Chapter Text
He wasn’t supposed to know about it. But then, that made sense, didn’t it? If you were planning an assassination, you didn’t invite the target.
It was pure bad luck Virgil had been in earshot when they’d been discussing it in the commons. It was early in the morning--for them, anyway. For him, it had been a restless night, full of the usual worries and fears, plagued by nightmares every time he had drifted off. He’d finally stumbled into the kitchen for a glass of warm milk, thinking it might help him sleep. It worked for Patton sometimes, so maybe it’d work for him.
The others had missed seeing him by inches. Mere seconds after he’d disappeared into the kitchen, he heard them materialize in the commons in mid-conversation. Their words had confused him at first, but as he stood frozen next to the refrigerator and listened, things had come into focus.
“--already sent in the prescription,” Logan was saying, sounding as pleased as he ever did. “It should arrive in the mail in a week.”
“I’m so glad you got him to try this,” Patton gushed, sounding over-the-moon. “This could help him so much!”
“And there really is no shame in it.” That was Roman. “No one should have to face a foe unarmed. Why, I’d never consider challenging a dragon without my sword!”
“It was a simple matter of re-framing,” Logan said, but Virgil could hear the pride in his voice under the nonchalance. “Neurological conditions are merely chemical imbalances in the brain. They are not character flaws, much as some would try to convince us otherwise.”
“Very true.” Virgil could hear Patton’s beam. “If your tummy hurts, you take tummy medicine!”
“I--yes, I suppose that is the basic principle at work here.”
“Of course it is! Now, the big question is: when do we tell Virgil?”
There was a beat of silence, and Virgil forgot to breathe. He was certain for a moment they would discover him simply by the pounding of his heart, which sounded very loud in his ears.
“I think it would be best if we didn’t,” came Logan’s answer after a long silence.
“I agree. He has a way of...interfering with things.”
“Really?” Patton sounded distraught. “That doesn’t feel very...honest, does it?”
“It’s not a matter of honesty, Patton. It’s a simple matter of withholding strategic information until the ideal moment. If we told him now, it would just upset him, and he would probably do his best to talk Thomas out of it.”
“I...I guess so,” Patton agreed reluctantly. “But I sure don’t like keeping secrets from the kiddo.”
“Patton, you don’t like keeping secrets from anyone.”
“Well, no, I guess not. It just doesn’t feel right, though. Does it?”
“Fine.” That was Roman again. “If you really want to try to explain to Virgil that we’ve convinced Thomas to try taking anti-anxiety medication, be my guest. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
And there it had been, laid out plain and simple.
Virgil’s breath caught in his throat, and he just barely kept himself from gasping aloud. His ears were ringing as the blood drained from his cheeks, and he briefly wondered if he was going to pass out.
He closed his eyes and sank from the kitchen quickly, not wanting them to discover he’d overheard their plans, and reappeared in his bedroom, where he sank, weak-kneed, to sit on the edge of his bed.
So. This was what it had come to. After all this time...this was what they really wanted. They’d talked about being his friend--about trying to help him be better, about trying to understand him, to--to accept him. They’d...they’d even said they cared about him, that he made things better, sometimes, but...but when it really came down to it...this was what they actually wanted.
They wanted him gone.
Virgil had curled up on his bed that day, and the tears had come: cloying, wracking sobs that made his whole body quake as his fragile worldview came crumbling down. Everything they’d said, everything they’d told him--it had all been a lie. All of it. And...and now...
And now they were going to...going to what? Kill him? He supposed so, in a way. He couldn’t technically die, but...but he could be Suppressed, and for a side, that amounted to the same thing, didn’t it? Suppressed sides lost their agency and became automated drones: called upon to perform the most basic of their functions only, but not free to have any input of their own. And when they were not needed, they were shelved.
Virgil would be imprisoned: locked away in a kind of stasis where he would not be able to move, or think, or...or anything. He would just exist. Barely.
And this was what the others wanted.
He’d cried himself out, that first day--cried until he physically could not cry anymore. And for the next few days after that, he kept himself locked in his room, unable to face the others with this new knowledge. Unable to look into their smiling faces as they pretended to welcome him, to accept him, while in reality plotting his demise.
But soon he’d realized that was stupid. One week, Logan had said. One week, until his life effectively came to an end. Why would he want to waste it by staying locked away?
So maybe the others didn’t love him, or even like him. He still loved them. And maybe it was selfish, to force his presence on them when he’d learned it wasn’t wanted, but...but if this was his last week, he wanted at least one more chance to be with them. To be better. He didn’t really think he could change their minds, but at least...at least he could say goodbye, in his way.
And so he’d emerged fro his room and sought them out. He couldn’t let them know that he knew of their plans, of course--they’d feel awkward, maybe guilty, maybe even angry, and he really did want their last times together to be pleasant. Because maybe...maybe he’d be able to remember them, when he was locked away in his frozen stupor. Maybe he could turn to those memories for solace.
And maybe they’d think on him fondly from time to time. Maybe they’d remember him as something other than the villain.
He just had to give them a reason to do so.
With Patton, he’d shyly asked if they could spend a few hours baking--one of the Moral side’s favorite pastimes. Patton had seemed delighted (if a little surprised) by Virgil’s request, and they’d spent a wonderful afternoon in the kitchen, mixing ingredients and getting flour on everything and laughing and sneaking bites of raw cookie dough. Virgil had let Patton pick all of his favorite treats, and he’d tried every last one of them--even the oatmeal raisin cookies, which had been surprisingly good after all. When it was over, Patton had pulled him into a hug and thanked him warmly for spending time with his ‘old dad,’ which Virgil knew was supposed to make him laugh. But he hadn’t been able to do more than cling to Patton for a few moments and nod hard, before disappearing quickly so he could hide his tears (though not before mumbling a quick, “love you, Dad” into Patton’s ear).
Logan’s time was a little more subdued, but no less enjoyable: he’d wandered to the logical side’s room, which was mostly piles and piles of books, and asked if he could hang out and read while Logan worked. Logan had looked at him askance, obviously surprised, but had agreed nonetheless, and Virgil had spent an afternoon holding a book in his lap and not reading a word of it while he’d tried his best to soak in everything about Logan: the way he hunched over his desk, scribbling into his leather-bound schedule book; the way his hair fell into his eyes and the way he blew it back with frustrated little ‘pffts’ of air; the way he stuck out his tongue when he was thinking, and the little ‘aha!’ noise he made when he had a new idea. Virgil filed it all away, and when it had started to get late, he’d reluctantly excused himself (making Logan jump: apparently he’d forgotten Virgil was there) and thanked Logan for letting him stay.
Roman’s day--the day before the medication was due to arrive--was spent watching Disney movies and debating their messages again, though the debate was far friendlier than it had been the first time around. This time, Roman seemed willing to listen to Virgil’s point of view, and Virgil had done his best to extend the same courtesy to Roman, and it had been late before the royal had finally started to yawn and had excused himself to go to bed. Virgil had watched him go, fighting further tears, and whispered, “Goodnight,” in reply to Roman’s own well-wishes. He’d headed to his own room after Roman had retreated, and grabbed a notebook and a ballpoint pen.
He had one more job to do.
*
Now, sitting on the edge of his bed, he glanced down at the note in his hands. He’d stayed up all night, writing draft after draft, and he thought what he had was pretty good, if perhaps a little melancholy. But he hoped they could forgive him that, because he didn’t think he could do any better (and this draft, at least, was unmarred by teardrops. Well, mostly.)
He bit his lip, reading it over one more time.
Guys,
This isn’t an easy letter for me to write, but I hope you will hear me out.
I have a confession to make. I overheard you in the commons last week. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I was in the kitchen and I couldn’t help listen in, and...I know Thomas is about to start on anti-anxiety medication. I just want you to know I understand, and I support the decision.
I know I can be difficult to deal with. I’ve tried to be better, but I know I still interfere where I shouldn’t, and that I cause you all a lot of pain and frustration. Please know I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to interfere with his life, or yours, any longer.
I understand why you did not want to tell me, but I really do only want what’s best for everyone. If you have all decided that what’s best is to be rid of me, then I completely understand.
I also would like to promise you that I will cooperate. I read somewhere that most anti-anxiety medications need time to build up in the system, so I’ll stay in my room until it does. I’ve got some food stashed away in here and some water in case it takes more than a few days to work. I think once I’ve been Suppressed I won’t need it anymore, so that won’t matter then.
I realize this is getting a little bit rambly. What I’m basically trying to say is you do not have to worry about me fighting this, okay? I understand why you want this, and I promise I’ll go quietly.
I do not hold this against you. I hope you don’t worry about that. Especially you, Patton. I know you worry about doing what’s right, but...but this IS right. This is what’s best. You can rest assured of that.
If I have any conscious thought where I’m going, I’ll think on you guys fondly. I hope you might someday be able to do the same for me.
Please take care of Thomas for me, and of each other. If I know you are all safe and happy, then I’ll be happy, too.
I know I never said it, but I love you guys so much.
Goodbye,
Virgil
He swallowed and nodded to himself, folding the paper in half. He popped into the commons--it was too early for anyone else to be up yet--and deposited the note on the coffee table where he was sure they would see it, then popped back into his bedroom and curled up on his side in bed. He held the card Patton had given him tight in his hands, gazing at the childlike drawing inside, and the three letters that had come to mean so much to him, drawn under the big red heart.
I L Y
He didn’t know if he would retain any memories. But if he did...he wanted this to be the last thing he saw.
Even if it was slightly obscured by the tears that fell slowly and steadily from his eyes.
*