Chapter Text
A tenacious, bullheaded peace settles over their house after Techno’s incident– a forced calm, the quiet before a storm. Phil catches himself checking darkened corners for chills, suspicious drafts where no wind blows. But the banishment and subsequent wards have worked: nothing lingers in the angles of their home, the cobwebbed spaces between floor and ceiling. The energy cycling through their halls is their own, burning bright and vivacious– despite this, tension coils through Phil's joints. His sleep is piecemeal, stuttering, and each time he wakes he struggles against the urge to patrol the house, whispering prayers to his Lady for protection against wandering spirits.
A week passes. By the end of it, normalcy has begun to creep back into Phil's routine; Techno still uses the master bathroom to braid his hair, but his steps are lighter, his eyes clear. Tommy sleeps undisturbed in his own bed. Wilbur taps his fingers against his leg to a rhythm only he is privy to, vanishing for hours, the faint strum of his guitar leaking beneath his bedroom door to mark his presence.
Afternoon of the eighth day finds Phil trapped beneath forty-five pounds of dozing six-year-old, knitting needles clicking as his hands form the loop of what will, in the future, become a sock. Summer is in full force– the heat beats down on his back, curling hazy fingers around the corners of the living room. Dreamy silence plasters itself to the walls, and Phil sinks into the warm, sun-drenched cushions of their beaten couch with a soft exhale.
Under, over, loop– rinse, repeat. Getting lost in the repetition is easy, a time-honored habit he feeds to keep his hands occupied. The urge to build always simmers in his blood; for now, smaller creations will have to do. Idle daydreams flit past his mind's eye as he works, constructing palaces, cities, towers– sprawling builds with his sons by his side, sharing their warmth and creativity. Within the haze, Tommy, older by several years but still caught in the prismatic bubble of youth, passes him a handful of dirt as he grins–
The front door flies open with a bang.
Phil flinches, needles faltering mid-loop, the yarn unraveling and dropping back into his lap. Beside him, Tommy stirs– eyes scrunching shut, a restless set to his forehead– but, by the grace of his Lady Herself, doesn't wake. Gripped by whatever dreams have tangled in his mind, he mumbles something unintelligible and burrows closer.
Phil shoots a stern glance at the entryway, reprimand at the tip of his tongue– and freezes. Because it's Wilbur who stands in the door, chest heaving, guitar in one hand, strap swinging freely from the instrument's neck. Left hand bunching in the fabric of his sweater, knuckles drained white as bone. His eyes carry a wild cast around their edges as they flit between each corner of the room in sequence.
Phil opens his mouth, shuts it, then sets his knitting aside with careful motions. "Hiya, mate," he stage-whispers, pushing a wave of calm, of steady into his voice. "You alright?"
With an abrupt lurch, Wilbur staggers inside, turning only to shut the door with a firm click that echoes, jarring, into the thick silence. Then he leans back against it, chin tucked to chest, and sighs: a long, shaky exhale that deflates some of the tension along the line of his shoulders.
"Yeah," he mutters, after the quiet has stretched past the point of comfort. "Just… yeah. I'm– I'm good now. Sorry for just– barging in here." A strained laugh bubbles out of him as he releases his death grip on the sweater, pushing up the fringe of his hair. His eyes land on the couch; he winces, lips pulling back in an exaggerated grimace. "Shit, I didn't wake up Tommy, did I?"
"No, you're fine," Phil says, an ingrained response that means nothing except to soothe, to bring a measure of comfort. "I think Tommy could sleep through the end of the world, honestly." Despite this, he keeps his voice low, thumb trailing over the fraying end of his yarn. The glassy sheen over Wilbur's eyes tightens his chest, tenses his muscles, triggers the fight-or-flight instinct that's never truly left him. His next words are cautious, measured: "Did something happen?"
For a long, stagnant beat, Wilbur says nothing. Just stares at where Tommy has curved himself half over Phil's lap, fingers clenched in his haori, kicking one absent foot against the arm of the couch. The light behind his eyes shutters, a rapid shift that clenches Phil's heart.
Then: "You ever feel like somebody is trying to talk to you, Phil, but they can't?"
Phil blinks, thrown– of all the non sequiturs. The question lingers between them, tossed out on the rug with the fragility of downy snow, melting into its fibers.
"I– can't say I'm totally familiar with the feeling," he hedges, because when his Lady speaks he listens, through melodies of blood and bone, Her siren's song of decay. "But... try and explain it to me, Wil. I'll listen."
The rest of the tension lining Wilbur's shoulders loosens; he leaves the door, forging deeper into the room to stand closer to the couch. With careful, reverent hands, he lowers his guitar to rest against the cushions on Phil's other side– then lowers himself to match, back hunched, elbows braced on his knees. Forehead tickling clasped hands. On Phil's other side, Tommy continues to kick, twitching in his sleep.
"It's like–" Wilbur starts, but cuts himself off, jaw tensing. His spine straightens, uncurling from its protective curve into a stance so rigid it's a wonder he doesn't snap from the pressure. Brows beetling, Wilbur says, "Phil, I think there's something in the barn."
The nervous chuckle slips past Phil's lips before he can choke it back down. "Well, I hope so," he says, "considering, y'know, all the animals–"
"No, not like– well, I mean–" Wilbur's mouth twists, a hint of teeth glistening in the hazy afternoon light. He presses his forefinger and thumb to the bridge of his nose, pinching. "Okay," he mutters. "Okay, so, I go to the barn sometimes when I want to practice music without other people around."
"Okay," Phil agrees, testing both syllables as they drop from his tongue.
"And usually, it's, it's really peaceful, right?" A shock of hair falls over his eyes as Wilbur glances up, casting thin shadows over the planes of his cheeks. "There's nobody but me, and the cows, and the horses, and maybe a few chickens– there's nobody there. And it's... it's calm. I feel calm when I go there, because I know this is my... my thinking place, Phil. Some of my best music, I've played here."
Wilbur's throat bobs. The hand closest to Phil shakes.
"And then, suddenly I'm not alone anymore," Wilbur breathes. "A-And the horses, and the cows, they're looking around like they can see something, and I feel like I'm being watched. And I think yeah, okay, it's just my imagination. So I... I start to play."
In one smooth motion, Phil's stomach plummets to his feet. "Wil–" he starts, and the anxiety threads through his voice without permission, winding around his teeth until his mouth is thick with it, pressing into the spaces between his molars. "Wil–"
"You ever feel watched, Phil?" Wilbur asks, gaze burrowing into Phil's. Shadowed. Haunted. It rests around the rim of his irises, gouging deep marks into his pupils. "Like. Really watched. Like someone who knows every inch of you, all your deepest secrets, is just staring? Because–" and now, finally, his voice cracks; a hairline fracture that spirals ice through Phil's lungs– "I felt just like that, and then I swear I heard my name, and it sounded exactly like–"
"Whoa, whoa, okay!" Phil jerks forward, arms outstretched, just in time for Wilbur's expression to crumple.
His son crashes into him with a choked-off breath; not a sob, but edging close enough that Phil's heart jolts in his chest. "It's okay," he says, twisting at the waist as Wil buries his face in Phil's shoulder, shuddering. "I've got you, Wil. I've got you. You're okay."
Wilbur only shakes his head, burrowing deeper, hands clenching in the fabric of Phil's clothes; both mockery and mirror of his little brother. Phil's arms wrap around him of their own accord, rubbing slow circles between the blades of his son's back. The noise Wilbur makes in response is strangled, wounded– and in Phil's soul unfolds a familiar, abscessed ache.
Of all the bitter truths, this one stings the most: no matter how hard he claws together the mold of a perfect life for his children, he cannot protect them from everything.
"I've got you," Phil murmurs in spite of this, low into the strands of Wilbur's wild hair. To his other side, Tommy continues to stir, restless, on the knife's edge of waking. Both brothers teetering in Phil's balance. "I've got you, Wil. I'm here."
By degrees, Wilbur's shaking begins to subside, until at last he leans back from the circle of Phil's arms. His eyes are red-rimmed and wet; Wilbur swipes a hand over them, scrubbing along his lower lashes. "Sorry," he says, more tremulous than he's been in years. "Sorry, I didn't– I wasn't trying to freak out like that. It just spooked me, is all."
Phil's lips tug down at the corners. "You don't have to apologize, Wil."
But Wilbur only shakes his head, casting another furtive, wary glance at where Tommy rests. For a long moment, that's where his eyes fall– tracing the curve of Tommy's half-buried face, lingering over the back of his curls. His jaw tightens.
"Dad," he says, and once again Phil's lungs constrict, a rabbit pinned in place– dad is a word reserved only for utmost moments of need, when nothing but the weight of a single syllable can convey the true gravity of a given situation. "I think you should– you need to come out to the barn. Something's in there, and it's not right, and it was trying to talk to me, and–" Wilbur breaks off, scrubbing his hand through his hair. "I think," he continues, at length, lame in the face of his earlier desperation, "it's… important. Whatever it is that it's trying to say."
And that's when the pieces Wilbur has handed him finally click into place. A hot spark flares in the pit of Phil's stomach, igniting into a low, churning flame. The ghost. Of course– he'd only warded it from the house, their home, but not–
"Prime, Wilbur," he says, the words pouring out in one gushing fount. Sinking below the fury is a kernel of bright, molten guilt; Phil leans forward, one hand reaching for his son's shoulder. Apology and plea. "That's my fault, I'm so sorry– there was a spirit, and– I thought I banished that little fucker, I didn't even think about the rest of the farm–"
"It's fine, it's okay–" Wilbur starts, eyes wide.
"– but I can banish it properly this time, keep it away from everyone– Prime knows Tommy and Techno have already been harassed–"
"No, no, Phil– Dad– listen." Wilbur bites his lip, ducking his head as Phil snaps his jaw shut. For just a moment, the buttery light shifts, dappling with leaves from the oak trees outside; Wilbur is left bathed in shadow, stress-lines creasing his face even at the tender age of fourteen. "It's– you're gonna have to take my word on this, alright? But I don't think it means any harm. I think it–" another pause, another undefinable glance at Tommy– "it just wants to talk to somebody. Somebody who will listen."
It's Phil's turn to pause, hand retracting. He studies his son, the cut of his clenched jaw, the stubborn twist of his mouth. The lingering red still staining his eyes.
"You sound pretty sure," Phil says, slow.
"Yeah, I am." Wilbur's reply is just as cautious. "I really don't think it wants to hurt anyone. It just needs somebody to… hear it."
A beat of silence, stretching long and uncomfortable into the hazy summer afternoon. At his side, Tommy snuffles. Kicks his foot again, a half-hearted thump against the threadbare arm of the couch. It beats in time with Phil's pulse, a muddy, faltering rhythm that dangles between the crossroads of protective rage and Wilbur's urgent insistence.
"Alright." The words wrench themselves from his mouth, tongue and teeth clipping the syllables short, a reluctant unspooling from the center of his chest. "I'll– I'll take a look, see what I can do. Thanks for the heads up."
Wilbur's grim eyes tighten, but his lips tilt up at the corners, relief painted in the flash of teeth. "No problem," he says, then collects his guitar and ushers himself out– leaving Phil with a mockery of the room's earlier, heat-struck peace, and the weight of a new promise lodged tight in his throat.
"Oh, Lady," Phil sighs at last, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I guess I've got work to do."