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Deceit is a good cook.
The thing is, he hates the reason he has for being a good cook. He’s always hated it and he’s never going to say a word about it. Or at least, he wasn’t going to say anything until Patton showed up, pale and shaky, wringing his hands and sweating.
“It’s Virgil,” Patton says, and that’s all Deceit needs.
He sinks into the common living room before Patton can say anything else, feeling the moral side pop up at his side moments later. It’s quite the desolate scene.
Virgil has succumbed to his need to sit strangely at times of stress, having pulled himself up onto the stairs. He sits with his legs and arms wove between the banisters, his forehead leaning against the railing. His hood is up, obscuring his eyes from view. Deceit feels a pang in his chest and ignores it.
“Gentlemen,” Deceit greets, a little more subdued than he usually is. It says something that Roman and Logan (the former gripping his hair by the roots and staring at his feet where he sits with his elbows on his knees on the couch, the latter sitting at the abandoned dinner table, hands folded and knuckles white) do not react. “I heard there’s a liar here somewhere.”
Roman snorts not-so-enthusiastically and Virgil hisses.
“I’m not a liar,” he says, but he doesn’t meet Deceit’s eyes.
“Au contraire, mon frere. According to Morality over here, you’ve been lying quite a bit. About something quite important, apparently.”
Virgil says nothing. His eyes, when he turns them on Deceit, are cold and empty and more hollow than Deceit would ever like them to be. His cheeks are positively gaunt. He’s thinner than Deceit would like, to be sure, but not the thinnest Deceit has ever seen him, and he shudders at the memory. Remus had come up with quite a few torture devices simply designed to feed the victim after that last dark period, when the Light sides had their heads up their asses and Virgil had almost decided to disappear into the Unconsciousness altogether.
He remembers the feeling of Virgil’s ribs standing out in high definition when he had placed a hand on the Anxious side’s back, trying for comforting. All he had gotten was Virgil shaking, jumping and shying away from touch, looking like a wild animal hunted in the night. He’d left it alone then, and started cooking.
He’d learn to stop making roasts except for special occasions; he’s tried soups, felt good about it, tried rich food, felt bad about it, tried sandwiches and chips and fish and fruit salad, and casseroles and fried chicken and desserts and fast food and vegetable platters and anything else he or Remus could possibly imagine; and then when that was over, when he’d gotten as much fat as he could on Virgil’s bones, he’d (reluctantly) handed him over to the Light sides and hoped for the best.
Judging from the uneaten meal before him (potatoes and carrots and roast chicken, Patton has really outdone himself this time), it hasn’t gone as well as he had planned.
“Not hungry, are we,” Deceit asks lightly, watching spilled gravy drip languorously from the edge of the dining table. Only one place setting is still filled with a full dish of the traditional Sunday roast, knocked over and spilling unattractively across the white linen of the tablecloth; Virgil had probably tried his old gambit of waiting until everyone else was finished before dumping his plate out. Deceit knows it worked on him far longer than it should have; Remus had pointed out how thin Virgil was getting before Deceit got a clue. He can hardly blame Patton for how pale and sallow he’s looking right now in comparison.
“I’m fine.” Virgil answers even though he hasn’t been specifically addressed, and that’s all Deceit really needs to know.
Roman jerks his head up, but the sharpness of his gaze gives right out when he takes in how Virgil’s arms can fit through the bars of the stair railing. His wrists look so very fragile. The curve of bone catches the low light and Deceit can’t fault Roman for how sick he looks; his brother was the same way, once upon a time.
“You’re really not,” Roman says, more softly than he probably would have under normal circumstances.
Logan opens his mouth too, but Patton stops him with a hand on his shoulder. Hurriedly, Deceit crosses the room and leans down.
“Spouting off facts about eating disorders will only spook him,” Deceit hisses less harshly than he usually does. “Trust me, I’ve tried that route. Leave it be.”
Logan’s mouth shuts with a snap.
“Right then,” Deceit says, straightening. Virgil’s eyes are purple and swirling with doubt and fear that never used to be there and his shoulders slump with some bone-deep weariness Deceit recognizes too easily. He wishes things were different. He wishes Remus were here. He wishes Patton didn’t come to get him. He wishes Virgil never left.
“Don’t worry,” he tells Virgil. It’s the first time he’s been gentle since Virgil left, and he can see the shock in his old friend’s eyes before he claps his hands together decisively. “I’m sure we’ll get all this sorted out soon. Morality, I think some comfort movies are in order, don’t you?”
Patton wavers for a second, but hops to it when Deceit levels him a long look.
“Roman.” The royal side looks up, startled, and he resembles Remus so much Deceit softens. “Blankets and pillows, if would you be so kind?”
Logan perks a little and Deceit leans in again. “You’ll want to start looking at recipes for sensitive eaters. I have a few you can borrow– otherwise, look for broth based recipes for soups and go from there.”
He claps again when he stands back up and smiles at his old friend. Virgil still looks shaken from whatever argument he’d had with the Light sides before Patton came to get Deceit, but when Deceit waves a hand and the stale food disappears Virgil’s shoulders release some tension.
“I’ll make some chicken noodle soup, shall I? It’s your favorite still, isn’t it, Virgil?”
He doesn’t wait to see if the comment lands as a bard or a warm comfort and sweeps into the kitchen instead. He doesn’t turn at the feeling of a side popping up behind him until he’s spoken to.
“Deceit.”
Virgil shifts uncomfortably when Deceit turns to regard him. He’s more rumpled than usual, nibbling on his lip and drawing blood Deceit has to suppress a wince at the sight of. “I just– thanks for– do you really think I can get better?”
Deceit watches Logan, who has entered the kitchen now, over Virgil’s shoulder. He watches the way his eyes widen and his hands wring. He can catch a glimpse of Patton and Roman, heads close together and whisper words of worry and determined friendship undoubtedly being exchanged in the living room. He thinks about how easy it would be to turn Virgil against them in this moment; just a word, just a suggestion and he could have the anxious side eating out of the palm of his hand. He could have everything he has dreamed about. He could have Virgil back as one of the Dark sides, he could tell Remus that they weren’t alone anymore, he could feel the comradeship and warmth and safety that came with numbers if only he could say the correct thing to turn Virgil from those he calls family now.
Instead, Deceit smiles painfully and rests a soft palm on Virgil’s cheek. “It’s alright. We’ll all get through this. Together.”