Bones in the Ocean by bunflower

Chapter 8

The Navy is coming.

Somehow they know the crew of the Styx is in port, and they're closing in-fast.

"Wil, we need to move!" Phil sets about gathering his belongings, strapping his cutlass to his belt and pulling his worn jacket over his shoulders. Wilbur stands motionless, merely watching as Phil rushes about the room. "Wil! We don't have time for this! We need to get back to the rest of the crew. The Navy knows we're here, they'll be searching the streets any minute!"

"I know."

There's a familiar click. Phil finds himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

"...Wil?"

"You're not coming with us, Phil."

For a moment, all Phil can do is stare. He stares at the way Wilbur's hand trembles ever-so-slightly as he fiddles with the trigger. He stares into the eyes of the boy he's come to call his own, and in them he sees cold resolve, unflinching even as it's met by Phil's own steely gaze.

And then the emotions hit. Shock, anger, denial, hurt, betrayal. Wilbur is pointing a gun at him. Wilbur's finger is on the trigger. Wilbur is-

Wilbur is staging a mutiny.

"What are you doing?" He asks, even though he knows the answer, fighting back the harsh words he wants to shout and trading them for something cold and calculated. His hand begins to slip down toward his belt, but Wilbur catches the movement and jerks the weapon, aiming right for Phil's heart.

"Don't."

Phil freezes.

"Hand over your weapons."

"Wil, you can't just leave me with-"

"Hand them over."

Phil sighs. Almost robotically, he moves to unfasten his belt, his aching heart beginning to foster an unpleasant numbness as Wilbur snatches his belt, weapons and all, away. Now defenseless, he stands with his hands raised placatingly, praying to whatever gods are listening that this is some awful trick, that at any moment now his son will lower his gun and crack a smile and laugh and everything will be okay again.

"Right, mate, you've had your fun, now-"

"Don't. Move."

He freezes.

"You're gonna stay right here, Phil."

"Like hell I am," he snarls, the shock giving way to sharp, fiery anger. "Stop with the bullshit, Wil, where the hell is all this coming from?"

"Fine. We'll do it the hard way."

Wilbur approaches, pistol still raised, and Phil flinches as the mouth presses to his skull, burning and freezing all at once. It stays there far too long. His eyes flutter shut, fully expecting the subsequent bang, but-

Instead, cool metal clicks around his wrist, and then to the lamp on the wall, shackling him firmly in place. He gives an experimental tug, but his only reward is the sharp pain of the cuffs biting into his skin. He could pull free, probably, but it would take time and would hurt like all hell to do it. He drops his hand and instead lifts his chin to meet Wilbur's gaze, his heart in his throat and the blood roaring in his ears.

"Wil, please..." His own voice fails him, trailing off into something soft and rasping and fragile, and he hates the way his anger has faded into something so vulnerable. He searches desperately for any sign of hesitance in his son, any hint that he's being forced, that he's being forced, that he might feel regret-

"Don't make this harder, Phil," Wilbur says lowly, pointedly avoiding his gaze as he fumbles to strap Phil's weapons to his own belt.

"What do you mean?" Phil is practically begging now, bitter weakness dripping off his tongue as he strains uselessly against his bonds. "Wil, c'mon, you're joking, right? I- I don't understand."