entrancelogs | Silent night, holy night. All is calm. All is bright...

Entry tags:

Silent night, holy night. All is calm. All is bright...

Who: Phil (

britchillsout) and Dean Smith (

respectedman) // Philip (

sadfreezingbrit) and Alex Kralie (

40410)
Where: Smith & Phil's room on the mirrorside // 5th floor on the realside
When: The evening of Christmas Day
Rating: R for character death
Summary: The event is over and Phil walks back to Smith's room. Hey, did he mention that he met his regular just before being transported back? It didn't go so well...
The Story:

Phil smirks when Philip enters the room.

Philip still doesn't know why his mirror was there to begin with - there in that room and not upstairs with his fiancé. Then again, Philip doesn't rightly know why he himself went ahead to investigate the noise next door either.

(Daniel. Maybe he thought it was Daniel, maybe that made it worse from the start. Worse? How much worse could it even get? After Evelyn's mirror? After home? After the tape, after everything?)

Phil smirks just before Philip turns to leave.

They have words, most of which Philip doesn't recall, all of which seem to wind Philip tighter and tighter while having no impact on Phil (or his smirk) whatsoever.

Only a particular set he recalls all too well.

"I just gave her a copy so she'd see what she's missing out on! You won't let her have it and a girl's got to get it somewhere, right?"

A girl's got to get it somewhere, right?

A girl's got to get it somewhere, doesn't she?

Phil smirks just before Philip throws the first punch.

More hits, more punches, more kicks. A split lip, a black eye and too many bruises to count. Who got away with what? It doesn't even matter.

What matters is that it's winter, that there is a fireplace in every room. And a fire poker to match.

What matters is that Philip usually isn't one to throw the first punch and it shows. He's lying on the floor, clutching his chest and Phil is recovering easily from the kick that sent him staggering.

(He is probably smirking as he does, but Philip can't be bothered to have a look right now.)

All he can do is scramble to his knees, grab the fire poker and swing, because he needs to knock his mirror back, because--

The iron doesn't move and Phil is standing right where he is, steady on his feet.

Philip's attempt failed, he thinks Phil must have blocked the attack with his hands, but...

But Phil isn't smirking anymore.

And Philip can't make sense of it.

Not until the mirror suddenly repairs behind them.

Phil looks back.

And then he's gone.

And Philip is left staring at his own reflection, silent and incredulous, blood dripping from the iron in his hand.

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Phil knows it's bad. When your red tie doesn't stand out against your white shirt then it's definitely bad. Hell, when somebody sticks a bloody fire poker through your bloody stomach then it's bloody fucking bad, that's not even a question.

...It doesn't actually hurt. (That's probably bad too.)

Actually, it feels a little like not going to sleep for a day or two, when you end up just a little colder, your muscles just a little stiffer and your mind just a little blanker than you care them all to be.

(Not that Phil ever really cared about that, but still, he thinks he could use a rest right about now.)

And when he stares down the corridor he realises that he's made it all the way up to the tenth floor. Behind him there's red drops on the stairs, crimson smears on the wall and an overall bloody mess in his wake.

But at least he's home.

Phil takes another step forward, cold hand wrapping around cold metal, and opens the door.

Edited 2011-12-27 08:56 (UTC)

It's been a surprisingly dull event so far, for which Dean Smith is infinitely grateful. No mishaps, no outrageous shenanigans. Some gift exchanges and a few snowmen outside. White flakes blowing past the windows, and hot, fresh coffee brewing. A pretty good Christmas morning, too, involving chocolate sauce, hot wax and naked cooking.

He's even hoping to coerce Phil into watching a movie that isn't a porno with him, given the holiday spirit and all that.

It's good to be back on their own side, and it shouldn't be long before Phil shows u-

"I wondered when you'd get back," he muses, turning with a mug in hand as the doorknob clicks.

The ceramic cup shatters as it hits the floor, spraying hot coffee across his bare feet.

He doesn't even feel it.

"Phil!"

Smith scrambles to the door, catching him before he can fall, pulling him inside. There's red. So much red. Everything is red.

"Oh Jesus, Phil, what-" he chokes, voice struggling to catch up to his brain.

"-what happened?"

Phil thinks he would have been fine on his own two feet, but it's nice not to have to test that theory. It's nice to hold Smith, even if he is sort of worried that the blood he's getting all over his shirt will have terrible repercussions later.

"Ghrngh."

Keeping his mouth closed while walking upstairs, not letting the blood pooling in it drip out. Right. He forgot about that.

"Guessssshe... didn't like the tapes."

He coughs. Or laughs. Or tries both, he isn't sure.

Edited 2011-12-27 09:18 (UTC)

Wrapping one arm around the back of Phil's neck, trying to support something, anything, because he doesn't know what to do, Smith stares into a bloody face with something akin to incredulity.

"Tapes? What tapes, Phil? They don't even-"

The panic rushes through him like water from an opened floodgate, fast and cold and nauseating. He feels like he's swimming in it and starting to drown.

Phil's entire chest is slick with bright, bright red - it almost looks fake. With his free fingers, Smith hastily rips apart the buttons on Phil's shirt and gags at the wound in his stomach.

"Oh God, oh Jesus, Phil."

He doesn't even have anything to stop the bleeding. Bunching the sodden fabric of Phil's shirt and pressing his hand over the torn skin, Smith pointedly ignores the liquid seeping from between his fingers.

"Talk to me, Phil, is this the only place? Where you're hurt?"

"Yeah, 's just a..."

Just a scratch, look. Just a little difficult to pull off, that one, if you reach down and grasp at wet cloth, slick, red skin instead of just a scratch.

Phil's fingers tighten around Smith's hand all the same.

"I'll- I'll lie down for a bit, all right?"

Looking towards the bedroom is easy. Getting there is a different story.

If he was Winchester, he'd know what to do. He'd know that applying pressure will only keep someone alive for so long when they've been stabbed through the stomach by something thick and sharp. He'd know that it was only a matter of time.

Smith, though, hangs onto the futile hope that it's not really as bad as it looks, that there isn't internal bleeding, that he's in the middle of a nightmare on Christmas.

"I can't move you, it'll make it worse," he grits, terrified. "Who did this?"

All in due time.

"Please?"

A pleading look at Smith. Another towards the bed.

Walking is one thing, but standing up when you've allowed yourself to sink that deeply; getting to your feet when heavy limbs are pulling you towards the ground... that's another thing entirely.

"I can't lie on the floor, I'm almost bloody sober."

Conflicted and worried above all else, Smith can't say no when he doesn't know how much time there is left. But there is time - so much time. They've got nothing to worry about. This isn't happening.

"Okay," he breathes, talking himself through it. "Okay, let's- Let's get you to the bed, you'll be fine."

Unhappy that he has to stop holding Phil's stomach to get him to the goddamn bedroom, he stoops wraps both arms around Phil's waist, shoulder braced under his arm, and shakily pulls him to his feet.

"Hold onto me."

"Yeah."

If no blood vessel was hit properly an untreated gut wound can take several days to kill. Slow. Unpleasant. Pain, fever, infection. Hit somewhere with modest blood loss and you're looking at hours left to life. A day if you're lucky. Or unlucky, depends.

A stab wound to a major blood vessel though? Think ten to thirty minutes.

Phil grits his teeth, fingers clawing into fabric and/or Smith as he almost slips in his own blood and almost falls down again.

Better make it snappy, Smith.

"Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck."

The floor suddenly seems nice in comparison. Whatever movement Phil just made must have ripped through the shock, a sharp and icy reminder that--

He'll be fine. He'll be fine, it's not a big deal.

(Phil chuckles to himself. He's not buying it.)

He's moving fast, unsure about how long he can keep to his feet if he doesn't.

Edited 2011-12-27 17:02 (UTC)

"Shit-"

Phil slips and Smith grapples for him, the arm around Phil's waist clinging to his trousers to hold him up as they move quickly and inelegantly to the bedroom.

It's like dragging a corpse.

"I know, I know, just hold on, hold on, it'll be all right-"

Smith talks to himself more than he does to Phil, reassuring things, things that imply safety and a happy ending. The steps are hard and slick and Phil's hands are slippery, leaving red all over Smith's dress shirt - and Smith doesn't care.

It's a miracle they can even get to the mattress, and as soon as they do he lifts, pushes, gently helps Phil onto it. Smith practically tears a pillowcase from one of the cushions, folding it haphazardly and pressing it to the wound as he clambers onto the bed from the other side.

"Phil."

He holds a red hand to a pale, stubbled cheek.

"Phil, you need to tell me what happened. Please, I-" A sharp breath. "-I'm scared, I don't-"

Know what to do.

Phil sinks into the mattress and exhales, a bloody smile appearing on his face.

In some situations the lines between regular and mirrored personality blur, maybe because there isn't all that much left of either. This situation is probably a good example and the raw part of Phil knows he's in a fuckload of trouble and no matter where he is or who's with him, it's not going to end well.

But the part that is still Phil is just glad he made it here, glad that he's with Smith right now. Contrary as it may sound, Phil is the one who takes incredible comfort from that where Philip would prefer to do everything in his fading power to not have loved ones see him like that.

Of course what Philip would do right now doesn't actually matter. What Philip has done already--

Right.

That is something Smith wants to know.

"Think I pissed him off. Got a bit stabbed."

Phil smiles.

"Don't worry 'bout it."

"Who?"

Smith rubs a bloody thumb across Phil's temple, swallowing hard, trying to keep from hyperventilating.

He mentioned tapes. Tapes. Tapes. It's so hard to put two and two together when mathematics is the furthest thing from his mind, rationality is the furthest thing from his mind, he just wants the bad dream to stop.

Tapes as in video tapes. The sex tape? He gave out the sex tape. Smith can't even be angry, he- Well, yes, he can, angry that Phil was so stupid, this wouldn't have happened if he wasn't passing around a sex tape of them, it's no wonder someone would get pissed-

Philip.

"Philip?" he whispers, not even needing confirmation. "Phil, I can't not worry, you- you know me, I-" Smith laughs nervously.

"I always worry."

Phil worries too. Not about himself, technically, but Claire-- Why hasn't Claire said a word yet?

(He's probably just scared, poor guy. He hates blood.)

"Yeah, but..."

Phil drapes one arm around Smith's waist. The impact of trying to pull him closer falls short.

"'S just a scratch, pet."

But at least the sentiment is there.

Smith moves closer anyway, because he knows that Phil needs it, and he needs it, and the gravity of the situation is hitting him like a ton of bricks. He hasn't wanted to acknowledge it, because denial is so much better. Denial lets him think that everything is going to be okay, like it always is.

And Phil is dying.

Phil is dying, and all Smith can concentrate on is how angry he is. If Phil dies, who is he going to look after? Who is he going to berate for leaving all the dishes in the sink and the fridge empty? Who is going to play with the cat?
Who will make hot chocolate for him when it's cold outside?
Who will curl up behind him and hold him while he sleeps?
Who will smile lazily and tell him his bitching is cute?

No one. But it's not about Smith.

It's about the infuriating stoner trying to reassure him that he's fine despite everything, the person who frustrates him more than anything else, the one he never thought he'd care about. Not like this.

"It's not just a scratch, you're...there's so much red, Phil, please keep talking to me, what do I do?"

Smith takes a shaky breath and tries to imagine life without Phil, to remember life before Phil.

"Please don't leave me."

Phil is vaguely convinced he was about to mention the Queen, how she seems like a sweet girl and how she'll patch him up again in no time.

Now he really doesn't know why he'd even need to bother. He's fine. Granted, a bit cold maybe, but that's why he's in bed. With blankets. And Smith.

"You're warm."

Smith, whose shampoos and colognes and body wash Phil will never remember by name, who smells minty and a little like sage, strong enough to distract from the stale scent of iron in the air.

Smith, who looks really good in a red shirt, even if this one is just a blotchy and wet draft.

Smith, who worries entirely too much about something Phil can sleep off in no time.

"Stop fussing."

Phil pulls closer still and presses the back of his nose against Smith's shoulder.

It doesn't matter that there's a way to fix Phil again - it isn't that future that Smith is worried about. He's floundering in the present, which is still very real and very horrific.

"I'm trying," he half-chokes, half-laughs, because fussing is what he does best.

Abandoning the wound in Phil's stomach, Smith curls over him, one hand pressed to the back of his head, the other clinging to a bloodied shirtsleeve.

"Don't go," he begs quietly, mumbling into Phil's ear. "Don't go, I'm here. I'm here."

He can't feel his right arm. Maybe it's trapped under Smith or his own body. Maybe he never had one to begin with, but Phil senses that this particular theory might have some holes in it.

Something they've got in common.

He chuckles at the private joke, though at this point he might as well be coughing or breathing loudly or--

"'M not going anywhere, pet," seems important to add, but to describe the quiet mumble as intelligible would be a blatant lie for Smith's benefit.

At least he can still drag his other arm to let his hand meet Smith's, letting it rest there as he buries his face in the other man's chest and closes his eyes.

Phil seems to be moving less than before, not that he was moving much to begin with. He's still warm. His chest is still rising and falling. Sort of. This can be fixed. Smith just needs to get help, but he can't get help if he stays here, but he has to stay here because Phil needs him, and his vision is getting blurry and his lungs feel as though they're shriveling into nothing.

Everything smells like blood. Blood, and the faintest hint of cigarette smoke.

"At least say goodbye, you asshole," Smith jokes feebly, curling his fingers into Phil's hair and ducking his head to try and make eye contact.

"...Phil?"

Half-lidded eyes reveal large pupils, staring not so much at as through Smith.

But at least his chest is still rising. And falling.

And rising.

And falling.

And rising.

And falling.

And--

A finger twitches. Then Phil's hand slips down.

Edited 2011-12-27 22:21 (UTC)

"Phil."

Nothing.

"Phil."

Smith doesn't even know why he's trying when he can't do anything. The hand slides away from his and his stomach lurches.

"Phil, say something. Anything. Phil."

He tilts Phil's chin up and rakes his fingers through brown hair matted with blood, where did it all come from, how is there so much, and why can't he breathe.

Smith's narration is entirely correct in the one and only thing that is left to add now:

Nothing.

There's no grand overarching reason for Alex to be here. He's just in the right place at the right time to hear the sounds of fighting coming from a room. Fighting that keeps going and going.

He'd pass it by if he didn't recognise the voices of Philip and-- Philip.

Well, if it's someone fighting with a friend - and if it's a mirror tormenting a regular, which is the first and likeliest explanation - then that changes things quite a bit.

He opens the door in time to see the poker and the blood and the stabbed, vanishing man, and things change yet again.

And Philip is left staring at his own reflection, silent and incredulous, blood dripping from the iron in his hand.

"Fuck."

''

More blood slowly runs down the poker, already cold when it reaches Philip's hand. He gasps and lets go, the iron falling to the floor with a metallic clatter.

"I didn't mean..."

He closes his eyes and presses both hands firmly against his face, taking a deep breath through his fingers. He turns a little, takes a step to the side, just to unfreeze himself from that particular spot.

And when his arms sink down again and his eyes open he finds himself looking directly at the doorway. And at Alex.

Fuck.

Well, there are a lot of ways he could respond to witnessing cold-blooded murder. The most widely accepted would probably be to tell someone. Do something about it. Show some kind of disapproval. Perhaps respond to the part where a guy you thought was pretty okay (if a little unhinged) is apparently the man-painting, line-cutting sort.

Alex ends up staring at Philip for several too many seconds, while his expression tries to resolve itself into something besides 'holy shit'.

Of course, we haven't listed all the variables yet. That wasn't a man Philip stabbed: it was a Mirror. And while there is apparently the odd good apple in the barrel, Alex's overwhelming experience of mirrors is of Lamb's, of his own, of people who he'd do the same thing to in a heartbeat.

Which is why he finally looks away from Philip, at the mended mirror-glass, with a hard expression. Then back at Philip.

"...Is he dead?"

"I- I don't--"

Philip stares. At Alex. At the mirror. Back and forth, just a few times too many.

A bloody hand print trails off into a smear where Phil must have supported himself on the other side. It doesn't look like he fell, exactly. But the memory is vivid and ever so helpful. Phil staring in disbelief, the iron reflected in the glass behind him, going right through him. A sizable puddle of blood on the floor and that's just the work of mere seconds.

"I doubt... he'll make it."

But it was an accident.

Philip's voice is hollow and distant, belonging to somebody else entirely.

And he had it coming!

Somebody who isn't currently torn between something he thought would be a relief and something that ought to horrify him utterly.

And he's just a mirror.

"He was just a mirror!"

Philip finally turns back to Alex, his voice desperate and pleading.

"I just--"

He swallows. Falls silent.

Alex is feeling a little bit out-of-body himself, honestly. It's strange watching something like this from the outside. Up there with watching yourself do it, over and over again till you almost imagine you can remember it from the first person.

...And a lot of him just wants to congratulate Philip on his aim.

In the end, he only says: "One less mirror to worry about." And his voice is kind of heavy, and he wonders if that shouldn't be a more difficult thing to say - doesn't just wonder, but actively tries to grasp a counterargument, something small beating inside him. But it was barely a bastardisation of a human life, so why should he care?

Philip is floating. Not physically, no, his body is all there, sore and throbbing with his fair share of the beating from earlier, although for all the thought Philip gives those wounds he might as well be completely numb.

It's mentally that he has nothing to hold on to, morally that he feels an important grip slipping and no guiding line of thought and rationalisation to ~~cut~~ follow.

There is no body, nothing to process. Blood, yes, but what's a little blood? What's a little puddle that might as well be unrelated to everyone and everything he came across today, if only he stopped thinking about it long and hard enough.

And at the same time he's been forced to process it so much faster, because he's not alone and how else is he supposed to know how to react? How else is he supposed to decide whether to shake with guilt and plead for mercy or look right into the witness's eyes and regret absolutely nothing?

It doesn't feel as good as revenge should.

It doesn't feel as bad as murder should.

An accident, he repeats in his mind, without much force.

Without much force he stumbles back, supporting himself against the wall, failing entirely to decide what to do.

And just like that all he can do when his own judgement fails is rely on the morals of another. All he can do is what comes naturally to him, as if dictated by some sort of higher power, a canonical thread, if you will.

All he can do now is completely and utterly trust the values and advice of some guy named Alex.

Philip finally nods.

"Do you... think I should clean that up? I don't know if the room will disappear"

Once the narration has stopped cackling like a fool, it will observe that despite his eventful career, Alex has never actually had to do clean-up on anyone but himself. He does have a little knowledge, though:

"It will. But it might take a few days."

The bathroom where Sinclair shot him went back to normal. So did the room where Santana chopped him up. So did the bathroom and the corridor where he was burned almost and completely to death. But they stayed messed up and bloody for at least the time it took him to resurrect.

...You know what, reflecting on this, if anyone has earned the right to make some decisions about life and death it's bloody well him.

Also the Operator's evidence-zapping abilities would come in very handy right about now.

"Do you know how to get blood out?"

He says it matter-of-factly. It's a struggle to feel anything but sheer practicality about this, and Alex is not making that effort. He sees Philip fall back against the wall, but doesn't even respond to that -- he's a bit overwhelmed with the slightly bigger event they're already dealing with.

Oh look, it's a question he knows the answer to. Now if only that answer was something different, something that didn't boil down to a yes and casually added 'from repeated experience'.

(It occurs to Philip that he should have said no. It occurs to him roughly an hour later and will thus be treated as a moot point in the rest of this tag.)

He pushes himself away from the wall, one stride forward to pick up the fire poker. It lands in the closet with the same motion Philip uses to pull out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

"I'll get some water."

Cold water first. Damn it.

He walks past Alex and into the bathroom.

That little part of Alex is still determinedly trying to be uncomfortable about this. It's probably Philip's response which pushes it to greater efforts.

Alex calls after him: "Was it on purpose?"

He doesn't know Philip well enough to peg with certainty what the man's panicking meant.

The sound of running water almost drones out the question. Almost.

Philip scrambles to his knees, fire poker in hand. He turns around, sees Phil stumbling closer. His arm jerks back and thrusts forward again, stopped only as the iron buries itself deep in his mirror's flesh.

"No."

He turns the water off.

Philip scrambles to his knees, fire poker in hand. He swings it as he turns around, expecting Phil to stumble closer any second. But his arm only twitches and stops moving, hand wrapped tightly around the iron, iron deeply buried in his mirror's flesh.

Better.

"No, of course not!"

The reassuring glance for Alex falls short and Philip walks past him again, kneeling down next to the red spot.

Hey, Alex says 'of course not' like that sometimes too!

It was just a mirror. But still, Alex is looking at Philip with a new... something. Wariness? Understanding?

But of course, there are other practicalities to take care of.

"D'you think anyone else saw?" He's looking at the mirror again, not sure how long it had been mended.

In his rather shaky defence, Philip would prefer a little more certainty about the truth himself. One memory must be-- Well. Either a comforting lie or a cruel stab of guilt.

(Alas, reality and Philip have long since stopped going steady.)

"You were outside, what do you think?"

He follows Alex's gaze towards the mirror.

"...It doesn't look like anyone was there."

No message, at least. No indication that anyone was on the other side when it happened.

"Why?"

He has to ask.

Because

He has to ask.

(Though somehow he can't help but wonder why.)

"Mirrors might not see it the same way we do."

Nobody complains about stepping on an ant, but the other ants probably aren't too happy about it.

...That small but persistent part of him is pretty much leaping up and down by this point screaming look at your life, look at your choices. Sadly Alex's real-life sassy gay friend is the last person he would listen to and is in fact a pretty big reason that he has this attitude towards mirrors at all.

Seriously though, it's getting pretty hard to ignore. It's starting to suggest that he'd better really really hope nobody did see this, and even present a list of people he specifically doesn't want to know about it (Mark first and foremost). But Alex kind of feels bound to stick to his first answer by this point, at least out loud.

It was just a mirror. Not a person. (He tries to forget about Markus's mirror, and Dean's, neither of whom fit the pattern of psychotics he'd come to expect.)

"It was an accident," Philip states flatly, not looking up from the already much paler spot.

It was an accident.

He tries the conclusion on for size again.

Philip scrambles to his knees fire poker in hand he swings it as he turns around expecting Phil to stumble closer any second but his arm only twitches and stops moving hand wrapped tightly around the iron iron deeply buried in his mirror's flesh how else would it have happened.

It fits, he can make it fit with a few tweaks, but the colour is all wrong. He's wanted Phil dead for so long and looking back now he finds himself no longer capable of judging whether the mirror's infuriating actions made Philip want to "kill him" or kill him.

There's nothing to be gained from arguing with that. Especially not when Alex only has suspicions to go on.

(But it was only a mirror, so helping cover it up is fine, and - and he just hopes nobody finds out about it who doesn't agree with that diagnosis.)

"Do you think they'll care if it was?" A jerk of his head towards the mirror.

"...Right."

That's understanding for you. Agreement, no doubt. (It only took a moment to sink in.)

Scrubbing away at the stain Philip finds that his doubts are slowly receiving the same treatment. It was definitely an accident and even if it hadn't been, whatever Phil's plans were, they probably deserved to be stopped.

Having arrived at this conclusion he can finally allow himself to look at Alex's reaction which, under other circumstances, might have given him pause and roused a voice of worry in the corner of his mind.

But what he did wasn't wrong and treating it as such only makes sense.

And then the stain is gone and Philip takes a deep breath.

Alex gives the door, the mirror and Philip a glance for security's sake, then crouches briskly by the ex-stain, holding his glasses and peering close to make sure it's completely gone. He prods it with his fingers, then stands again, satisfied.

He gives the room another, longer look. Murder weapon's gone. Stain's gone. Not much they can do about the handprint on the other side of the mirror glass; when he touches it, yes, it's definitely on the other side. But... wait.

"Watch yourself." Alex makes his own trip to the closet and comes back with a truncheon, and swings it into the mirror, which is suddenly no longer in any state to have handprints on display.

Philip would rather watch Alex instead, quietly thinking that he probably would have chosen a pickaxe instead. Force of habit and all that.

He doesn't flinch when the mirror shatters, but something tightens in his stomach, something dragging along the unpleasant thought that he was still looking at the glass in hopes of finding a new message on it, a sign that maybe his mirror was really okay after all.

But that's absurd in so many ways.

"Are we done here?"

It sounded more forceful, more nervous than he intended. He fishes for clarification:

"I was, er... Just that I've still got to feed the dog."

"Don't ask me, this is your mess."

Shh, Alex is a little stressed out, and still running over in his head why this is okay no shut up it is. He's heard about Philip's mirror - as bad as Alex's own, by at least one account.

A beat. Then, with more control: "Sure. Go. It looks clean."

Maybe he doesn't like the infringement on the 'snapping at people nervously' he feels he should hold right now. Maybe he can't stand the idea of Alex not helping, Alex having a problem with this.

"...Right."

Or maybe mess is just really not a word he wants to hear right now, because it was just a stupid, stupid accident and it's all over now and let's never speak of it again.

"Right."

One last look around, carefully checking for nothing in particular. Then he turns to leave.

Alex doesn't stop him. And it's a while until he's satisfied that the room won't incriminate either of them, and follows Philip out.

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Silent night, holy night. All is calm. All is bright...

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heeere he comes to save the daaaaaaaay

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