellow folder. Wil’s papers transferred over to a new Master.

Just like that, Phil and Tommy got in one car, Wil in another. Split up. A broken family.

He must have accidentally caused Tommy to fall. Or, at least, Phil thinks so. Phil made a choice, he had to sell Wil to protect the boy. To protect Tommy. Wil tells himself that it’s for his own good. For Tommy’s good. Tommy is a younger kid, a cuter kid. He doesn’t jump at his shadow. Phil doesn’t have to walk him through nearly as many panic attacks. Maybe, Phil likes the chaos. He prefers the noise. Wil is just too quiet and too trained. He’s too hard to fix.

Wil understands the logic.

So why does his chest ache?

Laying in the bed of his a bedroom, Wil wouldn’t stop thinking. Couldn’t stop thinking. About every little thing he could’ve done differently. Should’ve done differently. Starting with believing that he was allowed to sing. He was just projecting what he was feeling, the calm peacefulness of the afternoon. Too calm, he must have caused Tommy to relax too much and let go. He never could control his stupid power.

So he did what any good slave could do. He slipped out of bed, slipped downstairs. He started cleaning, preparing the house for the morning. Keeping busy in an attempt to distract himself from the thoughts. His thoughts.

No matter how hard he scrubs, how bad his fingers burn, it never works.

Making his way with the new cloth to the bookshelves in the living room, he starts meticulously wiping down the shelves, brushing off the books. The large house is too much for Niki to maintain on her own, no wonder Sam was looking for another slave to help her. Hopefully Wil will be useful to him. Will last longer than a couple of months.

No matter how hard Wil tries to shove it down, he still breaks. It still fucking hurts. It still feels like an invisible rope is dragging him to the floor and it takes everything in him to stay upright. Wil doesn’t have much left to give. So Wilbur gives in, following the phantom rope down and curling in a ball, fighting the ever tightening noose, just trying to catch a breath.

He can’t do it again. He can’t go back. Phil has spoiled him too much, Wilbur knows he’s not the slave he’s supposed to be, the perfect slave. He’s going to get hurt here. Sam is Wilbur’s new Master, he’s not under Phil’s protection anymore, Phil’s promises.

It isn’t until he feels arms circle him that he realizes he’s sobbing. Making noise. He’s gone and woke up another person in the house. He instantly quiets, knowing that a punishment will follow. It always follows.

“You’re ok Wil. You’re not in trouble. Why aren't you in bed?” Niki whispers, holding Wilbur. He shifts so that he’s sitting up and extends his arms out so Niki can see the signs even though she’s behind him.

“I’m cleaning.” Wilbur left out the part when he couldn't sleep.

“I can see that. Why?”

“To make the house clean for when Master wakes up.”

“Wil, this isn’t Phil’s house.” Oh, she must not know. He pulls away and turns around to face her, creating space before breaking the news. Niki mirror his kneeling position.

“Phil’s not my master anymore. Mr…” He pauses, hoping that Niki won’t tell on him for using his master's name. “Mr Sam is my Master.” Niki’s face crumbles. Wilbur braces for the pain.

“Wil, Phil didn’t sell you. He gave Sam your papers in case something happened and we need them.” Wilbur just stares at her. It… makes sense. Too much sense.

“Wil. Phil will never replace you.” Wilbur remembers that promise. The one that Phil made before he went to grab Tommy. Before he changed his mind.

But Phil never breaks his promises. Maybe he should believe Niki. Or maybe he’s just grasping for straws, for hope. Even so, it’s all he has. Some near forgotten promises and hope.

Niki must think she’s onto something because she asks, “Wil, who put the blue collar on?

“Me?” Wilbur answers, confused by the sudden question.

“Ok. Who put the collar on?” Is Niki stupid? Wilbur just answered her. But she’s giving him a look that tells him to answer.

“Me.”

“Ok! Wil, remind me. Who put the collar on?” Oh, Wilbur was mad now. She’s just ignoring him.

“ME,'' he aggressively signs.

She nods. “Good. Why do you put a collar on someone?”

“You own them.” Where is she going with this?

“Mmmmm. So, who owns you?” Wilbur pauses. Who does? Phil had the papers, but now Sam has them? But Niki says he wasn’t sold.

Niki quickly pulls him out of the potential spiral, pressing her hands on his knees. “Wil. Who put your collar on?”

“… Me?” Wilbur blinks at her.

“So, who owns you?”

“… me.” Wilbur bursts into tears. What does that mean???

“Correct. Good job! I’m so proud of you!!” Niki wraps him into a hug. He accepts it, lost and unsure what else to do in this situation.

“Wil, if you own yourself you can make your own decisions,” Niki whispers, resting her chin on his shoulder as she behind him.

He pulls back to debate. That’s definitely not right. “But on paper-”

“Wil, paper is just paper. If you asked, Phil would immediately transfer your life into your own name.”

Wilbur pulls completely away, gently pushing her arms off of him. “I’m not sure.”

Niki just pulls him back into another hug. “I promise you he will. It’s what Sam did to me.”

“To you?”

Niki nodded. “Wil, I’m free. And you’re training to be free. You’re doing amazing and improving so quickly. But you need to know that being trained is an option, the end goal. It never hurts to ask.”

“And Phil will just set me free, no strings attached?”

Niki leans back so that he’s looking in her eyes. She leans forward so her forehead is pressed against Wilbur’s. “No strings attached, I promise.”

Wilbur lets himself relax into the greeting, the greeting of the merfolk. Another water creature. One who understands the trauma of being a collectors item. Put on display. Something he couldn’t really bond over with Tommy.

Tommy.

Wilbur pulls back tears springing to his eyes.

Niki immediately cups his chins and uses her thumbs to wipe the stray tears. “What are you thinking about Wil?” She whispers, scared to break the moment.

“It’s my fault.”

“For what?”

“For Tommy falling.”

“No Wil. Tommy fell because he pushed a rule that was supposed to protect him.” Wilbur can’t bring himself to admit his singing. His ability that might've influenced Tommy’s fall.

Instead he brings up a different argument, “But- but- I should’ve stopped his rule pushing. Nipped it in the bud.”

“You can’t control the current, Wil. Just as you can’t control Tommy. He’s a wild child, he’ll do what he wants.”

“But I could’ve prevented it.”

“No you couldn’t. All that would’ve happened is you wouldn’t have the friendship you have now.” Niki wraps Wilbur into a hug, refusing to let him go, preventing him from responding.

Wilbur tries to argue it. He really does. But nothing that Phil has done has given him a reason to not believe Niki. On either point. Phil did not sell him. Tommy did not fall because of him. Wilbur just closes his eyes to finally accept the comfort that Niki is providing, wrapping his arms around Niki to hug her back. And hopes that when he opens his eyes, he’ll be back home with Phil and Tommy. That this was all a dream.

Notes:

Shhhh I'm not late, you were just early.

Also shout out to my girlfriend for laying on me and not letting me up until I finished the chapter. Motivation was rough this week XD

Chapter 30: Phil Struggles Too

Notes:

Tws: Wounds mentioned, extremely minor character death, protests gone wrong

Phil was not having a good time. Hospitals bring up bad memories and the only thing to do is wait. Wait and think. The deal he made years ago with the Organization was a quick split-second decision. One he made without thinking it through, without arguing. One he used to regret. Before recently.

Phil was freed before the Hybrid Revolution happened. Well freed isn’t the correct word, legally he was still owned. He had run, escaped. Something he was able to do by faking an injured wing. Why clip a bird that already can’t fly? He was smart. Living off the streets, living off of scraps. Sleeping in the trees. Flying only in the cover of night. After they stopped actively hunting him, Phil worked on breaking different hybrids out. Smaller ones, ones with less security. He helped them run, taught them to survive, and sent them on their way. He worked best alone, trusting no one but himself. The rumors still ran rampant through the hybrids, everyone hoping the “Angel” would come for them. Come save them.

When he heard about a hybrid march on the capital, he figured he’d join. Sure he could keep freeing the hybrids one at a time, but if the law changed, things would get done much faster. There wasn’t much else for him to do until that happened. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life in the woods, fearful of being taken again.

He decided not to go at the last minute due to a bad storm cutting across the region. That night, it would have been too dangerous to fly. He was grounded.

The next morning, once the storm faded to a drizzle, Phil risked flying in the light to make it to the end of the march. As he ducked below the clouds and began to search the city for the group, he found something he hopes to never see again.

Looking at the scene below him, he realizes that the storm saved his life.

Phil landed in an alley, pulled a ragged coat out of the dumpster to hide his wings, and ran into the carnage of what was left of the protesters.

Tying off tunicates, pressing against wounds, he did everything he could to fight off death. Eventually he managed to catch a ride in an ambulance to the hospital and was escorted to the room where they were storing the injured hybrids.

Storing. Not healing. They can’t be seen without papers.

He held many hybrid’s hands on their deathbed. Staying with them in their last minutes as the lack of healthcare took their lives. Hybrids with no name, just faces to haunt his dreams.

Let’s just say, hospitals are traumatic.

When the laws changed, health care for hybrids improved immensely. Legally, each hospital had to employ at least one doctor that was knowledgeable about hybrids. One doctor is usually not enough, but it’s better than laying in a bed waiting for Lady Death to take you away from the pain.

After discussing with Sam, they decided to only take Tommy to the hospital. To prevent any new trauma from imprinting on Wilbur. Phil brought the selkie to the building that contained Dr. Ponk, at the recommendation of Sam. The man must’ve called ahead, as a ()() doctor and a gurney were waiting when Phil pulled up. A couple of hours of x-rays and anxiety later, Tommy was sent to surgery and Phil was left to his thoughts on a plastic chair in the waiting room. With nothing but flashbacks to keep him occupied.

No one bothered him last time he was in a hospital. Looking back, people could easily tell he had wings. The coat he found was too short and he was too stressed to remember to keep them flat. At that moment, he was more concerned about the bodies in front of him.

It wasn’t until he was walking out, clothes stained in blood, that he learned why. Making his way through the maze of white hallways, a figure slid up next to him and gently directed Phil to the exit. Survival instincts had alarm bells ringing in Phil’s head and he was prepared to leave the second he saw the sky.

They knew he was a runner. Once they arrived at the lobby, a second person joined the group, looping their arm over Phil’s shoulders. If he had any less self control, less self preservation, he would’ve fought them off and ran. Emaciated and exhausted from traveling, Phil wouldn’t have won, wouldn’t have survived. After leaving the building, a third joined the party. They moved down the street and escorted Phil into an alley just outside of the hospital. It was there that they introduced themselves and who they worked for. It was there that they admitted they were aware of Phil and his actions, his breakouts. It was there that they offered Phil an option to change his life.

They offered him a house and a remote job in exchange for the occasional mission. A hybrid rescuing mission. With winter coming up, and with the promise of both stability and an income for food, he said yes. No hesitation.

As the years passed, he regretted his decision. Or at least, regretted not negotiating it. At first, the Organization stayed out of his way, sending Phil on one or two missions a season. Sure, the four bedroom house was a little big and a little empty at times. But it was a house. It kept him warm and out of the elements. He had hot water and a place to cook. He had everything his masters had. His dreams were finally his reality.

As tensions in the country rose, the time between his missions became less and less. From once a month to once a week, the word “occasional” became too vague for Phil. As the law was passed around the government and courts, his missions became more and more dangerous. He got accustomed to being interrupted near daily by a phone call. One he knows better than to ignore.

As the law that made purchasing and selling hybrids illegal was negotiated and passed, Phil’s missions slowed down again. It was a relief, until he noticed the danger levels became deadly. Those who wished to follow the message, released their hybrids and allowed them to start their lives. Those who found the loopholes were ready to protect their property with any force necessary. It was these missions, missions that often required force and carnage from Phil, that he gained the nickname “Angel of Death”. Protecting the hybrids, destroying everyone who stands in his way.

Phil either scared someone in the Organization or was too valuable an asset for them because they stopped sending him on those missions. It was a couple of months of silence before they started to send him to these parties, with strict instructions to be on his best behavior, in the hopes of gaining enough of a reputation to start breaking people out in a new way. A rehabilitation method. Others have tested it and, seeing the program succeed, they added Phil to it.

It was Wilbur that changed his view on his initial deal. If he didn’t agree to the terms, he wouldn’t have met the silent siren. He wouldn’t be able to help him, to gain his trust, to teach him how to live. He wouldn’t have gotten the call to save Tommy. The chaotic selkie who is knocked out in surgery right now. He owes the Organization his safety, his life. His kids’ lives.

Unfortunately, that’s a debt that will never be repaid.

Notes:

Mmmm yes. Worldbuilding. While leaving you all in anxiety about tommy :)

Ok ok so holidays are coming up. That means being busy and family. Here's my plan. We're moving positing days to Wednesday because it's a cooler day than Tuesday. Alsooooo it's gonna be a Jenna Marbles style post, maybe it'll come Tuesday, maybe Thursday. But it will be weekly.

I know a lot of you are waiting for Techno, I probably won't get him in this fic until next year. (I have a couple more plot point to hit before he'll fit in correctly) That being said, I'm working on an "alternate timeline" bit that was requested that involves this universe and Techno. Hopefully I'll get it written before the end of the year and posted to give you all techno crumbs <3

I hope you are all surviving the end of the year / semester / school. I'll see you all next week!!

Chapter 31: Tommy in the Hospital

Notes:

Tws: Hospital location, IV mentioned, panic attack

Tommy is having the time of his life. Sure, his arm fucking hurts but he can ignore it. He’s ignored injuries before. Wherever Phil took him is the coolest place ever. Tommy is the center of attention. All he has to do is lay in this bed that gets pushed from room to room. They don’t even make him walk! This weird beeping machine follows him. A machine he figured out he can control by holding his breath or breathing faster. He’s been told off from doing it, but Phil said no one is allowed to hurt him here. That means Tommy can do whatever he wants without getting hit. Besides, he’s bored. Let him play with the funky lines.

Phil was very insistent upon arrival that no one is allowed to touch his coat. And they all listened! Something that hasn’t happened in his life. Even when Mr. Dr. Ponk pulls Phil to the hallway, no one dares to touch it. It’s fascinating!

Sure, they stabbed him in the arm, but Phil said it was necessary to get fluids in his body or something. Tommy didn’t follow the conversation but it doesn’t matter. One bad thing in a place of wonder makes it worth it. They even have a machine that shows Tommy’s bones. Bones!! He tried to get the nurse to take more photos of other parts of his body but he says he's only allowed to do Tommy’s chest and bad arm. He’s boring.

Speaking of arm, it kinda sucks Tommy won’t be able to swim as fast as before. He knew someone in his old colony that had a bent arm, a bent flipper. He was told that if the current ran the wrong way it still hurt, but most of the time it felt ok. The only bad part is that it took about a whole migration to stop the sharp pain. Tommy knows his arm won’t hurt that long. He’s a way bigger man than that person.

Once the adults are done having a meeting without him, maybe he’ll convince Phil to get him some fish. As a pity snack. Because his arm hurts. Yes, he’ll do that.

“Hey, mate, how are you doing?” Phil asks as he enters the room.

“Phillllllll, I’m bored. When can we leave and get foodddddddd.”

“Not yet Tommy, they haven’t fixed your arm yet.”

“They can fix my arm?” Now Tommy is confused. He thought he was here as a way to distract him from the pain. To look at new shiny things.

“Yes? It’s why we’re here mate. To fix your broken arm.”

“Oh. Pog.” It would make swimming a lot easier with two working arms.

“So, the plan is to take you to surgery. It should be an easy fix and you’ll be sleeping the whole time,” Phil explains. Ooo a nap. Tommy’s excited for that. It’s been a long day. “They will have to move your coat in surgery. I won’t be there to keep an eye on them, so would you be comfortable leaving your coat with me? I’ll give it back the moment you wake up.”

Tommy stares at the bird in front of him. If the price for not having his bent arm is to lose his coat, he’ll just have to stick with the bad arm. He won’t be able to climb trees anymore, but it’s a price Tommy is willing to pay. He’ll survive.

“That’s ok big man, I’ll just keep the bent arm. Can we go get fish now?”

“Tommy, that’s not an option, mate. We need to get your arm fixed.”

“Why? I knew a selkie with a bad arm. He said it stopped hurting after a bit. I just won’t be able to swim as fast.” Tommy watches as Phil’s face turns into the same face he makes when Tommy mentions something about his colony. The selkie doesn’t recognize the emotion, just that it usually is gone as soon as he sees it.

“Unfortunately, it doesn’t work like that on land.” Phil’s tone is more careful, guarded. Interesting. “Here, we have to straighten it out and you have to wear a hard cast for a couple of months.” Oh hell no. No arm for months? That’s not happening.

“No thanks, big man. I’m good. I’ll keep my coat and I can use my arm and we can go get a snack.” Tommy goes to push himself up to swing his legs over and walk out. The second he puts any pressure on his bad arm, a sharp white pain shoots to his spine and he falls over, crying out. Phil manages to catch him and keep him on the bed but THERE ARE HANDS ON HIS COAT.

The pup scrambles backwards, hitting the headboard, trying to prevent that pain from happening again, while getting away from the person taking his coat. He presses his back against the surface and curls in, protecting his arm, coat in the middle of the ball. That way if they start hitting or kicking, he won’t get hurt more. And they can’t take his coat.

After a few moments of quickened breaths, Tommy realizes the hits aren't coming. He lifts his head to look out of his ball to see Phil with his hands out. He is further from the bed than before and his lips are moving but there’s no sound. Why is there no sound?

That realization is jarring enough for Tommy to become aware of the rushing in his ears. Almost as though the noise is shy, it begins to fade the second it is perceived. Tommy first becomes aware of the rapid beeping, followed by Phil’s voice. He’s doing that stupid repeating thing, the thing that he only does if Wil or Tommy panics.

This is the moment that Tommy notices they aren’t alone in the room. A nurse is hovering in the doorway and Mr. Dr. Ponk is standing behind Phil. Tommy glances between the tree and curls up tighter. There’s no way he can fight off three adults at once.

Luckily Tommy doesn’t have to. After Phil calms him down, and his heart beat drops into a more acceptable range, the nurse replaces the IV from where it pulled out of his good arm. Then the crow and the doctor take the time to explain the entire process. Tommy is still unsure about handing off his coat, but that issue is resolved once Phil brings his briefcase from the car to lock it in. Phil teaches Tommy how to use it and writes the code on the pup’s good hand, that way when he wakes up he can still remember it.

With his coat locked away, Tommy discovers the wonderful world of warmed blankets. As the nurses prepare him for surgery, they drape one over him. Tommy immediately melts into the warmth, relaxing in the heat. The second it cools off, even slightly, he requests a new one from one of the many nurses preparing him. After all, they told him he could get a new one whenever he wanted.

Tommy is on his fifth blanket before they finally are ready for surgery. Phil at this point is standing guard next to the door, briefcase in hand. All they have to do is make him nap and then they’ll wheel Tommy off to surgery. A nurse administers the medicine and as his eyes close, the last thing he sees is Phil giving him a smile and a small wave. Tommy hopes he smiled back.

Notes:

Happy turkey day. Hopefully your family wasn't as bad as you expected. <3

I know a lot of you were expecting traumatized tommy, but it’s his first time on land. He’s just a curious kid about the world. It’s a new place and he’s with the first adult who hasn’t hurt him. The kid is just existing and learning all he can with curiosity. He’ll be fine :)

Chapter 32: The Boys are Back

Notes:

Tws: (contains spoilers) yelling, makeshift weapons used in threatening manner

Phil stares at the kettle, waiting for the steam to rise. It’s been a rough 24 hours. Both boys are finally home, safe and sound. Or as sound as they can get. Tommy’s pain medication has him sleeping most of the time, which will help with the initial pains after his surgery. Wilbur has been keeping an eye on the boy, worried about his recovery. Phil would find it endearing, if he knew where the siren’s head was.

Sam informed Phil about Wilbur’s night time panic. About how he thought he was sold. Phil is solely responsible for that episode. He was so worried about Tommy that he forgot to inform Wilbur what was happening. That knowledge doesn’t stop the little voice that complains about how the siren still doesn’t trust him. How many more ways can he tell the kid that he’s safe? That he’s out of the trade? That he doesn’t have to worry again?

Phil squashes the voice. He knows full well how hard it is to trust again. How hard it is to believe in safety, to accept safety. How hard it is to be a citizen again. How many years of faking it took before he finally started to feel free. It’s only been a few months. He can’t expect the boy to be there yet.

The more pressing concern is that Wilbur thought Tommy falling was his fault. Phil hasn’t spoken to the siren about his voice out of fear of triggering him. It might be time though. Time to have another minefield filled conversation. Time to figure out how Wilbur’s ability actually works.

Phil lowers his head to the counter. Sam says not to blame himself, but how could he not? A simple sixty seconds of encouragement and explanation could’ve saved an entire night of stress and overthinking for his oldest. One conversation that he neglected to have.

Phil is drained. He just needs some sleep and a calm couple of days to recover. They all do.

The kettle starts whistling and Phil picks his head up. There’s nothing he can do about the past rather than ensure that this will never happen again. Just keep moving forward, no matter how many times they slide back. That’s all they can do. He picks up his mug of freshly brewed tea and stares out the window. Relaxing into the first minutes of peacefulness he’s had.

An alarm goes off as he’s watching his crows. Taking one last sip of tea, he sets his mug in the sink and moves towards the medicine cabinet. After double checking the chart Ponk sent him home with, Phil pulls out Tommy’s next prescription. He grabs some packaged crackers and a bottle of water. Hopefully the selkie will feel well enough to eat something.

Phil makes his way up the stairs, knees creaking in protest. He’s aging. Something that is usually a death sentence. In both slavery and fighting. But now? It's just another thing he gets to do. Grow old.

Phil walks up to Tommy’s open door. He pauses to take in the scene in front of him. Tommy is sitting up on the bed, swaying and humming along to the guitar. His coat is draped over his shoulders, an armor of comfort, an armor of protection. Wilbur is sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed, facing the door. His guitar is in his lap and he’s playing the same couple of cords over and over again, changing up the pattern at the last second just to mess with Tommy. Phil smiles as the older ducks out of the way of a pillow that decided to take flight towards him. At least the boys are getting along. Phil knocks before stepping through the threshold.

Tommy looks over, a mischievous smile on his face, and begins to open his mouth to say something, to probably complain about Wilbur messing with him. Phil glances towards the boy on the floor just in time to duck out of the way of a pillow coming at him. He straightens and turns back ready to make a joke.

Phil turns to a scene he is not expecting. The guitar has been shoved under the bed. Wilbur is standing between him and Tommy, wielding the table lamp as though it is a club. Everyone freezes.

The siren hesitates, before shouting, “Stay back.” Phil takes a step back and holds his hands out in front of him, to show Wilbur that he’s not a threat. That he has nothing that can be considered a threat.

That seemed to be the wrong move, as Wilbur’s eyes grow larger and the boy stutters out “I- I- I’ll hit you. Stay back.” His hands are shaking, the cord of the lamp thumping as it falls off the table onto the floor. Something is causing Wilbur to be terrified of Phil. Terrified to the point of shouting and demanding things from him. To forget whatever fear of repercussions he has to put himself in between Phil and Tommy. A fear that Phil needs to figure out fast.

“Wilbur. It’s just me. It’s Phil. I’m not going to hurt either of you.” Phil uses his calming voice, the one that usually works to deescalate a situation. A voice that doesn’t seem to work his time.

Wilbur doesn’t respond. Phil tracks his eyes to realize that they’re fixed on his right hand. The hand holding an orange bottle.

The Orange Bottle.

Fuck. Wilbur thinks he’s going to drug Tommy. Of course he is. Phil knew from the first night he had Wilbur that he’s scared of being drugged. Hell, he still drinks out of Wilbur’s tea mug in the mornings before giving it to the boy. Before he’s awake enough to remember that he’s safe.

“Wil? It’s ok, it’s just Phil,” Tommy speaks into the silence, voice quivering as he one arm crawls across the bed towards the siren. Wilbur responds by taking one hand off the lamp and signs behind his back, “Run, hide.”

“No, Wil. I don’t need to. Phil is just bringing me pain medication.”

“You can’t trust that!” Wilbur shouts, spinning towards Tommy, hands gripping the lamp. The selkie flinches away from the siren, cowering on the bed. Phil prepares himself to intervene. This can get real ugly real fast.

Notes:

So I've lived in many places, at many latitudes. I have never lived in a city that shuts down at the sight of snow. And I mean, it was 35 degrees and barely snowing in the morning and people were canceling plans left and right. Some places were closing at noon. The low was 40 that night! It was going to get warmer throughout the day! There was literally 0 risk of ice on the roads! The snow didn't even stick! Absolute chaos.

Oh enjoy the cliffhanger, I wanted to play planet zoo instead of write. I'm not sorry, enjoy suffering for a week.

PS if you need a cozy game recommendation, absolutely play "a short hike". It's calm, peaceful, and you can 100% it in like five hours.

Chapter 33: The Boys are Back Cont.

Notes:

Tws: none

Luckily, it doesn’t get to that point.

Wilbur drops the lamp.

It falls in slow motion, bouncing off the floor before hitting the ground. Miraculously, it didn’t break. That doesn’t stop all three of them from flinching at the impact. The three trained to hate loud noises. A reaction that seems to be multiplied by the exhaustion of the day.

Tommy breaks the silence first, a muffled sob sounding from his form. The form that is cowering on the bed, under the looming figure of the elder. His fears had just become his reality, a person he thought was safe, that he could trust, was ready to turn on him. Ready to hit him.

Wilbur moves next. He reaches towards Tommy, only retreating at the violent flinch the young boy gave. It’s heartbreaking to see. The two that were so close are broken apart by one trauma driven mistake. The betrayal painted in their eyes.

Phil is the last to move. He moves to the side, not getting too close to the boys, but getting in a place where he can see both of their faces. It also opens the exit, in case one of the boys need to leave.

“Wilbur, just take a step back for me, ok? You’re scaring Tommy.”

Wilbur complies while signing, “I didn’t mean to, Sir! I promise I didn’t!”

“I know you didn’t. But it’s what’s happening so we must react appropriately.”

“I still don’t want you giving him any medicine.”

“I’m sorry, mate. That’s not a choice you get to make. Tommy will be in a lot of pain if I don’t.” Wilbur bristles at that comment and Phil braces for more anger

“How do I know that you're not trying to keep him quiet? Sleepy?” In response, Phil opens the bottle and tips one of the pills into his hand.

“Tommy?” Phil waits until the selkie looks up at him. “Can I approach you and the bed?” The boy nods, eyes tracking every move Phil makes. The crow approaches the bed and holds a pill out. “Do you recognize this?”

“Yeah, it’s what you’ve been giving me since I got back. I think Mr Dr Ponk gave me one too.”

“He did,” Phil confirms. “Are you comfortable taking it?”

“Yeah,” the boy responds, holding his hand out. Phil hands him the water bottle and the pill. With a glare directed at Wilbur, Tommy tips his head back and takes the medicine. Wilbur throws his hands up and stomps out of the room. Phil watches him leave. He starts towards the door, but is interrupted by a small voice.

“He was really going to do it. I saw it in his eyes.” Phil turns back and crouches in front of the tiny form.

“Wilbur was scared, mate. He doesn't want you getting hurt, his fear overshadowed his rational thought.” Phil pauses as a huff comes out of the ball containing his youngest. “That doesn’t mean he was in the right. I mean it as an explanation, not as an excuse for his actions.”

“He was gonna do it.”

“But he didn’t.” The glare Phil receives from the ball causes him to quickly elaborate. “I’m not trying to dismiss the patterns that you can recognize and are used to. I’m sorry that you are even used to them. You are too young to know the anger in someone’s eyes before they hit you. I hoped that I could prevent you from seeing that look again.” Tommy just huffs again before returning to the beginning of Phil’s speech, conveniently ignoring the last half.

“He didn’t hit me this time.”

“Yes. This time. I’ll speak with him. For now, are you up for a snack?” Tommy shook his head, arms still wrapped around his knees. Holding himself in comfort. “That’s ok mate, thank you for taking your medicine. Do you want to take a nap or come downstairs and watch tv?”

“Nap,” The selkie signed, moving towards the top of the bed where his pillow is. Phil tucks him in, squeezing his shoulder before retreating. The crow goes to pick up the lamp and his eye catches the guitar. He rises with both of them, placing the lamp on the table. Phil is sure to move the package of crackers and bottle next to it. He turns off the overhead light and, after bidding the boy a good rest, quietly shuts it.

Alone in the hallway, Phil finally takes a deep breath and breathes out the tension. Only minor damage today. It won’t be forgotten, but hopefully the boys will be able to move past it. If not, they can work through it. Anything is possible with time, something they all have these days.

Phil closes his eyes and thinks through the scene that just happened. Did Wilbur know he was yelling at Phil? Will he beat himself up about it? Phil’s not sure the trauma that causes the siren to not speak, but maybe it’s time to have a conversation about it. Hopefully, Phil will be able to become aware of the triggers that may make the situation worse. He’s perfectly content if the boy is never comfortable talking again, but he doesn’t want to be the reason for his silence.

Phil opens his eyes to look down at the guitar in his hands. The guitar he promised to never take, to never break. At least he can prove something to Wilbur. Prove that no matter how terrible a day is, he will never harm the guitar.

Phil moves down the hall to the siren’s closed door. He knocks on the frame and, after waiting a bit, calls out, “Hey Wilbur? Can you come to the door? I have something to give you.” Phil listens until he hears the soft footfalls approach the door. He takes a step back to create more space as the door cracks open.

Phil watches as Wilbur’s eyes fall onto the guitar. They widen in fear before flipping to Phil’s face, scanning it quickly before dropping to the floor. Phil’s not sure what the boy saw, but hopefully it wasn’t damaging.

“Hey mate, you left this in Tommy’s room. I wanted to return it before I went downstairs.” Phil ignores the bewildered look that Wilbur sends towards him. Don’t react, stay calm. “Here it is, I hope to see you at dinner later tonight.” Phil extends his hands towards the boy. Wilbur pauses before slowly reaching for the guitar. His hands hesitate before touching it, clearly expecting a trap, but when Phil doesn’t move, he grabs the guitar. Phil releases the instrument and it’s brought within the siren’s hold.

“I’ll see you later tonight,” Phil says as he turns around and heads for the stairs. He needs another cup of tea.

Notes:

Y'all, my fic passed 21,000 hits! It can legally drink in the US now! Holy shit!!

Thank you everyone for your comments and for returning chapter after chapter. I appreciate that you all love this little trauma filled fic! And if this is your first time reading though it, welcome!! I hope to see everyone here next week!

Speaking of next week, I'll be flying home to my wonderful, wonderful (/s) family. Gotta play the good, loving child. That being said, does anyone know of any good games I can play to distract myself? I’ve 100 percented stardew valley and already had my three week hyperfixation on minecraft this year. I usually play on the pc and love cozy games, but not the farming ones (I’m burnt out from my 200 hours of stardew). Big fans of ones that have an ending and are not open world. I’m also terrified of horror. Thank you in advance!!

Drink some water and take care of yourselves, I'll see you soon <3

Chapter 34: Stressed Siren

Notes:

Tws: Spiral, mentions of child abuse, expected child abuse

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. Turn.

1, 2, 3, 4, side step, 6, 7, 8. Turn.

Wilbur’s shocked he hasn’t worn a path into his floor. He can’t help it, he needs to move when he’s anxious. Or upset. Or both. Pacing is moving. So he goes up and down, up and down in front of his bed, feet falling in the same places. Skillfully avoiding the creek on the floor. The rhythm is calming. It’s something he can control, in a life where the current has dragged him in whatever direction it wants.

The anger is new. A feeling he’s never been able to feel before. Allowed to feel. To express. It was too dangerous to, whatever anger he felt could be, and was, thrown back at him tenfold. But Phil is never angry. No matter the situation, the rule broken, Phil never yells. Shouts. Hits. Insults. Abuses.

So why does that make Wil angry? Why do the soft words make his skin crawl? Why is his reaction mistrust? Why is he upset that his expectation is proven wrong over and over again? Why is he pacing in his room trying to dissolve the fire crackling under his skin? The fire that he turned on Tommy. Why did he turn on Tommy?

Why is he jealous that Tommy is getting the childhood that he could only dream of?

Wil pauses mid step at that realization. What did he do to have his childhood stolen from him? There has to be a reason. Somewhere.

6, 7, 8, turn.

1, 2, 3, 4, side step, 6, 7, 8, turn.

The feeling of protection is new. Well, not new, but recently revived. Last time Wil raised his fist to protect someone, he was beaten within an inch of his life. It was the first time he’s had that many bruises at once. It was also the first time he was sent to an auction. Wil promised himself that he would never put himself in that situation again. He couldn’t afford to.

And yet, here he is.

The small, loud, chaotic selkie has wormed his way through Wil’s walls. Even with his brain shouting at him, Wil’s heart decided to protect Tommy. To protect him from the horrors of the surface world, to keep his childhood.

And it’s backfired on him. Phil is pissed. There’s no other reaction. Sure Wilbur didn’t mean to, but when has an adult ever listened to him before? Tommy has to be upset with him too. He saw the look in the kid’s eyes, the shock quickly walled up. The walls he hasn’t seen from the boy in months. And his guitar…

Oh shit, his guitar.

He left his guitar in the room. With Phil. Who Wil just threatened. He’s never getting his guitar back. He’s never going to be able to play again.

A reward that he managed to lose due to his stupidity. Nothing has changed.

A knock at the door causes Wil to freeze. Fuck. Here’s where it all changes. Where Phil finally shows his true colors. Maybe he’ll go away. If he never opens the door, nothing can change. Everything will stay the same. Wil isn’t prepared for this. For his safety to be taken from him. To return to watching his every move, his every reaction.

And he was just getting comfortable.

A voice sounds through the door, “Hey Wilbur? Can you come to the door? I have something to give you.”

Images of previous shattered guitars flash before his eyes. Previous mistakes that ended in the same result, the result that's on the other side of the door. No matter how many times it happens, Wil can’t help it. He’s drawn to the guitar, to the beauty of it, the melodies he can create. Every master recognizes the love, and every master uses it as a way to control him. To keep their own perfectly behaved siren.

He has to open the door. They get angrier if he doesn’t.

Wil takes a breath, running through his form one last time. Eyes down, hunched shoulders, meek appearance. Smaller than the threat. A pushover. Submissive in every way. The perfect slave.

Wil cracks open the door, bracing against the floor in case it’s shoved open. In case his Master takes away his safe space. His room. Wil can’t help it as he glances up from the floor, he has to see how much trouble he’s in.

Before Wil’s eyes can scan to his Master’s face, they land on the guitar. The intact guitar, all six strings still attached. Looking exactly the same as ten minutes ago in Tommy’s room.

He’s going to make Wil watch as he breaks the guitar.

Wil quickly looks at his feet as Phil starts speaking. Wil can’t pay attention, he’s too distracted by trying to breathe, to count out his breaths just as Phil taught him. The same Master who is going to break his guitar.

Phil holds the guitar out and Wil braces for the smash. For the noise that will sound as his instrument shatters and dances across the floor. The noise that already haunts his dreams.

Nothing happens.

Phil stands there, arm outstretched, metaphorical olive branch suspended in the space between them.

Wil dares to reach his hand out, wary of a trap. He pauses, sure that there is a mistake. There must be a mistake. When Phil doesn’t react, Wil grabs the neck of the guitar. After the longest second of the teen’s life, Phil lets go and pulls his hand back. Drawing the guitar into his grasp, Wilbur is ready to disappear from this conversation. To return to his room, his safe space. That hasn't been taken from him. Yet.

Phil makes a comment that Wil is too shocked to retain before turning and heading for the stairs. Leaving Wil in the doorway. Leaving him alone. Wil listens to the footfall on the steps before softly closing the door. He stares at the guitar in his hands, too scared to blink. That he’s imagining it and blinking will cause the guitar to vanish.

…

…

…

Eyes burning, Wil gives in and allows them to close.

…

…

…

It’s still there. He can feel it. The curved wood beneath his hands, the strings pressed against his fingers. He still has his guitar. It’s still intact. After everything that just happened. It has to be ok.

…

…

…

Wil opens his eyes to see that it’s true. His guitar is fine. He’s fine.

The anger returns. Why? Why are the rules in this place so different? Why is everything that Wil has learned, everything that he does to keep himself safe, incorrect? Why is Phil so kind? Wil does not deserve this kindness.

Wil wants to throw his guitar across his room. To watch it splinter as it hits the wall, pieces of wood raining down. To destroy the kindness, to make the man be mean. For once, hoping the soft voice turns sharp. He can handle the pain, he can’t handle whatever this is.

Wil puts the guitar down and instead rips the bedding off of his bed, throwing blankets to different corners, pillows into the bathroom. Just to make a mess, to not be perfect. He’s so sick of being perfect, of worrying about making a mistake. He wants to scream, to be heard. To actually be heard.

Wil looks around the room at the tiny bit of chaos he created. It only makes him sad, it reminds him of the chaos Tommy brings. Tommy. Wil grabs his comforter and bundles up on the bed, curled into a ball with only his eyes sticking out.

Wil stares at his guitar leaning against the wall. He fucked up today. Royally. Yet, Phil isn’t going to hurt him. Not on purpose. No matter what he does. Wil broke a big rule today, don’t threaten the master. And nothing happened. And nothing will happen, Phil doesn’t put off punishments.

Wil’s eyes fall closed and he drifts off, exhausted from the emotional whiplash of the afternoon.

He rests, knowing that no one will barge in and hurt him. He rests knowing that he’s safe.

Notes:

May I present angst :)

I had so many things I could put here today (from me skiing for the first time ever, to accidently deleting the entire chapter, to celebrating my birthday) but instead one of my amazing readers led me to the realization that I can just change my username. In AO3. That it's apparently a simple process. (it's currently anonymous because my username is the same as all of my socials and it's unique enough to find me quickly.) So, expect a username change once I come up with a good one!

I'm also traveling for the next 10 ish days so I may skip a week or two. Please enjoy the holidays and eat a ton of food! and drink water! and enjoy the break! I'll see you all soon <3

Chapter 35: Scary Talks Pt. 1

Notes:

Tws: Panicy thoughts

A soft knock wakes Wil from his nap. Blinking his eyes, the teen takes in his surroundings in the fading light as he waits for his brain to catch up. He looks around his room, confused about his pillow being in the bathroom and blankets all over the floor. That usually doesn’t happen when he sleeps. As his eyes land on the guitar, he’s hit with the memory of the day’s events. Oh fuck. He fucked up big time. Wil tries to untangle himself from his comforter, but freezes as a voice rings out from behind the door.

“Wilbur? Mate? Can I come in?” Fuck. Phil wants to come in. But the room is messy. What will he say? Will things be taken? As Wil continues his fight with the blanket, he knocks on the wall once. Once for no.

For no.

Wil just told his Master no.

Oh fuck he just made this day worse.

Wil freezes once more, holding his breath and bracing for the anger. The anger that a small part of him knows won’t come, but the larger, more trained part knows better. This part still has a hold on him. A chokehold of fear.

“Ok, I won’t come in. I’m about to make dinner and I was wondering if you wanted to join me. Tommy is still sleeping so it’ll be the two of us. Come down if you want to.” Wil holds his breath and counts to ten before he hears footsteps retreat down the stairs.

Wilbur stares at his guitar.

Why does he think this way? Why does he expect the worst? Usually he’s right, but not here. Not in this house. Not for the last couple of months. Why can’t he relax?

His stomach grumbles, reminding him that it’s almost time for dinner. Dinner that Wil knows will be brought up to him, even if he stays locked in his room. What did he do to deserve that kindness?

Wil finally succeeds in untangling himself and rolls out of bed. Time to brave the downstairs. To figure out what he has to do in exchange for his guitar being returned in one piece. Things like that don’t come for free. The longer he waits, the more expensive it gets.

Wil opens his door and carefully makes his way past Tommy’s room towards the stairs. Hopefully the kid won’t be too mad at him. He’s trying his hardest. The siren creeps downstairs and makes his way to the kitchen. Phil’s back is turned so Wil just slides onto an island chair. The winged man on one side, the siren on the other. The counter in between. Wil closest to the door. All to keep him safe.

Phil turns around and jumps at seeing the teen there. “Sorry mate, you scared me! I didn’t hear you come down the stairs!” Yeah, because Wil knows how to be silent. Phil continues without pause, preventing the siren’s thoughts from going anywhere else. Anywhere dangerous. “I appreciate you coming down! Dinner is in the oven, would you like some tea while we wait for it to cook?” Wil hesitates before giving a single nod. He watches as Phil brings over the required equipment. The man has taken to making food directly in front of Wil when possible, so the boy can watch the process. To ensure nothing is added.

When things are made beforehand, Wil refuses to touch it. No matter how loud a part of him screams that Phil will never hurt him, he can’t help it. Habits are hard to break. Until Phil takes a sip out of a mug, a bite from the meal, that voice keeps screaming. Screaming until the only thought he has is that he’s going to be forced to sleep again. To sleep for hours. Where anyone can do anything-

“Were you able to take a nap?” Phil’s soothing voice snaps Wil back to the present.

“Yes sir,” the siren signs before tucking his hands back into his lap, eyes trained on the kettle in front of him. Silent. Perfect.

But wait. That’s not necessary anymore. He is ok. He’s safe.

At least he remembered to call Phil sir and not master. Wil hasn’t made that mistake in a couple of months. He’s been trying so hard to be good, so hard to be useful so that he can stay. Stay where there’s warm water and a room and a warm bed and he feels safe-

A small voice wonders if he must call the man in front of him sir or if he can call him Phil. According to Niki, Wil owns himself and usually free people call each other by their names. Wil squashes that voice. He’s in too much trouble as it is.

Speaking of trouble, he should ask.

“What do I owe you?”

“Owe me?” Phil replies, looking up from the tea leaves he was spooning into the mugs.

“For returning my guitar. For not breaking it or keeping it from me.”

“Mate, it’s a gift. Your guitar is yours. And I’ll never take it away or purposely harm it.” Oh. Right. That’s what a gift is. Not to hold against him. For him to have.

Sometimes it’s hard to remember.

Wil watches as Phil continues to make the cups of tea. Nothing went into the siren’s mug except the leaves, water, and a cube of sugar. The teen accepts the mug as it’s handed across the island to him. He watches the leaves float and move in the water, adrift in the mug. No control over their movements, of their existence. Other forces place them where they belong, all while taking their very essence to make the drink more flavorful. The longer they’re there, the tastier the tea, and the more waterlogged the leaves get. Some are dragged under, some fished out to allow smoother consumption. To be thrown away, tossed to the side.

“Hey, Wilbur. Where’s your head at?” Wil looks up to see Phil has removed all the tea equipment. He must’ve dissociated a bit longer than he thought. “I had a couple of things I wanted to talk to you about, but I don’t want you to feel like we have to have these conversations right now. They can wait if you’re not in the right headspace.”

Wil’s stomach curled as though a snake awoke and was trying to squirm his way out. He’s going to need more information. That statement was way to vague, it could be anything from what does Wil want for breakfast to how many days before Phil kicks Wil out of the house. Ok, maybe not the breakfast one, Phil’s never started that conversation with determining his headspace. He must be trying to kick Wil out. Which makes sense after the scene that happened upstairs in Tommy’s room.

Stop jumping to conclusions, Wil chastises himself. His trained instincts are usually wrong in this house so he should just clarify. Phil won’t mind.

He won’t mind.

“What are the topics?” Wil signs, holding his breath for the reaction.

“There's only two. This first is I wanted to go over all the doctors notes with you and the medication I’m supposed to give Tommy and when. That way you’re more informed about the situation.” Wil nodded. That would help ease some of the anxiety he has about the boy taking the mystery pills.

“And the other?” Wil signs. Phil pauses and Wil recognizes the look. The look of caution and wanting to back out.

Wil knows they never do.

Sure enough, Phil continues, “The other is that I wanted to discuss triggers around your voice.”

Of course.

Notes:

Part of this chapter is a plea for help, I need a loose leaf tea strainer haha

Usually I delete my "Not a Chapter" authors notes because those just discovering the fic can read it without being interrupted by my random life events. However, I kept it this time because of how sweet you all were in the comments. For context, here's what the chapter said previously:

Hi all! I hope everyone's holidays went well!

I was going to work on the final edits of this chapter today to post it tomorrow. Instead I managed to bonk my head and, after five hours in the er, gained a nice concussion, stitches, and workers comp.
I'm not supposed to be on the computer but I wanted to let you all know that I am still writing this story :) We have to bring in techno at some point, ya know? Even if it'll still be a couple of months away.

Anyway, give me a week for my brain to decide its ok and don't yell at me for making this post. I'll be fine.

Love you all,
O

Chapter 36: Scary Talks Pt. 2

Notes:

Usually when I have an author's note chapter, I end up deleting it so that it's a smooth read for those just discovering the fic. However, ya'll were so aweet in writing your messages that I decided to keep it. Go back to the previous chapter, it's where the first half of the new content is. The second half starts here. Thank you all <3

Tws: Bad writing I guess (shhh i was concussed and my beta is still out, I'm trying yalllllll)

~~~~~~~~Read Previous Chapter~~~~~~~~

Wil just sighs. He knew this topic would come up, he just hoped he had a little longer before he was confronted with his silence. He’s not really in a good headspace for any of this, but waiting will make it worse. That much he knows.

“Yeah we can talk about those topics,” he signs, preparing himself for the awkwardness of these conversations.

“Ok, perfect! We can always stop anytime, I won’t be upset. I promise.” With that, Phil turns to a cabinet and begins pulling down pill bottles. Wil barely has time to register the empty promise before he’s working on regulating his breath. He can handle it. He can do it. As long as Phil stays over there and the path to his room is clean and nothing goes near his tea and-

Stop it.

You need to be present to protect Tommy.

Snap out of it.

Wilbur takes one more breath as Phil approaches the table with three orange bottles and a folder. The siren follows along as the crow introduces each of the medications. They go over the shape and the color of each pill. They go over how often Tommy is supposed to take each one. They go over the reasons for the pills and what the side effects are. They go over where they will be stored.

Wilbur mentally compares each pill to the ones in his nightmares. Wilbur makes sure to read the doctor's note to ensure that Phil is giving the correct amounts. Wilbur mentally logs in the side effects to keep an eye on Tommy in case he displays any of them. Wilbur ensures that the location is high enough that Tommy can’t get into them.

It’s Wilbur’s fault that Tommy is scared of him and it’s Wilbur’s job to fix that relationship. What better way than to ensure that Phil won’t poison tommy with bad drugs-

Stop it. Phil would never.

“Wilbur, none of this is your responsibility. Tommy’s well being is my responsibility. I don’t mind you helping out, but don’t stress about any of this, ok?” Phil says as they’re finishing up. Wil… pauses. On one hand, he doesn’t trust adults to care about the health of the kids. It’s too easy to get a replacement. On the other hand, this is Phil.

“If you say so,” Wil signs back. Phil goes to put everything back in the cabinet as Wil makes a promise to himself. He’ll give the man one chance to mess up Tommy’s meds. Then he’s taking over.

“Ok, one more topic.” Phil hesitates and Wil grows concerned. The snake in his stomach returns, the anxiety vibrating under his skin begging to be released. Phil looks down at his mug before taking a deep breath and looking up at the siren. “You can back out of this conversation at any time.” Phil pauses, waiting for Wil to nod before continuing.

“I’ve told you before that you don’t ever have to speak if you don’t want to. That will always be the case. I just don’t want it to be because of me. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or to cause you to second guess your safety.” Wil openly scans Phils face while he talks, looking for anything to prove this conversation is to trap him. To trick him.

There never is. It’s never a trap. Phil’s face just shows pure genuineness.

“I’ll admit, I’m scared to bring this topic up because I don’t want to trigger anything,” Phil says, barreling on. “If you’re comfortable, can you let me know some things that I shouldn’t say? Topics to stay away from?”

Wil’s not sure how to respond. Where is this coming from, was it something that happened earlier?

Oh shit. Will yelled earlier. With the whole threatening Tommy thing, he forgot. Maybe that’s why he woke up with a sore throat. Maybe that’s why Phil decided to have this conversation now.

Phil continues as though Wil isn’t having a crisis, “I just want to allow you to express yourself however you choose. To feel comfortable enough to. Whether it’s through sign language or through writing or through your voice. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

Wil nods and decides to tell him. Tell him everything. Tell him about the beatings and the cages and the pain. The loneliness. The darkness. Phil is safe, Phil will protect him from any of it happening again. Just how Phil protected his guitar. Just how Phil is trying to protect Tommy.

Wil opens his mouth to respond and freezes. Just freezes. Neither his vocal chords nor his hands can move. He is paralyzed. Paralyzed in fear. Not of repercussion, but of judgment. What if his voice breaks from the lack of use? It’s already sore from his yelling earlier. What if Phil thinks he’s weak for not standing up for himself? What if Wil says something stupid and Phil decides he’s better off silent? What if he is better off silent?

Phil breaks the spiral by sliding a pen and paper toward the teen. That’s right. Phil doesn’t care. As long as Wil is comfortable, Phil doesn’t care. In fact, Phil didn’t care when Wil told him no earlier. Maybe he’ll let Wil say no right now.

Wil writes a sentence and slides the paper across the counter. Phil picks it up and reads “I can’t right now.” Phil raises his eyes and smiles at Wil.

“That’s ok. When you feel ready, why don’t you bring this topic up next. That way I’m not forcing you into another uncomfortable conversation about this topic, ok?” Wil nods and looks up to meet Phil’s eyes.

His eyes betray his disappointment, but that’s ok. Phil will respect his decision. Wil is certain of that.

The oven beeps to announce dinner. The crow turns to take care of it, feathers bruising through the air. Wil watches as each moves and settles along the curves of Phil’s wings. He tries to stay ahead of his thoughts. The ones that try to drag him into the past, into the bad memories. The ones he knows conditioned him to act the way he does.

Notes:

Hi! I think it's time to properly introduce myself!

My name is Ollie, I use they/them pronouns. My favorite color is blue (like the deep ocean) and my favorite food is dino nuggets and unicorn mac n cheese. I'm quite clumsy and I have fallen off a horse one or two (maybe three) times. The username was decided by the cousin who broke their toe kicking me. My biggest fear is missing out on life, especially with seeing things that are limited due to the state of our planet (such as the Great Barrier Reef in color or Venice before it sinks) which results in me speed running life. I am a plant gay.

If you have questions, I may answer them. It just depends on how personal they are and whether or not it'll dox me.

Love you all!
O

Chapter 37: The Aftermath

Notes:

TWs: yelling, hateful words

Tommy wakes up and squints at the clock on his bedside table. It’s square and is supposed to be a dinosaur, but Tommy thinks that Phil’s eyes need to be checked. There’s just weird spikes coming off of it. The fact that he needs a clock in the first place is also weird. Apparently on land, people like to do things based on numbers instead of the sun’s and moon’s positions. Weird.

Upon seeing the time, the selkie groans and rolls out of bed. Placing his arm in the sling, he grumbles about missing lunch. Turns out repairing bones takes a lot of energy, or so Mr. Dr. Ponk says. Tommy is supposed to get “lots of sleep” and “eat lots of healthy food” and “not climb on top of things”. Too many extra rules.

But no one has hurt Tommy here, so the selkie promised himself that he’d try to follow them. For a bit. At least for today. Maybe.

Tommy’s stomach grumbles reminding him of his mission: dinner. Food. Hopeful fish. But the good, cooked fish that Phil does. It’s much better than the slimy, raw fish he used to catch. Or attempted to, he was never quite able to get enough food for the day. Those speedy bois.

Tommy is half way down the stairs when he realizes lunch today was the first meal he’s missed since being on land. Well, being in Phil’s house. Even if they’re not feeling up for going to the table, Phil always drops off food for them. For both him and Wilbur.

Wilbur.

That slimy motherfucker.

He pretends to be friends with Tommy and then goes and threatens to hit him while yelling out of nowhere. Wilbur apparently switches up just as quickly as the other kids in the pod.

Tommy rounds the corner to the living room and locks eyes with the siren. The anger he was carefully feeding fizzles out. He can’t help but feel like he walked into a shark’s cave. The teen was just casually sitting there, as though waiting for Tommy to descend. Tommy tries to breathe and reassure himself that nothing will happen. That it’s Wil, the one who plays him guitar. Wil, the one who lets him choose the nightly movie. Wil, the one who is terrified to drink out of a glass.

Defending a threat? Tommy really is getting comfortable here.

The selkie prepares to run and find Phil the second Wil tries anything. He’s learned that between fight or flight, running and hiding hurts less. He’s closest to the rest of the house anyways, and Wilbur is seated so it will take him a second to get up. That second is all Tommy will need to make it towards the clanking in the kitchen. He should be in sight of the adult before Wil does too much damage.

Tommy braces as Wil raises his hands, but pauses when he begins to sign, “I’m sorry Tommy. I didn’t mean to scare you like that. I know it may take a while but I hope you can forgive me.” With that the siren places his hands in his lap and looks sheepishly at Tommy.

Brav-fucking-o. What a show. If the selkie was raised any differently, he would’ve believed it. The fucker had even the sorrowful face mastered. Good thing that Tommy knows how the bigger kids are. Sweet near the adults and vicious when away. Tommy doesn’t grace Wilbur with a response and instead turns on his heel and heads for the kitchen.

Maybe he’ll give Wil a second chance. But not yet. He’ll make the kid work for it. Tommy tries to hide his smile and a devious plan hatches. If the siren is really sorry, then doing a few favors shouldn’t be that hard.

Tommy enters the kitchen the same time that a timer goes off. The flinch he gave surprised him, apparently they’ve returned. Stupid siren making him jumpy.

Phil turns around with the food and smiles when he notices Tommy, “Hi mate! I was just about to come get you for dinner, you slept through lunch!” Tommy grimaces before following the crow to the table.

“Yup! Big man has to sleep to fix the arm.”

“Makes sense,” Phil nods, back turned to Tommy as he places the food on the table. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Never better!” Phil turns around towards the selkie and Tommy flinches at the sudden movement. Tommy holds his breath as Phil pauses, hoping that he won’t mention it. The sea gods must have heard him because Phil just continues the conversation,

“Good, just let me know if you feel any new pain or if it changes.”

“Yes, sir.” Tommy says as he makes his way over to his seat. He feels Phil's eyes on him before the man leaves the room.

It’s not until he’s alone that Tommy feels like he can breathe again. A part of him knows that he’s safe, that Wilbur didn’t mean it, and that Phil would never harm him. Another part of him argues that he is still an outsider and Wilbur is clearly Phil’s favorite so no matter what really happens, Tommy will be in the wrong. That’s how it works. That's how it always works.

Tommy’s anxiety returns as the two of them enter the room. A conversation must've just finished based off of their faces and Wil takes his seat across the table from Tommy. The silence is deafening as Tommy stares at his plate. Phil acted like Tommy would get dinner, but privileges can be taken away anytime. It’s happened before.

“Go ahead boys, grab some food, both of you,” Phil says softly. Tommy raises his head to see that Phil already has put food on his plate, but Wilbur’s matches his own, empty. The siren is watching him and gestures for Tommy to go ahead. The selkie gives an acknowledging nod before reaching out and serving himself. A little less than what’s on Phil’s plate. Better to not be too greedy.

Dinner was… quiet. Not silent, the clanking of metal on the ceramic plates made sure of that. The tension was thicker than the sea, pressing onto Tommy like the deep trenches he was too scared to swim in. This dinner is completely different from any other meal that Tommy’s had here, and he wishes things could go back. Back to the teasing and the jokes and the laughter. He just doesn’t know how to make it happen.

Phil sets his fork fork down on the plate with a too loud clink that pulls another flinch from Tommy. He needs to stop that. It makes him look weak, look like a target. “Ok, boys. I know that a lot happened today but I wanted to emphasize, neither of you are in trouble.”

“But he threatened me with a lamp,” Tommy blurts out, shocking himself.

“I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry! I wasn’t thinking,” Wil signs back.

“Sorry doesn’t fix anything,” Tommy replies, challenging the siren.

“What do you want me to do?”

Tommy knows he’s close to breaking. A nap was not enough to replace his spoons for the day. He decides to try to sign back, if only to watch his tone, but his arm starts to scream at him the second he raises it. That was the last straw as all the anxiety and fear and pain and emotion boils over and he snaps.

“I want you to leave me alone. Don’t talk to me, don’t come near me, don’t even look at me. I don’t want to be in the same house as you.”

Fuck. He never could watch his tongue.

Tommy stands, flinching at the noise of his chair scraping back. Stupid body, stop freaking out. It’s fine. He’s fine. The selkie stomps out of the room and up the stairs, putting distance between him and the argument.

Tommy pauses at the top of the stairs. He knows enough that once the angry person leaves the room, the others will talk about it. Sure enough, half the conversation drifts through the air towards his hiding spot around the corner.

“It’s alright Wilbur, he’ll come around.”

“No, he doesn’t hate you, you scared him and it’ll take him a minute to remember that you’re not a threat.”

“I know your reaction was out of fear, but so is his. Just be patient.”

“I’m going to go check on him, I’ll be…” Tommy scurries off to his room, trying to keep his footfalls as quiet as Wilbur does. How the hell does that stupid fish move so quietly? “Training” is what Wil says but at what school? An impressive one, that’s for sure.

He closes his door and makes his way to his bed to await the crow's entry. Tummy growling he tucks under the covers and places his back to the door. Sleeping through lunch and getting into a fight halfway through dinner was not the best plan in retrospect, but he’s had worse. Gone without food for longer. He’ll survive.

It’s all he knows, to survive.

Notes:

How are we doing my dears? Remember, grief is not linear and you can always, always grieve for someone you never met, grieve the person they were and time you wish you could've had. Hang in there <3

I caught up to my outline so I'm going to be posting every other week for a bit until I have more time (and hopefully a new job). See you in February, ya'll better be there.

PS Thank you all for the 25,000 (near 26!) hits and the 1000+ kudos. I appreciate all of you and no matter how long it takes me, you come back to keep reading this little fic. Thank you so much

Chapter 38: Late Night Thoughts

Notes:

Tws: Mentioned child abuse

Phil left the table with a plate in hand. Tommy’s plate. A plate that he added more food to, the boy took way too little. Probably a response to earlier events that Phil has to watch out for. He heads towards the stairs, towards the room with a closed door.

Knocking on the door gained no answer, so Phil informs the silent selkie that the plate is just outside the door and that he’s allowed to eat as much or as little as he’d like. Phil listens for any sign of life and at a ruffle of sheets, he turns away from the door to give the boy some space.

Phil pauses halfway down the stairs, knowing he is out of sight of both of the boys. He rests his head against the wall, quietly sighing to himself. He can do this. He has to be able to do this. He can be an anchor in the chaos, the uncertainty, the fighting. The boys are relying on him to do this.

Phil straightens and makes his way towards the silent siren, ready to do what he can with the teen.

_______________

It was late. Late enough that the soft, filtered moonlight that was resting on his bed on his bed has fallen to the floor. Exhausted during the day, but wide awake at night, Phil is regressing to a previous time.A time filled with fear. A time filled with running. A time without the boys.

Phil closes his eyes and stifles a groan. He is tired. So tired. Why can’t he just sleep?

Because he took in two traumatized boys who had a bad day. Hell, a bad couple of days. The boys’ health, both mental and physical, is his responsibility. And he’s failing. That nagging voice in the back of his head telling him he’s failing gets louder every day.

Phil rolls over to his back, wings flopping straight out over the edge of the bed, and stares up at the ceiling. Maybe he should get some of those little glow in the dark stars to look at. Hell, maybe he should get everyone the stars. Are the boys even afraid of the dark? Did they decide to never tell Phil? Are they too afraid to? Maybe he should ask them. Why has he never thought to ask them?

A knock on the door stalls his ever constant panicked train of thought. Apparently he’s not the only one unable to sleep.

“Hang on, I’ll be there in a sec,” Phil says as he moves from his warm covers and places his feet on the floor. He makes his way to the door, shaking his feathers back to place as he goes.

Phil swings the door open to see a mop of blond hair, bundled in a comforter, his coat sticking out around his neck. Phil drops down to his knees so he’s at the same level as the kid.

“Are you ok, Tommy?” The boy shakes his head no.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Another no.

“What can I do to help?” A shrug. Phil suppresses a sigh.

“Would you like to come in and sleep in my bed tonight? I can scare away the monsters?” The boy pauses for a second, his thinking face scrunched up before nodding. Phil stands up and moves to the side allowing the boy to pad into the room. Tommy walks over to the bed before climbing on top of the covers and rolling into his blanket so he’s successfully cocooned.

Phil follows, only after closing the door. Not all the way. Hopefully by keeping it cracked, the selkie knows that he’s not trapped. He thinks about going to tuck the boy in, but after taking in his stiff, fearful form, Phil decides against it and just makes his way over to the other side of the bed. Touch is still off the table.

Passing the bottom of the bed, Phil grabs a spare blanket and unfolds it as he finishes his journey. He lets it fall and gather in the middle of the bed, not only as a barrier to assure Tommy, but as additional warmth in case the boy gets cold. The crow lays down and pulls his comforter over himself, leaning to turn off the bedside light.

“Goodnight, Tommy.”

“I’m sorry.” Phil’s hand freezes on the switch. He pulls it back and rolls to his stomach, wings draping awkwardly over the side of the bed to prevent bumping Tommy, and turns his head to face the boy.

“For what?” Phil cringes as he asks the question, knowing fully it sounds like he’s setting a trap. Wilbur would’ve started panicking immediately. Thankfully, Tommy is not Wilbur.

“For making a scene. For being loud. For flinching when you come near me.” Oh. Oh. We’re having one of those conversations tonight. Alright Phil, wake your brain up.

“Mate, you don’t have to apologize for those things. I don’t care if you’re loud. Be as quiet or as loud as you want to be.” Phil pauses to see Tommy’s reaction. The boy is closed off, smoothing and stroking his coat. He’s listening, just not making eye contact. That’s ok, it doesn’t matter to Phil. He continues, “You didn’t make a scene, you expressed your feelings and emotions you had in the moment. You created the boundaries you need right now and we will honor them. Both Wilbur and I will respect them. As for the flinching, you can’t control it. It’s a subconscious reaction. You’d had bad things happen to you and even though it may be a different situation, your body doesn’t know that and will return to what has kept it safe before. I will not be angry or upset at you for any of these things.”

Tommy hesitates, as though he’s second guessing if he wants to go on, before launching into an explanation, “It’s just… just that when adults saw me it hurt. They made it hurt. So I tried to stay out of sight, but that didn’t always work. So I started dodging, which only made them madder because I was too quick for them. Until they caught me. So I tried to train my body to hold still but I guess my body moves faster than my brain can tell it to not move.”

“Tommy-” Phil starts, but the selkie powers on.

“The other kids, the ones in the pod, they thought it was funny. They would try to see if they could make me flinch. Whoever got the most in a day won. They would throw things at me, scare me, swing at me, and sometimes got too close and created a bruise”

“Mate-”

“And the adults would just make fun of me for being clumsy. For getting in the way of the fists. Even though I wasn’t allowed to move. So uh, I’m sorry for flinching and thank you for not hitting me when I do. I’m trying to get better. I promise I am.”

Fuck.

“Tommy, mate, I’ll never hurt you. No one in this house will.”

“Wilbur tried to,” Tommy whispered.

“But he didn’t, he stopped.” Mentally cringing, the cro chastises himself. Phil, stop arguing, wake up so you can handle this properly.

“But he was going to. I know he was.”

“I know that’s what you saw and I’m not going to tell you you’re wrong. I’m sorry that you are used to reading those signs. I’m not trying to invalidate your feelings, let’s just wait and see the outcome. If Wilbur does ever hurt you, I want you to tell me.”

A scoff is given before the selkie mutters, “You won’t believe me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because Wil’s your favorite.” Oh no. Has Phil been favoring the siren? He hasn’t noticed but Tommy can read between the nonexistent lines and notices things that Phil was not aware was even there.

With bated breath, he asks, “How so?”

Tommy shoots Phil the most incredulous look, “He was here first! I cause messes and I break bones and I’m a bad kid. Of course he’s your favorite.”

“Tommy you’re not a bad kid, you’ve just had a bad start to life. Nether, you’re one of the best kids I’ve met, you’re sweet and kind and funny and full of positive energy. I don’t mind the messes you make, I’m just happy you feel comfortable enough to experience life. You even help clean them up! I really appreciate that. It doesn’t matter if Wilbur was here first, I care about both of you and want you both to feel safe in this house.”

Tommy wiggles down to cover his face with his coat. Phil’s not sure if he’s embarrassed or crying, but he allows the selkie to feel what emotions he’s experiencing. After a bit of time, a bit of silence, Phil says, “I’m going to turn off the light so we can try to get some sleep. If you want to keep talking, let me know.” Phil pauses for a response before looking over at the selkie. Tommy’s eyes are closed and his breathing is steady. At least one of them will get some sleep tonight.

Phil turns off the lights and tries to arrange himself in a way that’s comfortable with his wings but still gives Tommy space on the bed. He finally drifts off, his bird brain pleased that he was able reassure one of his chicks tonight.

Notes:

This just in, I am a total fucking dumbass.

I was able to get Lovejoy tickets.

I’m going to a concert where the lead singer has a minecraft character.

A character I write fanfiction about.

We're going to be in the same room.

I’ve lost all degrees of separation the screen and distance gave me.

Iconic.

 

Also I returned to disney over the weekend. After working for the mouse for eight months, it’s crazy how certain areas of the parks still trigger me. Anyways, if you get the chance to work there, absolutely do it, just have an exit plan and don’t get stuck.

Chapter 39: The Night is Still Not a Friend

Notes:

Tws: none

Tommy could not get to sleep. His arm ached but he already took the night medicine. He thinks Phil said something about being allowed more, but he bothered Phil the night before. Tommy doesn’t want to do it again. Not that the old man would mind, Tommy just doesn’t want to make relying on adults a habit.

On the other hand, the nightmares have been getting worse and worse. Initially, they were just him being back in the ocean. With his pod. They’ve progressively been getting nastier and scarier, memories and dreams blurring together until he can’t remember reality. (Or chooses not to. Chooses not to notice how similar the memories and nightmares really were.)

Then there was the guilt. The guilt of giving Wilbur the silent treatment the past day. Sure the siren apologized, but Tommy’s not ready. Not ready to admit that he felt safe here. Feels safe here. And that the feeling is different than he’s ever felt before.

Tommy is not ready to admit that he was never safe in the ocean.

At the end of the day, he’s taking his fear of realization out on Wilbur. That’s not fair. To either of them. To all three of them. The siren was trying too hard to make it up to Tommy. And Tommy just kept pushing him away.

Enough. Time to stop thinking. Tommy pushes himself out of his bed and wraps his coat around his shoulders. Time to find a new distraction.

The selkie stands at his bedside for a bit, trying to work up the courage to go to the room next door. Not to Phil’s, Tommy already bothered him the night before and still doesn’t want to do that again. No, Tommy wants to go to Wilbur’s room. After convincing his feet to move, he pushes his door open and crosses the hallway.

The selkie stands outside the door for a bit. Trying to convince himself that he can just go back to bed and that he’d be able to sleep and the nightmares will stay away. The guilt and fear will stay away. But he knows that’s not true. He knows the nightmares have shown up every night. Well, every night but the one he spent with Phil. Having someone there seems to help chase them away.

After standing outside the door for way too long, Tommy gets the courage to knock. He raises his fist and gives a couple of quieted taps. He knows Phil’s rules. No entering without permission. Tommy’s good at following rules. Or he tries to be. He’s definitely better at Phil’s than he was with his pod.

But you never broke the rules in the pod, they would change them to get you in trouble. Tommy shakes his head to try to rid himself of the voice. His pod loved him and cared for him and they miss him. He knows they do.

Two knocks brings Tommy back to reality. He stares at the closed door, confused about what that means. He hates to make Wil get up, but Tommy’s not sure if he’s allowed in. Phil said he has to be invited inside. But was the knock inviting him inside?

“Wil? It’s me. Can I come in?” A double knock. “I don’t know what that means.”

A sigh comes from behind the door before there’s some shuffling followed by footsteps. Tommy takes a step back as the door opens to reveal a sleepy siren.

“Hi Wil. I… can’t sleep.”

“So? That’s not my problem,” Wil signs back. Tommy tries to suppress a flinch. He deserves that.

“Oh… I’ll just go then,” Tommy turns back to his room. He’s not in the mood to fight or be defensive. The demons have pulled too much energy out of him tonight. He makes it only a few steps before hearing a “Toms.” He turns to look at the siren.

“Come in, let me see if I can help,” Wil signs.

Tommy nods as he steps past Wil into the siren’s room.

Upon entering, Tommy pulls off to the side, not sure where to go. Wil only has his bedside lamp on, creating a soft glow. Room completely spotless, only the covers of the bed rumpled.

The siren softly closes the door and makes his way to his dresser. There he pulls out a roll of crackers and a water bottle.

“Go ahead,” Wil signs. “You can have it if you want.”

“You keep food in your room?” Tommy asks, crossing the floor and grabbing the water bottle. He breaks the seal and takes a sip, not realizing how thirsty tossing and turning has made him.

“Yeah, I do. I’m sure Phil knows, but he hasn’t said anything. Just old habits, I guess.” Wil lowers his hands as he turns towards his bed and reaches under to pull his guitar out.

“Old habits?” Tommy askes. He never asked Wilbur about growing up on land. It always seemed like a rough topic. He knows the siren has bad days, and bad panic attacks. Phil has mentioned before that the siren didn’t get ‘dealt a good hand for life’ or something, but Tommy is not completely sure what that means. All he knows is that Wil has been getting better the longer he’s been here.

“Old habits,” Wil signs in confirmation, after settling on his bed, back against the wall, guitar in his lap. “Come lay down, I’ll play for a bit to help distract you.”

Tommy complies, knowing he’s not going to get any more information tonight. He bundles himself in the covers, curling into the ball he prefers, back to Wil. The siren plays softly strumming chord after chord. Trying out new patterns, playing through old ones. Tommy feels the sleep pushing against his brain. Before he passes out, he whispers “I forgive you, Wil”.

---

---

The next morning, Tommy wakes up to an empty bed in a strange room. It takes him a moment before realizing it’s Wil’s. The siren’s side of the bed is made to perfection and there’s no sign of the teen. Tommy gets up and tries to make the bed to match but between his one arm and little experience, it’s nowhere near as nice as Wilbur’s side.

Tommy leaves the room and makes his way downstairs to the kitchen for their morning routine. He enters in time to see Phil pouring two cups of tea. Tommy has decided he’s not a fan of the leaf water the other two seem to enjoy, so he usually sticks to water in the morning. The selkie grabs a bottle out of the fridge just as Phil’s phone rings.

“It’s Sam, I should pick this up,” Phil says, turning around and placing Wil’s mug of tea in front of him. “Oh, hi Tommy. Good morning! I’m just going to take this phone call and then I’ll be back to join you both for breakfast.” With that, the crow rushes out of the room, a mug of tea in one hand and his phone in the other.

Tommy climbs up onto one of the island chairs next to Wil. He’s not completely sure where they stand today, so he doesn’t speak. He just looks out at the bird feeder, side-eying the siren. Wil has pulled the tea cup into his hands and is just staring into the mug.

A couple of moments pass before Tommy turns to Wil to attempt to start a conversation. He pauses, noticing the siren’s troubled face. It takes a couple of seconds before he realizes that Phil didn’t finish the ritual the two of them did with every cup Wil drinks.

“Oh give it here” Tommy says, reaching for Wil’s mug. The siren freezes, but allows Tommy to grab it. Tommy takes a sip before pushing the mug back over to Wilbur. The selkie makes a face before saying, “See not poisoned. Just bitter, I have no idea how the two of you like that shit.” Wil stares at Tommy dumbfoundedly before taking a shaky sip.

Tommy just looks away and back to the crows outside the window. They’ll all be fine.

Notes:

Hello loves! This is not update you want to hear but it’s things you need to know.

If you can't tell from my little rants in these notes, I’m a very open person. (I tell my friends that I'll tell them anything, they just have to ask the right questions) And while yes, I have been having some writer's block, I’ve been having some mental health issues as well.

I have started loosing more and more time. This means I’ve been heavily dissociating and I’ve been running on auto pilot. I’m pulling as many strings as I have to get me out of the situation causing it, because frankly, it’s put me into survival mode. (In the mean time I do have a therapist and a support team, don’t worry about me. I’ve been through these episodes before). I thought that spacing the chapters out to every other week would give me enough wiggle room to continue the story but I still am not present enough to get them written in two weeks.

I'm going to pull any consistency of a schedule because tbh, I’m not sure I can stick with it. I'm sorry for everyone who’s used to the chapters being semi consistent, it’s gonna be a bit random. Subscribe for updates :). I love you all and I’m not done with this fic so no stress! There are plans, I just have to be present enough to write them!

In the mean time, I am still writing, they're just more in the moment poems and shit. I've thought about posting them, they'll be half finished and with a couple Tws, but yeah. Lmk if you're interested.

I love you all and I hope you continue to enjoy this fic!

~O

PS: Happy almost one year to when I started officially writing fan fiction!

Chapter 40: Daily Chaos

Summary:

Tws: Trauma mentioned, not in detail

A few weeks have passed since the “Wilbur nearly bopped Tommy in the head with a lamp” incident. Phil’s not sure what deal was struck between his two boys, but it apparently involves Wilbur playing Tommy to sleep every night. He checked in with both boys to ensure that one (Tommy) wasn’t taking advantage of the other (Wilbur) but it seems like this agreement was something that came out of free will. If they’re bonding and both enjoying it, he doesn’t think it’s necessary to stop it.

Niki has been staying with them for about a week now. Sam was called in by the organization to participate in some sort of sting. Phil wasn’t privy to details, but based on how long Niki is staying with them, it must be pretty big. Phil would be the first to admit, it’s been helping the boys a ton. From being as chaotic as Tommy, but as calm as Wilbur, she is helping both boys thrive.

Niki has been teaching Tommy to bake a new type of dessert every day. From cookies to cake to brownies, Phil has become both a professional taste tester and a professional kitchen cleaner. Tommy has insisted that since they made the dessert, other people should clean it up. Seeing the mischievous glint in Niki’s eyes, Phil didn’t have to guess where that idea came from. The deal they settled on was that Phil would do the dishes, as long as the two of them cleaned the inevitable flour cloud that coated the kitchen. By the meticulous, almost nervous way Niki cleans, Phil would guess that there’s a bit of trauma in making messes. Which means the flour dusting is a certain selkie’s fault.

Wilbur usually strays away from the antics of the kitchen. Whether from anxiety of the inevitable disaster or needing a break from the chaos, Phil’s not quite sure. The siren seems just fine having some time to himself. He’s often found hanging out under the tree in the backyard, guitar in his lap, pen and paper in his hand.

One day, Phil had his office window cracked and he heard the siren’s voice dance through the air. It brought happiness to the crow, whether from Wilbur being comfortable enough to sing, or from the joyful melody itself, he’s not sure. Phil makes a mental note to speak with Wilbur about his ability again. While he’s almost confident that the rumors of sirens controlling people are inflated to bring fear, he would still like to know the limit that Wilbur has. Seeing how the last conversation triggered the boy, he’s planning on holding out for a bit longer.

Another thing that Phil has noticed is that just having another presence in the house seems to be enough to help break Wilbur out of his head. Especially one who has been through the trade. While their experiences are different, it was the same system that traumatized them. He’s walked into many conversations where both Niki’s and Wilbur’s hands were flying. Whether in conversation or argument he’ll never know. But having someone further in their healing journey to give advice or to relate to is doing wonders for Wilbur’s confidence.

Phil still takes a sip out of every cup that he gives Wilbur. Yet as the week continues on, the siren seems more alive. Mornings aren't spent dissociating into space and instead are times for the selkie and siren to find a new topic to debate. Things from what clouds are made of to what animal is the worst, these debates usually last throughout the day and well into the evening. It’s always Tommy versus Wilbur, with Niki jumping sides throughout the day. Phil’s pretty sure she does it to add to the chaos.

One dinner was spent with Niki and Tommy teaming up against Wilbur. They were gushing to each other about how adorable anteaters are and were ignoring Wilbur every time he tried to interrupt them. It went on for a couple of minutes, with Wilbur getting more and more frustrated.

Just as Phil was about to intervene and direct their attention back to Wilbur, the siren decides to use his voice and says, “I’m trying to eat. I don’t want to hear about those vile creatures and their long, ugly faces right now”.

Phil tries to keep the surprise off of his face as he forces himself to act casual and continue his dinner. Luckly, Tommy immediately launches into a rant about how “big men love anteaters” and Phil looks up at the table and catches Niki’s eye. She gives him a tiny wink and the crow immediately recognizes the craftiness of the mermaid. She was purposely ignoring Wilbur to push him out of his comfort zone to use his voice to be included. A simple, no pressure situation caused by light bullying. Bullying that he knows Niki and Wilbur were doing to Tommy earlier to rial him up.

Given the glances that Wilbur sends Phil’s way throughout the rest of the meal, he’s still apprehensive about the crow’s reaction. For a response, Phil makes sure that Wilbur has the biggest brownie piece and doesn’t address it. The siren doesn’t speak the rest of the week, but it was another necessary step that needed to happen. Phil can tell Wilbur all he likes, but the only way the teen can learn to trust Phil’s words is for the siren to test his self imposed rules.

It was the fifth day of Niki living with them when Phil left the mermaid and the siren home alone to take the selkie back to the doctor. “Mr Dr Ponk”, as Tommy insists on calling him, declared the bones fully healed and sent the boy home with some homework to strengthen the arm. Phil took Tommy out for his first ice cream cone on the pier as a reward. They ate and talked about whatever was on Tommy’s mind as they watched the waves. To Phil’s surprise, the boy didn’t want to walk on the beach or put his toes in the water. So they sat above it all, leaving Phil to wonder what trauma would keep a sea creature from the sea.

Upon arriving home, Tommy immediately tried to conquer the same tree that “vanquished him the first time”. Phil watched from the bottom, wings posed and ready to catch the boy. Tommy triumphed by placing his feet on the branch above the red scarf, cheering and whooping. Phil smiled to himself, knowing he had lowered the red scarf the day after the fall while Tommy was passed out from the heavy painkillers. He’s not risking the selkie’s safety twice.

It was night after Sam came to pick up Niki, after Phil put the boys to bed. While they were in their separate rooms, the crow was fully expecting to hear quiet footsteps cross the hallway. Their little ritual of Wilbur playing in Tommy’s room every night is not something that has continued. Phil doesn’t mind, it’s the boy’s time to bond.

Phil walked into the kitchen for his evening cup of tea to find a pile of papers perfectly placed on the counter. Moving closer, he immediately recognized the handwriting. Looking at the size of the stack, he decides to make his tea before reading the..

It was a pile of letters. Letters to him. Reading through it, Phil cried. He cried for the first time in years. He couldn’t help it, his heart ached for the boy. Hearing the trauma the siren, his child, experienced was a lot to handle. Every bad story he heard from another slave, about another master, seemed to happen to Wilbur. Passed around, each house getting worse, it’s a wonder Wilbur has improved at all. He mourned the loss of time, loss of innocence that was stolen from the siren. He mourns the boy’s voice, stolen from him through methods that he wouldn’t wish upon his worst enemy. Letter to letter, he hopes that it would be better, only to learn some new horror that befell the siren.

He took mental notes of possible triggers, a list that was too long for anyone to have, much less the 15 year old in his care. He wonders how the boy was able to survive for so long. Wilbur’s reactions and trust issues begin to make sense, as the source of them are written out in front of him. Written in perfect handwriting. A result of trauma also detailed in the letters.

Hope. Hope for a safe place. For a safe future. The only thing consistent in each letter. The only thing that probably kept the teen alive, kept him sane, kept his mind from breaking. Flipping over the last letter, Phil just stares at the counter. He takes a sip of tea, long cold, and just processes. Processes not only the events that have happened, but also the amount of trust Wilbur has in him. Trust to tell him everything.

Philpulls out a pen and starts a letter to the boy. A letter of reassurance. A letter of encouragement. A letter that he will leave folded for the siren to find tomorrow at breakfast.

Notes:

Hi Loves!

I know these scenes are short and sweet, they're little things that weren't quite long enough to dedicate a chapter to/ a chapter was already about that topic. That being said, if one inspires you, absolutely expand it and add all the details you want! Just let me know where to find it so I can tell you how amazing it turned out! (This goes for fan art too) Just don't go reposting this fic word for word, copyright and all that <3

As for my current shit show of life, I'm officially our by the 20 of March. One more week. Thank you for all the kind words <3<3 Until then I’m just trying to vibe, stay present, and not get too frustrated. I know I pulled the schedule, but I still plan on updating, just with more random intervals. I’m still here, don't worry.

~O

Chapter 41: Just Another Pawn

Notes:

Tws: None

Phil leans back in his chair as he studies his opponent. The man in front of him keeps running his right hand over his beard in thought. He’ll continue to do that until his left eyebrow raises. Not enough to be noticeable, but enough to indicate. An eyebrow raise means he thinks he found a way to beat Phil. No eyebrow movement means Sam is playing to play, with no plan. Piece after piece have been traveling across the board all afternoon, both men equally matched in the game.

The salt water hybrids are swimming in the pool, taking advantage of some of the first sunny days of the year. The winter months were good for everyone. Wilbur has taken to singing around the house. Never going anywhere without music, thanks to a small radio Phil gifted him. Sign language is still the teens choice for conversation, but Phil doesn’t mind. Besides, his voice lightens the house during the darker months. Tommy has discovered and given up on many hobbies. Phil has invested in a new organizer for the boy’s room to keep track, and attempt to contain, all the chaos. Who knew that being cooped inside would drive the little selkie crazy?

Wilbur has started batting Tommy’s hand when the kid tries to take a sip out of the siren’s drink. He doesn’t always drink right away, Wilbur still waits until Phil tests his drink first, but it's still an improvement. Meanwhile, Tommy has found it funny to drop the most traumatic events as a joke before giggling out of the room. It concerns Phil, but at least Tommy is talking about his past? Everyone copes differently. Besides, the boy is starting to recognize that the way his pod treated him was not normal, nor was it good.

It’s been a month since Phil watched Nikki and multiple months since he was contacted by the Organization. If the crow didn’t know any better, he would believe that they lost his number.

Unlucky for him, no one loses the Angel of Death’s number.

Sam didn’t talk about his mission. All agents of the Organization swore they wouldn’t. Even so, the two of them share stories late into the night while their kids sleep, munching on whatever was baked during the day. But that mission, Sam’s most recent one, hasn’t been spoken about. Phil knows that means one of two things. Either it was a bad- really bad situation that Sam is still processing, or they’re planning on sending Phil over to clean up and Sam doesn’t want to scare him. Either way, the waiting game has done nothing but stir up anxiety in Phil.

Apparently he doesn’t have to wait much longer.

A ringtone cuts through the concentration. Phil glances to his side to see a number pop up on the screen.

A number he knows better than to not answer.

He looks up to see recognition in Sam’s eyes. Grabbing the phone, Phil is careful not to bump the table as he stands up.

“I’ll take this inside. Don’t move the pieces around while I’m gone.” Sam just rolls his eyes at Phil’s attempt of humor as the crow makes his way inside. Opening the door to the sun room, Phil steps into the warm space. Sam’s house is more open than his own. Windows everywhere, letting in natural light and, with a perfect view of the overgrown garden surrounding the pool, the crow can almost pretend that he’s gone on holiday to a jungle. If only he could escape this ringtone.

Phil turns away from the yard and answers the phone. It does no good to miss their call.

“Hello?”

“Angel. You still have that room?” Classic. Straight to the point. Nothing has changed.

“It’s been a minute since we last had a chat, for what do I have the honor of speaking to you again?”

“Answer the question.” Phil sighs. They’re never ones for pleasantry.

“Yes I do.”

“Good. I’m sending a file over.” Phil puts his phone on speaker as he opens his email, awaiting the message. It comes in a second later. Phil begins to look at it, eyebrows raising.

“This isn’t the auction house.”

“Oh, we managed to get it shut down, found out they were live trapping hybrids.” Well no shit. Phil got Tommy from there after all. “We need you to get someone out of this location.”’

“Gladiator or bait?”

“Bait. It’s bad, he’s been there for years.” The voice on the other end sighs before breaking character and softening. “You’ll have your hands full.” Phil takes a second to formulate an answer, glancing through the file.

He brings the phone back to his ear before stating, “I can handle it.”

“Can your boys? I know you haven’t been to a pit in a minute- ”

“Yet the trauma still follows me.”

As though ignoring the statement the voice continues, “- are you sure they can handle the aftermath? It’s bad.”

“The boys will be fine. It may take a bit to adjust but we’ll figure it out. Besides, would you take no for an answer?”

A pause. “Angel, you know I can’t.” Phil rests his head against the glass.

“Then don’t ask questions you have no control of. I have an empty room.”

“Good,” the voice says, back in character. “Head over Saturday night. I’ll text you details then.”

The phone clicked and Phil was left in the warmth of the sunroom. Sunlight streams through the windows as all the plants reach for it, growing in every way as they fight each other to receive the most light. Completely opposite to the dread and darkness brewing in Phil.

The bastard is sending him back. After swearing they would never throw him in a ring again, they’re sending him back. Sure Phil kept up with his training. Even though his boys like to remind him that he’s old, Phil’s still quite fit and able to do a majority of questionable things that the Organization likes to spring on him. But the crow is nowhere near the fighting shape he has to be in to succeed in the pits. In his current shape, he’d be returning home with injuries that he could handle, but would absolutely scare his kids.

But this one is bait. Not one of the gladiators Phil’s expected to subdue. Being a bait is a death sentence. They get thrown in to distract whatever predator has pinned down one of the gladiators. Told to draw attention and get the animal back out of the gate it came in so that the medics can attend to the fighter.

The bait kids are never allowed to actually fight, their species is usually seen as too weak to hold their own. Small and fast, the odds of these kids lasting a month is near nothing. For this one to be there a while, years according to the file, means there has to be some fight in them. Fight that Phil is anxious about bringing home to his boys.

Not like he has a choice.

Phil pushes off the glass and makes his way back outside to the table. After assuring Sam that he’s ok and noting that the man hasn’t cheated, the crow moves his remaining knight to protect his king, setting the game back into motion. Sacrifices need to be made, to benefit the overall success of the round. Phil understands that. Still, he hates feeling like a pawn in a larger scheme. With no understanding of why he’s sent places, just that he’s their “Angel” and must do as they please.

“Checkmate.” Sam says, moving his queen in. Phil leans back, studying the board, studying his loss. His brain not quite processing what his eyes are telling him. He smiles and congratulates the man before helping set up another game.

Don’t get him wrong, he’s happy he got his boys and that he’s able to give them a place to learn and grow and heal. But it wasn’t his choice. He’s still a pawn. Going where he’s told, doing what he’s told. Taking whatever freedom they give him. Is Phil truly free?

Or is the Organization just another master he’s been forced to serve.

Notes:

Here we gooooooo lets set this third arc into motion!!!

Odds are a couple of you see where I am going with this, it's gonna be good.

I love you all, stay safe and live as your true selves. <3

Chapter 42: Another Late Night Chat

Notes:

Tws: slight panic

Wilbur is concerned. Phil hasn’t been the same since they left Sam’s. To clarify, Phil is acting normal. To an untrained eye, nothing is wrong. They’re just a happy little group getting ready for bed after a day of swimming and relaxing at another’s house. Just another normal day.

Wilbur knows better.

Something happened while the three of them were underwater. While Niki and Tommy were trying to keep a toy torpedo away from Wilbur. Something is bothering Phil and he’s changed. Not that he’s turned mean all of a sudden, Phil still is still the kind person that bought Wilbur those months ago. He just seems deeper in thought and takes a moment longer to smile. It’s not noticeable enough for Tommy to tell, but Wilbur knows better. Minor changes, extremely minor changes are important to notice to stay safe. To stay in the good graces. Years of experience are hard to break in a couple of months. Besides, it’s never a good thing when the master thinks too much while trying to hide it from the slaves. It means change is coming.

Someone is going to get sold.

Wil works hard at distracting Tommy and playing him to sleep. A voice in the back of his head keeps whispering that Phil is not a master and that he won’t sell you. The voice is silenced by the buzz on anxiety that swears it knows better. As the boy drifts to sleep, Wil slips out of Tommy’s room and returns his guitar to his case. Guitar in case, case under blanket, bundle under bed. Hidden from any wrath that may come. Side stepping the one creaky board by the foot of his bed, Wilbur makes his way downstairs where he last heard Phil.

Sneaking down the steps, Wil strains his ears to try to listen for anything concerning. Anything to convince him to turn away and just go to bed. A clink of a bottle, pacing steps, loud noises. No sounds float towards him so he continues to the kitchen.

Peeking around the doorway, Wil sees Phil slumped over at the island. His feathers are still as he stares out the window into the darkness. The mug he’s holding in his hands is cold, no steam rising out of it. Wil ventures forward, crossing the doorframe and daring to move closer to the frozen crow.

The mug of tea is still full. Full and cold. Wil decides to make Phil a new one. Hopefully it’ll convince the man to be nicer, to share the news, to not keep him in the dark much longer. Wil tenses as he enters the crow’s line of sight, aware of being perceived.

Wil grabs the kettle just as Phil speaks. “Heya mate, I didn’t see you there.” The siren acknowledges with a nod and turns on the faucet to begin to fill the kettle.

“Why don’t you sit down and I’ll make some tea,” Phil says, setting down his mug and starting to rise.
The siren shakes his head and, after setting the kettle on the burner, signs “No, I got it. You seem tired.” Phil just nods in response and settles back down onto the stool.

Wil pulls two mugs down and spoons in some tea before leaning against the counter. They wait in silence as the kettle starts to boil. This is it. The anxiety is about to overflow, Wil needs to say something and soon before he goes into a full panic attack.

The siren first gets Phil’s attention by knocking, then follows it up by signing “What’s wrong? Something’s been bothering you. Am I getting sold?” The last question surprised him, fingers moving faster than his mental filter. The filter that should be up and has protected him for years. The filter that he seems to have forgotten upstairs tonight. There’s nothing Wil can do but anxiously wait for the answer.

Phil half aborts a sigh before answering, “I should’ve guessed you’d pick up on it- I’m sorry mate. No one is leaving this house. Both you and Tommy are staying here. I am too.”

“Then what’s wrong?” Wil’s already been bold today, no need to stop now. His fleeting confidence doesn’t prevent the spike that shoots up from his stomach at telling an owner what to do. Demanding an answer.

Phil doesn’t chastise him, the crow just answers the question. “I’ve been asked to take on another kid.”

“Oh.” Another one of these conversations. Wil’s had too many to count. They usually ended badly. Tommy was one of the only exceptions.

Phil begins to massage his forehead. “He’s not going to replace you or Tommy. I’m not even sure if I should take him.” That comment surprised Wil. Phil seems like the type to pick up every one he can and tuck them under his wings to protect them from the world. To not take in one that’s offered? Interesting.

“Why not?”

“I wanted to check with you both first. Besides, you all may not get along.”

Wil huffs. “Tommy is impossible to not get along with. And I’m good at behaving.”

“That’s not the point mate. I know you’re a good kid and get along with people as well. It’s more… I just want you to be comfortable in your home.”

Wil tries to ignore the fuzzy feeling that sweeps through him and replaces the anxiety. He takes this moment to turn away from the crow and pour the boiling water into the two mugs he’s prepared. He has a home. He can’t prevent the smile from coming to his face, a giddy grin. A home. Not a house, not a place to stay, a home. One of the only things that the boy has ever wanted. Turning back and handing a mug to Phil, Wil tries to hide his smile. The crow notices anyways and half echoes it before blowing on his tea. Wil then remembers the tension in the room, the conversation they were having. The one that he needs to have.

The siren sets his mug down before asking, “Why are you concerned?”

Phil hesitates before mirroring Wil and answering “I don’t know the state he’ll be in mate. It could be bad.”

“I’ve seen bad.”

“He’s from the pits.”

“Oh that kind of bad. I’ll remind Tommy not to provoke him.”

Phil cocks his head and looks at the boy. Wil does everything in his power to not move, but still can’t help but feel like he’s under a microscope. “You’re not worried?”

Wil just stares. “Phil, I’ve been tossed around auction to auction. I’ve been thrown in with fighters from the pits as punishment and told to teach them to listen. It never turned out well for me. I trust that you will not punish either of us in that way. I will be fine. Tommy will be fine. Besides, it’s you who should be worried. They don’t take well to authority.”

Phil just gives a dry chuckle, “Thanks for reminding me mate. I’ll talk to Tommy about this tomorrow.”

“When is he coming?”

“This weekend. Probably Saturday night. I’ll have to stock the first aid kit, no telling what injuries he’ll have.”

Wil sips his cup, debating the next question. He’s been brave tonight, maybe too brave. Phil rewarded him by calling this house Wil’s home but that can be taken away. Any question can push the kind master to anger. The emotional states are too close late at night.

In the end, Wil decided to ask for Tommy’s safety. To prepare the boy for what’s to come.

“Fighter or Bait?”

“Bait. But he’s been there a while. Longer than half the fighters there.”

“That's… unusual.”

“I know. I’m not sure what to fully expect.” Phil begins to stare out the window again and WIl takes this time to start to clean up the tea.

“It’s ok mate, let me clean it up. Why don’t you head to bed and try to get some rest.”

Wil knows an order when he hears one. He nods as he carefully sets down the kettle. The siren signs a quick “Goodnight, sir” before heading to the stairs. A “Goodnight, Wilbur” floating in the air after him.

As he reaches the top step, Wil realizes he’s short on breath. Whether from the steps of the panic that is brewing inside of him, he’s not sure. All he knows is he cannot be alone right now. Wil passes his door and slips into the room Tommy is staying in, breaking the knocking rule but too stressed to care. The siren carefully shuts the door before sinking to the floor in front of it. Just in case he made the Master too angry. Here, he can prevent anyone entering the room and hurting them both. If anyone tries, he will be awakened by the door hitting him and can buy Tommy enough time to get out or hide. Here, Wilbur panics until he stresses himself out enough to pass out.

Notes:

Hi!!!
Uh, not sure where April went, feels like I just woke up. Had this chapter almost done, finished it, didn’t proofread it, here you go! (sorry wil seems all over the place, i needed to just get this chapter out to start on the next one)

I know Phil’s situation is weird so I’ll just let ya’ll in on a dash of lore. Phil kinda owes someone big for getting him out of the slavery situation he was in. That someone is the “Organization”. Think of the Organization as a mob / mafia group. When they call with a favor, you say yes. Sam is in the same boat which is how he got Niki and is why he gets called out as well. More lore will come, but that’s how I’ve been thinking of it.

Chapter 43: Voices

Summary:

Tws: none

To fight, to run. To fight? To run?
You can’t fight, you're too small. Too soft. You must run.
“But I’m tired. I don’t want to run. Can’t run.”
You can’t fight.
Must run. Must survive.
Survive. Leave. Live.
There’s no living here.
Only fight. Only run.
FREEZE.
NO, don't freeze. Freeze is bad.
We’re not bad.
No freeze. Only run.
Must run.
Have to run.

CHEERS.
It’s time.
Time to FIGHT!
NO! Time to run. Have to run. Have to survive.
Survive.
Leave.
Live.
BLOOD.
We smell blood. FIGHT.
Can’t fight. Must run.

MONSTER! RUN!
RUN!
RUN!
RUN!
HIDE!
There! Hole! Hide There!
You passed it!
Faster! Run!
RUN!
Almost there
RUN!
Breathe, don’t forget to breathe
RUN!
IT’S CHASING YOU
RUN!
HOLE
RUN!
FASTER!
TEETH! WATCH THE TEETH!
RUNNNNNNN!
SQUEEZE!!!!

There. Safe. Hide.
Breathe, don’t forget to breathe.
Told you we should’ve fought.
Can’t. Fight. Only. Run.
But we can! We have!
No. Never again.
Breathe. He’s not listening to us
BREATHE.
Listen to the shouts.
Cheering for you!
BREATHE.
You did well!
Surviving another day!
Breathe. Deep Breaths.
Ha. Noob can’t breathe.
BREATHE!
IN! OUT! IN! OUT!
BREATHE!
There he goes.
Finally.
What would he do without us?

Hungry.
Snack time!
CARROTS!
No, there’s no carrots here.
Only mush
Gross
Not hungry

AH! LIGHT!
They’re here.
FIGHT!
FIGHT!
FIGHT!
No. Only run.
Can’t fight.
FIGHT!
NO!
FREEZE!
FIGHT!
STOP! SHUT UP!
breathe
OUCH!
THEY HURT US!
BLOOD! I SMELL BLOOD!
breathe
KICK!
SCRATCH!
STEAL THE POINTY STICK!
STEAL IT!
breathe
FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!

NO! STOP! THEY GOT HIM!
BEHAVE!
FREEZE!
breathe
DON’T MOVE! FREEZE!
Shhhhhh quiet.
Think.
breathe
Take it. Be good.
Be quiet.
Freeze.
Like the good bait you are.
NOT BAIT! FIGHT!
SHUT UP!
We can’t fight him.
breathe
Be still.
Be smart.
Let them move you.
Breathe.

Cell! Safety!
Can’t hurt us there!
Go!
Bed! Sleep!
No, don’t sleep. They’re watching.
Always watching.
Breathe. Someone tell him to breathe.
BREATHE!
He doesn’t listen to us.
NOOB!
Can’t listen to us.
BE LOUD!
No! Be quiet.
Breathe.
Think.
Safe.
Food?
No. No food.
Bad bait doesn’t get food.
Survive. Leave. Live.
One day.
Breathe.

Notes:

One of my partners changed their name to "Technoblade's Ghost" in my phone.

Anyways how's everyone else's week going?

Chapter 44: The Boy!

Notes:

Tws: Earlier Abuse

Silence.

Not something that Techno often gets to experience. Not truely. But now- after the stands are emptied, the spectators home, and the competitors in their cells- now is the closest he’ll ever get. When everyone else is trying to sleep, cold seeping into their bones, now it is quiet.

Yes, the lights right outside the bars are whining. Buzzing. Whatever the noise is. He’s tried to break them before, threw everything that wasn’t tied down through the bars. Anything to make it quiet. Silent. His reward? Losing everything he threw out.

Not the first mistake he’s made down here. Nor will be his last. His younger self had made the worst ones. Sure, sometimes the choices help Techno. He gets fed more often and sometimes gets medical care because the crowd loves him. At first, they loved his pink floppy ears that flapped behind him as he ran for his life. Then they loved him because he fought back when cornered and managed to win. Now, they just love to see him. See him run, see him panic. Unfortunately, it means he’s out almost every night. The crowd always screaming at him, whether for his success or failure, he never knows.

He has his own cell. Most bait have to share an overcrowded space with two, sometimes three per bed. Turns out, all you have to do is stab a couple of “assets” and they put you by yourself. Not that it’s a completely good thing. Being alone means that there’s less people to hear him scream when the guards get bored and need someone to pick on at night. Less people he’s waking up. Being alone means he’s often forgotten at meal time, though half of them are his own fault for acting out. Being alone means he’s always alone. So alone that some friends have joined him. Friends that have taken residence in his brain.

It’s nice. Sometimes. To let someone else carry the conversation. To come up with different ideas on how to escape. To have something else to do other than to count the 218 stones and 11 bars that form his cell. But when they all band together, shouting in his brain to do something, it’s so hard to fight them. To say no. To stay safe. He can’t think so he just obeys. Does what the voices tell him to do.

They’ve kept him safe. Or at least alive. Shouting out dodges and punches, they have helped Techno rise to the top. Or at least the top of the ranks of the baits. Not many prey creatures will strike out and punch a lion in the face if they’re backed into the corner. But for Techno, if the voices tell him to, he does.

They made him a crowd favorite. The voices. Once the fighter has been injured to the point of surrender (or death), his job is to run out and distract the animal to allow the guards to retrieve what's left of the body. A dangerous gig that not many bait survive. Or so he’s been told. Techno’s been doing it for too long, longer than any other. Or so he’s been told. Only seeing the guards and the owner, Techno doesn't have many people to ask to see if they’re telling the truth.

Silence.

As much as he loves the voices, it means Techno is not left alone very often. Only now. In the middle of the night. With the whining lights. Now, Techno is truly alone. Everyone needs sleep. Including the voices. Everyone needs sleep. Except Techno. Sure he needs it, but now, at night, the sleep never comes. Instead, here he lies, imagining anything but sleep. Perhaps a meadow to run in, running through the colors of flowers. The smell of grass and fresh air, dew sticking to his feet. Ears flopping in the wind, not tucked against his head in fear. In submission.

Sometimes he dreams of a real bed, of a blanket to cover with and keep warm. Something soft and fluffy, something comforting. Sometimes just a pillow to rest his head on. Sometimes he even wishes for a mattress. Honestly, anything other than the cot in a stone box. Anything other than the place he’s been trapped in for too long.

Shifting in bed, Techno winces at the pain that shoots up his side. He was almost caught today, the voices the only thing that kept him going. Telling him to roll instead of moving forward. So he did. Techno did his job, got the creature out of the way, back to the pens. Yet, when launching through the escape hatch, one of the guards smacked him. Hard. The weapon was sharp enough to draw blood, enough blood to let his instincts take over. The ones trained into him with all his time in the pits.

It was a short fight, as they all are. Techno has no weapons. The guards have it out for him and love the chance to get their hands on him. And when the owner showed up, Techno had no choice but to stop. To freeze. To listen to every prey instinct he fights against. The consequences of hurting the owner are too high, Techno will have the scar that crosses his eye for life. He was lucky to keep his vision. Depth perception and all that.

The bruises he was left in his cell with have blossomed into a mirage of colors. It’s almost beautiful, in a morbid way. Some of the only colors he gets in his drab world.

In the silence, Techno imagines finally being able to fight. Allowed to fight. Techno imagines hunting down the owner and making him feel every bruise, every cut, every broken bone that man has given him. In the silence, Techno dares to imagine a life that doesn’t hurt. Doesn’t ache. One that just allows him to breathe.

Notes:

Allow me to present to you: Techno. We made it! Get ready for more of my boy!!

Super fast mini rant, I had disappeared for both mental health and new job search reasons and hopefully both are going to be resolved soon! I have a new one almost lined up so I can now leave and not have to deal with this company anymore! Three more weeks!!

(For context, not only are a couple of coworkers and I filing a harassment suit against one of the other coworkers, I haven't gotten paid properly in three weeks and the union is suing my company for other pay issues we're all been having (a cease and assist was sent out and company ignored so we're filing a lawsuit). Don't work for corporations kids! =D)

Chapter 45: Welcome. To The Arena

Notes:

Tws: None

Phil turns the corner and pauses as the massive structure comes into view. He stares at the arena. The arena stares back at him. People continue move around him, as though he’s a rock in a river. A branch in the wind. Nothing but an obstacle. No one’s paying him any mind, he prefers it that way.

It’s everything he remembers, the lights shooting up into the air, the crowd beginning to grow, the shady part of town. He’s never been to the front before, entering through the main entrance. The white marble and the shiny new doors with good lighting, not the broken down ones in the back. The ones he was pushed through. He’s never had a ticket to scan, a ticket that funds this awful place. He’s never had a seat with a full view, only the barracks underneath, watching the games through the cracks in the walls.

And what terrible games. The memories flood back, the monsters he fought, the monsters he’s killed, the hybrids he’s fought, the hybrids he’s ki-

Stop. Stop it. Phil. Stop thinking. You have a job to do. A kid to get. He’s not a fighter. He’s not like you. Panic later. Kid now.

After too many bell tolls, Phil finally gains the confidence to head towards the building. To get into the line. As it crawls forward he’s patient. He’s breathing. He’s trying not to panic. He walks through every exercise he know, has told to the boys, before he get to the gate.

Before he knows it, he get up to the human. He holds out his ticket to scan, it lights up gold and the person gives a half bow to him.

“Master Kisuke, please allow us to show you to your suite.” Phil nods and the man gestures to one of the many hybrids standing at attention by the wall. The next one in line approaches with a deep bow and begins to lead the way.

Of all the arena hybrids, these are some of the luckiest. Not the bait, not the fighters, these are the ushers. Dressed up to show off the wealth, covered in gold. From the gold collar, to the gold handcuffs, to the gold harness, to the thin chains draped between, it is very clear who they belong to, as well as their status in the arena.

As Phil follows this shorter hybrid, he notices the small horns poking out of his curly brown hair. They have the same thin gold chain drawn around and between them. It doesn’t look half bad. Phil scans the boy noting the lack of visible injuries or signs of malnutrition. At least the hybrids up here get fed enough to not look starved. He looks young, maybe only a little older than Tommy. Or that could be his height. The goat hybrid isn’t flinching at the any of the humans walking by, confidently walking to the destination. Well trained, never making an incorrect step. Whether trained out of kindness or fear, Phil’s not sure. But the boy looks ok. At least from the outside, the side that Phil is now on.

He’s led up many stairs and ramps, so many this his wings itch to be let out and fly him up. Oh way a way to return to his fighting days. He would be tempted, if he wasn’t forced to do it before. The crowd thins out the higher they go, passing through security check points at every level. If you didn’t pay for the better seats, you’re not getting access to them. The two were never stopped, nothing needed to be scanned. Apparently following this hybrid gives them a free pass. Fine with Phil, with less eyes scrutinizing him, there’s less chances of him getting caught.

The two of them finally climb up what seems to be the last ramp. The air is thinner up here, but that could be Phil’s panicked breaths. There’s one door up here, a glass one. As they approach, the entire Colosseum opens before them. Dots of color cover the stands. Each their own individual person. Their own background, their own job, their own family. All here for the same purpose. To watch hybrids fight to their death.

Phil remembers to keep up as the hybrid approaches the glass door. After opening it, the boy bows and allows Phil to pass through. Squinting in the sunlight glinting off of the white marble flooring, Phil almost misses the approaching man. A quick scan of the space shows three others in the various chairs and couches. So he’s not the only buyer here today.

“Ah! Our final guest! Kisuke Urahara, welcome to The Area”. Phil smiles in the face of the Devil. The one who owns every brick, every seat, every hybrid in this building. The one who used to own the crow himself.

Notes:

o7
Long love the King
Technoblade never dies

Take care of yourselves. Please don’t forget water <3

Chapter 46: The Fight

Notes:

**Spoilers**
Tws: not detailed fight, assumed minor character death, rioting?

Phil was taught at a young age to lie. It was another gladiator, a grizzled, scared boar who protected the young fledgling. The boar taught the crow how to fight and how to survive. How to stay alive. Phil caught the attention of the Uppers quickly. The ones who created the fights, the ones that traded away the fighters who were too broken to continue. Maybe it was his wings, maybe it was his age, his speed, his ability to murder with an elegance unlike any other.

‘Birdie’ was the name given to him. A name that highlighted his youth and caused everyone to underestimate him. Phil shouldn't have made it. The odds were always stacked against him. His brittle bones, his clipped wings, he should have lost his first fight. Another body for the arena. It’s all thanks to the boar, the one whose name has been erased with time. The hours sparing together, learning how to defeat every enemy. From the large bludgeoning ones, to the quick stabbing ones, and everyone in between, Phil was able to quickly rise in the ranks of The Arena.

Yes, all the fighting lessons were useful. It kept Phil alive. But it was the other lessons. The ones involving the need for charisma that Phil truly relies on today. To spin every conversation his way, to get exactly what he wants. The ability to lie, sweet talk, become the favorite. It was these lessons the boar spent most of his time on. These lessons that Phil became a master of.

A faked injury was all it took. A broken wing. No one wanted to see their precious fighter, their precious Birdie in a losing fight. Even the Uppers recognized that the crowd would revolt if their favorite fighter was sent to their death in the arena. So they staged a retirement. And sold Phil in a private auction that night.

It was out of the arena that Phil used his charm to his advantage. He became the favored one. It was out of the arena that his flight feathers grew back. Why clip a bird with a broken wing? It was out of the arena that Phil was finally able to fly away.

It is back in the arena, facing his fear, where Phil falls back on his training.

He allows a grin to form, his face morphing to show the awe he doesn’t feel. “It’s an honor to be here and to finally meet you. I have heard many stories of this place-”

“And I assure you most of them are true! Tell me, have you ever attended one of our events?”

“Never,” Phil lies easily.

“Well, you are in for a treat. Come, take a seat. It’s about to begin.” Phil breaths in relief as the attention is pulled from him. This man is too focused on the games to realize one of his previous fighters is standing in front of him. Projecting an aura of superiority, of ownership, Phil shoves down his fear until he can’t feel it. He becomes a completely different person. Phil’s playing a role, acting. Something he can do well.

The crow follows the devil through the booth to a group of three chairs on the balcony. As they cross the threshold, another rises to meet them.

“Have you met the warden?” The owner asks, approaching the third man.

“I don’t believe I have.”

“Oh, he’s been wonderful these past couple of months. Our security has improved drastically since he’s been hired. Warden, this is Master Urahara.”

“Please, call me Kisuke,” Phil says, holding his hand out with a smile. Sam smiles back, plays the part and shakes the hand.

“A pleasure to meet you sir,” Sam returns.

“Come, come. Take a seat. You arrived at the perfect time to watch the first fight.” The two rescuers follow and sit on either side of the devil. Sam at his right, Phil at his left.

Everything went as expected. They sit. They small talk. Hybrids fight. They eat. Hybrids run. They drink. Hybrids die. The crown cheers. Phil fakes it all. He watches the pitch each time a new hybrid comes out, looking for his quarry. After realizing the hybrid is not the one he’s after, Phil watched everything else. He takes note of the crowd, their reactions, their cheers, their groans. Moving together as one, blurring together. They’re all the same, acting the same, it makes it easy to tune them out. Just as before.

Phil keeps an eye on the hybrids too. Their health, stamina, scars. If they’re taken care of. At least to the standard for the industry, the system. He watches them all, the one fighting, the ones running, the ones serving them.

There’s two of them. The goat hybrid who brought him up here and what seems like an enderborn. Phil is purely basing that guess off of the purple particles that remain behind when the boy moves. Both in peak condition, clearly the ones to show off. They also have a habit of pressing into each other’s side when not needed. A dangerous thing to do, to offer comfort when their master is present. Bringing things when ordered to do so, following hand gestures perfectly, they’re well trained. Well trained, quiet, know how to behave, they’ll be fine. A rescue isn’t immediately needed.

“Here’s the best fight! The one we all came for. And I made sure to put the bait you were asking about in the finale.” Phil smiles and leans forward in fake excitement. In reality, he hasn’t been watching any of the actual fighting. The clang of metal on metal, the smell of blood, the noises of pain. All too similar to his formative years. Trauma he was not quite ready to confront.

The fight went about as expected. It was a blaze hybrid versus a lion. Neither are expected to fight to the death, it’s the hybrid's job to put on a show. And a show he did. Dodging, weaving, throwing fireballs into the air, Phil could see why he held the finale spot. He also could see the moment it all went wrong. It wasn’t something on the field, between the fighters. No, it was with the crowd.

The energy shifted, it started in one section but quickly sprouted up across the arena. Some shouts, some anger between the spectators. Something has made the crowd very upset. The blaze was distracted by the energy shift. He slipped and went down, lion pouncing on the fallen prey. Out of the corner of his eye, Phil saw Sam sit up straight and raise a hand to summon the enderborn to his side. Quickly the crowd forgot about the squabble in the stands and surged, booing and jeering, not at the fight but at the box. At the Uppers for killing their favorite fighter.

Phil watches as the pink bunny hybrid is sent onto the field. He has to get close, too close to the lion to pull him off of the blaze hybrid. Unable to accomplish his task with his initial running, the bunny hybrid decides to punch the lion square in the nose. Not the smartest move, but it worked.

Phil watches the kid take off, a lion on his heels. Weaving and dodging, the kid successfully distracts the beast to allow medical staff onto the pitch. The bunny ducks under beams and jumps over obstacles, the lion nipping at his heels. Phil’s sure he’s going to get cornered, until the bunny dodges at the last second. He makes it to the gate and successfully lures the lion out of the arena. It only took a few seconds, but to Phil it took forever for the boy to get to safety.

The arena owner and Sam were discussing a matter while Phil was distracted. The crowd's anger continues to rise as the medics bring a stretcher to the field. He turns to question what's happening and catches Sam and the enderborn disappearing in a swirl of purple particles. Time to play dumb.

“Is there a security issue, sir? Where did the warden go?”

“Oh no issue, he just went to get your hybrid ready for transport,” the owner smoothly lies. Phil nods as though he believes him. As though the spectators weren’t throwing their glasses and trash onto the field. “What did you think of him?”

Phil cannot believe they are having a sale conversation right now. “He was wonderful, exactly as you described.” The spectators are all but rioting, shifting their aim and throwing their objects towards the booth.

“And are you settled on the price?” A tomato smashes into the window just outside the balcony.

“Yes, the money is all in here.” Phil hands over the briefcase as a bottle makes it over the barrier and shatters on the floor of the balcony. The owner continues to ignore the situation, as if it’s just another night.

“Perfect. Tubbo here will be able to bring you to the barracks through the back way. Best you avoid the crowd.” The young goat takes a step forward and gives a slight nod. Out of the corner of his eye, Phil sees the flicker of flame starting in the stands.

“Of course, sir.” Phil shakes the devil’s hand. “A pleasure doing business with you.”

Notes:

Hi all!

I am so sorry this took a while, life has been absolutely crazy. I quit my shitty ass job, traveled the states for a month or so, was offered to co-own a business (said it’ll be my fallback if my current plan doesn’t pan out), moved again, started freelancing, panicked and drove to Canada for a couple of days where I found a meditation garden and wrote half of this chapter, made crazy contacts in my industry, worked insane hours (my shift starts at midnight tonight), said yes to voice acting in a dnd podcast, gained some more plants, killed a couple old ones, planned a new fish tank, and killed many spiders that have attempted to take over my bedroom.

Mentally I am doing better and I will update when I have time to. It is officially busy season for my industry, so I cannot promise a next date for an update. Plus odds are I'm going to be attending a funeral in the next month so, ya know. Processing and shit. Thank you all for your kind words and for checking up on me, I hope you are all good as well! Don't forget your water!

~Ollie

Chapter 47: Goodbye Arena

Notes:

Tws: None

Phil follows the young goat through narrow halls and down many staircases. The walls are covered in paintings, the ceiling matching the gold frames. The carpet is a deep red, plushy and the color of the blood that was spilled across the arena. This was a path that was well traversed to the barracks. One that extrudes wealth and opulence. The soundproofing keeping out the shouts and jeers happening from the protesters in the stands. The ones that will hopefully be enough of a distraction for what the Organization wants to pull tonight.

Phil allows them to walk in silence, following the kid until they reach a door. This door is carved out of gorgeous spruce, parts highlighted in gold leaf. The intricacies and details depicting a fight. A fight between a three headed monster and four warriors. Below are others preparing to to take their turn. Above, an audience in the clouds. The symbolism makes his wings bristle.

“Tubbo,” Phil says as the goat reaches for the doorknob.

“Yes, sir?” The kid turns towards him. Head down, hair in eyes. Just like a certain siren.

“Does this happen often? What happened in the booth with the crowd?” Phil watches the boy pause, analyzing the question. Analyzing Phil. Phil’s connection to the boy’s master. Whether he’s allowed to answer truthfully. Whether he trusts Phil enough to.

Coming to whatever conclusion he did, Tubbo takes a deep breath and answers, “No sir. Never this bad.” So either he trusts Phil (no way) or his personal fear of the situation outweighs the need to keep up appearances.

Phil gives an encouraging smile. “Once we’re in the barracks, let's meet up with the Warden. He’ll keep you safe.” Phil notices the boy releases a shuddering breath. Ok, possible panic? Time to keep soothing.

“Besides, isn’t your friend with the Warden now?” Tubbo’s breath hitches. So mentioning his friendship was a bad idea. Phil’s shocked by the pace the next questions come out of the hybrid’s mouth.

“But what if they get past the gates? What if they can break into the barracks? Boo is there. What if he gets taken? What if…”

“Tubbo,” Phil says with all the confidence of an adult. Maybe the kid can latch onto his voice and take a second. “Boo will be safe. You need to trust the warden.”

“What?”

“Trust the warden. Stay close to him. Both of you will be ok.”

Tubbo looks up and for a second, Phil can see the green eyes poking through. He holds the boy’s gaze until the analysis is completed. Tubbo, finding what he was looking for, hides his eyes once more. The boy stands up straight. Hands behind his back. The perfect image.

“Are you ready to go to the barracks, sir?” Phil recognizes that the conversation is over and gives a nod. Tubbo reaches for the doorknob and turns it, revealing pure chaos on the other side. Fighters and bait alike are rushing up and down the hallway. It shocks even Tubbo, as the kid takes a step back and nearly runs into Phil.

“My guess is that this isn’t normal either.” Tubbo shakes his head and Phil maneuvers around the goat to descend down the few steps separating them from the chaos. As his foot reaches the ground, Sam turns a corner and walks straight for him, the enderborn half jogging to keep up. They lock eyes as the crowds part for the Warden.

“Walk with me,” the Warden says, barely pausing as Phil falls in step beside him. Tubbo follows behind them, next to the enderling. Boo?

“How’s upstairs developing?” Sam asks, weaving through the halls on a path Phil would never be able to retrace.

“As expected,” Phil answers, in the casual way. As though they were chatting about the weather. No need to startle everyone around them, though that seems to have already happened. There’s no need to tell them that the Arena is getting shut down tonight.

A few more turns and they reach a heavy metal doorway. A quick swipe of a card and an eye scan later, and the Warden ushers the group through the door. They make their way to the lower atrium.

“He’s in a traveling crate, straight out of the arena. I couldn’t tell if he’s injured or not. He won’t let anyone near him. I tried to drape a blanket over the crate to calm him down.” The Warden leads Phil towards the door, towards the roundabout where his car is parked.

“Thank you. What about the rest?” The crow is careful with his wording, too many ears around.

“As planned.”

“Keep an eye on Tubbo?”

“Of course. They’ll both be safe.” Phil nods and reaches out his hand. The Warden shakes it before turning and disappearing back the way he came. Time for Phil to head home.

Upon exiting, the valet opens the driver door for him. Instead, Phil makes his way to the trunk. Where the crate was loaded. He wanted to ensure it was covered properly. The crow pops it open and catches a flash of pink as the creature scurries to the back.

“I’m just fixing the blanket, mate.” Phil mutters as he makes sure all the corners of the blanket are tucked in. He double checks the straps and ropes holding the crate in place so his bird brain can chill. The boy will be fine. He carefully closes the trunk, trying to prevent any slam before heading to the held door.

“You care too much about broken bait,” the valet says as the crow approaches.

“If I wanted your opinion I would have asked,” Phil quips climbing into the car, the door closing beside him. He pulls out trying to be as smooth as possible. Even if these crates were secured, there’s no need for a possibly injured hybrid to be slammed into the side of it.

It wasn’t until Phil left the city that he felt like he could breathe again. He was just one piece in that operation. One cog. He did his part. Hopefully the others can too.

With a jolt he realizes that he would never set foot in that hellhole again. If everything went to plan, that building would be burnt to a crisp. The owners will be arrested. The indentured will get their lives back. The animals will be sent to a rescue. The hybrids in similar situations as the one in his trunk will all be rehabilitated. A very large and very illegal business shut down.

If it all went to plan.

Phil just has to take care of his part. This hybrid. He’ll be different from the other two. How, Phil isn’t sure yet. He’s got time to figure it out though.

A half an hour later, Phil pulls into his driveway. Wilbur’s light is still on, the siren probably waiting until Phil gets home. Maybe he can convince his oldest to help him get the crate out of the car and on wheels. Someone quiet will be good. Phil loves Tommy, but this hybrid has had his life turned upside down. No need to freak him out too quickly. Phil puts the car in park and takes a deep breath. Here’s to another long night.

Notes:

Hello its me the holiday spirit fairy presenting another chapter. I must continue to deliver presents, chao!

Some of you were asking about my job – I am a freelance lighting designer. That means I’m the person at concerts and festivals running the lights! It’s a wild world I hopped in but it’s going well so far. I’ve been running from show to show the last couple of months and that’s why I’ve been missing. But its dead season right now! Hopefully I’ll have more time to dedicate to the boys! If this sickness doesn’t kill me first.

Ya’ll, no joke. The second I sat down to start working on a chapter for Christmas for ya’ll, the AO3 author jinx got me. In a month, (yes, 31 days) I have:
• Picked up the “kennel cough” from some child at Disney
• Was denied for a tour (boo hisss it would’ve been dope)
• Dead season = no work
• Urgent care visit #1 – I got bronchitis
• Grandfather died
• Basement Flooded
• Furnace got water in it (six days without heat)
• Flight delayed so I had 10 mins to find my connection at JF fucking K
• Great uncle #1 died
• Urgent care visit #2 – still bronchitis and now ear infection (its been ten days since last visit – picked up wheezy breath)
• Great uncle #2 died
• Nearly pass out at a Christmas Eve church service (probably god smiting me)
• Urgent Care visit #3 – still bronchitis and ear infection (its been six days since the last visit, I got a better prescription)
Anyways I finished this on some good meds so if its incoherent I’m so sorry. Merry Fucking Christmas the world is on fire and flowers are growing in Antarctica.

Chapter 48: Back Home

Summary:

TWs: none

(the description of locations in the house are bad because I don’t care what it looks like or how y'all imagine it!)

Phil rested his head against the steering wheel as he waited for the garage door to close. He was debating how he was going to do this. On one hand, autonomy was important. To allow his this third child to walk into the house on his own. On the other hand, Sam mentioned that Techno was flighty. That along with not knowing the last time that the kid saw the outside of the arena means that his reaction will be completely unpredictable.

Phil still wants to give him a chance.

The crow reaches over to the passenger seat to the small box that was placed there by the warden. He opens it to find that stupid file folder that will give him more questions than answers and a key ring. Only one set of keys this time, unlike poor Wilbur. His first who is probably still awake worried sick about him.

Phil steps out of the car and works his way around the vehicle. He double and triple checks that the garage door is closed before opening the trunk. Phil reaches for the blanket and gives a quiet word of warning before flipping the front of it up and over the crate door. The hybrid inside is pushed up against the back, out of reach of Phil’s hands. Phil takes the key and opens the lock of the cage before stepping back.

“Hey mate. Come on, let's get you inside.” Phil pauses to look for any sign of acknowledgment, or at least life. No movement. Phil can't even hear breathing. Maybe be more direct?

“Techno, if you don’t want to come out, that’s alright. I’ll close the door and carry the crate inside and then…” Phil takes a second step back as the bunny scrambles out of the cage and stands in front of the trunk, ears flattened against his skull, hands pulled behind his back. Phil tries to hide his surprise.

“O-ok mate, let’s get you inside.” They stand for a couple seconds before Phil realizes he needs to start moving, “Follow me.”

Phil tracks the hybrid in the reflection of the car to ensure he’s following as the crow leads the way into the house. Phil heads towards the kitchen, barely hearing the patter of feet behind him. Neither of his other children are downstairs, something Phil is relieved about. He needs to make sure he tells Techno about them before he tucks into bed tonight.

Phil circles to the other side of the island and grabs a couple of closed water bottles and some crackers. He places them on the island before pushing them to the other side. Phil makes sure to telegraph his moves and to keep his hands on the counter. Keep them visible. Techno remains in the doorway, eyes jumping and scanning the room. Searching for… something. Threats? A way out? A weapon? Phil allows him to analyze while he completes his own. In the kitchen light, Phil can see the bruises that paint the boy’s body. His clothes are filthy, covered in months, probably years of dirt, dust, and blood. None of it looks new, but he can’t be positive.

“Ok,” Phil says, breaking the silence. “Here’s some water and a bit of food to get started. There will be more food tomorrow, I just don’t want to upset your stomach right now.” He pauses, to see if the hybrid will answer. When he doesn’t Phil contrines, “I do want to let you know that I have two other people in the house right now. They are both asleep upstairs, but their names are Wilbur and Tommy.” No acknowledgement from the rabbit in front of him. Time to try one more time. “Are there any injuries you’d like me to take a look at?”

“I can take care of myself.” The voice that came from the rabbit was soft, yet firm. Used to getting talked over but still wanting to draw boundaries. Boundaries that Phil will respect.

“I don’t doubt that. Let me go upstairs to grab a spare change of clothes and a first aid kit for you.” At Phil’s gesture towards the stairs, Techno steps into the room and side shuffles so his back is still against the wall, the crow still in view. Phil makes sure to keep the island between them as the hybrid continues to move around the counter. Once at the entrance of the kitchen, Phil turns away and makes his way upstairs. He tries to keep his feathers flat, to give the illusion of being calm when every fiber is yelling at him to never turn his back on a threat.

Not that Techno is an automatic threat, Phil is still in survival mode from his most recent trip to the arena.

Ascending the stairs, he finds Wilbur, leaning against the wall, first aid kit in hand. Phil smiles at the sight.

“Hey kiddo. Thanks for grabbing this for me.”

“Is he ok? How’s it going?” Wilbur signs in return.

“It’s going alright. A bit better than expected but the night is young. Have you been able to get any sleep?”

“Yeah, the garage door woke me up. How bad?”

“I didn’t see any bleeding, but he’s probably used to masking injuries. Can you grab me a spare pair of pajamas? He’s a bit shorter than you but should fit. I’ll find him some other clothes tomorrow.” Wilbur nods and disappears into his room.

Phil pops open the kit and removes everything sharp or pointy. Things that could be used as a weapon. He places them in the bathroom drawer where the kit usually lives and exits just as Wil returns. The siren hands a bundle to Phil.

“Thanks mate, try to get some sleep.”

“You sleep too,” Wilbur signs, sticking Phil with a stare and only heading to his room after Phil gives a nod of acknowledgement. Leave it to the eldest to keep an eye on him.

Phil descends the stairs and barely catches a glimpse of fur disappearing under a mound of blankets in the living room. A burrow seems to have been found. Phil approaches the pile, making sure his footsteps can be heard. Well aware that he’s being tracked.

“Ok Techno. I have a change of clothes for you and a first aid kit in case you need anything. I’m going to leave them both right outside of your burrow. The bathroom door is next to the stairs if you need it. I’m going to be in my office for a bit to get some work done. It’s the room just over here. The kitchen is still fair game, grab any food or water that you need. Goodnight, mate.” Phil pauses to see if the bundle will move before retiring to the office. He makes sure to grab the file folder on the way.

Everything in the folder is expected. It’s almost what Phil would see in his personal file. If it had ever been written out. Instead of logging all the fights, all of Techno's appearances are listed. Years and years of daily chases. What he drew away from who. All of his temperament “issues” and the ways the guards felt fit to “correct him”. The kid learned the hard way to trust no one and how to be hyper independent. To only rely on himself. The only way he could survive. Hopefully the boy will allow Phil to take care of him as well.

Notes:

Hi!
So my job isn’t slowing down but it’s corporate season!! (I hate corporate season, its so boring. You're telling me I have to stay in my home city and not travel anywhere? Lame) (Also the only month I haven't been on a plane this year was August. I've been on 40 planes already this year. I will be on at least four more. Life be wak) I’m stuck backstage with nothing to do but babysit lights for a three day show so I actually have time to sit down and write. The goal: get at least four chapters done. I have also created an outline mapping out the end of this fic (we’re looking at at least 10? 12? chapters)

Fun fact about me: I have too many plants. And before you say “there's no such thing” I am out of space. Every surface I have with good light has a plant (or 10) on it. I buy more shelves and more lights and I still don’t have room. Fun fact about corporations: they will buy plants for props for their conferences and then just abandon the plants to be thrown away. I’ve adopted too many. I just took three home on the bus last show, one was like 4 feet tall. He didn’t fit. I have to get a new light to give him a home. Facebook Marketplace sellers please respond to me. I’m spending so much money on lights. This is a cry for help. I just want my house to look like a jungle but it’s so dark where I live.

Anyways imagine string lights (~festoons~ if you want the official term, ~cafe~ lights if you're cool) but with plant lights. I think it would be dope and I'm absolutely lighting my next apartment that way. I may need that to make the room super bright. And then there will be more surfaces for plants (aka the floor). The only problem with a bright room? I hate brightness. I spend my career looking into lights, I just want darkness when home. But I want plants. A forever issue.

I have finished the next chapter, but I'm going to space each one out a week so that I have a buffer. I hope you enjoyed!

Chapter 49: Flashback

Summary:

TWs: light mentions of blood, injuries

“Welcome home,” Phil says to his bunk mate as he returns from a fight.

“This isn’t home," the boar grumbles, blood crusted around his nose. It was so crooked Phil couldn’t tell if it was rebroken tonight.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, folding into himself, wrapping his wings around himself for comfort. The only bit of comfort he has.

The brute sighs as he grabs their only towel, forever rust stained from the blood. “Kid, home is where the ground is red and cracked. Home is where the lava pours from the sky and every breath you take warms your lungs. Home is where your family is, the one you protect with honor.

Home isn’t a stone box where you beg for dinner and instead get people betting on your death.”

Phil remains curled up on the bunk letting the hybrid clean up. He’s offered to help before, but is turned down every time.

“Can you teach me to fight?” The question comes out before he can stop it.

The piglin stares at the crow for so long Phil was convinced he had time to count every feather that was draped around him.

“You know how to fight.”

“But I don’t! Not like you! I don’t know how to win.”

“You know how to survive, that’s enough.”

“But I want to be better.”

The brute scoffs and starts to turn away, “You don’t. Trust me.”

“No. I do. I want to be the best.” Anything to take the pressure off of you. “Please”

The piglin sighs. The same conversation that they have night after night is clearly starting to wear down his defenses. “Fine. I’ll teach you to fight.”

An hour or so later, they sit across from each other on the ground, Phil buzzing with excitement.

After staring at each other, Phil cracks first, “This isn’t fighting.”

“Nope. If you want to be the best, you’re gonna have to know more than how to fight. You’re going to need to be crafty, creative. How to snake your way out of every situation. But most importantly, you need to know how to lie.”

“Lie?”

“Yes. How to lie. And how to be convincing. They are your audience, only tell them what you want them to know. Don’t tell them it hurts. Or do. Whatever you can use to your advantage. Remember your goal.”

“Find my home.”

“Correct. Let’s focus on your eyes. They need to tell the same story that comes out of your mouth.”

They work on it for days. Weeks. Maybe months, time is hard to tell down below the Arena.

“Remember, fight, practice, and take every opportunity.” The piglin said every time. “Do not hesitate. Ever.”

Phil didn’t know at the time, but to be the best, you had to defeat the best. That’s how it works in the Arena. Maybe that’s why the piglin was so hesitant to train him. After all, the best fighter was the brute. The one who taught him how to lie, how to survive, and how to live. A fight to the death, a true way to discover the superior fighter, was in their future. One that was rapidly approaching.

Phil thanks Lady Death that that time never came up. Another opportunity arose. One that was a better deal for him.
“I can’t leave you,” Phil whispers, staring out into the arena as they prepare it for his fight.

“Remember what I told you.” The boar stood next to him, a wall of quiet support.

“Take every opportunity.”

“Atta boy. Til we meet in Lady Death’s arms.”

Phil steps out onto the sand, smelling the stench of iron and coffee as he looks around at all the cheering people. The gate behind him closes with a slam- no with three knocks. And a creak. Wait, coffee?

Phil raises his head as a certain siren walks into his office carrying a mug of coffee. He rapidly blinks sleep out of his eyes as he tries to gain his bearings.

“You said you would sleep,” Wil signs after setting the mug down.

“Technically I did sleep,” Phil muttered sleepily.

“In a bed, sir. That would be preferred.”

“I’m sorry Wilbur, I meant to make it to bed last night. Thank you for the coffee.”

Wilbur nods in acknowledgment before walking out of the office, leaving the door open. Phil takes a sip of his coffee before getting up to follow to work on breakfast. Something simple that Techno can stomach and his brain can handle cooking.

Phil decides to check on the living room on his way to the kitchen. Tommy is on the couch, his coat in blanket form wrapped around his shoulders. The TV is playing, another documentary. Something about Ancient Greece, based on the myths that are being told. The first aid kit hasn’t moved, but the clean clothes are missing. Maybe Phil will be able to convince the hybrid to take care of his injuries after breakfast.

Phil decides on oatmeal, something simple for Techno that can be spruced up for the other kiddos. Tommy prefers his with some brown sugar. Wil prefers a more visual reminder that the oatmeal will taste different than what he used to eat daily. Different colored fruit on top is usually enough. Phil has asked before, but Wil insists that oatmeal is a comfort food and he still enjoys it. Even if there's trauma associated with it.

As Phil waits for the water to boil, he sips his coffee and stairs out the window. The birdfeeder is running low on seed, he should get to that before the crows decide to search the house again. The garden is looking a bit neglected too. And his wings, when was the last time he preened himself? When was the last time he’s been able to take a break?

Phil makes a mental note to check in with Sam. The Organization promised to take care of their own, but Sam was in deep on this one. Will Techno be able to see Sam again? Sam was an authority figure in the Arena. Will it set the rabbit back?

The water boiling breaks Phil from his thoughts. He won’t know the answers for a while, at least until Techno becomes more comfortable here. Once again, time will tell.

Notes:

Hi!
Ok so I only got three chapters written of my goal of four - pretty good! I will not be around next week as I will be the emotional support human for a bride, so expect the next chapter in two weeks! (We love the groom, we hate the bride's family)

Have a wonderful Halloween and enjoy the candy and costumes!

Chapter 50: The Boys Meet

Summary:

Tws: Light wound talk

Tommy listens as Phil's footsteps walk to the kitchen before beginning his count. He got to 27 before a head poked out of the blanket pile.

“You don’t have to hide from him”

“Yes I do, he’ll make me fight if he sees me.” Tommy scoffed.

“No he won’t, none of us fight.”

“But he’s a predator, he has wings.”

“Dude, Phil isn’t scary. You should see him when we watch any movies with baby animals. He’s always crying.”

Techno just hums as his attention is pulled back to the screen. They learn about the city of Delphi for a bit before the silence is broken.

“Are you hungry? It’s almost breakfast time.”

“What do I have to do for it?”

“Wash your hands? Phil always says something about germs and staying healthy,”

“How do I do that?”

“Stay healthy? Uh I think you have to…”

“No. Wash my hands?”

“Oh! That’s easy. Come to the bathroom and I’ll show you!” Tommy gets up and wraps his coat around him so it doesn’t drag on the ground. Techno climbs out of the burrow he made and pauses before reaching back and grabbing a blanket to wrap himself up the way Tommy did. Techno looks up for approval before shrinking under the look that Tommy’s giving him.

“Wait, I’m sorry! You just look really rough right now. Did you use the first aid kit at all?” Techno just shakes his head.

“That’s ok! I can help. I know a little!” Tommy approaches Techno to grab the first aid kit, not noticing the rabbit tensing. “Follow me!” Tommy says as he takes off to the bathroom. The selkie sets the first aid kit on the counter and starts to dig through. He pauses pulling supplies out as Techno appears in the doorway.

“Ok, wash your hands first.” Tommy says as he turns on the sink and demonstrates how to grab soap and clean your hands. He felt Techno’s eyes intensely watching his every move. Tommy leaves the water running and steps back to let the rabbit approach the stream.

Techno reaches his hands out and makes a noise of surprise as he touches the water. “It’s warm?”

“Oh yeah, warm water is better for cleaning!” Tommy says, completely missing why Techno could be confused. The injured hybrid just wiggles his nose as he follows the rest of Tommy’s steps.

“Sit on the toilet lid here,” Tommy gestures after Techno dries his hands. Once seated, Tommy starts to go through the items he’s putting on Techno, the same way that Phil does whenever he’s injured. He explains each object and why he’s putting it on the injuries.

After he finishes cleaning and caring for the small cuts and massive bruises on Techno’s limbs, Tommy takes a step back and asks, “Ok, is there anywhere else that hurts? That’s bleeding?” Tecnho responds by lifitng the shirt of his borrowed pajamas up. On his side are four lines gouged into his skin. They are still sluggish bleeding and the area around them is red and irritated. Tommy quickly grabs some gause and puts it over the wound.

“I cannot help with that, I need to get Phil.”

“It’s fine, really it’s ok.” Techno says as he brushes Tommy’s hands away and pulls his shirt over the wound. “It’ll heal, they always do.”

“No Techno, Phil likes for us to tell him when we’re injured so he can take care of us. He doesn’t like to see us hurt.”

“But he’ll make it hurt more. Please no.”

Tommy sighs before saying, “Ok. No Phil. But I’m getting Wilbur.” Before Techno can protest the selkie scurries out of the room leaving the rabbit perched on the edge of the toilet.

“Wilburrrrrrrrrrrrrrr,” Tommy shouts as he runs up the stairs looking for the older boy. He nearly runs into Wilbur as the siren is running down the hall towards him.

“What, what’s happening? Are you ok?” Wilbur signs as he scans Tommy up and down and starts to spin the selkie to look at all angles.

“I’m ok Wil, stop it,” Tommy says as he bats Wil’s hands away. “Techno’s side is cut up and he doesn’t want to get Phil so I’m getting you!”

“Tommy, don’t scare me like that. I thought someone was attacking you,” Wilbur scolds.

“No Wil, who would hurt me here?” Tommy asks innocently. “But hurry, I'm hungry and want breakfast soon.”

Wilbur sighs and gestures for Tommy to lead the way. The selkie nearly tumbles down the stairs in his haste to return to Techno. He enters the bathroom and looks around confused.

“Where is he?” Wilbur signs, looking over Tommy’s shoulder.

“I don’t know, I left him right there.” At Tommy’s voice, the pile of towels in the corner moves and a head appears, covered in the blanket from the living room, ears hidden. “Oh hey Techno! This is Wilbur.” Techno looks at Wilbur and seems to shrink inside of himself before burying himself back into the pile.

“Come on Techno, Wil’s not going to hurt you. Stop being shy.”

“You didn’t tell me that my Owner has slaves,” the pile of towels said.

“What? Phil doesn’t have slaves.” Behind him, Wilbur shuffles foot to foot.

“Please. You can’t be that stupid.”

“Hey. Phil says that’s a mean word!”

“So you’re telling me that he chooses to wear the collar?”

“Obviously. Ever heard of fashion? You must have, your hair is pink after all.”

Techno pops his head back out. “That’s genetics stupid.”

“Stop it. I’m trying to help you. And i know what gem-etics is”

“Genetics.”

Wilbur taps on Tommy’s shoulder and, once he has the selkie’s attention, signs, “Don’t antagonize him. We should start so we can all get breakfast.”

“What’s he doing?” Techno asks from the pile.

“Sign language.”

“Heh? Our Owner doesn’t let him talk?!?!”

“Phil lets Wilbur talk, sometimes Wilbur chooses not to.”

Techno just blinks at Wilbur regains Tommy's attention to tell him that they should hurry.

“Ok ok chill Wil. Techno are you going to come out so we can fix your side?”

The boys stay in the door as Techno carefully untangles himself from the towels to return to the toilet. Only once he’s settled on the lid does Wilbur step into the bathroom and begin to look at the supplies remaining in the first aid kit. Techno wordlessly pulls his shirt up so Wilbur can reach the slashes.

Wil wrinkles his nose at the state of the wounds. He doesn’t ask what happened, but considering the boy in front of him was bait, he has a good guess. Wilbur takes some tweezers to carefully remove the pieces of fabric from where the shirt stuck to the wound. Techno sits perfectly still through it, not even wincing, a face of boredom. How often does this happen so the rabbit can act like it's just another day.

Wil cleans the cuts before placing some butterfly bandages on before covering it all with gauze and taping it down.

“Why didn’t you stitch him up?” Tommy asks, peeking around the siren.

“You can’t stitch after 12 hours or it’ll get infected.” Wil signs before going to the sink to wash all the blood off.

“Cool,” Tommy says. “Come on, let's get breakfast!” With that, Tommy skips out of the room.

Techno froze as the selkie skips off. He carefully tracks Wilbur as the siren dries his hands off. He makes a “come on” gesture before following Tommy and tracking the rabbit as he gets up and follows.

Notes:

Wilbur - we have a ticking time bomb from the arena in the house everyone is going to get hurt
Tommy - omg check out my new friend!!!!!

Guys, life is wak right now. I just sat down to write a chapter and this was sitting complete so here you go! I'm sorry it took so long!

God damn it's nearly been a year. Ok update:
Wedding went mostly good, the brides mother made her only cry once (I kept that bitch away every other time) and the grooms mom tried to beat her up and chased her off property.... Classic Ohio wedding
Broke up with partner.
Not before traveling internationally with their family. (Ever read Adult Children of Emotionally Immature Parents? And I though that applied to my own family)
Fell in love with a co worker
Holy shit that kid makes poor decisions and I cannot keep defending him (why are we resigning leases with our ex's A? Why was that even an option? YOUR EX DOESNT FUCKING WORK A. YOU ARE PAYING FOR A TWO BED BY YOURSELF IN ONE OF THE MOST EXPENSIVE CITIES A. WHY CAN NONE OF THIS GET THROUGH YOUR HEAD A.) ... men. I need to go back to dating women.
I'm off my meds (A ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha fuck America insurance)
Couch hopping cause apartment hunting sucks (I'm fine, no stress. Great support system)
Burning through my city at a rapid rate so going to have to move to a bigger city soon (I'm actually mad about it) (I only have like three option 0/10)
Working a half house gig half tour thing and it's so boringgggggg I need to travel again.
Going camping for the first time ever this week!!
Made so much Zucchini bread.

That's about it. Anyway I will not make any more promises. Looking at my notes I have 11 bullet points? I don't even know what that means. Please drink water. Or Tea. I don't care :P
~O

PS I you are in a good headspace read my new one shot, Oh to Flirt with Death. Been working on that one for a sec.