Chapter Text
Wilbur has holes. He knows he does. It’s just that, sometimes, he forgets.
Then the curtain gets ripped back and he’s waking up in darkness, that endless and impossible darkness, the one that fills his lungs and his heart and his head, that breaks suddenly into waves of screaming noise and flashes of impossible pasts, impossible futures, impossible presents.
He isn’t alone here. He can feel them, even when he can’t see them. Curious fingers stroking his hair, plucking at his clothes, pulling at his hands and trying to lead him somewhere.
No, not somewhere. To him.
‘Come play,’ they say, voices slicing through the noise as they dance between the flickering images. ‘Come play with us. We’ve missed you so much, Uncle—’
‘Wiley.’
And he wakes up, gasping and shaking, cold sweat sticking the covers to him and Howie’s warm hands on his shoulders, squeezing hard.
‘Oh, thank God,’ Howie breathes on a harsh exhale. ‘You’re awake. I thought you were having a stroke or something.’
Wilbur blinks up at him, squinting at his face through the gentle gloom of the bedroom, then reaches up to clutch loosely at his wrists. He can’t tell where his racing pulse ends and Howie’s begins.
‘Just a nightmare,’ he says.
It could be the truth. They can pretend it’s the truth, instead of another tear, a tiny rip in his heart, because Howie can’t know and Wilbur can’t tell him. Won’t tell him. He swore an oath, he has a duty, even if he’s not in the fight anymore.
‘You’ve been having those a lot, lately.’
Howie slides his fingers through Wilbur’s and tugs him up to sitting. Then Wilbur is in his arms, even though he’s sweaty and gross, and he can breathe again, feeling Howie’s own breaths against his back, warm against his ear. Slowly, the trembling stops. There’s no other touch on his skin, no one else’s attention on him. Just Howie, rocking him gently in the dark.
Wilbur sighs, melting back into that embrace. ‘It’s just—hard at the moment.’
‘I get it,’ Howie says, in that tone that says he doesn’t, really, but he’s here and he’s trying, which is more than Wilbur would’ve ever hoped for or imagined.
Who knew the President of the United States would have so much time and care to spend on Wilbur’s family troubles?
‘Can I get you anything?’ Howie asks.
‘Just…’ Wilbur brushes his fingers along Howie’s forearms and leans a little more firmly against him. ‘Stay with me.’
The kiss Howie presses against the side of his head is so soft it’s barely there. His voice, when he replies, is so tender Wilbur could cry.
‘Always.’
His dad tried. Wilbur knows he did. But there was always a distance and, later, a disappointment. After he enlisted, Wilbur had always hoped it might bridge that gap a little. And, sure, his dad was proud – for once, finally – but then PEIP recruited him and suddenly Wilbur was the one who couldn’t, wouldn’t, talk about things. He had his oath and half a dozen NDAs, and the gap widened again.
Then PEIP was gone.
Then his dad was gone.
But, suddenly, there was Ted. His perfect mirror image, save for the moustache, who had been a little prickly at first until he had decided that, yes, Wilbur was his. His brother, his family.
And the holes had started to fill.
And as much as he was Ted’s, Ted was Wilbur’s. No doubt about it. He hadn’t thought it was possible to love someone so quickly. It was the kind of thing parents talked about when they had their kids. Immediate, unflinching, unwavering love. Wilbur had gotten a thirty-year-old twin brother instead of a kid, but that didn’t matter. Ted, his brother. His amazing, unexpected brother, who had been raised by spies. Who couldn’t handle spicy food at all, and always pretended he wasn’t crying over cute movies, and loved with his whole heart, even if he didn’t like to show it.
Wilbur made another oath, quietly in his own heart. To protect his brother from anything. To keep him safe from all the horrors of the world – and those outside it, too.
And then…
Then the accident.
Maybe it wasn’t an accident. It was so sudden. So cruel. But just like that, Henry Hidgens is dead. His brother’s fiancé is dead. Wilbur is watching Ted come apart at the seams and he has no idea what to do or how to help.
‘You’re still looking for a job, right?’ Ted asks through a mouthful of cereal. They’re at his apartment, Wilbur having come round for breakfast like he has every day since the funeral.
‘…Yeah,’ he replies, carefully, not sure where this is headed.
Ted crunches for a few more seconds. ‘Want to pretend to be me and do some work at my office? We could totally parent trap those idiots.’
‘While that sounds like it’d be thrilling,’ Wilbur replies, thinking with a dull horror about whatever number-crunching or phone answering Ted spends his days doing, ‘I don’t know if I’d be comfortable—’
‘Come on. It would be hilarious; you know it would.’
There’s a tug in Wilbur’s heart. It would be great to see Ted having some fun, no doubt about it… But Ted would have to be there to see it, not curled up in bed like Wilbur knows he will be if he stays home.
‘I’m no good at acting,’ he says, apologetically and with a shrug. ‘Or numbers.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Numbers on computers. Them spreadsheets and shit do my head in.’
‘What’s the point of having a twin if you can’t play tricks with them?’
That stings, even if it shouldn’t, even if Wilbur knows Ted doesn’t mean it – is in fact actually joking, if the quick half-smile he offers is anything to go by.
Wilbur shrugs. ‘You let me know when you figure it out.’
Ted tuts at him, but gives in with a shrug of his own and a sigh. ‘Alright, fine.’
There’s quiet for a second. Wilbur thinks, hesitates, then open his mouth.
‘If you don’t feel ready—’
‘What am I gonna do?’ Ted’s voice hardens, sharpens so quick Wilbur has no chance to prepare. ‘I can’t not go in. You want me to lose my job and fucking starve?’ He stands, nearly knocking his chair over, then stops. Braces his hands on the table and exhales. ‘Maybe that would be better.’
‘Hey,’ Wilbur says, not sharply but not softly either, and Ted sags. ‘If you need more time, we’ll figure it out. Me and you and Uncle Curt and Uncle Owen—’
‘No.’
Ted’s response is too quick, nipping at the heels of Wilbur’s. He shakes his head, once, and Wilbur doesn’t know what to do. Try as they might to make him not feel it, he’s the outsider here. To their tightknit trio. He doesn’t know what to do or what to say about Ted not visiting the care home. He hasn’t missed a day in years, but now…
Wilbur thinks he gets it. Ted just lost his fiancé; he’s so scared of losing anyone else. So he avoids it. Avoids thinking about it. And that means avoiding their uncles.
Wilbur thinks he gets it, but he doesn’t have a clue how to fix it.
‘I better get going,’ Ted says, sagging down toward the table before straightening up with a long, slow inhale. ‘Thanks for breakfast.’
‘Any time,’ Wilbur says, because he can’t find any other words.
The benefit of Wilbur still being on the hunt for a job is it means he has more time to spend with his uncles. Especially now that Ted has stopped visiting. He’s still, Uncle Owen assures Wilbur, phoning every evening, but as it stands it’s up to Wilbur to keep them company.
Not that he minds. Most of the time it’s like a dream come true, these two men who have loved him with all their hearts since the moment they laid eyes on him. But there’s still a little distance, a gap they’re slowly closing, and Wilbur feels it so much more keenly when Ted isn’t around.
Like when he knocks on their door and pokes his head in, and Uncle Curt blinks sleepily at him for a moment before his face lights up and he cries, ‘Teddy, is that you?’ and all Wilbur can say is, ‘sorry, Uncle Curt, just me.’
‘There’s no sorry about it,’ Uncle Owen says, emerging from the ensuite bathroom. ‘We’re delighted to see you, Bambi.’
He settles on the bed next to Uncle Curt, whose expression has softened, trading some of the brightness for a warmth that never fails to make Wilbur feel a little teary.
‘Of course we are,’ Uncle Curt says, putting his arm around Uncle Owen’s shoulders. ‘Sorry, darling, these old eyes of mine get confused sometimes.’
‘It’s alright,’ Wilbur replies, letting himself in and hovering in the doorway. It’s a jumble of stinging and warmth in his chest and he’s suddenly not sure what to do with himself, how to cross those six feet to the bed. All at once it feels an impossible distance away and he can’t make himself take another step.
Uncle Curt pats the empty stretch of mattress on his right. ‘How are you doing, darling?’
Wilbur takes one step, then another, and then he’s sinking down next to his uncles with a soft, ‘I’m fine.’
It’s not that he wants to lie to them. Physically, he is fine; it’s been a good day for his knee, as far as these things go. And moment to moment, he’s totally fine. He might even be happy. He’s got his uncles, and Ted, and Howie, and really what more could he ask for?
Except for tragic accidents and nightmares…
Uncle Curt pats his leg, and suddenly both of them are smiling at him, sly smiles that make Wilbur feel like a kid again, small and squirmy and so, so bad at lying.
‘Bambi, dear.’ Uncle Owen’s voice is amused, his eyes sparkling. ‘You do remember you’re talking to two retired spies, don’t you?’
‘No, sir,’ Wilbur replies, wanting to shrink under those smiles, wanting to stand to attention. ‘I just—don’t want to trouble you. And I am fine, really. It’s just tough right now.’
‘You could never,’ Uncle Owen says. He stretches a hand past Uncle Curt, offering it palm-up to Wilbur, while Uncle Curt rests his head on Wilbur’s shoulder.
Wilbur’s heart squeezes. He takes the offered hand, warm and rough, and leans his cheek gently on Uncle Curt’s head.
‘I want to help him,’ Wilbur says, after thinking it through a few times, his throat squeezing as well. ‘But I don’t know how.’
‘It’s different for civilians,’ Uncle Curt murmurs, and Wilbur and Uncle Owen both nod. ‘How they process it. Teddy’s never really—there was his mom, of course, but that was a whole can of worms. He’s never lost—’ He tightens his grip on Uncle Owen, almost convulsively, ‘someone he loves. Not like Henry.’ He sighs, a warm puff of air against Wilbur’s chest. ‘But at the end of the day, it’s not so different at all.’
‘He’s in pain,’ Uncle Owen chimes in. ‘All we can do is be there for him until it subsides, if it ever does.’
‘If he’d ever come visit,’ Uncle Curt grumbles, and Uncle Owen lets out a soft, fond laugh.
‘Don’t pout, dear.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Wilbur says, another oath, one he might actually be able to keep. ‘Y’all ain't ever getting rid of me.’
They both laugh at that, so warm and fond, and it’s still a little strange, all their casual touches and casual, easy, unending love, and there’s still a little distance, one that Wilbur’s going to keep trying to bridge, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Uncle Owen squeezes his hand. ‘We wouldn’t have it any other way.’
It doesn’t make sense. That Wilbur could be surrounded by all this but still, still, dream that impossible dark, yearn for the secrets whispered in its silence.
He wakes up in his empty bed and feels a pinching at his heart, as the light filters watery and grey through the blinds. He’s never thought of himself as selfish, even if he knows everybody is a little bit, but he must be, right? To not be satisfied with what he’s got? What he’s found here in Hachetfield?
It gnaws at him as he lies there, till he gets up. Then it gnaws all through the drive to Ted’s apartment, all through breakfast, all through the Sunday service at Ted’s church. Wilbur wants to be – is going to be – there for his brother, always, of course he does. But since he joined PEIP churches haven’t been the same. There are things out there that might be gods, and he’s pretty sure none of them have humanity’s best interests at heart.
But maybe that’s not true. Maybe he’s got it all wrong. Maybe they could help, because it’s clear that the human God never has and never will.
He can’t deny the comfort in it, though. The ritual and the familiarity. Maybe that’s what Ted’s looking for too.
‘You were looking pretty pensive in there,’ Ted says as they leave, stepping out into the grey morning, the air thick with oncoming rain.
‘Was I?’ Wilbur replies.
‘Yup.’
There’s the slightest edge to Ted’s voice, a note of displeasure as he slides his hands into his pockets and heads for the car.
‘Just thinking, that’s all,’ Wilbur replies, aiming to match Ted’s quick pace until a twinge in his knee stops him. ‘What, you never do that in church?’
Ted unlocks the car but doesn’t get in, waiting for him to catch up with an arm braced along the roof. He drums his fingers, a sharp staccato rhythm.
‘You didn’t have to come,’ he says as Wilbur reaches him. ‘I know you’re not—’
‘Hey, whoa.’ Wilbur lifts his hands, rocks back on his heels. ‘Where’s this coming from?’
‘I don’t need coddling, okay? I’m a grown fucking man. You don’t need to—’ Ted flaps his free hand, a jagged movement, ‘hover. Especially if you’ve got better things to do.’
‘I came because I wanted to,’ Wilbur replies, as measured as he can. ‘But if you’re feeling coddled… I mean, I can stop. I just—’ He stops, all the words clogging in his throat. He wants so many things for Ted. For the pain to end. For him to visit their uncles. For him to stop looking at Wilbur like that, like he’s a stranger, like he’s some unpleasant thing Ted has found on the gravel in front of him.
‘Well, if you’re gonna stick around, kindly don’t judge me for trying to find some tiny fucking semblance of peace or—or comfort, okay?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You! In there!’ Ted jabs an arm at the church. ‘And whatever asshole shit you were thinking about.’
‘I don’t—’ Wilbur pauses. Is this some kind of psychic twin thing? Is Ted just that good at picking up on whatever nonverbal cues he was giving out? ‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘Sure, whatever.’
Wilbur catches Ted’s arm as he yanks the driver side door open and makes to climb in. ‘Ted, seriously.’
‘I said whatever, man. Get off.’
‘No, seriously.’ Wilbur squeezes a little harder. ‘It wasn’t like that. I mean, sure. I don’t really get it. I used to, but—I mean, I don’t. What are you trying to find in there? Does it seriously bring you peace or comfort to think this was all “part of the plan”? That He’d take Henry away for any kind of good reason? There’s no purpose here, Ted. It’s all just chaos. There’s nothing in that church. Nobody’s listening, not in there. But—’
The words keep coming out. They’re Wilbur’s, but they're not. It’s his voice, but it’s not. He catches that but between his teeth. Bites it in half, stops it dead. But what? Where was that sentence going?
Into the deep. Into the dark. God’s not listening but something else is. And he wants—he wants—
‘Fuck you,’ Ted says, and there’s nothing in his voice. Nothing in his eyes. He’s gone hollow.
Wilbur did that. Chased him out. Like shoving his head underwater. Like blowing out the last candle so the darkness can rush in.
‘I—’
‘Find yourself another ride.’
Wilbur doesn’t protest. Just lets Ted go and steps back and watches him drive away, a screaming inside his head and a bitter, brackish taste in his mouth.
Since he’s already put his foot entirely in his mouth with Ted, Wilbur doesn’t want to make their uncles angry with him too. But he’s not going to not visit them, on this endless grey Sunday afternoon, when Ted isn’t either.
A part of him hopes, though, as he peeks round the door, that Ted will be in there, nestled between their uncles, eyes red and voice bitter, and all of them will be glaring at Wilbur. That would be better than Ted, alone. Better than having to sit with their uncles, knowing what he’s done, not sure whether to tell them – confess – knowing they’ll hate him for it, probably kick him out for it, because a few months mean nothing next to thirty years.
Even if both of those lined old faces light up when they see him, as if he’s brought them the most amazing present. It’s almost enough to make Wilbur cry, that look on their faces. Instead, he chews the inside of his cheek and stands to attention, and his hesitating in the doorway is so much more obvious when Ted isn’t here to sweep right in.
‘Oh dear,’ Uncle Owen says, in a tone that’s soft but still gently amused. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I don’t know if I—’
‘Come on, Wilbur.’ Uncle Curt pats the spot to his right like always. ‘There are no secrets here.’
It’s patently untrue, which Wilbur knows he knows from the little smile he shares with Uncle Owen. They’re spies after all. Spies that PEIP is interested in, for crying out loud.
‘Now come on.’ Uncle Curt pats more insistently. ‘Dish, as you kids like to say.’
That makes Wilbur smile, which makes it easier to step inside and cross to the bed, dropping onto it like he’s getting more and more used to, only a small part of him wondering where Ted will fit – where Wilbur will fit, once Ted comes back. Going back to the chair by the bed would hurt, he’s pretty sure.
‘So,’ Uncle Curt says as Wilbur nestles in against him, ‘what’s the matter?’
‘I fucked up,’ Wilbur sighs, then jolts upright, contrite. ‘I mean…’
Uncle Owen reaches across to squeeze his knee as Uncle Curt shakes with a suppressed laugh. ‘What happened?’
‘I—’ Wilbur trips over the words, wants to say them and doesn’t. Ignores the part of him – is it even him? – that insists he was right, that he hasn’t done anything wrong. ‘I said some things. To Ted. I don’t know why I said it, I didn’t even mean it, I just—’ Wilbur shades his eyes with a hand, hiding from the stares of their uncles, not ready to face their judgements. ‘It was really bad. I don’t understand why I…’ He brings up both hands, digging the heels of his hands into his cheeks. ‘And then I let him go home alone. I figured he wouldn’t want to see me, but now—he’s alone.’
The room is quiet. Wilbur listens to one of the lights buzz overhead and waits for judgement, wonders why he’s even waiting for the judgement of two old men he barely knows, wonders why any of this had to happen.
His uncles are quiet, but Uncle Curt’s arm stays around his waist and Uncle Owen’s hand stays on his knee.
‘You could certainly have picked your time better,’ Uncle Owen says, slowly, like he’s picking his own words with care. ‘If you had something you needed to say to him.’
‘But that’s just it, I didn’t. I didn’t need to say it at all, I didn’t—I didn’t want to.’
Uncle Curt gives him a squeeze. ‘Take it from me, darling,’ he says. ‘We’ve all been there.’
‘I don’t—’
‘No, it’s true,’ Uncle Owen agrees. ‘Your Uncle Curt and I have… had words. Many times. It’s part of loving someone, feeling so strongly about things concerning them.’
‘The important thing,’ Uncle Curt continues, ‘is knowing when to apologise – and how to apologise. Since you know you've done something wrong, you know what the next step is, don’t you?’
Wilbur feels a spike of petulance. It’s a feeling he’s not so familiar with, but it takes him right back to principals’ offices after getting into trouble with other kids. Why should he apologise?
But he’s the one who was in the wrong. No question.
‘Okay,’ he says, and takes one moment, one slow breath, to stay here in these loving arms, safe and far away from his troubles. Then he starts to stand. ‘I’m sorry, y’all, I think I need to—’
But they’re already pushing, guiding him to his feet.
‘Go on,’ Uncle Curt says. ‘Don’t you worry about us, Bambi.’
Uncle Owen nods. ‘Just give us a call later, alright?’
‘Will do,’ Wilbur promises, then he’s up and out the door.
Ted’s car is in the driveway. Wilbur nearly rear-ends it as he sags under the weight of his relief. He spent the entire drive over picturing wrecks. Mangled steel and burned-out shells. Ted in an accident. Ted putting on the parking brake in the middle of an intersection.
He doesn’t think Ted would—isn’t sure—but he’s still been panicking this entire time.
But the car is here. Ted is here. Wilbur takes the stairs two at a time, ignoring his knee as it protests, and all but runs to Ted’s door. He doesn’t bother knocking, just goes right in, because he’d rather give Ted something else to get mad about than waste a second, spend another moment with these images in his head.
What he gets is Ted’s shoes, kicked off haphazardly in the entryway, and the sound of crying.
He knows it’s bad because the sound doesn’t stop. Because Wilbur practically slammed the door open but Ted is still crying, isn’t trying to pretend in the slightest.
Wilbur toes off his boots and heads in, tracking the sound to the bedroom, gloomy from the drawn blinds, a lump under the covers on the right side of the king-sized bed. Ted is crying and…
There’s a voice. Spilling out from under the covers. A voice singing in a deep baritone that it only takes a moment to recognise. The ghost of Henry Hidgens. The memory of him. It sounds like a song from a musical, but not one Wilbur recognises.
‘Ted?’ he says, softly, almost not wanting to interrupt the song.
A moment later, it fractures anyway, Hidgens hitting an off-key note and cutting out with a frustrated sigh.
Ted draws in a wet, shuddering breath. ‘He’s never going to finish it.’ His voice is awful, hoarse and cracking and full of phlegm. ‘He’ll never—!’
He breaks into fresh sobs and Wilbur—
He hesitates. Grapples with himself, with his life, with what he was taught and what he knows. Then he steps forward. Crosses the room in three quick paces. It’s like something out of a dream as he slides under the covers and comes face to face with Ted. This could have been their childhood. Huddled together in the close warm dark, faces lit by torches, forehead to forehead with their legs tangled and their voices soft.
Instead, Wilbur feels awkward and too big, as he takes in Ted’s crumpled face, raw and red and soaking, and can’t bring himself to bridge the final gap. The air between them, all two inches of it, feels solid as rock.
Ted struggles. Just for a moment. Tries to pull back into his spiky shell. Tries but can’t quite do it. Then he’s reaching for Wilbur, crushing his phone between them as he presses his forehead to Wilbur’s chest and cries. Wilbur gets his arms around him and holds him tight, like trying to hold him together even though he’s already fallen apart – shattered completely.
Wilbur tucks Ted’s head under his chin and… sings. It’s something he picked up from Ted and their uncles. The family song. Somewhere Over the Rainbow, sung softly in the dark in Wilbur’s rough, wavering voice. When he hits a patch he doesn’t remember, he hums instead, and something changes in the shaking in Ted’s shoulders. It takes Wilbur a second to realise it’s a laugh.
‘Who raised you?’ Ted rasps. ‘You don’t know the words to Somewhere Over the Rainbow?’
‘I’m horrified about it every day,’ Wilbur replies.
‘I’m embarrassed to know you. Tell me you’ve at least seen The Wizard of Oz?’
‘Uh…’
‘You’re a disgrace.’
‘I’ll watch it,’ Wilbur says, a little more defensively than he means to. ‘I can watch it.’
‘You’re damn right you will. Maybe we could set something up at the—’
He stops. Maybe it’s a psychic twin thing, maybe it’s just observational skills, but Wilbur is sure he can hear every thought going through Ted’s head.
‘I’m sure they’d love that,’ he says, after a beat.
‘I’m not worried about them enjoying it.’
Wilbur waits. Decides to test the waters.
‘They—’
‘I don’t want to hear it.’
Like that, it’s over. Ted’s walls are back up as he rolls – wrenches – out of Wilbur’s grasp and shoves the duvet back. The sudden light makes Wilbur blink, the sudden cold makes him ache.
‘Why are you even here?’ Ted demands, scrubbing at his face. He swings his legs off the bed and stands, movements agitated and jerky.
‘Ted.’ Wilbur sits up slowly, his palm hitting cool glass as he pushes himself up. He curls his fingers around Ted’s phone. ‘Go and see them. Seriously. They’ve been there for you your whole life, they want to help—’
Ted scoffs, hard and scathing. ‘Help? What, like you?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Wilbur says, and there’s nothing more to it. ‘I shouldn’t have said those things. I’m really, really sorry. But you need to go see Uncle Curt and Uncle Owen.’
‘Oh, I have to, do I?’ Ted doesn’t turn around. He scrapes his fingers through his hair and tenses his shoulders. ‘Don’t act like you know anything about us. You don’t know a damn thing, Wilbur. You’re just a—stranger. So get out of my fucking house.’
Wilbur lets that settle. Lets it sting. It’s nothing he hasn’t said to himself, a thousand times. It just hurts different, coming from Ted.
With a sourness in his stomach, Wilbur goes to stand, then remembers he’s got Ted’s phone. He glances at it, goes to set it down; as he does, the screen wakes up. The lock screen is a photo of Ted and Hidgens. They’re squashed together, cheek to cheek, both grinning wide and so impossibly, painfully happy.
At first, Wilbur thinks it’s just a flash of sun. He’s not even sure what catches his attention. Then he sees it. Over Hidgens’ shoulder, staring out of the trees behind them.
Eyes. Two shining eyes. And below them, a mouth—something like a mouth. Branches and leaves twisting to form… is it tentacles? Feelers? He can’t quite make it out. He tilts the screen, squinting, picking out shapes in the dappled shadows, trying to find the outline of the—the—
‘I said get out.’
Ted snatches the phone and holds it tight to his chest, knuckles white. His face is set, his eyes hot and dark. Wilbur blinks, blinks again. It was just—sunlight. Dust motes. Patches of sun winking through the trees. Nothing more. Nothing else.
‘Okay,’ he says, mouth dry, throat tight. ‘Alright. I—’
‘Just go, Wilbur.’
And Ted’s voice is so tired, so flat and drained, that Wilbur can’t do anything but nod and go, those eyes still shining in the back of his mind.