#✦ verse: main (phee parnassus)

[normaltothemax]

@impossibleormerelyfantastic

Wings folded carefully against her back, she poked her head out from behind a large tree. Dirt was streaked across her face from where she’d wiped away frightened tears, but her eyes were dry now. Sharp as they took in her surroundings, since it was finally quiet again.

Well, mostly quiet. She could still hear gunshots and fighting a little ways away.

The men with guns were laying on the ground, unmoving bodies spread out around the robot man. Were they dead? Or just unconscious? Phee couldn’t be sure, nor was she sure which option she’d prefer. Killing was bad, but it would be something of a relief to know that they could never threaten her or the forest she currently called her home ever again. Did that make her a bad person?

The robot man turned suddenly, just about looked right at her, and she quickly ducked back behind the tree trunk, breathing hard. Just because he’d stopped those bad guys, didn’t mean he was a good guy. Robot. Whatever. She covered her mouth with one hand, trying to quiet her breathing as she hid, back pressed against the tree. Toes dug into the dirt as she tried to keep herself from panicking. Maybe, if she was quiet and still enough, he would go away. Yeah. Yeah, that would probably work, right?

[normaltothemax]

Last Of Us starters ❝ you see my face? do i look scared? ❞ / for phee!

“…No…” is her dubious response. No, John doesn’t look scared, but that doesn’t mean all that much. John’s a grownup, after all, and grownups are quite often very good at lying. At putting on a face to keep kids from finding out how they really feel, because they don’t think they’ll be able to handle it. At pretending things aren’t as bad as they really are, just to keep kids from worrying.

By all accounts, John seems totally at ease. He’s giving her an easy smile, he’s not clenching his hands into fists or shifting nervously; he doesn’t seem nervous or afraid at all.

That doesn’t stop Phee from holding his hand any less tightly. It doesn’t stop her heart from thump-thump-thumping in her chest so hard and fast she thinks it might burst. Her wings are pinned flatly against her back, the sprite unconsciously making herself as small as possible, because she’s afraid, even if he’s not.

A loud crash from somewhere nearby has her flinching that much closer to John, pulls a soft whimper from her throat. Her voice is quiet as a whisper when she speaks. “What if it finds us?”

@talentforlying (x)

[normaltothemax]

please do this for me. please? / for phee!

He’s begging. John is actually begging and Phee can’t help but feel a sliver of satisfaction (there’s also a sliver of guilt right in there with it, but she’s not going to examine that, right now).

He seems…sort of shaken, if she looks closely. Like he’s worried. Afraid. Has been this way since he saw something in the crowd and swore, a few minutes ago. Phee’s not sure where he got the bracelet he’s currently holding out to her from, if he already had it in his pocket or if he took it from someone (yes, she’s seen the pickpocketing, John, but she’s kept her mouth shut about it, so far, for reasons she’s not even sure of). However he wound up with it, he’d held it in his hand, covered it with the other, and quickly said some strange words that certainly weren’t in English.

And now he’s crouching in front of her, asking her to wear it and stay silent, and Phee doesn’t understand why. What spooked him so much? What does the bracelet do? She has so many questions for him rattling around in her brain, but given his expression, now’s not the time to ask them.

As much as she enjoys making things difficult for him, Phee does actually know when to quit. She can tell when things get serious, when it’s actually important to do what she’s asked, and she’s certain that now’s one of those times.

“Fine. Since you asked so nicely,” she decides primly, holding out her wrist to him.

@talentforlying (x)

[normaltothemax]

he does not do the domestic stuff well. he's so so bad at it. but getting a picnic together, with dead people music on a handheld stereo and a couple books for sal to check out with and game for phee and lucy, and rallying the troops for a park day terrorizing ducks and generally basking in the sun, he can do that. or attempt that anyway. anything for the kids.

The kids don’t think he does half bad. Lucy bobs his head and sings along to the music while they play. Despite sitting a little further away, Sal’s got a genuine little smile on his face as he reads. Even Phee is clearly and openly enjoying herself. The ducks are a huge hit (Lucy laughs as he chases them; Phee yells at Lucy for terrorizing them; Sal quite literally has them eating out of the palms of his hands), and by the time Arthur picks them up again, Phee and Lucy are both passed out on the couch. Sal carries a sleeping Lucy out to the car, Phee conked out in Arthur’s arms, and both children would have only good things to say, were they awake. Phee might even admit that she had fun—something that would be a small miracle. But she’s not, so she doesn’t. However, John’s planned outing still results in one miracle.

Sal manages to look him in the eye when he thanks him and bids him goodnight.

@talentforlying (x)

[normaltothemax]

☎️ and one for lucy or phee maybe i love them

“John?”

Her voice is small, soft, nothing like her usual confident, self-assured attitude. No, Phee is feeling anything but her usual self. Anxious. Worried. She’s not in danger—not from Lucy, never from Lucy—but she’s afraid for him. He’s had another nightmare, worse than any of the others she’s witnessed. It’d taken Arthur almost twenty minutes to wake him up, everything around them floating and shaking in the meantime.

It was bad.

Now, she and the others have been herded into the kitchen by Lucy and Arthur. Mostly by Lucy. They’re drinking hot chocolate, Talia and Sal chatting quietly at the counter, Theodore nodding off on Sal’s shoulder. Chauncey’s already fallen back asleep, snoring in a puddle underneath it. Zoe showed up a few minutes ago and her and Arthur have been sharing worried looks whenever they think no one’s watching. And Lucy…

Lucy looks awful. His whole body’s tense, eyes continuously darting from one of them to the next, in the same order each time. Like he’s counting them. She can see his lips forming each of their names as he looks at them: Arthur, Zoe, Sal, Talia, Theodore, Chauncey, Phee. Then he looks at the door, brow furrowed like he’s trying to will someone to walk through it, before he starts the process all over again. Arthur, Zoe, Sal, Talia, Theodore, Chauncey, Phee. Over and over and over. He looks afraid and upset and Phee wants to go over there and give him a hug, reassure him that they’re all okay, but she knows he doesn’t want to be touched right now. Not while he’s still scared of his dream. Not while he’s still scared of himself.

She’s pretty sure she knows who he’s hoping will walk through that door, so she’d sat with the phone in the corner and dialed him, keeps her voice down so Lucy won’t hear. “It’s Lucy.” Normally, she wouldn’t ask, but it’s an emergency. “He had a bad dream. Like, really bad. He keeps checking that we’re all safe, and I think he needs to make sure you’re okay, too. Can you… can you come over? I think that would help a lot.” A pause, before she continues, even quieter than before. Like this is a very important secret she’s imparting on him. “I’m worried.”

@talentforlying (x)

[normaltothemax]

❛ i need you to make fun of me when i call a panini a hot sandwich. how am i ever gonna learn? ❜ help him lucy and phee

Brow lifting, Phee crosses her arms, blows out a breath that sends a lock of fire-red hair fluttering off her forehead. “Why is it our job to teach you what to call a panini?” Behind her back, her wings twitch; the only sign of her faint amusement. A panini is technically a hot sandwich, she considers pointing out, but that would let him off easy, and Phee can’t be having that. “You’re a grown man. Shouldn’t you know what to call things, by now?” Her head tilts to one side. “It’s kind of sad that you don’t.”

Lucy, on the other hand, seems quite pleased to be given permission to make fun of him. Chirps an easy “Okay!” and grins. Arthur can’t tell him it isn’t nice, can’t get upset with him for name-calling, if John told him to make fun of him. Loophole. “Do you want us to make fun of you right now?”

@talentforlying (x)

[normaltothemax]

MAIN

VERSE STATUS ↠ Open TAG ↠ ✦ verse: main (phee parnassus)

Phee’s main verse takes place before the events of the book. She resides at the Marsyas orphanage with Arthur Parnassus and the rest of the magical children who are deemed Classified Level 4 by the Department in Charge of Magical Youth (DICOMY).

[normaltothemax]

12﹕ sender  invites  receiver  to  dance. ( c'mon phee they're having a jam session )

Sitting cross-legged on the floor in the corner, Phee’s been keeping to herself. She’d looked up when the music had first started playing, resisted a smile at Lucy and John’s animated discussion about it, but had otherwise left them alone. Lost in her own little world, reading one of the few magical texts she’s allowed to (she pushes him, sure, but she also knows how dangerous magic can be and (surprisingly) respects John enough to actually listen to him when it comes to that sort of thing). It’s full of spells and pictures and facts about all sorts of magic related to the earth, to plants of all shapes and sizes and environments (she has a sneaking suspicion that John actually borrowed it from Swamp Thing specifically for her, and she’s secretly touched, not that either of them will ever admit it to the other).

She’s been warming up to John. Has been trying to keep that fact hidden from him, but it’s the truth. Sure, he’s scruffy and needs one heck of a makeover. Sure, he smells like an ashtray and “grounds” her constantly (not that her consistent arguing with him helps that matter (and not that him “grounding” her actually does or means anything; he’s all talk and no follow-through)). But underneath all that, he’s nice (sometimes, sort of). Kind. A good man. He does his best by her and the others and doesn’t seem to care at all that he’s human and they’re not. Doesn’t even care that Lucy’s the antichrist (Arthur doesn’t like them using that word, but it’s true).

So, yes, she’s been warming up to him. That doesn’t make it any less fun to argue with him at every turn and be difficult about anything and everything whenever she can.

Songs change, and she’s not sure how much time passes, fully absorbed in her reading. It isn’t until a hand is held out in front of her face that she looks away from the pages. Glances up to see John standing there with a brow raised, a clear challenge in his eyes. He’s still got his hand outstretched to her, and Phee’s not exactly sure what it is he wants, until she looks behind him to see Lucy dancing away the afternoon. Is that it? He’s trying to get her to dance with them?

She does like dancing.

Her wings twitch behind her back as she looks back down at his her book, teeth pressing into her lip. She wants to scoff at him. Roll her eyes and go back to reading. That’s the reaction he’s expecting; he doesn’t think she’ll join in. But it does look like a lot of fun, and she could use a break. Maybe, if he says anything, she can explain it off as keeping him on his toes. Can’t let him think she’s becoming predictable, can she?

She takes his hand, lets him pull her to her bare feet. Getting twirled around (and around and around) the second she’s upright catches her off guard and pulls a surprised laugh from her. Darn it. There goes that excuse. Oh well, in for a penny… Eyes sparkling, she lets herself be pulled to the center of the room, tries rein in the happy little flutters of her wings, and then?

She dances.

@talentforlying (x)

[normaltothemax]

The hand on her head has her moving in even closer, as close as she’s physically able to, without standing on his feet. She hides her face in his stomach and does her best not to cry, gripping his hand with all her might. Phee is scared. She’s so, so scared, and she wants to believe John can get them out alright, she really, really does.

But she also can’t stop hearing that little voice in the back of her head telling her they’re going to die.

She sniffles, pulls back just barely, just enough to look up at him, when he ruffles her hair. Eyes shining with unshed tears, she scrubs at them with her free hand. Tellingly, she doesn’t tear him a new one for messing up her hair. Doesn’t bother trying to fix it.

She wants to go home.

Going invisible might work, she supposes, so she nods, breath hitching a little. It’s okay, she tries to tell herself. John will keep her safe. She trusts that he will, honest, but that faith in him isn’t enough to keep the fear away.

And then he’s trying to distract her—he receives a weak scowl for his effort. Phee doesn’t want to play this game. Not when that thing is so close to finding them. Not when it could burst in at any moment and tear them to pieces and, and, and—

Her breathing speeds up, a few tears spilling over, trailing down her cheeks. “It’ll hear us,” she protests, wobbly-voiced. Her free hand’s latched onto his coat, now, fisted tightly in the fabric. He’ll have to pry her off with a crowbar, at this rate. Another crash from outside and she only just barely swallows a sob. Staring at the door, she whispers, “Arthur doesn’t let us watch much on the telly,” as if that’s why she’s reluctant to play his game.

' right. there you are, then. ' he's very good at lying. has to be, because of times like this: when someone's arse is in the fire and he's the one who's got to pull them out, which usually means putting his arse on fire, too, and needing the other person calm enough to carry out before they both get burnt. wants to be, because christ knows phee is getting out of this alive at any fucking cost, and he'll be damned if he lets her know exactly how high that cost might run him, right now.

she pulls in close and he lays the hand she isn't clinging to protectively atop her head, ( pretending his own heart doesn't jolt at the din, ) eyes scanning the space outside of their temporary bolthole for any signs of motion. if it finds us, we're fucked, says the cheerful little voice of optimism that lives in his head, but that's the sort of shite he's fine with keeping to himself. getting caught is not an option, not with this little muppet in the snare. not fucking ever.

' if it finds us, then i pull an invisibility trick out've me sleeve and we creep out around it, quiet as mice. not a worry, luv. ' he's trying to sound sure of himself, but it just comes out sounding grim; it would work, but it would get dicey ... and shit, he's starting to worry himself. he musses her hair to draw her attention off the beast outside, voice just as quiet as hers but his tone as light as a feather.

' oi — y'know how you call me names, make fun've me clothes n'that? that's something i do with this lot all the time. makes me feel better. 'cept lately i've started runnin' out, y'know, 'cos i'm not up on the new-age telly references and such, so eh . . . what say you give me some ideas for what to call that manky bollocks out there? 'ere, we can score 'em out of ten: double points if you come up with somethin' you could call both of us. bet y'can't. '

yeah, sure john, open yourself up to get picked apart by the queen of pick-aparts. you're already hiding in a closet for the first time since the sodding sixties — what pride is there left to wound?