|| P h i l l i p ||

That was the kind of still he’d gone now.

There was tension packed so tightly into his muscles that it seemed they must snap with the barely contained force, something in his eyes that read as combined surprise and confusion and anger and hurt and perhaps just a hint of wonder. He wasn’t quite still; he was shaking, most obviously in his hands, now, in the way they trembled at his sides, but the whole of him shuddered as he breathed out, swallowed, choked on his own dry throat and wrapped his arms around his chest so tightly he swore he could hear his ribs creak.

“If this is your idea of a joke, it’s a cruel one.” Anders’ voice rasped off his tongue, low and rough with an emotion he couldn’t name, eyes searching Phillip’s face with a hint of desperation in those blue irises. “Phillip, do you realize—” His voice caught, cracked, broke. “God.” He dragged a hand down his face, leaving a dark streak of engine grease down his right temple and over his cheekbone in the wake of his thumb. “Do you realize what you’re asking? What you’re— what you’d be giving up?”

Of course he does, that hopeful little voice in the back of his head whispered. Of course he does and he’s doing it for you, but he slammed the heel of his boot on its throat the way he might have killed a cockroach and it fell silent, gasping through a crushed windpipe. No. No. Not for him, couldn’t be. He wasn’t worth that kind of sacrifice, not in general and certainly not to a king who had so much to lose and could hardly afford to do exactly that for a diplomat with only the power in his name to spend as currency—and not even that in a land such as this.

A year ago, two, however long it had been since he’d greeted the new captain with a barrage of disparaging comments, only to find himself embroiled in a nightly chess game at which he was soundly, roundly beaten without fail—all that time ago, he might have killed to hear such a request made of him. He’d certainly killed for the man in question, bloodied his own hands to protect him, both on unspoken orders and not, but that wasn’t— that wasn’t now, and now he didn’t— he wasn’t—

Voice a whisper: “Is that an order?” If Phillip had reverted to stumble-speaking teenager, Anders had fallen back on his soldier self, a comfortable persona into which it was all too easy to fall. Safe. It was safe. It meant simply obeying orders instead of thinking for himself, instead of trying to sort through what he’d deemed the puzzle of why the other man would be willing to give up so much for the sake of him. This was easier. This was— this wasn’t better, but it was tolerable. He didn’t need to understand, he just needed to act. 

He would have preferred laughing. Honestly. He would shave preferred a glare, a scowl, an utterance of 'are you mad' over this; silence, for as far as one could hear, filling the air around them with a sir tot tense electricity that one might have found before a lightning storm. The hairs on his arms and his entire being were on end--were waiting for something. Anything. Just...Just something other than the silence. 

Then--

--then Anders was looking at him as though he half wanted to punch him, half wanted to run as far away from him as possible. It was, to say the least, not the reaction he'd been hoping for. Or expecting (though, to be fair, there wasn't much of a way to expect any sort of premonition outcome in these sort of scenarios). His voice was cracking and he looked half broken, as though, with nothing more than a simple question, Phillip had managed to bring the entirety of all reality crumbling down. "I...Joke?" A beat. HIs voice was shaking. He was shaking. A clearing of his throat and a tensing of his jaw later, and his fingers were curling tightly around the ring. It felt as though the gold were burning into the lines of his palm like molten rock. "I'm--I wasn't joking." 

Strangely enough, it wasn't the somewhat vague-but-not-quite-there murmur of 'I don't...' that made something in his chest go plummeting, plummeting, falling and curling and twisting into the deepest pits of his stomach. Oh, no. It was the faintest breath of a question uttered: 'Is that an order?' That hurt. In more ways than he could describe.

It hurt because, with the question, it was as though they were reverting back to old habits, to old roles, that he had hoped were long gone. He had fought to make them long gone. He'd worked so goddamn hard to make sure that it wasn't that between them; that it wasn't a Captain and his Soldier or a King and a Prince, but rather, a man and a man. Plain and simple. Good God, had he tried.

And, now, it seemed he'd tried in vain.

Fool. There was that voice again. You knew this was going to happen. You knew he was going to say no. You knew that you didn't deserve him. Now, look at what's happened. You deserve this. Each word was like a blow to the gut. The worst part? It was all true.

Yet--yet, still, hope was a fickle thing, and he'd be damned before he list it slip away completely. Before he let him slip away completely. And so, with that, he spoke. He found the courage to do that. 

He wanted to return and wanted Anders’ permission as a perfunctory request that, in the scheme of things, didn’t actually matter, because he would leave anyway.

Careful control, trained into him over the years as a set of claws from which he’d never been able to escape, was the only reason that none of his thought process showed on his face even as his chest went cold. He stumbled—or very nearly did—and regained his balance the next second, expression the same. Of course Phillip was going to leave. That was the way things simply were, and the other man had never shown a hint of desire to change the endless roundabout of circumstances into which the found themselves bound.

The same thing again and again and he’d been a damned wishful fool to think otherwise.

"No." The denial was out of his mouth before he could think to hold it back, easy and casual and almost drawled into the empty space left behind in the wake of Phillip’s announcement. "No, you aren’t permitted to answer a question with a question. You weren’t allowed to get away with it when you were my captain, and my saying so was insubordination, then. Now you’re a doctor—" and so much more than that, God help us, “—and this is hardly a medical matter. Your authority is gone.”

--hadn't asked yet. The ice melted. Color came back to his cheeks in a quick flush as more than an ounce of embarrassment filled the Doctor up to the brim. Stupid. Had he completely lost all sense? It was as though he'd been reverted back into a toddler. He hadn't even asked the damn question, and already--already he was expecting the worst. The therapists and psychologists at the hospital could have lectured on the hidden meaning behind that for hours. They could have picked apart his brain and claimed that he had an abandonment complex.

The real reason, though? The real reason was one much more simple and much more his fault.

An exhale of breath. The smile that came onto his face was positively giddy. "Eheh, I...Ah." His hand was rubbing at the nape of his neck before he could stop himself. It was a terrible habit, really. "Uh..." 

Intelligent, Phillip.

Could it have waited? Probably. Should have. Ought to. There were far better times for this sort of thing--though, then again, he was practically novice in this particular area. Aurora had been...different. Different case. Aurora had been a matter of Kingdoms and Treaties and what was best for the people of said Kingdoms and Treaties. She had been something--someone--he'd had to grow accustomed to. Her needs had always come first, of course--but not out of affection. Not out of Love. It had been out of...something else. Something else entirely. She'd grown to be a trusted friend, yes. Even a faithful companion who's, admittedly, company he rather enjoyed. They were a good team. They were an affective team.

Anders? Anders was so much more.

Anders was something that he'd had to fit into in entirely different ways. The man before him was made up of too many things to list; honor, brilliance, maddening irritation, courage. He could have gone on for ages. He was made of strict insubordination (as he'd so-easily called it just a moment before) and rolling eyes as he beat the Prince/King at Chess that he'd thought he could almost win at (a foolish notion, but still, it was a notion nonetheless). Anders was...Anders was one of a kind. There was no other way to put it. The amount of affection and down-right attachment he had for the other man went beyond words--as cliche as it sounded--and there wasn't much reversing it. Just making up for time that he desperately, desperately owed--that was, if it was wanted. 

So, could it wait? Probably. 

Would it? Well...

"No." An echo of Artur's words directly. The outstretched hand didn't miss him. Just as he began to retract it, Phillip was reaching out--though, only to retract sharply when the idea of 'don't push, don't push, don't push' entered his mind. Slowly. Carefully. Delicately. The hand stayed in between them, stayed hovering in the space with outstretched fingers, for a beat. "No--well, I mean, it could--probably should. This is stupid. I'm sorry. It could wait, and I should, and--"

And he was running out of breath and rambling. He inhaled. He exhaled. Breathe, Phillip. No use in--

"--Marry me." 

If anything, she could not deny he had a point ; but was there even a proper age for someone to carry the burden of so many lives in her hands.

               ”Doctor James Angora.”

            It had an interesting ring to it, but             it felt strange on her tongue. almost             as if it didn’t quite fit him the way it              should have.

                       ”That’s a nice name——-“

This Blog has become insanely cluttered; as in, cluttered to the point that I can’t keep track of stuff anymore. Seeing as I’m going to be remaking bits and pieces of Phillip anyways, I decided it would be best to simply move him to a new blog entirely—or, at least, it seemed easier that way to me? In case you’re wondering:

Yes, I will be transferring current Threads over to the new Blog.

Yes, I will be refollowing those that I wish to continue writing with. 

NO, this will not be a OUaT-based Blog/Muse any longer.

Yes, I will be Open to new Threads with those that I wish to write with. New people are always more than welcome

Yes, Phillip will still be an annoying Jackass.

      The words were very much a reminder       of just how much everyone in town knew       about her life and made her relatively        light mood just fly out the window.

            “An awfully young Doctor… “

                     She managed to keep still as he                       focused on his work, but she                      observed him a bit more carefully                       this time.

It should have been an easy question-- though, granted, nothing was ever as easy as it should have been. Especially not in a town like Storybrooke. It wasn't accidental that his gaze was brought back rather intently to cleaning up the spare droplets of blood.

               Pieces of flint tap against one another                as she attempts to light a small fire, a bowl of leaves she’d gathered                set aside — the first attempt at tea after so long without much flavor.                 If she is destined to live alone in this dark, dismal castle in its maze                of briars —— there is little else to do but make the most of it.

                        The body of one she would assume to be the cook before the curse                           rests beside the stove, carefully nudged away so that he wouldn’t                               be   harmed   by   her   lighting   it. Tap, tap, tap —

                                           the sound is more than she has heard in a while,

                         the sparks more lively than anything else in this sleeping prison,  

And, really, there was no other way to put it. Phillip was tired--was positively sagging-- deep down in the bones that, if he didn't know any better, he would have guessed had turned to some brittle substance that might turn to dust with the slightest movement. It showed. Good God, did it show.  He looked older, now. Older and so very, very tired. If his sister were around, she would have recommended one of the many plants she studied endlessly ("Here, brother! Use some lavender beneath your eyes in a paste. It'll do wonders.").

So, in all reality, it wasn't terribly difficult to put together why he'd stopped at the abandoned Palace--or, at least, it had seemed abandoned. The ivy and briars that coated the (stone?) walls like carpet were a clue into the notion that care hadn't been given to the structure in god-knew how long. The way that everyday-items scattered the ground here and there--a wheelbarrow in the corner of the courtyard, a ladys' fan dropped in the fountain--did give him cause to wonder, though. It was as if the inhabitants had just vanished; gone. Poof.  It had been easy enough to tie Samson to the cracked stone railing at the base of a staircase before, with a hand placed on the hilt of his sword, he made his way to the double doors that led to...an entrance hall. From there he went onward; Hall to ballroom, ballroom to Throne Room, Throne Room to Library. Nobody. It was as he was making his way down a short, spiraling stairway into what he might have imagined was the kitchen that he heard--

--he heard rocks scraping against each other.

                   ”And now I’m inclined to ask:                        what, exactly, have you heard?”